The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  There was also the little matter of Britain’s spy network on the Iberian Peninsula. Surely he could be forgiven for saving that.

  Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! He would find a way to salvage Cat’s honor. His own, he knew, was beyond hope. Thomas turned back to face his daughter. Never before had he found his role of father so difficult. If only his Elspeth were here to help.

  “Catarina,” Thomas said, keeping a tight hold on his agitation, you do understand you are not legally married. That is very likely why Blas has been so circumspect. He knows you have been compromised but does not know how to deal with it. Even men a good deal older would find such a situation difficult. In Portuguese society—and by the weight of responsibility placed on you—you are a woman grown. I will not dictate to you, but I would like to offer some advice.”

  Cat did not want advice. How could anyone else, most particularly a father, understand? What was between Blas and herself was private. If he made love to her, just once, surely he would not leave her. She was not like his other women. She was his Cat. His wife. No matter what Papa said, Blas would never abandon her.

  And if he were a grand seigneur, someone quite above her touch, as Thomas had warned her before they began their masquerade? Then Blas would still keep her. As a mistress perhaps . . . but he would keep her.

  Ah, deus, no! Thomas could not be right. Was that how it was to be? The life of a woman kept in shadows. Her children bastards. Never knowing when a careless word, a moment’s flash of discontent might send her world tumbling into destitution?

  No! She could not listen to what Thomas was saying. This terrible new thought, this ugly reality, had gashed a wound so raw Cat felt she might die of it if her father did not stop talking.

  Thomas, whose pragmatism extended to his very soul, missed his daughter’s anguish. He was offering sensible advice, and Catarina should be wise enough to accept it.

  “Many of England’s finest young gentlemen are in our house each evening,” Thomas said. “Younger sons . . . but you cannot expect to set your sights any higher than that. Do not reject them out of hand. You are far too young to devote yourself to the first man who catches your fancy. And if you cannot find one you like, I shall send you to London where you can make your come-out like any other English miss.” God knew he had enough money for a dozen come-outs, thanks to his daughter’s sacrifice. And the cleverness of a young Englishman, who was undoubtedly as much of a bastard as he claimed to be.

  “I will not go to London,” Cat cried, chin jutting up in open defiance. “And you must realize the young men here know I am married. From many I have certainly received offers, but not of the kind you have in mind.”

  Thomas swore, then begged his daughter’s pardon. “When this war is over, Don Alexis Perez de Leon is going to be among the dead,” he vowed. “Is that clearly understood? Good God, child, do not look at me so! I do not mean to murder him.” Thomas shook his head, reduced his anger to a low growl, and spoke with slow, deliberate clarity so his daughter could not fail to understand him. “You are, in effect, married to Don Alexis Perez de Leon. Don Alejo did not exist until I invented him. He will cease to exist when I say so. You will be decently widowed and free to lead the life you should have had without this blasted war.”

  “And what of Blas?”

  “Blas can go to the devil,” declared Thomas coldly.

  “Papa!”

  Thomas walked with the gait of an old man as he returned to his desk, lowered himself into his chair. “We both know I cannot do without Blas,” he admitted softly. “Blas is my eyes, my ears, my strong right arm, my talented artist. The only thing keeping our network from falling apart. I will use him, as I use you. Because I must.”

  As Thomas sat in his ornately carved chair, his handsome features etched in greater clarity by his physical suffering, he might have been a king issuing decrees of life and death. Certainly, that was how he appeared to his daughter. “Understand this, Catarina,” he intoned, playing the outraged father more heavily than any of the other characters he had played in his chameleon life. “I will not allow you to fall into a relationship with Blas because it is expedient. I will separate the two of you, this I promise. If Blas is to be part of your future, you must, each of you, work at making it happen. You must want each other beyond life itself.”

  But of course. Was that not what love was? Cat thought. Poor Papa must be feeling his injuries to be so intense over something so obvious. It was not nice of him to make her suffer as well. Yet somehow it was comforting, almost amusing, to see him play the father. It was a role he so seldom undertook. He was of course, in the manner of fathers with virgin daughters, quite mad. Blas was hers. Would remain hers. Forever.

  “And, Catarina,” Thomas added, suddenly less sure of himself, “you would do well to speak with Blanca. She is wise in the ways of the world and may be of some help to you.”

  Help? In keeping Blas from her bed? When that was the last thing she wished to do? “Yes, Papa,” Cat murmured. Meekly, she dropped her eyes to the long lines of writing on her desk. She reached for her quill, dipped it in ink, frowning at Thomas’s almost illegible scribbles. She drew in a deep breath and began to write.

  Christmas was quiet that year. Word came that Napoleon had retaken Madrid, placing his brother literally as well as figuratively on the throne of Spain. Thomas Audley found a ray of hope in the accompanying news that the little Emperor had closed two-thirds of the churches in Madrid. “That will do it,” he chortled. “Boney’s little revenge will cost him dearly. Closing churches with Christmas coming on! God, I wish I knew where Moore was.”

  “Can he relieve Madrid?” Catarina asked in surprise. “I thought you said he had a mere handful of troops.”

  “I am sorry,” Thomas apologized swiftly. “I did not mean to get your hopes up. I merely fear that some idiot politician will think he should try to do so. As for Madrid, the closing of the churches will undoubtedly add many to the forces of the guerrilleros. I think, in the end, they will be more help against the French than the Spanish army. It is the guerrilleros I sent Blas to contact. There are hundreds of different groups. London wants him to scout the possibilities of establishing order amidst the chaos.” Thomas’s eyes sparkled with humor as he added, “I never bothered to tell them his age!”

  Catarina sat with her hands frozen in her lap contemplating with loathing a world in which women—even such a liberated woman as herself—could be kept in ignorance of so important a matter. Blas could be gone for years!

  Thomas Audley allowed himself a moment of deep satisfaction before returning to the perusal of the papers on his desk. Young as he was, Blas was a perfect choice for this assignment. His lively intelligence, his natural flair for leadership combined with his Spanish heritage made him uniquely qualified to move freely among the guerrilleros. The diverse rebel bands included bandits as well as patriots. It would take time, but the boy could do it. And the herculean task would keep Blas away from the Casa Audley for months at a time. A most satisfactory plan. Why accomplish only one thing when two were infinitely better?

  For Christmas 1808 Catarina did not give the entire household a day off. Their only duties, however, involved a Christmas feast planned and overseen by Dona Blanca who had assumed nearly all household duties so Cat could assist Thomas with his work. When Catarina entered the family salon just prior to the Christmas feast, the men present—Thomas, Lucio Cardoso, and Marcio, all long accustomed to Catarina’s extraordinary beauty—paused in their conversation and stared.

  “Ah, deus, but you are angel!” Marcio breathed.

  “Oh, my dear! It is marvelous!” cried Dona Blanca. “But wherever did you find such a design? It is not at all in the current mode, though it becomes you to perfection.”

  Cat had planned to share her secret but found she could not. The design of her glorious gown was a thing of privacy which she hugged to herself in an invisible cloak of warmth and love. “The dressmaker copied it from an old portrait,�
� she replied carelessly. “I am surprised it has turned out so well.”

  The sole decoration of the gown fashioned of soft white silk was its design. A double flounce of flowing circular cut enhanced the decolletage of a neckline low enough to reveal an intriguing glimpse of a figure fast approaching womanhood. At the back of the neck the silk had been stiffened with fine wire so it stood up in a fan-shaped Elizabethan collar. The elbow-length sleeves and the gown’s hemline were also flounced with the soft flow of circular-cut fabric. A narrow band of pearls topped Cat’s long waves of red-gold hair which cascaded over her white shoulders, nestling into the soft silk of the gown.

  Cat also wore a single band of pearls around her throat, pearl drops in her ears. She was every man’s fantasy vision of virginal perfection. Inside, hidden from all admiring eyes, pain warred with her pleasure. How could Blas design this beautiful gown and not be here to see it?

  But Blas had not designed the gown, she reminded herself. It was the stranger, this person she did not know, who had drawn this magnificent creation. Surely with the same fingers Blas used so well to draw maps. Yet why did her mind insist on separating him into two people. Blas who worked with the guerrilleros. Don Alejo who designed gowns for a woman he admired only from a distance. A Don Alejo who never played games.

  Thomas interrupted Cat’s reverie. “Your mother would be very proud of you, Catherine,” he said softly. “As I am.” He offered her the arm he should have given to Dona Blanca, escorting her into the ornate dining room with its heavy mahogany furnishings and gold-framed paintings of Portugal’s nautical glories.

  It was a merry meal. No one was so gauche as to speak of the ghost at the feast. Of Blas. The Bastard.

  Chapter Nine

  Access to the balcony outside Catarina’s bedroom—the balcony where Blas first saw her in snow white mobcap and apron—was guarded by two rows of iron spikes, one pointing up, the other out. Since the balcony was also located on a quiet side street, Blas had long ago chosen it as his private route in and out of the Casa Audley. He had filed through the iron band holding the spikes in place, fitted it with a hinge and hasp, and carefully put it back in place. Three sets of spikes were now movable, a narrow opening but enough to allow access without gelding himself. With the exception of the night Major Martineau had caught a flash of movement as Blas tumbled over the side of the wrought iron railing, his little trick for getting in and out of the Casa Audley unnoticed had been remarkably successful.

  In the months since the French had been evacuated from Lisbon on British ships, the hinge had not been touched. And now, tonight, when he so desperately needed to climb to Cat’s room, it would not budge. He could feel the flow of blood where his left hand, clinging to balcony, brushed against one of the sharp points as his right struggled to lift the hasp. He had come from Galicia, the far northwest corner of Spain, through hundreds of miles of snow-clad mountains and icy rushing streams, his heart and mind more frozen than the winter landscape around him. Just one pinpoint of light had kept him moving. He was going home to Cat. And now—bloody hell!—he couldn’t get in! He needed his Cat. To hold her, to lie in the warmth of her arms. To be comforted. To blot out where he had been, what he had seen.

  With a sharp profanity, Blas abandoned the hasp. Cautiously, he shifted his right hand to a piece of wrought-iron scrollwork which he could only pray would hold his weight. He let go his left hand and swung hard right, arcing his body around the vicious spikes. His right foot came up, searching for a toehold between the vertical bars that extended down to the balcony floor. His left hand took another gash from the spikes but found a hold. For a moment he clung there, cradled against the black scrollwork until he caught his breath and was able to bring his left foot up to join the right. After that, with his last vestige of strength, Blas hauled himself up and over the spikes atop the three foot balcony railing. He tumbled hard onto the tiles and stayed there, on his knees, amazed by his weakness. When had he eaten . . . or slept? Was today Sunday? Let it be so, or Cat would be in the gaming rooms. And he needed her. Now.

  Blas cursed himself, the French, the Spanish, the goddamn British army, and the whole miserable unspeakable war. The balcony door was locked.

  Like the twenty kinds of a bloody fool he was, he had come back like a thief in the night, shunning hearty welcomes, bright lights, the fatted calf. He needed Cat. No one but Cat. Or he would die of what he had seen. And done.

  He scratched lightly on the door. She had to be there!

  A long moment. Two. Three. A pair of eyes peeped through a crack in the draperies. The door swung open, Cat’s pale face, inquiring eyes shifting to joy, shone before him. Her long white gown billowed in the January wind. Blas surged forward, one hand propelling her back into the room while the other firmly closed the door behind him.

  Cat went into his arms with a soft incoherent murmur. Immediately, she could feel his distress, the intensity of his need. And by some mysterious means she knew this was her very own Blas, not the oddly reticent Don Alejo. In the past Blas had supported her with his strength. Now he was the one in need. Even though he held her so close she thought she might be smothered against his jacket, Cat endured without a murmur. His grip as nothing compared to the inexorable force which bound them together.

  “Better light a candle before I ruin the carpet,” Blas said at last.

  Cat gasped as the flickering light revealed his bloodied hand. Well aware a great fuss was the last thing he wanted, she moved quickly and efficiently. After wrapping his hand in a towel, she dashed down to the kitchen, struggling into her robe as she ran. Cook always kept a pail of water warming in a niche inside the great fireplace. Cat found cloth for bandages and paused long enough to stuff bread, cheese and a bottle of wine into a bag hastily contrived from a large white apron. By the time she returned, Blas had stripped himself down to his boots. The only other item he was wearing was the towel which he had secured around his waist. He had built up the fire and was sitting, head propped in his hands, in a chair drawn up close to the flames.

  Catarina plunked the heavy pail and her makeshift carryall down onto the hearth, then paused to catch her breath as Blas devoured the food she had brought. He drank straight from the bottle, tilting the strong red wine down his throat in long, panting gulps, as if to wash away the nightmares which seemed to haunt him.

  His hands . . . ah, deus, his hands! Horrified, Cat stared. Blas, like Thomas, had seemed invulnerable. Untouchable. And now . . . the long slim patrician fingers which dealt cards to perfection and brought blank pieces of paper to glorious life were battered and blackened, the nails broken and dirty, knuckles red and swollen.

  Cat opened her mouth to ask what had happened, then snapped it firmly closed. This was not the time for talk.

  When Blas finished the last crumb of bread and cheese, Cat went to work. The cuts were not so bad, she discovered as she wiped away blood that was already drying. Basilicum powder, a soft bandage across the palm. It did not matter that Blas seemed lost in thought, moving only to tilt his head back for another gulp of wine. He was her man, and she was caring for him. Never had Cat been more aware her next birthday would be her sixteenth. Most of her Portuguese friends were already married. One was about to bring a new life into the world.

  And Catarina Audley Perez de Leon had a husband who would not touch her.

  But tonight, obviously in distress, Blas had come to her for aid and comfort. Surely, that was good.

  A smile lurked in her eyes as she finished off the bandage with a soft knot on the back of Blas’s wrist. “There,” she murmured. “Come to bed.” Blas did not resist as she grasped the half empty bottle and set it aside. Clasping his good hand in hers, Cat attempted to coax him to his feet.

  “I’m filthy,” Blas protested. A simple fact Cat could not deny. Only his bandaged hand was clean.

  “There is plenty of warm water,” Cat ventured a shade doubtfully as she eyed the water’s pinkish cast. She also had doubts about Blas’s sta
te of undress. She had not seen so much of him since the night Major Martineau had chased a phantom into her bedroom. Even their game had never gone this far. Blas had grown, filled out. Though slumped in exhaustion and grimed with dirt, his shoulders and arms rippled with firm, strong muscles.

  The towel seemed to have shrunk. Blas’s bronzed skin went on forever. Cat swallowed. Coherent thought disintegrated. Blindly, she reached for the lavender-scented soap she had used to clean his hand. After lathering a cloth, Cat began with his face. His beloved face which had aged ten years since she had last seen him. Ah, deus, where had he been? What had he done?

  Once again, Cat dipped her cloth in the pail, wrung out the excess water. Her hands visibly trembled as they moved from the crevices of his neck and arms to the long, powerful length of his arms. The cloth moved gently over scrapes and bruises, lingered in the black curls shadowing his chest. She knew now why Blas had never taken their game beyond looking. Touching was lethal. She was consumed by emotions which, before, had only been tantalizing visions. Just out of reach. Forbidden.

  Her hand slowed. Bypassing the towel, she knelt down to pull off his boots. They were so badly worn they nearly disintegrated at her touch. The boots would never be used again. Blas’s leggings were nearly as bad. A series of holes held together by strands of yarn instead of the fine wool knit they once had been. And his feet . . . Catarina slumped back onto the hearth, fearing for a moment she might be sick. How was it possible he could walk at all? She was a very great fool to be thinking of love when her Blas was so badly hurt.

  Cat spent a long time on Blas’s feet, teeth clenched, her stomach threatening to revolt. Though his feet might heal, they would never again look normal, of that she was certain. Through all her ministrations Blas remained stoically unmoving—even when Cat knew she was hurting him. He had retrieved the bottle; while she worked, he finished it. When Cat finally looked up, tears running down her cheeks, Blas was regarding her with a glint which showed the first sign of revival of his spirits.