Page 1 of The Scent of Snow
Chapter 1
North of Portugal, Coudelaria Almoster, December 1874
Pedroliftedhisheadfrom his correspondence as sunlight flooded the study, casting a warm glow on the Gobelin carpet. Despite the drop in temperature, the sky was a deep blue, a hallmark of Portugal. Anne would be disappointed. His wife hoped for snow to grace her Christmas celebration. Anne's wishes fell into two categories — those Pedro could marshal into line, and those beyond his command. The weather couldn't be coerced, but all else stood at attention, ready to serve his will. Perhaps he would fulfill her desires right now. His lips tugged up as an image of Anne innocently embroidering in her morning room graced his mind, and all the wicked things he could do with the soft cashmere thread he had bought her from Scotland.
He was about to stand when, among the elegant parchments and neatly penned notes atop his desk, a letter stood out—a scrawled message on cheap paper.
He scanned the lines and leaned back in the chair. His heart rate quickened, and a thrill resonated in his bones. Since Fernando's death, claims that the royal duke was alive had poured in daily. He dismissed them as the utter rubbish they were. The king's brother—Pedro's best friend— had been butchered by a slave trader eighteen months before.
Still, Pedro's instinct told him there was something different this time, and his instinct never failed. He could go to Paris himself to check. But the New Republic could object to his presence. His royalist convictions were common knowledge.
The secretary knocked at his study's door. "You have a visitor, Your Excellency."
Expecting his brother-in-law and his best friend tomorrow and his brother Cris the following day, Pedro was surprised. His hand instinctively sought his concealed short sword under the desk. The secretary opened the door, admitting Diomedes da Veiga, Marquis of Faial.
Pedro stifled his irritation at the unannounced presence. The Christmas gathering was for family.
The country's top diplomat's son greeted Pedro with a hesitant smile, his complexion flushed from the chill. Releasing the sword, Pedro crossed his legs and observed Diomedes closely. His striking looks and effortless navigation of high society and underworld alike were well-known, yet Diomedes was more than just a charming aristocrat. His composure under pressure in Spain the previous year had proven that. For a man of action, trust didn't come from years of stilted relationships, but from the split second it took for a bullet to catch a man's rearguard. There were six men Pedro counted on to watch his flank. He might not enjoy his brother-in-law's arrogance or how Henrique spent his cerebral advantage, but he could depend on each to guard his back. Dante, his aide-de-camp, he trusted implicitly. His brother had been his second for all his military career, and Gabriel, his cousin, had regained his trust. The sixth one was dead. Or not… either way, it was time to expand the circle. Pedro caressed his goatee as the idea solidified. Diomedes was the perfect choice to investigate the letter. He might refuse, but all men had a price.
Pedro rose to greet his guest. Diomedes carried a vase, no doubt a present for Anne.
Seemingly relieved to relinquish the burden, he placed it atop Pedro's desk. Pedro squeezed the other man's hand and nodded in appreciation as Diomedes returned the pressure.
"I thought you were visiting the Duke of Palmela in London," Pedro said, moving to the liquor tray. After pouring two port crystals, he offered one for Diomedes and leaned his hip over the windowsill. "How is the old fox?"
Dio accepted the wine and averted his eyes. "Father sends his regards. He was grudgingly impressed by how you dealt with the port prices dispute. You know how he can be a nagging—"
"An excellent trait in a diplomat, for sure."
"Of course." After taking a swig, Diomedes nodded and pointed his glass at the window. "You have quite the fortress here. I couldn't help but notice the bridge. A poetic construction."
"That's the Misarela."
"It looks ancient. How is it even standing? It seems to defy gravity."
Pedro chuckled. In all his thirty-one years, he had never considered the bridge's structure. "A legend speaks of the castle's lord striking a dark bargain with the Devil to erect it. When the Devil gives his word, he never breaks it."
Pedro tasted the port, eyes traveling the stretch of rocks as it crossed the river's turbulent waters like the Devil's finger. When Pedro first created the Lusitano's stud property, he valued the bridge for making it impregnable. Now, with no threats dusting the horizon, he appreciated it for a different reason. It kept everything he loved inside, protected from outside changes. Happiness, such as what Anne brought into his life, was ephemeral. How many in his path had to heed heaven's call, some even by his own hands? Ice coursed through his veins, turning the muscles on his neck and shoulders as rigid as the granite slabs of the bridge. Pedro swallowed the port and exhaled slowly, breathing out through his mouth. Anne wasn't going anywhere. By Saint George, she loved him, and though he stopped questioning his blessings, he would battle anything keen to change their relationship. Her love was a delicate meadow bathed in the glow of dawn. A beautiful, impossible-to-defend meadow. Vulnerable. Exposed. To protect it, he had constructed a glass dome around it. Within this dome, Anne remained untouched, their happiness preserved. Every hazard, every shadow of doubt, was kept at bay. Pedro would protect their love by any means necessary.
He forced himself to look beyond the bridge to the road leading to the forest. No enemies lurked there. He was in control of his fate.
"If the Devil built it, it sure is a monument to his craftiness, and wherever he is, he must be at peace for a job well done," Diomedes said, his voice uncharacteristically solemn.
Pedro paused. Tilted his head. Did Diomedes da Veiga crave recognition? A deed impressive enough to leave a mark? Perhaps this was his price. "That sort of peace isn't exclusive for mythological beings. Mortals can aspire to greatness as well." Pedro watched the other man closely.
"I have no doubt of it," Diomedes said, and his eyes strayed to the urn. "I have a deep respect for Portuguese heroes."
"Enough to become one?"
Diomedes choked and loosened his cravat. "What? No, of course not, I'm here to—"
"Your arrival was fate's doing. The country needs you. You will go to Paris—"
"Fate? Paris?" Diomedes shook his head repeatedly and lifted both his palms. "Christ, that is not why I came. Palmela will own me forever. You see… Almoster, your father is dead."
Pedro stilled. Diomedes' words fractured, their meaning slipping away like sand through fingers. His voice transformed into a drone, mingling with the thumping of Pedro's heart.
As he struggled with the sounds, colors drained from his surroundings, leaving everything in a monochromatic haze. The room, once vibrant, now appeared as if viewed through a veil of gray.
