The Sometime Bride (2 page)

A knock sounded at the heavy wooden door to his study. Thomas hastily turned the documents on his desk face down before bidding the person outside to enter. Throughout his fifteen years in Portugal many strangers had found their way into Thomas Audley’s study—soldiers, priests, noblemen, merchants, farmers, fishermen, tavern keepers, students—but somehow, almost at once, he knew this one was special.

As the young man, dressed in rough workman’s clothes, asked for a moment of Senhor Tomás’s time in perfect Castilian Spanish, there was something about the flash of intelligence in the glowing tawny eyes, the arrogant hint of “you’ll be sorry if you don’t, damn your eyes!” Thomas decided his papers could wait. He eyed the young man, little more than a boy, with keen interest.

The arrogant, and musical, carter endured Thomas Audley’s inspection with studied indifference. Never before had anyone dared look at him in such a fashion, as if to read not just his mind but his soul as well. It was a disconcerting experience, but he’d be damned if he’d let it show. Audley would discover he had a surprise or two up his sleeve, torn and dirty though it was.

In the next room—once the domain of Thomas’s wife Elspeth and now the room from which her daughter directed the Audley household—a small figure tiptoed across the rug. She opened a closet door on the side next to Thomas Audley’s study and slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. Catarina had long ago learned she could eavesdrop on her father’s fascinating variety of visitors, and never had she been more eager to do so. With great caution she settled down on the floor of the closet and put her ear to the wall.

“
I’ve spent the last three months traveling across France, Spain, and Portugal,” the young man was saying in the cultured English of London’s upper crust. “A friend in the Foreign Office suggested that if I should survive long enough to make it to Lisbon, I should look you up. He thought you might wish to talk with me.”

And damn my eyes, indeed, thought Thomas Audley, making a heroic effort not to blink at the incongruity of the accent of a British nobleman flowing from the mouth of an ox-cart driver. He opened his lips to tell the boy to thank his friend for steering a customer to the Casa Audley, then thought better of it. Every instinct said this boy truly had friends in high places, and if he had just crossed France, Spain, and Portugal—almost literally one step ahead of the French army—then there was no one Thomas Audley would rather talk to. “Your friend’s name?” he enquired blandly.

The young man, his nonchalant pose still intact despite Thomas Audley’s penetrating regard, gave his informant’s name. There was a moment of silence as Thomas privately acknowledged the boy was very likely telling the truth. “I thought to make the grand tour, Sir,” the erstwhile carter drawled, obviously striving for the ultimate in nonchalance. “Seemed a pity not to do as my father did.”

Young pup!
Thomas had to look down to hide his twitching lips. “Came over with the free traders, I suppose?” he drawled with matching nonchalance.

“
Yes, Sir. Then worked my way through France. Had to pretend to be a bit simple, to explain why I wasn’t part of the
Grande Armée
. Also helped to explain my halting French. Not that I can’t speak it, you understand,” he added hastily, betraying his youth. “It’s just that my French is too good for the role I was playing.”

As the young man warmed to his subject, he came down off his high horse, revealing further glimpses of the eager boy beneath. Intrigued, Thomas waved him to a seat. An hour later Thomas leaned back and regarded the young man with something akin to awe. The boy had not only traveled across two hostile countries but had gone out of his way to observe army encampments and file every scrap of fact and rumor into an amazingly retentive memory. Detailed questioning on certain points brought out a remarkable ability to sketch what he had seen. Also vague references to a French mother and a Spanish grandmother, which would account for his dark coloring and his fluency in both languages.

“
Are you planning to continue your grand tour?” Thomas asked with feigned disinterest.

A question of great importance. In the closet Catarina pressed her ear even tighter to the wall.

“
I had thought to go on to Greece, Sir, but it appears that things may be more lively around here.”

“
Indeed.” Thomas, fingers drumming restlessly on his desk, decided to throw caution to the winds. This boy was almost too good to be true. And far too talented to be allowed to slip away. “Since you already seem to know what I do here, I see no point in denying I could use you. Portugal is trying to remain neutral, but Boney is demanding the ports be closed to British trade. He may very well send an army to force the issue . . . possibly the one you say Junot is putting together. We may all have to run for it before the year is out.”

Thomas paused, shrewd eyes veiled by half-lowered lids. “Perhaps you should continue your tour after all.”

The young man’s reply came without a moment’s pause. “I’ll take my chances here, Sir.”

He was so young . . . so sure of himself, Thomas thought. No doubt the quintessential sprig of a noble British house, too full of nous to be satisfied by the life of a London rakehell. Not even wine, women, gaming, and duels were enough to keep this one occupied. “I suppose you have some knowledge of gaming?” Thomas inquired with only the barest hint of irony.

For the first time the young Englishman smiled. “I’ve been on the town for three years, Sir. I’m considered rather good at cards.”

“
I thought you might be. ”Thomas maintained a commendable calm in the face of rising excitement. It was possible he had found someone capable of learning all he could teach him. “Are we agreed then? I’ll find you a position here at the Casa. Anything else I ask you to do will be decided as we go along.” Agreement was instantaneous, the young man’s eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “You’d best give me a name so I’ll know what to call you,” Thomas added.

An arrested expression crossed the young Englishman’s face. “I call myself Blas, Sir. Just Blas. I’m afraid my real name’s a bit of a problem. It’s my only condition, sir—that no one ever ask me my name or where I come from. You see”—he paused, momentarily betraying a strong discomfort—”my father doesn’t know I’m here. And if he should find out . . . well, he’s not above having me brought back by force.”

“
Shall I be taken up for kidnapping?” Thomas asked, arching an inquiring brow.

“
I’ve reached my majority, Sir. The only one in danger is myself.” The two men measured each other in silence. Thomas Audley would have agreed to a pact with the devil himself to keep the boy in Portugal. A curt nod of his head sealed the bargain.

“
Shall I choose a Portuguese name?” Blas inquired.

“
Spanish, I should think,” Thomas returned after a moment’s consideration. “We’ll discuss it in the morning. It’s time I set up the faro bank. You’ve met Marcio Cardoso? Good. Tell him you are to have food and a bed.”

As Thomas Audley rose from his desk, Blas jumped to his feet. He thrust out his hand. The older man allowed some warmth to color his voice as he said, “Welcome to my house, young Blas.”

Blas
. Catarina savored the name.
Blas
. Very much pleased with the outcome of the conversation, she wiggled her way out of the closet, straightened her hair and clothing and walked lightly across the room. Her timing was poor. As she opened the door, a whirlwind grabbed her, propelling her back into the room. The door was slammed firmly shut behind her.

“
What are you doing here?” Blas demanded, amber eyes ablaze. His grip on her arm was so tight tears sprang to her eyes. In all her fourteen years Catarina had never had cause to fear physical violence. Nearly speechless, she stared at the grim face hovering over her.

No! She would not let him intimidate her! She stopped struggling, straightened to her full height, only to find he still towered over her by at least six inches. “I am Catherine Audley,” she informed him with supreme dignity. In English. “My father owns the Casa Audley. I have been in charge of his household since I was ten. This is my workroom where I prepare menus, keep the accounts, consult with the housekeeper. It is you who are the intruder here, not I.”

“
Daughters of the house don’t wield feather dusters,” he countered with considerable truculence. In truth, the girl’s precise, upper class English, only faintly overlaid with the musical cadence of the Iberian peninsula, had already warned him she was likely telling the truth.

“
They do if they have a Dona Felipa for a
governanta
,” said Catarina with some bitterness. “Shall I ring for someone to tell you exactly who I am?”

She winced, and Blas realized he was still holding her in a grip of iron. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, releasing her, “but if you hadn’t been listening to every word between your father and myself, you would scarcely have spoken to me in English, now would you?”

Fairly caught, Catarina scowled up at him. “My father’s business is a dangerous one, but it is not a secret from me. So listening is only a very little dishonest, you understand?”

“
It’s damned dangerous!” the young man snapped. “Knowing too much always is. You’re to stop it this instant!”

“
And who are you to tell me what to do?” In spite of her fear that her father might hear them, Catarina’s voice rose alarmingly.

“
I’m . . . “ The young Englishman’s voice trailed away as he realized he was nameless, a nobody, his power and authority far less than that of the very young female confronting him. “For the moment,” he conceded, making a deliberate effort to shock her, “I’m Blas the Bastard, the Spanish ox-cart driver. And you are correct, I have absolutely no right to question your conduct.”

Now that his temper had cooled, Blas examined Thomas Audley’s daughter with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He found women delightful. A welcome and necessary part of his life. But this one was beyond delightful. Young as she was, she took his breath away.

Long waves of red gold hair framed a heart-shaped face of classic beauty. Sparks shot from large green eyes set under long lashes so dark he rather thought she must have been into the paint pot. Her nose, a bit larger than one might expect in a face of such porcelain fragility, merely added character to the perfection of her face. Women matured early in Spain and Portugal, and this one seemed to be caught in the flow of the world around her, teetering on the brink between the child on the balcony and the dignified daughter of the house. He wouldn’t mind being around when she fell into womanhood. That alone might be worth his long hazardous journey from England to Portugal by way of France and Spain.

Blas gifted her with the slow, easy, infinitely enigmatic smile which had been intriguing women since he was little older than she. He was offering a truce. But not without having the last word. It was, after all, necessary to his twenty-one-year-old self-esteem. “The French could be here any time now, young Catherine, and knowing anything at all about Thomas Audley and his business could mean your death. We must all learn to be more cautious.”

With the tip of his fingers he touched her chin, running his thumb lightly over her lips. “Keep that lovely mouth shut, child. And your ears away from knotholes. It would be a shame to lose so much beauty while still in bud.”

Reduced to speechless idiocy by sensations far beyond her realm of experience, Catarina darted around him and ran for the door, leaving Blas with a very thoughtful look on his angular bronzed face.

In the course of the next five days not even the youngest stable boy was left unaware that the little
senhorita
was enamored with the young Spaniard who spent so much time talking to Senhor Tomás. It was understood,
naturalamente
, that he was not truly Spanish, for the Senhor would never hire one of the enemy to work at the Casa. So he must be one of the fine English gentlemen who would save them from the Corsican monster.

A proper match for their young mistress, all agreed. At fourteen she was of an age to be married. It was not good to leave such succulent fruit too long on the vine. Sin hovered over the Casa Audley. Such temptation was too much for a man to bear. And the English
cavalheiro
did not appear to be a saint. To be sure, he had not greased the wheels of his cart—had they not all heard the squeal as he approached? But the devil was strong in this one, and possibly the screaming of the wheels had not been enough to frighten the demons away. Heads shook from the kitchen to the stables. Senhor Tomás would have to have a care with this one.

Catarina, blissfully oblivious to the avid interest of her father’s staff, had managed to contrive a half dozen accidental meetings with her hero. She had even been allowed to participate in the choosing of a proper name for her father’s new protégé. Yet for all her effort, her conversations with Blas had been cool and stilted, his manner faintly condescending. A stranger might have taken him for a candidate for holy orders. For Thomas Audley had indeed taken a care, revealing with a notable lack of subtlety his daughter’s precise age and her exalted position in the household. A position which placed her far above an anonymous spy, no matter how bright and talented he might be. As a result, Catarina’s temperament had deteriorated from besotted to hurt to vast indignation. As her anger increased, Blas—who was far from accustomed to being warned off—grew colder. It might be said his attempt to please Thomas Audley had resulted in a fit of the sullens.