Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (32 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
he square where the ball was to happen was the same as the one where the reception had been held, bound by the makeshift royal palace on one side and the cathedral on the other, but it was completely transformed as the sun sank below the sea on glorious streaks of gold and crimson and purple.

The shutters of the mansions were thrown wide to let out even more amber light and flickering torches lined the cobblestones. The white façades of the buildings were draped with white flowers, tied with fluttering streamers in white and green and gold, waiting to greet the guests as they appeared as if by magic from the alleyways and from inside the houses.

Mary paused at the foot of the marble steps of the cathedral to take in the whole magical scene. The nearly full moon, almost a pure silver in the dusty purplish-blue sky, shimmered down on the cobbled courtyard that was already full of revellers. They spun and twirled faster and faster in time to the music of the royal orchestra, which played from one of the balconies overhead. The song was quick and lively, full of drums and castanets to bring Iberia a bit closer. On another balcony, hung with cloth-of-gold, the royal family looked down on the party, remote and quiet, Doña Carlota's turban shining white and red, just as Teresa's had.

Long, white-draped tables laden with pastel-iced cakes and golden ewers of wine were laid out on one side of the fountain. It looked like everyone who was not dancing was clustered there, laughing over the streams of wine, recovering from the long voyage and the shock of their new home.

The flickering light of the torches reflected in the sparkling waters of the fountain and in the beads and jewels of all the fabulous costumes. Surely everyone had dragged out all their best finery, hauled across the ocean in the ships' holds, or cajoled from the local dressmakers, as Mary's and Teresa's had been. The dancers wove in and out of the lights, fantastic wraiths in black masks, brilliant satin gowns and velvet jackets, arrayed as all sorts of things. Saints and devils, gods and goddesses in pale draperies, dragons, butterflies, even sea monsters in glittering blue and green.

Mary searched every masked face that swirled past her, wondering if one of them concealed Sebastian.

‘Oh, Mary, it is so beautiful,' Teresa said with a happy sigh.

‘Most beautiful indeed,' Mary agreed. And it was, like an enchanted night spell where anything could happen. Where behind every mask could be the man of her dreams—her ‘secret admirer.' A man who could imagine this fabulous costume would suit her.

Teresa was swept into the swirling dance by a man in a Tudor velvet doublet, handsome but surely rather stifling in the tropical night. Mary glimpsed her father near the refreshment tables, with a cluster of his diplomatic friends as always, all of them watching the frantic air of merriment with solemn, watchful faces. Her father
had
made an attempt at a costume, with a white linen toga wrapped over his dark-green evening coat, but he wore no mask. She waved at him and he seemed startled for an instant before he remembered who she was in her black lacy mask. He waved back with a smile.

Mary laughed. Could she truly be so well concealed behind her new gown? It made her feel bold indeed, like a different person, just for a short moment.

She made her way towards the flower-draped dais at the side of the cathedral, keeping to the edges of the dancing, boisterous crowd. The music was enthralling, the drums beating louder and louder as the dancers spun faster and faster. The music seemed to carry the wave of gaiety into the very sky itself. Even those who had been most angry at being cast across the sea, away from their home to this strange place, seemed carried away by the magic of it all.

As Mary reached the edge of the steps, a harlequin in black-and-white satin squares reached out and tried to pull her into the dance. She laughed and shook her head until he whirled away, but she found she
did
want to dance. Usually, she managed to stay safely, watchfully, on the sidelines. Yet tonight, that wonderful music, the flickering torchlight, the fantastical costumes, even the mysterious darkness of the night itself, seemed to call out to her with all its enticing possibilities.

But she only really wanted to dance in
one
man's arms. To find that giddy freedom she had only known once before. One which she shouldn't want at all now, not when Sebastian was so cloaked in mystery.

Mary closed her eyes for a moment behind her mask, closing out the dreamlike whirl. Why was he really there in Brazil, always waiting there to remind her of her own mistake in London? When she had found out the truth of him so long ago, the truth about her own young, foolish self, it had taken her a long time to find her balance again.

Now he was here again, even more intriguing than before.

Mary looked up and found the statue of the Madonna in a niche high above, watching the merriment with her beautiful blue-glass eyes. She seemed to smile, as if she knew the strangeness of everything that happened under her serene gaze. Mary wished she could see so clearly herself.

She hurried behind the church, away from the noise of the party, finding a quieter walkway that reminded her of the one where Sebastian led her to whisper his warnings. She could still hear the music and laughter, could see the reflection of the torchlight on the white walls, but here she could at least take a breath and think a little more clearly.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Sebastian's face in her mind. She was not the same person she had been when they first met, so young and a bit scared in a new world in London. Surely he was not the same, either, but
how
had he changed? Or was he only different in the way she now saw him?

She heard a small sound, a rustle in the shadows behind her, and she spun around to see a cloaked figure standing at the entry of her walkway. She pushed herself away from the wall, thinking to flee, then he put his hood back and the light gleamed on Sebastian's sun-streaked hair. She fell back a step, watching him warily.

‘Does the Queen of the Night not dance at her own ball?' he asked, a half-smile in his voice.

Was he the one who had told the dressmaker to bring her the black satin? ‘I—I fear she has a secret,' she said, trying to match the lightness of the evening. She feared she was not so good at counterfeiting emotion. ‘She is a terrible dancer.'

‘And too busy to practise? She has all the stars to arrange, the spirits of the night to dispatch on their dark errands...'

Mary laughed. That sense of a dream party grew around her, like a hazy cloud that suddenly made her forget all her caution, just for a moment. It was almost as if the tropical warmth had made her into a whole new person for that one night.

He looked so mysterious, so enticing, his dark cloak making him a shadow against the torchlight. He seemed to beckon to her without even moving, his eyes glowing that bright green, like the sea beyond their party. She stepped closer to him, one careful, whisper-like movement, then another. He
had
warned her, after all, though she couldn't seem to stay away from him.

Her heavy black skirt and the fine lace of the ruffles trailed around her, the only thing that seemed to hold her to the ground. At last, she drew close to him, so close she could feel the warmth of him. He held himself perfectly still, his tall body tense, never taking his bright gaze from her face.

She dared to reach out and let her fingertips trail over his cheek. She wore no gloves with her costume and his cheek felt so warm, so smooth under her touch, just slightly roughened over his chiselled jaw. She almost felt as if the vital heat of him, that glowing light like the tropical sun itself, flew into her. Just like the land itself, he seemed to coax her back into life.

‘Is this a dream?' she whispered.

‘If it is, I hope we don't wake up yet,' he answered.

His arms came around her, drawing her so close to him that nothing could come between them. She went up on tiptoe, twining her arms around his neck to hold him with her—or to keep herself from flying away into the sky. He drew her even closer and his lips swooped down to meet hers in a hard, hungry kiss.

They fit so perfectly together now, as if they had been made for this one moment. Mary parted her lips to meet his kiss, feeling the tip of his tongue touch hers, sliding closer to taste her deeply, as if he was as hungry for her as she was for him. She remembered that long-ago, too-fleeting kiss, and it was only a shadow to what she felt now with him.

The kiss turned frantic, full of need, full of the desperate desire to forget the past and have only
now
. As if London hadn't happened, as if there had never been their foolish, youthful selves. As if they were all of now.

She wanted that so much, she didn't protest at all when she felt him press her back against the rough, whitewashed wall. His moan echoed against her lips and his hands were hard and hungry as they slid over her shoulders, over the curve of her breasts in the tight satin bodice. Mary sighed at the delicious friction, the new, wonderful sensations that shivered through her.

A loud crack burst over them and for an instant she feared it was her heart, opening to this mysterious, changeable man all over again. She pushed herself away from him and saw that it was fireworks arcing in a shimmering green-and-white arc over the rooftops. She tilted her head back, trying to breathe, but she couldn't do that with his touch on her. With him so very close.

He raised his head, suddenly tense and wary as a jungle cat. Mary turned away from him, tugging her new gown into place and drawing the long folds of her lacy veil to cover the heat of her cheeks. She had no doubt she was blushing bright red, all her confusion written on her face!

She drew in a deep breath, and then another, letting the smells of smoke and flowers clear her hazy mind. The mind that had only known
him
for those heady moments. Surely she could not have been so foolish again?

Yet she did not feel so foolish. She felt almost as if she could soar away into the sky.

‘Mary,' he said hoarsely. ‘I did not plan this, I promise. I am...'

‘No,' she whispered, still not looking at him. Instead she watched the fireworks, red and gold in the black sky. ‘Please don't say you're sorry. I could not bear it.' She couldn't bear it if he was sorry for this one perfect moment.

His hand slid down her arm, his fingers twining with hers for an instant. ‘I fear I am not sorry at all. But I don't want to hurt you.'

‘You can't,' she said. ‘Tell me, Sebastian—were you the one who told the dressmaker to bring me this gown?'

He laughed, but did not answer. Then she knew he had, yet she still did not know why. Another part of his enigmatic warnings?

‘Thank you,' she murmured. Yet she still didn't dare look at him, for fear she would not be able to walk away. She laughed, too, hoping it sounded light, careless, as if she did that sort of thing all the time—kissing in darkened walkways, moving through the night as if she was indeed its Queen. She hurried on her unsteady feet back to the crowded torchlight of the square, to the noise and movement of real life.

* * *

Sebastian braced his palms against the rough, whitewashed wall, his eyes closed as he forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly. To try to calm the fire that raged inside of him. He could still smell the sweet roses of Mary's perfume, as if she still lingered there with him. As if she was all around him, haunting him.

His hands curled into tight fists as he thought of her, her smile, the way she looked up into his eyes, as if she could see what he tried so hard to hide.

That raw longing for her, for her nearness, had to be conquered. It distracted him from his reason for being in Brazil. He had to keep the British alliance with the Portuguese Prince safe, at all costs.

The young, reckless man he had been when he met Mary in London, stunned by the grief of losing his friends in battle, would never have thought this way about duty. His duty to England, to his family—even to Mary, of the amends he owed her. That young man wouldn't have held back the surge or urgent desire that came over him when he tasted her lips.

But he was no longer that man. He had changed his life, his way of seeing the world around him. He had to prove that to himself and, more than that, he had to prove it to Mary.

Sebastian laughed ruefully at himself. Who would have imagined, if they saw him even a few years ago, that he would be so concerned about
honour
? With what anyone, even his family, thought of him? Mary, with her quiet, serious grey eyes, had changed him.

And now he had to prove that to her. He had to keep her safe, no matter what.

Chapter Fifteen

T
eresa tiptoed along the makeshift-palace's terrace, careful to make sure she wasn't seen. It was very late at night, most of the revellers tucked up in their beds, the lamps extinguished. Doña Carlota was still awake, as she was late into most nights, but she would not need her ladies. She was writing furious letters to her Spanish family, raging against being torn away from Europe.

But she couldn't let anyone see her, even a footman. Teresa drew the hood of her cloak closer around her. High overhead, the moon shimmered in the dusty black sky, so unlike anything she had ever seen in Portugal. The scent of flowers hung heavy in the air, and she could hear the remnants of music from somewhere far away.

She made her way to a quiet corner where her brother said she should wait for him and took a deep breath of the warm air. She only wanted to run back to her small room, to climb under her bedclothes, until this new life made some sense. Until she could find a way to flee again. But Luis would find her.

He would always find her, chasing her until she helped his schemes, just as he had since they were children.

For an instant, she thought of Mr Nicholas Warren, of his kind smile, the admiration in his eyes when he looked at her. She had many admirers; they had always seemed to be there, ever since she was a girl, but they never seemed to see
her
. They saw her family, or the beauty she had not created for herself. Never what was inside her heart, her longing to be free.

And Luis said it would always be thus, that he would be her only friend, her only family, and she had no reason to doubt that. Not until she met Mary Manning and had a real, female friend for the first time. Now she could see more, could imagine more. If only it were not too late!

‘What have you discovered, Sister?' Luis said quietly, emerging from the shadows near the whitewashed wall.

Teresa shivered, hating the way he could move so quietly when he wanted to. ‘Nothing yet. I told you, I can find out nothing of import for your friends at court. I only hear bits of gossip, the same as anyone.'

‘But gossip is the one thing that will help us now!' He came to stand next to her at the stone railing, the tropical moonlight gilding his face, as handsome as hers was beautiful. It had always been their strength, even when their family fortune was mostly gone. ‘We had no choice but to leave Lisbon now, but if we are to make our way home soon, we must be wise about it. We must not be drawn in by these English. They have their own goals and none of them involves the good of Portugal. They must help us now, even if they don't know it.'

Teresa nodded. She had heard those words so often, but she did not quite believe them. She had heard the tales of what happened to countries when they were overrun by Napoleon's armies. But there was no denying they had been torn away from their homes, tossed on to this strange shore, and she wanted to go home again.

Even if that meant working with her brother.

‘Miss Manning knows nothing,' she said. ‘She keeps her father's house, but I don't think he confides in her. She doesn't care for politics.'

Luis laughed. ‘I cannot believe that! We must stay with her, cultivate her friendship.'

Teresa nodded silently. Luis suddenly grabbed her arm, giving her a hard shake. She cried out and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. His eyes glittered like hard diamonds in the starlight.

‘I mean what I say, Teresa,' he said. ‘This is vital if we are to get home again. The English must help us—whether they like it or not. You
must
help me, it is your duty as a Fernandes. As a lady of Portugal.'

Her duty. She had heard that all her life. When did
she
get to choose? To be free to be kind, as Mary was kind? ‘I will do my duty,' she said quietly. Her brother stared down at her, as if he could read her thoughts. She made her expression as bland as possible, her eyes cast down to the cobbles of the plaza below her.

Finally, he nodded and let her go. She backed away, rubbing at her arm. ‘I must return to my bed now,' she said.

‘Of course. The Princess cannot miss you. Just remember well what I said—the English are not your friends.'

Not her friends—she had been told that for so long. But, for the first time, Teresa could not quite believe it.