The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  They continued their walk in seething silence. When they reached the deep archway of the massive carriage entrance to the Casa Audley, Blas paused outside the small door into the courtyard. Suddenly, he swung Catarina around, her back hard against the brick wall of the house. He swept the shawl from her head, tossed the basket onto the ground. His hands hit the wall, one on either side of her head. “You and Thomas are both fools!” he growled. “The French will gobble you up like so much froth on their just desserts.”

  Blas’s eyes roamed boldly from the shining crown of Cat’s hair, which even the faint light under the archway could not dim, to the creamy expanse above her décolletage. Then back to rosy lips which noticeably trembled. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Ah, my lovely Cat, if only you were older . . .”

  “I will be,” she vowed, thinking each pulsing breath might be her last. Her heart threatened to explode through her skin. The chill night air did nothing to alleviate the heat consuming her.

  “God knows I’ve tried to think of you as a child,” Blas ground out, “but you make it excessively difficult. Yet I have to admit you are right. You’ll grow . . . and then we shall see.” He straightened, with every intention of removing the hands pinning her to the wall. Then slowly, he sagged back toward her, his face bending to within inches of her own. “Perhaps something to remember me by,” Blas breathed. He meant the kiss to be chaste, brotherly.

  It was not.

  Catarina was far too beautiful to have escaped the experience of snatched kisses, and tonight she was a more than willing partner. But Blas’s kiss was far from the innocent flirtatious nonsense with which she was familiar. His lips touched hers with the lightness of butterfly wings, a gentle brushing against the soft warmth of her, and Cat was quite, quite certain he was the one and only love of her life. This was Blas, and he was hers. Forever. A surge of terrifying sensation kept her frozen to the wall, unable to move, unable to think. A butterfly on the end of a pin.

  A momentary taste of innocence and beauty. That was all, absolutely all, he planned to take. Blas drew back, reached for the basket . . . And then his lips were on hers, tasting the cheap red wine, its sourness banished by the sweet taste of her, the lemon scent of her hair. He explored Cat’s mouth at leisure, hands moving to cup her body tight against his. His kisses strayed to her cheek, her ear, his breath gently blowing, penetrating as if into her soul itself. He bent his lips to her neck, to the cleavage between breasts not yet ripened to full womanhood. When Cat could not stifle a sharp gasp at this intimate invasion, Blas promptly returned to her mouth, kissing it into silence.

  Hell and damnation! With all the willing women in the world, what was he doing here in the dark with a child? An English child. His employer’s child. A child who had shaken him to the core, stripping him of reason. Very likely his heart as well. He had celebrated his twenty-first birthday that summer, having carefully contrived to be in Paris for the occasion. He had no intention of marrying before thirty or thirty-five, so—hell and the devil confound it!—what was he doing in a dark alleyway with an English child of good family?

  If Thomas found out, he’d kill him.

  Abruptly, Blas pulled the shawl up around Cat’s shoulders, drawing it tight across her bosom. He thrust the basket into her hands, marched her through the small door, across the courtyard and up the gallery stairs to the door outside her room. “I’ll think of something, Cat, I promise,” he vowed before striding off into the shadows of the cloistered walkway.

  Think of something? Cat’s confusion was so great it took her some minutes to realize he was talking about the expected French invasion. It was another invasion entirely that occupied her mind. Surely it was a very great sin to feel so strongly. Graças a Deus the British rector did not hear confessions. Her guilt dissolved into a giggle as she pictured the reaction of stiffly proper Mr. Perceval Greenlea if she should tell him the tale of this night with Blas.

  But it was of course not funny at all, for now she knew why chaperones were required for young ladies. She had always had confidence in herself. She was a fidalga, the daughter of a good family. She was intelligent, attractive, and much admired. She held her head high. Now she knew her feet were made of the same clay as anyone else’s. Sin could be delicious, but sin it was. There could be no more flirtation, no more teasing. It was far too dangerous. As Cat undressed, slowly, dreamily, in a room lit only by moonlight, she willingly gave up the last of her childhood.

  She was a woman. And growing.

  Chapter Three

  “Are you busy, Sir?” Blas paused in the doorway to Thomas Audley’s study, regarding his mentor’s aristocratic features with unaccustomed apprehension. “I can come back later,” he added hopefully, as an inner voice mocked his willingness to run from this interview. Ragged recollections of uncomfortable sessions with his father ran through his head.

  A smile lit Thomas’s handsome face. He waved Blas into the room, bidding him pour two glasses of madeira. When Blas was settled in a chair before his desk, Thomas raised an eyebrow and waited.

  Blas, who thought himself master of all situations, had not been so uncomfortable since age seven when he had blundered into his parents’ bedroom at an inopportune moment. What he was about to propose was totally outrageous. Preposterous. But say it he would. Though not without a certain amount of circumlocution. “Please do not think me impertinent, Sir—I have a very good reason for asking—but have you decided what you will do if the French invasion comes?”

  Thomas ran a hand through his dark blond hair and pursed his lips, avoiding the disconcerting gaze of the brash young Englishman. Trust the young devil to make a thrust at his weakest point. “You are correct, it’s none of your damn business,” he replied without heat, “but since I encouraged you to stay in Lisbon, I suppose I must concede you have a right to ask.”

  “I’m not thinking of myself, Sir,” Blas returned quickly, “but . . . well, Sir, young Somersby seems to expect Catarina to go with them to England. She is adamant she will not. I cannot help but wonder . . . “ Blas’s voice trailed away under his mentor’s piercing glare.

  Thomas drummed his fingers on his desk top, gazing past Blas to stare into the unknown. “You really are a bastard, boy. And you’re quite right. I have plans for everyone but Catarina. It is not that I haven’t thought about it. It’s simply that I have found no solution. I suppose, deep down, I keep hoping Dom João will strengthen his spine and order out his troops or Castlereagh will decide to send us ships of the line instead of floating hotels for British evacuees!”

  “Catarina seems to think there’s no one in England to whom she could go.”

  “She’s right,” Thomas concurred, taking half his wine in one swallow. “I cannot send Cat to my parents. She is no more suited to a country vicarage than I was. And her mother’s parents are Scottish Presbyters who considered their daughter lost to them when she married an Anglican who had the temerity to take her to live among papists. And as for my cousin Ailesbury . . . “ Blas, who had met the Earl of Ailesbury, nodded his understanding.

  “Malvinia Audley,” Thomas continued, “would try to bully Catarina into becoming a proper English miss, and Cat would fight back with all that magnificent temperament I’ve never wanted to curb. She would be utterly miserable. And probably ostracized.”

  Thomas raised a clenched fist, brought it down with a soft thud of frustration onto the piles of papers on his desk. “No, I fear England is out of the question. If the French come, I will have to take her with me into hiding.”

  “May I ask where you will go?”

  “To friends in the Estremadura. They have a winery staffed by old family retainers who will be loyal. ’Tis but a short distance from Lisbon, yet close to the coast so I can arrange for a fishing boat to courier messages to British ships. It is too far from the action, but we have little choice.”

  “And the Casa Audley?”

  “All British property will be confiscated,” said Thomas flatly. �
�Someday, when all this is over, I might be able to get it back. Right now, I have to plan for what is possible and not mourn what is not.”

  “Is there any chance Castlereagh will change his mind about sending troops to Portugal?”

  Thomas drained the last of his wine. “One chance. If the Spanish discover who their enemy really is. If Spain rises against France . . . then old John Bull might not be so skittish.”

  So we could be talking months . . . or years,” Blas said quietly, the challenge of the problem serving to steady his nerve.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth of it. You should go home as well, you know.”

  An arrested expression crossed Blas’s face, then he laughed aloud. “Lord, Sir, now I know how Cat feels! Go home? Just when things are getting interesting?” Restless energy propelled him to his feet. Before returning to his seat, he refilled their glasses. Determination settled over his customary insouciance.

  “I have a solution, Sir.” The room was so quiet Blas could hear the fountain in the courtyard, the doves cooing on the red tile roof.

  “Go on.”

  “You won’t like it. You would have to trust me more than any man should trust another, but I think it will serve.” Blas bit his lip and plunged on, allowing a trace of rueful humor to lighten his determined face. “You may have noticed I am accustomed to command. I may be young, but it is my heritage to be in charge, to be arrogant enough to carry off the most outrageous masquerade.”

  Fascinated, Thomas made an impatient gesture for Blas to continue.

  Within the hour he sent for his daughter. One look at the grim faces confronting her and Catarina knew this would no ordinary conversation. She seated herself and waited, hands folded primly in her lap.

  “Catherine,” Thomas said, “Blas has suggested a way to save the Casa Audley and maintain our base of operations in Lisbon. And since Napoleon, to give the devil his due, is inclined to run his conquered countries by law, it might just work. Blas’s plan is risky, however, and cannot be accomplished without your cooperation, so the decision is up to you.”

  Thomas eyed his beautiful child with grave misgivings. “I may be a fool to consider this, Cat, but it is my nature to take chances. I have asked Blas to explain his plan to you. I will leave you in private as the matter is somewhat delicate in nature and is best settled between you.”

  Thomas rose and paused with his head bent, hands flat upon his desk. He took a deep breath, raised his gray eyes to those of his daughter, which were fixed on him with intense faith. “If you have any doubts at all, Cat . . . if you cannot feel comfortable with this, then say no. Nothing is more important to me than your safety. I will take you with me to the winery. Dona Blanca will be glad of your company.” With determined steps, Thomas crossed the room, leaving Blas and Catarina facing each other in awkward silence.

  For the first time in all his planning it occurred to Blas that what he was offering Catherine Audley was total ruin. Somehow, in his effort to keep the Casa, its secrets, and its young chatelaine safe during a French occupation, he had thought about the next months, even the next years, but never about the far-reaching consequences. Until now. By the rules of English society Catherine Audley would be irretrievably compromised by his actions. Ineligible for marriage. The alternative? He would be morally obligated to her for the rest of his life.

  “Cat . . . perhaps we should forget the whole thing.”

  “I did not think you such a coward. Tell me!”

  “Your father . . . your father knows people with a wide variety of talents,” Blas began with cautious circumspection. “Among them is a very good forger. As the base of our plan, there would be marriage lines between Don Alexis Perez de Leon and yourself, plus settlements giving me the Casa Audley as your dowry. The marriage lines would allegedly be signed by the Anglican rector, who by that time would be safely out to sea with the British fleet.” He paused and regarded Catarina with wary eyes.

  She surprised him, replying only as a co-conspirator, not a very young woman being offered a counterfeit husband. “You believe the French will respect Spanish ownership?”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I would, of course, keep you in hiding until I see how they react. Believe me, Cat, I am not asking you to stand at my side while French troops march through the streets of Lisbon.”

  Catarina had been well schooled, her gamester’s face properly frozen in place. Never would she let him see what she was feeling. She would do what must be done . . . and think about all else later.

  “It is not such a bad plan,” she conceded judiciously. “I would very much hate to lose the Casa. It is the only home I have ever known.”

  “I have made a solemn promise to your father that I will protect you. In every way. To the outside world you will be my wife. In private we will be as brother and sister. I have sworn it, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Cat hung her head, contemplating the fingers which were still clutched together in her lap. “What if . . . what if I do not wish to be your sister?”

  Blas jumped up, strode over to the window overlooking the courtyard. Standing with his back to her, he damned green-eyed girls, Thomas Audley, the Portuguese, the French, and the whole stupid war. “You have no choice,” he growled. “I have already sworn. And you’re too blasted young,” he added with a touch of boyish petulance as he turned back to face her.

  They glared at each other in silence. It was Blas who finally broke the tension. “Are we agreed then, Cat? Your father is awaiting your decision.”

  Catarina stood tall, her fourteen-year-old dignity very much intact. “You may consider me your sister if you must,” she said. “As far as I am concerned, I am your wife.” She swept out of the room, leaving Blas feeling very much the Bastard.

  On the 27th of November 1807, mad queen Maria of Portugal, her son Dom João, his disaffected wife Carlota, the Portuguese court, their servants and guards packed themselves into the intensely crowded confines of ships of the Portuguese navy and set sail for Brazil. They went reluctantly, harassed into fleeing by the commander of British naval forces in Lisbon harbor, for the British were intent on keeping Princess Carlota from running to the protection of her father, King Charles of Spain. An ally of Napoleon, Charles might deliver the Portuguese fleet into the hands of the French.

  When the invasion came, the fall of Lisbon was far from history’s list of dramatic moments. Marshal Androche Junot marched into Portugal with a mixed contingent of French and Spanish troops, all of whom were a far cry from the might of the famed Grand Armée. Young, ill-trained, poorly fed, drenched by storms, decimated by drowning in swollen streams, Marshal Junot’s troops tramped through the streets of Lisbon in a ragged nervous column of blue. They need not have feared. Lisbon, and Portugal, surrendered without a shot.

  Even winter could not dim the exotic beauty of the Serra de Sintra, the high country which lay between Lisbon and the sea. But Cat’s warring emotions blinded her to the tumbling streams, jagged rocks, and gnarled trees passing by outside the windows of the coach.

  Three weeks had passed since she accompanied her father to the home of his friend Don Alvaro Dominguez and his wife Dona Blanca. Cat had spent the time on pins and needles, fretting at being away from the home, worrying about the Casa, about Blas . . . And now, armed with a French passe-partout, she was returning. Her personal role in the masquerade was about to begin.

  Strangely, after all the excitement and anticipation, Catarina found she was not at all ready to return to the Casa Audley alone. To Blas. Her husband. Her husband on a forged piece of parchment. Her husband in fictitious name only. Six months shy of her fifteenth birthday, she was a wife. With no father, no Thomas, to protect the suddenly doubtful bride.

  Protect. Silly thought, Cat mocked herself. Why should she need protection? She was madly in love with Blas. She had scoffed at his archaic ideas of chivalry and restraint. She wanted him, did she not?

  Wanted him for what? At this point
Cat’s thoughts were inevitably forced to a halt. For whatever men and women did together, she supposed. For more of that strange, overwhelming . . . melting she felt when he touched her. That delicious, frightening loss of reason teetering on the loss of self. The urge to plunge into . . . what?

  Cat made a swift grab for the hangstrap beside her as the coach bounced over a rut cut by a rivulet tumbling down over the side of a cliff to cross the road and plunge into the valley on the far side. Once again, reality reared its ugly head. She was not ready. She could not do it. To live with Blas . . . to live with Blas as master of the Casa. To live with Blas who was so . . .

  To live with Blas was what she wanted. Longed for. Dreamed of.

  She was terrified.

  As the coach rumbled over the cobblestones outside the Casa Audley, Cat examined the familiar façade with some anxiety. Except for the plaque which had displayed the British coat of arms, the Casa was as it always had been. No broken glass, no bullet holes, no sign that the government of Portugal was now in foreign hands. She was home. Blas would be waiting to greet her.

  She would go up the gallery steps to her room, open the door, and all would be exactly the same. A sea of blue uniforms on the streets would not affect the smooth running of the Casa Audley. All would be well. She was a weak, silly fool to conjure up such fears. She was unworthy of the name of Audley.

  “Dona Catarina!” Lucio Cardoso threw open the door of the coach himself, welcoming the mistress of the Casa Audley with grand formality. Eagerly, Catarina took his hand and stepped down. The warmth of her reunion with the Casa’s large staff did not quite assuage her disappointment as she discovered two faces conspicuously absent from the gathering. Lucio Cardoso led her toward the house, saying quietly, “Marcio must play least in sight for yet a while. Junot is forming a Portuguese army to fight for the French, and no young man is safe from recruitment. Marcio is with his grandparents in the mountains near Mafra.”