by Mary Balogh
“You wish me to the devil,” she said to him, “so that you could ride without delay to rejoin your precious regiment, Captain. Though I do not believe that is to be your destination, is it?”
But he was not to be drawn on that point, she discovered approvingly. No man who was an experienced spy should fall into the type of trap she was trying to set for him.
She liked the sensation of riding up before his saddle, his powerfully muscled thighs on either side of her, his arms circling her loosely as he held to the reins. But her attention was not all on the man with whom she rode. She looked all about her, and she carried on a bright conversation with Jack Hanbridge, since Captain Blake was nothing of a conversationalist.
“Oh,” she said when they were high among the crags of the Montachique Pass and she could see downward, “the orange groves are all black.” She had come to Lisbon by the Mafra road the week before.
“A fire, I believe,” Major Hanbridge said.
“But in more than one orchard, Jack?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said. “An arsonist, I gather.”
“How strange,” she said, and she began to look about her with renewed interest. The stony crags of the pass were wild and peaked. And yet a few of them had the appearance of an almost manmade smoothness, particularly those that descended to the road. And some looked almost as if they had been leveled off on top.
“One might stand at the top and throw stones down on poor travelers,” she said with a laugh, “without any fear of being caught. The rocks next to the road are sheer.”
“And so they are,” Major Hanbridge said. “Nature’s peculiarity, Joana. But you need not fear. I have not heard of brigands in this area. We should increase our pace, perhaps, Bob. Storms have a habit of hitting the pass unexpectedly.”
Joana laughed. “There is not a cloud in the sky, Jack.”
But Captain Blake obediently nudged his horse to a slightly faster pace. He too had been having a good look about him. And she looked up into his face to find him regarding Jack Hanbridge from narrowed and shrewd eyes.
“We will stop at the next convenient spot, sir,” he said, “so that the marquesa can resume her place in her carriage.”
Joana said nothing. She had a little skill of her own at observing carefully. She could recognize peculiarities at a glance. More important, she could detect atmosphere with some ease. Jack wanted them through the pass without further delay, and Captain Blake had picked up the message just as she had, and was immediately obedient to a superior officer. She glanced down once more at the blackened orange groves and over her shoulder at the smooth, sheer sides of rock. And she felt an inward shiver. Of fear? Of excitement? She was not certain which.
Joana traveled the rest of the way to Torres Vedras in her carriage. And there Major Hanbridge took his leave of her, and Captain Blake took himself off to an inn after seeing her safely to the house of her friends.
She spent a pleasant evening there, though they had mainly only worries to talk about. The old Moorish castle and the chapel of Saint Vincent, standing on the twin towers of hills that had given the town its name, were being fortified by gangs of peasants, as were other towns round about. But how could fortifying an old castle and a monastery hold back the might of the French armies from Lisbon if the British and Portuguese forces could not do it? It would be all over before the summer was out. The French would be back in Lisbon and the English would be drowning at sea. And pity help the Portuguese who lay in the path of the French armies coming from Salamanca to Lisbon.
It was all very depressing. Joana was in the habit of trusting Viscount Wellington, as she told her friends. But there was, of course, only so much one man could do.
But she thought privately of the arsonist and his blackened groves and of the strangely sheer sides of the normally craggy rocks beside the road through the Montachique Pass. And she thought of Major Hanbridge being fearful of a storm on a perfectly clear day, and of the strange fact that he—an engineering officer—had business in Torres Vedras. And she thought of the penetrating look Captain Blake had leveled on him.
Perhaps there was something, she thought. Perhaps the situation was not after all as hopeless as it seemed. But she kept her counsel. Like Captain Blake, she too could refuse to be drawn when it seemed perhaps wiser to remain silent.
* * *
They reached Obidos the following day. They could possibly have traveled farther, but the marquesa had a villa there. Besides, Captain Blake thought, she was probably tired after two days of travel, though to give her her due, she had not complained and had always succeeded in looking fresh—and lovely, of course— whenever he had handed her out of the carriage, and even after that rather dusty ride over the pass. And she had always had a smile for him. And the white of her clothes had remained unsullied by dirt or the incidental smudges of travel.
The medieval town of Obidos rose majestically above the surrounding vineyards, its rust-colored walls topped by the many-colored roofs of its white houses and by the square castle. Captain Blake had not seen the town before. It was sad to think what fate would befall it if the French indeed succeeded in pressing this far into Portugal. And yet the signs that the people—and perhaps more than just the people, too, if he had interpreted correctly the appearance of the Montachique Pass and Hanbridge’s agitation as they rode through it—were preparing to defend it, which had been so evident between Lisbon and Torres Vedras the day before, were absent here. The town basked sleepily in the late-afternoon sun, as if its inhabitants had never heard of war, as if its castle had been built only to look picturesque.
The streets of the town were narrow and steep and winding. The marquesa’s carriage moved slowly until it turned sharply to pass through the arched doorway into the courtyard of a cheerful white villa that fronted on the street. Captain Blake followed it through, ducking his head beneath the arch, which was not, after all, as low as it looked. He dismounted and waited to help the lady from her carriage.
“Captain,” she said, setting a white-gloved hand in his as he helped her to descend. She looked as fresh and cheerful as she had when they had left Torres Vedras that morning. “Welcome to Obidos. You must stay here tonight.”
He cringed from the thought. He would never be comfortable in what was obviously an opulently appointed villa. And never comfortable under the same roof as the marquesa.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, moving to one side as the coachman handed her companion from the carriage and she bustled inside the house, “but it would not be fitting. I shall find an inn.”
“And spend half the night fighting off fleas and other vermin?” she said with a shrug. “But the choice is yours. Come to dinner at least. You really must. I have only Matilda to dine with otherwise, and we said all that was to be said to each other long years ago. You must come and entertain us with your conversation, Captain.” Her eyes mocked him in an expression he was becoming familiar with.
And she had him at a disadvantage again, he realized. Almost any gentleman of his acquaintance doubtless had a whole arsenal of excuses that might be dipped into on such an occasion. He had no wish to dine with the marquesa and her silent, disapproving companion. And of course he had no conversation to share with them. She knew that very well. And he did not doubt that that was the very reason why she had invited him. She seemed to delight in setting him up to look like a big dumb ox. But he could think of not a single excuse.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded curtly and turned away to his horse. But a thought struck him, and he turned back again. “May I escort you to the house?”
She smiled slowly. She loved to observe his not knowing what was quite good etiquette. “I believe I can walk alone between here and the house without being set upon by brigands or worse, Captain,” she said. “Until later, then. Come early. Come in one hour’s time. Not a moment later. I hate to be kept waiting.”
He bowed awkwardly and turned away. And felt her eyes on him as he mounted and guided his horse across the courtyard and through the doorway out onto the steep, narrow street.
Joana watched him go and smiled to herself. Any other man she knew would have taken advantage of every possible opportunity that had presented itself during the past two days. He would have ridden in the carriage and tied his horse behind, or at least ridden alongside the carriage and encouraged her to drive with the window down. He would have taken her up before him on his horse more times than the one that had been forced upon him. He would have tried to wangle an invitation from her friends at Torres Vedras. He would have leapt at the chance to stay here at her villa tonight. He would not have looked as if he were drowning in quicksand when she had invited him to dinner.
But Captain Blake was not any other man, unfortunately. Oh, and fortunately too, she thought, her smile growing more amused. She might have saved herself the trouble of coming all the way from Viseu and of returning with his escort, for all she had accomplished so far. Was there a more silent or a more morose man—or a more attractive one—in existence? She was going to have to do something very positive and very fast if the worth of this tedious trip was to be salvaged. She walked purposefully toward the house.
“Matilda,” she called to her companion, who was fussing over their bags in the hall, “leave that to the servants. You are banished. Totally and completely. I have not forgotten, you see, that you have a sister in Obidos and that you see far too little of her. You are to take yourself off to visit her now—without delay at all—and you are not to reappear before dawn tomorrow, at which time I have no doubt Captain Blake will be riding into the courtyard chafing at the bit ready to leave.”
Matilda argued. Her ladyship would need to have hot water ordered for a bath, and refreshments brought up. And it would be unseemly for her to spend the evening alone in the house, with only the servants for company. Besides . . .
“Besides nothing,” Joana said, waving a dismissive hand. “I shall have my bath and refreshments whether you are here or not, Matilda. And I would be a very dull companion for you this evening, since I am weary and intend to retire early with a book. So there. Go. Now.” She smiled her most charming smile and felt only a twinge of guilt when Matilda showered her with gratitude and went. After all, she was no girl to be needing chaperones wherever she went.
Even though, she thought as she made her way to her room and the bath she longed for, she had never entertained a man alone before. Except for Luis, of course, but that did not count. She had always considered that there was safety in numbers. The trouble with Captain Blake was that if there were anyone else present but her and him, he would be likely to fade away into the furniture. He would not be able to do that with her alone. She would not allow it.
She smiled at the prospect. And felt a little breathless with apprehension. She was not at all sure that the captain could be counted upon to behave predictably in a given situation. But then, maybe she did not wish him to do so.
* * *
There was no sign of either dinner or her chaperone when he returned to the villa a little more than an hour after taking his leave of her. Only the marquesa, clad inevitably in white, her dress softly flowing, her pelisse embroidered with silver thread, a bonnet swinging from one hand: She was in the low hall of the villa, looking at a painting. She smiled at him.
“Ah, Captain,” she said, “you are late. Deliberately so? It is too early for dinner and the weather is too fine to be missed and Obidos is too pretty a town not to be viewed. You are to take me walking, if you please.”
“Where is your companion?” he asked.
“Probably talking nonstop with her sister, a niece or a nephew on each knee,” she said. “I do not know. I am not her keeper. And don’t scowl at me, Captain, as if I were a naughty schoolgirl about to escape from her chaperone. I will be safe with you, will I not? Arthur recommended you.”
He stiffened. “You will be safe with me, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh, bother.” She laughed lightly. “Shall we go? I shall take you up onto the town walls. There is a lookout path extending right around them. And flights of steep stone steps leading up to it. I hope you have recovered sufficiently from your wounds not to get too breathless.”
She had set out to charm him. That was very clear to him. She smiled at him and chattered to him and clung to his arm as they walked. For reasons of her own she was trying to make him her latest conquest. Perhaps it was necessary to the woman to make every man her slave. He looked about him and tried to ignore his awareness of the small, delicately perfumed female at his side. And he wished he had brought Beatriz with him. She had wanted to come, to follow the army about as so many women did. He had said no because he was Captain Blake, not Private Blake. But he wished now he had said yes.
The lookout path provided them with a magnificent view down into the town and out across the surrounding countryside.
She unlinked her arm from his and leaned her arms along the outer wall and gazed outward. She looked as delicate as a girl, he thought—that girl who had thrown her arms wide at the top of the ruined castle on his father’s land and turned her face to the wind. But when she turned her head to look at him now, he was reminded afresh that she was now a woman, with all a woman’s allure.
“Did you know,” she said, “that centuries and centuries ago, when Dom Dinis was passing through here with his young bride and she admired these ramparts twining like ribbon about the white houses inside, he made her a present of the town? And from that time on Obidos was always the wedding present given to Portuguese queens? Did you know that?” She laughed. “And do you feel enriched by the knowledge?”
“History is always interesting,” he said, watching the breeze blow the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Do you not think it a wonderfully romantic story?” she asked. “Would you give such a present to the woman you loved, Captain?”
“On a captain’s pay,” he said, “I could not give anything so lavish.”
“Ah,” she said, “but would you want to? What would you give the woman you loved?”
She was still looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes sweeping over him in a manner that was clearly meant to make him uncomfortable, and was succeeding. He took a few steps forward and stood beside her at the wall. He gazed out at the lowering sun.
“A length of real ribbon perhaps,” he said.
She laughed softly. “Only ribbon?” she said. “It must be that you do not love her enough.”
“The ribbon would be beneath her chin when she wore her bonnet, and tied in a bow beneath her ear,” he said. “A part of me would be that close to her.” He had not thought of love for a long time.
“Oh, well done,” she said. “You have exonerated yourself.”
“Or a star perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps a whole cluster of stars. They are free and bright and would always be there for her.”
“She is a fortunate woman,” she said, looking sideways up into his face. “Is she Beatriz?”
He looked down at her, startled.
“I told you that I like to know something about the men who are my servants or escorts,” she said. “Do you love her?”
“She is—or was—my mistress,” he said stiffly.
“Ah.” She laughed softly and they fell silent, watching the lagoon—the Lagoa de Obidos—below them and the ocean in the distance. And the growingly lovely sunset beyond.
It was a setting most men would kill to have alone with her, Joana thought with a wry smile. And yet she was not sorry that she did not have to share it with a man who would have ruined it with courtly speeches and abject worship. And certainly Captain Blake could not be accused of abjectly worshiping her. She turned her head and looked up at him. His features were sharpened by the light of the sinking sun. He looked almost relaxed.
And she fe
lt a sudden sharp stab of nostalgia and reached about in her mind for its source. A tower. Ramparts. Wind and sun. A dreamy, gentle, handsome boy whom she had kissed when she came down off the tower.
Robert.
And yet the walls of Obidos were nothing like that old castle at Haddington Hall, and Captain Blake was nothing like Robert, except that they shared a given name and except that they had the same hair and eye coloring. And an indefinable something that escaped her conscious mind. Would Robert—her Robert—have resembled him in any other way had he lived? Would Robert have grown as broad and muscular? And would his face have grown as tough and disciplined? Would he have become a military hero? She was sure the answer to all those questions was no. Robert had dreaded being bought a commission. He had thought it would be impossible to kill.
Perhaps, she thought, it was as well that he had died. And yet for a moment she felt a surging of the old grief— for the first and only man she had loved, for the young girl she had been, with her belief in the happily-ever-after. For a long-ago dream.
She was staring at Captain Blake. She realized the fact only when he turned his head and looked steadily back at her. Their elbows were nearly touching on the wall. She could nearly feel the heat from his.
“Do you not love a sunset, Captain?” she asked him. “Perhaps it is another gift you can give your lady.”
“I think not,” he said, not moving his eyes from her. “The beauty of a sunset is deceptive. It is followed by the dark. A sunrise, perhaps. I would give her the sunrise and what is beyond the sunrise. Light and warmth and life. And love.”