The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Cat struggled to stifle a giggle inappropriate to the hostess of the Casa Audley. To go from Dona Felipa to Don Alejo inside a month was not such a bad thing.

  Catarina snuggled down into her beautiful royal blue velvet cloak. The hood’s soft border of gray chinchilla framed her heart-shaped face, tickling her cheeks and offering a heady grown-up sense of luxury she had never known before. Unconsciously, she leaned toward the giver of this magnificence, as the carriage taking them to the cathedral bumped its way over the cobbles.

  Just before they were to leave for the Cathedral, Blas had come to her room. In a tone far closer to gruff than kindly, he had announced, “I was going to give this to you tomorrow, but it would be foolish to wait when you could use it tonight.”

  When a dive into the large mound of silver paper revealed a cloak fit for a queen, Catarina reverted to the child she still was. Throwing her arms around Blas’s neck, she kissed him somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth before prancing about in front of the mirror, admiring the picture she presented in midnight blue velvet trimmed in chinchilla.

  Later, as they drove through the quietly festive streets of Lisbon, Cat wished she had remained dignified and grown-up, accepting the gift as a proper demonstration from a husband to his wife. With conscious dignity, she straightened her shoulders and moved away so they were no longer touching.

  Blas almost snatched her back. Devil it! The carriage was too intimate, too private. Arriving at Christmas Eve services in a state of full arousal was simply not done. Time for a distraction. “Yesterday I met with some Portuguese nobles who still hope England will send troops. I had to tell them what you already know. I don’t believe there’s a prayer of help unless Spain rises against France.”

  Cat sighed, resigning herself to the abrupt disruption of a rare private moment. “Is there news from Spain? Does King Charles still insist on trying poor Prince Ferdinand?”

  Blas swore softly, then begged Cat’s pardon. “The idiocy is almost beyond belief! The king accuses his son of treason while Boney licks his lips and waits to pounce. When the Grand Armée, a hundred thousand strong, marches into Madrid, the king will finally understand who the enemy is. I talked with my grandmother’s family on my way through Spain last summer. The sight of a sea of blue uniforms would be intolerable to the Spanish. They will turn on Boney and fight.”

  “Which Portugal did not,” Cat murmured.

  “Portugal is small and has been under British domination for too many years. It lacked the leadership necessary to stand and fight.”

  “Blas? . . . have you sent word to your relatives in Spain that you are now Don Alejo? What if the Major should make inquiries?”

  “I wish him luck then,” he retorted. “It took my messenger a month round trip but, yes, I did remember. Martineau will hear: ‘Ah, yes, Don Alexis . . . is he not the younger son of the brother of my aunt’s second cousin once removed? The one who went to Lisbon to seek his fortune?’“

  Cat’s giggle was interrupted by the jingle of harness, the thump of steps being let down. Blas bent his head close to hers. “I intended to ask you for instruction. I’ve never been to a Catholic service.”

  Catarina rounded on him. “You, the great spy, you think of everything but this! It is you who is supposed to be Catholic. There will be a hundred . . . a thousand soldiers present, and you don’t even know what to do!” Estúpido!” She caught her breath, gritted her teeth and added, “When we go into the pew, I will go first. You must kneel exactly as I do. For goodness sake, do not trip over me! It is to be hoped you will be considered one of the sinners who attends only when his conscience plagues him at Christmas and Easter. Well, come then, it is you who likes masquerades.”

  “I think,” Blas whispered in her ear as they descended from the carriage into the throng of lisboetas entering the vast cathedral, “that we are only a few years removed from being taken up by the Inquisition.”

  “Sh-sh-ush!” Cat hissed with vigor. Throwing back her hood, she adjusted a white shawl over her shining waves of burnished copper.

  Fortunately, they were among the last to arrive, so there would be very few rows behind them to witness their blunders. The Sé Cathedral, rumored to have once been a mosque, had seen so many additions to its architecture through the years that its medieval simplicity had long ago been obscured by every sort of architectural fantasy. Some of its pillars stood askew, a result of the great earthquake of 1755, but tonight, Christmas Eve, it was dressed in awe and majesty. The glow of thousands of candles was reflected in the intricate gold adornments of the chancel. The faces of the multitude turned toward the brilliant procession of clergy in robes of red and white satin enhanced with elaborate gold embroidery.

  As Blas breathed in incense from censers swung by angelic dark-eyed altar boys, he realized he was seeing pageantry very little different from Christmas Eve at home. Cat gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. He fell to his knees beside her feeling exceedingly foolish to have been sight-seeing like a gawking foreigner when his life depended upon being Don Alexis Perez de Leon.

  As he knelt, knees pressed hard against the low wooden bench, Blas glanced sideways at Cat, her face and shining hair completely covered by the shawl of purest white. And, suddenly, he was filled with a sense of inevitability. He had taken a wife and there was no going back. He and Catarina would be like this forever, side by side. Caught up in the beauty and sanctity of the service, he found he did not want to be anywhere else.

  He could not, of course, tell Cat how he felt. By British standards, she was too young, a child wearing her heart on her sleeve. She slept in a bed separated from his by an unlocked door. So Blas knelt at her side and knew that in the eyes of God they were married, and said nothing at all.

  He had told the coachman not to try to fight his way through the surging throng outside the church, so when the service was over, they threaded their way through narrow streets down to the harbor. Moonlight reflected off gentle waves on the broad expanse of the Tagus. Except for fishing boats, the great harbor of Lisbon was empty.

  “It’s so strange,” Cat breathed. “I knew the ships were gone . . . but I never thought how odd, how frightening it would look. I didn’t really feel abandoned until now.”

  “Ah, but think how many ships Boney didn’t get,” Blas reminded her. “He would have loved to replenish his lost fleet with the Portuguese Navy and maybe snatch a laggard British ship or two. So be glad they’re gone. Our ships at least will live to fight another day. And, Cat, I will protect you, you know.”

  She had been holding his hand since they left the cathedral, and now she squeezed it tight. “Yes, I know,” she whispered into the raw December night.

  The following morning Blas woke to the sound of silence. The usual morning bustle was gone. Only the faint tinkle of the fountain and the cooing of doves broke the morning stillness. Christmas Day. And Catarina had given nearly everyone the day off. The brawny sentinels were gone from the front door, which was bolted shut. A stout wooden board barred the carriage gates to the rear. He and Cat were shut inside this vast quadrangle with the cook’s assistant, the second footman, and two stableboys whose homes in the Ribatejo were too far to be reached in a day.

  Blas groaned. He should never have agreed to this isolation. He spread his body in a stretch of frustration—his toes hit something that should not have been there. Shocked fully awake, he shot up to a sitting position, banging his head against Thomas Audley’s elaborately carved mahogany headboard. A basic Anglo-Saxon expletive burst through the façade of Don Alexis de Peron.

  The something turned out to be nothing more than a wrapped package about the size of the one that had held Cat’s cloak. Blas closed his eyes, took a deep breath and looked again. Feeling exceedingly foolish over his alarm, he tore off the wrapping.

  He sat for a long time staring at the sleeveless brown leather jacket with its warm sheepskin lining and a multitude of clever pockets. How many nights had he needed it when he slipped out of t
he gaming rooms and roamed the winter streets and country byways, meeting people who seldom appeared in daylight. Though freezing temperatures seldom invaded the mild climate of Lisbon, the high plateaus and mountains, even in summer, could be bitterly cold. Don Alejo was well cloaked, but the Blas who roamed the night had been too busy to notice how cold he was. Until now, when he suddenly recognized there were times he had damn near frozen to death.

  He was half way across the floor to Cat’s room when he recalled there would be no maid or valet bringing morning coffee. No third person. No margin of safety. Blas paused on the balls of his bare feet, thoughtfully tightening the sash on his black velvet banyan. To hell with it! His Cat had given him a very special gift and deserved to be thanked.

  A mistake. She was still asleep, her golden-red hair tumbled about the lace-trimmed white pillowcase, the colorful quilted bedcover pulled up to her chin. She lay on her side, her soft youthful profile turned slightly away from him, a slight smile on her lips as if her dreams were full of joy.

  Blas swallowed hard and bent to kiss her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Cat.” Her eyes flew open. The look that suddenly blazed from them was so full of love that he bounded back off the bed, clutching the tall bedpost in panic. “I–I came to say thank you. For the jacket,” Blas stammered, horribly embarrassed she might notice his intense physical reaction to the intimacy of the moment.

  He swallowed, tried again. “It’s just what I’ve needed.” She was staring at him, breathing hard, obviously not quite sure why the tension was so strong between them. “And, Cat, I have your father’s Christmas gift here.” He fished in the pocket of his robe, and produced a small key. “He said now you are married, you would have need it. That you would know what it was.”

  Catarina seized the key with relief. Later she would puzzle out what had just happened, but for now her father’s gift was a welcome distraction. She turned the key over as if she had never seen it before, then raised her eyes to Blas. “He has given me mother’s jewels,” she explained. “The case is kept in the secret room under the study.” She stared at the key in some awe. “I did not expect to have this for many years.”

  “Then get dressed and let’s go on a treasure hunt,” said Blas briskly. “For jewels and breakfast as well.”

  She smiled at him so glowingly, so trustingly, that he cursed himself for nearly giving in to his baser instincts. They spent the rest of the day in peaceful pursuits, admiring Elspeth Audley’s surprisingly fine collection of jewels, catching up on the paperwork which kept Thomas Audley’s underground network running. They made what they hoped were safe plans for Mario Cardoso’s return, played a few desultory games of chess. Desultory because as nighttime approached, neither could keep their minds on the game.

  As the servants began to return and Blas was certain the two strong guards were once more standing guard in front of the house, he abruptly discontinued the chess game, informing Cat he had work to do. Swiftly, as if the devil were after him, he changed into the clothes of Blas the Bastard. Adding the brown leather jacket over his peasant attire, he stalked out through the small door set into the carriage gates.

  Catarina, who had aged a month for every one of the past twenty-four hours, was not insulted by his departure. She was actually grateful Blas had had sense enough to run. With this Christmas Day came knowledge. Awareness. What she’d felt when she waked to his kiss, when she saw him sitting there so large and beautiful and nearly naked, his face poised above hers, was an emotion far too overwhelming for a girl of fourteen. She was excited. And terrified.

  She was too young.

  But, whispered the voice of reason, that first time . . . was one ever old enough?

  Chapter Five

  Androche Junot, Marshal of France, owed his high office to his father. A wealthy Burgundian farmer, the elder Junot saw to his son’s education so well that at age twenty-two the young man’s ability to write earned him a post as Napoleon Bonaparte’s first aide-de-camp. The young Junot, who had an eye for the finer things of life, amply demonstrated this by his marriage to a woman of taste and intelligence and a lively interest in French politics. Now, after his quiet conquest of Lisbon, Marshal Junot chose as his residence the shell pink Queluz Palace, one of the finest and most livable palaces on the European continent.

  “Maravilloso!” Catarina gasped as her image—sometimes complete, sometimes fragmented into a hundred sparkling slivers of light—leaped at her from every angle. The swirling colorful costumes of the ball guests had turned the mirrored throne room of the Queluz Palace into a kaleidoscope of shimmering brilliance. Oddly angled portions of her white diamanté gown, half a pale face, a flash of upswept red-gold hair reflected back to her from one of the octagonal mirrored columns. Cat closed her eyes and clutched Blas’s arm more tightly, fixing her wide green eyes on the solid reassuring black of his jacket.

  “Just keep your eyes on the dancers,” he advised. “Remember what happened to Narcissus.” Cat wrinkled her nose at him before swirling about to drink in the marvels of her very first ball.

  Shortly after Christmas, Marshal Junot had deigned to visit the gaming rooms of the Casa Audley, where he immediately expressed his enchantment with la petite anglaise, whose presence did not seem to offend him in the least. He had, in fact, complimented Don Alexis on the fine bargain he had made and on his ability to recognize a good thing when he saw it. Catarina, not at all insulted by the Marshal’s words, was in alt when a card of invitation was delivered for a ball at the Palace. Since Major Martineau was still showing considerable interest in the residents of the Casa Audley, the patronage of a Marshal of France was a precious favor to be courted at all costs.

  Almost all.

  A costly new dress for Cat, eveningwear even more elegant than Don Alejo’s usual style, a fresh coat of paint for the Audley carriage, and the young couple set out with an impressive array of outriders to drive the nine miles northwest of Lisbon to the Queluz Palace. Once there, however, Blas discovered there was a limit to his accommodation. With no attempt to hide his scowling face, he guided Catarina out of the glare of the ballroom into a small ante-chamber.

  “Now,” he said sternly, “what did Junot say to you in the reception line?” Bloody hell, the man had bent his lips almost to Cat’s shell pink ear, whispering something no one else could hear.

  Cat carefully studied the diamanté trim on one silver kid slipper that peeped out from under her gown. “He is making sketches for an addition to the gardens.”

  “Sketches?” Blas’s dark brows rose to meet the black waves tumbling onto his forehead.

  “The gardens are famous,” Cat replied primly. “They were designed by a French sculptor nearly fifty years ago. Marshal Junot wishes to make another French contribution by expanding them.” She shrugged her small, bare shoulders. Men could be so difficult at times. “Truly, mi Alejo, that is all there is to it.”

  “He said all this to you in the reception line.” A lightning flash of Blas’s amber eyes accompanied his ominous tone.

  “Estúpido! Of course not. We talked of the gardens when he came to the Casa. Tonight he merely said he wished to meet me in his office at half after midnight so that he could show me the sketches.”

  Sketches, by God. Blas gulped back an urge to shout at his young bride. “You made an assignation with Junot!”

  “How could I say no?” A devastatingly simple reply to which he had no response.

  “My God, Cat.” Blas did a turn around the small room, hands raking through his already fashionably disheveled hair.

  “I thought you would be glad I would see his office,” she said in a small voice. “Perhaps I shall see something of importance.”

  “You will not even think of looking for something of importance, do you hear me?” Blas gave her a long considering look. Cat had never been more beautiful. There wasn’t a man in the world who would not be tempted. Lord, what were they to do? “You’ll have to go, I suppose,” he heard himself say. “How are you to
find the place?”

  “He will send an equerry for me,” Cat replied airily, clearly enjoying a bit of smug satisfaction at acquiring the admiration of the most powerful man in Portugal.

  Blas stared at her, torn between despair, fear, and what he had to admit was a nearly overwhelming attack of jealousy. “Cat, this is definitely not an occasion on which you are expected to give your all for your country. If the bastard so much as touches you, scream!”

  “And how many of those women out there have you bedded?” she retorted. “You can’t deny you and father get a good deal of information from other men’s wives!”

  Blas did another turn around the room. Otherwise he was quite sure he would strangle her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  She opened her eyes very wide.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “It’s true your father and I sometimes find women a convenient source of information, but under no circumstances are you to emulate us. Is that clear?” He felt like his own father, for God’s sake, lecturing on some long-forgotten youthful peccadillo.

  “If I were a virgin, I should know how to handle him,” Cat mused.

  “You are a virgin!”

  “But he does not think so,” she replied with inescapable logic.

  Blas groaned.

  “Excusez-moi.” A young French captain, shepherding an attractive partner, began to back out of the doorway.

  “No, please,” said Cat in the impeccable Parisian French taught to her by Thomas Audley, “we are just leaving. I have already missed far too many dances.” She sailed out of the room, leaving an angry and frustrated husband to follow in her wake.

  Later that night, after being ushered into Marshal Junot’s empty study a maze of rooms away from the ballroom, Cat’s attitude was not so jaunty. Blas was lost somewhere among a bevy of officers intent on discussing the intricacies of gaming, and now, having achieved her goal of taunting him with the Marshal’s attentions, she felt very much alone. Young and naive. Carefully averting her eyes from Junot’s tempting stack of papers, Cat folded her hands in her lap and waited. She was an Audley. She would not be afraid.