Page 4 of The Rogue’s Embrace

While Zarautz was the playground for the Spanish royal family and other nobles, it also had a dark underbelly. Lisandro knew all the immoral and foul places where the local criminals gathered. After taking a room at a quiet and respectable inn, he made for the less savory part of town.

For Maria to have been taken from the beach in broad daylight, the kidnappers must have had help from someone in Zarautz. Someone who knew the tides and also where she could possibly have been that morning. Locals would have had to be involved. And the longer Lisandro thought about it, the more Diego's words of worry about people close to the Elizondo family being complicit in Maria's disappearance made greater sense.

He didn't believe in happy coincidences; he had more faith in the power of a handful of coins. Those and a sharp sword were what usually got people talking.

Lisandro chose a grimy seaside tavern close to the villa where the Elizondo family had stayed during the wedding celebrations as the first place to scout for clues. As he walked into the inn, he dipped his functional hat toward the innkeeper, then settled himself at a table toward the back. His plain travelling attire of long black coat and dull brown trousers drew little attention from the other customers, which was exactly what Lisandro wanted.

Nursing a glass of brandy, he waited.

The patrons of the establishment slowly but surely got deeper into their drinks over the course of the night. The drunker they got, the louder and looser of lips they became.

He had just set his second gently nursed glass of golden heaven onto the table when a voice rose above all the others.

"You bloody Spanish are hopeless at handling your ships. How many times did your Armada try and invade merry old England? Too many times."

Lisandro searched for the loudmouth. There was a group of rowdy drinkers not far away. In their midst rose a man in a dirty red shirt. He climbed onto the table and held out his arms. It wasn't his clothing or behavior which caught Lisandro's attention—rather, it was his badly scarred face.

Someone at the Englishman's table swore at him in Spanish, and the rest of the gathering all laughed. The man clearly understood the jest. "Hijos de perros,"

he replied.

His friends obviously didn't mind being told they were sons of dogs as they all lifted their glasses and toasted their companion.

The man reached into his coat pocket and proceeded to rain coins upon the heads of those seated at the table. A roar of approval and cheers rang out.

"Come on, drink up, my amigos. Lots of lovely Spanish dollars. There is plenty more where that came from!"

Lisandro froze. Why would a poorly dressed Englishman be throwing money around? Most sailors barely scraped by, so who was this scarred man?

And he talks of Spanish dollars, not pesos. Just like in the ransom note.

While he didn't believe in coincidences, Lisandro most certainly believed in good fortune. Zarautz was a sleepy fishing town; few ships from other areas docked there. Any sort of foreigner could seem out of place.

The noise level in the drunken group steadily grew louder. If Lisandro had not been such an experienced operative, he would have continued to watch the boisterous Brit, but over the next hour his attention slowly shifted and focused on another man seated at the table.

This reveler was well in his cups and had slowed his rate of drinking to the point where Lisandro reckoned on him lagging three glasses behind the rest of his friends. When the man shifted along the bench and struggled to his feet, Lisandro pulled his hat lower.

"Buenas noches!"

the man cried.

"Go on, bugger off,"

replied the Englishman.

The man staggered to the front door and out into the street. The jeers and foul farewells of his friends followed in his wake.

It was a tense five-minute wait for Lisandro before he slowly rose from his seat. He pulled the collar of his coat up and turned his head away as he passed by the raucous group of drinkers and made for the exit.

Outside, he looked up and down the street, searching. Then his gaze landed on his prey. The staggering drunk was further up the lane, a short distance away.

There you are.

Following and interrogating drunks was never a fun task. They had a tendency to throw up when stopped and questioned, but they were always easy to track. An alcohol-addled mind made for slow going.

Lisandro caught up with the man a hundred yards on from the tavern and quickly pulled him into a nearby doorway. It was far enough away from the inn that anyone else leaving would not see them.

"My friend, you have had much to drink,"

said Lisandro.

The man grinned. "That I have, se?or. Much wine. Much brandy."

"You sound like you have been celebrating. I hope it was good news."

The drunk leaned back against the inner wall of the building's entrance and stuffed his hands into his coat pocket. "A job well done, as my friend from Inglaterra would say. And a job that paid well."

He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket, proudly showing them off. Several of the coins fell with a clatter onto the stone flagging. A folded piece of paper fluttered behind them. Before the man had the chance to react, Lisandro bent and retrieved the items.

The coins were handed back; the paper was not.

"Do you think your friend might have some work for me? I could do with a spot of coin,"

said Lisandro.

The man shook his head. "You don't want to get involved with people like me—and especially not with Mister Wicker. Besides, this was a once-off. There is not a lot of call for kidnapping, even in my line of work."

"Oh, come now, my friend—there is always someone who needs to be kidnapped. Spain has lots of castles in which to hide a wayward prince or a noble daughter,"

said Lisandro with a laugh.

He got a low, dirty chuckle in response. "You are wrong. The farther away from home you can take them, the better. Only a fool would risk keeping a prize captive in Spain."

Lisandro froze.

When the ransom note had said Maria was far away, he had naturally assumed she was still somewhere in the country—possibly further south, closer to Madrid. Had he been wrong?

"Well, I had better be off. If I am late home again, my wife will make me sleep in the stables,"

said the man.

Lisandro reluctantly let the man go. Roughing him up would serve no purpose and it might put his accomplices on notice. Besides, he had no solid proof that these were the people who had taken Maria. At the moment he had only his instincts and a handful of small clues on which to go.

Yes, but what are the odds of some other noblewoman having been kidnapped?

This had to be fate. Diego's thoughts about a local connection possibly being involved made sense, as did his own growing suspicions about the scar-faced Englishman. All Lisandro's attention now focused on Mister Wicker.

Remaining hidden in the doorway, he retrieved the piece of paper he had quickly stuffed into his pocket and unfolded it.

Se?or Alba and the special cargo sailed on the evening tide. Keep quiet about Plymouth and you will get the rest of your money when the ransom is paid. W.

"Oh Maria,"

he muttered. Maria de Elizondo Garza had been kidnapped and stolen away to England.

Lisandro screwed the paper up tightly in his hand and made a silent vow.

I will find you and I will bring you home.