Dark Angel (15 page)

"I don't think it's safe to build a fire here," he said, rubbing her arms to bring back the circulation. "Can you ride?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded steadier, though he suspected she was keeping it that way with an effort.

Emily looked up at him. "Are they going to shoot at us again?"

"I doubt it," Adam said with more assurance than he felt. "But we're going to put some distance between us and them, just in case."

While Caroline dressed and Hawkins scouted out the easiest path up the embankment, Adam retrieved his coat and emptied the water from his boots. To his relief, the dispatch was still safely concealed in its oilskin wrapping. When they set out, Hawkins led the way, talking cheerfully to Emily. Adam followed, riding close beside Caroline and keeping an anxious watch on her. Huddled beneath two blankets, her wet hair streaming over her shoulders, she looked painfully fragile. Now that Emily was not by to be comforted, she seemed to have sunk inward, as if calling upon all her reserves to sustain her until they reached shelter. But for all that, she was alive, moving and breathing, not three feet away from him.

As they climbed out of the rocky river gorge onto a flat green plain, the horror of what had so nearly happened washed over him with the force of the Carrión's current. He had almost lost her. The image of Caroline's hair swirling in the water rose before his eyes. He had thought he'd lost her long ago. After they reached Lisbon, he might never see her again. He had thought there could be no worse pain on earth than losing her to Jared. Yet that was as nothing beside the prospect of losing her to death.

Adam glanced at Caroline. The breath was driven from his lungs, as it had been in the river. He looked at her finely drawn profile and the tangled hair dripping water onto the blanket and saw her not for what had passed between them but for what she meant to him. One moment of danger had broken through nine years of anger and bitterness, leaving in its wake what had always been there, beneath the surface. Longing.

He was so shaken that it took him a while to notice the warning signs about them: the darkening of the sky, the sudden gusting wind that flattened the grass and tugged at Baron's mane, the damp promise in the air. By the time he realized they were in for another storm, the first drops of rain had begun to fall.

Adam swore under his breath. He had thought to ride far enough to ensure that they had left their attackers behind, then stop in a sheltered spot and build a fire. He had hoped the warmth and some food would be enough for Caroline. Now they had no choice. They would have to risk approaching a farm or an inn.

Up ahead, Hawkins reined in his horse and looked back, a question in his eyes. Caroline was looking at Adam as well. "It seems we'll have to sleep in a warm bed tonight," Adam said. "Pity, but there it is."

"Talcona?" Hawkins asked.

Adam nodded. "It's all right," he said, smiling at Caroline. "I have friends there."

Most of his Spanish friends were farther north and most of them knew him under assumed names. But Señora Duenas in Talcona could be counted on not to ask questions. And the town, though small enough to have escaped French occupation, was large enough that strangers would not be overly conspicuous.

The rain was falling in earnest now. Caroline's blankets were covered with a splotchy patchwork of damp that spread until it was difficult to see the places that were still dry. Her horse stumbled on the uneven ground. Adam reached out to steady it, but Caroline had already done so herself. It seemed to him that she sat straighter than before. However else she had changed, the stubborn core of her will remained.

In early twilight, Emily caught sight of Talcona and gave an excited cry. The light seeping through cracks in the shutters of the cottages cast a welcome glow, but there were few people in the streets. Adam led the way to the town's one inn, a solid, two-story stone building issuing forth bright light and cheerful noise. He swung down onto the rain-slick cobblestones and held out his hands to help Caroline dismount. With shelter in sight, her control had begun to crumble. She slid off her horse's back, trembling so badly she could scarcely stand.

"Mama?" Emily asked, running forward as Adam steadied her mother.

"She'll be all right," Adam said, tightening his arm around Caroline and catching hold of Emily's hand. "She's just cold and tired and hungry like the rest of us."

While Hawkins took the horses and mule to the stable to dry them and rub them down, Adam hurried mother and daughter into the shelter of the loggia that ran along the front of the inn. It gave directly onto a large, high-ceilinged room filled with the smell of wine and garlic and olive oil and lit by hanging oil lamps that swayed and guttered in the gust of wind when Adam opened the door. The customers gathered at the crude wooden tables fell silent and stared warily at the intruders. So much for anonymity.

A stout woman with graying hair disengaged herself from the throng. Adam recognized Señora Duenas at once, though it was over a year since he and Hawkins had sought refuge in her inn to evade a suspicious French patrol. The Señora, whose late husband had bequeathed her the inn, had asked no questions, though Adam was sure she had known they were more than innocent travelers. Now her gaze was equally shrewd. She met Adam's eyes for the briefest moment, then hurried forward. "Señor Carreras," she exclaimed, using the name Adam had given when he last stayed at the inn, "what has happened? Were you caught in the storm?"

"Mama fell in the river," Emily said before Adam could answer.

"My poor child, how dreadful." There was genuine sympathy in Señora Duenas's voice. "You must sit by the fire. In the kitchen, that will be warmer. I will find you some dry clothes. Come, quickly now."

Señora Duenas hurried across the room, past the curious stares of her guests, into the fragrant warmth of the kitchen. Within minutes she and her daughter Consuela—a pretty girl in her late teens whom Adam remembered from his previous visit—had brought them dry clothes and shown them to adjoining storerooms where they could change. Adam felt the tension drain from him as he peeled off his sodden garments. He put on the loose muslin shirt and wool breeches he had been given and returned to the kitchen.

"Ah," Señora Duenas said, "you begin to look like the man we met last year."

Adam smiled. "I begin to feel like him." Caroline and Emily had not yet returned. Adam moved to the open fire and held his hands out to warm them.

Señora Duenas continued to regard him. "The lady and the little one have had a terrible fright," she said softly. "You run great risks, Señor."

Adam met her gaze. She deserved honesty, but there was little he could safely tell her. "True enough," he said. "But sometimes great risks are necessary."

"So they are." Señora Duenas's eyes showed that she understood far more than he would have liked. Then the serious mood was gone. "Sit down," she said in a cheerful voice. "There will be supper soon."

Adam dropped down on a wooden bench near the fire. Smiling shyly, Consuela brought him a glass of wine. He sipped it, feeling the warmth course though him. A few moments later he heard a door open and looked round to see Caroline and Emily.

Caroline wore a sturdy long-sleeved slate blue gown that fit loosely on her thin body. A flowered wool shawl was wrapped round her shoulders. Her wet hair was pushed behind her ears and fell down her back. Though she was still pale, she had stopped trembling. She looked at Adam and gave a faint smile, which warmed him more than the wine. "I've been telling Señora Duenas and Consuela about the difficulties we've had, sister," he said, putting the slightest stress on the last word.

Caroline nodded, accepting the fiction which no one, including the Duenases, would believe. Señora Duenas urged her to sit down and told Consuela to pour more wine. Caroline and Adam sat in silence while Emily chattered to Consuela about their adventure, and Señora Duenas left to see to the customers in the common room.

Adam closed his eyes for a moment. It was over. Now that more immediate concerns were banished, he was aware of the ache of his muscles and the dull throbbing of his half-healed wound.

And of Caroline sitting only inches away, her shoulder just brushing his own. He had held her in his arms a short while ago, but what had been necessity in the midst of crisis became intimacy once the danger was past.

Adam pushed himself to his feet and said he would see if Hawkins needed help with the horses. Their adventure had ended, but nothing was over.

Caroline slumped against the high-backed bench and let the warmth of the fire wash over her. Her fingers, which had been so numb she could scarcely grasp the reins, were beginning to tingle and she could feel the blood flowing in her arms and legs.

"Are you better now, Mama?" Emily asked, turning from Consuela.

"Much better," Caroline said, savoring the sight of her child. She sipped the wine, which tasted wonderful, just as the fire seemed to have a magical glow. The gown and flannel petticoat she had been given were made of coarse fabric, but being enveloped in dry clothes seemed the height of luxury. She was alive, and being alive was astonishingly miraculous.

While Consuela went to stir the iron pot that hung on a tripod over the fire, Caroline gathered her daughter close. How silky Emily's hair felt. How trustfully she cuddled against her mother. How reassuring it felt to hear the steady beat of her heart.

Presently the door to the outside opened and Hawkins came into the room, followed by Adam. Caroline was relieved to see that both looked as if they had begun to recover. Hawkins called a cheerful greeting to Consuela. "Don't flirt with her," Adam told him, "she's too young."

Consuela seemed at once pleased and embarrassed. Adam grinned. His hair, half-dry, fell in disorder about his face, and he looked very young. For a moment, Caroline was thrown back in time, recalling the carelessly dressed boy who used to grin in just that way.

When Adam met her gaze, the laughter faded from his eyes, replaced by something she could not name. Caroline's breath quickened. She should thank Adam, though thanks seemed inadequate to acknowledge what he had done for her. "Adam—" she began, but before she could say more Señora Duenas butled back into the room.

The Señora greeted Hawkins warmly and waved them toward the trestle table in the center of the room. "You'd best eat in here," she said, as Consuela ladled soup into bowls, "it will give you some privacy."

The rich aroma of the soup reminded Caroline that she had had nothing to eat for hours and that danger did not destroy one's appetite. But as they took their places at the table, she tried to speak again. "I owe you my thanks," she said, looking from Adam to Hawkins. "Both of you. If it weren't for you—"

"Rivers can be treacherous," Adam said, taking a plate of bread from Consuela and setting it on the table. "We must all help each other."

His eyes warned Caroline against saying anything further. She realized he was afraid she would frighten Emily or say too much in front of the Duenases. Caroline understood his caution, but the unspoken words hung in her throat.

By the time they finished eating, Emily's head was beginning to droop. There were two bedrooms available, Señora Duenas told them, though the second was little more than a closet. Hawkins said he would be comfortable in the stable. Even here he was afraid their horses might not be safe from thieves. Señora Duenas brought him blankets and a pillow, and Consuela led Adam, Caroline, and Emily into the common room, now nearly empty, and up an inside stairway to an open gallery with sturdy wooden doors opening off it.

Emily fell asleep almost immediately when Caroline tucked her into bed in the larger of the two rooms, but despite all that had happened Caroline had no longing for sleep. As she sat on the edge of the pallet listening to Emily's even breathing, she forced herself to fully acknowledge what had happened to her. What had almost happened. She began to tremble again, not from cold but from the thought of how close she had come to death. She felt again the force of the water and the dark suffocating horror as she was pulled under. If Adam had not been there, if he had taken longer to reach her, if Hawkins had not pulled them to safety...

She would be dead, and Emily...Caroline looked down at her daughter who was curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Emily would have been left orphaned and alone in a foreign country. Though she would not really have been alone. Adam would have seen her to safety.

And she would not really have been orphaned either. Caroline's fingers clenched on the folds of her gown. If she died, Adam would be the only parent Emily had left, but neither he nor Emily would know it.

For the first time since Emily's birth, Caroline felt an impulse to tell Adam the truth. But what purpose would it serve? Adam was in no position to raise a child. And if Caroline died and Adam took Emily into his care, the world would suspect she was his bastard. Caroline would not allow her daughter to grow up with such a stigma. Far better for Emily to believe herself Jared Rawley's daughter.