The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(53)

Once Decker has finished crossing, the men remove the ladder quickly.

We all climb down from the roof into the patio of a little house across the street from Recogidas. It takes everything in me to keep from looking over my shoulder as though the guards might follow us out of the prison window.

We race through the house to the entrance where Karl takes my hand and leads me quickly into a waiting carriage. MacDonald settles in the driver’s seat, Decker and De Besche lingering behind us once I am safely ensconced in the vehicle. No sooner am I seated than the horses begin to move with a lurch and a jolt.

I listen for soldiers’ cries and the pounding of horses’ hooves surrounding us, but I only hear revelry and the usual sounds of the city.



* * *



—

The street is quiet when we finally stop in front of a beautiful home.

Despite the late hour, it looks as though the owners of the house have recently hosted a party, because guests still linger when our carriage arrives. As nerve-wracking as it is to be among others, it is easy enough for my conveyance to blend in with those of the party guests, to give the impression that I am one of them.

I exit the carriage and turn toward the building MacDonald pointed out to me.

I am nearly at the door that my rescuer has left ajar for me when I stop in my tracks. Two policemen walk toward me, deep in conversation.

My heart pounds.

Have I been given up already?

One of the policemen looks my way, his gaze resting on me.

I gather the skirt of my gown in my hand, ready to return to the security of the waiting carriage, but the policeman merely inclines his head in greeting, stepping aside to let me pass by.

I wait for his friend to say something, to sound the alarm, but miraculously neither one of them appears to recognize me.

Quickly, I walk into the house through a door left open just as my rescuers said it would be. I follow the instructions I was given by Decker and MacDonald, and press myself against a wall, peering around the corner as the last of the guests depart. I can almost make out the shape of a dark-haired man standing near the front door in elegant evening dress.

I try to steady my breath, drawing back so none of the crowd can see me.

Finally, I hear the sound of the door shutting, and then there’s a light touch on my arm.

I look up into the dark eyes of the man I saw glimpses of before, and his image swims before me, exhaustion overtaking me.

“Come,” he says gently, and he leads me quickly to a suite of apartments for my exclusive use.

He leaves me alone with two women who will look after me, and after I am bathed and tucked into bed, I fall asleep.





Twenty





When I wake the next day, I can scarcely believe the change in my fortunes, my accommodations the furthest cry from my cell in Recogidas. The suite of rooms is spacious, the furnishing elegant and lavish, certainly nicer than any I knew even in my father’s care. Whoever my protectors are, they must be well connected.

The staff says little, but they bring me a large breakfast, and despite my hunger, I can’t eat, my stomach unused to having so much food, my nerves shattered. My clothes hang off me, my body changed so much since I entered the prison.

How long will it take for my body to go back to the way it was before this nightmare began? How long will it take for me to go back to who I was? Will I ever, or is the loss of the girl I once was another thing Berriz and the Spanish have taken from me?

After I am settled in the room, I ask for a newspaper to be brought to me.

Do the staff know who I am? Do they fear retribution for their part in this? Can I trust them?

When the maid returns with a newspaper, I can’t resist asking—

“I would very much like to thank the people who own this house. Will I see them today?”

“I will ask,” she replies, taking her leave with a quick bob before shutting the door behind herself entirely.

The newspaper she brought me is spread out before me, the details of my escape laid bare for all of Havana to see.

With each word I read, my fear builds.

The newspaper reports that my cellmates say that I drugged them. My jailer and four workers who were on duty have already been arrested. It feels as though the Spanish are on my heels, their determination to see me recaptured laid out in black-and-white before me.

Will I ever truly be free?

I would prefer death at my own hand over surrender.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door to my room.

“My name is Carlos Carbonell. We met last night,” a voice calls out. “This is my house. I was told you wished to speak with me. May I come in?”

“Yes, please do,” I say, straightening the papers.

The door opens, and Carlos enters with smooth strides, dressed more casually than last night, but no less elegantly. He shuts the door behind him, his gaze appraising. He looks to be my father’s age, in his late forties perhaps, and carries himself with a distinguished bearing.

He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you considering how much you have occupied my thoughts and concerns of late. Are you well? I confess it is much better to see you here, comfortably settled as you should be, than in that awful place.”

I nod, words momentarily escaping me, and then I take a deep breath, steadying myself. It is a strange thing to go from living in a dark, dank cell to suddenly finding yourself free—even more so when that freedom is potentially temporary.