Kate Moore (7 page)

Still, Meg was unlike any woman he had known. Another woman would have feigned interest or desire to get close enough to take the papers, or used her own body as a lure to draw him close. But Meg had no notion of the power she might have over him. He meant to leave her innocent, but it was so tempting to tease her, to watch her unguarded eyes reveal her honest feelings. From the beginning her honesty attracted him. He wondered how long she would hold on to the truth in this conflict with him. He would be sorry, he realized, if she gave up and began to lie. He could, of course, tell her who he was and what he was attempting to do, but he could not offer her marriage. As a baron’s daughter, an heiress, she could not marry him; and as long as she continued to think him a thief and a traitor, she would not consider marrying him even though he had compromised her. So great was her contempt for his misdeeds that she had yet to say his name.

Of course, her regarding him as a traitor also meant she was likely to endanger herself in a foolish cause. He had been furious this morning at the possibility that she might expose herself to rape or worse at the hands of the shaggy man. Indeed, he had told himself that his use of force against her was justified to keep her from harm, but now in the darkness beside her he doubted his reasoning. Perhaps he had used force against her because he had wanted, just for a moment, to hold her. She was not a great beauty. Aboard ship in her bedraggled muslin, she had looked like something of an urchin. In a London ballroom he might have overlooked her. Their gazes might never have met as they had in the library of Haddon. But when he held her, he felt her womanliness, and the widow’s habit he had found for her confirmed what he had discovered that morning—her form was softly rounded and fuller than he thought. Still it was only the circumstances of the game, this pretense of theirs, which had reminded him in such a distracting way of the desires of the flesh. He was glad for the long days of riding and constant danger ahead. These nights in Oporto had been like a rest period agreed to by the players in a game; now he must summon his energies to play in earnest again.

6

I
N THE DAYS
that followed, Margaret found herself more than a little embarrassed at the absurdity of her resolve to delay them. It had dismayed Drew as much as a child’s threats might dismay a giant. For from the moment they began, it was clear to her that her thief never intended to hurry to his meeting with the Viper.

***

The horses were placid beasts, unwilling to respond to a rider’s urging except to avoid the spur or the lash. Drew, who rode the wind-swift Phantom, must have known the quality of such animals at a glance. The narrow roads rose and fell sharply with the contours of the steep valley, and often their party was obliged to stop for one of the great oxcarts, enormous cargo piled high and wide, solid wooden wheels shrieking.

Drew showed an exaggerated concern for Margaret’s comfort that led to frequent stops. And Esau, though ostensibly the leader of their party, was more apt to delay them than Margaret was. Every morning of their journey, it required a bucket of cold water from Jacob to rouse his sleeping brother. Esau would emerge bellowing, his hair and beard streaming with sparkling rivulets, his eyes promising vengeance against his brother. At a bland word from Drew, however, the big man would merely grunt and shake his shaggy head, sending cold drops flying.

This dilatoriness on Drew’s part puzzled Margaret, for he had revealed to her that the value of the papers he meant to sell the French lay in part in the timeliness of their getting into French hands. Perhaps he did not wish the French to have the papers after all. She decided to test her theory with some delays of her own.

Whenever a bend in the road allowed a long view of the river below, she would pause. Unlike the lazy streams of England, the Douro was swollen and rushing, in some lights brown and in others silver, eddying and swirling around great boulders along the shore. Above it on either side rose steep, terraced hills, like wonderful cakes with hundreds of layers, each narrow layer green with the shoots of new grain, or white and pink with blossoming trees or vines in their unmistakable pattern of interlocking branches. At each delay Drew only smiled and pointed in the distance to some white village, dazzling against the surrounding green, looking as if no war had ever touched these hills. They would ride on.

Once Margaret stopped to watch the oddest vessel she had ever seen. It was a long narrow boat with a single sail bellying out over a cargo of casks on the forward deck, but the strangest thing about it was that the steersman in the stern stood high up on a crude lattice structure, rapidly swinging a great, long steering oar that trailed far behind the craft itself.

“Now there’s a swift mode of travel for you, Meg,” said Drew at her side.

“What is it?” she asked, turning to him for the first time that day. In the morning light, pale under low clouds, he was again the golden youth he had been when the earl’s lamp lit his features. She lowered her gaze from his.

“It is one of the
barcos rabelos
, boats with tails, that bring the port down to the aging sheds,” he said. “They are shallow enough to shoot the rapids, and the long oar makes them easy to turn. Should you like to ride one?”

When she hesitated, he spoke again. “You cannot tell me that the mare you are riding pleases you or that you would not rather gallop.”

At this bit of teasing she dared to raise her eyes again. His hair made her think of the fairy tale of the straw spun into gold.

“You knew about the horses all along,” she said.

“It is not our party that must hasten to this meeting,” he said. “The Viper, when he hears we are up the Douro, will move swiftly enough. In some village will be his henchman who will report that a man wants to buy green wine; only then will the Viper come out of his rocky fastness to find us.”

“Why must he be so cautious?” she asked.

“Because the
guerillas
of Don Julian Sanchez and others also move in these hills. They have yet to let a French dispatch get through.”

There was little comfort for Margaret in these words. Her thief did not have to hurry as she had supposed, and the
guerillas
posed a new danger, for what if these fierce fighters for their nation’s independence from French rule should come upon them and suspect their purpose? Perhaps her only course lay in staying with the thief long enough to discover where the papers ended up. She said nothing of her fears, asking instead about green wine.

“It isn’t green, of course,” said Drew, laughing. “
Vinhos verdes
are lemon-colored or rosy; the ‘green’ means they are young wines.” He gestured across the river at the tiered landscape. “The growing season is not long enough or hot enough at this end of the Douro for port grapes, but some of these young wines are quite good, light and sparkling, almost like champagne, or a pretty girl.”

“Veenyoosh verdish,” she repeated, mimicking his pronunciation, then falling silent as the import of his last words struck her. She did not know where to look. It seemed he would always disconcert her, always have the upper hand. She meant to match wits with him, not lose her own in gawking at him.

“You have a good ear for language, Meg,” he said. “How much have you understood in this last week?”

On this safe subject she could answer him. “I understand more each day.”

“Good,” he said, “though best perhaps if our companions do not realize how much you understand. The village where we will make our next inquiries about green wine lies not too far ahead. Tell me if you wish to stop at any time along the way.”

He rode ahead then to confer with the brothers, leaving her to ponder the beauties of the landscape, the dangers of her adventure, and the contradictions of her companion’s character.

They had not journeyed many days when Margaret came to a better understanding of herself. Daily she thought of her missed opportunities for escape. For each one a number of reasonable objections came to mind just as they had at each earlier step along the way, but however reasonable her objections, the point she must face was that her mind objected to leaving him. Drew’s taking her had exactly answered her own wishes. She had not wanted to return to London, ever, and each step of this odd journey had removed her farther from any chance of such a return. It had been days since she had thought of any of her past humiliations or of her mother’s hopes for her.

The truth was she wanted this adventure, an un-ladylike admission that both dismayed her and gave her a curious satisfaction. She wanted to match wits with her thief, had wanted to almost from the moment she had stopped him in the library at Haddon. It was as if he had challenged her to a game.

At her mount’s sluggish pace they plodded up and down the undulating river road for hours each day, the breeze at their backs, the sun, behind them, occasionally obscured by rain clouds. They passed dozens of villages, drawing stares felt but not seen, as if the houses had eyes. The eyes of their guides were often on her, too, and the feeling of being watched was one she now recognized instantly.

Then late one morning, at a place where the river changed, becoming more turbulent and muddy, they reined in before a low building. Beneath its tile roof was an open area of tables on a dirt floor. A crowd of little boys surrounded them, apparently shouting their willingness to do anything that might earn a coin from the elegantly dressed strangers. Even the patrons of the tavern rose from their chairs, enlivened by curiosity. Surely none of these was connected with the Viper, she thought. There followed the conversation for which Drew had prepared her.

Esau began their inquiry, meeting at first skeptical stares. The man’s temper flared at once, causing the villagers to fall silent. Then Drew spoke in English and Portuguese.

“
Boa tarde, senhores
,” he began. “We are looking for green wines, your
vinhos verdes
. Perhaps you can recommend a fine vineyard,
quinta
?” he queried.

A spokesman, a man wiping his hands on a far-from-white apron, bowed and nodded and began to question Drew. “What did you wish, your excellency?” Jacob translated. “Something light and fruity,
branco?
Or something full and well-balanced,
tinto?
”

“Something for lovely ladies, something that sparkles as they do,” Drew replied, and when this remark was translated, it seemed to be a cue for grins and jokes all round, at one of which, the crowd shouted appreciatively, and Margaret found herself the center of all eyes. She felt her cheeks heat instantly and lowered her gaze.

“Even in England,” Drew went on, “I have heard of Aveleda and Castel Garcia, but you must know where the best wines of the Douro are to be found.”

There was a brief, noisy debate, incomprehensible to Margaret. Then once more the spokesman was allowed to speak for all. “Do not be deceived, your excellency,” came the translation. “There are no wines better than those of Senhor Fregata. Southsiders may make claims for the wines of Lamega, but the angle of the sun is such that the wines of the north bank must be superior.” Again there was a general cheer of assent.

They were escorted out of the village, the last little boy following them until the few houses along the river were out of sight around a curve in the road. Clouds still rushed by on the breeze overhead, but their way was now steep and slow, or the drone of bees made it seem so. They ascended through uncultivated land, woods, and rocks. Hiding places, Margaret thought, conscious now that they had entered the region where the mysterious Viper operated. Yet no one appeared along the road or behind any of the outcroppings of granite. Only clouds piled up overhead.

Late in the afternoon they reached a tree-lined, cobbled drive. Esau was sent ahead to inquire if they would be received, and when he reported that the
senhor
himself wished to welcome them, they passed along the shady drive to the Quinta Fregata, a gracious manor unlike any structure they had seen so far in the country. Servants met them and helped them to dismount, and then the
Senhor
stepped out from the deep shade of an overhanging roof. Senhor Fregata looked like any English gentleman at home in the country. Indeed, in height and figure he resembled Margaret’s father, but his hair was darker and thicker, his face tanned and lined, his chin dented and his smile very wide. “
Boa tarde, boa tarde
,” he said. “You are most welcome, most welcome,
senhor, senhora
.” This effusion of delight made Margaret feel decidedly uncomfortable. It had not occurred to her that they would deceive ordinary people, people who looked like her father.

“
Boa tarde
,” returned, Drew, stepping forward and extending his hand for the one their host was offering. “It is most kind of you to offer your hospitality to strangers,
senhor
. We were beginning to fear we would be caught in a storm.” He gestured at the threatening sky above them.

“Permit me to introduce myself and my bride,” he continued. The word jolted Margaret.
Bride
 . . . It was what her mother wanted her to be. It had been the aim of Margaret’s London season, but in London the word had conjured up visions of dresses and dinners and gatherings of relatives. Hearing it now on her thief’s lips, it meant being claimed by a man, this man; it meant the intimacy of traveling together and other intimacies that lay beyond the bounds of what was proper for her to think. She blushed more furiously than she had at any of Drew’s earlier teasing.

“Andrew Summers, wine merchant, and my wife, Margaret,” he said smoothly, as if well-practiced in the deception, and as he spoke, he drew Margaret forward to make her curtsy and accept her host’s handshake. Reluctantly she offered the
senhor
her hand, fearful that he would feel its unnatural heat as her whole body seemed to blush, and glad for the riding gloves that concealed her ringless fingers. When she could, she shot a quick glance of reproach at Drew for his blatant lie. She found Jacob staring at her. She lifted her chin and attempted to return his calculating look with a cool gaze of her own.

They were still standing in front of the house when lightning flashed and the first thunder rolled over them, bringing a downpour. Servants scrambled to snatch the baggage or lead the horses off, while Margaret and Drew were ushered inside. Their host preceded them, chatting happily to Drew in English and shouting orders unrestrainedly in Portuguese. Maids came running with a rustle of skirts and soft murmurings. Margaret could hardly look about her. She could not believe that she was about to impose on this unsuspecting man.

From above them as they ascended a large central stair came the excited chattering of distinctly young voices. Senhor Fregata stopped mid-sentence, clapped his hands sharply, and barked some order. Margaret was so startled at the sudden change in his tone that she looked up to see who could have earned a rebuke from so apparently amiable a man. All that she saw, however, was a flash of white skirts through the dark railings. She could not help but turn to her host who was looking most shamefaced. Her own expression must have betrayed something of her curiosity and surprise, for he confessed, “My daughters.”

Margaret was still wondering at his embarrassment over his children when they reached a room of comfortable proportions and cheerful furnishings. Senhor Fregata himself pointed out the room’s features and inquired anxiously if it would suit them, as if, finding the room lacking in the elegance to which they were accustomed, they would prefer to depart in a thunderstorm rather than stay another minute under his roof. Margaret had to admire her thief for his ability to reassure the older man and to express how grateful they were for this hospitality. But she could not wait to take him to task for his latest dishonesty.

She stood at the window, tugging at her gloves and watching the rain wash over vineyards and forest until the last of the servants left the room. In the ensuing silence the rain whispered against the distant trees, drummed on the roof, clattered down some drainpipe, and splashed against the broad-leaved plants below. Behind her, the fire set when they entered popped loudly. She turned to find her companion leaning against the mantel, regarding her thoughtfully. They had shared many rooms now, but his claiming her as his bride awakened that consciousness of him that, strive as she might, Margaret could not entirely overcome.