Page 12 of Devoted to the Spanish Duke
“Thank you,” she said.
He ignored her, then went back to berating the woman. “Get some fresh water and soft cloths. I expect Doña Maria will wish to bathe. After she is clean, then make sure she eats. And keep this door locked. Don’t make me tell you that again.”
Since her captor appeared to be in a charitable mood, Maria took a chance. “Please,señor, could you tell me how long I have been gone from home?”
“I don’t know what sort of comfort this will give you, but you have been our captive for over two weeks. And in answer to what will no doubt be your next question . . . when your father pays the ransom.”
He issued further curt instructions to the woman, then they both left the room. A key turned in the lock.
Two weeks. She was alone, held prisoner in a foreign country. Beyond help from anyone she knew. What were the chances of her ever seeing her family again?
The woman soon returned bearing a bowl of warm water, soap, and a cotton cloth. She allowed Maria a scant five minutes in which to wash and dry herself while she stood and watched.
“Here. Put this on.” She handed Maria a plain beige woolen gown and a petticoat. The rough garments were nothing like her usual fine attire, but they were clean, warm, and functional.
After she had dressed, Maria was ushered over to a small table where a plate of something that resembled a Spanish stew sat. She took a mouthful and screwed up her face.Esto es horrible
Hunger forced her to eat a little more. The woman hovered nearby, watching Maria intently. She moved closer when Maria set down her spoon and pointed at the plate. “I want to see it empty,” she said.
Maria blinked back tears, fighting against her growing fear; whoever had taken her knew what they were doing. They were determined and dangerous.
Her mind began to slowly whirl with all manner of questions. Who were these people, and why had they taken her? And what had happened to the brave Señor Perez? Was he even alive?
She had no answers. But what really mattered to her was the most pressing question of them all.
What would happen if her father didn’t pay the ransom?
Chapter Six
Two weeks later
London, England
Lisandro took the fastest possible ship and sailing route, but it was still almost a month since Maria had been taken before he finally arrived in London. He made straight for an address in Gracechurch Street and the only men in England he knew he could trust to help.
When the hack pulled up out the front of the coaching company office, he checked the address he had written on a piece of paper and frowned. The building was rundown, dirty, and didn’t look at all like something owned by men of means.
His heart sank. Perhaps the time since the end of the war had not been kind to his friends after all.
He paid the fare and, grabbing his travel bag, climbed out of the carriage. His only consolation was knowing that the particular skills his friends had at their disposal were the kind that often didn’t require money. While Lisandro had the silver coins which Diego had given him, he was not keen to start throwing money around in order to find Maria. Piles of easy cash tended to attract the wrong sort of people.
One sharp rap on the door of the coaching company went unanswered. So did the second. In frustration, he headed around to the rear mews. Hopefully someone worked in the stables.
The yard was little better than the front of the place. There were no coaches or staff, but there was a large pile of clean hay just inside the nearest stalls.
“What a sorry mess,” he muttered.
A movement to his right caught his eye. A young boy, no older than six or seven, came strolling nonchalantly out of the stables. He stopped, took one look at Lisandro, then put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud, piercing whistle.
Footsteps rumbled. Lisandro looked up to the top of the building. Three figures appeared from out of an upper door and moved onto the landing. Pistols were pointed directly at him.
He didn’t move an inch. These men were some of his dearest friends, but he also had no doubt that the weapons were loaded and cocked. There would be little comfort in having them apologize profusely over his corpse for having mistakenly shot him.
“I am Lisandro de Aguirre, Duke of Tolosa. I would appreciate it greatly if you gentlemen lowered your pistols,” he said.
Two of the men instantly moved to disengage their weapons but the third kept his firmly aimed in Lisandro’s direction. A wry grin sat on his lips. “How do we know it is you? Any poorly dressed Spaniard could turn up and claim he was the Duke of Tolosa.”
Lisandro chuckled. “Well, I was me when I woke this morning and discovered, to my disgust, that I was back in the rat-infested stench-hole of London.”
