The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,44
Elisabeth rose, taking the candle from the lip in the wall. “Are you coming, then?”
*
ACROSS THE ENGLISH Channel, far down the continent’s coast, guests had arrived at the palacio in Santiago to meet with the Duke, Pedro Fernando. The brothers, Enrique and Carlas de la Torre, glanced at each other as the door opened. Duke Fernando extended his hands to them. The Castilian brothers bowed low, the velvet of their elegantly cut jupons a glow of purple and black in the candlelight. “I am interested in knowing more,” the Duke began without preamble. “What property does this Cordaella of Aberdeen bring?”
Enrique smoothed his slim black mustache. “Nearly forty thousand acres, Your Grace.”
“And do not forget the harbor—” added Carlas.
Pedro Fernando unrolled his ivory-colored map, pressing it flat on the desk. “Yes, just a fishing port now, isn’t it?”
Enrique, known as the ‘handsome twin’, sketched the opportunities, “But Aberdeen would give you your own port in Scotland, effectively avoiding the high tariffs imposed by the English crown. By trading directly with the merchants of Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, you would have no need for Southampton, London or even Hull.”
“It would open up the seas,” agreed Fernando thoughtfully, considering the potential routes on the map, up and around the coast of Portugal, the ports of France and across the English Channel to the frigid North Sea. “How much gold is the Earl of Derby asking?”
“He wants more than gold. He wants to negotiate new trade agreements.” Don Carlas de la Torre answered, his voice unusually smooth, disarmingly soft.
The Duke sat. “What kind?”
“Exclusive supplier in some cases.”
“What? A monopoly on services?”
Enrique shrugged noncommittally. “She brings all of Aberdeen with her, not to mention the annual income from the lands.”
“And I would own Aberdeen?”
Carlas and Enrique exchanged glances again. “Not own,” corrected Carlas, “but control.”
“Your heir would inherit, of course.” Enrique concluded.
“Tempting,” the Duke murmured, his attention returning to the map. “The proposal has merit.” He tapped the table, engrossed in the idea.
Carlas relaxed, his pensive expression disappearing into the merest hint of pleasure, lines crinkling about his eyes and mouth. “Shall we send a counteroffer?”
“Write up a contract.” The Duke raised the map and placed a kiss on the coast of Scotland, his dark eyes over bright. “If Aberdeen comes to Santiago, I have no intention of giving Aberdeen back.”
*
LADY ETON SLOWLY brushed her hair, watching her husband from the corner of her eye. She wondered what he was planning now. For the last two days he had been immersed with papers and charts and maps, chewing on the quill of the pen, ink staining the edges of his mouth. What was it about Grey that made her feel like this? It wasn’t the silence; she was used to his inattentiveness. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but in his company she felt empty. Her life was neither better nor worse than she imagined it to be. It was simply different. Empty. There was that word again.
The fire crackled, orange fingers of light, wood popping amid a shower of sparks. “Damn!” The Earl swore, stomping out a swirl of hot embers. He yanked in annoyance on the robe, stirring the papers. Again he swore, his jaw peppered with a graying beard.
“Were you burned?” Mary asked.
“No.” He answered irritably.
But Mary, being lonely, needed to hear her own voice and hear him answer her. “What do you read?”
“A proposed contract.”
“For?” She tried to sound interested; she wanted to understand his business. He had become more involved with his trade in the last two years.
“Cordaella.”
Mary stilled, the brush limp in her hand. “The girl’s fifteen.”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Is it a good offer?”
“I doubt there could be better.” He drew the papers together, sorting them into two neat stacks. “But it need not concern you, nothing has been decided. Not yet.” Seven years ago he hadn’t minded her plain face, but then she still had some youth. The years had not been kind to her and he was irritated by her expression and her simplicity. He forced down his revulsion and went to her, drawing her up to kiss her on the right cheek and then the left. “It is late, Mary, and I still have work to do.” He gathered his papers. “Do not wait up. It may be hours before I join you.”
*
IT RAINED DURING the night and in the morning the mist raised thick from the wet earth, hanging low over the Derby forest. The old trees pierced the mist with their gnarled branches, clinging