That night had broken something in her, and she’d never been able to put herself back together, not entirely anyway. But perhaps there had been something wrong with her even before that. She’d never quite fit in with her adoptive family, had never felt like she was truly wanted. Her mother had assured her time and again that her fears were unfounded and that her parents loved Jo as much as their biological children, but for Jo, something had always been missing. Maybe that something was in her and not in those around her, who could never love her enough to quash her doubts. There had been people who came close, like Jesse Holt. He’d been patient and kind, and loyal, but she’d left him as soon as he began talking about a future together, about starting a family. She hadn’t been ready to settle down, so she’d run off to Paris, a place where a person was practically guaranteed to find adventure and romance. She had found a measure of both, but not enough to make her feel whole.
Perhaps she’d never been whole, even as a small child. Being abandoned at birth had haunted her, making her feel unworthy and suspicious of all those who professed to love her. She supposed some would say that being adopted by the surgeon who saved her life as an infant was the ultimate validation of worth, but she’d always felt more like a charity case, a theory that proved to be fact the night of the rape. Her parents’ immediate concern was for Michael, who’d get struck off the Medical Board if accused of the crime. Michael’s career had to be protected at all cost. Jo’s feelings came second.
Jo had never forgiven her parents for that decision and carried the pain of their betrayal still. She’d left them all behind, changed her name, and made a life for herself. She was an award-winning photojournalist, a woman who was fiercely independent and widely admired by her colleagues, but she was also a woman without roots. She hadn’t gone to her father’s funeral, still incapable of dealing with Michael’s remorse or Karen’s haughty derision. She didn’t need her siblings, and they didn’t need her. They were strangers to each other now, people who had shared a childhood but no longer had anything to bind them together. The problem was that after years of setting herself apart, she didn’t seem able to form a lasting bond with anyone. There had been several lovers since Jesse. She’d liked them, and had enjoyed the physical aspects of the relationship, but when the romance fizzled out, she’d felt no regret, no sense of loss. She’d felt relief. She’d discovered that she liked being on her own—but suddenly, she wasn’t.
Two months ago, she’d woken up from an induced coma to find herself at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany. She’d been frightened and confused, relieved to be alive. And then Rhys Morgan had shown up, followed by Quinn. Jo had felt so many emotions, they seemed to trip over each other and knock her off balance. She’d been amazed, excited, embarrassed, confused, and apprehensive all at once. She still felt much the same. There’d been a parade of new faces, and suddenly, she had a family again. She had a twin sister, three half-brothers, and biological parents who were miraculously still alive, unlike her adoptive parents, who had passed years ago.
Jo exhaled loudly and took a sip of her tea. She’d been trying to come to terms with her feelings for weeks, but she was no closer to feeling comfortable with this new reality. She should be happy, excited about this new future, but what she felt was overwhelming anxiety. It was as if a tidal wave were rolling toward the shore, growing bigger with every passing moment, but she stood rooted to the beach, unable to run for safety. Why did she feel so threatened? Except for her birth mother, whom she had yet to meet in person, everyone had been welcoming and kind. They were all different, but lovely in their own unique ways. Quinn was warm and open, Logan flamboyant and affectionate. Jude had been distant, but that was to be expected given his situation. He’d been recovering from his own near-death experience when they met, and a long-lost sister was not at the top of his priorities.
She liked Colin Scott’s quiet charm, and Seth’s American brashness. It was easy to allow him to take charge. He was a man who got things done and expected no thanks or praise for his efforts. And then there was Gabe. The mere thought of him made Jo’s cheeks feel unnaturally warm. Gabe wasn’t just attractive; he was kind, intelligent, and thoughtful. There was something old-world about him, a nobility and steadfastness rarely found in men these days. He wasn’t just devoted to Quinn. From what Jo could see, he was a wonderful father, a caring son, and a loyal friend to the people in his life. Jo had never longed for marriage, but if she ever met a man like Gabe, she’d gladly reconsider. Someone like Gabe came along once in a lifetime.
Jo cut the scone in half and spread it liberally with cream and jam. The first bite was always the best, so she took a moment to chew it slowly, pushing her concerns aside. Once she finished her treat, her mind returned to her unsettling thoughts. She supposed it wasn’t just one thing that made her anxious; it was several. First and foremost, she was nervous about her relationship with Quinn. Her sister was all in, ready to build a bond that would last a lifetime. In theory, Jo loved the idea, but in reality, she found herself taking a step back every time Quinn took a step forward. Quinn and Rhys shared the same quality that she found so disturbing. They were the type of people who wanted all of you. They were aggressive and fearless when it came to loving and giving, but they were also adept at taking. Someone as confident as Gabe might not feel threatened by an all-out frontal attack, but Jo was too emotionally fragile to allow someone to corner her like that. She needed time to find her own comfort zone and draw her own boundaries.
Jo finished her tea and pulled out her mobile. What was it with this constant need to check her phone? She’d enjoyed being out of reach while in Kabul, but as soon as she’d returned to London, she’d become a slave to technology once again. Suddenly, there were things that needed to be addressed, and inquiries that had to be answered. Jo checked her voicemail, not overly surprised to find a message from Rhys. He wanted to take her to dinner tomorrow. But did she want to go? She wasn’t sure.
Rhys was attractive, charming, and solicitous, but he was also aggressive, passionate, and demanding. He reminded her of the Big Bad Wolf. If she were to get involved with him, he wouldn’t settle for just a part of her. He’d want all of her, and he’d want it yesterday. Rhys had no patience. He was the type of man who took sensual pleasure in everyday life. He loved good food, fine wine, and stimulating company. Rhys wouldn’t settle for a casual affair. He wanted it all, and he’d made that quite clear.
But did Jo? And did she want it with him? Would she have been less intimidated if it’d been Gabe who tried to pursue her? Probably. Which wasn’t to say that Gabe was any less intense. Perhaps she simply liked him more. Anyway, it would be rude to refuse Rhys’s invitation. He’d been so kind to her. Jo selected Rhys’s number, pressed the button, and waited for him to answer, immensely relieved when the call went to voicemail.
“Rhys, I’d love to have dinner with you. Ring me.”
She disconnected the call and selected the next number. Quinn had left her a message as well. She wanted to show Jo the Hand of Fatima she’d discovered beneath the human remains she’d excavated in Ireland. Jo wanted to see the artifact but had no desire to touch it. She had sensed Quinn’s disapproval when Jo had told her she didn’t use her gift to see into the past, but she wouldn’t be pressured. She had enough to deal with in the present; she had no desire to live other people’s lives and feel their pain, because it was very rare that people led happy lives. That much they had in common.
Chapter 6
September 1588
Connacht, Ireland
The sky began to lighten gradually, the shades of gray shifting as the darkness dissipated. It was nothing like the apricot glow of an Iberian sunrise, but then this unfamiliar land was nothing like Spain. It was thickly wooded, and the early morning was as cold and damp as the coldest of winter days in Toledo. The men stopped to rest by a narrow stream. They hadn’t walked far, but they were both panting with effort, their bodies depleted after the
ir ordeal.
Rafael cupped his hands and drank until his stomach felt like an overflowing wineskin, but it felt good, invigorating. He washed his face, hands, and neck. Amazing how a small thing like washing made him feel more human. He ran his wet hands through his hair. When clean, his hair was soft and wavy, but this morning it was matted and coarse from the hours he’d spent in sea water.
Captain de Cuéllar drank a little, but even that small amount made him retch, his stomach not ready to hold anything down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried again, taking small sips from his cupped hand. The captain extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, wet it in the spring, and used it to clean his face and neck. His face had a greenish hue beneath his fading suntan and his eyes were glazed with fatigue, but his gaze glowed with determination. “We should press on. It’ll be fully light soon,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
They walked on until the sky began to turn a watery blue and the woods came awake all around them. Birdsong filled the air and the undergrowth shivered restlessly as small forest creatures left their subterranean homes and scurried in search of food. It grew warmer once the weak sunshine penetrated the darkened hollows and dense thickets. Rafael reflected on how pleasant dry clothes felt against his skin. Even his boots had finally dried out, no longer squelching as he trudged along behind the captain, who appeared lost in his own thoughts.
By midmorning, Rafael spotted a stone structure through the thinning trees. “I think that’s a church, sir.”
“Surely the priest will help us,” the captain said, his steps quickening with renewed optimism.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rafael mumbled, vivid images of yesterday’s carnage flooding his mind.
The captain hadn’t seen what Rafael had seen, hadn’t heard the desperate screams of dying men or the crunch of splintering bones. To go into battle where both sides were evenly matched was honorable; to butcher helpless men in cold blood was barbaric. The Irish were supposed to be fellow Catholics. How could they justify killing their brothers in faith in such a heartless manner? Rafael didn’t feel much sympathy for Catholics, knowing only too well what the Church was capable of and what it did to those it considered heretics, but the men on the beach had been foot soldiers, not firebrands of the Inquisition, whose true goal had been to kill and torture in the name of Christ.
It was Phillip II’s mission of divine faith to bring the Inquisition to the shores of England and unleash the priests on the millions of Protestants he considered fit only for the pyre. Rafael was secretly glad the mission had failed, but he hadn’t expected to find himself stranded in a Catholic country inhabited by people who were just as ruthless and pitiless as his own countrymen. He was no safer here than he’d been in Spain, posing as a good Catholic. His kind wouldn’t be welcome here either. His people didn’t seem to be welcome anywhere.
But perhaps the captain was right, and the clergy here was more moderate, Rafael mused as he followed the captain toward the building. If they didn’t find assistance in a church, there’d be little hope of finding help among the locals. Rafael felt a stab of disappointment when the church finally came into view. It was a ruin, the stones blackened with soot. It must have been destroyed in a fire.
Captain de Cuéllar stopped walking and stared at the ruins, a strange gurgle erupting from his swollen lips. “Santa María,” he whispered, and crossed himself fervently.
Rafael peered at the ruin, wondering what had shocked the captain so. And then he saw them—a dozen corpses hanging from beams laid across the roofless walls of the church. The victims had all been stripped naked but were without doubt Spanish soldiers. As their bodies rotated in the soft autumn breeze, their faces came into view, and Rafael hastily looked away, unable to bear the gruesome sight. The captain wasn’t as squeamish. He stood his ground, his feet apart, his shoulders back, his gaze on the dead.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” the captain recited. He crossed himself again and Rafael followed suit. His heart broke for the executed men and the families they’d left behind. Death was inevitable, sometimes unavoidable when you were a soldier, but to be left hanging, naked and desecrated in a Catholic church with no one to mourn your passing or bury the body, was unspeakable.
“Come, de Silva,” the captain said as he headed toward the church.
“Surely you don’t intend to go inside,” Rafael protested.
“There might be something there we can use,” the captain replied.
Rafael nodded and followed the captain into the ruin. The tiny church had nothing to offer. It had been gutted by flames. Only the stone walls had withstood the destruction and the charred interior was now the final resting place of the hapless victims. Rafael wished he could cover their nakedness to spare them the indignity of their death. He nearly lost his balance when he tripped on a fallen beam, but the captain grabbed him by the arm and pulled him behind a crumbling wall.
The sound of lowing came from just beyond the church, and several cows eventually came into view, herded by an old woman. She was alone, so the captain stepped out from behind the wall and smiled at her.
“Can you help us, señora?” he asked in Spanish.
The woman stopped walking and looked at them with interest. She didn’t appear to be afraid, only surprised by their presence. She shook her head, then pointed toward the road and shook her head again, dragging a finger across her throat. It was a clear warning.
“Gracias,” Captain de Cuéllar said.
The woman nodded and continued on her way.
“She might tell someone she saw us,” Rafael said.
“She might,” the captain agreed. He was deathly pale, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration despite the cool weather. “I don’t think I can keep walking, de Silva. I need to rest.” Rafael’s eyes slid fearfully toward the church, and the captain took his meaning. “Let’s go deeper into the woods, away from this terrible place.”
They ambled along for a half-mile or so before finding a fallen tree to sit on. Rafael was weak with hunger and wished there were berries or nuts he could toss into his empty stomach, but nothing looked edible. The captain closed his eyes and leaned against a tree trunk. He looked like death. His breathing was ragged and his mouth slack.
Please don’t die, Rafael pleaded with him silently. I don’t want to be left on my own. I’m scared.
“I’m scared too,” the captain said, making Rafael wonder if he’d spoken out loud. “It’s all right to be frightened, son.”
“What do we do, Captain?”
“We keep going.”
“Where to?” Rafael asked. What would be the ideal outcome in this situation? If they returned to the beach, they had a chance of being picked up by one of their ships, but here, in the woods, they would die of hunger and exposure.
“We will find help,” the captain assured him. “I’ve no doubt there are good Christians in this country. They will give us succor.”
When he heard a rustling in the trees, Rafael sprang to his feet and grabbed for what would have been his sword had he still been wearing one. “Someone’s there,” he hissed.
The captain peered into the foliage from beneath hooded eyelids. “Show yourself,” he demanded. He would have sounded commanding had his voice carried farther than that of a mewling kitten.
Two men emerged into the clearing. They wore the tattered remains of their breeches, and their torsos were covered with dirt and scratches. They breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Rafael and the captain.
“Juan,” Rafael exclaimed and threw himself at the nearest man. “Oh, Juan, thank God you’re alive.”
Juan embraced him. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life, Rafael.”
“This is Captain de Cuéllar,” Rafael announced, as if they were all enjoying a cup
of wine at a social gathering. “Captain, this is Juan González and…”
“Paco Laredo,” the second man supplied. The two men drew themselves up and bowed to the captain, respecting his rank.
“Gentlemen,” the captain replied. “At ease.”
The two men sank to the ground. They looked as exhausted as Rafael felt. “Are there any other survivors from our ship?” Rafael asked. He didn’t know the second man, but Juan González had been one of his mates aboard the El Gran Grin.
Juan shook his head. “The locals butchered nearly one hundred men, back that way.” He indicated the direction they’d come from. “They robbed them first,” he added. “Took everything, even their breeches.”
“We’re doomed,” Paco Laredo moaned.
“Shut up, Paco,” Juan hissed. “We’re not dead yet.”
“But we soon will be. I almost wish I’d drowned when the Juliana went down. It would have been a peaceful death.”
“It’s not too late. You can still drown yourself, señor Laredo. There’s a creek that way,” the captain replied, pointing toward the creek where they’d had a drink earlier. “It’s not very deep, but if you lie on the bank and submerge your head, you’ll accomplish the task.”
Paco seemed unsure if the captain was serious and wisely remained silent.
“Do you have a plan, Captain?” Juan asked.
“Not as yet,” the captain replied.
The men fell silent, sitting on the ground as if they were awaiting their execution. Perhaps they were.
Chapter 7
April 2015
London, England
Quinn shut the book and tenderly brushed a tendril of curly dark hair out of Emma’s face. She looked way too serious for someone who’d just listened to a fairy story. Emma’s eyes had a faraway look, but she seemed upset despite the happy ending.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 4