Bond of Fire (15 page)

He could live with how he’d kept his personal duties as a Christian alive—of prayer and confession. But how much he’d failed others? Those were the worst nightmares, the sins that locked him in the church’s outermost reaches.

They’d also kept him from visiting his wife’s tomb within San Rafael Arcángel.

But now with war approaching…Now he found himself wondering if those three men sitting under the oak tree would make a good work party to repair the section of road in front of the baker’s. Part of the wall holding back the hillside near the bridge needed some work, too. But it would be better done by more men. He could also ask the women to make more cheese and sausage for food. Of course, if he hired some of the boys to bring water, it would spread money to more households…

Two little boys raced past him to join their mothers, their scarlet caps blazing against the stone walls.

“Ah, God bless them,” the older priest commented from behind him in English. “Surely children are the grace that keeps us all alive.”

Rodrigo whipped around, startled he hadn’t heard the man approach.

“Father Michael.” He bowed as was proper—before realizing that he’d answered in the same language, the first time he’d used it publicly in San Leandro.

The priest made a graceful sign of the cross over him in response, the first he’d received in so very long. Light brushed his cheek but faded under the dark scudding clouds.

“Welcome to San Leandro, my son.” Surprisingly bright blue eyes in a seamed brown face saw far too much without probing. He watched the children and the parishioners disappear around a corner, leaving them alone. Even the other priest and the nuns had departed.

“Thank you, Father. Your voice has the soft cadence of Ireland.” He cautiously opened a conversation, offering his knowledge of the other’s accent.

“I was born and raised in County Wicklow, within a few miles of Dublin, but I spent many years in the west near Galway.” His face lit up with joy at finding someone to share memories with.

“One of my dearest friends is an O’Malley.”

“Famed for their fighting men—and their pirate queen.”

Rodrigo laughed. “He made very sure I could pronounce her name properly. Graw-nya O’Malley.”

“Or Grace, as the English translate it.”

“What brings you here to Spain?” Rodrigo asked casually, ready to withdraw the question at the slightest hint of constraint.

“Galicia is at the other end of the great smuggling route to Ireland.” Father Michael’s eyebrows went up. “Traveling here is very easy.”

Rodrigo blinked, having considered those sailing routes very little while he was growing up.

“This land is as green but far more mountainous than Ireland,” he said neutrally.

“Here the children play amid gardens of stone, while we are certain that the French will come.” The priest’s voice turned as leaden as the skies, his dark brown habit whipping against his legs. “Eleven years ago, the French didn’t come to Ireland where the children hid and the men stood tall among fields of green.”

“The ’97 Rising!”

“Aye. I’d been a hedge priest, serving my God and my countrymen by hiding in thickets to bring Holy Communion and teach Catechism in open fields to the music of birdsong—because the Protestant English forbade all other celebration. When my people chose to fight—believing the French would help—I went with them.”

“As a priest.”

“I didn’t expect my principal duties to consist of giving the Last Rites—and running for my own life, lest my presence destroy others.” Agony scored his face, an expression Rodrigo knew far too well. He pressed his hands together in an attitude of prayer and closed his eyes, breathing hard.

Rodrigo started to edge away, so the old priest could grieve in private.

“Forgive me if I have disturbed you.” The Franciscan glanced at the other man from under his level silver brows. “It is still painful to remember. Having someone to speak to in English seems to have opened deeper floodgates than I expected.”

“I, too, have bitter memories, Father, which I hope to heal.” Rodrigo shrugged a disclaimer, denying any awkwardness.

“That’s what the vicar-general said when he sent me here. He hoped San Rafael Arcángel would heal me, the traveler.”

They smiled wryly at each other in perfect accord.

Wind ruffled their hair, raw-edged with the threat of snow and touched with wood smoke’s warmth.

Both men immediately, instinctively measured the distance to their lodgings. But Rodrigo hesitated, caught on the verge of saying a polite and very secular farewell. Would the Lord think he deserved even this much of a favor?

“Father—will you bless me before I go?”

“Of course, my son.” Father Michael’s face softened and became almost transfigured.

Rodrigo knelt on the cold, wet stones, removed his hat, and bowed his head.

Father Michael lifted his hand.

“The blessing of Mary and the blessing of God,

The blessing of the sun and the moon on their road,

Of the man in the east and the man in the west,

And my blessing with thee and be thou blest.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He made the sign of the Holy Cross above Rodrigo.

The ancient words settled around Rodrigo like a cloak, protecting him from harm. Tears touched his eyes and he crossed himself before rising.

“God, Mary, and St. Patrick be with you, Father.”

Father Michael brightened even more, recognizing the traditional Irish response to his blessing.

They smiled at each other, understanding far more than they could put into words of why they both needed that blessing.

MADRID, THAT AFTERNOON

Hélène drummed her fingers, ready to hurl the marine dictionary across the room. No matter how often she decoded the message, it still said the same thing. The same set of words, which evoked the same set of appalling memories.

“D’you think frowning will change the answer?” Jean-Marie set a glass of wine down in front of her on the library table.

“No.” She poured the extremely expensive port down her throat without regard for its quality. She’d learned very quickly
vampiros
were immune to becoming drunkards, although they usually savored the taste of fine drink as a substitute for eating.

He raised an eyebrow but refilled her glass without a word.

“Are you sure we can trust the servants?” she asked abruptly.

“Completely,” he replied and returned to his chair.

She lifted an eyebrow at the extremely succinct answer—and accepted it. If a man who saw life in shades of gray was certain of something, then it was completely true.

Since Jean-Marie was accompanying her, he deserved to know what they’d be doing.

“We are instructed to do everything possible,” she mimicked the tone of a haughty bureaucrat, “to protect the British army’s supply lines to the major western ports.”

He considered, his long legs stretched in front of him. “In other words—Lisbon, Oporto, Vigo, and Corunna. Lisbon is the Portugese capital—and Bonaparte’s target after Madrid.”

“Are you sure?”

“Capturing it would feed
la gloire
, the glory of France—and the legend of Napoleon.” Jean-Marie’s eyes were very cynical. “The British fleet is also there, supplying the British army.”

“It sounds—crowded. And obvious.”

“Very. Especially when it is in the southwest, and all of Napoleon’s troops are in the north and northeast.”

She set the paper down and rested her chin on her hands, watching every flicker crossing his face for a clue to his thoughts. He had far more experience at divining a leader’s intentions than anyone else she’d ever met. “Don’t you think he’ll march that far? His troops are famous for moving swiftly.”

“But Sir John Moore, with the British army, is in the west. If he can move quickly enough against the French army at the
perfect
moment, he could snap Napoleon’s attention away from the south. He’d save Lisbon and Portugal, plus all of southern Spain.”

“But his army is a fraction of Napoleon’s army’s size!” Hélène objected instinctively, imagining thousands of British soldiers slaughtered on a wintry field in the same way the Austrians and Russians had been at Austerlitz.

Jean-Marie shrugged. “Did I say it would be easy or safe? It’s the move of a master chess player and a great gambler. His port, in that case, would be Corunna,” he added. “And to help him, we’d have to race both him and Napoleon across Old Castile to the northern mountains.”

She shuddered.

He sipped his wine and waited.

Despite her horror at the potential cost of one alternative, she had to admit it held a certain logic. She nibbled on her fingernail. “You believe we only need to protect two supply routes—the one to Lisbon, in the southwest, and the other to Corunna, in the northwest.”

“Exactly.”

“Did Sir Andrew say which direction he’d be going?”

“No.”

She’d never had to make a decision like this before.

“In that case, we’ll go to Corunna.”

“Excellent.”

But his voice wasn’t quite as surprised as she’d expected.

She tilted her head. “Jean-Marie, what would you have done if I’d said Lisbon?”

“Deceived you into taking the Corunna road.” A slow wicked smile curled his lips.

“Wretch!” She ran at him and pretended to pummel him.

He caught her hands, laughing, and pulled her down into his lap for a kiss which closed out the world.

“I don’t know why I love you so much,” she whispered a very long time later. “You are arrogant, impossible…”

“Always willing to go off on mad adventures with you?”

“The best man in the world.” For as long as I have you.

OLD CASTILE, A WEEK LATER

Hélène moodily considered the sullen landscape spread out beneath her. Primarily built from flat plains cut by a single great river and its tributaries, Old Castile was notable for the great hills scattered across the landscape, most of them crowned by ruined castles. Seen in the fading moonlight, they seemed the work of lost kings and kingdoms, for whom the land itself mourned.

The peasants lived in villages, huddled by the fields and watercourses, deep within the shadows of those past glories. But they, too, remembered—and they hated invaders.

They’d refused to talk to her with her French accent, unless she used her most forceful forms of
vampira
mind persuasion on them. But they’d chatter to Jean-Marie, with his Spanish clothing and polite manners toward the women and clergy. He’d even spoken to some roaming bands of men in a familiar-sounding language called Gallego, which he’d learned years before from
Monsieur
Perez. She couldn’t stop her moue of distaste at the man’s name and Jean-Marie had abruptly ended the conversation.

They had an excellent idea of where they were and had only once been bothered by bandits and guerillas. She’d tossed a burning brand at the bandit leader’s hands, scaring off him and his followers. Jean-Marie and their two excellent riding mules were still well fed, compared to the world around them. The mules had even accepted her very well, probably because
Monsieur
Perez had previously accustomed them to
vampiros
.

His servants had remained in Madrid and planned to journey south away from the fighting. As members of an ancient
comitiva
family who’d served
vampiros
for generations, they had connections who’d help them find shelter.

She still hadn’t seen Celeste or the others, even though they’d traveled as fast as they could. They hadn’t heard any rumors of their capture, either, which was small comfort when her imagination was starting to stir up nightmares.

Such as now. She was standing atop what had once been a castle, but had since been reduced to a single watchtower and a wall. It was surprisingly sturdy, even if its gaping holes did make it resemble a bell tower more than a fortification. But she was high enough to see for miles, giving her a chance to spot any pursuers—or the people she followed. Their riding mules waited patiently below, the two sentries who kept watch during the day.

An isolated fire burned in the distance, close to what Jean-Marie had said was a road. A hut? Perhaps. But it cast much more light than she’d expect to see from the typical airless hovel.

A branch crackled.

She smiled faintly, recognizing Jean-Marie’s signal and his scent. He’d warned her in the beginning that
compañeros
had the strength and senses of
cachorros
, the very young
vampiros
. A week’s traveling had taught her he’d barely sketched out his knowledge and talents.

“Any news?” She held out her hand for him without turning around.

“Moore has made his move. The British army thrust hard toward Napoleon’s supply lines.” He wrapped his arms around her, lending her the comfort of his body. He’d put on a little weight, and his eyes weren’t as guarded.

“He must have stirred up a hornet’s nest. He at least saved Portugal and probably southern Spain.”

“Indeed. Napoleon’s charged out of Madrid, chasing Moore like a schoolboy who’s had his name turned into the latest playground taunt.”

“You’re not impressed,” she observed mildly. The distant fire was still burning, still isolated, and still surprisingly bright.

“Napoleon has ten times as many troops as Moore—even though he has to use most of them to keep the local civilians in check. On the other hand, if he doesn’t destroy Moore here and now, he loses his reputation for invincibility.”

“And the rest of Europe takes heart and begins to tear him apart, every chance they get.”

“Exactly.” He kissed her hair.

She leaned her head back, savoring his steady heartbeat, which meant safety and homecoming.

“Napoleon must stop Moore before he reaches Benavente, where the Corunna road starts climbing into the truly nasty mountains and a handful of men could hold off a division,” Jean-Marie said quietly. “I’d wager Napoleon has also ordered Soult’s forces to head due west and cut off the British.”

“A race for Benavente,” she summarized, wondering why he was spending so much time talking, instead of riding. It was less than an hour until first light, and they should be taking shelter soon.

“Correct. We’ll have to get there first, of course, but we’re ahead of Moore on the Corunna road, as is Sir Andrew.”

“Excellent.” She let the silence linger for a moment. “What’s the other news?”

He chuckled. “Will you ever let me bring up something diplomatically?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured tactfully.

“Sir Andrew and the others have, if anything, lengthened their lead.”

“What!” She pulled herself out of his arms and whipped around to face him. “
Mon Dieu
, he must be driving them like beasts of the field. How can we rejoin them?”

“There is worse news,
chérie
.” He watched her steadily, his voice darker and deeper.

“Go on.” She drew herself up.

“Roaming patrols of Napoleon’s beloved Chasseurs à Cheval cavalry, his ‘favored children’ from the Imperial Guard, have been seen in this area.”

She froze, chilled to the bone. “Oh no…”

“Interestingly, they are not patrolling in our direction—but where Sir Andrew and his team must be.”

“Celeste…” Her hand flew to her throat. No, she couldn’t lose
la petite
. Not her only family. “We must warn them immediately, lest they be captured during the day.”

“Only a mind link will work for that,
mon coeur
—and a very strong one.”

She’d only been able to reach Celeste mind-to-mind very briefly, even using the channel they shared as
hijas
of the same
creador
.

Celeste!
She frantically pictured her sister—the dark hair and eyes, laughing over a joke.
Celeste!

Nothing. She could faintly hear Jean-Marie’s thoughts, sternly withdrawn to allow her to focus. She could even catch snatches of a few local peasants’ thoughts just starting to rise for the morning chores, less than a mile away beside the small river. But not a hint of
la petite
’s, even though the distance was small enough she should have been able to reach her.

Jean-Marie cleared his throat. “Try Sir Andrew.”

“I should be able to reach my sister much more easily.” Why was he suggesting her
creador
, whom she only had the most formal relationship with? The bond should be stronger with her sister.

“What can it hurt to try talking to your
creador
? Perhaps Celeste is distracted in some way and not listening.” His words were so carefully chosen as to be unreadable, like his face and voice. What was he driving at? But she had no time to worry about such details, not with sunrise approaching.

She straightened her shoulders, assuming a
marquise
’s posture, that of a lady born and bred to the nobility of the sword, the proudest nobility in France.

Sir Andrew, may I have a word with you, please?

A very faint buzzing, as if he was distracted.

She tried again, forcing herself to shout.

Andrew threw down his greatcoat and looked around the meager shepherd’s hut yet again, extending every sense he had. The mules were in the excuse for a stable, peacefully eating the grain he’d bought in Valladolid. It had taken them days to accept
vampiros
as passengers, not surprising since most animals were extremely wary of the unfamiliar scent.

In the hayloft, Wade had just finished feeding Celeste—or should he say that Celeste had just drained Wade dry yet again? In any event, Wade was snoring loudly, and there’d be no waking him for hours to come.

There weren’t many shadows to search, given that they’d lit two candles. Normally they went without any light, since this was enemy territory. But Celeste had begged for the special treat, saying it was almost Christmas, and she wanted to see her men. He’d agreed, thinking the hut was sturdy enough to conceal them.

Linen rustled and hay crackled. Celeste must be rolling over. She preferred to sleep next to her partners when they traveled in harm’s way, although not back home in England. There she had more—adventurous notions of how to sport in a bed.

A slow smile brought the corners of his mouth up, echoed by his cock’s anticipatory surge. He ignored them both.

Where the devil was the marine dictionary, the codebook that would decipher any message he—and every other British spy in the Iberian Peninsula—sent? It had to be here. He’d made sure it was in his coat when they’d first arrived but he hadn’t seen it since.

It was a small book, leather bound and designed to survive in the worst sort of weather. This was a tiny hut, and there were very few places it could have disappeared into.

Sir Andrew?
Hélène’s voice intruded.

Thank God you’re alive! Give me five minutes, and I’ll talk to you.

But…

He broke the link, enforcing it with a brutal order to be silent. Even though he was delighted to know she was alive, the codebook was far more important than any sentimental reunion.

He sniffed, choosing to hunt by scent instead of sight. The book’s binding held traces of its past owners, who’d all been
prosaicos
and therefore rather odiferous to a
vampiro
’s acute senses.
Vampiros
, however, smelled quite differently than
prosaicos
, and their scent faded with age, even as their ability to detect it grew. In the end, only a
vampiro
of his own age—or older—could have found Andrew, although he could readily locate any
vampiro
younger than himself.

His coat bore strong traces of the codebook.

He sniffed again, catching a vagrant draft through the door.
What the hell?

Totally disregarding the abominably cold weather, he whipped the door open, drew in a deep breath—and went completely still.

An instant later, he grabbed the codebook from its hiding place under the frozen watering trough and dove for cover in the stable.

A heavy musket ball thudded into the wood, barely missing his head.

The book reeked of Celeste. She must have stolen it from his coat and taken it outside when she’d relieved herself.

Christ, how could he have been such a fool not to have noticed that all the agents who died did so after missions she went on or evenings when he chatted about what old friends were doing now?

A pistol shot rang out from inside. He cursed, knowing it meant Wade’s death.

“God dammit, Celeste, I will kill you for this!” he shouted. A dozen
prosaico
cavalrymen had little chance against a
vampiro
. He’d start by stampeding their horses…

She had the effrontery to laugh at him from inside the hut. “Did you truly believe that I’d turned against my country? Take a deeper breath of the night air, you fool, and then tell me what you think of your chances.”

His skin prickled at her tone. The horsemen were staying farther away than they should for a night action, barely within musket range. What else was wrong?

He crawled to the end of the water trough and tasted the wind, where it flowed unhindered by haystacks or low hills.

A very, very faint but unmistakable scent reached him, one whose like he’d encountered before in London. A
vampiro mayor
, far faster than he was and well able to hunt by daylight—when he’d be forced to seek shelter indoors lest he be turned into ashes by the sun.

It was the perfect trap. Worst of all, the French would have the codebook, the nearly impossible to destroy volume.

Celeste smashed through the small window in the hayloft. She thudded to the ground and ran for the closest French cavalryman, ice and snow crackling under her feet.

Dammit, why had he broken his own rules and not kept a pistol to hand at all times? He could have done at least one thing right and destroyed the treacherous bitch.

Celeste dropped into a walk a few feet away, smirking when no bullet clipped her skirts. The foolish Englishman was still so enamored of her he couldn’t bear to kill her? Well, he’d learn differently in a few more minutes, once the Emperor’s men caught him.

She began to hum one of the tunes she’d danced to with Raoul, allowing herself to remember a little of her only joy.

A cold, dry wind softly brushed her cheek, totally unlike the ice-edged storms that came from the north.
Run, Celeste.

The ghostly voice sounded like Raoul’s. Impossible. She dipped and swayed, her hand lifting to an imaginary partner. There was plenty of time to celebrate her triumph over the clumsy English.

A gust of wind swirled the snow around her, building it into a pillar.
Celeste, run!
Raoul shouted in her ear and shoved her hard, spurring her into movement.
You’ll die if you linger.

She recognized his voice with an instinct owing nothing to logic. She was two steps away before she looked back.

Raoul was watching her, wearing his old revolutionary uniform, his body outlined in blue and silver against the tattered hut. The appalling scar he’d gained at the Battle of Valmy, marking his heroism, tore from his face the youthful beauty he’d once had. Dear God, how she wanted to caress it, kiss him, reassure herself he was here, with her.

She slowed and started to turn back. For him, she would brave Hell or the fires of Purgatory.

He raised his hand to her, warning her off.

A fierce wind slammed into her, staggering her. Snow swirled around him, dissolving his outline.

“No! Nooo!” The wind ripped away her cry and stripped the tears from her eyes.