It made no sense. A Blas wary of his Cat, awed by his Cat, was even more unbelievable than a Blas who fussed over potholes. The Blas she knew—confident, arrogant—might have shouted curses at the potholes, the horses, even the coachman. He would not have fussed. If his frustration with his wife—with his lack of a wife?—grew too strong, he might have stalked the corridors in panther-like rage. He might have seized her, kissed her, whacked her bottom and pushed her away. And, late that night, he would have come to her room, and . . .
It was a game they played. An exhilarating game, almost as dangerous as Russian Roulette. Sometimes during the long months of the Occupation—after the last patron had left the gambling rooms, the last bolt on the great doors had been shot home, the last echo of footsteps on the courtyard tiles had died away—Blas would come to her room. He would simply stand there with his back against the door, saying nothing, doing nothing. Willing her to come to him.
On these nights he was Blas the Daring, Blas the Hunter, playing a game with himself as well as his young bride. Cat, understanding him very well, plunged into the game with no qualm about propriety. She was eager, every nerve alive and tingling. Each of them an adventurer, living tamely did not suit them. Though always restricted by Thomas’s expectations of their behavior, they would push the confines of their odd marriage to its outer limits. But with their combined age less than Thomas’s thirty-eight years, neither had yet learned caution.
When Blas came to her, it would be late—at a moment he could be certain his young wife wore nothing more than her nightgown. He himself wore only a shirt, ruffles flowing down the front, dangling from the cuffs. The shirt reached his thighs. Barely. The game, after all, must be as dangerous as each could make it.
After the first of Blas’s visits, Cat—more than willing to participate in this Game of Temptation—ordered a panoply of nightgowns suitable to the wife of a man who was known as a connoisseur of fine things, particularly women. The gowns—what little there was of them—did not go unappreciated. One more bit of spice added to the game.
Many times Cat was already in bed when he came to her room. If it were a night for talk—for the serious business of war and politics—Blas would simply sit on the edge of her bed while she reclined against her pillows, covers up to her chin. He would give her his Big Brother smile, tweak the end of the shining night braid which fell over her shoulder, and be off, walking jauntily back to his room, long legs golden below his robe of black silk, under which he wore nothing at all. If Blas owned a nightshirt, she had never seen it. Her eyes would always follow him every step of the way until the door shut behind him, obliterating her view.
But on the nights they played the Game, Blas’s sole garment was the white dress shirt he had worn in the gaming rooms. The very first time, not long after Major Martineau’s invasion of their rooms, Cat had not understood. As he stood there, mysteriously rooted to the floor just inside the door between their rooms, she started to speak, to ask if anything was wrong. Her mouth snapped shut as he raised a finger to his lips. Then his hands fell to his sides, palms out, and he remained immobile, never taking his eyes from hers.
Slowly, tentatively, as yet unaware of the rules, Cat laid back the covers, swung her feet over the side of the bed. Blas’s amber eyes were luminous, reflecting sparks from the flames in the fireplace. She stood, bare feet against the soft plush of the rug, a splash of white against the rug’s sea of navy, royal blue, summer sky and azure. Though armored in massive folds of muslin, Cat felt as naked as the night Blas had stripped her of her clothes moments before the major burst through the door.
She was short of breath, her lungs refused to function. In a world out of time, out of place, she took a tiny step forward. Toward the unknown. Drawn as certainly as if there were a stout rope stretched between them.
She was not the only one who moved. Inch by inch, they crossed the soft expanse of blue, bare feet soundless, moving forward one infinitely slow, tantalizing half-step at a time. A test of control. How long could one resist the irresistible? How long remain frozen before taking the next step? How small a step could one take? How long without blinking? How long without breathing?
Cat was frightened that first time, not knowing how the game was supposed to end. How did one win? What was the winner’s prize? She knew only that she was not ready to find out.
A terrifying dilemma. Deliciously so. She could not break away. Yet what if the forfeit was more than she was prepared to pay?
They stood at last with no more than a hair’s breadth between them. Not touching. Pulses racing. Barely breathing.
Control. A contest of wills. Blas testing himself. And her.
Cat’s insides turned to jelly; the folds of muslin shook in rhythm with her quivering body. But even now, so close to discovering the end of the game, she did not move, she did not blink.
They stood for . . . how long, the tension so high the room crackled with it? With a sudden agonizing rush of pent-up air from lungs ready to burst, Blas threw himself away from her and plunged, unsteadily, toward the doors to the balcony. He tore back the heavy draperies, threw open the doors, gulped great breaths of the cool night air.
Behind him Cat watched in awe. She had just exercised a power she did not know she had. All in all, she rather thought she had won.
Without a glance in her direction Blas carefully closed the doors to the balcony, pulled the draperies back into place, stalked across the soft carpet and disappeared into his own room. Softly, the door clicked shut behind him.
After that, they played the game as often as they dared. They were young, accustomed to living dangerously. They treated temptation like the living, breathing, treacherous adversary it was. And learned striking lessons in the power of mind over matter. And the astonishing, nearly overwhelming, power of desire.
But now? Now Blas did not come at all. Not even to talk. And only now did Cat realize how foolish, how childish she had been to play his game. Next time—if there ever was one—she would close the gap.
And Blas would not run away.
No, Cat amended. They had been children. And now they were grown. Forced to let reality invade the private world, the fantasy, they had built for themselves during the Occupation.
And, besides, next time seemed as far away as the end of the war. By daylight, Blas avoided her, somehow contriving never to be alone with her. At night, Cat saw him only in the gaming rooms. Pride settled over her like protective armor, encasing the soft vulnerability of her hurt in a coat of chain mail, the holes in the center of each ring very small indeed. Blas would not have the satisfaction of seeing what his rejection had done to her.
Catarina held her head high. She worked long hours helping her father as he recaptured the reins of his spy network. She smiled. She flirted with customers, young and old. Older men are so much kinder, she told Blanca. So grateful. Blanca bit her tongue and kept silent.
In November, after an absence of nearly a year, Thomas Audley resumed his customary place at the high-stakes faro table. Two days later Catarina’s sometime husband deigned to pay her a late-night visit. Cat’s green eyes opened very wide when she saw him standing in the doorway. Ah, deus! For one brief moment she thought she would die of joy. But the moment did not last. What she saw at first was a balm to her heart. Amber eyes glowed in the beloved rugged face crowned with waves of jet black hair. He had put off the clothes of the Spanish dandy Don Alejo and was dressed as Blas the ox-cart driver. Surely he was the Blas of old. And yet . . . the nonchalant arrogance she expected from Blas was softer, subdued, his stance almost that of a supplicant. Almost as if . . . as if he were afraid of her.
That was the moment Catarina first separated her husband into two men. Although he was dressed as Blas, the man who stood before her was Don Alejo. Don Alexis Perez de Leon, the supercilious hidalgo who was known to be both indifferent and unfaithful to his child bride. It was Don Alejo who had come to the winery to bring Thomas home. Don Alejo who had been here ever si
nce. A Don Alejo still in character when visiting his bride at three in the morning.
“May I come in?”
When had Blas ever asked permission to enter her room? Cat had a swift vision of the first time their game had become more daring. Of Blas’s fingers moving down his broad chest, unbuttoning his shirt one slow and calculating movement at a time. A wave of tell-tale red stained Cat’s cheeks. Blas knew her for the daring headstrong minx that she was, so why did she have the feeling tonight’s Blas—Don Alejo—was attributing her blush to maidenly modesty? As if he were a stranger?
Cat stepped back, the wave of her hand inviting him in perhaps a trifle mocking. Was it a trick of the candlelight, or did his cheeks, which were no longer as tanned as they once were, flush as he took in her dishabille? She had pulled on a light robe over her nightgown but had not fastened it. The robe gapped open to reveal a gown of white silk so delicate that little of Cat’s developing figure was left to the imagination, from the points of her nipples surrounded by aureoles of rose to the darker intriguing shadow between her thighs. Her heart might be wounded, but she had not closed the door on love. Each night she dressed as if Blas would come to her. And now he had. Cat was not above allowing him to see as much as he wished. Had they not played this game many times before?
The challenge was made. Instead of a glove, she cast her heart before him.
He pressed back against the door, not in his customary stance, but as if to place as much distance between them as possible. “I’ve come to say goodbye,” he told her, his words mechanical and stiff. “Now that Thomas is better, I’m going to follow Sir John Moore’s army to Salamanca. Napoleon was not best pleased at having his brother forced out of Madrid within days of his arrival. He plans to take it back—and the rest of Spain along with it.” He tossed off a diffident Don Alejo shrug. “There’s little chance we can stop him, but I hope to make myself useful.”
Catarina stared. She had seen him speak with more animation when discussing the latest fashions with Dona Blanca. Where was her Blas? Blas the patriot? Blas the spy? The Blas filled with a passion for life. And love.
“Thomas is recommending Moore withdraw until we have stronger forces,” Don Alejo continued inexorably on. “He fears the damned politicians, having sent too little too late, will think we should march to the defense of Madrid. In any event, I am ordered to carry Thomas’s analysis to Moore and stay to help where I can.”
Obviously ill at ease, Don Alejo shifted his feet, bit his lip, stared past her toward the balcony as if he longed for escape. This man was so unlike her Blas that Cat could only stare in fascination, wondering at the transformation. Wondering what could have caused it. What had she done to change him so?
At last, with a sudden burst of life, he focused on Catarina. The amber eyes struck sparks, wiping away the indifference of Don Alejo. “I will not be here for Christmas, Catarina, but I have designed a gift for you. I made a sketch.” He fumbled his way into one of the pockets of the sheepskin jacket. “It would please me if you had it made up as my gift to you.” With a humility, almost embarrassment, which fitted neither Blas nor Don Alejo, he withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to her. Designing gowns was not the most usual pastime for an intrepid spy.
And there in her hand was a gown . . . a gown reminiscent of the great age of Exploration or possibly some mythical time between medieval maidens and the resounding names of Elizabeth, Philip, Isabella, Cristobal Colón. It was magnificent. She loved it . . .
“Why?” she raged at him. “Why be nice to me now, when you are going away?”
He looked so startled, so stricken, she almost laughed in triumph. Her turn to be cruel.
“For three whole months you have avoided me! You, my best friend, have destroyed me. And now you design a dress for me? This I do not understand . . . you are as crazy as poor King George or mad Maria. Go away. Instantamente. I am glad to see you go!” Eyes blazing, Cat tore the drawing into four pieces, threw them at his feet.
An involuntary lift of his hand. In supplication. He should have been more aware. Should have known his attitude was hurting her. Stupid, impossible, untenable situation! He had thought only of his own problems, his own feelings. Surely he could have managed better. Damned good thing he was leaving. There were some things that were more than a man could bear.
“I am sorry, Catarina, truly sorry. I know things have been different. I have been different. Forgive me, be patient. Things should be better when . . . when I return.”
Cat glared at him. Apology unaccepted. Unacceptable.
His lips narrowed into a thin line. The man Cat had come to think of as Don Alejo instead of Blas turned on his heel and walked out. He did not bother to close the door behind him. Cat heard him continue along the gallery, his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he descended to the courtyard below. A murmur of voices, the soft clop of a horse’s hooves, and he was gone. Cat lifted a corner of the draperies covering the doors to the balcony and peeked through. She was just in time to see a still stiff-backed Don Alejo disappear into the dark shadows of Lisbon’s narrow streets.
With a sigh Cat let the heavy draperies fall back into place. She stood quite still, her forehead resting against the silk-embroidered fabric, clutching it as if she would never let it go. When she finally unclenched her fingers and turned back toward her bed, the drifts of white paper scattered over the rose and blue of the carpet caught her eye. Narrowly, Cat eyed the candle flame, her feelings warring within her. She should complete the obliteration of Blas’s gift. She should. She really should.
With the surrealistic grace of a sleepwalker, Cat bent down, retrieving the pieces of the drawing. In the morning she would glue them onto a fresh piece of paper.
The warm rays of the Iberian sun stole into Thomas Audley’s study to send a glinting shaft of light darting from the magnifying glass in his hand straight into his eyes. Pain stabbed through his head as his eyes reacted with violence to this seemingly innocuous bolt of light. Hell and damnation! Was he to be a cripple forever?
Eyes closed, Thomas leaned back in his chair, fighting both pain and frustration. His eyes were unreliable, the fingers of his right hand remained stiff and awkward. Occasionally, stabbing pain wrenched his gut, his knees buckled and he went almost totally blind from the pain in his head. If he had been caught spying . . . if he had been tortured by the French, he could have borne the anguish, the frustration. But the bloody ignominy of Thomas Audley falling victim to random violence was more than a man should be expected to bear.
The pain receded. Thomas willed his eyes open, his gaze focusing on his daughter. Catarina was bent over a smaller desk in the corner of his study, copying his latest report to London in her neat schoolgirl hand. Her shining hair was swept back and tied at the nape of her neck with a ribbon which matched her gown of robin’s egg blue. The demure high neckline did not disguise the fact that, petite as she was, her figure was that of a woman grown.
Thomas nearly groaned aloud. This glorious child . . . No! Catarina was a child no longer. She was a young woman whose honor had been sacrificed for the sake of England. For the Audley business. Hell and the devil! How could he have been such a selfish ass? He had thought only of his work . . . and the Casa. And the boy had been as blind as himself. Oh, he never doubted Blas’s motives. The boy was neither grasping nor venal. But there was no denying the two of them—Thomas Audley and Blas the Bastard—had seized the moment. And lost a child.
“Catarina?” She looked up with a smile so loving guilt attacked Thomas with a wave of anguish as strong as his earlier pain. With any other woman he would have known what to say, but with Catarina he could only fumble through a mountain of circumlocution. “Is it my imagination,” Thomas ventured, “or was there something strange about Blas these past few weeks?”
Cat’s hand slowed, came to a stop. Graças a deus, such a relief! She was not simply young, foolish, and madly in love—an emotional female creating mountains and chasms out of the slightest ripp
le of male indifference. With great care she placed her quill into its holder before raising her eyes to her father.
“He has been . . . distant,” she admitted quietly. “I suppose it is not easy to realize the masquerade must continue. He is not the type of man who wishes to be married at so young an age. In truth, I think he was . . . relieved when he left.”
As Cat’s voice trailed away, Thomas felt a further stab of guilt. A woman could weigh a man down. The relief Cat spoke of was an emotion he had experienced all too often in his checkered career. She could very well be right.
Damn young pup! Thomas raged as parental instincts triumphed over the man-of-the-world. “Catarina, look at me! While you were here alone with him, he did not . . .?” Thomas tried again. “Did he . . .?”
“Ah, no, Papa! He was the perfect gentleman.” Well, at least he had not . . . They had not . . . Cat failed to control a blush, giving her father grave doubts about her veracity.
“I must know, Catarina,” Thomas urged. “You will tell me if he has touched you.”
Touched. Cat thought fast. Far better to answer the meaning of her father’s question than the literal truth.
Since she was unaccustomed to being reproved by her father, or anyone else, Cat had no trouble replying with asperity. “It is a little late for concern, Papa, but, no, I assure you Blas kept his promise. Far too well.”
The moment stretched into silence. Thomas levered himself up from his desk, turning away from his daughter’s remonstrance to fix his gaze on the gallery and the courtyard beyond. Dust motes glimmered in the afternoon sun. The faint sound of the fountain, the soft coo of doves filtered into the room. In the garden, though muted by fall, flowers still bloomed. The Casa Audley. One square block of Lisbon. And he, Thomas Audley, had sacrificed his only child’s honor to keep it.
The Sometime Bride Page 11
