They ended up on the Gaia shore, almost all the way out at the breakwater. Her feet found purchase in fine sand, and she pushed herself upright, walking the last little distance to the beach. She slid down on one side of a large rock, where she would be hidden from view from passing traffic on the river. “Just let me rest a while,” she mumbled.
Only a few steps behind her, Duilio didn’t argue. He sat next to her on the damp ground and coughed up more water. She caught him in her arms when he slumped to the sands.
CHAPTER 31
The green hills rolled gently down to the Douro at the Marialva estate, allowing all the guests a fine view of the sparkling waters peeking between carefully manicured stands of trees. Tidy rows of grape vines climbed the far bank of the river. It was a mild spring afternoon, and Oriana had gone with Isabel to an informal picnic on Lord Marialva’s grounds.
Pia walked with them, her white-gloved hands fluttering as she spoke. She wore pink, and with her blond hair down she looked sadly insipid next to her vividly alive cousin. Isabel’s dark green walking suit made her seem more forceful and real. Oriana held a parasol to shade her mistress’ alabaster skin.
They walked past a blanket where a young woman reclined next to the prince’s seer. As they walked closer, Silva took the girl’s hand in his, slowly drew off her short glove, and ran a bare finger across her palm. The girl’s mouth opened in a surprised O at whatever he said.
“I don’t know why anyone listens to that man,” Isabel said loudly enough for the girl to overhear. “He’s wrong more often than the astrologers.” She lifted her chin in the air, the feather from her cap curving around to touch her cheek, and walked on past.
They’d nearly reached the river’s bank by then, the comforting smell of the water filling the air. Marianus Efisio, Pia’s betrothed, stood speaking with another man, one Oriana didn’t recognize. Dark brown hair, medium build, slightly taller than average—not much to distinguish him.
“Who is that with Mr. Efisio?” Oriana asked.
“Mr. Ferreira, the younger one,” Pia whispered, and crossed herself reverently, white gloves fluttering like gull’s wings. “The elder passed recently.”
Isabel laughed under her breath. “You wouldn’t want your handsome betrothed talking to the older Ferreira,” she told Pia, a waspish note in her voice. “They say he took a different lover every night, sometimes more than one . . . and not only women. Scandalous. He was sinfully handsome, Pia, and might have stolen your swain from you. At least with boring Duilio there, your betrothed’s chastity is safe.”
Pia flushed bright red, her cheeks clashing with her pink dress, while Oriana wondered what had made Isabel’s tongue so sharp that day. She extended her arm to keep Isabel’s face shaded by the parasol, and turned her eyes toward the two men in question. The newcomer looked in their direction, his gaze settling directly on Oriana.
But Mr. Ferreira looked away quickly, leaving her with only the impression of warm brown eyes in a serious face. Yet when she saw his face more clearly, his expression seemed fatuous . . . vacant. He went on his way a moment later.
She turned to watch his escape . . . and realized she stood on a seashore instead. It was the beach she’d lived near as a child. She closed her eyes. A cool breeze off the water set her at ease, the smells of flowers and the cries of the birds familiar. It was home.
A musky scent touched her nostrils. She opened her eyes to see Duilio Ferreira standing only an arm’s length away, his bare feet on the sand. He was bare-chested and wearing a black pareu tied in the manner that proclaimed him chosen. Scratches ran across his back and one shoulder, and a number of rose-gold cuffs adorned his ankles and his arms, enough to show his mate held him to be of great value. He turned toward her, revealing that his chest had been painted with the Paredes line mark. His kohl-rimmed eyes laughed. “It is beautiful.”
Oriana stared at him, captivated. What is he doing here?
“As are you,” he added. He stroked her cheek with gentle fingers. She held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her. His warm lips touched hers, soft and patient. His left hand spread on her bare skin below her breast, and then slid around to her back, pulling her closer.
But his grasp suddenly turned cold and wet. His other hand tangled in her loosened hair, just as sodden.
SUNDAY, 5 OCTOBER 1902
• • •
Oriana felt cold water in the shell of her ear, and that jarred her out of whatever strange world of dreams she’d inhabited. She lay on the sands at the edge of the river, warm on one side, chilled on the other. The tide had begun to overwhelm the river’s usual good sense, coming in with icy morning fingers; that was what she’d felt threading its way through her hair.
Duilio Ferreira lay half-across her, with his head pillowed on her breast. His hand rested on her stomach, his legs tangled with hers. Oriana lay still, trying to decide what she should do. She had never lain with a man in her arms before, and hadn’t realized the warmth a male body would carry with it.
She didn’t understand why she’d dreamed such things, why that day by the side of the river had surfaced in her memory. It had been the first time she’d realized Isabel intended to steal away Pia’s betrothed. But she’d forgotten seeing a man named Duilio Ferreira that day.
Or, rather, he had seen her. A man who had seemed otherwise unremarkable had noticed her as a person, rather than a nameless servant. He had looked at her. She recalled wondering about him later, but he’d already gone. And then she’d forgotten all about him.
She swallowed, tasting river water on her tongue. She didn’t want to dwell on whatever had made her cast him in the dream as her mate, dressed and painted as a man of her people would have been. It was laughable. He was wealthy and a gentleman; he would never display himself in such a way. Nor would he take someone like her—a sereia, and a penniless woman who’d spied on his people—as a mate.
She’d been told for years that she would never have a mate, that she was destined for service to her people instead. Was she so unhappy with her current life as to conjure a mate from among the humans?
Oriana closed her eyes, hearing the denial spinning through her thoughts. Presented with the truth, she didn’t want to face it; the numinous thread that her people believed bound her soul to another’s—that thread of Destiny she’d always believed didn’t exist—was tied to him. She knew the way he smelled, the twist of his lips when he held in some clever comment that made her wish she could blush.
She did believe in Destiny after all.
• • •
Duilio woke when water soaked through his shirt anew. The morning tide was coming in. The sun had begun to rise. Birds screeched in the rocks above them, barely visible in the fog that blanketed the shore.
He was tangled in Oriana’s arms, one of his wool-covered legs between her bare ones. Desire flushed through his body, leaving him almost painfully aroused. His left hand lay just below her breast, and for a traitorous second he wondered if she knew he’d awakened. But she had one hand loosely atop his head; she must have felt him move. He lifted his head slowly from her shoulder.
He’d awakened in a woman’s arms often enough before that it didn’t shock him. Normally this would be the moment to kiss her, to shift his body closer and move his hands to caress her. Normally it would be a good time to make love and perhaps to sleep again afterward. His body surely found that an excellent idea. Unfortunately, nothing was normal with Oriana Paredes.
So he eased himself off her and into a sitting position with a sharp mental reminder not to stare at her breasts. He coughed and moved to one side, his eyes averted. His leg ached fiercely. That helped distract him. Mystified, he peeled back his trouser leg. Blue and purple bruises wrapped his leg where the anchor line had been, crushing the little derringer in its holster against his ankle. He hadn’t realized how tightly the anchor had held on to him. And where were his
shoes?
Oriana moved, drawing his eyes back to her body. She settled on her scale-patterned knees and touched his ankle. “Is it broken?”
Her hands on his skin brought his body back to full attention. Duilio felt his face go warm with embarrassment. Her wet hair hung in sand-encrusted tangles, and her eyes seemed deeper set with exhaustion, but she still stole his breath away, just as she had the first day he’d seen her so. He was close enough to lean in and kiss her. Instead he fixed his eyes on his leg. “I don’t think so.”
She insisted on running her fingers along the bones to be certain, coolly and clinically, as if she hadn’t noticed his discomfort. He leaned back while she unstrapped the holster, which actually set off another flare of pain. “What happened?” she asked.
She didn’t seem offended, a small recompense. “The yacht hit my boat,” Duilio said. “I was casting off the anchor when it hit. My foot must have tangled in the anchor line, and it dragged me under.”
He took another deep breath and decided that he finally had his body under control. And if he wasn’t going to ravish Oriana Paredes on this fog-veiled beach, then what was the point of staying? Fog clung to the cliffs, but he could see enough. They had fetched up on the beach near the breakwaters. Without a coat or tie he must look disreputable, but boats did go down in the river from time to time, stranding people. He would simply plead that as an excuse.
Oriana could hardly walk through the streets naked, though. “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll come back with something.”
He started to take off his shirt to offer it to her, but she shook her head. “I’ll stay in the water,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
He would have felt silly wearing only sodden trousers anyway. Duilio peered at the rocks, trying to decide how to get up onto the heights. A narrow wooden stair ascended the cliff’s face, likely property of some homeowner. Duilio headed toward the stair.
“Ferreira,” a voice called across the water. “Ferreira!”
Duilio stared out into the fog. He couldn’t make out a boat, but he heard oars cutting the water, the noisy splash of an inefficient rower. “Gaspar? On the sand.”
“Coming,” Gaspar called back.
Oriana half rose out of the water. “I’ll go find him.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She dove into the water and disappeared into the fog. Duilio leaned against the rocks, his ankle throbbing. The splashing grew closer, and then he saw a small boat sliding toward the sand. Gaspar sat inside, Pinheiro with him. Duilio waded out to them. “Do you have a blanket?”
Chuckling, Gaspar dug one out of the bow and handed it over. Duilio helped Oriana settle it about her and lifted her up into the boat. He pushed the boat away from the shore and then clambered over the side and settled on a middle plank facing her. She managed to work the blanket around so that not even an inch of her silvery feet showed. After fending off a spate of questions from both of the other men, Duilio finally got to ask a question of his own. “What happened to the two in the house? Was it Miss Carvalho and the footman?”
“Yes, both are alive,” Gaspar said.
Duilio saw Oriana’s shoulders slump in relief. She’d saved them.
“The boy was in rough shape,” Gaspar added as he rowed toward the city. “It looks like he fought them, trying to keep them from the girl. A couple of broken ribs, and his face was so swollen he could hardly breathe, which is why we had to leave you out there. We needed to get him to a doctor.”
Duilio didn’t blame them. They would never have been able to see him in the river in the dark anyway. “And the photographer? Did he get any pictures?”
Gaspar grunted. “Yes. It’s a matter now of developing them and convincing his editor to run them. Anjos is already meeting with the City Council, bypassing the Ministry of Culture altogether. We expect that, given the evidence, they’ll agree that the remainder of the houses must be cut loose.”
“Good,” Duilio said. “What did Maraval say?”
“Nothing so far,” Gaspar said. “Anjos and his team didn’t find the man. They did, however, find an extensive collection of magical artifacts in a secret basement, which bears out Silva’s claim. The Jesuits have volunteered to catalog the collection, but they haven’t found your missing pelt yet. Maraval wasn’t at the ministry either, which leaves . . .”
“The mysterious workshop?” Duilio asked.
“Yes. If he’s on the run, it’s likely he’ll go there. Miss Vladimirova is questioning the servants at his home. If any of them know the location, she’ll get it out of them—I promise.”
“I told the selkie to follow the yacht,” Oriana told Gaspar. “If he did, he’ll know where it is.”
Duilio was glad to hear that Erdano had gone after them. He hadn’t dared to ask.
“We’ll have to hope that one plan or another gives us an answer,” Gaspar said, “or Maraval will get away before we have a chance to get our hands on him.”
• • •
They planned to take no more than an hour to return to the house, change clothes—or, in her case, put some on—and head back out to find Erdano and his harem. Oriana only hoped that Erdano had been able to follow that yacht. Inspector Gaspar claimed that the regular police were watching all train routes out of the Golden City to prevent Maraval from escaping that way. But why bother with a train when he had a yacht at his disposal?
The police had a carriage waiting when the rowboat reached the Bicalho quay, so a couple of minutes later they were rattling across the cobbles, heading toward the Ferreira house in the morning fog. The road was rough, causing her shoulder to bump against his. Oriana clutched the blanket closer; it was chilly.
“I did offer you my shirt, Miss Paredes,” Duilio reminded her.
“And how would you explain your returning to the house half-naked?” she asked. “Would that be any easier?”
“I will, of course, replace the garments you lost, Miss Paredes,” he said magnanimously.
“So you don’t have an answer either,” she surmised. If he’d been caught in this situation with a young Portuguese woman of any social stature whatsoever, he would be expected to marry her to protect her from scandal. No one would expect the same for a hired companion.
“We should simply say nothing,” he said mischievously, “and let the servants wonder.”
Well, they would probably come up with their own interpretation anyway. “I am far more comfortable in this situation,” she said, “than you would be. More accustomed to such garb.”
“You mean wearing a blanket?” He regarded her with raised brows. “What exactly do people wear on your islands?”
She smiled, gazing down at the one hand in her lap. She still had the dagger’s sheath strapped to her arm, but the blade had been forgotten in the river. “That book you read as a boy was right in that those who work near the water often do so unclothed. Otherwise one usually wears a pareu.” When he opened his mouth to ask, she explained. “A length of fabric wrapped about the waist. It would cover from the waist to the knees, or just below.”
“Ah,” he said. “Do you mean the men? Or the women?”
“Both,” she said with a shrug. “When it becomes cooler, one wears a loose vest over that, or even a jacket.”
He shifted in his seat to look at her. “The islands must be warmer than Portugal. No shirts?”
“They come into fashion now and then but aren’t essential.” She shot a swift glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “A human would be quite uncomfortable dressing so.”
His lips pursed. “Probably at first. I suspect I would enjoy it after a while. No need for a valet, certainly.”
She plucked at the blanket with her free hand. “Yes, the many layers your people wear are rather . . . redundant.”
“You must hate our clothing.”
“At first I did, a bit,”
she admitted. “But I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
It was an ordinary conversation, a break from all the other things they didn’t want to discuss. As if we’d simply met at a café, she thought, wishing with a sudden pang that her life could be that simple. Would she have the nerve to court this man if she had the chance?
The carriage drew into the alleyway behind the houses on the Street of Flowers, getting them quite close to the back door. Cardenas was outside on the steps, sneaking a cigarette, as he did when upset. The butler stubbed it out on the wall and came to meet the cab. When Duilio opened the door and stepped down, Cardenas embraced him and burst into tears. He drew back quickly, though, apparently recalling his station. “We feared the worst, sir, when João told us the rowboat hadn’t returned.”
Oriana stayed in the carriage, giving the butler a private moment with his master. Duilio kept his hands on the man’s shoulders, reassuring him. “I’m well enough, old friend. I need to get Miss Paredes inside,” he said. “We’re only here to change clothes and get right back out on the water.”
Cardenas nodded and stepped back. Duilio returned to the carriage and insisted on helping her out, lifting her down with an ease that surprised her. She might expect that of the big selkie, but perhaps Duilio was stronger than he looked. He set her on the ground, and she clutched the blanket close. Cardenas went up ahead of them, clearing the servants out of the kitchen so Oriana could dash through in her inappropriate garb.
Duilio led her up the back stair to the second floor, and fortunately no one intercepted them. “I’ll wait for you in the library,” he said when they stood outside her bedroom door.
She showed him her wrist. “Do you have another spare dagger?”
“I’ll find something,” he promised, opened the door for her, and then headed down to his own room.
The Golden City Page 33