Page 7 of The Scent of Snow
"Poor Erebus," Anne said. Poor Hemera. The mare had to be terribly frustrated. Why couldn't Pedro realize her mare had chosen her mate and just let them well… mate?
Dante grunted, pulling at his cravat. The big Italian condottiere was more at ease with uniforms than with the three-piece suit Pedro forced him to wear. "The tower spotted the family coaches down the road, and the count said he would join you in the carriage house to meet them."
Anne grinned, and only by sheer self-control did she restrain the urge to clap her hands. "Excellent. How is my friend Beatriz this morning?"
"Impatient. Swollen. Loud." Dante huffed.
"Three words, and none of them in Italian. I see. She must be getting close to birthing my goddaughter. Go pamper her, Dante. I can find my way to the bridge just fine." Anne said, knowing if Pedro told him to follow her the entire day, he would. She would have to talk to Pedro about this regress, but not now. Now, she would greet her family and friends.
Anne grabbed the skirts of her dress and rushed down the stairs. This would be perfect. A lovely afternoon with Julia's children would change Pedro's mind about having babies.
Anne exited the house. Outside, the Portuguese sky greeted her with an azure grin. For the first time, she resented it, wishing for the cloudiness that preceded snow. Cold air nipped her cheeks, and the crunch of frosted grass under her winter boots echoed in her ears. Ignoring the River Ribagão's sad gurgle, she tasted the scent of pine and the underlying aroma of rich, damp earth, but would prefer to feel snowflakes melting on her lips. How magnificent the fortress, with its aged stone walls, would look under a white carpet of snow?
No doubt, the snow would mute the treacherous scarps protecting the property's rear and make the bridge, if not cozy, at least less menacing.
She trotted to the gatehouse, hope tingling through her skin.
A footman opened the door to her, and she was swallowed by the gatehouse's dank and dark confines. Wrinkling her nose against the mold, Anne entered.
And then she saw him. Pedro. He had his back to her. Her heart sped, fluttering inside her chest as if wanting to be the first to touch him. The gate leading to the bridge was wide open, framing his tall, erect frame with all the colors of the Geira mountains. Tiptoeing near, Anne closed her hands over his eyes.
And cringed in shame. The scent was all wrong. Instead of Pedro's cedar essence, a spicy cologne greeted her nose. It wasn't Pedro. A throat cleared behind her.
Her cheeks burned.
"My, don't say you are Lady Almoster's little sister," the stranger said, catching her hand in his.
"This is my wife. Lady Daun." Pedro's voice was low and resolute.
The stranger eyed them with a mixture of curiosity and mischief. "Oh, how remiss of me. I should've recognized the countess' famous beauty." He bowed a very courtly bow.
How could she have mistaken her husband for this man? His hair was a shade brighter than Pedro's and curled into charming disarray. His frame was also leaner, and his skin lighter.
"I'm sorry. I'm not in the habit of accosting my husband's guests, but the light is dim."
"I don't mind being mauled by sweet—"
"This is Diomedes da Veiga, Marquis of Faial, Anne." Pedro cut in and then turned to the stranger, his expression glacial. "And he will lose his fingers if he doesn't release your hand."
Anne laughed nervously, tugging her hand free. Since she married Pedro, she had met most of the Portuguese aristocracy. Still, she had only heard about a few of its most infamous inhabitants in whispers. So this was Faial, the poet, womanizer, andbete noirof the Palmela family. "Welcome to our home. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you properly last night." She felt heat climbing her cheeks, and her eyes sought Pedro. "I was indisposed. I'm sure your fingers are safe for now."
Anne looked at the opposite riverbank, hoping the family's arrival would disperse the tense moment.
The current raced beneath the Misarela, creating frothy whirlpools. Transparent, the water revealed smooth pebbles at the riverbed, but its coldness sent shivers up her spine. Her chest ached as if the river echoed the lament of the bridge, yearning for some long-lost connection to be restored.
The coaches rumbled to a stop on the other side. The Misarela could only be crossed by foot.
Anne stared at the obstinate stretch of rocks. Its jagged edges had chafed her elbows or pulled strings from her woolen skirts. Was it the bridge's fault they couldn't have snow? As Anne watched the family progress over the bridge, the housekeeper's trance-like voice replayed in her head.In the shadows of the Devil's embrace, eternal winter, a chilling grace. A pact with darkness, a secret cost, snowless Christmases, a love long lost.
"Would you look at how fat the married sheep grow?" The Marquis of Faial drawled, pulling Anne away from her daydreams.
Griffin escorted Julia first, her petite frame a lovely complement to Anne's brother's imposing figure. The red gown contrasted with Julia's black hair and olive skin. The children came right after them, Tony kicking an imaginary pebble and Clara in the arms of a nanny. Warmth spread to Anne's chest at the family her brother had built for himself. When they had to leave England for Portugal over fourteen years before, Griffin assumed their uncle's port trading business and turned it into one of the largest in Oporto. Still, he refused to let go of his English roots. It took an obstinate and petite winemaker to show him the country’s finer points. Now, her brother embraced Portugal wholeheartedly.
Just as they entered the gatehouse, their other guests crossed the bridge. Henrique, the Duke of Braganza, carried a giggling Isabel over the Misarela. Pedro’s best friend had married the princess last year. A marriage that started with a scandalous diplomatic mission to Spain and now was one of Portugal’s most beloved love matches.
At the others' questioning looks, Henrique grinned. "It gives good luck to carry a pregnant woman over the bridge. It's a mythological fact."
He released his wife and clasped Pedro’s shoulder. "What's keeping this bridge up? Medieval mortar and stubbornness? I can evaluate its structure if you want me to."
