The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  To Cat’s surprise, in May—with the armies of both sides once again on the move in the north—her husband appeared one morning at breakfast, smiling and urbane. Don Alejo to the inch. This time she would not, absolutely would not, allow him to get away with his indifference. She was no longer the child who had gritted her teeth and bitten her tongue while he took the gift she willingly gave to ease his pain. A pain which surely had been greater than her own.

  Sometimes . . . sometimes she wondered why he bothered to come home at all. Their courier system was remarkably efficient. Why then did Blas risk the guerrilla leaders surging in twenty different directions while he relinquished his grip to travel the long road back to Lisbon? It did not make sense. Unless, despite their estrangement, he really wished to see her.

  The gaming rooms were quiet that night, nearly all the brilliant-coated officers gone north with Wellington’s army. Cat swore she had heard a collective sigh of relief from the old gentlemen in the Portuguese cardroom.

  Patiently, she waited for nearly an hour after the gaming rooms closed. Then she put on her most alluring and transparent nightgown, topped it with an almost equally transparent confection of white ruffles and lace, and boldly knocked on her husband’s door. She was beyond beautiful. Infinitely appealing. Seductive. He could not possibly resist her.

  And yet . . . her confidence wavered. Blas had been so . . . odd. For so long. So maddeningly, utterly indifferent. What if he truly did not care? Then again, it might be months before he returned to Lisbon. She could not cry craven now.

  The door opened abruptly. He wore only his breeches—and the long shirt which brought back a rush of sensuous, titillating memories. Instead of a blush, Cat’s face paled to marble. No words came.

  “Catarina?” His heavy black brows rose in cool inquiry.

  She wet her lips. “I should like to speak with you,” she managed in a very small voice.

  “Very well.” He stepped back, body stiff and uncompromising. Obviously, she was far from welcome.

  Catarina had prepared a speech. Instead, she said the first thing that came into her head. “I forgave you long ago, you know. In truth, there was little to forgive. That you should mistake me for one of your women was not nice, but it is a thing to be endured.”

  She stopped, appalled. This was not at all the message she wished to convey. “But when we are truly married,” she amended firmly, “this I will not tolerate. You are mine and mine alone. There will be no other women.”

  There was a flash from Don Alejo’s usually bland eyes. “Really?” he said and rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, amusement plainly visible on his rough-hewn features.

  Cat stamped her foot. A very unladylike, immature, thing to do, but he was quite impossible. Maddening. “There will not!” she declared, her lower lip jutting into a pout. Ah, deus, this was not at all how she had planned it. She should be in his arms by now. In his bed.

  “I am sorry,” she gasped. “I wanted only for you to know that I have forgiven you. That I have always loved you, that there will be no one else for me. Ever. In less than four weeks I shall be seventeen. I am old enough. Even by your so stuffy English standards. Do not shut me out, Blas, I beg of you.”

  As Catarina poured out her soul, she was unable to identify the waves of conflicting emotions which broke through her husband’s carefully crafted barrier. She knew only that, at long last, she had touched him.

  What would he do? Pride forbade her from throwing herself in his arms. Cat dropped her gaze, examining the bare toes which peeked from beneath the wide ruffle edging her elegant flowing robe. When she looked back up, his emotions had clarified into the last she expected to see. His eyes blazed, his fists were clenched, his jaw quivered. He was angry. Furious. With an oath, he flung himself from her, crashing his fist down on a solid mahogany chest of drawers. The small objects on the top rattled and chinked. Quiet descended. Except for a soft steady chant which barely reached her ears: “Damn him, damn him, damn him . . .”

  “Damn who?” Cat asked, too puzzled to be anything but direct.

  He was still standing by the dresser, both hands braced against the top edge. Head bowed, shoulders shaking with rage. At her question, the chant abruptly ceased. Straightening stiffly, he turned and faced her.

  “Blas the Bastard,” he replied through clenched teeth. “He does not deserve you. Be wary, querida. Do not give yourself to a man you know nothing about.”

  By now Cat was so accustomed to thinking of her husband as two different people she did not find his words startling. She knew only that she had failed. He would not have her. With her fist pressed to her lips to stifle her anguish, Cat stumbled backward toward the door.

  “I’m sorry!” he called after her. “I am so sorry, Cat, but I can’t explain. Not why I’m so bloody angry. Not why I’m refusing the most beautiful, the most desirable woman in the world. Not even why I’m babbling nonsense at three in the morning. Just try to forgive me, Cat. That’s all I ask.”

  Warm amber eyes. Passionate. Kind. Sweat beaded under the black waves which fell onto his brow. This was neither Blas nor Don Alejo, but a stranger she had never seen before.

  The puzzle was too great. Whoever he was, she had offered this man her soul as well as her body. And had been rejected. Without another word, Catarina slunk out of her husband’s room, too hurt to even pretend to hold her head high.

  Don Alejo’s visit was unusually short that time. Though not so short the residents of the Casa Audley, from the stable boy to cook to Thomas himself failed to notice how exceedingly polite Don Alejo and his wife were to each other. A quarrel. There could be no doubt. Possibly a quarrel of magnitude. When, three days after his arrival, Don Alejo failed to appear for breakfast, an almost audible sigh of relief swept the Casa. Time. Only time . . . and distance could mend the matter.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You are growing up, Dona Catarina,” said a rotund colonel—one of the Casa’s more frequent gamesters—as he raked in his winnings. “I am relieved I may now admire you without the guilt of considering myself a nasty old man.”

  “You are mistaken, Colonel Murray,” Catarina returned with a demure smile. “I have been grown up for some time. In Portugal we say that an unmarried woman of seventeen has been too long on the vine.”

  “Ah, but the finest vintage comes only with age.” A captain of rifles, one sleeve of his tattered green uniform pinned up over the stump of an arm, grinned at Catarina, daring her to argue with him.

  “Then I may only hope I shall prove you right,” she replied with a gracious nod and a twinkling eye.

  Catarina always played her role well. After months of riotous young soldiers, she was enjoying the relative peace of gaming rooms which were filled with middle-aged supply officers and the walking wounded waiting for ships back to England. They were good men. Whether wounded hero or aging paymaster, most had served their country well. Cat’s smiles were genuine, her flirtations were not. In her heart there was a chill which the strong Iberian sun could not dispel.

  Near midnight she slipped into the courtyard, wandering dejectedly past the fragrant beds of spring flowers before sinking down onto one of the white marble benches by the fountain. The heat of late May had mellowed with the coming of night and the gentle breeze which came with the change of tide. The sweet scent of jasmine mingled with the smell of warm earth. A fine mist from the fountain touched her face, mixing with the tears which threatened to overflow her eyes. A burst of laughter sounded from the Casa . . . a shout for more wine. Hastily, Cat gathered her skirt and crossed to the staircase. She needed time at her dressing table. It would never do for someone to see her perfect façade in disarray.

  Once onto the stairs and out of sight of the gaming rooms, Cat’s steps slowed. Head down, hand trailing along the balcony railing, she moved quietly toward her room. Absorbed in her misery, she failed to notice the thin sliver of light glowing under her bedroom door. She opened the door and walked in.


  Joy surged as she saw the flickering candlelight. Blas was back! He . . .

  A hand came hard over her mouth. She was pulled back against a solid male body. The body heaved, the door slammed shut. A knife gleamed in the hand which clamped her hard against him.

  “You would be wise not to scream, Dona Caterina,” said a familiar voice. “I should not like to hurt you, but . . .” The voice trailed into a Gallic shrug Cat felt all the way down to her toes. The knife jiggled ominously, all too close to her heart. At her careful nod, the hand slowly moved away from her mouth.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed at Major Henri Martineau. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  Still holding her tightly against his chest, the major turned the key in the lock. As he turned away from the door, he staggered and nearly fell. Somehow he managed to drag Caterina with him as he limped to her bed and sat down hard, pulling her down beside him. His face was pale. Blood, welling up through a high tear in his black breeches, had made an ominous dark stain all the way down to his boots. Wounded and without the authority of his uniform, the usually dynamic Frenchman appeared strangely vulnerable.

  “In truth, I have some knack with locks and came in through your Judas gate,” the major explained. “Very apt, don’t you think? As for why? When a man is without friends, it is sometimes necessary to turn to an enemy who owes him a favor. Shall we call it repayment of debt? Undoubtedly, a young lady from the Casa Audley understands the code of honor on the payment of debts. And, I assure you, I am not talking about the small matter of rescuing you from Junot.”

  Candlelight glinted off the six-inch blade clutched in the major’s lap, but anger outweighed Cat’s fear. “You think that after what the French did to my father, I would help you? You may bleed to death right here on my bed!”

  Wearily, Martineau waggled the knife in front of Cat’s nose. She swallowed, trying not to follow its movement with her eyes. “I don’t know what we could have done to your father since he was in England during the Occupation.”

  A fine brave heroine she was! At the first sight of a knife, an amateur’s mistake. Just when she most needed to be clever. “I beg your pardon,” Cat murmured. “You have of course done nothing to my father, and I do not like to see anyone suffer. If you will be good enough to move the knife a bit, I will do what I can to help.”

  Major Martineau looked down at the razor-sharp blade as if he had forgotten he was holding it. “I was just about to cut away the cloth when you walked in,” he admitted ruefully. “Your British rifles are much too accurate, I fear. You will have to manage with what is here in the room, but I am grateful for your . . . humanity.” The major lowered the hand with the knife to his side, unclasped the other which had been gripping her arm. “Tell me, child, may we expect a visit from your husband at any moment?”

  A lie would only make her look foolish when her husband failed to materialize. “Your timing is excellent, major,” Cat replied with admirable sangfroid. “Don Alejo is not in Lisbon.” Moving carefully, she stood up and crossed to the corner of the room where a bowl and pitcher of water rested on a small table, towels and wash clothes neatly folded beside them.

  “So he is off doing what I am doing, n’est-ce pas? A most fortunate man if he is being cared for by a woman as beautiful as yourself.”

  “Slit your breeches,” Catarina ordered, pointedly ignoring his remark.

  The major gritted his teeth and did as he was told, laying bare a gash just below his left thigh. “You are fortunate,” Cat pronounced a few minutes later. “’Tis only a deep graze. If you would let me get basilicum powder and proper bandages . . . “ The knife came up swiftly, the tip within an inch of her throat. The major’s voice was harsh. “We both know I cannot allow you to leave this room, Dona Catarina. Do what you can . . . for the sake of the time I did not search under your bedcovers. Or because you would wish someone to do a similar kindness for Don Alejo.”

  By the light of one candle they stared at each other, green eyes to brown. He was right, of course, Cat acknowledged. Henri Martineau had not been as much of an enemy as he might have been. With a curt nod of submission she began to clean his wound. As she worked, Cat recalled the brandy she kept on hand for a husband who no longer entered her room. It was possible the pain of the fiery liquid on his wound might prove too much for the major, giving her a moment to escape. At the mention of brandy, the major’s reaction was anything but fearful. He grabbed the bottle from her hand and took a long revivifying gulp. “Merveilleux!” he breathed. “French, of course.”

  “Naturalamente,” Cat agreed, a trifle pertly. “My father declares he has never argued France’s ability to produce the finest brandy.” Her jaws clamped shut. Thomas Audley was not the best topic of conversation.

  Cat eyed the major’s open wound with some misgiving. It was known that brandy could keep a wound from festering, but recalling the pain when she had used some on a tiny cut on her hand, Cat found she was fainthearted about hurting someone so cruelly. Even an enemy someone.

  “I know,” sighed the major, “but it must be done.” He laid the knife on the bedcovers, grasped her firmly by the wrist. After another long swig of brandy, he tilted the bottle over the wound.

  Cat grabbed the brandy bottle as the major’s face twisted in agony. Nothing more than a sharp gasp escaped his lips. The hand holding her wrist barely wavered. He was a hard man, Major Martineau, almost as tough as her Blas. She might have been able to pull free, but she could not bring herself to try. It was becoming more and more difficult to see the major as anything other than a person in need. When his eyes opened, Cat returned the bottle.

  “If you’ll let go,” she said quietly, looking down at the whitened knuckles gripping her wrist, “I’ll see what I can find for bandages.”

  Martineau’s fingers snapped free of her wrist. While Catarina tore an old muslin chemise into strips, the major took his eyes off her only long enough for long pulls on the contents of the bottle of his country’s finest. It was fortunate for the little one, he admitted ruefully, that he was so weak. Even a happily married man with three hopeful children could not fail to be aroused by the fingers of so beautiful a woman moving across flesh so close to the seat of his manhood.

  Cat sensed his change of mood. Suddenly acutely uncomfortable, she made an attempt at conversation, babbling in her effort to distract him. “What will you do now, major? You are in no condition to travel. You are married, are you not? Do you not wish to see your wife and children again? Let me call Marcio. You will undoubtedly be high on the list of officers to be exchanged.”

  “I am out of uniform, my dear,” the major pointed out, exerting considerable effort to restore the cool, controlled demeanor for which he was known. “I leave here before morning or your bandages will have been wasted on a dead man. Now bring me all your scarves and shawls.”

  Scarves. Shawls. Dear God, he was going to tie her up. And then? . . .

  “There is no need to look at me with those great green eyes,” Martineau snapped. “I am not capable of ravishing a butterfly. Just get the scarves, child. Now!”

  When Cat returned from rummaging through her dresser, the major ordered her to lie down on the bed, then heaved himself to his feet. Lie still!” he snapped as she instinctively wiggled away from his outstretched hands. Cat shut her eyes, gritted her teeth while he tied her left hand and left foot to the bedposts, then tied her right wrist to his left arm. He blew out the candle and with a heartfelt sigh stretched out on the bed beside her. If there was any luck left in this miserable world, the major thought, he would be recovered enough to leave before dawn brought life to the city streets.

  Strangely enough, they both slept.

  Predawn light was just touching the rooftops of Lisbon when Catarina waked to find her right arm was now stretched above her head and tied to the far bedpost. Soon her right foot was similarly tied, and her stomach heaved at the ignominy of being spreadeagled on her own bed. Completely helpless. With
an enemy officer—a spy—casually inspecting her bonds to make certain they would hold. The night before, her feminine sympathies had been aroused by his plight. With the coming of day, she was humiliated. And angry.

  “I know why you’re here,” Cat taunted, “and nothing you can tell your marshals will make a bit of difference. It is too late. Wellington has outfoxed you all. He has moved the hills themselves to build a line so impregnable that your generals will never take Lisbon. Never, do you hear? Never! The lines at Torres Vedras are the greatest fortification in history—thirty miles from the Tagus to the sea. Your fine generals may sit in front of them forever. They will get no farther! So, go . . . go tell this to Napoleon. May he come himself to see what Wellington has done!”

  Through the predawn gloom she thought she saw the major smile. “You are very likely right, my dear. By the time I return to headquarters, the armies will already be on the march. I think they will pay little attention to what I say. But it was my duty to see for myself what Wellington has conscripted nearly every man in Portugal to build. Now I have seen it, I must return and tell Marshal Massena what he does not wish to hear. What he probably will not believe.”

  With a shrug of Gallic acceptance of fate, the major bent down and tied one last scarf around her mouth. “My apologies, but I need as much head start as I can get. Your maid will be here all too soon. Au revoir, my dear. Merci mille fois! Tell Don Alejo I said he is a most fortunate man.”

  Martineau picked up a handful of white which lay in a heap on the dressing table chair. Not until he opened the door to the balcony and began to tie the white cloth to the wrought iron grillwork could she see it was two more of her muslin chemises, tied together. Perhaps the knot would part, the fabric rip? Did she really want it to? The major was too vulnerable to inspire her hate. He was not a bad man. Now that the fortifications were operational, the great secret could be told. Ah, how she wished she might see Napoleon’s face when he heard the details of the fortifications at Torres Vedras.