Dark Angel (8 page)

Adam returned to the street. If Caroline was making farewells, he should leave her in privacy. He paused for a moment and glanced at the stone church at the end of the street, a modest building that dwarfed the surrounding cottages. It looked as if it had stood there for centuries and it must have survived God knew how many wars. Adam found the thought reassuring. He had started to turn back toward Adela's cottage when he caught sight of the graveyard, a small grouping of unadorned sun-bleached stones beside the church. It was empty save for a single slight figure in gray who knelt before one of the stones. Her back was to him, but her fair hair was unmistakable.

Adam felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach which had nothing to do with his wound. Of course. Caroline had wanted to pay a last visit to Jared's grave. He should leave now, at once. If he had not wanted to intrude on her farewells to the villagers, he certainly had no right to intrude on her farewell to her husband. But it was a moment before he could order his thoughts and in that moment Caroline stood, and turned, and saw him.

At this distance he could not read her expression. He had no choice but to stand and wait while she walked toward him. She was wearing a cloak, he saw, of thick, heavy wool which would afford much needed protection on their journey. But the hood was pushed back and the morning sun picked out a few strands of gold in her hair. She paused to allow a young man leading a thin burro with sticks of kindling strapped to its back to pass between them, then crossed the street. "You were looking for me?"

Her voice was cool and detached, but her eyes were luminous and Adam understood why. She had been crying. He saw the patches of damp on her cheeks and the tears still clinging to her lashes. They were further confirmation that her marriage to Jared Rawley had been a real one, not the disaster she had led him to believe it was five years ago. That had been merely one more deception in a night filled with them.

"I thought you might need help with your things," Adam said, feeling singularly stupid. He had blundered and intruded where he had no right to go.

"Thank you, I can manage." Caroline studied his face, very much as Hawkins had earlier in the morning. "You're feeling better?" She sounded a little less remote.

"Abundantly." Adam managed to grin. "I don't remember a great deal of last night, but I think I owe you my thanks."

"On the contrary. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been hurt." Caroline smiled, then turned away, as if made uncomfortable by the shared moment. "I'll get my things," she said, walking toward the cottage.

Adam insisted on carrying the bundle. Caroline took Emily's small cloak, cast a brief glance round the cottage, then turned and walked through the door. She seemed to be forcing herself not to linger over the place that had been her home for the past two months.

"You'll miss it," Adam said, following her into the street.

Caroline looked up at him, as if grateful for his understanding. "Does that seem mad?"

"It's difficult to leave a place you've called home," Adam said, thinking of all the places he had lived in the last nine years and how unlike a home all of them had been.

"Adam." Caroline hesitated, looked away, then looked into his eyes again. "Thank you for coming after me."

It was progress, of a sort. Adam smiled in acknowledgement and they began to walk down the street, keeping a safe distance apart.

They found the children playing a game outside Adela's cotage. Emily was laughing and shrieking, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was about to be separated from her friends, perhaps forever. With some difficulty, Caroline persuaded Emily to hold still long enough to be wrapped in her cloak. Adela came out of the cottage holding the baby, and then, after a flurry of final preparations, the Soro family accompanied Adam, Caroline, and Emily to the square.

Word of Caroline's departure had spread and a number of villagers were gathered in front of the tavern to see her off. Feeling very much an outsider, Adam stood a little apart while Caroline said goodbye to each one in turn. The children resumed their game in the wider space of the square. When she had spoken with the last of the villagers, Caroline called Emily to her side. Emily, shouting happily a few moments before, went suddenly still. Solemn faced, she walked over to her mother, followed by the Soro children. Beatriz ran forward and flung her arms round Caroline's knees. Caroline bent down and kissed her, then embraced the other children. Finally she turned to Adela. "I'll write," she said, hugging her friend. "Father Javier can read the letters to you."

Adela nodded, her eyes bright. Caroline kissed the baby on the forehead, reached for Emily's hand, and turned toward Adam. The villagers looked on in silence. The Soro children, solemn like Emily, clustered about their mother. A chicken that had escaped the French hopped about the periphery of the square. Somewhere in the village a burro brayed and a man shouted. The wind came up, rattling the broken door of the tavern.

Adam met Caroline's gaze. He had won his first objective. She was coming with him. Two hundred miles and a month of travel lay ahead of them. A month of avoiding the French and crossing uncertain terrain and negotiating the equally treacherous ground of their past. It might well prove to be the most difficult month he had ever spent.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

Caroline nodded.

Chapter Four

They walked in silence down the winding street. When they had passed the last straggling cottage, Caroline stopped and looked back at the village where she had spent the most important months of her life. Even at this short distance the houses had grown mean and insignificant. The stone church at the top of the hill seemed diminished too, and the graveyard beyond—Who would remember Jared now? There were moments when she could scarce recall his face, moments when she was terrified by how easy it was to forget.

She would forget Acquera too, and the knowledge brought with it an unbearable sense of loss. She had known privations here that would once have been beyond her imagining, but she had also known kindness and friendship. No one cared that she was a Staffordshire squire's daughter or that her husband was the son of an English peer. She was
la Inglesa,
the ousider, but in the end even those who would not be her friends had given her their respect.

Emily was watching her mother with solemn eyes. "Will we come back?" she said.

Caroline knew it would be easy to make a promise she might never be able to keep, but Emily had learned to live with uncertainty. "I don't know," Caroline said, tightening her hold on her daughter's hand. Adam was waiting for them several yards ahead, and Caroline hurried to close the gap between them.

His face was harsh, but there was sympathy in his eyes and it nearly undid her. Caroline felt tears sting her eyelids and hurried on ahead, unwilling to let him see her face, She might never see Adela again. She would never go to the well for water and listen to the gossip of the women, nor kick open the wooden door of the village oven to insert the tray holding the bread she had shaped herself, nor slip into the back of the church, unwilling to intrude but eager for the comfort of the unfamiliar ritual.

On the other hand, when she reached Lisbon she would have the luxury of a bath. The thought came unbidden and Caroline recognized the pull of the two worlds. She looked at her daugh 7utyter, but Emily's face showed no sign of regret. Emily lived in the present and Caroline would do well to follow her example. There would be time later to mourn what she had left in Acquera.

The path had grown steeper, winding down between slabs of sharp-pointed rocks higher than her head. No trees softened the harsh landscape, only withered bits of grass, still frozen in stiff, defiant spikes. Caroline shivered. She had made this journey three months before with only a peasant guide for company, but she had been foolish then and unaware of the dangers. Now she knew enough to be afraid.

She heard the whinny of a horse and a man's voice making soothing noises. A moment later they reached a rocky plateau, and she saw Hawkins adjusting the saddle of a small, dark brown horse. There were three horses, Caroline saw with relief, and the dark brown one carried a lady's saddle. She would not have to ride with Adam, a possibility that had made her uneasy. She had not yet sorted out her feelings for Adam. Anger warred with concern for his well-being, but anger was uppermost. She saw the same conflict in Adam's face. He was curt to the point of rudeness, but then he must also be in pain. It was much too soon for him to travel.

"I was wondering when you'd turn up." Hawkins glanced sharply at Adam, then turned his attention to the mule that carried their provisions.

"The lady had farewells to make." Adam moved to a large bay horse and stroked its muzzle. "Have they eaten?" he asked Hawkins.

Hawkins nodded. All three horses were tough and lean, but they looked underfed, as did every animal that survived in this bleak country. "Horses are hard to come by, ma'am," he said to Caroline. "We'd hoped to bring another for your husband, if he was fit to ride, but the little brown mare was the best we could do."

"I'm sure she'll do very well, Mr. Hawkins."

"Just plain Hawkins, ma'am, if you don't mind. It's my given name. The last name is Plumb and I don't much care for it."

Emily followed this exchange intently. "Is the mule for me?" she asked, looking up at the large long-legged animal that was shaking its head in seeming annoyance.

Hawkins took Caroline's bundle and stowed it in one of the two panniers attached to the mule's pack-saddle. "I think not," he said, intent on adjusting the weight of the panniers.

"I can ride," Emily insisted. "I can ride a burro."

"I don't doubt it," he said, smiling down at her. "I don't doubt you can ride a mule if it comes to that. But this one's a bad-tempered fellow, and he has just about all he can carry. You'd best ride with one of us."

Emily looked at Adam, who was helping Caroline into the saddle of the brown horse. "With Mama?"

"Of course with me," Caroline said, reaching down for her daughter. She had held Emily before her throughout the long journey from Portugal. Throughout most of it, at least. There had been rough places where she had been forced to relinquish Emily to the guide.

"With all respect, ma'am," Hawkins said, "your horse is small. She can ride with me. Or with Mr. Durward when he's fit for it."

"I'm fit for it now, if you'll lift her up." Adam was already on the bay.

Emily looked from one man to the other. "With you," she said, taking Hawkins's hand.

Adam gave a wry smile. "In that case, I'll lead the mule."

Hawkins was a kind man, Caroline decided, a man she could trust to carry her daughter. Younger than she had thought when she saw him in action against the young Frenchman, no older than Adam, tough yet gentle. She saw now that Hawkins walked with a slight limp and wondered how he had come by it.

Adam reached for the mule's bridle while Hawkins tossed Emily on his own horse and mounted quickly behind her.

Caroline took a perverse pleasure in her daughter's choice of riding companion. The feel of Adam's hands when he helped her mount had reminded her all too forcibly of the intimacies which had angered and disturbed her the day before. Her body, starved for a man's touch, persisted in betraying her. Annoyed with her weakness, she picked up the reins and set her horse in motion.

They rode along a narrow, rock-strewn path, Adam in the lead, Hawkins bringing up the rear. The path led down the hill in torturous turns, forcing them to ride slowly. A sheer wall of rock rose on their right, and on their left the land dropped abruptly, allowing no margin for a false step. But the brown horse was a sturdy and sure-footed beast. Caroline relaxed her hold on the reins and allowed the mare to pick her own way.

Behind her Emily was chattering to Hawkins in a mixture of Spanish and English, though the wind rendered the words indistinct. It was a sharp, cold wind, rising abruptly as they rounded a corner, then dying as the path took a turn in the opposite direction. Caroline wrapped her cloak more tightly about her. Cold had been a fact of life in wintertime Acquera, but she had never grown used to it. The air, on the other hand, was pure joy, clear and fresh with a sharp clean smell utterly unlike anything in England. Or in Acquera, where animals and people and cooking fires overlaid it with their heavy scent. The journey would be dangerous, but she would take from it what pleasures she could.

When they reached the bottom of the ravine, the path leveled off, and the wind diminished. A few dark-green plants appeared, clinging to the base of the rocks as though to draw nourishment from their hard faces. Adam halted and looked back at the others. "There are French at Castroxeriz," he said. "We'll go north and cross the Odra above them."

North. Their way lay due southwest. Caroline felt a moment of irritation at this delay but knew it was useless to complain. Adam was right, of course, and she had no more wish to see another Frenchman than did he. Reluctantly she turned her horse away from the road they had been traveling and followed the mule up a rocky slope.

It proved to be a path of sorts, steep and winding like their descent, and like their descent it required complete concentration. When it leveled off near a trickle of a stream Adam called a halt to water the animals. Grateful for the respite, Caroline slipped off her horse and found Emily before her. "Mama," she said, her eyes bright, "Hawkins told me stories." Caroline turned to thank him but he was busy with the animals and did not seem to hear.

"You're not tired?" Caroline asked her daughter.

"Oh, no." Emily ran to help Hawkins with the mule, leaving her mother to reflect on the resilience of the young.

"Are you?"

Startled, Caroline turned to see Adam before her, offering a tin cup of stream water. "Of course not," she said sharply, not wanting to be shown lacking in resilience of her own. She took the cup and sipped the water slowly. It was icy and hurt her throat, but it was more refreshing than the finest champagne. "Thank you," she said when she was finished, ashamed of her want of graciousness. She handed him the cup, and looked up to meet his eyes. They seemed darker than usual, showing resolution and perhaps a hint of concern, but there was nothing in them that recognized their past friendship nor their past intimacy.