He boarded theIbrahimbehind her and prepared for the journey. He showed her her accommodations, and this time, she took him up on the offer, pleading tiredness.
He didn’t comment that she had woken from her nap more vibrant and bright than he’d ever seen her. There was no need to call her out on it when he was the one she was running away from. Besides, as glorious as her moonglow remained, her light had begun to fade. Faint circles edged her eyes and her shoulders slumped as she’d thanked him for the room and closed the door.
It would take approximately twelve hours to return to Cyrano from Yancy Grove. They had plenty of fuel and ample supplies—he believed in being prepared, though he had not planned to return to Cyrano so soon. Strange, how he had not set foot on the island in over thirty years and now was readying to return for the second time in less than thirty-six hours.
His last trip had had a very specific purpose and, by proxy, had an extremely firm time limit. This time he had neither constraint, and yet the journey was colored with an air of finality. His grand revenge, his life-long quest, his quest for the holy grail, had concluded, if not exactly to his specifications.
And what did he have to show for it?
Twelve hours of silent questioning and one more sunrise later, he spotted land. Having joined him at the helm, Helene watched quietly as Cyrano grew larger on the horizon.
When she spoke, the first time since he’d left her at her cabin door, she said, “So we’re going through Andros?”
Something old and seismic shifted across his heart, a feeling so deep and timeless he could no more interpret it than shifting sands. He gave a brief nod. “We’re going through Andros.”
Muffling the motor, they stealthily approached Andros’s sleepy port.
Andros was too small to be bustling, but was an important specialty port due to its deep waters. More charming than even Calla, Andros was like nowhere else on earth.
Drake steered them through the latticed network of limestone caves quietly, tucking into a shadowed cove with familiar ease. It was not the first time he’d returned to Andros since his family’s exile.
Located on the rainy side of Cyrano, Andros grew lush forested hillsides and verdant farms. The western-most edge of Cyrano’s “Great Green Spot,” a phenomenal patch of agricultural territory responsible for growing the bulk of the food produced on the island, Andros was a small, productive duchy that generated dependable and respectable income, had little to no trouble and the happiest citizens in all of Cyrano...according to a popular magazine survey.
Helene had been its steward for the past two years, and in that time, he knew, she had dutifully cared for it.
But it was Drake’s stolen home, the cozy hills welcoming him, speaking to him through his blood and bones, rather than his head and eyes.
Leading Helene along a narrow path toward the main residence, he ran through his plan. It was basic and would see to her safe return, without putting him in the uncomfortable position of having to explain things to the authorities.
He trusted her, as foolish and novel as the experience was, to keep her word, and more, to stand by him should he face legal action. In a matter of days, she had swept in like a hurricane, devastating thirty years of planning in one fell swoop, and yet he could not hold it against her.
He had set out to seduce her, but he feared, in the end, she might have seduced him.
The path he took them on led to a hidden doorway built inexplicably into the hillside. He reached for the handle as if he had every expectation that it would be open, and it did.
Inside was a dark corridor, lit with flickering exposed light bulbs.
Confident in the confirmation of his memory, he led them down the corridor, around a corner and up a small darkened stairway that led to another door.
This door was locked. Drake pulled out a key, the action practiced, and the door opened into a completely innocuous storage closet.
Behind him, Helene’s voice was filled with wonder. “It’s some kind of smuggler’s tunnel.”
Drake shot a grin at her. “Exactly. It was built during the war of the city-states of the midcentury.” The intimate pride in his voice was undisguisable. Like Calla, Andros was his home. But Andros was also more than that—it was his birthright, his childhood kingdom.
That he’d been forced away from it because of her father was a knife in the chest that never stopped throbbing. Or hadn’t, at least, until he’d swooped in and stolen Helene d’Tierrza into his life.
He should be the current Duke of Andros. He had created in Calla what he missed so sorely, and yet leading them through staff corridors, deftly avoiding being seen, he could not deny it was still a mere facsimile of the home he craved. Like Yancy Grove, Calla was a lovely getaway. Andros was home, the place he was most at ease, even when surrounded by enemies with his plans in tatters.
They came to another doorway—this one he listened at first.
After seconds stretched into minutes of taut silence, his ear glued to the doorframe, he held two fingers up to signal quiet, then retrieved the same key he’d used on the earlier door.
As before, it worked easily. Drake stepped through, followed by Helene.
They stood in another quiet room, a pantry, though it was obvious from the lack of dust and tidily stacked dry goods that this room was in regular use.
“Through that door is the kitchen. The day staff will be in there. They’ll be able to make arrangements to get you back to the capital.”