The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  Did you really think I would give away my grandchild, a baby born of my two children? The thought never even crossed my mind. I had my own plans for the baby, but as soon as Michael found out you were keeping it, he made his wishes known. This was his child, and he wanted to be its father. He was there when Daisy was born. Yes, that’s her name, in case you were wondering. He was the first person to hold her after the doctor and the nurse brought Daisy to his room. He fed her, changed her, bathed her, and loved her, and he will love her until the day he dies.

  He's not fit to be a father—I can almost hear you saying that, but you’re wrong. It is you who are unfit. Parents know their children, and I know, as your mother knew, that what happened between you and Michael wasn’t entirely his fault. Yes, he should have been stronger. Yes, he should have known better. But it was you who preyed on his vulnerability, his weakness at a time when he needed a friend. It was you who poured shot after shot of whisky that night, and it was you who made the first move. How do I know that? I guess you forgot about the nanny cam I had installed when you were an infant. I kept it running, to make sure the nannies took proper care of you and the housekeeper never helped herself to anything she shouldn’t have.

  You cried rape when things went too far, eager to destroy your brother, and us, for being nothing more than a foolish, gullible man who lost his head when you offered him the solace he so sorely needed. Michael has paid the price for his stupidity, but he’s learned his lesson. He’s a husband, a father, a damn fine doctor, and a kind human being. What about you, Quentin? What are you? Not a wife, not a mother, not a sister, or even a daughter. You are good at your job, but that’s because you love the attention it gets you. The celebrated photographer. The woman who doesn’t need anyone.

  I don’t know how old you are now, but I hope you’ve found love, and inner peace. And I genuinely hope you’re happy. And if you do anything to hurt Michael or Daisy, I will haunt you from the grave. That, I promise you.

  Your loving father,

  Ian Crawford

  Jo wiped away angry tears with the back of her hand, her gaze fixed on the indifferent moon. Even from the grave, he had the power to hurt her, to make her feel like a steaming pile of shit. But the worst part was that he was right—in everything he’d said. She’d wanted to hurt Michael, wanted to hurt her parents for years of making her feel like an outsider. She’d forgotten, but she had been the one who got him drunk that night, and she had been the one to sink to her knees and pull down his trousers, taking him into her mouth. They weren’t biologically related, after all, and it had been fun—an experiment of sorts.

  She’d never gone beyond kissing until that night, and with Michael, she’d felt safe. He’d never do anything to hurt her. He loved her. But she’d miscalculated. She’d opened a door she couldn’t close in time. When Michael came to her room, she hadn’t said no. She’d wanted more. She’d wanted to know what it felt like to have a man’s tongue between her legs, to savor the pleasure of his fingers sliding inside her. She hadn’t been ready for things to go further than that, but Michael had been too far gone. He’d been drunk and aroused, and by the time he’d pushed his way inside her it was too late to say no, too late to do anything but enjoy the sensation of him moving inside her. He should have stopped, should have left her room, but he hadn’t, and she’d done nothing to stop him.

  Jo tossed the letter aside. There was only one thing she could do now. She would respect her father’s wishes and not go anywhere near Michael or Daisy. Her heart squeezed as she realized that she’d seen Daisy’s photo that very morning. She was one of the two girls standing with Michael and his wife in the family portrait. Which one was she? The two girls appeared to be almost the same age, so she couldn’t guess. She’d find out, but discreetly. She’d follow Daisy’s life from a distance; it was easy enough to do through social media. She’d cheer her on, be happy for her, and celebrate her triumphs, but only from afar. Jo owed her that much. She’d never destroy her family or make any attempt to humiliate her father. Michael deserved to be happy.

  Jo slowly got off the sofa, walked into the kitchen and turned on one of the burners on the stove. She set the letter alight and watched it burn until the flame nearly reached her fingers, then dropped it in the sink. The blackened piece of paper lay curled at the bottom, the typeface charred beyond recognition. Jo ran some water over the burnt paper until it was nothing more than a black stain on her steel sink. She then walked into her bedroom and pulled a hold-all out of the wardrobe. Good thing she’d had her passport reissued after her old one was destroyed in the explosion.

  She finished packing and picked up her mobile. She made three calls. One to Charles Sutcliffe, telling him she’d take the assignment he’d mentioned earlier that week. One to Drew Camden, informing him that his services were no longer required, and his payment would be submitted through PayPal. And one to Tim, just because she needed to hear a friendly voice, even if it was only a voicemail recording. She then fell into bed without getting undressed and fell asleep. She had an early start tomorrow.

  Chapter 60

  December 1588

  Leitrim, Ireland

  Bluish shadows settled over the forest, swallowing the English soldiers and leaving only the glow of their cooking fires. Nothing had really changed in the past few days, but Rafael could feel a thrum of discontent coming from the English camp below. The weather had turned even colder, and as Christmas approached and the siege dragged on, the soldiers were giving vent to their frustration. Surrounded and frightened as they might be, at least the Spaniards had a roof over their heads, and the comfort of real beds and hot meals. The English were sleeping on cold, hard ground and eating salt pork and tack, the standard fare of soldiers everywhere. A few of the more enterprising soldiers set traps and managed to catch a few rabbits and other small prey, but the rest were hungry and angry.

  As Rafael descended from the battlements after his watch, he tried to avoid looking at the shadowed cross in the yard. He couldn’t see Julio’s face, but he didn’t need to. The crows had been at him already and the sight was grotesque. He wished the men would take Julio down and bury him, but no one seemed in any rush. Some still made comments about Julio, but others carried on as if he’d never existed, had never been their friend.

  The kitchen was wonderfully warm after the frigid temperature outside. Aisling handed Rafael a cup of hot broth and a trencher filled with roast pork and buttered peas. The rest of the men had already eaten, and Rafael was grateful not to have to talk to any of them. He wondered where Alfonso had gone but wasn’t overly worried. Perhaps he’d needed to go to the privy after their long watch. Rafael savored his meal while Aisling went about tidying the kitchen for the night.

  “I’m going to turn in,” she said. “I’m very tired.”

  “I’ll escort you to your chamber,” Rafael said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could have happily eaten more, but none was offered.

  They walked down the dark corridors in silence, the flame of Aisling’s candle casting strange shadows onto the stone walls. He didn’t say anything until they entered her room and Aisling closed the door behind them.

  “Aisling, how did Julio come to have my charm?”

  “He stole it, just like he stole the other things,” Aisling said. She removed her cap and her hair came tumbling down. It was an invitation, but Rafael wasn’t ready to accept it.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “What are ye saying?” Aisling demanded, hands on hips.

  “I’m saying that you were the only person who knew I had it. Please, tell me the truth. Julio’s face haunts me day and night. I can’t sleep. I feel responsible for what happened to him.”

  Aisling’s gaze slid away from him. She turned toward the bed and began to plump the pillow before pulling back the down quilt and beginning to unlace her bodice.

  “Aisling, I need to know,” Rafael said.

  “I took yer amulet,” she admitted, t
urning to face him. Her cheeks were pink with shame at being caught out. “I was worried someone would find it and discover the truth. I didn’t know what that thing was, but I knew it was heathen and ye’d suffer for it. He was a bad man. He deserved what happened to him.”

  “How did you know he’d get caught with it?” Rafael asked, still trying to work out what had happened.

  “I’d seen him sneaking into the tunnel. I knew he was hiding something in there. I bumped into him in the passage and pushed the charm into his pocket. He didn’t even notice. When I saw him going toward the storeroom where the entrance to the tunnel is, I told the two men who caught him.”

  “How did you tell them?”

  “I just beckoned for them to follow me. They assumed something else, but once we reached the tunnel, they saw Julio inside. He hid something behind a loose stone and then turned to leave. They drew their own conclusions. When they searched him, they found the amulet.”

  “You planned it?”

  Aisling nodded. “Rafael, ye don’t need that thing anymore. It could only bring ye trouble. I did it for ye, for us,” she added shyly. “I’m not going to marry Patrick. I’ll tell Uncle Brian when he returns. I’ll ask him to grant ye a bit of land. We won’t be rich, but we’ll survive. We’ll be happy.”

  Rafael turned and opened the door.

  “Where are ye going?” Aisling demanded.

  “I need time to think,” Rafael replied, and headed for his own bedchamber, which was mercifully empty. He removed his boots and climbed under the blanket fully dressed. He felt wretched. He’d suspected that Aisling had a hand in what had happened to Julio beyond claiming that she’d seen him praying over the hamsa, but now he knew for certain, and the knowledge weighed heavily on him. He hadn’t liked or trusted Julio, but he was no traitor. He’d used the tunnel to stash his loot, which he would probably have used to trade for goods or a passage home. Rafael didn’t believe for a moment that Julio had been looking to make contact with the English.

  Rafael curled into a ball and covered his head with his arms. Aisling had sent a man to his death, had stood and watched Julio’s agony as he was nailed to the cross. He couldn’t reconcile this merciless creature to the beautiful, loving young woman he knew, but there was no escaping the truth. In the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d fantasized about a life with her, about children, but it couldn’t be, not now, and not ever, because even if he managed to rationalize away what Aisling had done and convince himself she’d done it for love, he could never be honest with her about who he truly was. He would have to pretend for the rest of his days, go from attending a Spanish church to attending an Irish church, baptize his children, and pray to her God. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. He’d rather die.

  Chapter 61

  The snow began to fall again three days later. At first, in the early afternoon, it came down in a flurry of light, fluffy snowflakes, but as the day wore on, it became heavier and thicker. Strong winds whipped the snow into a maelstrom, making it impossible to walk across the yard without being blinded and nearly overpowered. For the first time since the siege had begun, the watch was suspended, since there was little chance of an attack. No man could remain in the open for long, given the weather. The English were in disarray. Their canvas tents took flight, the wooden stakes torn out of the ground by the wind. Their fires were extinguished, and their supplies buried in mounds of heavy, wet snow. The Spaniards and the Irishmen retreated to the hall and huddled around the fire, which they’d built in the great hearth to ward off the chill.

  The men sat in groups, some speaking in low tones, others playing at dice, and others just staring into space, wondering if their ordeal in this country would ever come to an end. Every hour, a two-man patrol climbed up on the battlements to check on the English, but the reports remained the same throughout the night. The troops were engaged in braving the elements and salvaging their supplies.

  The snow continued through the night, the wind howling like a grief-stricken woman. No one left the hall, but bedded down where they sat, wrapping themselves in blankets and cloaks. Men slept on benches, trestle tables, and the floor. Rafael wrapped a blanket around himself, but it did little to keep him warm, and he slept fitfully, wishing all the while that morning would finally come.

  When it did, the world looked very different than it had the day before. The snow continued to fall, but the wind had died down, leaving behind a scene of pristine beauty. Everything was silver and white, the sky a linen white as the heavy flakes continued to pile up on the ground. There was no sign of the English camp, the tracks of the retreating soldiers erased by the heavy snow.

  “They must have pushed off at dawn,” Captain de Cuéllar said as he looked out over the battlements. “Too many men would have been lost to cold and hunger if they remained. The siege is lifted.”

  The men cheered, but Rafael felt a familiar heaviness in his heart. His gaze strayed to the cross where Julio hung, his dark hair covered with a snowy halo. The English might have left, but for him, little had changed. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he had no wish to return to Spain. He’d never openly questioned the decisions of his elders, but suddenly he felt angry, not only with his father, but with the entire Jewish community of Toledo. Why did they remain in a place where they were surrounded by people who wanted them dead? Why did they cling to something that was long gone? And why should he live his life in fear, always looking over his shoulder, fearful that the Inquisition would come for him? What sort of fool would he be to marry and bring more Jews into a world in which they were feared and reviled? No, he wouldn’t go back, even if the opportunity presented itself. He would live free or die.

  “All I want is to go home, Rafi. I hate this place. Even with the English gone, it’s still a prison,” Alfonso said as he sidled up to Rafael. “And it’s as cold as a Jew’s heart,” he added, chuckling.

  Rafael nodded absentmindedly. “I’ll talk to you later, Alfonso.”

  He left the yard and made his way to Sir Brian’s study. The door was unlocked, so Rafael let himself in. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. Rafael unrolled the map and pinned down the sides with his hands as he studied the image. It would take some planning, and he’d need funds to finance his journey, but now that he’d permitted himself to envision a different sort of future, he suddenly felt lighter and happier. The feeling of oppression that had haunted him his entire life had lifted, replaced with a determination he’d never known. He’d spent his life hiding, lying, and pretending to be something he wasn’t, but he wouldn’t have to pretend for much longer.

  Chapter 62

  May 2015

  London, England

  Soft morning light poured through the window, casting a golden glow on the most uninspired of objects and making them appear beautiful. Rhys’s hair shimmered with copper highlights, and the face of his watch appeared luminous, drawing Quinn’s tired gaze. Alex had woken up several more times during the night. There had been nothing outwardly wrong and he’d fallen asleep quickly once Quinn or Gabe held him, but everyone had spent a restless night, even Emma, who had got out of bed several times to ask if Alex was all right.

  “You look tired,” Rhys observed. “Want an espresso?”

  “No, I’m all right.”

  “You know what makes having two kids seem like a walk in the park?” Rhys asked.

  “No. What?”

  “Having three kids.” He laughed at his own joke and smiled at Quinn. “Sure you won’t have that coffee?”

  “Sure. I’ve already had two.”

  “All right, then. Let’s see what we have here,” Rhys said, reaching for his fashionable reading glasses. He skimmed Quinn’s report and looked up, his gray eyes wide behind the lenses. “So, the person who was crucified wasn’t Rafael de Silva, but Julio Fernández, who was in possession of the amulet at the time of his death.”

  “Correct,” Quinn replied. “I’m relieved
it wasn’t Rafael.”

  “You get too attached to your subjects, Quinn,” Rhys said as he stowed his spectacles in their case.

  “So would you if you saw them and knew what they feel. They’re as real to me as you are.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Rhys said, looking contrite. “So, what happened to Rafael?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll never know now. The hamsa was pushed into Julio’s mouth just before he was crucified, which would explain why we found it just beneath his pelvic bone. It had been in his intestines at the time of death and dropped into the dirt once the soft tissue fully decomposed. I can’t learn anything more from the charm since it was no longer in Rafael’s possession.”

  Rhys shook his head in dismay. “That simply won’t do, Quinn. We need an ending to our story, preferably a happy one. Give our viewers something to feel good about for a change. What is your theory of what became of Rafael after the crucifixion?”

  “I don’t know what happened to Rafael, but I know what happened to Captain de Cuéllar. If we are to assume that Rafael left Ireland with the captain, then it stands to reason that he returned home and was reunited with his family. I won’t go as far as to say that he lived happily ever after, but it’s entirely possible that he lived an uneventful life after surviving those few harrowing months.”

  “Have you been able to locate any records? It would be helpful if we could show that he married his Mira.”

  Quinn shook her head. “Sorry, but I found no record of their marriage, or anything that might tell us when he died.”

  “Which could mean that he died in Ireland.”

  “Or it could mean that the information simply isn’t available online. Unless I go to Toledo and search through church archives, I have no physical proof that Rafael even existed, except for one tiny piece of corroborative information I was able to unearth.”