A shrill cry rose from her throat and she ceased all movement, instead splaying herself face-down on the cool floor.Why, why did he have to be a British soldier?Why not one of her countrymen, a Catholic—someone her father might have accepted? Or why could she not have been born an English girl with handsome enough connections to tempt his noble family?
She turned her injured cheek against the cool floor and pressed into it, drawing what comfort she could from its nearness. Her hands worked, kneading and caressing the only thing at hand as though it were strong arms offering her shelter. She lay there long—so long she could not have told—until her sobs were exhausted and her tears spent and dried upon her face. Still she did not move, but her mind had begun to think more clearly.
Somehow, she must appease him. It was the only way of securing her safety! None other could save her from her husband, and would not even her father say that it was only her wifely duty to please him? Perhaps, if she went to him even now and offered herself, it was not too late for him to repent of his wrongs and treat her once more as he always had… as his prized possession.
A lump formed in her throat. Yes, apossession. This was to be her life, forevermore! Wed to a man of temper, around whom she must walk as if on eggshells! She sniffled, rolling to her side and spreading one hand out—reaching, stretching, as if in a mournful farewell to her days of youth and hope….
At once, she lifted her head in surprise. Her fingers had encountered something cold and smooth, some feet away on the floor. The shadows had fallen before her, but she could feel metal clanking against metal as she inched her fingers over the object. She snatched it up, recognising it instantly for a ring of keys.
Sitting up, she examined them. There were two, linked together by a twisted bit of wire. They could only have come from Miguel’s pocket when he had fallen upon her! She lifted one of them toward the firelight, her fingers tracing the toothed edge. She knew most of the common keys about the house, but this one was unfamiliar to her. It was too large for a desk key. Rather, it looked as though it were meant for a door… or a padlock.
A slow smile grew on her lips. Whatever became of herself, there was one other she could save from her husband.
Chapter twenty-one
Hehadnotyetcome to her room.
Amália dared not wait for her husband. Her absence would alarm and enrage him, but her presence could lead to a protracted… liaison… for which she could not spare the time. It gave her some precious little relief to slip from her room and away from where he would expect her, but a spear quivered in her stomach when she thought of the repercussions. How furious would he be once he had found her? Would he attempt to force her again? Strike her?
She leaned against her door, clutching the keys to her chest as if they were a crucifix. That man—Richard’s cousin! —trapped below, he was counting on her! And Ruy, who was exposing himself at her behest, would be awaiting her at any moment! She could afford to tarry not one more second, for if Miguel came and found her, all might be lost.
Noiselessly, she slipped from her room and down the corridor. She had not yet solved the problem of how to avoid her husband in the halls, but Ruy had been clever enough to suggest to their father that he ought to invite the recently returned Senhor and Senhora Vasconcelos to dinner. Perhaps if her father and mother-in-law were not to call tonight, Miguel would have closeted himself away somewhere for a quiet drink. She only prayed it was not in the study.
She tried to affect nonchalance as she strolled from one end of the house to the other. There were far too many maids about at this hour for her to expect that none might notice her passing, but none ought to perceive anything to excite in her manner. In fact, perhaps playing the part of the mistress would serve her well, in more ways than one. Passing by the hall leading to the guest quarters, she casually inquired of one of the head maids. “Maria, can you tell me where I might find the master?”
The woman froze at her task, and her eyes shifted to one of the other girls. Amália scrutinised the pair curiously. “Maria?” she insisted. “Is something wrong? Where is he?”
The maids exchanged looks again, and the younger of the two then glanced unconsciously down the hall.
Amália frowned. A suggestion that Miguel was in that direction would more than suffice for her current wants, but the maids’ furtive behaviour was curious—too curious for a proper mistress to dismiss without investigation. “Maria, speak out at once!” she commanded.
It was not necessary. From two doors away, another girl emerged. She glanced hastily in their direction, then gathered a rumpled shawl about her shoulders and seemed to scurry from the mistress’ presence.
Amália stood aghast, her hand—with the keys in it—drooping in shock. The two remaining maids turn abashed gazes back to her, then hung their heads in embarrassed deference. She stared speechlessly. No words… no words could come! Shame, jealousy, anger… and relief. Her cheeks must have burned crimson and her palms were sweating as her feelings of resentment and fury boiled within her.
She turned swiftly away, failing even to acknowledge Maria as she sped down the corridor. The keys turned to firebrands in her hand, and she felt her face crumpling in contempt. Never before had she felt her marriage such a waste! Not even when he had thrown her down and struck her, not even when she had lain awake at night in tears for what might have been. Her love, her future, all had been stolen for the selfish use and disposal by a man to whom she was little more than a trophy! What now of that vain hope of at last pleasing her father by her choice?
The remaining distance, through the study and down that dark, abandoned corridor, passed as a blur. She gritted her teeth and ran, clutching the keys in her hand as her talisman. At last she stood before the door, panting and longing to scream out in rage. Instead she trembled in silence, despising that life she had chosen with all its trappings and deceit. No more!
It had not occurred to her that the key in her hand might not be a fit, and she never dreamt it in this moment either. Dominating her thoughts now was one simple decision. With this turn of the key, she felt herself also to be turning her back—on Miguel, on her home, and even on her father’s honour. Her loyalties were now to be of her own choosing.
Darcyhadfallenasleep.Was it minutes, as he believed, or hours? Nevertheless, instant clarity fired through his consciousness with the familiar clink of key in lock. He shot to a sitting position as the door creaked slowly open, and he craned his neck to identify his visitor. Was it, at last, the answer to his prayers, or another session of demeaning barbarism? An inarticulate cry of joy left him when the lantern cast its soft luminescence over a creamy shawl, a dark skirt, a bare arm, and a downcast face. It was she! She had come, as she had promised!
After a hesitant pause, she raised her face, allowing him to study her in the lantern’s light. She was young, not much more than twenty, with dark curls and nearly black, almond-shaped eyes. High, rounded cheekbones tapered to a determined little chin. She was slim and petite—not so tall and shapely as Elizabeth, but a familiar spark of frank intelligence flickered in her expression—so likeher, in fact, that he gasped in shock.
She lifted her lantern away from herself now to gaze back at him—lips slightly parted, breast panting with anxiety. Dark eyes roved from his head to his feet, then back to his face. Her expression seemed to crack with pity for his condition, but then she began an intense scrutiny of his countenance. She tilted her head, one lip trapped in her teeth, and scanned his hair, his beard, his eyes, lingering over each detail as though she had expected to recognise him.
Instantly, he cursed himself for an ass. Had he been so long away from decent society that he had wholly forgotten his manners? He jerked to his feet and offered a humble bow, but then he was as a mute. His mouth worked, but only dry breath emerged. His hands clenched and a burning fear raced through his torso as he tried, and failed, to introduce himself. Chest heaving, he tried again, but the only sound to emerge was a quavering, “Haaahhhh….”
She firmed her lips and dipped an answering curtsey. “My name is Maria Amália Vasconcelos, Senhor Darcy. I am pleased to meet you at last.”
He swallowed. “L-likewise, madam.” He flexed his fingers and looked about himself with discomfort. “I—I must beg your pardon for my appearance, and I am afraid my present manners do me no credit.”
One corner of her mouth tightened wryly. “The fault is not your own,Senhor. My husband, I fear, is not to you a good host.”
“Your… your husband? Is this, then, your home, madam?”
Her mouth clenched. “I have been living here,” she acknowledged. She would elaborate no further, but a quick glance at something in her hand seemed to recall her to her purpose. She held it up, her gaze cautiously evaluating as she drew a few hesitant steps nearer. “Your leg,” she gestured with the object, revealing it to be a key. “It is still chained?”
