Page 46 of The Truth About Myths
"I need Joan of Arc tonight, not the smiling other half of the Bourbon Prince Charming. But if you rather risk your beloved country's fate, suit yourself." He brushed past her.
The words country and fate strung together in the same sentence triggered alarm bells in her belly. Clenching her jaw, she went after him.
He stopped before Canastra's study and wrestled with the door, twisting the knob.
What could he possibly want in there?
He removed a pointed instrument from his pocket and poked the lock open.
Isabel lowered her voice. "This room is closed to the guests. What if someone comes in?"
"We will invite them to our private party. What else?" He glanced above his shoulder briefly and strolled inside as if he had not just breached the duke's privacy.
Isabel should leave. The devilish grin on his face spelled trouble, and if he disgraced himself, it could brush on her.
Henrique pulled the lamp's chain. Hissing, light crawled through the dark paneled walls, revealing an assortment of… objects?
She shuffled to the nearest shelf. Saint images, in all colors and sizes, occupied every nook and cranny. To the side, an altar of sorts. "I did not know the duke was such a religious man."
Henrique whistled. "What if he harbors more than ships in his ports? A heavy conscience?"
"Nonsense. Like all Spaniards, Canastra is very Catholic."
"A reliquary, saints’ bones, candles, skulls. Who believes this is real? And there are shelves for pagan stuff as well. Canastra isn’t taking any chances with the metaphysical." Henrique attacked the duke's desk, rummaging through his drawers.
The position stretched his black evening coat, outlining his shoulders. Images of those muscles, glistening and salty, assaulted her, making her mouth dry.
Henrique raised his brows. "Will you stop gawking and start helping?"
"What are you looking for?"
He lifted his head, and a forelock covered his left eye. "Letters. Implicating your brother in a scandalous affair."
Isabel gasped. A denial sprang to her mind, but she rebuffed it. She had lived too long with Luis to doubt it. Curse her brother's imprudence. Didn't he know the press would love rolling their name in the muck? Just thinking about the wealth of disparaging newspaper headlines made her shudder. If anything of the sort reached their subjects, her effort to uphold the morals of the royal family would be for naught. Portugal didn't deserve such shame.
"Will you help now?"
Well, she could compromise. But help was all he would get from her. No more extravagant feelings. Isabel moved to the bookshelves. Gaze straying to the door, she palmed the tomes and shuffled through pages. Perspiration dampened her fichu. This business of espionage was better left to salty satyrs like Henrique.
When he reached the shelf above her, she inhaled. What was it with his presence? It steeped the air, demanding attention like a burning candle in a darkened bedroom. Sure enough, she could shut it off if she wanted to. Still, worse than seeing the flame was the knowledge of its presence, the awareness increasing until her entire existence focused on the unseeing pinpoint of light.
She looked at him askance. "Don't you think it best if we divide our efforts?"
He lifted a brow and moved on.
When the last book had produced no secret stash of letters, she turned to a niche below the window seat. Outside, moonlight washed the grass. The cicadas sang softly, less urgently. If she were fanciful, she might believe they no longer struggled with their carapaces. Were they enjoying flying to fresh adventures, or were they missing the protection of the known?
Isabel allowed her gaze to travel farther until it landed on the ocean. The waves reminded her of salty kisses, and she looked away. Quite by chance, she saw a tendril of smoke and connected it with a lit cheroot and an unmistakable redhead. Charles Whitaker leaned against a cork tree, a blight on the night's loveliness.
"What is that rakehell doing here?"
The air shifted by her side as Henrique moved to the window. His arm brushed against hers, and Isabel stepped away, the casual touch singing her.
Henrique peered outside and grumbled. Isabel squinted at a volume in his hand. Why would he carry the image of a dwarf? Protruding from the statue's belly, at least as long as the dwarf's height, was a giant phallus.
Isabel sucked in a breath. "What in heaven's name is that?"
"Haven't you heard of Priapus? The Greek god of fertility?" Henrique asked without bothering to look at her.
