Kate Moore by To Kiss a Thief

the center of all eyes. She felt her cheeks heat instantly and lowered her gaze.
    “Even in England,” Drew went on, “I have heard of Aveleda and Castel Garcia, but you must know where the best wines of the Douro are to be found.”
    There was a brief, noisy debate, incomprehensible to Margaret. Then once more the spokesman was allowed to speak for all. “Do not be deceived, your excellency,” came the translation. “There are no wines better than those of Senhor Fregata. Southsiders may make claims for the wines of Lamega, but the angle of the sun is such that the wines of the north bank must be superior.” Again there was a general cheer of assent.
    They were escorted out of the village, the last little boy following them until the few houses along the river were out of sight around a curve in the road. Clouds still rushed by on the breeze overhead, but their way was now steep and slow, or the drone of bees made it seem so. They ascended through uncultivated land, woods, and rocks. Hiding places, Margaret thought, conscious now that they had entered the region where the mysterious Viper operated. Yet no one appeared along the road or behind any of the outcroppings of granite. Only clouds piled up overhead.
    Late in the afternoon they reached a tree-lined, cobbled drive. Esau was sent ahead to inquire if they would be received, and when he reported that the senhor himself wished to welcome them, they passed along the shady drive to the Quinta Fregata, a gracious manor unlike any structure they had seen so far in the country. Servants met them and helped them to dismount, and then the Senhor stepped out from the deep shade of an overhanging roof. Senhor Fregata looked like any English gentleman at home in the country. Indeed, in height and figure he resembled Margaret’s father, but his hair was darker and thicker, his face tanned and lined, his chin dented and his smile very wide. “ Boa tarde, boa tarde ,” he said. “You are most welcome, most welcome, senhor, senhora .” This effusion of delight made Margaret feel decidedly uncomfortable. It had not occurred to her that they would deceive ordinary people, people who looked like her father.
    “ Boa tarde ,” returned, Drew, stepping forward and extending his hand for the one their host was offering. “It is most kind of you to offer your hospitality to strangers, senhor . We were beginning to fear we would be caught in a storm.” He gestured at the threatening sky above them.
    “Permit me to introduce myself and my bride,” he continued. The word jolted Margaret. Bride  . . . It was what her mother wanted her to be. It had been the aim of Margaret’s London season, but in London the word had conjured up visions of dresses and dinners and gatherings of relatives. Hearing it now on her thief’s lips, it meant being claimed by a man, this man; it meant the intimacy of traveling together and other intimacies that lay beyond the bounds of what was proper for her to think. She blushed more furiously than she had at any of Drew’s earlier teasing.
    “Andrew Summers, wine merchant, and my wife, Margaret,” he said smoothly, as if well-practiced in the deception, and as he spoke, he drew Margaret forward to make her curtsy and accept her host’s handshake. Reluctantly she offered the senhor her hand, fearful that he would feel its unnatural heat as her whole body seemed to blush, and glad for the riding gloves that concealed her ringless fingers. When she could, she shot a quick glance of reproach at Drew for his blatant lie. She found Jacob staring at her. She lifted her chin and attempted to return his calculating look with a cool gaze of her own.
    They were still standing in front of the house when lightning flashed and the first thunder rolled over them, bringing a downpour. Servants scrambled to snatch the baggage or lead the horses off, while Margaret and Drew were ushered inside. Their host preceded them, chatting happily to Drew in English and