And there, miraculously, was Drew, bounding forward and knocking the fellow down as he tried to rise. This time he stayed down.
Cassandra didn’t stop to wonder how Drew could possibly have gotten here. Instead she chose the practical path.
“What did you hit him with?” she wondered. “From the door, I mean?”
“With my shoe,” said Drew grimly. “I pulled it off and managed to catch him in the back of the neck when I threw it.” He was putting his buckled shoe back on as he spoke. “What kind of madhouse do you live in with this prince, Cassandra?”
“I don’t live with this prince, Drew. It was all a charade to help . . . Oh, never mind. However did you find me?” “I looked up and saw you at the opera,” he said grimly. “At first I was going to leave Lisbon—then tonight I decided to let you tell me how this all happened. I saw your carriage careening around the corner, and then you jumped out and dashed in. When I saw this fellow lurking there and slipping in after you, I came running. ”
“Thank God you did!” Cassandra was still shaky.
“You’re getting out of here right now. ”
“Oh, I can’t. My things—”
‘“We'll send for your things. I’m not leaving you anyplace they’re trying to kill you!”
Drew was wonderful when he was being masterful, Cassandra thought dreamily. “Where are you taking me?” she asked as he led her outside and lifted her into the carriage.
“To my inn,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “And then on the first ship back to England.”
Cassandra leaned forward, smiling. “I don’t own this carriage. I just jumped into it after I struck Prince Damião in the face and left the Narváez reception.”
Drew gave her a look. “We’ll send it back from the inn, Cassandra. Is there anything else you might have forgotten to tell me?”
Yes. That 1 love you. But there d be plenty of time for that later . . . after they’d arrived at the inn! She reminded herself of Charlotte’s words: Men have always fought—and gotten hurt riding, and caught colds and fevers that killed them. She loved Drew and she knew she would go on loving him. And what could possibly happen to mar that now?
The innkeeper was astonished to see Prince Damião’s English mistress accompany her “betrothed” up the stairs to his room—but in his heart he was a romantic, so he chose to look the other way.
“Cassandra,” Drew said, when they were alone at last, “Livesay told me how you felt. ” He drew her into his arms. “I want you to know that I’d take my chances on dying just to keep you beside me forever.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid anymore,” she told him confidently. His arms tightened about her. “And whatever this prince has been to you,” he said hoarsely, “I want you to know that it doesn’t matter. I want you to be my wife. ”
“Oh, Drew, Prince Damião means nothing to me— nothing.” Between laughter and tears she told him about it, and somehow as she talked, her clothes were coming off, until finally, when the last of her story had been told, she found herself in bed with Drew and kissing him and feeling waves of tenderness and heartfelt passion sweeping over her. She who had never given herself to a man—who had indeed been afraid to—abandoned herself to joy and in Drew’s strong arms found the true meaning of being a woman.
And afterward, when their passions were spent, Drew stared down at her and murmured as if he could not believe it, “You were a virgin!”
“Yes.” She laughed and played with his ear, nibbled at it. “So now you know there wasn’t anything between me and Prince Damião!”
The assassin who had tried to kill Cassandra had long since gathered himself up off the floor and gone back with an aching head to tell Annette that he had failed this night.
“Fool!” she raged at him. “ Canaille! You could not even kill a slip of a girl!”
“I told you, a man appeared—I don’t know where he came from, but he struck me down.”
“Struck you down indeed!” Annette’s teeth grated together. “Well, you can forget her. I will take care of her myself—tomorrow. Oh, get out, get out!” She began to cry stormily.
The hired assassin slunk away feeling abused. He had, after all, done his best.
He might have counted his blessings, for he would have had short shrift if Leeds Birmingham had found him upon the marble floor of the pink palace. Leeds had gone directly to the Narváez mansion and had found his way barred by a servant. “I have strict orders not to let you in,” the man explained, frowning.
“I have a message for Prince Damião,” said Leeds grimly.
“I will be glad to deliver it, sir. ”
“That you will not. Ask the prince to come out.”
The servant gave him a doubtful look. “I don’t think he will come.”
“Tell him the message concerns Pereiras activities this night,” said Leeds grimly. “He will come!”
Mention of Pereira s name brought the prince out in record time. He stared at Leeds. “I thought the man said Pereira wanted to see me.”
“No, it is I who wanted to see you.” Leeds lounged forward smiling and leaned over, speaking confidentially into the prince s ear. “There is a knife in your ribs, Damião. And if you so much as blink an eyelash, it will be plunged in to the hilt. You will walk away with me in friendly fashion. You will call over your shoulder that you will be back soon.”
Pale and shaken, Prince Damião did as he was bidden.
“Where are we going?” he demanded when they were out of sight of the Narváez mansion.
“Be silent,” Leeds said tersely. “I have something to show you. ”
The prince balked at going inside the pink palace. “We can talk outside,” he said sullenly.
“What I have to show you is inside.” Leeds prodded him again with the knife.
Prince Damião went inside.
“Do you see that thin line of black powder, Damião?”
“I see blood upon the floor.” Prince Damião was beginning to sweat.
“Pereira’s blood.”
“Mae de Deus!” cried the prince. “Have you killed him?”
“Certainly not! I merely used a bit of persuasion to get him to explain your little plot and why you will need no guns tomorrow, only gunpowder!”
“He lies!” cried Damião.
Leeds laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “And how do you know that, Damião? You do not know what he said!” Of a sudden he struck the prince a hard blow on the side of the head that sent him sprawling to the floor. He stood over the fallen man, breathing hard. “I should kill you now,” he said, “for it has all come clear to me. You never meant to have an uprising, the men who met here were never to be part of an army—they were in a plot with you, true, but Pereira’s vaunted army was all a dream!” “No,” whispered the prince. “No! It is not true! Pereira will tell you that it is not true!”
There was a sound of hammering and a muffled shouting from the back of the house.
“Get up, ” said Leeds harshly. “We will let Pereira tell us himself!”
Prince Damião scrambled up and Leeds herded him along toward the kitchen pantry where Pereira was locked in. On their way they walked over the trail of black powder.
“We were to be your dupes, the English girl and I, Leeds said, giving Damião a cuff when he did not walk fast enough. “How did you plan to lure the royal family here, Damião, so you could blow them up?”
“1 didn’t plan it,” moaned Prince Damião, now in a state of blind panic. “It was Pereira’s idea, I swear it!”
“That is the simple way to become king, is it not? Who needs a rebellion when one has an assassin? Doubtless the king would have been told you were on your deathbed at the house of your English mistress. And it might have worked—they might have rushed here believing you were dying, and you would have killed them all. What manner of man are you who strikes in the dark?” He gave the unlucky prince another hard cuff.
“It will work, it is boun
d to work!” The prince was almost gibbering. “You have only to release me and say nothing. By tomorrow afternoon I will be king! I can give you anything then!”
“That is when you would give me my last gift—the gift of death.” Leeds’ short laugh was more of a growl. “Your plot was almost perfect, Damião. You put out the rumor that Cassandra was ambitious, that she wanted to be queen. Who would not believe that I helped her arrange it, I the tarnished adventurer? It would give me pleasure to hack you to pieces here and now with my sword!” He had already drawn it, and now he gestured to Damião with it. With his other hand he was unlocking the pantry door. “Stand well back, Pereira. Your prince is joining you!”
He flung open the door with force and flung Prince Damião through it, knocking down Pereira, who had surged forward as it opened. Even as they both rushed forward again, the door was slammed and locked.
“Let me out!” wailed Prince Damião. “I will do anything!”
“You have already proved that,” said Leeds dryly. “You are lucky that I give you your life. Eventually you will be discovered here. By then I will be far away. And I would suggest that neither of you try to light a candle—it is sure to blow you sky-high!” His mocking laughter rang out as he left.
Tom had asked no questions when he joined Charlotte in her black-and-gold coach outside the Varváez mansion. Instead he had scooped her up in his arms as if she might somehow escape him. It was Charlotte, lost in happiness, who asked the questions, snuggled against his coat.
“Tom, are you really Lord Derwent?” she asked him wonderingly.
“Yes.” His voice was a little muffled, for he had buried his face in her dark coiffure. “What is this, Charlotte, a wig?”
“Yes. And the new creaminess of my complexion I owe to vials and powders, for I was too pink and white to look Spanish! But underneath I am the same woman."
“My woman," he said confidently.
Charlotte looked up at that loved face and he knew a rush of exaltation. She was indeed his woman—she had always been, she would always be his woman. And whatever happened, no power on earth would separate them ever again! In her heart of hearts, she vowed it.
But suddenly she remembered Carlos, who did not deserve to be deserted. Oh, no, she could not leave him to die alone, not after all the years he had loved her. . . .
“How did you come by your title?" she asked, trying to cover up her confused thoughts.
“I did some small service for his majesty in Brazil," was Tom's careless answer. “ 'Twas no great matter to me, but it meant much to English trade. Perhaps," he said, laughing, “the Crown has chosen to remind me that I am English!"
“Then you live in Brazil now?"
“Aye." He did not choose to tell her that he was the richest man in Brazil, but it was so. Life had hardened him and he had taken many a long chance in South America, for diamonds were supposed to be a royal monopoly— and Tom had found diamonds there. But he had smuggled out the stones and sold them clandestinely in Amsterdam, where they had since been cut, and he had put his newfound fortune into land. Last year Sebastião da Severa had died and left his estate to Tom. Combined with his own land, that had made him Brazil s largest landowner. “I will take you home with me," he told her caressingly.
Home with Tom—it was a heady thought!
“My home estate had another name, but now that I have found you again I will rechristen it ‘World s End.’
Through the coach window the night and Lisbon were rushing by.
Charlotte closed her eyes.
“By the way," he asked conversationally, “where is this coach taking us?"
Charlotte roused herself. She had been afraid to take Tom to any of the well-known Lisbon inns—she was too conspicuous and he was too well-known. She did not want stories getting back to Carlos. Whatever Carlos was told, she would tell him herself—and she could not face that just now. All she could think of was that she would never let Tom leave her, never!
But as to where to instruct the driver to take them tonight, she had remembered suddenly that when she had asked Cassandra what she had planned to do should things go wrong, Cassandra had told her that Leeds had instructed her, in case of trouble, to meet him at a tiny ruined chapel just below the frowning Castelo de São Jorge—and if he did not come speedily, she was to put up at the tiny inn nearby in the medieval village that sheltered just below the mighty fortress. The inn was—perhaps mockingly, perhaps in admiration—also called the Castelo.
“To an out-of-the-way inn,” she said. “One where we will not be found.”
He sat straighter at that. “You have married again,” he guessed.
“Oh, Tom.” Charlotte’s voice held a note of wild entreaty. “Rowan kept me imprisoned for years, and when I escaped it was Carlos who saved me and took me to Spain. Yes, I did marry him—he gave me a whole new life, I would have died had it not been for him. Oh, Tom, please try to understand!”
Tom looked away. Charlotte was his only love, and it seemed to him that all his life other men had held her. His strong hands clenched but he managed to keep control of his voice.
“We will take what the gods give, Charlotte. How long do you have to spend with me?”
She wanted to say. All my life, Tom! Carlos had been feeling too ill to attend the Varváez reception and had insisted that she go on alone. He had told her not to disturb him when she came back and that he would let her sleep late, he would lunch with her after he had attended Mass, for tomorrow was All Hallows’ Day. She moistened her lips. “We have until ten o’clock tomorrow, Tom.”
“Then it is until ten o’clock, Charlotte.” There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “For I have no real hold on you.”
Oh, but you do, you do! “I never stopped loving you, Tom,” she said with a break in her voice. “Not for a single moment. ...”
And tomorrow, he told himself, 1 will find a way to take you with me no matter who stands in the way! He did not say that. Instead he said, “I have bought a place in England, Charlotte. It is the most beautiful house in the world—or so a girl once told me.”
Charlotte caught her breath. “You have bought Castle Stroud?” she asked unevenly. “Why did you do that?”
“Memories,” he told her, touching his hand to her cheek. “I remembered a girl who loved it, a girl I thought long dead, and I told myself if I could go there sometimes it would bring her closer to me. I could stare into the fire and imagine her beside me.”
Charlotte seized his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. Her eyes were luminous indeed as she looked up at the tall man beside her. “Tom,” she whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”
They had reached their destination now, and the driver (“I can trust him, Tom, he is devoted to me”) was pounding on the door of the small one-story building. The sleepy innkeeper finally opened it and their coachman arranged for a room.
In silence, with Charlotte’s black lace mantilla concealing her features, she and Tom went inside and found their tiny room, which overlooked the city, was surprisingly cozy. Reluctantly, common sense had returned.
Charlotte scarcely glanced at the room, revealed in the light of a single candle. She tossed aside her mantilla, removed her wig, and let her golden hair cascade down over her shoulders. Her voice was wistful.
“Life is a trap, Tom,” she said slowly. “Its jaws close down upon us, and before we realize it, the trap has sprung. I will not leave Carlos and I will not hurt him—no matter where my wayward heart would take me. We have only tonight. ...”
Tom’s gaze was wistful too. He had always thought of his beautiful Charlotte as pliant, swaying like a flower in the wind. He had never thought of her as made of steel.
“I will do nothing to endanger you,” he said hoarsely.
“So when the coach calls for me tomorrow morning, that will be the end of us, Tom.” Her voice was uneven.
“So be it.”
What happened then was inevitable. He blew out the candle and
they moved into each other’s arms as if they had never been apart. Tom’s lips traveled over hers like a song, like a prayer, and he held her as if she were the most valuable treasure a man could ever possess.
Charlotte melted against him in a torrent of emotion. A miracle had happened. Tom was back, he was snatched from the dead, he was hers again. . . . She was scarcely aware when he carried her to the bed. She felt her clothes leave her, felt his bare skin, and she was back again, young again, and outside was no foreign city but the silvery sheen of the Derwent Water and the snows of Cumberland. She had thought her body grown cold, for it had been more than two years since Carlos had been able to make love to her, but now abruptly every sense had come alive, awake and tingling beneath Tom’s gentle insistent caresses. Her whole being vibrated like a drum to the beat of his heart, to the rhythmic swaying of his hips as, like a drowning man seeking rescue, he plunged deep and tenderly within her. He had come back, he had come back, her world was right again.... Her senses sang and she quivered as his strong masculinity moved vibrantly within her, promising, promising. . . . Oh, let this never end, she found herself wishing as she felt her body pulsing to an age-old rhythm, creating a storm of desire that surged through her whole being, making her very senses swim.
“Tom,” she whispered brokenly. “Oh, Tom, how I have missed you. . . .”
And the world slipped away as the lovers gave—and received—endless delights.
For them the magic was still there, wreathing them, when Tom at last slipped away and they lay touching, fondly stroking each other’s naked bodies in the golden afterglow of passion
There were no words to express how they felt—and they needed none. Theirs was a silent communion of the heart, a depth of compassion and a yearning that would know no end.
They were made for each other, these two, and they knew it. And for the moment they had both pushed away the nagging truth—that this too would end.
They made love again. And then again.
At last, exhausted, they slipped into sleep, and slept until the sun was shining.
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