Instead she asked, “How is it that you escaped?”
“A new commander arrived, a French officer—your friend de Jenoure. He ordered an inspection of the prisoners, and we were all brought up to the yards. From there we struck a deal. He would release me, and I would help him find the treasure.”
“But you had already looked in Madrid,” she said.
“Yes, but there were rumors of Danvers’s mission to London. I knew he would find you and then he would return—imagine my surprise when I saw you at the inn.”
“You. It was you that I saw. You sent the maid to bring me to you.”
He nodded. “If that half-bred brother of Danvers’s hadn’t come along, we would have been well rid of him. As it turned out, I had to return to de Jenoure and seek his aid in retrieving you.”
Olivia’s mind whirled at the events that had surrounded her without her knowledge.
They got to the steps of the church, but they found the doors barred. Unwilling to take this as a deterrent, Bradstone caught her by the arm and dragged her around the building.
The cathedral was huge, and it appeared it also housed a large convent. The gates hung open at an odd angle, obviously having been forced so, and when they got inside the sanctuary, they found the convent held what must have once been a beautiful garden. It was now littered with overturned statues, empty bottles and the smoldering remains of a bonfire.
“It appears the good sisters threw the British a welcoming party,” he joked.
Olivia said nothing, her eyes and ears sharp for anyone who may be able to aid her. And then she saw something that caught her eye.
One statue that had escaped the mayhem. The proud, tall stone effigy of a medieval queen. At the sight of her, chills ran down Olivia’s battered limbs. Beneath it was a single word carved into the base.
“Caliopa,” she whispered.
“What is that?” Bradstone barked, as he tried another door, but only found it locked. “What are you muttering?”
“Nothing,” Olivia said, as they walked past the queen who had lent her life and fortune to a lost cause. She could have sworn the woman was smiling at her, offering Olivia a bit of her own legendary courage.
If that is Caliopa’s tomb,
Olivia thought,
then the treasure must be buried here.
From the garden, Bradstone finally found an unlocked door into the sisters’ haven. They went past cell after empty cell and continued through the maze of halls until they came to a chapel.
At the doorway stood a statue of Mary, her steady countenance guarding the place. The floor was paved with pale stones, while carefully hewn columns rose on either side, each arching gently to the next one. There was a simple, modest touch to the place, an almost feminine quality to it. Incense hung heavily in the air, and the place was lit by candles, their flickering light illuminating old stained glass showing images of roses, which Olivia guessed must have dated back to the time of the Berber invasions.
She thought back to her translation.
The Tomb of the Virgin.
This was the place. A chapel devoted to the Mother of God, the Holy Virgin.
“Have you come seeking shelter?” a woman asked, coming out from behind the altar. She wore the habit of a sister. “For we have no food to offer and little in the way of comforts to help you.”
“Where is the Tomb of the Virgin, you old hag?” Bradstone demanded, leveling his pistol at her.
The woman’s face paled, but Olivia admired her courage when she stood her ground. “Go away with you. There is nothing left here for you English to steal.”
“Tell me where the Tomb of the Virgin is or die,” he said.
She shook her head. “My life is in God’s hands.”
Bradstone then turned the gun away from her and at a small boy who had darted out from behind the altar. “What about that whelp’s?” he asked.
The sister gathered the boy in her arms and stared at Bradstone as if assessing his intent.
Please,
Olivia mouthed at her.
Tell him.
The woman’s jaw set in a firm line. Then she nodded at an alcove to the left. “Over there.”
“Show me,” Bradstone said.
As they followed the sister toward the tomb, several more children came out of the hiding spot. The sister issued a sharp command for them to get back, but Bradstone only laughed.
“Bring them all out,” he told her. “I have a task for them.” He stood before the tomb and waved his pistol at the tallest boy. “Pull those stones up.” He motioned to another child. “Go fetch shovels and a bar to move them with.”
The boy looked at the sister for a translation of the man’s foreign words, and she translated them and gave him an approving nod only after Bradstone placed the pistol to the head of a little girl, who immediately broke into sobs.
Over the tomb there was an ancient stone, and on it was carved a warning.
Only those pure of heart and intent will find what they seek.
So much for the warning, Olivia thought, as Bradstone began to supervise the work. Much to her relief he quickly became absorbed in finding his treasure, so Olivia could draw back from him. Discreetly she beckoned at one of the boys, a sharp-eyed lad who appeared quick and agile. Quietly she whispered to him in Spanish, “Go to the British camp. Ask for Major Danvers and give him this.” She pulled Orlando’s ring from her finger and tucked it into his grubby hand.
“How will I know what this major looks like?” the boy asked, the ring already stowed in his pocket.
Olivia pointed at Bradstone. “Exactly like that man, but with a heart that is good and pure.”
The boy nodded and silently crept from the chapel and made his escape.
* * *
Robert’s latest stupor was just starting to fade when a small hand began tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.
“Major Danvers?” a small boy asked in Spanish. “Are you Major Danvers?”
He opened one eye and gauged from the poor clothes and lack of shoes he was probably begging. “What do you want?”
“A lady sent me.”
“Go away. I have no interest in ladies.”
The boy remained at his side, as stubborn as he was annoying.
“Are you Major Danvers?” he asked again.
“Yes, now go away.”
“But the lady told me to give you this.”
A shimmering object clattered to the table, spinning to a stop before his nose.
A simple band of gold. Orlando’s ring.
Robert’s head rose from the table, and his hand shot out to catch it up. “Where did you get this?”
The boy backed up at his sharp words, his eyes round as he stared at Robert’s face. “A lady,” he stammered. “At the chapel. She said to bring it to you. She is in danger. We all are.”
Robert caught up his coat and hollered for Aquiles. His batman came stumbling out of the tent.
“She’s alive,” he said, holding up Orlando’s ring. He turned back to the little urchin who was still staring at him as if he were a ghost.
“Where did you say she was?”
“The Virgin’s chapel at the convent behind the cathedral.”
“Show me,” Robert said.
As they started out, the boy glanced up at him again. “She said you would look just like the other man, and you do.”
Robert stopped for a moment. “What other man?”
“The one with the
pistola.
The one who brought her there. He looks exactly like you.”
For one unholy moment, he considered what the boy was saying. A man who looked just like him.
Could it be? Bradstone was alive?
It was the only explanation, as unbelievable as the discovery that his beloved little termagant lived.
He turned to Aquiles. “Get my pistol.”
Bradstone had the children digging in shifts, for they were small and tired easily, much to his annoyance.
Olivia had stepped forward and offered to help, but he had loftily informed her that was work beneath his marchioness and ordered the children to redouble their efforts.
“What is it he seeks?” the sister whispered to her.
“El Rescate del Rey,”
she told her.
“Here?” the lady said, genuinely surprised.
Olivia nodded, while the sister glanced back at the now open tomb and crossed herself.
She had no idea how much time had passed but glanced often at the door, hoping to find Robert standing there with a regiment of men behind him.
But then again, she hadn’t considered another possibility.
What if Robert hadn’t survived the blast that had nearly taken her life? The boy’s errand would be for naught, and there would be no rescue from that quarter.
But like Caliopa, Olivia didn’t know if she wanted to live in a world without her husband. Her Álvaro.
Just then, one of the shovels hit a hard object, the metal scraping against metal.
“It’s there. It’s there,” Bradstone said. “Dig it out. Dig it out now.”
Ten minutes later, Bradstone and the children hoisted an ancient box from the hole. It took six of the largest boys and the marquis to muscle the weighty chest up to the floor.
“Señor,” the nun implored, “that could be the holy remains of our patron saint or some other good soul. Do not defile them by opening it.”
“Shut up!” Bradstone snapped at her. He cuffed the boys out of his way and caught up the heavy metal bar one of them had brought in. He swung it at the rusted lock in front, which shattered at the first blow.
His maniacal laughter echoed through the nave like a blasphemous choir. He stared at the chest for a moment, and then walked over to Olivia, caught her by the arm and dragged her over to it. “Open the lid,” he told her.
“Why me?” she asked.
“Because if it is cursed, I would have that honor be yours,” he said.
For a moment she could only look at the chest in wonder. Then glanced once again at the words carved in the stone above and sent up a small prayer begging forgiveness from Caliopa.
El Rescate del Rey.
Hidden for eleven centuries and now it lay before her. Her hands shook as she started to open the lid.
“Stop where you are,” a voice familiar and pure rang out.
Olivia spun around. “Robert!”
He stood at the end of the nave, pistol in hand, with Aquiles and several others behind him. Including Wellington.
But Bradstone, his years in the solitary confines of the prison, moved as fast and treacherously as the rats that had been his cellmates.
He caught Olivia by the arm and drew her into his arms, then whipped out the stiletto from his boot top and put it to her throat.
“Not one step, Danvers,” he warned. “One move, and I’ll kill her before your eyes.”
Robert stilled, his gaze locked with hers.
They both knew Bradstone, mad or sane, would have no compunction about murdering anyone who stood in his way.
But Olivia wasn’t about to let him use her to get the treasure, wasn’t about to die in his arms. This man had murdered her father, killed Orlando. And that left her to see that he paid for his crimes.
She’d vowed revenge all those weeks ago, and now if the fire in Robert’s eyes was any indication, she would have it with his help.
The sharp edge of the stiletto cut a thin line at her throat, but she didn’t even flinch. Somehow she had to distract him, to get him to let down his guard so Robert could make his shot.
“Let her go,” Robert told him. “You have no need for her now.”
Bradstone shook his head, pointing the tip of the knife at the base of her throat, the point where her pulse fluttered wildly. “But I do. I want her to pay for all my lost years. This bitch sent me to hell with her treachery, and now she’ll get the same in return.”
Just then a shot rang out. Loud and true, it caught them all by surprise, including Robert, who surged forward.
Olivia felt Bradstone jerk with enough force to send the knife in his hand spinning from his grip and her flying to the floor. She glanced up to find him staring at her, his mouth open and a trickle of blood oozing from his lips. A second shot erupted from high in the choir above. This time the bullet found Bradstone’s heart and sent the man pitching to the floor beside her, dead.
Even as he fell, Robert reached her side. He shielded her with his body and called out, “Who are you? Who killed him?”
A shadowy figure rose from the choir above. A single man.
None other than Pymm.
“Fine shot, as ever, my good man,” Wellington called out to his friend and spymaster.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Robert asked, as the man climbed down the stairs and joined them in the nave.
“I heard that Bradstone was alive and in league with the French right after you left. I came as soon as I could to warn you. Wellington’s aid told me you had come here, so I followed. Seems I arrived just in time.” He nudged Bradstone’s body with the toe of his wellworn boot. “Better end, this. Save the Treasury a pole of money, what with transportation fees and trial costs.”
Robert held out his hand to Pymm. “I thank you, sir, for saving my wife’s life.”
“Your wife?” Pymm sputtered. “You married this . . . this—”
“Termagant?” Robert suggested.
“Yes, exactly,” Pymm said. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Completely and hopelessly,” Robert told the man as he swept Olivia into his arms and kissed her thoroughly before one and all.
England, 1816
A
nother four years passed before the Marquis of Bradstone returned home for good. His second return to London was as triumphant as his first, but this time the man holding the title was Colonel Robert Danvers, late of Wellington’s personal staff.
A distant relative of the deceased marquis, he had been awarded the title for his devoted service to King and country during the Peninsular War and his recent heroics at Waterloo.
The new marquis was accompanied by his lady wife, a woman as elegant as the marquis was handsome. There were rumors that the lady had a scandalous past, and there was rampant speculation as to who she was, but when Lady Finch and the Dowager, Lady Bradstone, declared the new Lady Bradstone the perfect marchioness, few in the
ton
dared snub her or question her qualifications or controversial breeding.