Free The Sometime Bride by Blair Bancroft

askew, a result of the great earthquake of 1755, but tonight, Christmas Eve, it was dressed in awe and majesty. The glow of thousands of candles was reflected in the intricate gold adornments of the chancel. The faces of the multitude turned toward the brilliant procession of clergy in robes of red and white satin enhanced with elaborate gold embroidery.
    As Blas breathed in incense from censers swung by angelic dark-eyed altar boys, he realized he was seeing pageantry very little different from Christmas Eve at home. Cat gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. He fell to his knees beside her feeling exceedingly foolish to have been sight-seeing like a gawking foreigner when his life depended upon being Don Alexis Perez de Leon.
    As he knelt, knees pressed hard against the low wooden bench, Blas glanced sideways at Cat, her face and shining hair completely covered by the shawl of purest white. And, suddenly, he was filled with a sense of inevitability. He had taken a wife and there was no going back. He and Catarina would be like this forever, side by side. Caught up in the beauty and sanctity of the service, he found he did not want to be anywhere else.
    He could not, of course, tell Cat how he felt. By British standards, she was too young, a child wearing her heart on her sleeve. She slept in a bed separated from his by an unlocked door. So Blas knelt at her side and knew that in the eyes of God they were married, and said nothing at all.
    He had told the coachman not to try to fight his way through the surging throng outside the church, so when the service was over, they threaded their way through narrow streets down to the harbor. Moonlight reflected off gentle waves on the broad expanse of the Tagus. Except for fishing boats, the great harbor of Lisbon was empty.
    “ It’s so strange,” Cat breathed. “I knew the ships were gone . . . but I never thought how odd, how frightening it would look. I didn’t really feel abandoned until now.”
    “ Ah, but think how many ships Boney didn’t get,” Blas reminded her. “He would have loved to replenish his lost fleet with the Portuguese Navy and maybe snatch a laggard British ship or two. So be glad they’re gone. Our ships at least will live to fight another day. And, Cat, I will protect you, you know.”
    She had been holding his hand since they left the cathedral, and now she squeezed it tight. “Yes, I know,” she whispered into the raw December night.
     
    The following morning Blas woke to the sound of silence. The usual morning bustle was gone. Only the faint tinkle of the fountain and the cooing of doves broke the morning stillness. Christmas Day. And Catarina had given nearly everyone the day off. The brawny sentinels were gone from the front door, which was bolted shut. A stout wooden board barred the carriage gates to the rear. He and Cat were shut inside this vast quadrangle with the cook’s assistant, the second footman, and two stableboys whose homes in the Ribatejo were too far to be reached in a day.
    Blas groaned. He should never have agreed to this isolation. He spread his body in a stretch of frustration—his toes hit something that should not have been there. Shocked fully awake, he shot up to a sitting position, banging his head against Thomas Audley’s elaborately carved mahogany headboard. A basic Anglo-Saxon expletive burst through the façade of Don Alexis de Peron.
    The something turned out to be nothing more than a wrapped package about the size of the one that had held Cat’s cloak. Blas closed his eyes, took a deep breath and looked again. Feeling exceedingly foolish over his alarm, he tore off the wrapping.
    He sat for a long time staring at the sleeveless brown leather jacket with its warm sheepskin lining and a multitude of clever pockets. How many nights had he needed it when he slipped out of the gaming rooms and roamed the winter streets and country byways, meeting people who seldom appeared in daylight. Though freezing temperatures