The Sometime Bride (28 page)

Catarina locked herself in her room and contemplated her shattered life. The imminent loss of the two people she loved most in the world. The loss of the culture into which she had been born. The unknown world into which she was being forced to go.

When she entered the gaming rooms that night, her eyes were bright and hard, her color courtesy of paint. Her mouth was set in a brittle line which curved in a mechanical smile while her eyes remained cold and disdainful of a world which could be so harsh.

Could it be true? That Blas did not want her? That only honor bound him to her? There were all those strange times when he had not wanted her . . .

She could not, would not, believe it. When the war was over, he would come to her as he had said he would. He would come to this other world, to England. He
would
come.

It might not be marriage he offered, but he would come.

Interim

1813 - The Pyrenees

The rock-walled room was icy cold. Winter had come to the barren, windswept slopes of the high Pyrenees while the dying days of summer still cast warm golden sunlight on the Spanish plains below.

The man bending over a small rude table occasionally put aside his quill pen to flex his stiffening fingers. His chiseled features, sculpted by a craftsman of imperfect skills, glowed amber in the flickering light of the one candle which was precariously perched beside an oversized piece of parchment whose edges flopped over the side of a rickety table. He swore, slapped the paper down as the insistent howling of the mountain wind rose in pitch, penetrating the stone sides of the shepherd’s hut to lift the corners of his precious drawing.

Bloody hell!
Blas anchored the paper with one large, skillful hand and shielded the nearly extinguished candle with the other. The gust blew itself out, the candle steadied and glowed into life. He tossed his overly long mane of black hair back off his face and frowned down at his work, his lips curling into a sneer at the ineptitude of his icy fingers. He’d been making maps for how long? Four years? Five? Six years since he had set out on a summer odyssey and traveled the length of enemy France from Calais to the Pyrenees. Then into Spain, and finally to the great port of Lisbon where he had planned to take ship for Greece.

Greece!
Blas groaned. One look at Catarina Audley, plus an offer of adventure from her father, and he’d cast the lure of ancient Greece to the four winds. And now, after thousands of miles by mule, ox, horse, and shank’s mare, chasing the length and breadth of Portugal and Spain, he had come full circle, huddled in a hut built into the side of a mountain in the high Pyrenees. He was the forerunner of an army which had just accomplished what no army had been able to do before: push Napoleon Bonaparte’s troops back behind the borders of France.

And to march the British army across the Pyrenees from Spain into France, the Marquess of Wellington needed this particular map which seemed to have a mind of its own, rustling and skittering every time Blas’s quill sought to trace the most delicate lines. He swore with considerable fervor, paused to examine his work.

Before him were the intricate details of a pass, the same pass he had trod through these mountains in another lifetime. Silly young fool that he was. Arrogant idiot, more like! He had ridden a mule train from France into Spain right under the noses of Boney’s troops and thought himself very clever indeed. Napoleon’s
Grande Armée
as seen through the eyes of a child! His journey had been little more than a boyish prank. He had barely noticed the spectacular mountain scenery as he congratulated himself on outwitting the enemy. Now, five years later, he saw rushing mountain streams as life’s blood for Wellington’s army, a small plateau as a campsite for a division, giant granite outcroppings as cover from the enemy, a ravine as nature’s trap of death . . .

“
It is late,
querido
. Come to bed.” Strong feminine hands moved beneath the straight black hair which fell below his collar and began to knead his shoulders, providing exquisite relief to his tense muscles. Blas closed his eyes, laid down his pen. As he leaned into the sensual comfort of the woman behind him, she basked in the glow of his roughhewn features and wondered, as she often did, how she had been blessed with so powerful and generous a lover.

For a little while only he was hers. His black hair gleamed in the candlelight. His warmly glowing amber eyes were the color of his skin which had been bronzed by years of Iberian sun and wind. A secret smile touched her lips at the thought of what only she was privileged to know. That the pale color of his most private parts betrayed an origin far to the north of Spain.

Maria Josephina was justifiably proud of her lover. No one who knew Don Blas well ever noticed the irregularity of his face. They saw only a man of towering energy, born to command. His power and quick wit were ruthlessly kept in check behind a façade of nearly blank normality. Don Blas allowed others to see only what he wished them to see.

Though not as tall as some of the fine English officers, Don Blas frequently had to hunch himself into a round-shouldered ball to keep from towering over the other
guerrilleros
. He was lithe, quick, and strong. A very fine lover. And, oh, so clever. How many times had she laughed behind her hands when the proud angles of his face softened into jelly and his brilliant amber eyes grew dim as he sat stolidly on his mule and pretended not to understand a word of a French soldier’s so very bad Spanish. Oh yes, Don Blas was a man of many faces and many names, though he always called himself—with wide-eyed cheerfulness—Blas the Bastard. A joke,
naturalamente
. They all knew he was the Son of a Somebody, no one ever doubted it. An
hidalgo
from Somewhere. Which was why they called him
Don
Blas. He had long ago given up trying to stop them.

He was, Maria knew, far more than a maker of maps. When the
guerrilleros
worked with Don Blas, they were doing more than killing the enemy. They were part of a greater force, driving the French dogs forever from Spain. And that was reason enough to do anything he wanted. Including warming his bed. Her lips curved into a smile. A most willing sacrifice, that—making sure that Don Blas was warm and well fed. And comforted.

Maria Josephina leaned forward and brushed her lips down his cheek, her long black hair mixing with his, falling across his sleeveless leather jacket into his lap. Definitely more provocation than even the most dedicated spy could stand. In a blur of movement Blas shoved the rickety table with the precious map to one side, caught the candle and the inkwell before they obliterated his past week’s work, and swept Maria into his lap. Cold forgotten, his mouth searched hers in a sudden furious attempt to blot out this miserable hovel in the midst of nowhere. “Damn it, woman!” he swore in frustration as his hand fought to find the bottom of her many layers of skirts.

“
Not here! Come to bed,
mi corazon
,” she breathed against his lips. “Not even for you will I freeze myself!”

Since he was as single-minded in his love-making as he was in his work, Blas paid her no mind, returning to his search with renewed determination which was soon rewarded by the warmth of a finely shaped bare leg. As his hand slid gradually upward, he deepened his exploration of her mouth.

Even as he attempted to lose himself in Maria’s ever willing warmth, he was aware their days together were numbered. He would not take her into France. When the British army moved through the passes he was mapping, Maria Josephina, the
guerrilleros
, even the Spanish regulars would not be with them. Five years of French occupation had seen such atrocities in Spain that Wellington was willing to send the Spanish half of his army home rather than turn them loose on the French population. In any event Blas would not risk the reverse for Maria Josephina. She had been with him for most of the war. He was not a poor man—she would live well and never again have to take a lover. Unless she wished to.

But their time together was nearly over. Suddenly the whole damn war came crashing down on his head. Blessed be the fact Maria never wore anything under her quantity of skirts. His fingers plunged inside her. He buried himself in the feel of her, the warmth and wetness of her. His lips bruised her mouth as he felt his flesh rise to aching hardness.

A knock on the slatted wood door went unheard. A second knock. The knotty boards abruptly swung back. Marcio Cardoso’s brown eyes flashed their disapproval.

“
Marcio?
” It was not an attack of modesty, or even guilt, which froze Blas in his chair. There was only one reason for Marcio to be here. His old friend had not made the hazardous five-hundred mile journey from Lisbon to the Pyrenees to bring him good news.

Blas had been trained from birth to show no emotion, and what lay beneath the surface had been well scorched in the crucible of war. With rigid calm he touched his lips to Maria Josephina’s jet black hair, pulled her skirts down over her knees, gently set her on her feet. She stood, looking uncertainly from her lover to the intruder, and back again. Tension charged the icy air.

“
Don Alexis.” The young Portuguese regarded his old friend with cold eyes, his words and tone stiff with formality. In the old days he and Blas might have roistered their way through Lisbon, but somehow Marcio had not pictured this particular ending to his long, arduous journey. It was not fitting. He stood stubbornly in the doorway, saying nothing.

“
Brandy, Maria!” Blas growled. “Then leave us.”

Silently, she did as she was told. After making a show of wiping two clay mugs with her shawl, she poured from a bottle of France’s finest which rested on the stone floor not far from the small table. A last worried frown at the two men, then she left to join the
guerrilleros
who were clustered around a smoky fire in the outer room.

“
Well?” Blas ground out. “I doubt you’ve come to tell me Boney’s resurrected the French navy and is sailing up the Tagus. Tell me quickly. Is it Tomás? Out with it!”

“
Charming as ever, I see. Do you think I might have the privilege of speaking with Don Alejo instead?” Marcio downed his brandy in one swallow, almost banging the mug down on the map before he saw what it was. With a growl of exasperation he retrieved the brandy bottle from the floor where Maria had left it and poured a refill.

Blas closed his eyes, rubbed his long fingers across his forehead. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
. I am a fool and a bastard, and at this particular moment speaking in the civilized tones of Don Alejo Perez de Leon isn’t going to make me any nicer. In the name of God, tell me what’s happened.”

Marcio tossed off his second brandy, then carefully placed the mug on the floor beside the bottle. Slowly, he unfastened the many layers of his heavy clothing, retrieving a letter from an inner pocket. Blas had not been aware of the full extent of his fear until he recognized the writing on the envelope. Things were not quite the worst case he could imagine. It was Cat’s hand. She at least was still among the living. After motioning his old friend to a seat on the bed, Blas broke the seal on the letter. Turning in his chair, he held the closely written lines up to the thin glow of the candle.

The sound of men’s voices, a woman’s giggle drifted through the rough slatted door. Wood smoke. The ripe odor of unwashed bodies. A foreign world. Marcio was suddenly grateful his role in the war had been to guard the Casa Audley and its residents.

When Blas finally lowered the letter to the table, Marcio murmured, “I am sorry, very sorry. Senhor Tomás was a great man. I know you truly cared for him.”

“
He was more of a father than my own,” Blas admitted. And a friend as well.” Emotions, long stifled, threatened to overwhelm him. “Do you know when Catarina goes to England?” he asked with care. Marcio would, of course, tell him Cat had refused to leave. She would be there in the Casa Audley, where she had always been. Waiting for him.

“
She does not wish to go,” Marcio replied blandly, “but it was necessary to notify the English immediately because of Senhor Tomás’s work. It is expected someone will come soon to go through his papers and take Catarina back to London.”

Blas dropped his head into his hands. Thomas had done it. Just as he said. Cat, his Cat, was going to England.

Hidalgos
did not sit with their heads clutched in their hands. Nor the sons of English noblemen. Nor bastards. Blas lifted his head, straightened his shoulders, his face a grim version of the bland mask Don Alejo always wore so well.

“
I am sorry for this,” he said, waving his hand to encompass the tiny room. By birth and upbringing he was unaccustomed to apologizing for anything, but he was not above guilt at being caught with his mistress by Marcio Cardoso. “You have reason enough to know I am no saint, but I could have wished you had come five minutes earlier. Guilt on top of grief is not at all comfortable.”

“
It is forgotten.”

“
But not forgiven, I think.” A rueful smile curled Blas’s generous lips. “Go warm yourself by the fire—Maria will find you some food. I need time alone.” He stood, clasped his old friend in a hug which brought sharp memories of a time when he was first learning a new and warmer culture. It was Marcio who had shown him how to laugh without cynicism, to love without a veil of ennui. A luxury, an indulgence, Blas could no longer afford.