Page 83 of The Truth About Myths
The porter opened the rusty gate, as well as a flood of memories.
Henrique was five, sword fighting with his father and a short-trousered Luis, both boys listening to the sweeping stories about the castle's past. How the magnificent eye-sore was a vital point of defense and had changed hands from Portugal to Spain over the years until his eighteenth-century forebearers won the castle after repelling the Spanish invasion.
He was seventeen and leaving against his will for Mozambique to fight a war he neither understood nor cared about but went to anyway. How could he not? To show a lack of love for one's country was tantamount to heresy in the Penafiel line.
He was twenty-three, watching his father being buried without being able to say goodbye. He could have turned into a hater then, but Henrique never figured out the logic of hatred. He had always been a lover.
Henrique entered the castle, Isabel in his arms. She had yet to stir during the forty-mile carriage ride. He suspected exhaustion caused her heavy slumber. The wind whispered through the arrow slits. For a medieval jumble of rocks, the castle's acoustics could have made Mozart proud.
Weapons and crests decorated the walls. His ancestors' suits of armor watched his progress stoically. If the old Penafiel knights dared to mock his homecoming, Henrique would meld their scraps into spoons and fire pokers.
"Burglars! I told Mario to lock the front gates. I will tell the new owner to sack him. See if I don't."
Henrique groaned. Antonia, the housekeeper, marched near, her bundle of keys jingling from her waist.
"What is the meaning of this?" Her little gasp of recognition could only mean trouble. "Master Henrique." For a second, her black eyes softened, but only just. "Carrying women to the house? Have you no respect for your father's memory?"
Henrique sighed. "Do you love your country, Tonia?"
"Is this one of your pranks? Like when you brought a toad from the marsh and told me it was a prince, and I had to bathe the creature?"
Tiredly, Henrique related their adventure.
Fervent patriot that she was, she closed her gaping mouth with a loud pop and stood to attention. "Where will you accommodate her?"
"At the tower."
"The Princess Tower? But it's a—"
"I know what it is. It's also the safest place in the castle." It would keep strangers out and a familiar princess inside.
She nodded. "I will make the arrangements." After a crisp salute, she beat a retreat, her whistle sounding on the stone corridors as she assembled a brigade of servants.
As he carried Isabel up the hundred-twelve steps, he felt larger, like one of his medieval ancestors.
He crossed the threshold with Isabel in his arms and stopped, blinking repeatedly. The circular tower had been transformed.
"What happened here?" The room used to be a cloister, all naked rocks, and no comfort.
A faint blush colored Antonia's cheeks. "The Italian count said you allowed improvements."
Isabel would have his head at such improvements. Shrugging, too tired to take in the details of the extravagant decoration, Henrique lowered her atop the gaudy four-poster bed. She curled on her side, a sigh on her tempting lips.
There. He had done it. He had completed a hero's quest and came back with the prize. His conscience whispered that his labors were not finished, that this was him trying to vanquish the Hydra of Lerna. Each time he cut a head, he only made the problem worse.
He should leave. He needed to think.
Isabel moaned, her eyes moving under her purplish lids. Before he checked his actions, he took a step toward her and then another. Before he could control himself, he adjusted the pillow so she would be more comfortable and pulled in the quilt above her so she would not catch cold.
Isa, Isa... What have we done?
She felt fragile and totally at his mercy. His heart did a double measure and twisted with the force of the tenderness spreading to his chest. She was only flesh and tendons and bone and skin, yet how could she be so necessary to his constitution?
My Isabel. My prize.
A wave of exhaustion swept through him, and he eyed the mile-long mattress, a yawn escaping his mouth. Well, when in Rome...
A gentleman would leave and brave the stairs to his own room. She already thought him asinvergüenza… And she hated when he proved her wrong.
