Dark Angel (20 page)

At sight of her, Hawkins was instantly alert. She knew though she could scarcely see his face or the outline of his form. "It's Emily," she said, trusting him to know what to do, "she's gone."

Hawkins's eyes widened in alarm. "She's not been here." He pushed her toward the door. In the faint light of the inn-yard she could see that his neckcloth was loose and his coat awry. His hair stood up in stiff spikes, forming a kind of halo around his face. In the stable behind him she heard the mutterings of the stableboy, stirring in his sleep. The horses too were restless. "When did you miss her?" Hawkins said.

"Moments ago. I'd left the room—" Caroline felt the blood rise to her face. Hawkins would guess why she had left her room and where she had gone. She took a breath. "I'd left the room," she said again, "and when I got back there was no sign of her. She must have been confused, waking alone. I thought she would go to you."

Hawkins gripped her hands, hard, and warded off her incipient hysteria. "Get Adam. Get lights. Rouse the inn. I'll look outside."

Caroline ran for the inn door, looked back, and saw the flare of a torch from inside the stable. Hawkins was waking the stableboy, and his voice was not gentle. She heard him call her daughter's name before she shut the door behind her, deadening the sound of his voice.

Here, in the silent inn, panic seized her. Emily was not in the protective circle of her mother, of Adam, of Hawkins, even of the horses. She had no reason to be anywhere else. In God's name, where had she gone?

A moment later Caroline was pounding on Adam's door, heedless of who might hear. Everyone must hear. No one must sleep while Emily was lost.

Adam opened the door, his eyes unfocused, torn from the beginnings of sleep.

"It's Emily," Caroline said, her breath coming in harsh gasps. "She's gone."

Adam was instantly alert. "Hawkins?" he said, jamming his feet into his boots.

"She's not with him. I've been to the stable. She's not downstairs. She's not in our room. She must have left when—" Her voice broke.

"Stop it, Caro." Adam gripped her shoulders. "We'll find her."

He was down the stairs in a half-dozen strides Caroline tumbled after him, lost her balance, and saved herself by clutching the railing, sending a long painful sliver into her palm. She ignored it and ran after Adam. A guttering light in a wall sconce cast a faint glow in the common room, leaving prisons of darkness. Without waiting to search them, Adam pushed open the door to the kitchen and found a boy curled up by the dying fire. He shook him roughly, demanded light, then lit a torch at the fire and returned to the common room.

Hurry, Caroline wanted to scream, Mother of God, please hurry. She could not understand his control, nor his patience. But in five minutes, no, less, he had covered every corner of the room, had looked under every table and every bench, and was able to tell her that Emily was not there, and if she had passed, had left no trace.

Without waiting for Caroline's questions, he returned to the kitchen. She found him there talking to the old woman who did the cooking. The woman's hands covered her mouth and above them her eyes were wide and dark. "José," she said to the boy who still lingered by the fire, "rouse them. All of them. Then light the lamps and stoke the fire."

It was hardly necessary. Caroline became aware of the sound of doors opening, of feet clattering down the stairs, of voices raised in question. Adam left the kitchen. Caroline followed and heard him tell the men what had happened, that he was organizing a search. The men murmured in dismay. Then some of them took to the streets, while others searched inside. She heard the pounding of feet and through it all the voices calling her daughter's name.

Caroline forced herself to stay very still. She wanted to run through the dark streets, to cry out "Emily!", to beat on doors and call down the heavens to witness what a terrible error had been made. It would do no good, she knew that, so she allowed herself to be led back into the kitchen and persuaded into a chair, and forced herself to sip the wine the old woman pressed upon her. The young girl who helped in the kitchen came in, barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin white shift and a blanket round her shoulders. Silently she filled the kettle and set it to boil.

The outer door closed again and the inn grew quiet. Caroline pushed open the door to the common room, brightly lit by now but empty of people. She called Adam's name sharply, then ran up the stairs and called his name again. Adam had gone, and all his searchers, and Emily was therefore not in the inn. Nor in the stable, for Hawkins would have explored that thoroughly by now. Unable to wait, unable to be still, Caroline ran back down the stairs and pulled open the door to the inn-yard.

The air was cold, colder than she remembered from her trip to the stable, but no colder than the chill that seemed to have stopped her heart. She took a deep, wrenching breath. Nothing would warm her till Emily was found.

Caroline staggered and grasped one of the posts that held up the narrow balcony that ran across the front of the inn. The night was clear, with a faint light coming from the moon and the stars. The stars were so bright in Spain, so much brighter than in England, so much more plentiful. They were one of the wonders of this bleak country, that's what she had told Emily when they made the long journey from Lisbon to Acquera and she was showing her the Bear and the Dipper. Emily. Barely conscious of the tears running down her cheeks, Caroline left the support of the loggia and ran out into the street.

She ran into darkness, broken by disembodied flames, the torches carried by the searchers. She made for the first of these, but the man she met only shook his head. She ran on, stopping to question, then not stopping at all. Her heart was pounding and her throat was raw, for she had been calling Emily's name throughout all the maze of streets she had traversed. Breathless and shaking with fear, she stopped at last beside a mud brick wall. It was here that Adam found her.

His arms went around her, but he did not speak. She knew from this that they had found no trace of Emily, and she knew from the beating of his heart that Adam was as frightened as she. Unable to think or to act, Caroline allowed him to lead her back to the inn.

As they reached the loggia the door flew open and the old woman from the kitchen emerged, a black fury, dragging the kitchen boy by his ear. The sound of his howls and blubbering was incongruous against the distant shouts of the searchers. Caroline looked at him blankly. He might have come from another world. And then the woman gave him a push and sent him sprawling at their feet.

"Tell them!" the old woman screamed. "Tell them now or I will put a curse upon you and on the children of your loins and their children and their children's children!" She spat in his direction, then looked up at Adam. "He knows."

Adam loosed Caroline abruptly, dropped to the ground, and grabbed hold of the boy's shirt. "What do you know?" Adam's voice was low but singing with anguish. "Tell me quickly or you'll not live to be cursed."

The boy struggled beneath Adam's grip, then went suddenly still. He had been afraid of the old woman, but he was terrified by the dark stranger. "I was to tell you in the morning." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Now!" Adam grasped the boy's arms and drew him to his knees. He was a sad-looking boy, tall and thin, with a pockmarked face. Caroline had been vaguely aware of him in the kitchen and had thought that he wore a sly expression. There was nothing sly about him now. He was stupefied with fear. Adam shook him roughly. "Now!"

The boy gulped. "You're to go to Salamanca," he said, his voice trembling. "Tomorrow night. No, tonight, at ten. In an alley behind the church of San Sebastian." His eyes slid to Caroline's face. "Not you, the lady. She is to go alone. They will tell her where to find the child."

Adam dropped his hands from the boy's arms as if he found himself touching something unclean. "They?" he said hoarsely.

"Two men," the boy said, rubbing his arms where Adam had held him. "They came tonight, late. I brought them wine and meat. They asked if I had seen two men traveling with a woman and a child."

"And you told them." Caroline could hear the fury in Adam's voice.

"They gave me coins, Señor."

"Of course."

The sly look returned to the boy's face. "If you give me coins, I will tell you what they look like." He looked up, then flinched at the thunderous expression on Adam's face. "Two men, Señor," he said rapidly, "one big—you understand, not tall, but—" He held his hands' wide apart. "Dark, like you, with a beard. The other is thin and he does not speak. I tell them you stay in the inn for tonight, and I point out to them the rooms you and the lady have. That is all I know, I swear by Our Lady." He crossed himself hastily. "I know nothing of the child. It is not my fault. It is not my fault." He put an arm across his eyes and seemed to be weeping, but Caroline thought it a sham. The old woman gave him a kick and sent him scurrying back into the inn.

Adam was still kneeling on the ground. He looked up at Caroline, his face drained of color and emotion. She found herself trembling and gripped her arms tightly. It was no time for weakness.

"We'll have to call off the search," he said. "Go in and pack. We leave for Salamanca."

None of them could have borne to stay in Bunedo for the remainder of that night. On the horses they at least had the illusion of doing something. It was well after two when they set out, and the moon had set, leaving a clear, dark, star-filled sky. Hawkins, his face scarred with worry, led the way, carrying a lantern to light the road. The mule, perhaps sensing the distress of his human companions, followed for once without complaint. Behind the mule, Adam rode with Caroline.

They would reach Salamanca at dawn, with a long day stretching ahead before the meeting with the men who had taken Emily. Adam had no doubt who they were. He had seen them in the inn at Norilla, where the thin man who had been the original victim had pulled a knife on him in the course of what had seemed an impromptu brawl. For all his bravado, he and his companion were an inept pair, no more effective in Norilla than they had been on the banks of the Carrión, but they showed a certain cowardly imagination. Who but a coward would shoot at a man's back, or take a child as bait to lead a man into a trap.

For they were after him, Adam had no doubt of this, or after the dispatch he carried still in his boot. Yet they feared to come, the two of them, and surprise him in his room. Instead they had gone to Caroline's, and failing to find her, had taken Emily in her place. They must guess that either one would draw their quarry.

Adam glanced at the woman riding beside him. He could see little but the darkness of her gray cloak and the faint white blur of her face. She had said almost nothing since that moment in the loggia when the kitchen boy had blurted out his story of deceit and betrayal. Reluctant to shatter her self-command, Adam hesitated. There were things she would have to know. "Caro," he said, "they won't hurt her."

She turned to look at him. "She'll be frightened," she said, as if that were horror enough. And indeed it was. Then she gave an anguished cry, shattering the silence of the night. "Why?" Hawkins swung round and held up the lantern. Adam shook his head and motioned him to go on. "What do they want with a child?" Caroline leaned toward him and Adam felt the burning intensity of her gaze. "Money? Do we look as though we have money? What will they do to her, Adam? What will become of her?"

He reached over and clasped her hand in a gesture of reassurance he did not feel. "They'll do nothing to her. They'll keep her safe till we come. She's a decoy, Caroline. They're after me."

"Why would they want you?" Her voice was flat and controlled.

"Because I'm carrying an intercepted French dispatch to Wellington for Victor Soro."

Caroline drew a sharp breath. "Victor?"

"It was a long trip for him to make. And I thought he should have some time with Adela."

He thought she might see some humor in this. He was wrong. "You didn't tell me." Her voice was barely a whisper. Then, louder now, and angry, "Adam, how could you? How could you not let me know? Do you think I would ever have come to your room if I knew there was danger? Do you think I would ever have left Emily alone?"

Adam's guilt was as great as her own, and because he could not admit this to her his voice was unnaturally sharp. "If you'd been with Emily they'd have taken you hostage. They'd have taken you both."

"Then at least I'd know where she was." Caroline turned abruptly from Adam, spurred her horse, and rode up beside Hawkins.

The sky was growing perceptibly lighter. It was cold, but not as cold as it had been in the mountains. An hour later Hawkins doused the lantern and a half-hour after that Adam saw the first faint glow from the east. When Salamanca came in sight the sun was visible in the sky, flooding the golden stones of the city with light. Adam had been here once before during a brief period of British occupation. The French had the city now, and for that reason he had hoped to avoid it, but Emily's abduction threw considerations of safety to the wind. He would risk even Caroline to get the child back.