by Shana Galen
“No, thank you for trusting me. I’m aware trust isn’t an easy thing for you. Now, sleep.”
BENEDICT DID NOT SLEEP himself. He’d been awake all night, mulling over the note she’d sent cancelling their theater engagement and trying to decide whether to go and bang on her door at Mivart’s in the middle of the night or if it would be better to wait until morning.
In the end, Colin had brought her to him. Thank God he’d thought to send Colin. He should have had his men watching the hotel at all times. But Catarina was safe under his roof now, and he couldn’t have wished for a better outcome. She’d trusted him enough to come to him. Now he would have to keep her trust.
Since Ward could be quite foul tempered if his sleep was interrupted, Benedict didn’t wake him and instead dressed and shaved himself then made his way to the small dining room where Maggie—his maid and cook—had put toast and tea on the sideboard for him. She did not live in the house and didn’t know about the guests, so he gave her coin to go to the market so she might return and prepare a heartier meal. Tigrino wandered in while Benedict sipped his tea. He let the cat out into the garden then called him back in after preparing a saucer with food for him. Tigrino ate it all, then jumped on Benedict’s lap and purred, occasionally attempting to swat a piece of toast off his plate.
“Catarina said he likes you,” said a quiet voice. Ines came into the room, young and pretty with delicate features and a slim build. “I didn’t believe it.”
“He’s a clever cat. Your sister was clever to bring you here. Sit down, won’t you? I would stand, but the cat might take offense.”
“Thank you.” She sat, and he offered her tea.
“Which sister are you?” he asked. “I think Catarina mentioned she has several.”
“I’m in the middle. Catarina is the eldest, then there’s Ana and Luisa and Mara. Beatriz is sixteen and Joana twelve.”
“And you are?”
She straightened. “Eighteen.”
A child for all intents and purposes, Benedict thought. And now he was responsible for her. The idea didn’t strike fear into his heart. He’d been responsible for the lives of his soldiers since he was Ines’s age. He could protect two women and a cat. “You did not want to marry and have children?”
Ines wrinkled her nose. “The man my father chose for me was not as old or as ugly as the one he chose for Mara or even Luisa, but I did not want to live my whole life in the village, birthing a baby every year. I wanted to see the world. Catarina asked me to come with her, and I did.”
“To Barcelona?”
“First to Lisbon then Barcelona.”
“And what were you doing in Barcelona? I gather it was something to do with sewing.”
Ines’s mouth dropped open. “You have not heard of Catarina lace?”
“Should I have?’
Her eyes bulged wide. “I thought everyone had heard of Catarina lace.”
Benedict suppressed a smile. He did not spend much time in the company of women, but he knew enough married officers to have sat through more than one conversation about this fashion or that. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Ines seemed to warm at that suggestion. She sat forward eagerly. “You have heard of Brussels lace and Chantilly lace?” Her expression was expectant, as though these were items even a small child would know.
Benedict cleared his throat. “Those sound...vaguely familiar. Women wear it?”
She gaped at him—at his ignorance, most likely. “Yes, but the lace is also used to make items like table coverings and bed clothes.”
“I see. And how does Catarina lace differ from”—he waved a hand—“the others?”
“Catarina lace is even more coveted. I think, given a few years, it will surpass blonde lace in popularity, and even the English royalty wear blonde lace.”
Benedict ran a hand through his hair. Certainly, the name of the lace could not be a coincidence. And yet, how could it be that his young wife would have a lace named after her? “Is Catarina lace is named after your sister?”
“Yes!” The girl all but bounced in her seat. “She is the one who invented it.”
Benedict sat back in his chair, forgetting his toast for the moment, which allowed Tigrino to bat a piece off the plate and devour it. His Catarina had really made something of herself. She had said she would, and he hadn’t doubted it. But to invent a new type of lace—not that he was any sort of expert—seemed to surpass all expectations. “Is that why you and your sister went to Barcelona? To make lace?”
Ines sighed as though explaining one-plus-one to a child for the twentieth time. “Don’t you know that Barcelona is where all of the best blond lace is made? Señora Madras took us there because she saw Catarina’s talent and wanted her to study with a master. After six months, Catarina knew enough to create her own lace. It was so in demand that she opened her own shop.”
This was quite extraordinary. How many women could boast of such success? “What makes this lace so special?”
Ines was quite excited now. Her cheeks were pink and her hands moved animatedly. Obviously, lace was a welcome topic. “Like blonde lace, there is a contrast between the patterns and the ground, but blonde lace was never considered as good as Chantilly lace because the pattern is not as perfect and regular.” She gestured with her hand, making motions Benedict could only assume represented lace patterns. “Catarina not only created new patterns, she designed a process to ensure the patterns were as regular or more regular than Chantilly or Lille lace.”
Clearly the young woman had a passion for lace, and though Benedict had no idea what she was talking about, he could appreciate her passion. He’d certainly spent a good deal of time discussing battle strategies in his day. And didn’t that make him feel old?
“The difference is that the new patterns are so intricate and detailed, so very fine, that they are harder to reproduce on a large garment. They are not as suited for mantillas and such, but they are perfect for handkerchiefs or collars. And because the process is so—what is the word?—it means it hurts and takes time?”
“Painstaking?”
“Yes. The process is painstaking and the silk thread expensive. Most people cannot afford to purchase a large quantity of Catarina lace.”
“And you know how to make this lace?”
She seemed to bristle. “Of course! I am the first person she taught. And now we have five other lacemakers working for us. They are sworn to secrecy because Catarina wants to keep her process and patterns exclusive for as long as possible. Of course, anyone with bobbins is hard at work trying to recreate Catarina lace themselves.”
“Bobbins?”
Ines frowned at him. “You really do not know anything about lace, do you, sir?”
“I admit I do not. Do you have a sample you could show me?”
“Of course!” She reached into a hidden pocket in her simple gray dress and pulled out a handkerchief, smoothing it on the table for him to inspect. Normally, he would have noted only the material in the middle, the section he would have need of. But now he studied the edges, which were indeed made from a delicate lace with an intricate and quite beautiful pattern. This pattern resembled a flowering vine that began at the corners and crawled to the center then swirled along the edges, bursting into flowers of various shapes and sizes.
But when he looked closer, he saw even the flowers were not simply flowers. Inside the floral design, he spotted letters, animals, and—was that a boat?
“Are you impressed?” Ines asked.
“Very.” He looked up. “You made this?”
She nodded. “But I am not nearly as talented as Catarina.”
She was a loyal sister. That much was obvious. “And where does Juan Carlos fit into all of this?”
Ines looked away. “That is for Catarina to tell you.”
It had been worth a try. Suddenly, Tigrino looked up. With a meow, he jumped down and padded to the doorway. A moment later Catarina herself entered, looking adorably rumpled in a simple
cream-colored gown with blue ribbons at the sleeves and a lace shawl about her shoulders. If Benedict was not mistaken, it was Catarina lace.
The cat wound himself around her ankles, and she bent to scratch behind his ears. “What am I to tell you?”
Benedict rose. “We’ll discuss that after you have broken your fast.” He hadn’t meant it to sound like a threat. On the other hand, the time for secrets was over.
Seven
“When the hurly-burly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.”
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
CATARINA WAS SO HUNGRY, she barely said a word during breakfast. She ate everything on her plate and then contemplated filling another. By then Ines had finished and claimed she wanted some air and sunshine. Catarina glared at her sister’s back as she retreated to the garden with Tigrino.
But their current predicament could not be blamed on Ines, and if nothing else, Catarina owed Benedict an explanation. She folded her hands in her lap. “I apologize again for intruding last night.” She was relieved he hadn’t had a woman with him and relieved he hadn’t turned her away.
“It wasn’t an intrusion. I was glad you came.” He looked so handsome sitting across the small rectangular table. The sunlight filtering through the thin lace curtains—Mechlin lace, she thought—flitted over his red hair, making it look fiery. He’d tamed it this morning as well as shaved. She rather liked him a little rough around the edges, but she supposed he was trying to play the gentleman for her. “I was worried about you after I received your note declining my invitation to the theater.”
“I tried to keep you from worrying.”
“As it turns out, I was right to worry. I take it your sister was not truly ill. What really happened?”
“I had a...” What was an English word she could use that would not alarm him? “A falling out with Juan Carlos and decided to leave.” She did not want to trust him with too many of the details. In her experience, men could not be trusted—not her father, not Juan Carlos, and not Benedict Draven. At least not yet.
“In the middle of the night with all of your belongings? That’s quite a falling out.”
She couldn’t say more. If Benedict knew the truth, he’d probably kill Juan Carlos, and Juan Carlos had made it clear that if he died in any suspicious manner, a letter detailing her crimes would be published.
“We argued, and he threatened violence.”
Benedict stood. “Did he touch you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, evading the question. “But I didn’t feel safe.”
Benedict’s blue eyes seemed to pierce through her. She was certain he knew she was not telling him the whole truth. He glanced toward the garden. “Your sister tells me you have become renowned for your lace. Is Juan Carlos an investor in your business?”
“No.” She swallowed. “He’s a rival, actually. His family has made Spanish blonde lace for generations.” She knew where this conversation would lead, but at this point, she had no choice but to tell Benedict the truth—as ugly as it may be—and face the consequences. If he put her back out on the street, then she would be no worse than she had been last night. Perhaps she could sail for America. Would Juan Carlos’s stories about her reach that far?
“So he’s not a partner at all.” Benedict put his hands on the table and looked down at her.
“He would like to be. That’s why he wants me to marry his son. Then he will own me and my business.”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who likes to be owned.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“And despite all your claims to the contrary, am I correct in assuming you don’t love this Miguel.”
“I don’t. But if I do not marry Miguel...”
Benedict’s blue eyes were locked on her face.
Her heart galloped in her chest, and she whispered, “Juan Carlos will ruin me.”
Benedict didn’t move. “How?”
She looked down at her hands.
“Whatever it is, whatever you’ve done, I won’t think less of you.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She had tried so hard to forget what had happened, what she’d done.
“None of us are perfect,” Benedict said, stepping back then moving to take the seat next to her. His leg brushed hers, and Catarina was grateful for the comfort of his touch, even if it was inadvertent. Did that make her as pathetic as she feared? “I have done unspeakable things, which I regret to this very day.”
She looked up at him. “Those were done in battle. You had to do them.”
“Do you think because I ran a man through in battle that I forget the look of pain and horror on his face or the feel of his warm blood on my hands? I will never forget, but that’s not the worst of what I’ve done.” He took her hand, linking her fingers with his.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” she whispered.
“I want to.” He took a breath, squeezing her fingers. Her gaze met his and she felt a tremor of longing race through her. “One of my men was a soldier named Peter Collins. He served in a suicide troop. I was charged with recruiting the men, and the troop had one purpose—to defeat Napoleon at any cost. I didn’t usually recruit married men. I don’t like creating widows. But Peter was so skilled with explosives we needed him. He wanted to join, and I knew when I looked into his eyes that he wouldn’t go home to his wife alive. I signed the papers anyway.”
“He chose to join,” she said. “Surely, he knew the risks.”
“He did, and he took every risk. He died in a fire that almost killed two more of my men. It was an ambush, and a horrible way to die.”
“How can you blame yourself?”
“Because I knew it was an ambush.” A muscle in his jaw clenched. “I couldn’t be sure. My best intelligence man had seduced the wife of a French commander and obtained information about the location of a building housing ammunition. He brought me the information and told me he believed it, but he also thought the woman might regret her liaison with him and tell her husband.
“I took a chance and sent those men in anyway. In the end, it was the wrong choice. The husband knew what she’d revealed, and he and his troops were waiting for their chance. When my men were inside, they set the building on fire.”
She lifted his hands, holding them tightly. Now, she wanted to offer comfort. “You didn’t know it was an ambush. You knew it was a risk. You took the risk.”
“I should have trusted Rafe’s instincts. I didn’t, and because of it, one man died and another was severely scarred for life. I gave the order. No one else. I’m responsible.
“That troop I formed? It was composed of thirty men. Eighteen of them died. Eighteen young men whose lives were ended far too early. Their deaths weigh on my conscience.”
She squeezed his hand again. “That sort of responsibility cannot be an easy thing to live with, and yet England needed men like you and your soldiers. All of Europe did.”
He gave her a thoughtful look, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She imagined he would keep his own council as to what the world had needed in that dark time. “Answer me this,” he said, his eyes locked with hers. “When you look at me, do you think me a monster? Does my touch sicken you?” He glanced down at their joined hands.
“Of course not!”
“Then don’t expect me to look at you that way.” He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles. For a long moment, she could hardly breathe. “Tell me what happened, Catarina. You can trust me.”
It was time to tell him. She did not know if she could fully trust Benedict, but she could no longer afford not to risk trusting him with some of her problems. He’d given her and Ines sanctuary, and he deserved to know from what he protected her.
“There was a rich, powerful man in Barcelona who often came by my shop,” she began. As she spoke, the sights and sounds of Barcelona came back to her. She could feel the warm s
un on her face and the breeze from the sea. All around her was the scent of baked bread topped with garlic and tomato or spinach sautéed in olive oil with raisins and pine nuts. She could almost hear the seagulls calling and see the women in their bright dresses and lovely mantillas walking through the markets, often pausing to peruse her shop.
“His name was Don Felipe, and he bought lace for his wife. In fact, he spent a small fortune on lace. I made her a scarf and it cost thousands. I thought him a devoted husband, but one day when I had stayed late to work, he waited for me outside the shop.”
Benedict’s hand tightened on hers.
“He had a proposition for me, and I think you can guess what it was.” Her cheeks heated even thinking about it.
“He wanted you as his mistress.”
She was relieved he had said it, sparing her the humiliation. “I said no, and I don’t think anyone had ever refused him before. He was so angry. I told him I was married, but he didn’t believe me or didn’t care. He began to follow me everywhere, sometimes trying to charm me and at other times threatening me.”
“How does Juan Carlos fit in?”
“As I said, Juan Carlos was a rival lacemaker. He too was often near my shop. He tried to bribe my lacemakers for information, offered to buy my shop, offered to become my partner. I told him no. I liked my independence.” Perhaps that had been her downfall. Her father had always told her that godly women married and submitted to their husbands. But she had liked having no one to answer to. She had wanted to be desired for her, not for her business or her sewing. Her pride was sinful, and she’d paid the price.
“One night I was walking home alone. The king had ordered a cravat of my lace, and I wanted it to be perfect. I stayed late working on it. You must understand, my rooms were not far from the shop. Just across the lane and up a set of stairs. It was a very short distance, and I’d walked it after dark many times. But as soon as I stepped out of the shop a man grabbed me from behind and pushed me back in.”
Benedict stood, releasing her hands. He paced away, his breath coming quickly now. “Go on,” he said, his voice calm, though it was obvious he was upset, even angry.
