Lucio steered Catarina past the stairs leading up to the covered walkway outside her room. “Don Alejo is waiting in your fa . . . “ The major domo paused, gave Catarina a rueful smile. “Don Alejo waits for you in the study.”
Don Alejo! Since when had Blas become Don Alejo instead of the formal Don Alexis, as if it Lucio knew him better than she did?
“Dona Catarina Perez de Leon,” Senhor Cardoso announced grandly, adding a deeper, more respectful bow to Catarina than she had ever before received from the strong-minded manager of the Casa Audley. Lucio then backed himself out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
As Blas unfolded himself from Thomas Audley’s chair, Catarina glared at him, her fists clenched into balls. “You have no right to sit there! Papa’s study is not part of this masquerade. This is my house, and I won’t have it!”
Blas, dressed in the casual daywear of a wealthy young hidalgo of Spain, blinked. The ruffled front of his full white shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his waist. An elaborate design in red embroidery decorated the front of his black jacket and the sides of his tight black pants. A black neckerchief was knotted casually about his throat. “Sit down, Cat,” he invited with remarkable calm.
After a few additional moments of pouting, she complied, but not without a loud sniff of disdain.
“Let us understand one another, Cat. This is my house. And I will sit where I will and do what I will. And you will never again mention the word masquerade. From this moment you will assume every word you utter can be heard by the French. Is that clear?”
Tears blurred her eyes. Hurt and confused by a homecoming quite different from her expectations, Cat knew only that Blas the boy was gone. In three weeks her alleged husband had aged five years. He was alive and well, obviously successful in his plan to save the Casa Audley from the French. But who was to save it from Don Alexis Perez de Leon?
“There’s no point in crying,” he added without a sign of sympathy. “How can you think it possible for me to run the Casa without sitting at your father’s desk? Don’t be such a goosecap—I thought you had better sense. Now stop sniveling and listen to me!”
Catarina rummaged in her reticule until she found a handkerchief, then wiped her face and vigorously blew her nose. She glared at him from reddened eyes.
“Our plan worked, Cat,” Blas reported. “I stayed out of it and let your father’s solicitor handle everything. Marriage lines, settlements, signed deeds. Fortunately, the French have a respect for legal documents. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t even have to make a stand at the door. One night the Casa closed under the government of Portugal, the next it opened under the government of France.
“We’ve been lucky . . . or perhaps a bit more clever than most. All the property of those who fled has been confiscated, a fine has been levied against the country itself, and Junot is busy conscripting a Portuguese army to fight for Boney. How long our immunity will last I can’t say, but I do everything I can to cultivate the French officers who come to the Casa. Hopefully, we shall remain a friend in their eyes.”
He broke off, regarded her bleakly. “You didn’t really think I meant to keep the Casa, did you?” he asked in tones more reminiscent of the old Blas.
Her lips quivered. “It’s all so strange,” Cat confessed. “I have never seen anyone else in that chair. Ever. We are here alone, just you and I. The city is overflowing with soldiers in blue coats . . . and we are married.” Cat’s usually lovely voice was on the verge of shrill. “I do not want to take orders from you. You are a stranger. I do not like it!”
Blas leaned back in the chair, regarding her with some relief . . . and a touch of amusement. “Why, Cat, I do believe you have bridal nerves.”
“I do not!”
“Do you expect to be ravished?”
“You did not come out to meet me!” she wailed.
Blas held his head in his hands, struggling between exasperation and laughter. “Most of the servants think I married you for your dowry, Cat. They accept the situation as an eminently practical solution to a difficult problem, but they believe us truly bound in a marriage of convenience. I must at all times—and so must you!—consider how my actions look to others. This is not a game, Cat, it’s a damned dangerous situation.”
Catarina grimaced as she attempted to wipe her face with the soggy handkerchief which had been crumpled in her fist. Blas tossed a fresh one to her and watched while she restored herself to some semblance of normalcy. It was the first time he had ever seen Cat anything but spectacularly beautiful. She looked small and lonely and lost.
“Very well,” Blas pronounced bracingly when Catarina’s hands were once more folded in her lap. “Listen carefully so you will understand how we must go on. I have instructed that your things be moved into your mother’s room . . .”
“No!” Cat screamed. She flew out of her chair to stand with her hands flat on the desk, her contorted face bent over him. “You cannot do this. My mother died in that room. No one has used it since.”
Shocked, Blas rose slowly to his feet as Catarina hiccuped on a sob.
“It was very quiet, you know,” she continued in an abrupt change of tone, her eyes fixed on the past. “Mama refused to scream. Papa had the English doctor, the best midwives, nothing helped. Three days she suffered. They wouldn’t let me in, but I sneaked by them at night. I promised her I would be good . . . and take care of Papa. But I have failed so many times . . .”
Blas had promised himself he would not touch her. But there was no hope for it. He strode round the desk and held her against his chest, letting her weep. After a minute or two, he scooped her up, securing her on his lap when he returned to Thomas Audley’s chair. While Cat’s sobs gradually diminished, Blas had ample time to contemplate the magnitude of the problem he had created. He had been hopelessly naive. His body was already reacting to the soft, infinitely appealing curves cuddled against him. Five minutes in Cat’s company and his good intentions were sorely tried. As they would undoubtedly be time and time again over the months to come.
Hell and devil confound it!
As Cat dried her streaming face on her petticoat ruffle, Blas forced himself to speak firmly. “I am sorry, Cat, more sorry than you know, but appearances are vitally important. You and I must seem to be husband and wife. I have moved into your father’s room. You must have the chamber next door. No matter what pain it causes you. Just consider it part of what you must suffer because we are at war.”
Cat drew a deep breath. Blas held his. When she finally nodded her head, he stifled a sigh of relief. Gently, Blas put her from him, steering her back to the chair in front of the desk. He needed a clear head for the remaining discussion.
“It is necessary to be ingratiating with the French,” Blas decreed from the throne of Thomas Audley’s chair. “You will spend an hour or so each evening in the gaming rooms. So far, the explanation that I sent my wife into the country for safety has sufficed, but expectations have developed. Rumors that I have married an English beauty abound, but there are also some doubts about whether I really have a wife and a right to the Casa. Therefore you will perform your routine duties during the day, but do not go out without at least two footmen. At night you will grace the gaming rooms. You will be charming, gracious. And circumspect. Under no circumstances are you to flirt. I do not wish to give the impression that Don Alexis Perez de Leon wishes to curry favor through his wife’s services. Comprende?”
“You are despicable,” Cat gasped.
“I am a realist.” Bloody hell. Nothing about this interview was going as planned, and the worst was yet to come. “Which brings me to another topic,” Blas added inexorably. “I have heard a great deal of nonsense spoken by portuguêsas, young and old, these past few weeks. I wish to know if you have been infected by this insanity of a fate worse than death?”
It was Catarina’s turn to blink. “But of course. That is understood by women everywhere. Dona Felipa says it is a matter of honor
. A woman must kill herself rather than submit. Else her husband would be dishonored.”
Blas swore softly. “Has your father not discussed this matter with you?”
“Of a certainty. He says, ‘Honor be damned. It is better to be raped than to be dead.’ But that is not at all what women say.”
“Well, in this particular case I don’t give a damn about honor either. Not that I expect trouble, but if the worst should happen, you are to survive. Any way you can. Is that understood?”
She considered his words. “You would not mind?”
“I’d mind a great deal, and I’d hope to have the pleasure of killing the bastard, but I would mind a good deal more if you were dead.”
Cat digested this, then favored him with a ghost of a smile, the first he had seen since she walked through the door. “That is a relief then. I had no wish to die so young.”
Blas ran his hands through his hair, clutching at his waving black locks. How could any man expect a woman to . . .? What if he hadn’t raised the issue . . .? Damn and damn and damn and damn!
He stood abruptly. “Come, Cat. Let me take you up to your room. You can redecorate it if you like,” he offered, taking refuge in the commonplace.
Catarina allowed him to take her arm as they traversed the courtyard, still green in the chill of December. “I used to have a room on this side,” Cat confided, “but several months after Mama died, Papa hired Dona Felipa and moved me across the courtyard. I suppose he thought I would not know about his women.”
Blas stumbled, tightened his grip on her arm, propelling her up the wrought iron staircase a bit more rapidly than he had intended.
“There is no need to be angry,” Cat hissed. “Even Dona Felipa says it is not expected that a man be celibate. Oh!” she exclaimed. “What have you done with Dona Felipa?”
“She has gone to the house of her eldest son. With a very generous pension. A married lady has no need of a duenna.”
“Graças a Deus!” Cat stopped short at the top of the stairs, nearly sending Blas tumbling backwards in an effort not to run into her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Ah, I am sorry, that was unkind. But she was so stern.” A tentative smile lit Catarina’s ravaged face. “I think perhaps I shall like to be married.”
With a sigh of long suffering, Blas took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the large suite of rooms once occupied by Thomas and Elspeth Audley. A fire was burning, warming the long-disused room which had been dusted and polished until it shone. Blas pointed out the connecting door to his own room, adding, “I would offer to let you keep it locked, but again we cannot because of appearances.” He caught her eye and held it. “Understand me, Cat. You have nothing to fear from me. I will abide by my promise to your father.”
“I know,” Catarina acknowledged. “And it is quite insulting.”
Blas stared, opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. He made an abrupt turn toward the door, then swung back to face her, digging into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Here,” he said curtly, grabbing her hand and thrusting a simple gold band onto her ring finger. In the center was a small but finely cut amethyst. “Thomas says it was your mother’s.”
Perfectly aware his behavior was abominable, Blas was now more furious with himself than with his counterfeit bride. He stalked into the hall and slammed the door. When he caught himself swearing in basic Anglo-Saxon, he switched to Spanish. It was not as satisfying.
Chapter Four
The great port city of Lisbon is rumored to have been founded by the Phoenicians. Or possibly by Ulysses himself. By the time of the Roman occupation under Julius Caesar, it was a thriving municipality. Stretching along the north bank of the Tagus River some twenty miles upstream from the Atlantic, Lisbon has one of the finest harbors in the world. Lisbon’s famed sailor-explorers made their country one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the world.
For the same reason Portugal suffered a host of conquering hordes, including the Romans, Visigoths, Moors, and neighboring Spain. Spanish treasure ships, loaded with Incan and Mayan gold and precious artifacts, unloaded their cargos on the docks of Lisbon. Finally, England’s control of Portugal’s most famous export reduced the once proud nation to a British protectorate. A role the island nation was now abandoning, leaving Portugal to fend for itself.
Lisbon’s great harbor now lay empty. The ships of Portugal and Britain had escaped the Emperor’s clutches. Outwardly, the population was resigned. France was just one more country in a long line of invaders.
“You are a spineless toad!” In total disregard of her husband’s modesty, Catarina burst through the door to Blas’s room while he was dressing for the day. “You let him . . . “ She gulped, startled by the sight of his well-muscled naked chest. She swallowed hard, forced her gaze up to his face. “You let him maul me,” she accused. “Me! Catarina Audley. That miserable excuse of a man put his hands on me. How could you?”
“Catarina Perez de Leon,” Blas corrected calmly. With no other reaction to his wife’s hot words, he shrugged himself into his shirt, allowed his valet to arrange his cravat. When he had run a hand through his hair, tousling it to his satisfaction—which he carefully checked in the mirror—he dismissed the young português who served as his valet and turned to Catarina with a bland lift of his eyebrows.
“When that little weasel of a captain touched you,” Blas explained with great patience, his patronizing tone causing his wife to grind her teeth, “he was being closely watched by Major Henri Martineau who just happens to be the second ranking officer in French Security. Which means he is a counterspy. His job—his duty—is to search out spies. Like us. My job, my duty, is to remain in character. To be the innocuous, supercilious Don Alexis who was not above marrying for money. The Spanish fop who is interested only in appeasing his new masters. I am not about to start a quarrel with a French officer, particularly in front of someone as dangerous as Martineau. I told you to be careful! And, besides, Cat,” Blas added in a more conciliatory tone, “he only put his arm around you.”
“He leered!”
“For God’s sake, Cat, grow up! Men are always going to leer at you. You were born for leering.”
Hands clenched at her sides, Catarina turned her back and stalked toward the door. Only to pause on the threshold, deflating from indignant wife to a fourteen-year-old whose world had disappeared with the slap of French boots on Portuguese cobbles. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” she ventured. “Will you take me to midnight mass?”
Blas stared. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I am not, but there are no Anglican services, and the mass is very beautiful. Papa never minded when I attended with Dona Felipa.”
Blas proffered a slight bow. “Then of course I will take you. And, Cat . . . please try to be patient. It’s unfortunate that Major Martineau seems to have joined your coterie of admirers but, remember, it is possible he hopes to use your youth to trip us both. The French are not stupid. We cannot help but be suspect. So, please, I beg of you, be sweet and charming.” Blas’s lips angled upward in a smile that begged her understanding. “And perhaps just a wee bit stupid.” He crossed the room, raised Cat’s hand to his lips, granting her one of his quizzical smiles. “I look forward to tomorrow night.” As his lips brushed her hand, his eyes never left hers. Catarina felt the light caress all the way down to her toes. She turned and fled.
The gaming rooms were crowded that night, the swirling sea of blue-coated Frenchmen coagulating into segregated groups, playing each other, while the portuguêses sat, stiff-backed, at tables with their own kind. Only in rare instances did a few daring or politically indifferent players mix French blue with the dark evening wear of Portugal.
Except for courtesans and a few elderly eccentrics, the scattering of women present clung to the sides of their escorts and kept their eyes upon the play. Nearly all were dressed in the French Empire fashion introduced by Madame Laure Junot, wife of Marshal Androche Junot, Portugal’s most recent conque
ror. Catarina glanced down with satisfaction at her own gown of filmy turquoise silk heavily embroidered with silver and pearls on the minuscule bodice and tiny puffed sleeves. A long column of soft folds fell from just under her bosom to the hem which was decorated with six inches of matching embroidery. She was not only guilty of vanity, Cat conceded, she was—like the other women in the room—guilty of complimenting the enemy by imitation.
A small sin, surely. She sighed. The dress was so lovely. And no one could deny the French excelled in fashion. If only they did not excel in battle as well . . .
Catarina moved through the gaming rooms, nodding and smiling at the young French officers whose gaiety, charm and quick wit made them quite impossible to dislike. These . . . these boys were the French bogeymen who had conquered half the world? No, not all boys. She looked up to see the lean features of Major Henri Martineau regarding her steadily from his place at one of the high-stakes faro tables. A dark-haired, wiry man of medium height, his appearance was not particularly frightening. It was the shrewd intelligence that shown from his deep-set brown eyes that caused chills to rise up her spine. Recalling Blas’s scold, Cat acknowledged the major’s inspection with a half-smile and a gracious inclination of her head before turning abruptly away before Martineau could note her clenched teeth. Aiye! It was all Blas’s fault. If he had not invented this charade, she would not be enduring the dictates of a husband who was not a husband and smiling at Frenchmen, while wondering how Papa was faring at the winery.
How could Blas expect . . .?
Ingrate! She could hear Dona Felipa’s stern voice echoing in her head. You hold the Casa Audley. You have a fine, strong husband. What more can you want?
The Sometime Bride Page 5