Page 87 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Goddamn it, Dawson, stop this self-flagellation once and for all.” Whitfield grabbed Sirius by the shoulder and shook him. “That anguish you’ve carried since you were a boy? Release it. Harcourt is a selfish fool who’s jealous of your good looks and charm. A real idiot, that one.”

Fox emitted a low chuckle but quickly covered it with a cough.

Whitfield kept a firm hand on his back. “I can’t pretend to understand what you endured on the peninsula and in the dark times after, but I’ve seen how it’s colored everything you do. If you’re not working to give something to someone, then you seem incapable of allowing anything for yourself.”

Sirius closed his eyes, but he couldn’t drown out his friend’s voice.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a bit of happiness. Did Miss Luna make you happy?”

He nodded.

“Then go to Mexico and get her,” Whitfield declared. “Christ, you fight for everyone else, and now it’s time to fight for yourself.”

Could he do it? Travel to Mexico and ask Isabel for a second chance? Would she say yes? He had to try.

A new thought occurred to him, and Sirius deflated. “I can’t ask her to give up her home, again, to live with me here. It would be selfish to ask.”

The duke ran a hand along his jaw as he exhaled.

“So move to Mexico yourself.”

Sirius turned with a frown to Fox. “Move to Mexico?”

His friend raised a shoulder. “What responsibilities do you have here in England?”

“The abbey, for one—”

“Your solicitor could set up a trust to oversee it,” Whitfield interjected, the shadow of a smile curving his lips. “I’m sure there are dependable men who can tend to the day-to-day operations, right?”

His steward had cared for the abbey during the long months he spent in London, and Monroe was smart and loyal, and probably loved the land more than Sirius. And O’Brien had quickly learned the workings of the home farm, and would probably welcome more responsibilities. Perhaps the suggestion had merit…

Yet could he really move across the ocean? To a war zone? Where they spoke a language he didn’t know? The uncertainty made his palms wet and throat dry.

Rising to his feet, Sirius took a moment to steady himself, before looking at Fox. “Would your wife and Gabby be upset if I tried to win their sister?”

His friend snorted. “Their main concern will always be Isabel’s happiness, and if you can make her happy in Mexico, they will be delighted for both of you.”

A sunbeam of hope pierced through his sadness. “And would Mr. Valdés help me organize my trip? I don’t know anything about the country.”

Fox chuckled. “I believe he can be persuaded.”

Sirius looked back and forth between his friends, errant thoughts and possible plans churning about in his mind. He could do this. He needed to do this. For himself and for Isabel, because no one would love her, would understand her, quite like he did.

“So have you decided?” Whitfield asked, his tone all suffering.

The heaviness that had clung to him since that night in Isabel’s room lifted a tad, and Sirius nodded. “I believe I’m going to Mexico.”

“As much as I’m happy for you, I’m also slightly perturbed that you will see my wife’s homeland before me.” Fox smiled when Sirius laughed, but his expression turned grim. “One thing I do not envy you for is that you will meet my father-in-law, the infamous Señor Luna.”

That detail left Sirius off-kilter. The whole situation left him off-kilter. But he would do it for Isabel. For the chance to bask in her bit of sunshine again.

22

Four hundred and fifty-six steps lay between her front door and the fountain in the center of the town plaza. Isabel knew because she had counted them every day since she arrived in Villa de Santiago.

Walking that well-traveled path now, Isabel no longer looked around in wonder. The lush mountains that flanked the village no longer stole her breath. Neither the colorful stucco homes nor the twin spires of the Parroquia Santiago Apóstol made her pause with a smile. Her excitement to work for the Mexican First Lady had waned, and the feeling of triumph that swelled in her chest when she stepped from the ship in Altamira had dissipated on the long journey to Santiago. For her heart was heavy, and it seemed to grow heavier every day since she departed England, and no amount of praise or recognition could lighten it.

Isabel sat on the fountain’s edge and peered down into the blue waters that rippled beneath her. Her reflection stared back at her, unchanged from the last time she had looked. Oh, but her mother remarked upon the changes every day. María Elena lamented the dark circles under Isabel’s eyes, the gauntness to her cheeks, the pallor of her skin. While her mother always inquired after her health, and insisted Isabel take her meals with her instead of alone with a book as she would have preferred, María Elena never asked Isabel directly about her time in England. Never asked about the friends she may have left behind. While the Isabel of old would have thought that meant her mother didn’t believe her capable of making friends, now she suspected that Ana María or Gabby had informed her of what had transpired before Isabel left. And even if they hadn’t, Isabel still didn’t possess the words to discuss it, with her mother or anyone.