Katya disentangled herself long enough to pull off her top and unhook her bra, arching her back to offer Rhys one creamy breast. He lowered his head to flick his tongue against her nipple as she slid her hand downward to stroke him—not that he needed much assistance at that point.
“Come to bed, dorogoy,” she whispered. “I have more surprises for you.”
Rhys had heard that Russian women were bossy, but at the moment, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He lifted Katya as he stood and walked toward the bedroom, the half-naked woman still wrapped around him. As he laid her down on the bed, Katya pulled up her skirt, revealing that she wasn’t wearing any knickers.
“I hope you’ll like this even better,” Katya whispered as she spread her legs in invitation and gave Rhys a gentle push downward.
“My favorite kind,” Rhys replied as he went to work, making Katya moan with pleasure.
Chapter 48
Rhys came awake slowly, sensually, his body languid and sated from the night before. Katya was still asleep, her pale face almost luminescent in the gentle light of the spring morning. Her dark-blond lashes were fanned against her cheeks and her hair formed a golden halo on the dove-gray pillowcase. She had been passionate and generous last night, and surprisingly open, urging him to try anything he felt like. The memory sent an arrow of desire to his loins, making him think of all the delicious things he could do to wake her up.
A few minutes later, Katya stirred and opened her eyes. A small smile tugged at her lips as if she were recalling last night as well. “Good morning,” she said huskily.
“Good morning.”
Rhys pulled down the duvet and traced a sensual line down her body, following his fingers with featherlight kisses that began with her earlobes and ended between her thighs. Katya purred and arched her back, but Rhys wouldn’t be rushed. He had every intention of driving her mad with desire before finally giving her what she craved. It took tremendous restraint on his part, but he devoted himself to her pleasure, partaking of her body only after Katya had enjoyed her first orgasm.
“Tease,” Katya said once they were both gloriously sated. Her generous lips stretched into a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat and she ran her long nails down Rhys’s chest, making his skin tingle.
“Katya, what does this mean?” he asked.
“It means whatever you want it to mean, Rhys. It could be a one-night stand, or it could be the beginning of something that will be good for both of us. I think we’ve passed the sexual compatibility test,” she added, smiling seductively.
“Is it really that simple?”
“Rhys, I’m too old to play games. When I see something I want, I reach for it. Sometimes I get it, and sometimes I don’t, but I will never miss out on something wonderful because I was too afraid of rejection. If you choose to leave and never come back, I will never hold it against you, and it will have no effect on our working relationship.”
“Katya, I want to come back. In fact, I don’t want to leave,” Rhys replied, kissing her tenderly. “I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Can I make you breakfast?”
“You most certainly can. The kitchen is yours. I’ll have a shower.”
Katya rose from bed, her naked body smooth as marble in the sunlight. She didn’t reach for a dressing gown or make any comments about not looking her best without applying fresh make-up. She appeared to be completely comfortable in her skin, a woman who saw no reason to apologize for her appearance or desires. Rhys folded his arms behind his head and watched her walk into the en-suite bathroom. He was fascinated, and unexpectedly happy.
Chapter 49
May 2015
London, England
“Go right in, Dr. Allenby,” Rhiannan Makely, Rhys’s PA, said once Quinn got off the lift. “He’s expecting you.”
Rhys looked up from a document he was reading and smiled happily. “Lovely to see you, Quinn. Have a seat. Coffee? Tea?”
“I won’t say no to a cup of tea,” Quinn replied. Rhys buzzed Rhiannan and asked her to bring in two cups of tea and some biscuits.
“What have you got for me?” Rhys asked, cutting straight to the chase.
“Quite a lot, actually,” Quinn replied. “First and foremost, Rafael de Silva was Jewish, not Muslim, as I initially assumed. He was the descendent of one of the few Jewish families that remained in Toledo after the expulsion of the Jews in 1492.”
“Have you been able to find anything about him in your research?”
“I haven’t found any specific references to Rafael de Silva and hadn’t expected to. He was a foot soldier, and history is not interested in the likes of him unless they do something extraordinary. Captain de Cuéllar, however, figures prominently in several articles about the post-Armada period. He left a considerable paper trail, our captain.”
“Do tell,” Rhys invited, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Captain Francisco de Cuéllar, who was sentenced to hang for disobedience after his ship broke the Armada formation, not only managed to survive long enough to get shipwrecked off the coast of what is now known as County Sligo, but actually returned home to Spain. He wrote an account of his time in Ireland, which will go a long way to legitimizing our version of events. He spoke at length about what happened to him after he was shipwrecked, how he finally made it to O’Rourke territory, and what took place during the siege of the castle. He mentions in his account that there was another soldier with him throughout most of his ordeal but doesn’t specify it was Rafael de Silva. He might not have wished to share his fifteen minutes of fame, or the more logical explanation, given that the captain was an honest and honorable man, is that he had no wish to explain what happened to his companion or be forced into a lie.”
“Wait, there was a siege?” Rhys asked, leaning forward in his eagerness.
“Oh yes. Nearly two thousand English troops were dispatched to deal with the Armada survivors and marched on the castle of Sir Brian O’Rourke. Of course, they were there as much for O’Rourke himself as for the Spaniards. Brian O’Rourke had been a thorn in Queen Elizabeth’s side for years, along with his good friend Sean McClancy, and his blatant refusal to follow the order to execute Armada survivors on sight was yet another provocation for the embattled queen.”
“How long did the siege last?”
“I wasn’t able to come up with specific dates, but I would imagine it didn’t last very long.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The troops arrived at the castle at the beginning of November. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me they spent a lot of time being cold and wet while the inhabitants of the castle enjoyed warm fires and dry boots,” Rhys replied without missing a beat.
“Precisely. Historically, there have been wintertime sieges, but there was much more at stake, politically speaking. Subjecting nearly two thousand men to an Irish winter for the sake of capturing a few dozen Spanish foot soldiers was madness. It was done more out of spite than any well-thought-out military tactic.”
“So, you think the siege was called off?” Rhys asked.
“Most likely, which explains, in part, how Captain de Cuéllar was able to return home a few months later.”
“Do you know why de Silva was crucified?” Rhys steepled his fingers in front of him, a sure sign he was in the mood to speculate. “I cannot conceive of sixteenth-century Irishmen crucifying a man as a form of punishment. Could he have been crucified by the English as a warning to the rest of the Spaniards? Perhaps he was unlucky enough to get caught outside the walls.”
Quinn considered this for a moment. “The English executed two Spanish soldiers on the third day of the siege. They were hanged from a tree that was clearly visible from the castle walls. Crucifying one of their countrymen in full view of the castle would certainly be taking their threat a step further, but I simply don’t see that happening. It doesn’t fit with the military practices of that period. Prisoners were hanged, shot, and beheaded, but they were
not crucified. Ever!”
“Would the English soldiers feel sympathy for Rafael if he admitted to being a Jew? Were Jews not relatively safe in England at that time?” Rhys asked, putting forth a contradicting theory.
“No, they weren’t. I don’t believe the English would have executed Rafael for his faith, but they wouldn’t have welcomed him with open arms either. Jews were expelled from England by Edward I in 1290 after centuries of persecution. It wasn’t until 1655 that Oliver Cromwell unofficially lifted the ban on the Jews after receiving a petition submitted by Menasseh ben Israel, a rabbi from Amsterdam, asking for permission for Jews to reenter England. By 1657, a community represented by Antonio Fernández Carvajal and Simon de Cáceres sprang up and purchased land near Mile End to use as a synagogue. And, in 1657, Solomon Dormido, the nephew of Menasseh ben Israel, was admitted to the Royal Exchange as a duly licensed broker. Normally, all the brokers had to swear an oath that made mention of Christianity, but when Dormido was sworn in in 1668, the oath was amended to exclude that part. But this all happened much later, so Rafael would not have benefitted from this new tolerance.”
“Do you think he would have been aware of the ban on Jews in England?” Rhys asked.
“Probably not,” Quinn conceded. “Not unless the Jews of Toledo had some contact with the community in Amsterdam, but I got the feeling they were quite isolated.”
“Which brings us back to the crucifixion. Is there nothing in Captain de Cuéllar’s account about this event? Perhaps a thinly veiled reference?” Rhys tried again.
“Not that I can see. The captain provided a detailed account of the time leading up to the siege. He even mentioned his annoyance with the ladies of the castle for pestering him to tell their fortunes. Apparently, O’Rourke’s wife and some of her companions found the fortune-telling quite accurate and thought Captain de Cuéllar was a true seer. He then also described, in great detail I might add, his decision to leave the castle and the subsequent journey home, which took months.”
“But there’s a glaring omission in his narrative,” Rhys supplied, “just around the time of the crucifixion.”
“Yes.”
“Could he have been the one who ordered it?” Rhys speculated.
Quinn nodded, pleased that Rhys had reached the same conclusion. “That’s what I was thinking. Captain de Cuéllar was the highest-ranking officer among the Spanish soldiers. If anyone could order an execution, it would have been him.”
“Was he a zealot?” Rhys asked.
“He was a devout Catholic, but from what I’ve seen, he was a kind and decent man. Honor was very important to him.”
“If de Silva insulted his honor, he might have wanted him dead.”
“I still don’t see why he’d choose crucifixion as the mode of execution. If Rafael de Silva did something the captain deemed unforgivable or treasonous, he’d order him to be shot or hanged. So, why something so Biblical, and so brutal? If de Silva hadn’t died of cardiac arrest, as Dr. Scott suspects, he might have suffered for days, dying slowly and painfully. I simply can’t believe Captain de Cuéllar was capable of such cruelty.”
“Men do strange things when they’re drunk on power. As you say, he was the highest-ranking officer among the men. Perhaps he wanted to teach them a lesson by making an example of de Silva.”
“Perhaps.”
“You pity him, don’t you?” Rhys asked softly.
“I do. He was hardly more than a boy. There was an innocence in him I find endearing. Rhys, do you think British audiences will be interested in an episode featuring the survivors of the Armada? The defeat of the Spanish Armada is still seen as one of the greatest victories in our national history. I don’t expect people to feel much sympathy for these men, who should never have been on our shores to begin with.”
“I don’t agree with you there. There are numerous films and books about the trials of German civilians during and after World War II. People might hate the Nazis and the Third Reich, but they can still find pity for the unwitting victims of the regime. And Rafael was a victim, in more ways than one. He was someone who suffered at the hands of the Church, and then at the hands of his countrymen. I think his story is one that needs to be told.”
“I hope you’re right,” Quinn replied. “Some part of me thinks he should be left in peace.”
“Let me tell his story, Quinn. You know I will be sensitive and respectful of his memory. I always am,” Rhys said with a self-satisfied grin.
Quinn sat back and studied him. The sun shone through the window behind him, setting his auburn hair aflame. His gray eyes looked soft and dreamy as he met her gaze. “There’s something different about you,” Quinn said, smiling at him.
“I got a haircut,” Rhys replied.
“No, it’s not your hair. It’s in the eyes. I know—you look happy.”
Rhys’s cheeks colored delicately, and he gave Quinn a shy smile, a feat in itself for Rhys, who was anything but shy. “I suppose I am.”
“Who’s the lucky lady?” She didn’t for a moment imagine it was Jo, so it had to be someone new.
“It’s Katya Velesova,” Rhys replied. “We’ve only just got together, but I’ve known her for several months now, and I really like her, Quinn. She’s different.”
“In what way?”
“She’s smart, funny, and warm, without being needy. She’s not a woman who thinks having a man in her life will solve all her problems. She doesn’t have an agenda.”
“Everyone has an agenda.”
“They do, but Katya is someone who wants to be an equal partner, a companion, not a dependent. She’s not looking to own me, and she doesn’t want to be owned herself. Does that make sense?”
“Yes. It makes perfect sense. The best types of relationships are between people who give and receive without using the other person to fulfill only their own needs. It’s a true partnership.”
“Exactly,” Rhys said, nodding. “Most women I’ve been with in the past saw me as a means to an end. I had something they wanted, be it financial security or the ability to further their careers. Katya just seems to want me.”
“I’m happy for you, Rhys. I hope it works out.”
“I’m sorry about Jo, Quinn.”
“Don’t be. These things can’t be forced, and for what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision.”
“I’m glad you think so. I wouldn’t want to lose your friendship,” Rhys said, flashing that shy smile again.
“Rhys, you’ll never lose my friendship, especially not over that. Your private life is your own. I only want to see you happy.”
“Thanks, Quinn. That means a lot to me.”
“And speaking of Jo, I have to get going. I’m meeting her at her flat,” Quinn said, gathering her belongings.
“Is she all right?” Rhys asked with genuine concern as he walked Quinn to the lift.
“Yes.” But not for long, Quinn thought as she stepped into the lift.
Chapter 50
The weather had turned by the time Quinn arrived. Jo’s flat was gloomy, nearly leached of natural light. Jo didn’t bother to turn on the lights, just sat staring out the window, a colorful pillow held against her middle like a shield against Quinn’s unwelcome news. Quinn didn’t rush her. Jo needed a moment to think, and Quinn needed to use the loo.
She turned on the light and her gaze fell on the rubbish bin next to the toilet. A used prophylactic was clearly visible among make-up-soiled tissues and cotton swabs. Quinn had noticed two wine glasses when she’d gone into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jo clearly hadn’t been alone last night, but Quinn didn’t feel it was her place to quiz Jo about her love life. If she wished to share with her, she would. Now, Jo didn’t seem to want to talk at all.
Quinn washed her hands and returned to the kitchen, where she made some tea. When she brought Jo a mug, she found her in the same position she’d left her in.
“Thanks,” Jo said, her voice flat and lifeless.
; “Jo, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Quinn began.
“I have no chance of finding my daughter if I don’t provide Drew with new leads,” Jo replied in a strange monotone.
“No, probably not. Without the name of the child, the surname of her adoptive parents, or the name of the agency that handled the adoption, Drew can do very little, even with his considerable experience.”
“I haven’t spoken to them since Mum died,” Jo said, her gaze still fixed on the falling rain. “I shouldn’t be scared to talk to my own sister, but the thought of coming face to face with Karen terrifies me. She was always so cold, so judgmental. And Michael…”
“You don’t have to speak to Michael ever again, Jo.”
“It’s his child. Surely, if Dad shared any information about the adoption, he would have told him.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to know,” Quinn said, wondering what kind of man Michael Crawford was. She’d met Karen while searching for Jo, but never spoken to her brother, since Karen had sent Quinn and Logan directly to Jo’s solicitor, Louis Richards. Quinn’s devotion to Jo made her want to hate Michael Crawford, but some more rational part of her told her to reserve judgment. She’d judged Rhys, Robert Chatham, and Seth based on the story Sylvia had carefully fed her, but as Seth was fond of saying, there were three sides to every story: his, hers, and the truth. Jo’s parents and sister had worked hard to protect Michael from an accusation of rape. Was it because they were blindly devoted to him, or because what happened hadn’t been as black and white as Jo would have Quinn believe?
Quinn buried her nose in her mug of tea, feeling guilty for her disloyal thoughts. Rape was rape, there were no shades of gray about it. Jo had been underage, innocent, and vulnerable. Michael had been a man in his thirties. The fact that he got off scot-free only went to prove that people always blamed the victim, assuming they’d done something to provoke the attack. No matter what Jo had done, she hadn’t deserved to be assaulted by her adoptive brother. She’d been just a kid when she gave birth to Michael’s child. There was no excuse. Quinn would gladly go speak to Michael Crawford herself if there was any chance he’d tell her the truth.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 25