The Sometime Bride (20 page)

His search did not take long. Four marvelously sturdy wine barges were tucked up under the cliffs, strung together in a long line invisible to anyone not sitting in a boat right in front of them. His return trip to the south bank was also uneventful. An hour later he crossed the river yet again, accompanied by six Portuguese volunteers—a barber, a Prior and four farmers. By ten-thirty that morning an advance guard of Britain’s finest, thirty to a barge, crossed the Douro into Porto. At first, they barricaded themselves inside the square walls of the Seminary. Then, finding no opposition, they moved out into the city itself. The French pickets, finally realizing they were being invaded, simply abandoned their posts and fled. The good citizens of Porto swarmed out of their hiding places, unearthed their boats and ferried the British soldiers across the Douro in rapidly increasing numbers.

The French army remained west of the city, still looking for British ships on the horizon.

The surprise was so complete Marshal Soult was forced to abandon any serious attempt at defense. A hasty retreat was his only option. Late that afternoon, General Wellesley dined on the meal which had been cooked for the French Marshal. That evening the Marshal-General of the allied forces summoned his aristocratic scout and the Portuguese volunteers who had played such a significant role in the taking of Porto. In words which were formally translated by the priest whose services had been scorned the week before, the general publicly thanked them for their contribution to the French rout. With gleaming eyes and scarcely concealed grins, Wellesley’s young staff officers noted that the honored scout was the same angry young man who had been tossed at the general’s feet in Coimbra. They would not forget Blas the Bastard.

A good day’s work. For the rest of the war Wellesley’s Portuguese troops, and not a few of his own, would call him “Old Douro.”

The scout who had told a general to call him Blas the Bastard retired to a comfortable room in a nearby
taberna
and wrote the first of many letters to his family’s solicitor in London. He was a married man now. He had responsibilities.

“
It was a glorious sight, all those red coats crossing the Douro. I wish you might have seen it,” Blas exclaimed to Cat and Marcio Cardoso a week later. The three friends had found a private spot in the music room of the Casa Audley.

Blas had thought himself above indulging in boyish enthusiasm, but his part in Wellesley’s victory over Marshal Soult gave him a remarkable feeling of personal triumph. He had barely escaped from Soult with his life at La Coruña. It was all too easy to blame the French general for his long trip home, his disastrous reunion with Cat. The British victory at Porto was sweet. Hard to understand why his companions were looking at him with such horror.

“
You are telling us,” said Marcio carefully, “that you rowed across the Douro in full view of the French pickets?” An appalled Cat had not yet found her voice.

“
They were asleep, I think,” said Blas airily. “Or thought I was some ignorant fisherman who didn’t know what was going on.”

“
But the barges couldn’t be missed,” Cat pointed out. “Particularly when filled with red coats,” she added with heavy sarcasm.

“
It is true that a French soldier should be able to distinguish between wine casks and red coats,” Blas allowed drily, “but given any modicum of doubt, a Frenchman could not really be expected to fire on a barge load of wine. Not even Portuguese wine.”

Marcio laughed. Cat did not.

“
You are a madman,” she said. “Even Papa has not said you must win the war by yourself.”

Blas’s self-satisfied grin faded. “What Thomas says,” he admitted, “is that any daring fool can scout for the army, but only a black-haired, black-hearted, Spanish-speaking devil can hold his own with the
guerrilleros
. So I’m off to Spain again within the week, probably before Wellesley returns from chasing Soult.

“
Do not look so!” he added sharply to Cat. “Life in the mountains is much safer than life with Old Douro. And I’ll get back now and then. After all, there are some things I cannot put into writing. I will have to speak directly with Thomas on occasion.”

It was deliberate provocation. Marcio backed rapidly toward the door. At times like this he was very much aware of why he stayed single.

“
So now it is said!” Cat spit out as Marcio left, carefully closing the door behind him. “You will come back to see Thomas, but not to see me.”

“
You may recall we’re at war,” said Blas stiffly. “Personal considerations are not allowed.”

Arms akimbo, Cat marched up to him, tilting her face to look up into the amber eyes in which no warmth shone. “I expect you to do your duty,” she snapped. “I did not expect you to do it with such obvious relish!”

Blas refused to look at her, staring straight ahead at the vase of flowers sitting on the long black expanse of the grand piano. “I have made provision for you,” he said as if reciting from a court document. “If you are in need, you have only to contact the firm of Bentham, Bentham and Wembley in London, and you will never want for anything. Is that clear? Bentham, Bentham and Wembley. Repeat it.”

“
I do not want your miserable money.”

“
But you’re going to have it.”

“
No!”

“
Yes!” It was much like their game. They stood, not quite touching, eyes locked, pulses racing, bodies quivering, forgetting to breathe. Tossing out the eternal challenge of male and female.

With a sharp gasp for air, Blas threw up his hands in defeat, sweeping Cat into his arms. He cupped her head hard against his chest. “Cat, Cat, don’t you understand? It’s not just the war. I can’t be near you without wanting you, and you’re too damn young. I love you, you idiot. You’re my wife. No matter what happens to me, I have to know you’ll be protected. Stop being so damn stubborn and let me do what’s right.”

“
You love me?” Cat gasped, the words muffled in his ruffled shirt.

“
When did I ever not?”

Cat peeped up at him, studying the hard jaw, sensuous mouth, the eyes which were no longer cold. She supposed she would have to believe him. The gulf which separated them was not quite so wide as she had feared.

With only a small show of hesitation she tilted up her face, offering her lips to his. It was quite some time before the door of the music room opened and the revealingly tousled young couple came out.

Thomas sent Blas off to Spain that very night.

Chapter Eleven

Catarina, flashing her most dazzling smile, gave the dice box a hard spin. Wearing the white dress which had served as her wedding gown five months earlier, she had never looked more lovely. A sea of Britain’s finest surrounded her, each more determined than the other to lose his money in honor of Dona Catarina’s sixteenth birthday. On a small table near the wall an array of gifts and glasses of champagne were accumulating so fast Marcio signaled a footman to bring a second table.

“
I cry foul, Dona Catarina,” said Lieutenant Reggie Wareham. “When I look at you, I am so dazzled I don’t know what my bet is or whether I’m winning or losing. ’Tis no wonder they call this Hazard.”

“
Shame, Wareham!” chided Captain Miles Ormonde. “One does not complain of being dazzled. It is always a privilege to lose to Dona Catarina Perez de Leon.” He swept her a bow which displayed more than a hint of Moorish salaam. Cat laughed and spun the dice box once again.

Another young lieutenant eyed her worshipfully. “I shall never enjoy White’s after this. So damnably dull, don’t you know . . .”

He was interrupted by Catarina’s sharp intake of breath. Her eyes fixed on the doorway, she clutched Marcio’s arm. “Is it? . . oh, quickly, tell me!”

Together they stared at the newcomer, who was nearly the only Englishman besides Thomas Audley not wearing a uniform. The man’s long handsome face was marked by a nose of distinction. Blue eyes glowed with an intense brilliance which contrasted with the simplicity of his black tailcoat and breeches. Cat had heard he actually wore a plain blue jacket of superfine into battle. A murmur rose throughout the room. All eyes turned toward the doorway. Catarina’s hand dropped from the dice box. She moved forward, making a deep curtsey to the forty-year-old general whose esteem in Portugal was only slightly below the holy Savior and well above that of the distant Portuguese royal family.

Somehow Catarina got through a speech of welcome, quickly seconded by Thomas Audley who had come up behind her. Sir Arthur kissed the hand of his hostess, his piercing gaze regarding her with great appreciation. Never could it be said that Arthur Wellesley did not have an eye for the ladies. There were times in the years to follow, that for all the bloody horror of the British battles, his troops were accused of dancing their way into Spain.

“
Dona Catarina,” the general said with a twinkle in his eye, “My felicitations on your birthday. Since I have suffered the mass desertion of my staff to the Casa Audley, I decided to investigate its considerable attractions myself.”

Sir Arthur gave not the slightest indication he had spent a goodly portion of the afternoon conferring with Thomas Audley. The general favored Catarina with the smile that inevitably sent people scurrying to do his bidding, leaving no doubt which of the Casa Audley’s attractions met with his greatest approval. “I am delighted to confirm that my officers have excellent taste.” A very deliberate wink dimmed one bright blue eye. “And will I have the pleasure of meeting your husband this evening?”

Since the general had asked Thomas some very penetrating questions about the scout sent to him at Coimbra, he was now aware of the young Englishman’s double identity in Portugal. Sir Arthur wondered, with wry amusement, if Blas the Bastard’s parents had any idea their eldest son and heir was married to a child bride from a Portuguese gaming house. Since Wellesley was well aware Don Alexis Perez de Leon was somewhere in the mountains of northern Spain, Catarina’s apologies for her husband’s absence were quickly made and accepted.

After a glance to Fitzroy Somerset who hovered at his side, Sir Arthur produced a small black velvet box which he handed to Catarina with a gracious bow and admiring eye.

General Wellesley was giving her a gift! Sophisticated as she was, Cat’s hands shook as she opened the box to reveal a gold necklace of delicate filigree work with a bracelet to match. Her exclamation of delight was cut off when the general leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Your father described your ring and has approved your acceptance of this gift. It is a very small thing in return for your service to your country.”

Abruptly, Sir Arthur turned away to greet the many officers who were eager for his attention. Thomas returned to his faro bank. The commanding general of the allied forces did them the honor of staying for over an hour and partaking of a bite of supper. Before taking his leave, Sir Arthur once again raised Catarina’s hand to his lips. He had the knack, she thought, of making her feel she was the only woman in the room. Her birthday celebration was complete. The only thing which would have made her happier was to see Blas striding across the room toward her.

“
Did you ever see the like!” exclaimed a well-known voice as the general’s entourage disappeared out the door. Gordon Somersby had joined the young men regrouping around the hazard table. When the Somersby family returned to Portugal after the French occupation, he had been philosophical about finding his childhood sweetheart married. He had, after all, recognized the totality of his loss the moment Blas walked through the door of the Embassy kitchen that night so long ago. The night they had defined the situation in Europe with loaves of bread strewn across the tabletop. Gordon Somersby was one of very few persons who knew Catarina was not married to a Spanish dandy but to one of Britain’s most able spies.

“
Next month I’ll be eighteen,” Gordon told Cat. “Father has promised to buy me my colors. What shall it be? Scarlet, blue or green?”

Catarina’s hand froze on the dice box. “Must you, Gordy? Do you not wish to be a diplomat like your father?”

“
Well, of course, silly. But right now there’s a war to be fought. Come, Cat, is it to be the cavalry, the infantry, or the rifles?”

“
Don’t you care?”

Gordon favored her with a broad grin. “I’m inclined to think green makes the poorest target.”

A general guffaw greeted this sally, recalling Catarina to her duties. As she smiled and smiled and indulged in the light flirtation which was expected of her, she found time to be glad her old friend was not quite as blinded by the so-called glory of war as she had feared.

Thomas Audley, bent nearly double over the papers he was struggling to read, glanced up in surprise as his daughter uttered a sharp exclamation. “I thought this report was from Blas,” Cat explained. “That it did not look quite the same as usual because he was writing under difficult conditions. But here, at the end, I find there is a
T
instead of a
B
.”

“
I am surprised he did not tell you,” said Thomas, genuinely puzzled, but the bloody boy was born secretive. Took to being a spy like a duck to water. “Blas has found a young
hidalgo
among the
guerrilleros
,” Thomas explained. “Tonio. Some sort of distant cousin, I believe. Blas has begun to train him to work in the parts of Spain he cannot cover himself. The
guerrilleros
are keeping at least six French divisions occupied full time. But unless we can organize them into some sort of coordinated movement, we stand little chance of doing more than stinging Boney’s tail. Tonio is going to work with the groups from Madrid to the south while Blas handles the mountains of the north.”