Page 99 of The Truth About Myths
All her life, she had professed to be a patriot beyond reproach. Always choosing duty to the detriment of personal wishes. Scoffing when others rebelled against the strict demands of royalty life. Her gaze lingered on Henrique, his sharp, manly features now reposed, perhaps dreaming. She loved his wit, his intelligence, his tenderness, his lust. By God, how foolish she'd been. So righteous in her virtues when she had not been challenged in her beliefs. Virtue was easy when it had no cost. When she had to choose between sleeping late or attending charity functions, wearing revealing gowns or maintaining her modesty, and opening herself to friendship and love versus keeping an aura of royalty… She took a shuddering sigh and swallowed a sob. This was hard. It was not fair. A choice between him and everything else.
If she remained in her lover's arms, no one would place the responsibility on her shoulders. But could she live with herself knowing she could have changed the fate of two nations? Could she enjoy this new happiness at the expense of thousands of her subjects? People who depended on her for moral support, for confidence, for stability?
Guilt-ridden if she stayed, miserable if she went.
Henrique had fallen in love with the courageous Isabel. She cleaned the tears racing down her cheeks. Not a woman who placed herself above all others.
Chest so constricted that breathing became a struggle, she forced her legs to move past the pillows, the table, the bed. Him.
Trembling, she opened the door and passed the threshold to the other side. Unable to face the understanding in the housekeeper's eyes, Isabel turned the key.
Outside their heaven, everything was foreign. The coat of armor, the scent of iron and smoke, the servant's harsh breaths.
"Your Highness, the carriage awaits."
Chapter 38
"Ah, wretched me! That love is not to be cured by any herbs; and that those arts which afford relief to all, are of no avail for their master."Ovid,Metamorphoses
Henriquecrumpledthenote.Alone, locked in his own castle. His first reaction had been a jealous rage, wanting to rip the rocks, carve a way out of the prison she'd made for him. As the waves pounded at the shore, he realized jealousy wasn’t the right emotion. At least, not jealousy for Alfonso. Since That first night in the garden, Henrique knew—Isabel was a martyr waiting to happen. It was there all along. Underneath the rusty breastplate lived a Joan of Arc, biding her time to save all. What a fitting choice for the prudish princess. Posterity veneered the woman warrior, the selfless saint, who sacrificed herself for the country. No one cared for the loved ones she left behind. A monster of a headache moved into his brain. If he had a drill, he would poke a hole in his skull and end the agony.
When the heavy oak portal screeched open, Henrique didn't lift his head. His father's housekeeper shuffled inside, her face haggard and yet sheepish.
He kept twirling the medal in his fingers. He didn't ask if she had helped Isabel. Of course, the old militant did.
"How long?"
"A few minutes past dawn."
By the sun's position, it was close to eleven in the morning.
"Who went with her?"
"Her maid, my son, and two of the retainers."
Henrique nodded. He knew Antonia's son. A clever, resourceful lad. Spoke Spanish and Portuguese. The castle retainers were all retired soldiers who had fought with him in Mozambique. She would be safe in her mad, ill-advised adventure. Thank God for that.
"My carriage?"
She gulped. "Yes, Your Excellency."
Henrique scoffed. "You never called me such before. Don't start now."
"The poor child. When she left… she was heartbroken. She only did so because she believed you wouldn't support her decision. So she sacrificed—"
"Stop,” he barked. His jaw was locked so tight he might break his condylar bone. “I won't allow you to say she sacrificed her love for the good of the country."
"But she did, and you would go after her if you were not a stubborn, selfish boy."
No moreyour excellenciesthen? Henrique pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you remember when Father sent me to Mozambique?"
She made a comical expression, half glare, half grimace. "Your father was a nobleman. It was different—"
"Different? He, too, sacrificed me for the country. I lost my entry at Sorbonne, my mother's last moments…." Henrique pushed away from the mantel, his voice harsh, metallic. "Now Isabel did the same. Should I feel thankful? Noble? Should I coin medals and compose a song? When will the reward kick in? When? At least to take the edge off the pain? The bitterness?"
She didn't answer.
"No? Forgive me, but I want no part of her sacrifice," Henrique said, breathing hard.
