She glanced at the man at her side as they strolled past the square patches of herbs. She skimmed a finger over the lavender and inhaled the fragrance from her fingertips. Still, Henry waited for her to reveal all. What a puzzle this man was. A warrior, a fighter and a kind and patient man. If they had met under any other circumstances...
Antonia huffed out a breath. “Lorenzo was my husband. Father told you that, si?”
“Aye.”
“He was of good family. Wealthy, influential. ‘Twas a good match. I was six and ten. He was nearly ten years older than me.” She paused to push a strand of hair from her face and turned to view Henry. “My tale is no different to that of many women.”
“It matters not.”
“He had a temper. I displeased him on a daily basis. He would beat me, sometimes with a rod or with leather. When I was disobedient, he would put me in a box like...” She thrust a shaky finger toward the window of the guest chamber, “like that one. He would keep me shut in there for hours. That is why I do not like pequeño spaces and the dark.”
Antonia fought the rising panic that bubbled inside as memories surged through her. Only Henry’s soothing touch worked through it when he rubbed a hand up and down her arm.
“Your tale should not be a common one,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Unlike many, I at least was able to escape. Lorenzo died suddenly one night and I returned with my father. He had hoped that a fresh start in England would help me escape the memories.”
He nodded slowly. “Your father is a good man.”
“He is.”
“I am sorry I did not treat you better that first night. You must have been terrified.”
“I was.” She released a soft smile. “I am not anymore.”
Henry eased away so much of her fear. She trusted him with so much. With her body...and mayhap more. If only he would let her demonstrate as much.
Chapter Twelve
Henry peered at the candle in front of him as it sputtered. A breeze whispered through the house and he stilled, the quill halfway to the paper. He paused to listen but couldn’t decide what had caused the trickle of trepidation to skip down his spine. Antonia was in the gardens the last time he’d looked and most of the household were preparing for the evening.
He twisted to look out of the windows and saw Antonia crouched by some of the plants. Dusk would be upon them soon. He ought to tell her to come indoors.
Henry stood and watched her. She pushed her loose hair behind her ear and a soft smile curved her lips. He curled his hand around the back of the chair. He’d finally received word of the successful negotiation of the release of several of the important prisoners including de Valdés. The Spanish would release some captured English spies in return. The rest of the prisoners, however, would be his problem for a while longer. Including Antonia.
She wouldn’t take well to being parted from her father.
And Henry wasn’t sure he wanted to let her go.
He tightened his grip on the chair. It was a damn good thing her husband was already dead or he’d be baying for blood. What could Antonia have ever done to deserve such a thing? No woman deserved such treatment but even the most fiery tempered of men could not find fault with her. God knows, he could have a temper at times but he’d never direct it at her.
The gentle lilt of a Spanish song reached his ears when he neared the window. He forgot how he wished her husband had met a more grisly end than dying in his sleep. He forgot everything but her.
He stiffened. There it was again. The pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck. The front door crashed open and he pushed away from the window to find Richard looking harried.
“Sir Henry!”
“What is it, Richard?”
“Rioters, sir. Heading toward the house. I saw ‘em as I was cleaning up.”
“Damnation.” He moved through the house to grab his sword. “Hide, lad. Who knows if their ire has cooled since.”
“And Miss Antonia?”
“Aye, she’ll not be safe either.” He drew on his sword belt and cinched it tight before slipping through his sword. He had little intention or harming anyone but nor did he wish to be unarmed against an unruly mob. “Well, get gone,” he said to the boy, “and don’t come out ‘til it’s safe.”
He considered the rest of his household. He doubted they’d come to harm, but he couldn’t risk it. “Kate,” he bellowed.
The housekeeper dashed into the room, her hands covered in flour. “There’s trouble in the village. Looks as if it’s headed our way. I think it unlikely anyone would wish to harm you but barricade yourselves in the cellar.”
Her complexion grew pale. “Aye, sir. Will you try to talk to them?”
“I must. The militia will not let the uprising last long and ‘twill be a bloody business if I do not.” He waved at her. “Get hidden, Kate. I’m going to keep Antonia with me. I won’t have her used against you.”
“What of you, sir? Will they not do the same to you?”
“Don’t go worrying about me. Now go.”
Kate scurried away and he pushed open the window to call to Antonia. She stood, the sun streaming behind her and beamed at him. How unlike the fragile woman who had screamed and cried that first night. His heart near dropped to his toes. He prayed she didn’t have to suffer yet more trauma, but he couldn’t leave her here and put the rest of the household in danger. Not to mention he had more hopes of being better able to protect her with her at his side.
“Come. Make haste.”
Her radiant expression dropped when she heard the urgency in his voice. She clutched her slightly muddy skirts and hurried into the room. “What is it, Henry?”
“Rioters. Headed our way.” He took her arm and led her through the house to the stables. It looked as though Richard had had the foresight to saddle his mount but he wouldn’t take the time to saddle a second. Antonia would have to ride with him.
“They are coming for me?”
“I know not,” he admitted, “but I’ll not stay to find out. I need to meet with the militia and ensure this is put down quietly and calmly. If I leave the men to defend themselves, ‘twill turn violent quickly.”
She nodded. “What do you wish of me?”
“Come with me.”
He led the horse out of the stable and mounted. When he put a hand out for her, she placed hers into his without question. In spite of the pounding of his pulse making his body tense and ready, the show of trust sent a rush of warmth through him. He eased her up onto the horse and settled her across the front of his saddle. Arms enclosing her, he regretted he’d not done this sooner and in better circumstances. Torturous, aye, but worth every moment of having her close.
As he turned the horse, he spotted two of his men approaching the house on horseback. They brought their steeds to a stop when he came forward.
“What news?”
“Some prisoners tried to make an escape,” said one, breath coming fast. “Several got away but we contained the rest. Those who witnessed it started making demands to have the prisoners removed. They fear the escaped ones will try to harm them.”
Antonia gripped his cloak in a silent plea. He patted her shoulder. Whatever he could do to ensure no one was hurt—neither prisoner nor villager—he would.
“We’ll search for them later. For now, we must deal with the uprising.”
The soldier nodded. “The worst of it is at the old barn.”
“What of those heading this way?”
“A handful.”
“We’ll go across the headland and take the old pass down to the barn to avoid them then. We must deal with the worst of it first.”
“Aye, sir.”
They set off at a furious pace, kicking up clods of grass as they rode across the top of the cliffs. Antonia gripped him tightly and he was thankful she was not heavier. He only prayed the villagers wouldn’t turn their anger upon her. They were growing used to the Spanish woman in their mids
t, and the physician and other influential members liked her. But the priest didn’t and that was dangerous.
He followed the two men down the winding pass that would lead them to the barn. In the waning light, he saw the glow of a few torches and the mass of bodies gathering in front of the building. Thank the Lord his men had already made a stand. Henry only prayed tempers would not fray and blood would not be spilled.
“Should things get dangerous, fear not,” he murmured in her ear as they approached the shouting crowd. “I will protect you.”
Antonia nodded and tightened her grip on him. He straightened in the saddle and set his expression. He estimated the crowd to be about twenty strong. It was a small crowd of angry people and little match for his men but regardless, he didn’t wish to see them harmed.
And they would be if they chose to fight the militia. These people had no swords or pistols. They had fists and walking sticks. None were prepared for battle.
It was a sorry state of affairs.
He drew the horse to a stop in front of them, putting himself between the people the front of the barn. “What is your quarrel?” he called.
Several voices rang out and he put out a hand to calm them. “I will hear you but one at a time.”
“They’re taking our food,” a man called.
“All food shall be replaced. Those offering charity will be rewarded. I made this clear in the beginning. That has not changed.”
A murmur rippled through the mob. He narrowed his gaze and spotted the priest, his head burrowed in a cloak as he made his way through the people, no doubt spreading poisonous words of discontent.
Damnation. He should have acted sooner with regards to Reed. He’d been too lenient to be sure.
“What of the escaped men?” a woman asked.
“I would be better able to find them were I not dealing with this, would I not?”
A slight ripple of nervous laughter ran through them.
“Return to your homes. We shall capture these men.” Henry eased his grip on the reins as some of the tension ebbed from the air. Murmurs ran through the crowd and several people began to break away. He felt Antonia soften against him.
He dismounted with the intention of speaking with the commander of the militia but as he did so, a man at the front of the crowd stumbled. A soldier pushed him back. A mere spark of anger and the crowd ignited into furious shouts. They surged forward, pushing Henry and his men back. He looked to Antonia and saw her eyes wide with panic.
Henry pressed the reins into her hand. “Go to the farm,” he ordered, calling to her over the crowds. Before she responded, he gave the horse a sharp rap across the rear and urged it on. The horse jolted and she had no choice but to follow his orders.
He turned his attention back to the mob and his men. “Avoid brute force,” he urged the men. “At all costs.”
Palms raised, he called for the crowd to calm, but his words were lost on them. He recognised some of the complaints to be echoes of Reed’s words. He had been planting these thoughts in their heads for too long, it seemed. And now the priest would be responsible for any blood spilled this day. Henry prayed that did not come to pass.
A fist swung at him and he ducked it, again lifting his palms in treaty. Then another, striking him in the gut. He fought to draw in a breath. The crowd rushed forward again and Henry and his men were forced to push back. Grunts, curses and the occasional feminine screech rang out. He locked gazes with the man in front of him and saw the sweat on his brow, the wildness in his eyes. He’d seen this before—the way men of sense lost their judgement when part of a crowd. A deep, searing ache in his gut told him this day would not end peacefully.
“Keep back and your concerns will be addressed,” he shouted but his words were lost. There was no reasoning with them now. “Stand firm,” he ordered his men.
He couldn’t let the people have access to the prisoners. Enemy or not, they were under his protection and he wouldn’t see them harmed. For their part, the majority of the Spanish had little idea what they were fighting for. They were all mere pawns.
Henry cursed and narrowly avoided a blow to the skull with a walking stick. He snatched the weapon from his assailant’s hands and used it to press him back. Taking the brief reprieve to search out Antonia, he ensured she had escaped the crowds. He spotted her safely atop his mount, free from the horde and making her way up the hillside to the farm.
His breath of relief was exhaled too soon. Like a beast stalking his prey, Reed followed on horseback. Henry didn’t need to watch the man to know he had ill intentions. His pulse pounded through his skull like a warning. Blood boiled through his body and urged him forward. But the crowd was too thick, too aggressive.
He had to get to her.
With a savage roar, he used the walking stick to push more people back. He worked on carving through the people, his gaze fixed upon the spot on the hill where Reed rode up behind Antonia. The mob grabbed his clothing, tugged on his arms, tried to send him to the ground. A fist met his face but he barely felt it. Around him nothing existed apart from her.
Have to get to her.
A shout ripped from his throat. Reed. The priest snatched Antonia from the saddle and dragged her onto his own horse. She fought him. Henry saw her fists flail, her legs kick. He urged her to keep fighting, to stay strong until he reached her.
He felt as though he were fighting a strong tide. People surged, pushed, shoved. His skin grew hot. Desperation seared through him and the need to lash out made him grit his teeth. Henry called her name but there was no way she’d hear him. Sickness roiled in his gut when he saw the priest strike a blow to her face. She sagged and Reed urged the horse on up the hill.
By the time he’d broken through, the brawling had worsened. He cursed. He needed to get to Antonia. He also needed to calm this fight—and fast. Fist curled, he motioned to one of his men to raise his musket. Antonia couldn’t be left in the hands of the priest for long. Who knew what he would do to her.
Chapter Thirteen
Antonia held back a groan and forced her eyes open. The priest hadn’t rendered her senseless but he’d done enough damage to make her head thick with pain. The side of her cheek throbbed in protest of her movements. She lifted her gaze to the thin window of the dark, dank room in which she was trapped, then down to her bound wrists. Twisting her hands against the coarse rope, she vaguely recalled Reed wrapping the cord tightly around them until it bit into her flesh but being too weak to fight him. At some point, she must have fallen asleep.
Henry. Was he well? Had he been harmed in the brawl? Her pulse rushed to life and she pushed to her feet only to fall back down again. ¡Dios mío!, she hoped he hadn’t been hurt. She took the time to contemplate the room again, taking in the hard dirt floor beneath her bottom and the cold, wet wall against her back. A trickle of water dripped down the back of her neck, and she shuddered. Why had he brought her here?
When she peered up, she noticed rivulets of light slipping in between the eaves of the room. Wherever she was, this was no home or village building—it was in too poor a condition to be in use. Her stomach grew heavy and a bitter tang burned the back of her throat. The priest intended for them to stay hidden.
Antonia lifted her wrists to the thin puddle of light that spilled onto the floor and forced her sore eyes to focus on them. The knots were tight and expertly tied. She recognised it as one the men had used aboard the ship. Using her teeth, she tugged and chewed at the thick rope but to no avail. When a few mere splinters of twine soiled her mouth, she spat them out in annoyance and swallowed a frustrated sob.
Her time aboard the Spanish galleon seemed so long ago now. The promises of a new life by her father no longer rang in her ears. No, instead Henry’s did. As his touch echoed in her soul. She had never been more terrified than when she had seen him trapped amongst that throng of angry villagers. Not even when Lorenzo had locked her away.
If she ever saw Henry again...
She sighed.
Antonia couldn’t say what she would do, but she wouldn’t allow him to turn her away a second time.
The door to the vestibule creaked open and she stiffened, her fists raised. Reed ducked into the room, carrying a leather bottle and a chunk of bread.
“Release me,” she demanded, even while knowing her words would have no effect. After all, why tie her up and bring her here only to let her loose at a mere command?
He shook his head and knelt beside her. Placing the drink down, he lifted her wrists and eyed the knots. “You’ve been trying to escape,” he said, eyes narrow and accusing.
“Si. You expect me to simply await my fate, perhaps?”
“’Twould be wise. If you let the ropes damage your skin, you could succumb to infection.” He handed her the water to clutch between both hands.
Antonia took a clumsy drink, aware of her dry throat. The desire to spit the water in his face didn’t quite override her need to keep herself alert and healthy.
“Why should you care?”
“I need you alive.”
“And why is that?”
“We are to away to London. There you shall tell all of Sir Henry’s heresy.”
“I shall do no such thing. Henry is guilty of naught but compassion.”
Reed snatched away the water and debated the bread in his hand. He closed his fist about it and crushed it until crumbs escaped between his fingers. She watched them drop to the floor and mourned the loss of the food. While Antonia wasn’t hungry yet, she would be soon enough and she wanted to be strong. Strong for herself and strong for Henry.
She had to return to him.
“Compassion for Catholics is heresy,” he hissed. “His uncle was a heretic and so too is he. The queen will see as much and have him put to death.”
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