Kate Moore (8 page)

“This is very bad of you,” she began.

“I know,” he said, but his gaze did not waver.

“It was wrong to steal the earl’s papers and worse to attempt to sell them to the French, though you have not yet done so,” she continued, cataloging his crimes but determined to be just. “And it was wrong to deceive Croisset and knock him out and steal his purse though he is perhaps a worse villain than you are, and . . .”

“And it was most wrong to abduct you,” he added, straightening and facing her directly. His willingness to accept her rebuke made her forget momentarily what she meant to say next.

“I do not blame you for that.” she managed, her self-knowledge making her look away from the blue eyes gazing so intently into hers. “For I . . . I should have resisted you more from the start. But surely it is not necessary to take this pretense of ours so far that we must impose on Senhor Fregata. After all, to signal the Viper you have only to give the appearance of looking for green wine.”

“Do you wish to leave?” he asked. “It is certainly possible, even now, though, I confess, I do not wish to get a soaking nor do I wish to disappoint the
senhor
, who seems so pleased to have our company.” She had thought that too, that their host seemed extraordinarily pleased to welcome them.

“But it is a violation of everything decent to accept the comforts due a guest under such false pretenses. Could we not stay in some village or town nearby as we have before?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied, “but I hardly think a baron’s daughter would prefer such accommodations as are available in this region.”

“I would rather put up with some discomfort than lie to good people.”

“You are willing, however, to lie to bad people?”

“No,” she protested, “I only meant that I have been cold and wet and hungry before.” Her companion raised an eyebrow. “Or if not so very uncomfortable, I could learn to be so.”

“I am glad to hear you say it because very likely you will be cold and wet and hungry before we are through with this game.”

“Game? Is it a game to lie to the
senhor?
”

He winced at her scorn as if she had caused him pain. “If I do think of our adventure as a game, an exercise of wits against a clever opponent, there is little I can lose in your estimation, is there?”

Margaret looked at the floor. Did he care then for her good opinion? And wasn’t the game what she herself had admitted she enjoyed? But she had not thought others could be hurt in it. To lie to Croisset and the brothers did not trouble her conscience as perhaps it should, but the
senhor
was so like her father. What would her parents think if they knew the disgraceful role she had to play while traveling with her thief?

“Did you have to say we were married?” she asked, looking up. “I do not even have a ring.”

“So,” he said, his expression quite unreadable, “it is the particular lie that bothers you.” He came toward her then, removing the ring from his little finger, and took her left hand. Solemnly he slid the ring down her finger. But the sensation did not stop there. It traveled up her arm like the spark up a fuse in a fireworks display she had seen at Bath.

She looked at the heavy gold with the single bright stone and, withdrawing her hand from his, turned away. She did not wish him to see her burning cheeks.

“I know it is not what you would choose,” he said to her back. “I know you will accuse me of sophistry, but when Senhor Fregata sees you as my wife, he sees more nearly the truth than he could any other way. He sees a respectable young woman who deserves to be treated as a lady; and whatever your circumstances, Meg, you are a lady, and you have done nothing to merit his disrespect.”

“Yes, I have,” she said, momentarily reckless in her distress. “I have chosen the company of a thief and a traitor over the difficulties of escape.”

She meant the words as a self-reproach but saw in his bleak expression that he had taken her words as a further condemnation of himself. He was so still she thought for a moment that he had stopped breathing. Then he moved, settling himself with apparent casualness in a chair by the fire and stretching his legs out before him.

“I beg your pardon,” she whispered. “I promised not to call you such names.”

“Do not refine on it too much,” he advised. He stared at his boots, saying nothing, while Margaret wondered how to restore him to his customary teasing ways.

“Meg,” he said at last, “there will be less hypocrisy in playing my . . . wife tonight than you will meet with in a morning call in half the drawing rooms of London.” He paused. “But rest assured, I shall not ask you to deceive any more unsuspecting hosts. For the remainder of our journey we will make our beds where we can.”

“Thank you,” she said, puzzled that this victory over him should leave her feeling so dispirited. “Truly, I would prefer to be cold or hungry than to . . . lie again,” she finished.

At that he laughed. “I doubt we will be so very cold, and you cannot imagine that our large companion will ever allow our party to starve.”

“You mean Esau, I suppose, but he is not very nice in his choice of foods. I suspect he will eat things that you and I might find most unpalatable.”

“Esau?” he queried.

She blushed. “For Esau and Jacob,” she explained. “I have been calling them that in my mind because they remind me of the biblical brothers—the one, dominated by his appetites, and the other, calculating. They are always on the edge of a quarrel.” She was surprised at the end of this explanation to find him looking at her with every appearance of admiration.

“I know it is a bit of foolishness,” she confessed.

“No, it isn’t, Meg; it’s quite perceptive.” His praise was even more disconcerting than his teasing, and she meant to prove him wrong about her astuteness.

“But I can hardly claim to be perceptive about such things. You see I have no brothers or sisters myself. And though I do have cousins, I can only guess about such family relations from what I read, and perhaps stories are not so very reliable a guide. This Esau and Jacob quite puzzle me. They seem enemies as much as brothers.”

“Nothing should puzzle you less,” he said frankly, but his eyes did not meet hers. “Brothers always make the most bitter enemies.” There could be no doubt from his tone that he spoke from experience, but Margaret could not question him, for there was a knock on the door and the quiet maids entered, bringing a tub and towels and kettles of hot water.

“Where is your book, Meg?” asked the thief.

7

S
ENHOR
F
REGATA BEAMED
at them as they entered his drawing room.

“Good evening, good evening,” he said. He had changed into a satin coat and breeches so outmoded that they reminded Margaret of adult gatherings to which, as a child, she had been admitted only to make her curtsy. He bowed to her and shook the thief’s hand heartily. There were compliments for Margaret’s wine-colored silk that made her blush to match the gown.

“Sit, sit,” the
senhor
urged, waving his arm at a group of ornately carved chairs. With his forefinger he drew a quick circle in the air, a signal at which two footman and the butler stepped forward. These offered wine to Margaret and Drew almost before they could seat themselves.

“So,” said the
senhor
, “welcome to the Quinta Fregata. Drink, drink.” He raised his glass to them, and the thief raised his in return, offering a Portuguese phrase that brought an even broader smile to their host’s face.

When the
senhor
had seated himself and they had all sipped their wine, he began again. “Green wine?” he asked. “It is not what Englishmen want, I think.”

“Perhaps not,” Drew replied, “but English ladies need something besides ratafia and orgeat.”

“True, true,” the
senhor
agreed, “but our green wines do not travel well.”

“We will find a way,” Drew assured him. “Even the Romans shipped wine all over the Mediterranean.”

“You will do this alone?” It was a question age was bound to ask of youth.

“I have friends who will help me,” said Drew, naming one of the great port houses. “If I can provide them with a wine worthy of their efforts, they have agreed to ship it.” Margaret marveled at the ease with which he spun out his fiction. She could almost believe him, and she was sure the
senhor
did.

“A worthy wine!” The
senhor
laughed and held up his glass in which the pale liquid gleamed like gold. “How did you come to hear of our wines, Mr. Summers? You have been to our country before perhaps?”

“Some years ago,” came the reply. It was as much as he had admitted to Margaret earlier, and she listened carefully for that note of reserve in his voice that always meant he was telling the truth.

“But you were not then looking for wine?” the
senhor
queried.

“No,” said Drew, refusing to meet Margaret’s eye though she gazed at him steadily.

“Perhaps you came as a soldier?” the
senhor
continued, seeming unaware of his guest’s reticence.

“Yes,” was all the reply.

“I guessed it, I guessed it. Were you with Moore?”

“No, I came with Wellington’s forces when the command passed to him. He was mere Sir Arthur then.”

“Then you were at Oporto,” concluded the
senhor
, slapping his thigh.

“Yes, I was,” agreed Drew, suddenly grinning at the other man, apparently unable to resist the
senhor’s
interest. “Soult thought your river was all the guard he needed.”

“But you crossed it, and a Portuguese led the way, a Portuguese,” he insisted. “Ah, what a day, what a day for us.”

“It was that. You should have seen the luncheon Soult meant to eat.” Drew began to list the elaborate dishes left by the fleeing French and calmly eaten by the great Wellington himself.

“Well, well, we shall hope to serve you as well this evening. Come, come, we dine.”

Once again Senhor Fregata gestured, and his footmen with perfect symmetry of motion reached to pull open the double doors of the drawing room. As they did so, there came a frightened squeal, and the doors swung in to reveal three little girls with identical dark curls and eyes, identical white dresses, and identical expressions of fear. They were holding hands so that they resembled a string of paper dolls such as Margaret’s mother had made for her as a child. The youngest had fallen, and thus there was no possibility of escape for the eavesdroppers. The
senhor
looked wrathful, but before he could speak, Drew knelt and lifted the littlest to her feet. Then he bowed to them, saying good evening in their own tongue.

The
senhor
seemed to recover from his surprise so that when the three pairs of great dark eyes turned to him again, their expression pleading, he relented.

“Mrs. Summers, Mr. Summers, these are my daughters, Gabriella, Elena, and Ines.” Each girl dipped a curtsy and rushed to hug the
senhor
. Again Margaret wondered at the odd mixture of pride and embarrassment in him as he presented his children. Her next thought was like a pang. How easy for a young child to please a parent. Before her London season she had hugged her own father just so a thousand times and received his answering embrace. The
senhor
spoke, apparently promising his reluctant children some treat, for they relinquished their hold on him and went off happily. Margaret found Drew observing her closely and looked away. She gave a little start to see Jacob watching as well from the shadows under the stair.

At dinner their host was as lively and full of talk as he had been from the moment of their arrival, so that Margaret and the thief were called upon to do more than their share of eating. And there seemed no end to the delicacies the
senhor
meant to press upon them. The momentary fear that had assailed her when she discovered Jacob watching them faded from her mind as the
senhor
questioned her companion about the details of campaigns and battles. Her thief could not be lying about such things, her heart told her, but her mind mocked her with a recollection of his own words, Men see what they think to see. Could he have been part of Wellington’s army and now be willing to betray a man he had served, men who had been his comrades? She could not believe it, but if he were not a thief and a traitor, why was he trying to sell the earl’s papers to the French?

A sudden silence between her two companions brought Margaret’s thoughts back to the conversation.

“I never hear of the action now,” the
senhor
was saying. “My son refuses to come home.” For a moment he seemed to dwell on some inner sorrow; then once again he was gay and voluble, urging them up from the table and into the drawing room.

The tea tray arrived, but the senhor’s preoccupation continued. He broke off his remarks mid-sentence and looked repeatedly at the double doors.

“Will your daughters join us?” asked Margaret, recalling the evenings in her childhood when her father had read to her and suspecting that the
senhor
very much wished to be with his children.

“Do not keep them out on our account, please,” said Drew, taking a seat beside Margaret on a low couch. Senhor Fregata looked from one to the other of his guests.

“We have so few visitors, you see,” he explained. “And my son comes not at all, not at all.” He hesitated like a man about to plunge into cold water. “They are my
natural
daughters, you see,” he said at last. He seemed to fear that Margaret and Drew would take offense at this revelation of the illegitimacy of his children and depart immediately, but he allowed himself to be persuaded by his guests, and the little girls were sent for. The servant dispatched, Senhor Fregata became cheerful again and eager to tell them his story.

“My son refuses to come home while they are here, but I will not cast them off,” he told Margaret and Drew. “There is little enough I can do for them now. Oh, they will have tutors and finery and great dowries, great dowries, but not all the wealth of this
quinta
will get them the respectable matches they deserve.” He opened his arms in an expansive gesture, then dropped them. “When I became a widower, I meant to marry their mother, but my son would not hear of it. While I thought I might persuade him, I delayed. Now it is too late.” Again he seemed to be lost in contemplation of some inner vision. “Ines is dead.” The
senhor
laughed bitterly. “Ines is dead. It is what you English call irony,” he concluded, “a joke, is it not?”

Margaret looked to Drew, puzzled by the
senhor’s
words. Was Ines the mother of the
senhor’s
children? What did he mean it was a joke?

Drew took Margaret’s hand, and intent as she was on what he might explain, she allowed him to hold it.

“It is a saying in Portugal that one uses when the opportunity for action has passed, when there is no longer any point in doing what one intended,” explained Drew. “
It’s too late; Ines is dead
. Senhor Fregata is telling us that the death of
his
Ines recalls the saying. There is a story behind the saying, is there not,
senhor
? A love story?” Drew asked as Margaret withdrew her hand.

The arrival of the little girls with their nurse interrupted just then. Shyly each came forward to curtsy, encouraged by nods and smiles from their papa. Then he held out his arms to them, and the little girls scampered up onto his lap. There was an interval of squirming and arranging, accompanied by giggles, until all three children had managed to get as close as possible to their father. He whispered to them, and they became still, looking up with faces at once content and expectant. Margaret recognized the expression, the look of a child about to be told a story. She was sure she had looked at her father in just that way many times.

“Once, very long ago,” the
senhor
began, pausing after each phrase to translate for his children, “there was a handsome, brave prince named Pedro for whom the king had arranged a marriage with a lady of Castile. Their marriage was to end the wars between Portugal and Castile. Pedro, who had not yet fallen in love with any woman, agreed to wed the lady his father had chosen. He journeyed to Castile, and they were wed in a great ceremony. His bride thought him handsome, and she liked being a princess with many attendants, but Pedro’s heart remained untouched. Pedro returned to his own country to prepare a welcome for his bride, and she soon followed. As a princess, she brought with her from Castile many ladies-in-waiting. The loveliest among them was Ines Pires de Castro. Pedro fell instantly in love with her.”

In his soft, rich voice, the
senhor
went on telling of the death of the princess, the secret marriage of Pedro and Ines, and ten happy years. Then the
senhor
described the return of the old trouble with Castile and the fear and suspicion of the court toward the woman who had such a hold over the prince. He told of the confusion and vacillation of the old king, the ruthless pressure of Ines’ enemies, the heartless men who went in secret and slit Ines’ throat.

At that Margaret gasped. Perhaps such things happened in novels, but her knowledge of history was vague on horrors. Once again, she allowed Drew to take her hand.

“When Pedro discovered what had happened in his absence, he was furious. His advisors counseled peace in vain. ‘It is too late,’ he said, ‘Ines is dead.’ He waged war against his father and won. He hunted down the men who had killed his wife and had their hearts torn from their bodies. Still his anger could not be satisfied. He had Ines’ body taken from the grave and dressed as befit a queen, a crown on her skull. He locked all the nobles and their wives in the church at Coimbra and made them come forward one by one to kneel to his queen.

“His vengeance was nearly complete. He made all join in a procession of honor, accompanying Ines’ coffin to the magnificent tomb he had prepared for her, all white and delicately carved. Then he waited to die. Oh, he did his duty, ruled his country, engaged in the pastimes of a prince, but meanwhile he prepared his own tomb, directly facing that of Ines. And he waits still, buried in his tomb, his feet at Ines’ feet. He waits for Judgment Day, for on that day, when the dead awake, he and Ines shall sit up, and the first thing each shall see is the other’s face.”

The
senhor’s
voice was soft as he ended the tale. His youngest daughter was asleep; the other two lay limply in his arms. He appeared much affected by the story, tears streaming down his cheeks past an incongrously happy smile. Drew squeezed Margaret’s hand gently, and she stiffened at the reminder of the intimacy she had been allowing, enjoying.

“Mrs. Summers,” he said softly but with wicked emphasis, “shall we help the
senhor?
” She caught his meaning at once. They rose and crossed to their host. Drew lifted the youngest girl and laid her gently on the couch he and Margaret had left. Margaret helped the older two to stand. When the
senhor
was free of his charming burden, he pulled forth his handkerchief to dab his eyes and gestured to his footmen.

The servants hurried about at his command while their host, somewhat recovered from the emotions that had overcome him, urged his guests to treat his house as if it were their own. Drew pleaded Margaret’s weariness. A brief, muted debate followed. Then the nurse appeared. With quiet efficiency, she assisted the
senhor
in leading his sleepy children off to bed.

“Good night, good night,” he whispered. “It has been a great pleasure, a great pleasure.”

In the now-quiet drawing room Margaret felt how strong had been the influence of the
senhor’s
story and the love it celebrated. It was a love like no love she had ever heard of outside of poetry. Yet the
senhor
told of it with the conviction of one who had lived such a love. It was not the gentle blend of affection and irritation that her parents lived by, and it was certainly not what they meant by the phrases with which they had described their expectations for Margaret’s season. Ines and Pedro had hardly made “a proper alliance,” or a “suitable connection.” No, their sort of love was exhilarating, indifferent to society. She understood perfectly why the
senhor
had smiled through his tears and why she herself had been unmoved by the prospect of a proper marriage.

She and Drew were standing together, facing the door. Somehow, without intending to, she had fallen into the role he had assigned her, and it had been rather pleasant. With deliberate casualness she moved away from him.