The Sometime Bride (9 page)

“
Now,” he said sternly, “what did Junot say to you in the reception line?” Bloody hell, the man had bent his lips almost to Cat’s shell pink ear, whispering something no one else could hear.

Cat carefully studied the diamanté trim on one silver kid slipper that peeped out from under her gown. “He is making sketches for an addition to the gardens.”

“
Sketches?” Blas’s dark brows rose to meet the black waves tumbling onto his forehead.

“
The gardens are famous,” Cat replied primly. “They were designed by a French sculptor nearly fifty years ago. Marshal Junot wishes to make another French contribution by expanding them.” She shrugged her small, bare shoulders. Men could be so difficult at times. “Truly,
mi Alejo
, that is all there is to it.”

“
He said all this to you in the reception line.” A lightning flash of Blas’s amber eyes accompanied his ominous tone.

“
Estúpido!
Of course not. We talked of the gardens when he came to the Casa. Tonight he merely said he wished to meet me in his office at half after midnight so that he could show me the sketches.”

Sketches, by God
. Blas gulped back an urge to shout at his young bride. “You made an assignation with Junot!”

“
How could I say no?” A devastatingly simple reply to which he had no response.

“
My God, Cat.” Blas did a turn around the small room, hands raking through his already fashionably disheveled hair.

“
I thought you would be glad I would see his office,” she said in a small voice. “Perhaps I shall see something of importance.”

“
You will not even
think
of looking for something of importance, do you hear me?” Blas gave her a long considering look. Cat had never been more beautiful. There wasn’t a man in the world who would not be tempted. Lord, what were they to do? “You’ll have to go, I suppose,” he heard himself say. “How are you to find the place?”

“
He will send an equerry for me,” Cat replied airily, clearly enjoying a bit of smug satisfaction at acquiring the admiration of the most powerful man in Portugal.

Blas stared at her, torn between despair, fear, and what he had to admit was a nearly overwhelming attack of jealousy. “Cat, this is definitely not an occasion on which you are expected to give your all for your country. If the bastard so much as touches you, scream!”

“
And how many of those women out there have you bedded?” she retorted. “You can’t deny you and father get a good deal of information from other men’s wives!”

Blas did another turn around the room. Otherwise he was quite sure he would strangle her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She opened her eyes very wide.

“
That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “It’s true your father and I sometimes find women a convenient source of information, but under no circumstances are you to emulate us. Is that clear?” He felt like his own father, for God’s sake, lecturing on some long-forgotten youthful peccadillo.

“
If I were a virgin, I should know how to handle him,” Cat mused.

“
You
are
a virgin!”

“
But he does not think so,” she replied with inescapable logic.

Blas groaned.

“
Excusez-moi
.” A young French captain, shepherding an attractive partner, began to back out of the doorway.

“
No, please,” said Cat in the impeccable Parisian French taught to her by Thomas Audley, “we are just leaving. I have already missed far too many dances.” She sailed out of the room, leaving an angry and frustrated husband to follow in her wake.

Later that night, after being ushered into Marshal Junot’s empty study a maze of rooms away from the ballroom, Cat’s attitude was not so jaunty. Blas was lost somewhere among a bevy of officers intent on discussing the intricacies of gaming, and now, having achieved her goal of taunting him with the Marshal’s attentions, she felt very much alone. Young and naive. Carefully averting her eyes from Junot’s tempting stack of papers, Cat folded her hands in her lap and waited. She was an Audley. She would not be afraid.

Someone will be watching you,
Blas had cautioned.
Don’t look at anything, don’t
do
anything! Just sit there like the dear sweet child you are
. His obvious sarcasm had not improved her temper, but sit she did, growing more nervous with each passing minute. Eyes were staring at her, she knew it.

“
Dona Catarina.” Marshal Junot entered, all smiles, dismissing his entourage with a wave of his hand.

Catarina jumped to her feet, executed a curtsey fit for royalty. She did, in fact, have a great deal more respect for this French general than she did for any of the royalty to whom she supposedly owed allegiance.

Androche Junot was resplendent in the dress uniform of a Marshal of the French Empire. His midnight blue military tailcoat was so heavily embroidered in leaves of gold that it might have stood alone. A gold satin sash and medals, crossed by a broad red ceremonial ribbon added color above his white breeches and tall shining black boots. A dress sword completed his elegant ensemble.

The Marshal lingered over Catarina’s hand, then led her to his desk, picking up a sheaf of drawings which were lying there. “Did you not peek, my dear?” he inquired. “I had thought surely you would.” Cat murmured a denial.

“
Ah, pauvre petite
!” Junot exclaimed. “You did not believe I truly wished to show you my designs. Come,
regardez
, my dear. They are all here.” He spread a series of very fine drawings across the entire expanse of his broad desk.

Catarina struggled to ignore the intimacy as he stood just behind her, his head bent next to hers as he displayed his work.
It’s the oldest ploy in the world!
Blas had warned. “They are–um–very geometric,” she whispered.

“
You understand mathematics,” he applauded. “Refreshing in so young a lady.”

“
My father saw that I was well educated in all disciplines,” Catarina replied with dignity.
Estupida!
How could she have raised such a sensitive subject?

“
Ah, yes, your father . . . Tell me, my dear, does he chafe at the change of government?”

Catarina stood very still, her skin prickling where this Marshal of France had suddenly placed light fingers upon her shoulder. She forced a bland smile. “Surely you are aware my father was among those who returned to England.”

Junot transformed his caress into a small pat. “But of course. How strange I had not remembered. That is why you married at such a tender age, is it not? A most fortunate occurrence for your husband . . . in every way.” The Marshal turned her around to face him, the desk hard against her back. “And your husband . . . he is–ah–comfortable with his new masters?”

“
My husband does not have any masters,” Catarina retorted before she could stop herself.

“
An unfortunate choice of words,” Junot amended smoothly. “I merely wished to assure myself Don Alexis is content with French government.”

“
My husband is Spanish. An ally of France,” Cat countered, her chin jutting up to meet his rapt gaze. “How can you possibly question his loyalty?” Defiance instead of proper feminine terror. Once again, Blas was right. She was a fool.

Androche Junot fingered one of the strawberry gold curls which had been allowed to fall from Cat’s upswept hair. A slight smile flickered across his handsome features. “Winds of change are in the air, Dona Catarina. Spanish nationality may no longer be enough protection.” He dropped the curl, trailing his fingertips across her face to cup her chin in his hand. “It may be necessary to have friends in high places . . .”

Cat wrenched away from his caress, bolting to the far end of the massive desk. “My husband is a fop. As much threat to France as I am. Everyone knows he married me for control of the Casa. His sole interests are money and other women. Protecting him does not particularly interest me!”

The Marshal, warming to the duel which was developing into a far better challenge than he had anticipated, snatched Catarina to him, locking his powerful arms behind her back, his body pressed close to hers. “Ah, but who will protect
you
, my dear?” he breathed. And kissed her, shaking off her struggles with insulting ease.

“
Excuse me, Marshal, but have you seen . . .? Ah, there you are!” Major Henri Martineau declared heartily from the doorway. “A thousands pardons, Your Excellency, but Don Alexis has been looking for his wife. She has perhaps stayed here long enough?” A significant look passed between the two Frenchmen. Androche Junot bade Catarina a politely formal goodnight, then bent to straighten the drawings on his desk, stacking them with studied care.

Major Martineau, one hand firmly on Cat’s elbow, marched her down the hallway, past the colorfully uniformed guards stationed in front of each door. At the far end of the corridor he propelled her into a small room not much bigger than a butler’s pantry. The room was empty. “Where is Don Alexis?” Cat blazed.

For a moment Henri Martineau looked as if he longed to spank her. An infinitesimal Gallic shrug twitched his shoulders. “Androche Junot did not become a Marshal of France without a fine understanding of tactics,” he reminded her sternly. “Your
husband
”—sarcasm dripped from each syllable—”has been carefully maneuvered into a position where he could not come to your aid.”

Catarina’s eyes widened. “But why . . . you?”

The major’s dark eyes deepened from cool to cold. “Your father has long been an enemy of France, your husband is not above suspicion. But, me, I find I do not care to make war on children. The Marshal was playing with you. He is surprisingly devoted to his wife, but no man can be totally immune to such beauty . . . and innocence. Not even myself. Consider that tonight I succumbed to a moment of weakness. Do not expect it to happen again.”

Catarina hung her head, lips quivering. The world was not at all the way it should be. “
Merci mille fois
,” she murmured. She had never felt so much a child. Blas was going to kill her.

Fortunately, she was wrong.

On the trip back to the heart of Lisbon, Cat never moved from the circle of Blas’s arms. He held her in a fierce grasp, vowing that never again while the French roamed the streets of Lisbon would he let her out of the safety of the Casa Audley.

“
Lord, but I wish I knew what was happening in Spain!” Blas muttered some two weeks later.

“
Do you wish me to find out?” Marcio Cardoso asked with barely repressed enthusiasm.

“
No!” cried Catarina sharply. “Your Spanish is good enough only for a
português
.”

Marcio’s indignant protest was cut off as Blas jammed his finger onto the large-scale map spread out on Thomas Audley’s desk. “Something is going on in Madrid, and I have to find out what. Junot would not have talked so openly of winds of change if the thing were not past fixing.” Blas stared unseeing at the map of Spain. “Boney talked Charles into letting Ferdinand go,” he mused, “but it’s said they’re both at it again, each one petitioning the little Emperor for support against the other. So Boney keeps smiling from both sides of his face, saying, ‘See all the lovely troops I’m sending to help,’ and by the time the fools wake up, they’ll have a hundred thousand Frenchmen up their—”

“
So when do you leave?” Cat inquired, her face a study in bland disinterest.

“
And abandon you to the tender mercies of Junot and Martineau?” Blas shot back.

“
She has me now,” Marcio declared stoutly. Father and I know how to protect our own.”

Blas quickly apologized to Marcio who had just returned from the mountains. “If Cat’s little trick with your foot works and there is no problem about your being conscripted,” he added, “it’s possible I may be able to go within the next week or two. I’m sorry, Cat, but Thomas says there is nothing more important than the news from Spain. London is screaming for a first-hand report.”

“
And how
is
your foot?” Cat asked Marcio, accepting Blas’s trip as inevitable, though her insides quivered like a blancmange. “Does it pain you?”

Marcio lifted his left leg and shook his booted foot, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ah, it pains me a great deal, senhora, so much so that I may not be able to climb to the balcony of my Concha.”

“
You are quite terrible,” Cat retorted. “I think it does not pain you at all!”

Marcio slammed his boot back onto the floor. “In truth, Cat, I would not like to quick march with this boot on. But I now have a limp which ill becomes a soldier and which will, I hope, make me an object of sympathy to all the kind-hearted senhoritas.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his eyes heavenward. “I undoubtedly acquired it in the line of duty, defending the city to my last moment of consciousness.”

“
If you can find a woman stupid enough to believe you!” Blas snorted. “I suggest you tell the French you did indeed fall while climbing your Concha’s balcony. They will far more readily understand the wounds of love than believe you were injured defending an unresisting Lisbon.”