The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “Hush, my dear, it is not so bad as all that,” Blanca soothed.

  “It’s a fine color for you, Missus,” Bess Fielding assured her.

  “You could scarcely let these French laugh at you behind their dainty fingers because you are so gauche as to still wear the fashions of the Empire,” Blanca continued.

  “That is well enough for you to say,” Cat retorted. “All those yards of cloth do not look so . . . so huge in black.”

  “No matter what you wear, you will be the most beautiful woman in the room,” Blanca assured her. “And I doubt anyone in the royal family will have finer jewels,” she added as Bess Fielding fastened the last of the emerald and diamond parure around Cat’s wrist. “Our Blas is a man of taste. The set is truly magnificent. It’s high time you took it out of the case.”

  “The other women will wish to scratch out your eyes,” Bess asserted. “They’ll be as green as them jewels.”

  Cat sneaked another look in the pier glass. “You are both mad,” she declared. “I look like a green cow tarted up for some pagan procession.”

  “Catarina!”

  “Cow à la mode. C’est moi!”

  “You are beautiful!” Bess insisted, standing on tiptoe to adjust her mistress’s tiara.

  “And so are you,” said Cat, giving her maid’s hand a grateful squeeze. “I have dragged you far from home, and all I get are smiles and superb care. You are a treasure, Bess Fielding. If I have been difficult lately, please forgive me. And the same to you, my darling Blanca. How you have put up with my fits and starts, I cannot imagine.”

  “What is it, cara?” Blanca asked, made suddenly fearful by Cat’s tone. “You are about to make your debut in the new French society, not ride a tumbril to the guillotine.”

  “There is something I did not tell you,” Cat admitted. “Yesterday afternoon I received a note from Lord Wellington kindly informing me Harborough and his brother visited the Embassy and were given our direction.”

  “Catarina, how could you not tell me?” Blanca cried.

  “Perhaps because I did not care to witness your joy,” Cat with considerable irony.

  “But why has he not come?

  “That is precisely the problem. Alex is plotting something. “Can you not picture him striding into tonight’s soirée, throwing me over his shoulder and carting me off as he did in London? C’est affreux! Even if I wished it—which of course I do not—I would be mortified.”

  “And the good colonel will attempt to stop him . . . Ah, madre de deus!” Blanca wailed.

  “There’s not a hostess in Paris would turn away the Marquess of Harborough,” Cat added glumly. Her stomach churned, she was terrified. Excited. She would not miss the coming encounter for a gift of the world itself.

  A brisk rap on the sitting room door was followed by the appearance of Monsieur François. “Mesdames, Colonel Beaufort waits.”

  “Poor Auguste. I am a trial to him,” said Cat. “En avant, m’amie. It will be an evening of some interest, I believe.”

  Auguste Beaufort found no fault with Cat’s gown, his eyes lighting with pleasure as she descended the stairs. Graciously, he complimented both ladies and helped them don the cloaks which would protect their bare shoulders and semi-exposed bosoms from the damp night air.

  In spite of the colonel’s warnings, Cat was not prepared for the Beaufort coach to look like part of an army column about to venture into enemy territory. In addition to a guard sitting up with coachman, his shotgun gleaming in the light of the carriage lanterns, there were two outriders, each armed with sword and pistols, with a musket slung across each saddle. Altogether, they made a formidable cavalcade. Cat had not seen so much armament for a social engagement since the night Alex had taken her to Marshal Junot’s ball at the Queluz palace. She shivered, pulling her silk cloak more tightly around her. “Is it far?” she asked the colonel who was seated across from her.

  “Nearly an hour if we go around the woods,” said Beaufort casually, “so I have decided to drive through them. That way, a quarter of an hour only.” A quarter of an hour until she was lost to him forever. It was, perhaps, possible to be too noble. Who, after all, expected noblesse oblige from one of Napoleon’s middle-class upstarts?

  As they left the dark street and turned into the Bois de Boulogne, even the moonlight was obscured by the newly leafed trees which formed a canopy overhead. In the jouncing glow of the four carriage lanterns, shadows flickered across the interior of the carriage, twisting, turning, slithering away, only to rear up as giant black shapes to begin their nightmare dance once again. Another bout of shivers raised the fine hairs on Cat’s arms. “Perhaps I should have hidden my jewels until we arrived,” she murmured.

  “Ne fâche pas, Catherine,” returned Auguste with a smile. “I promise you all will be well.” After all, how could plans laid by a guerrilla warfare expert and a colonel of chasseurs go astray? Briefly, he clasped one of her hands in a reassuring grip. This was goodbye. For her sake he must be happy, but he would miss her. Oh, yes, he would miss her.

  The last winking lights from the great houses along the Bois disappeared. The darkness closed in around them like a glove of black velvet. Even the dancing shadows seemed to grow quieter, as if waiting . . .

  Nervously, Cat fingered the bracelet which was fastened over her elbow length white gloves, every instinct tuned to the tension hovering around her. The pounding of her heart drowned the crunch of the wheels, the steady rhythm of hoofbeats. She bit her lip. Alex was near. She knew it. If not now, then in an hour. But tonight. Surely tonight.

  Beside Cat, Blanca had taken a rosary from her reticule and was telling the beads, murmuring softly in Latin. Outside, the sounds changed so rapidly there was no time at all to react. The shadows erupted into a grotesque jig. Shouts. Shots. A strangled cry followed by the thud of a body hitting the roadway.

  After a fatal moment of uncharacteristic hesitation, Auguste Beaufort—incredulity suffusing his face—lunged for the pistol which was holstered on the inner wall of the carriage. He was a moment too late. The coach doors were wrenched open on either side, a pistol cocked within an inch of his ear. “Hand over the gun, colonel,” a voice growled from behind a face obscured by a ragged black scarf, “or my friend will make sure the lady never gets to her party at all.”

  A glance from the corner of his eye revealed a second highwayman, similarly masked, pointing an unwavering pistol at Cat’s heart. Both men wore the ragged, faded remnants of uniforms of the French heavy cavalry. Something had gone very wrong indeed. After he agreed to cooperate in Harborough’s plan to kidnap his wife, Beaufort had given his men meticulous instructions. Only token resistance to attackers. Any shots fired must be sure to miss. His men had obeyed him to the letter. And because of it, they all might die. Beaufort had been sitting back in his seat, confident of the Englishman’s ability to carry out their little plan. Only when one of his men had taken a bullet and plunged off the box had the colonel realized these bandits were all too real.

  Beaufort studied the darkness beyond each of the open carriage doors. The bandits seemed to number at least four, one at each door, two others holding pistols on the bewildered coachman and outriders, who still thought they were part of a carefully staged performance. Resistance was out of the question. Slowly, Auguste lowered his pistol, handed it to the man who seemed to be the leader.

  Jacques Pelletier was a burly man, an ex-sergeant of heavy cavalry who, having survived the retreat from Moscow, vowed never to be cold or hungry again. He had gathered around him a group of similarly bitter ex-soldiers whose greed had been sharpened by orgies of looting on the battlefield. In fifteen years of fighting he had looted as many dead and dying French soldiers as English. To Jacques Pelletier, the wealthy and privileged Auguste Beaufort was as bad as the aristos who had gone before. Vive Madame Guillotine.

  Pelletier, his actions well covered by the highwayman at the opposite door, tore Cat’s cloak aside. “Merde!” he hissed in reverent
tones as he saw the elaborate necklace of diamonds and emeralds sparkling above the fullness of her breasts. When his hand grabbed at her décolletage, Cat hastily unclasped the necklace and handed it to him. Pelletier was so absorbed in the rise of her breasts as her hands reached up behind her neck that his hand dropped away. His eyes gleamed in the dim lantern light like a greedy beast of prey.

  As Cat began to unfasten her earrings, Pelletier, annoyed with himself, ripped at her hair, quickly adding the tiara to the loot in the sabretache slung over his shoulder. The other highwayman was busy relieving Colonel Beaufort of his money and Blanca of her more modest jewelry. When Cat’s unsteady fingers had trouble with the clasp of her bracelet, Pelletier swore and yanked it from her arm. Chin jutting up in anger, she glared at the man hidden behind the black scarf.

  Dazzled by the magnificence of the jewels and the swell of her breasts which rose halfway out of her low neckline, Jacques Pelletier had not taken a full look at his victim until now. What he saw was almost as exciting as the jewels. He was not a stupid man. He had deliberately targeted the Beaufort carriage, knowing the wealth of the family. Robbery was his sole intention, but no man alive would fail to pay ransom for this little beauty, and Beaufort had far more francs than most. Meanwhile . . . the girl would provide most excellent sport.

  With no warning, Pelletier clubbed the colonel on the side of head with the butt of his pistol. Cat cried out, reaching toward Beaufort as he slumped to one side, unconscious. Thoroughly satisfied with his brilliant alteration of their plans, the highwayman chortled deep in his throat. “Allons, ma belle!” He jammed his pistol in a pocket, reached out to grab her.

  Cat’s anger had remained cold and clear-headed while she stripped off her jewels, but the sudden inexplicable blow to Auguste, the trickle of blood down his pale cheek, ignited her fury. Balancing herself with the carriage’s hand strap, she surged forward, the toe of her slipper hitting its mark, just as Thomas had taught her. Although the emerald silk slipper was too soft and pliable to do incapacitating damage, the highwayman howled with rage, lost his balance, and fell backward out the coach door. Rage triumphed over his agony. As he fell, one powerful hand clamped over Cat’s arm, taking her with him in a tangle of tall leather boots, green silk skirts, and tumbling copper hair.

  Lost in a haze of outrage, Cat beat at the bandit’s rock-hard body with her fists, dug a furrow down his cheek with her nails. Pelletier’s breath came back with a roar. With his back to the ground, his fist propelled upward, clipping her neatly on the chin.

  Damned vixen! Jacques Pelletier scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off and looked down with no small satisfaction at the bundle of emerald silk crumpled at his feet. Thirty seconds later he was mounted, eyeing the small figure in the dirt with cold-minded consideration. The jewels alone would provide a life of luxury for years to come. Then again . . . the famille Beaufort had a bankful of money. And the notorious widow was the surely most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Spirited too. A real handful. Armful. Bedful.

  Pelletier gestured to one of his men. “Hand her up.” She was small and pliant and warm, lolling unconscious on the saddle in front of him. The ex-sergeant felt himself grow hard. His voice husky with desire, he gave the command to move out. “En avant!” A good night’s work, this. With the best still to come.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jacques Pelletier could have snapped Cat’s neck with one blow. He did not. Furious as he was at her defiance, he had pulled his punch, not wishing to damage his prize. Only a few minutes passed before Cat stirred to life. The jouncing of the galloping horse sent shooting pains through her head. Nausea gripped her stomach.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she gasped.

  After a particularly foul epithet, Pelletier shoved Cat’s head roughly to one side so she hung out over the horse’s withers. “Be sick on my boots and I’ll throw you in the lake,” he growled. “In that gown you’ll go down like a stone.”

  Cat gagged, willing the contents of her stomach to stay in place. The world around her was a swirling black void. There was only pain, the bandit’s arm hard about her waist, the ground rushing by beneath them. She had no thought beyond a determination to survive. Cat gritted her teeth, grabbed at the saddle and hauled herself upright. They were galloping through the deepest part of the woods, the road a barely visible opening winding through the impenetrable black of the forest. Heavy branches hung only a few feet above their heads. Cat gulped in the cool night air, trying to steady her mind as well as her stomach. If they got out of the woods before Auguste recovered, they would simply disappear into the vastness of the city.

  Cat shuddered. Only now was she willing to admit there were worse things in the world than a husband’s deceit.

  She would survive. No matter what happened, she would remember Blas’s words of long ago. Honor be hanged, she would survive. And if Blas—Alex—still wanted her . . .

  “Head down, Cat. Hang on!” a voice shouted in Portuguese.

  She never hesitated. Cat threw herself onto the horse’s neck, clinging to the mane for dear life.

  A dark shape launched itself from a branch overhead, flying over Cat’s prone figure to cannon into Jacques Pelletier. Both men flew over the horse’s flank and hit the road with a vicious thud.

  “To me, Cat!” ordered another well-known voice. As Tony pulled his horse alongside, Cat went into his outstretched arms with all the panache of a stuntrider at Astley’s Amphitheatre. It had to be Tony, she knew, because Alex would never let someone else fight this particular battle. As usual, she was to be left in his brother’s keeping. But somehow the thought was no longer bitter.

  Alex, who had been aching for a fight—with anyone, over anything—finished off the burly ex-sergeant in remarkably short order. When Pelletier found himself flat on his back with a knife at his throat, he went very still, not hesitating to beg for his life.

  “Are you all right?” Alex tossed over his shoulder to Cat.

  “Only a little damaged. But he has my jewels in his sabretache.”

  “Only a little damaged,” Alex repeated as he gazed down at the highwayman. “Then perhaps I shall do only a little damage in return.” Slowly, steadily, he drew the tip of the knife down Pelletier’s cheek, blood springing darkly from the wound. The highwayman was silent, jaws clenched, wondering only where the knife would stop.

  “Perhaps I should geld you,” said Alex thoughtfully. “I have no doubt, you see, about your plans for my wife.” With his left hand he reached for the buttons below Pelletier’s belt. The knife tip pointed downward.

  “I barely touched her,” Pelletier babbled. “Ransom, that’s all I wanted. Ransom.”

  Alex smiled. The kind of smile the devil undoubtedly used to welcome his guests to hell. “You forget. She’s my wife. And I know that’s not all you wanted.”

  For a moment there was complete silence, not so much as the whickering of a horse or the hoot of an owl broke the stillness. Alex unfastened one of the buttons. “Beaufort,” he called, “how is your guard?”

  “He will live.”

  Alex eyed the next button with considerable anticipation, drawing out the moment. Then, with a look of infinite regret, he sheathed his knife and stood up, motioning for Pelletier to do the same. The highwayman rose with great caution. Two of the ring of menacing figures around him carried torches. The bandit could clearly see he was outgunned and outmanned. Pelletier dug into his sabretache and produced the jewelry, ordering his men to do likewise.

  “Beaufort,” Alex called, “what shall we do with them?”

  For a moment Cat took her eyes off Alex and looked around. She had been vaguely aware of the sound of shots and curses. Now it was apparent the bandits had had the tables turned on them by an ambush of six or seven very competent-looking men. Alex’s men. And just what was he doing in the Bois de Boulogne with a well-armed private army?

  “They are swine,” Colonel Beaufort declared, “a disgrace, but they wear the uniform of the Emp
eror. It is not easy for soldiers to come home to find their country occupied by foreign armies. Believe me, this I know.”

  “I fear ‘Go and sin no more,’ is entirely inappropriate for such as these,” said Alex dryly, but I’ve seen enough killing to last me a lifetime. And, strangely enough”—he gave his wife a long look—”these canailles may have done me a favor. Allez. Allez-vous-en! Go on, get out of here.”

  Startled, the four bandits hesitated, then scrambled for their horses. When Jacques Pelletier was mounted, he looked down at Alex and sketched a salute. He wheeled his horse and disappeared into the darkness after his men.

  The colonel’s coach came rattling up the road, and Blanca burst from the door. Never before had Cat she seen Blanca run. “Catarina, are you all right?” Blanca panted. “Oh, my child, I was terrified for you. Tomás would have haunted me, I know it, if I let anything happen to you.” Gently, Tony lowered Cat to the ground. The two women hugged each other, murmuring incoherent reassurances.

  Alex swung up onto a horse one of his men had been holding. “It’s time for goodbyes, my friends.” He turned to Blanca, bent down to kiss her hand. “As always, my greatest admiration and my thanks for keeping watch over my wife. Tony will take care of all arrangements to see you and the maid safely back to England. I would send you straight to Portugal,” he added with the tilt of a bushy black brow, “but I know you would not wish to miss the wedding.”

  Ignoring the sharp gasps from both women, Alex nodded to the man who had brought his horse. Cat suddenly flew through the air straight into the saddle in front of him. The evening had finally come right. But when Blas tightened his arm around Cat’s waist, he found a stiff, unyielding bundle.