21. Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
H e had not yet come 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.
D arcy had fallen asleep. 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 like her , 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?”
He nodded dumbly, forcing himself to remain still. It had been months since any had approached him with other than hostile intent, and an unreasoning fear shook him at her proximity. His efforts failed when she extended her hand to touch the shackle, testing the key. Though his logical mind knew her for a friend and his only hope of freedom, the trauma of the last months had left their mark on his mind.
He lurched away from her, putting a hand out to stay her ministrations. “I will do it!” he objected. She frowned, then dangled the key before him so that he need not touch her hand to take it. He grasped it desperately, with a look of helpless apology before he bent his rigid fingers to their task. The key danced stubbornly all about the edges of the notch, shaking uselessly as he prodded about to set it home. The young woman lowered the lantern near, seemingly as eager as he.
At last, with a nearly frozen, grinding clank, the iron fell from his leg. Darcy dropped the key and could not help a spasmodic jerk, kicking away the last of his restraints as he flew to the far end of his cell. He stood—gasping in joy, deliverance, and glad disbelief.
“Come, Senhor,” the woman was beckoning. “My brother Ruy, he waits. He is to help you. You can ride a horse, yes? You are not wounded?”
He was self-consciously brushing his hands over his limbs—whether trying to shed himself of his filth or his captivity, he could not have told. “I believe I shall manage, madam.”
She sighed in relief. “Good. Now, come!”
He followed, as closely as he dared, but stopped at the threshold of his cell. “Madam,” he fumbled, “I must thank you.”
She turned, looking up to him with wide innocent eyes, sparking golden now in the light of her lantern, and for the first time he noticed the angry, raised mark on her left cheek. He tilted his head. “Madam, you are injured!”
She spun sharply away. “It was my own foolishness. Come!” Her strides flowing quickly, she fairly scampered from his presence. If he did not wish to lose the benefit of her lantern, he had no choice but to silence his objections and follow.
He obeyed, but a new concern darkened that cobbled way out of his cell. What price would this girl pay for his freedom?
“T ake this, senhor. You will no doubt be in need.”
Darcy, freshly attired and marvelously clean once more, held out a curious hand and found a small purse of coins thrust into it. He blinked at it in the darkness. Never had anyone else been required to give him a farthing—always it had been the reverse. He looked back to the young man before him—Ruy de Noronha, his name was. “I cannot accept. You have done enough already.”
The young man, a military man if Darcy’s judge of his bearing and manner were to be trusted, caught Darcy’s hand and forced his fingers to close once more over the purse. “No, senhor! You must. Traveling is expensive, no? Here is bread and wine for you—not much, but it is enough. Remember, two nights you must stay in this room. Do not go out! This is Tuesday. On Thursday evening, you must board the ship, but wait until dark. I cannot come back for you, or I will attract notice.”
He stood back, tilting his head and evaluating Darcy’s appearance. “Your beard you should trim neatly as soon as you may, but do not shave it, senhor. It helps to hide your face. No, you must take the money!” he repeated to his unwilling beneficiary. “You must look the part of a man of business, not an escaped prisoner.”
Darcy shook his head. “You are generous, but I have funds enough. I shall have no trouble in supplying my needs, even abroad, for my credit is more than sufficient.”
“They are not your funds at present, senhor!” The younger man tossed a coat toward him. “You must not use your own name at all, until you discover why it is you were captured. It is likely you are thought of as dead, so it will not do to disappoint anyone so soon. I wish to heaven I could tell you who it was, but this much I do know—there must be a great deal of money and not a little power at stake.”
Darcy grimaced and did his best to yank the coat over his frame. It was well-tailored, but not for him; and helpful as the young Noronha was, he did not seem inclined to play the part of a valet. Nor, for that matter, would Darcy have desired to be touched. “How came you to be involved in my rescue, if you know so little of the circumstances?”
Noronha scowled and offered a hat. “My sister.”
“Ah,” Darcy nodded. “She is a remarkable woman, sir. Her husband is a fortunate man, if he appreciates such a woman.”
The young man looked to have swallowed something vile. “Miguel Vasconcelos is as cruel as he is stupid,” he spat. “I suppose you did not notice my sister’s face?”
Darcy nodded, his stomach sinking. “I did. I am sorry, I had hoped such was not the case. Can she be protected?”
“I sent her in a carriage to our family home, but I must hurry to her so that my father does not order her back in the morning.”
Darcy’s hand fell from the hat he was adjusting, aghast. “Do you mean to say that your father would endanger his own daughter, after seeing with his own eyes the evidence that her husband was mistreating her?”
“I mean that my father owes her husband’s father a small fortune, as well as his position.”
Darcy sighed. “I have seen that very thing all too often. Is there anything I can do for the lady? Her sharp ears and courage have saved me, and I should like to do as much for her.”
“You have troubles enough of your own, senhor,” Noronha reminded him. “Unless I am mistaken, you will hear Vasconcelos’ name again, if you search well enough. I shall learn what I can here, and you may be certain that Amália will be listening for information as well.”
“But if she is further harmed—”
“I will kill the villain myself!” Noronha growled. “And I will make sure that he knows what his fate would be! Fear not for that, senhor. I must go now, before your absence is discovered and someone comes to search for you. Remember, do not leave this room!”
Darcy reluctantly gathered up the coins, secreting them in the pocket of the coat. “Sir, I cannot thank you enough—you and your sister.” His throat tightened. “You have purchased life again for me! Why would you take such risks upon yourselves?”
Noronha shrugged. “You have a sister. Would you not do anything she asked, even were it madness?”
A faint smile tugged at Darcy’s mouth. “That, and much more,” he agreed softly.
“And,” Ruy de Noronha reached behind him to close the door, “there is some history revolving about your family. I believe my father has some affiliation with a relation of yours, and Amália and I have both our connections as well.”
“A relation of mine?” Darcy frowned, his neck prickling with an almost animal sensation of danger. “Which, may I ask?”
Noronha’s mouth quirked subtly, his eyes taking on an expression Darcy could not read in the darkness. “Fitzwilliam.” Then he was gone.