Page 36 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter thirty-six

Lisbon, Portugal

A mália picked at the drab cloth she held, an unconscious frown creasing her brow. The thick weave of Ruy’s uniform warmed her lap, save for a gaping hole in the sleeve where he had been nearly wounded during exercises. She fingered the hole. Had the sword struck an inch to the left….

She let go a sharp sigh, and bent to her task just as the other women in the room did. All were camp followers—wives, some children, and even a few widows with nothing left for them but what could be gleaned from the attentions of the regiment. These women bore hardship for the love of a soldier—like her, and yet not. Portuguese sisters, all, but their eyes had seen a different sort of suffering than had hers.

They had sheltered her, as Ruy had predicted they would, but not welcomed her. Oh! She was not deaf to the whispers—hands cupped and eyes darting in her direction as her great scandal was pronounced. Even her family’s ancient title purchased her no respect in this room. Aristocrata , the kinder ones called her; a woman of means and standing, running away from an honourable marriage and pretending to follow the drum. Pretending to be one of them.

Her eyes burning, she stabbed a needle through the cloth. Ruy would need this uniform again by the morrow, and if she were to shelter here under his banner, the least she could do was to look after him as the other women cared for their men. Her fingers seemed somehow less capable than theirs, just as her right to take a place among them seemed less secure.

She could not remain much longer—that much she knew right well! Ruy had employed his connections, but there was no place for a soldier’s sister, nor was there meant to be an allotment for her rations. Wives—and women with somewhat less dignity—were always sought after by the regiment for companionship, but she could not be counted among them. Useful women who could cook and sew and nurse wounds were grudgingly accepted as a necessity to the camp, but there was no shortage of those, and her skills were more genteel than practical. She blinked back a tear of frustration and tried to stitch more quickly.

Was this the life she would have known if she had married Richard? Waiting for him at camp, praying that he was among those fortunate ones to ride back from the fire and smoke? Of course, as a true soldier’s wife with a right to her portion of his pay and an acknowledged place among the followers, her status would have been somewhat higher—unless he were killed.

Her wondering gaze raised from Ruy’s coat to the grizzled widow sitting across the room. No more than thirty-five or forty was she, but her life appeared to have played out twice that many years. Amália shuddered and looked back to the coat before her stares could be noticed. That was the fate Richard had tried to spare her from—and just now it seemed a finer one than the one she had fled.

Her eyes fixed on the olive cloth, so lost in contemplation that it was a full minute before she noticed the bright red flush staining the edge of the hole she attempted to mend. Several seconds more passed before she recognised the blood for her own, but then she hurried to blot the well from her pricked fingertip.

She glanced nervously about, hoping her blunder had gone unnoticed, but it had not. Two knowing smiles mocked her from her right, and the whispers began anew. Amália clenched her teeth and rose hastily, snatching the uniform coat from prying gazes.

Mumbling her excuses, she escaped their presence, and a moment later was outdoors. An English officer happened to be walking nearby, his lady on his arm. Amália watched the couple as they strode past, sensing a thrill when the English lady’s kindly blue eyes smiled briefly back into hers. She stood a moment after they had gone, wishing there were more such women in Lisbon. Only the higher ranking foreign officers tended to bring their wives abroad, and often these remained only a few months before returning to England. It was a pity, for the English women seemed to see her with different eyes. Perhaps there was nothing remarkably gracious about the ladies of that country, but the mere fact that they were here, displaced as she, made them somehow more kindred than women who hailed from her own home city.

Amália walked slowly to the old building where she and some of the young wives of the regiment had their lodgings. The light in her room was dismal, and the row of beds seemed both cramped and empty at the same time, but she determined it the best place to complete her task. She sat on her narrow bed, squinting her eyes until they ached, and fumbling with sore fingers until the hole was mended. Just as she was beginning to contemplate the best way to remove her blood from the coat, a disturbance rose from the main door of the house.

Curiously, she moved to the door of the hall where she slept, and the heat surged into her cheeks as she heard a masculine voice demanding entry to the house. Oh, no. No, no, no!

Against the protests of one or two matrons and officers without, someone had forced their way in, and Amália did not need to see the face to comprehend her danger. She spun about, dropping Ruy’s coat and wondering if she could wedge herself into the small window above one of the beds to escape.

She heard a hated voice demand, “Where is my master’s faithless wife?” and then the voice was answered by the ring of a steel sword leaping from its scabbard.

“Leave these quarters at once, Pereira!” ordered Ruy’s tones. The rage simmering in his voice prickled the back of her neck. Ruy was an officer, a man used to command and not one to be ruled by passion, but he sounded to her as though the situation was far from under his control. Amália was reeling back into the depths of the room, searching for a dark bed under which she might hide herself, when the door burst open.

“The whore herself,” snarled Pereira. An instant later, Ruy’s sword was at his throat.

“You must be thinking of your own relations,” Ruy hissed. “Take another step or speak another word, and we will see the colour of your blood!”

Pereira made a face. “You cannot afford to harm me,” he answered nonchalantly. “I have a letter from the bishop and another from the governor, both denouncing her ,” he gestured flippantly, “as a deceitful woman. Happily, her husband has offered to take her back, under certain conditions.”

Two of Ruy’s young soldados finally rushed in, taking their cue from him and drawing swords. Amália watched Ruy’s fingers work along the hilt of his sword, readjusting his grip and drawing furious breaths. “She goes nowhere!” He jerked his head to his companions, and by prods and shoves they forced Pereira back.

“You have no legal right!” Pereira objected. “I have the power here,” he shook his letters, “to force her to accompany me. Your general cannot even interfere!”

“And I have the power to see that you never draw another breath!” Ruy shot back. “Go back and tell Miguel Vasconcelos that he is unworthy of a wife. Tell him that she has taken holy orders or tell him that she has died of dysentery, I care not! But if you step into my sword, it will not fall back.”

“You have said the same twice now, and yet I am unpierced by your blade. Could it be, Captain Noronha, that you also know the truth of the matter? For you see, a word to your general could result in things which you would find… unpleasant.” Pereira’s lips curled, his fingers sliding suggestively down the length of his letters as his eyes turned upon Amália. “You have my word, Captain, that I would personally see her safely delivered to her home.”

Amália shivered, but Ruy’s face purpled. “Drag him outside the camp!” he ordered his men. “If you think, Pereira, that I hesitate to strike you down out of fear for myself, you are mistaken. I would not spill blood before a lady’s eyes.”

“You speak so gallantly before you draw sword in cold blood!” mocked Pereira. “What becomes of the whore when you are executed for murdering an unarmed man?” The soldados froze, looking questioningly to their captain.

The corner of Ruy’s mouth tipped, and for the barest of a second, he flashed Amália a confident smile. “Vasconcelos will never know,” he whispered threateningly. “And I have no intention of murdering an unarmed man, but I shall certainly defend myself from an armed one. I understand you were once remarkably skilled with a blade. I will give you a sword—cut me down, and you may show those letters to whomever you please.”

Pereira inched back, uncertainty finally reflecting in his manner. “Dueling is illegal, Captain. Surely even you are not so mad! You cannot deny the law. She is a married woman, and her husband wishes to reclaim what was taken from him.”

“He ought to start with his manhood! He cannot even be troubled to seek his wife in person? Why is it he sends you, the dog who licks his boots? Nay, he did not even do that much, for it was likely not the son, but the father who set you after her! Vasconcelos did not even trust that worthless son of his for such a simple task as retrieving an unwilling wife.”

“Senhor Vasconcelos must think of his dignity. You do not expect such a great man to waste his time recovering a stray broodmare. If the fount were not precious, I think no one would even care what became of the vessel,” he sneered. “If, that is, the cask is found to be of pure silver, and not common clay.”

Ruy’s eyes widened sharply, and he rounded to face his sister. Her lips white and her cheeks flushed in shame, she shook her head in vehement denial. No, she carried no Vasconcelos child, and she would die before ever permitting it! As for Pereira’s implications toward her purity—she wanted nothing more than to spit directly in the vermin’s face, but it was only an insult. She had known greater injury than Pereira’s filth.

The righteous indignation writ over Amália’s features was enough answer for her brother. The terror slackened somewhat from his face and he blinked… slowly. Time seemed to coalesce around her. Amália saw Pereira’s hand move, saw the flash of silver as the dagger dropped from his sleeve. Too late, too slowly, she opened her mouth to scream out in warning.

Ruy’s head had tipped back toward Pereira—his mouth preparing to speak, his body uncoiling in relief. “N-n-n-o-o-o-o!!!” sounded from somewhere in the room—herself, she realised, just as Pereira’s fist gripped the blade. Ruy’s face flared in shock, then twisted in pain, as the fist drove toward his chest.

Amália screamed—not in surprise or fear, for she had lived an eternity in that fraction of a second and knew clearly her own mind. She cried out injustice to the heavens, she swore an oath of woman’s wrath and vengeance, and she raised the alarm. The redcoats would not be long.

Pereira still held his dagger, but he was rapidly thrown against a wall by the soldados. Amália rushed to her brother’s side, meaning to ease his fall, but fall he did not. He staggered, seemed about to lose his footing, and looked down at his wounded torso in disbelief, but he remained on his feet. Amália stopped short of cradling him, fixing her eyes on the pool of blood forming just under his left arm.

He met her gaze, his eyes looking somewhat glassy, but then he offered her that cocky smile—the one that promised that all would be well, though his lips were chalky and his forehead already beginning to sweat. With a gentle hand, he pushed her back, and none too soon, for Pereira had just felled one of the soldados, and was hard upon the second. Older, stronger, and more cunning than the youthful recruit, Pereira was showing him no mercy, and now he held a sword in his right hand with the dagger in his left.

Ruy pulled the lad back by his collar, helping him to stand by main strength as he struggled to free himself from his vicious opponent. The boy at last broke free, and then it was Ruy pressing Pereira against the wall. The swords glittered between them, and for a horrible second it looked to Amália as though the dagger had slipped beneath Ruy’s blade, trapping his hand and biting repeatedly where the sword was nearly useless.

Ruy twisted his bleeding body, drew back his arm in a killing blow, and the sword struck. The last blasphemy to leave Pereira’s mouth did so as a futile gasp. His knees buckled, his eyes rolled into his head, and he fell toward the man he had just tried to kill.

Ruy stepped back, swaying and panting, as Amália raced to him. “Ruy! Oh, there is so much blood!”

Indeed, there was. Ruy glanced down, dropping his sword from numb fingers. Half a dozen slashes covered his torso and right arm, soaking his olive uniform. Amália’s hands hovered helplessly over each wound, but she was never allowed to inspect them, nor to ask if he were badly hurt, nor even to thank him, for entering the door was a new flood of red.

A British officer, flanked by four junior officers, coldly surveyed the scene. He flicked unfeeling eyes over Amália, glanced disinterestedly at the dead civilian and the groaning soldado, and at last his judgment fell upon the Portuguese captain—the last man standing.

“By order of the general, I hereby place you under arrest.”