him move. He lifted his head slowly from her shoulder.
He’d awakened in a woman’s arms often enough before that it didn’t shock him. Normally this would be the moment to kiss her, to shift his body closer and move his hands to caress her. Normally it would be a good time to make love and perhaps to sleep again afterward. His body surely found that an excellent idea. Unfortunately, nothing was normal with Oriana Paredes.
So he eased himself off her and into a sitting position with a sharp mental reminder not to stare at her breasts. He coughed and moved to one side, his eyes averted. His leg ached fiercely. That helped distract him. Mystified, he peeled back his trouser leg. Blue and purple bruises wrapped his leg where the anchor line had been, crushing the little derringer in its holster against his ankle. He hadn’t realized how tightly the anchor had held on to him. And where were his shoes?
Oriana moved, drawing his eyes back to her body. She settled on her scale-patterned knees and touched his ankle. “Is it broken?”
Her hands on his skin brought his body back to full attention. Duilio felt his face go warm with embarrassment. Her wet hair hung in sand-encrusted tangles, and her eyes seemed deeper set with exhaustion, but she still stole his breath away, just as she had the first day he’d seen her so. He was close enough to lean in and kiss her. Instead he fixed his eyes on his leg. “I don’t think so.”
She insisted on running her fingers along the bones to be certain, coolly and clinically, as if she hadn’t noticed his discomfort. He leaned back while she unstrapped the holster, which actually set off another flare of pain. “What happened?” she asked.
She didn’t seem offended, a small recompense. “The yacht hit my boat,” Duilio said. “I was casting off the anchor when it hit. My foot must have tangled in the anchor line, and it dragged me under.”
He took another deep breath and decided that he finally had his body under control. And if he wasn’t going to ravish Oriana Paredes on this fog-veiled beach, then what was the point of staying? Fog clung to the cliffs, but he could see enough. They had fetched up on the beach near the breakwaters. Without a coat or tie he must look disreputable, but boats did go down in the river from time to time, stranding people. He would simply plead that as an excuse.
Oriana could hardly walk through the streets naked, though. “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll come back with something.”
He started to take off his shirt to offer it to her, but she shook her head. “I’ll stay in the water,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
He would have felt silly wearing only sodden trousers anyway. Duilio peered at the rocks, trying to decide how to get up onto the heights. A narrow wooden stair ascended the cliff’s face, likely property of some homeowner. Duilio headed toward the stair.
“Ferreira,” a voice called across the water. “Ferreira!”
Duilio stared out into the fog. He couldn’t make out a boat, but he heard oars cutting the water, the noisy splash of an inefficient rower. “Gaspar? On the sand.”
“Coming,” Gaspar called back.
Oriana half rose out of the water. “I’ll go find him.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She dove into the water and disappeared into the fog. Duilio leaned against the rocks, his ankle throbbing. The splashing grew closer, and then he saw a small boat sliding toward the sand. Gaspar sat inside, Pinheiro with him. Duilio waded out to them. “Do you have a blanket?”
Chuckling, Gaspar dug one out of the bow and handed it over. Duilio helped Oriana settle it about her and lifted her up into the boat. He pushed the boat away from the shore and then clambered over the side and settled on a middle plank facing her. She managed to work the blanket around so that not even an inch of her silvery feet showed. After fending off a spate of questions from both of the other men, Duilio finally got to ask a question of his own. “What happened to the two in the house? Was it Miss Carvalho and the footman?”
“Yes, both are alive,” Gaspar said.
Duilio saw Oriana’s shoulders slump in relief. She’d saved them.
“The boy was in rough shape,” Gaspar added as he rowed toward the city. “It looks like he fought them, trying to keep them from the girl. A couple of broken ribs, and his face was so swollen he could hardly breathe, which is why we had to leave you out there. We needed to get him to a doctor.”
Duilio didn’t blame them. They would never have been able to see him in the river in the dark anyway. “And the photographer? Did he get any pictures?”
Gaspar grunted. “Yes. It’s a matter now of developing them and convincing his editor to run them. Anjos is already meeting with the City Council, bypassing the Ministry of Culture altogether. We expect that, given the evidence, they’ll agree that the remainder of the houses must be cut loose.”
“Good,” Duilio said. “What did Maraval say?”
“Nothing so far,” Gaspar said. “Anjos and his team didn’t find the man. They did, however, find an extensive collection of magical artifacts in a secret basement, which bears out Silva’s claim. The Jesuits have volunteered to catalog the collection, but they haven’t found your missing pelt yet. Maraval wasn’t at the ministry either, which leaves . . .”
“The mysterious workshop?” Duilio asked.
“Yes. If he’s on the run, it’s likely he’ll go there. Miss Vladimirova is questioning the servants at his home. If any of them know the location, she’ll get it out of them—I promise.”
“I told the selkie to follow the yacht,” Oriana told Gaspar. “If he did, he’ll know where it is.”
Duilio was glad to hear that Erdano had gone after them. He hadn’t dared to ask.
“We’ll have to hope that one plan or another gives us an answer,” Gaspar said, “or Maraval will get away before we have a chance to get our hands on him.”
They planned to take no more than an hour to return to the house, change clothes—or, in her case, put some on—and head back out to find Erdano and his harem. Oriana only hoped that Erdano had been able to follow that yacht. Inspector Gaspar claimed that the regular police were watching all train routes out of the Golden City to prevent Maraval from escaping that way. But why bother with a train when he had a yacht at his disposal?
The police had a carriage waiting when the rowboat reached the Bicalho quay, so a couple of minutes later they were rattling across the cobbles, heading toward the Ferreira house in the morning fog. The road was rough, causing her shoulder to bump against his. Oriana clutched the blanket closer; it was chilly.
“I did offer you my shirt, Miss Paredes,” Duilio reminded her.
“And how would you explain
“I will, of course, replace the garments you lost, Miss Paredes,” he said magnanimously.
“So you don’t have an answer either,” she surmised. If he’d been caught in this situation with a young Portuguese woman of any social stature whatsoever, he would be expected to marry her to protect her from scandal. No one would expect the same for a hired companion.
“We should simply say nothing,” he said mischievously, “and let the servants wonder.”
Well, they would probably come up with their own interpretation anyway. “I am far more comfortable in this situation,” she said, “than you would be. More accustomed to such garb.”
“You mean wearing a blanket?” He regarded her with raised brows. “What exactly
She smiled, gazing down at the one hand in her lap. She still had the dagger’s sheath strapped to her arm, but the blade had been forgotten in the river. “That book you read as a boy was right in that those who work near the water often do so unclothed. Otherwise one usually wears a pareu.” When he opened his mouth to ask, she explained. “A length of fabric wrapped about the waist. It would cover from the waist to the knees, or just below.”
“Ah,” he said. “Do you mean the men? Or the women?”
“Both,” she said with a shrug. “When it becomes cooler, one wears a loose vest over that, or even a jacket.”
He shifted in his seat to look at her. “The islands
“They come into fashion now and then but aren’t essential.” She shot a swift glance at him, trying to gauge