by Tracy Grant
"I don't know what I hoped," Caroline said after a moment. "I didn't think that far ahead. I only knew I owed it to him. If it hadn't been for me—"
"If what hadn't been for you?"
She whirled on him. "Don't be a fool, Adam. You know what you did. You made it happen."
Adam felt a surge of anger. "You had nothing to do with what happened to Jared. My God, do you think me so mean I would perjure myself to do you harm?"
He knew she did not believe him. She had come to him in London, convinced that he had accused her husband to pay her back for choosing Jared. Truth or falsity had not come into it. In those days Caroline's world had centered on herself.
But then she surprised him. "I knew Jared was at fault," Caroline said. "Not then." She hesitated, blushing, and Adam knew she was remembering their encounter. He felt his own body responding to the memory. "Not when we talked," Caroline continued, "but later. I learned that he'd bribed an Ordnance officer. And then I heard that he'd embezzled money from his cousin to do it."
That was a piece of the story Adam had never learned. "His cousin?"
"Edward, Viscount Farnwood. Earl Granby's son. Jared had been Edward's secretary from the time we came to London. The family didn't talk about the embezzlement, but they were very bitter. Jared's father wouldn't speak to him for days, and then he denounced him as though he were the devil incarnate. 'You're no son of mine,' he said. 'I tear you from my flesh. You deserve to be hung, and if it weren't for the disgrace to the name of Rawley I'd lead you to the hangman myself.' " Caroline shivered. "Jared never forgot that interview. It was the last time his father ever spoke to him."
Adam felt a pang of remorse, for Caroline if not for her scapegrace husband. Families like the Rawleys stuck together. Jared's father would have had enough influence to hush the matter up, and his brother Granby, a force within the Tory party, had even more. "I never expected Jared to suffer," Adam said. "I thought his father and uncle would have kept the matter quiet."
"They did."
So then why, against all that Adam knew of Jared's self-indulgence and love of comfort, had the whelp gone off to war? "What led Jared to the army?" he asked, genuinely curious. "An attack of conscience?"
"Jared was sorry for what he'd done," Caroline said, her voice defensive. "At least sorry for the mess he'd landed in," she added wryly. "His father wanted him out of the country and out of his sight. He gave him an ultimatum, the army or the West Indies. Jared chose the army. I suppose he had some thought of making amends."
It was an unexpected view of Jared. "Then I honor him for it," Adam said quietly. He met her eyes and she looked away.
"Jared wasn't bad," Caroline said after a moment. "He was weak, and he didn't think of consequences." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Like me. We were a fine, useless pair."
But she must have loved him. "You came to Portugal with him," Adam said, wanting to hear her put it into words.
Caroline turned round and waved to her daughter. "Not at first," she said, turning back to Adam. "I was pregnant with Emily and in no condition to travel. Jared's family would have nothing to do with me, and my mother and brother were furious at Jared's disgrace. The Rawleys did what they could to keep the story from getting about, but there was talk, and some of it reached even Finley-Abbott. That was something I couldn't laugh off."
It was far worse than Adam had imagined. He looked at her beautiful pale face, drained of color, drawn with cold and fatigue. "What did you do?" he asked.
"I went to Sussex, to my sister Jane, till after the birth, but her house is small and I knew I couldn't impose on her for long. There wasn't much money left—Jared had been far more badly in debt than I'd realized—and I couldn't live by myself. When Jared came home on leave, I asked him to take Emily and me with him. You know the rest."
Adam had discovered a fraud and denounced the perpetrator, but his act had had consequences far beyond his imagining. He had never meant to ruin Jared. Or had he? He had never intended to bring Caroline to the edge of disgrace and destitution. But what if Caroline was right? What if there was a part of him that had wanted to take revenge on them both, that had led to a harsher judgment than he need have made? Adam felt sweat break out on his forehead despite the cold. Search his heart as he may, he would never know the truth.
Beside him Caroline had drawn in upon herself, her thoughts perhaps on her husband and his fate. Wanting to break the spell of the past, Adam called a halt. "We're near the river," he said when Hawkins and Emily had joined them.
Emily sniffed. "I can smell it. Can we swim across?"
"Not a doubt, love," Hawkins said, "but I prefer to stay dry. The horse will do our swimming for us."
Emily thought about that. "That's what I meant. Is it far?"
"A quarter of an hour, I'd guess." Adam had come this way before. "There's a sharp drop to the river." He checked the mule's lead, then spurred Baron into motion. The land sloped downward. Huge boulders lay haphazardly across their way, as though they were pebbles discarded from a giant's fist. Then trees appeared, a sign that water was near. He could hear it now, a constant murmur accompanying the beat of the horses' hooves. Then the broad gray-green band of the Carrión was in sight, churning into white foam as it spilled round the rocks near its banks. Not the best place for a crossing. He would take them downstream to find a place where the river was calmer.
A sharp report made him swing round. Adam never touched a gun if he could help it, but he knew the sound of a rifle. "Run!" he shouted as the second shot rang out.
Chapter Seven
Reining in Baron, who had reared up at the sudden noise, Adam reached over and hit Caroline's horse sharply on the rump. Hawkins had already spurred his own animal forward. As the terrified horses plunged down the sharp decline to the Carrión, Adam glanced back over his shoulder. He thought he caught a stir of movement behind a stand of oak. Not waiting to see more, he tugged on the mule's lead and galloped after the others.
Hawkins and Caroline were already in the water. Adam plunged after them. The riverbed dropped away abruptly and the sudden surge of water nearly knocked him from the saddle. Baron stumbled, then began to swim, fighting valiantly against the force that would sweep them both downstream. Trusting his horse to carry them to safety, Adam looked back at the mule, tightening his hold on its lead. The water tugged at their precious provisions, but thus far the panniers remained in place. Steadied by Adam's grip on the lead, the mule stopped thrashing about and began to swim, its head arched high over the foaming water. Adam looked up at the bank, searching for signs of pursuit. Then he heard Caroline scream.
As he twisted round in the saddle, Adam's blood froze colder than the icy water. The brown mare was still swimming, but it was riderless. Farther downstream, where the water churned round submerged rocks, he saw Caroline's pale hair and Caroline's cloak, darker than the dark of the water, sinking about her as she fought to stay afloat.
Adam dropped the mule's lead and flung himself into the river. Water flooded his lungs and nostrils and he was engulfed by cold. He fought his way to the surface, drew a gasping breath, and began to swim. His coat hampered him, as did his boots, but at least the current was in his favor. It would sweep him toward Caroline, if he could manage to stay afloat. But staying afloat was no easy task.
Caroline was caught in a swirling maelstrom. At least it kept her from being swept downstream. She was trying to swim toward an outcropping of rock on the opposite bank, but the cloak hindered her movements and the water buffeted her about like a leaf in a windstorm.
"Hold on," Adam called, and then realized speech was a waste of much-needed breath.
He doubted Caroline could hear him. Her cloak, weighted with water, had sunk about her. Dear God, no, just a little bit farther. He heard her scream again and before his eyes she was pulled into the vortex of the water. All he could see was her hair, loosened from its pins, streaming free and whipped about by the current.
With a strength he ha
dn't known he possessed, Adam surged into the whitened water. Somehow he caught hold of a sodden fold of cloak, and then he found Caroline's arm and dragged her to the surface. Caroline choked and spluttered. Adam thought there could be no sweeter sound. He hauled her against him and she clung tightly, her fingers digging into his back.
Her grip threatened to pull them both under. Her skirt and cloak were tangled about his legs, her hair was in his mouth and caught against his eyes, momentarily blinding him. The roar of the water was all round them and the blood was pounding in his head, but he became aware of shouting. When his vision cleared he saw Hawkins kneeling on the outcropping of rock. He was holding a branch out over the water, but it was still precious inches away.
Kicking his legs free of the folds of fabric, Adam struggled toward safety. Caroline had got her arm free and tried to help propel them. Straining forward, Adam was nearly able to grasp the branch, but the roiling water pressed him back. He was beginning to lose feeling in his hands. His water-filled boots felt like lead weights.
Calling on whatever reserves of strength he had left, he extended his arm as far as he was able. At first he touched nothing but air. Then he felt something solid. Rough bark cut into his palm. He had found the branch.
The current threatened to pull his arm from its socket. For a moment, he thought Hawkins would be pulled into the river as well. But Hawkins braced himself with his feet and reeled them in like fish on a line until at last Adam was able to grasp the nearest of the rocks. He pushed Caroline upward and saw Hawkins's arms close round her. His own arms felt as if they would be torn from his body, but he managed to hang on. And then Hawkins grasped his wrists, and Adam was able to crawl onto solid ground.
With Hawkins's help, Adam clambered to his feet. The cold air cut like glass against his wet skin. It was impossible to control the chills that wracked his body, so he gave up the effort and concentrated on what must be done next. Caroline was sitting where Hawkins had left her, drawing long, gasping breaths. Emily had run over and flung her arms round her. "It's all right, querida," Caroline said, though her voice shook. "I'm fine now."
They had to get Caroline dry as soon as possible. Her horse and Hawkins's horse were standing placidly on the riverbank. Baron had managed to join them, but the mule, with their precious blankets strapped to his back, was still floundering in the shallows. Adam realized that the seemingly endless ordeal of cold and struggle and terror had taken only a few minutes. "Get the mule," he said, stripping off his sodden coat. Hawkins nodded. Adam cast a quick glance across the river to the opposite bank and the higher ground where the shots had come from. He could see the oak trees, but the only movement was the stirring of the wind in the branches. Still, this was no time to take chances. There were a few young oak nestled against the rocky bank on their own side of the river which would provide some cover. "Get behind the trees," he told Caroline, helping her to her feet. "Our friends may still be about."
Caroline's hand was ice-cold and trembling, from the chill or the shock or perhaps both, but she nodded matter-of-factly. Adam wanted to pull her close and give voice to the feelings that burned in his chest and tightened his throat, feelings he could not express, even to himself. Not now, when danger hovered all too close.
He released her hand and crossed the rocks to help Hawkins with the mule, who was tired and angry and disinclined to follow anyone. Water sloshed in Adam's boots, but there was no time to empty them now. He and Hawkins persuaded the mule out of the water, then rounded up the horses and led all the animals toward the trees. Adam looked closely at the opposite bank, but there was still no sign that they were being watched.
"Bandits, most likely," said Hawkins. "It looks as if they decided to go after richer game."
"Strange," Adam said, still watching the bank. "They could easily have cornered us in the river."
"So they could. But if they decided not to, I'm not going to argue with them."
As they reached the trees, Adam saw a flash of white. Caroline had stripped off her wet dresses and with Emily's help she was attempting to wring them dry. She wore only a short-sleeved undergarment that was as drenched as her gowns. Even from several feet off, Adam could tell that her lips and fingers were beginning to turn blue. He found the cold debilitating enough himself. For an already malnourished woman, a severe chill could be as great a threat as a bandit's bullet. Adam tugged one of the blankets free of its oilskin covering, strode to Caroline's side, and wrapped it tightly round her.
"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 st
ubborn 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.
