Dark Angel (Lescaut Quartet)

by Tracy Grant

  "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.

  Caroline knew her sister Jane could be counted on to raise Emily. It would be better for Emily, and it would save Adam from a burden he might not welcome. He would not shrink from responsibility, but what tenderness would he feel toward a child conceived on a night that had had more to do with vengeance than with love?

  Emily stirred slightly and shifted her position, throwing her arm over her face. Caroline smoothed the blankets. She should take off her dress and climb into bed beside Emily and try to sleep, but she felt strangely restless. Sleep was all too likely to bring dreams she did not want to face. And then there was Adam.

  The
thought surprised Caroline, but she suddenly knew she would not be comfortable until she had talked to him. She owed him a proper expression of gratitude, but it was more than that. She owed him an apology for all she had said and felt since he arrived in Acquera. For doubting him and mistrusting him and questioning his motives. Whatever had happened between them in the past, she knew now that she could quite literally trust him with her life.

  Satisfied that Emily was sleeping peacefully, Caroline slipped from the room, made her way down the gallery, and knocked at Adam's door.

  She waited in silence, realizing he might have already gone to bed. Then she heard quick, heavy footsteps, and the door was pulled open. The light from the common room below illumined Adam's face, but the room beyond him was in darkness. Though he was still wearing the borrowed breeches and shirt, the shirt was crumpled and loosened at the neck, and his eyes were unfocused, as if he had just woken. He stared at her, perhaps dazzled by the sudden light, perhaps surprised to find her outside his door. "Is Emily all right?" he asked.

  "Yes, she's sound asleep. Adam—" Caroline felt suddenly awkward. "May I come in?"

  He hesitated a moment. "Of course. Let me light the candle."

  Caroline heard the sound of flint striking steel and then light flared in a sconce on the wall, casting flickering shadows over the tiny, low-ceilinged room. Adam's boots stood in a corner and the blankets on the pallet were disarranged, as if he had bolted out of bed at her knock. "I'm sorry I woke you," Caroline said, moving into the room. "I wasn't thinking very clearly."

  "It doesn't matter." Adam closed the door on the faint murmur of voices from the common room and turned to face her. "Is something wrong?" There was concern in his voice, but he spoke abruptly, as if he wished to be done with the scene as quickly as possible.

  "No. That is—" Caroline hesitated, conscious of a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Adam did not want her here. But if he was still angry with her, it was all the more imperative that she apologize. "Adam," she blurted out, "I'm sorry."

  If it had not been so unlike him, she would have sworn he was uncomfortable. "Sorry for what?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

  Caroline fumbled to find the right words. She was acutely conscious of the roar of the wind and the sound of the rain spattering against the cobblestones outside. The candle cast patterns of light and dark on the whitewashed walls, like the shadow puppets she and Adam had made as children. "For the way I've acted these past days. For trying to turn you away when you came to Acquera. For all the trouble you've had on the journey. For almost getting you killed this afternoon." She drew a breath. "For not trusting you."

  He stood very still, the light from the candle flickering across his face and lending a golden cast to his skin. He looked unutterably weary. Then a faint smile crossed his face. "If it wasn't for you, I'd have died in Acquera. I think we're even."

  Caroline remembered snatching Gazin's gun from the floor of her cottage. That hadn't been heroism but sheer necessity. "I could hardly have done otherwise," she pointed out. "You think I'd have let Gazin shoot you?"

  "You think I'd have let you drown?"

  A gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters on the window and sent a blast of cold air through the room. Caroline shivered. Adam had offered reassurance, but she didn't want to be reassured, she wanted to talk, quite desperately. Memories were crowding in on her—their capture by the guerrilleros, the shots on the riverbank, her near drowning in the river. She did not want to face those memories alone.

  But Adam, standing only a few feet away, seemed more distant and remote than ever. She did not know how to reach out to him. Then she realized there was something she had to say. "Adam, if anything happens to me—"

  Adam's brows drew together. "Nothing's going to happen to you, Caro. Don't be melodramatic."

  "I'm trying to be sensible. We don't know what lies ahead. Will you see that Emily gets to England—"

  "I have every intention of seeing you both get to England. I thought I made that plain."

  "I'm serious, Adam. If anything happens to me, I want you to take Emily to Jane in Sussex. She doesn't have a great deal of money, but I know she'd look after Emily—"

  "Christ, Caro." The words burst from Adam with sudden violence. He pushed himself away from the wall and then he was gripping both her arms, the weariness in his face replaced by a furious intensity. "Do you think after today I'd let anything happen to you? I almost lost you. It was seven kinds of hell and I'm bloody well not going to go through it again."

  Caroline felt her blood still and the breath catch in her throat. Adam's face was inches from her own. The candlelight was reflected in his eyes, but they burned with a heat that came from within. Like a blind fool, she had walked straight into danger without heeding any signs of warning. She understood now why Adam had wanted her to leave the room. Not because he was angry but because he realized better than she what might happen between them. What was already happening.

  The anger was gone from Adam's face but not the intensity. Caroline could feel his quickened pulse and the way he was struggling to control his breath. His fingers loosened on her arms, but he did not release her. "I think you should go, Caro."

  The words seemed to be wrung from him, as if speaking them took as much effort as battling the river.

  Over his shoulder Caroline could see the outline of the door. The way to safety. And loneliness and nightmares and things she did not want to remember. Her throat closed with panic and a desperate need she could not explain. She looked into Adam's eyes and said what she hadn't allowed herself to say in the wake of today's crisis or in all the months of numbing fear that had preceded it. "I was so frightened." The words were a plea.

  "I know." Adam brushed his fingers against her cheek. His touch was gentle, but his expression was strained to the breaking point. He dropped his hands abruptly and squeezed his eyes shut. "For God's sake, Caro, go."

  He was no longer touching her. She was alone, isolated and adrift, and it was more than she could bear. She stepped forward deliberately, closing the distance between them. "Hold me, Adam. Make me forget."

  Adam stiffened, as if the air had been driven from his lungs. He drew a single harsh breath. Then his arms closed round her and she was no longer alone.

  His lips moved against her hair, rough and yet gentle, offering comfort and stirring need. He smelled of the river and the stable and she could not get close enough to him. She arched her head back and heard him groan and felt the welcome pressure of his mouth against her own. When he sank his fingers into her hair and dragged her against him, deepening the kiss, she tasted fear and knew she was not alone in her terror. The heat of his mouth coursed through her, igniting sensation in her breasts and her belly and between her legs.

  It was like it had been in the river. If she let go, she would be lost. She clung to him, tangling her fingers in his hair, clenching the rough fabric of his shirt. He tugged loose the muslin tippet at the neck of her gown and then his mouth was at the hollow of her throat and caressing the swell of her breasts. Outside the wind had quickened, but it was not as fast as the beating of her heart.

  They stumbled toward the pallet and fell down upon the coarse, tangled blankets. Adam's face was buried in her hair. She could feel his erratic pulse and the unmistakable hardness between his legs. She pulled his shirt free of his waistband and slid her hands beneath it, feeling his still bandaged wound and other, older scars. They had not been there five years ago. But she was not going to think about five years ago. All that mattered was now, and the fact that they were both alive.

  Adam was fumbling with the buttons on the back of her dress, his fingers catching in her hair which fell about both of them. At last the loosened bodice slipped down on her shoulders and he reached beneath it and cupped her swollen breasts. Piercing sweetness shot through her. She cried out, for the hunger had become unendurable. They were close, but not close enough. She still felt empty inside.

  When h
e pushed up the heavy layers of her skirt and petticoat and touched her inner thighs, she cried out again. Her blood was racing and her chest was tight and she was not sure if she could breathe. She reached for the fastening on his breeches and felt the tremor that ran through him at her touch. The torrent had engulfed them both. She tugged down his breeches and he thrust into her, filling her body but touching her soul.

  Adam braced himself on his elbows and looked down at her. They were in shadow, but his eyes would have blazed on a starless night. Caroline's heart constricted, and she felt a moment of fear at the intensity of a passion that could consume her. But then he began to move within her and fear gave way to need. As his thrusts quickened she clutched him tightly, hearing his harsh breathing mingled with her own, feeling his sweat-drenched skin through the fabric of his shirt. He was her anchor in the deluge. The speed at which it swept them along was frightening, yet she was certain she could not bear it if it went on any longer.

  And then suddenly she broke apart inside and was tossed into a maelstrom of sharp, shattering sensation. She felt Adam shudder, beneath her hands and deep inside her. "Caro." His body convulsed with release as he said her name, but his voice held a raw, harsh note that was akin to despair. Without thinking, Caroline drew him down on her breast and stroked his hair.

  When Adam woke it was still dark save for a faint glow from the guttering candle. The wind had died down, but he could hear the water dripping from the eaves. The room smelled of damp and the unmistakable scent of their lovemaking. Caroline was lying on her side, his arm flung round her, her hair spread beneath his cheek. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

  Adam shut his eyes. God in heaven, what had he done? What had they done? And how, when his body was filled with a sense of well being he had not felt in years, could his mind be in such turmoil?

  Caroline had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. But Adam had no illusions about her feelings for him. What she had wanted was comfort and escape from the terrors of the day. In the cold light of morning, with the fears of the night behind her and the reality of what they had done starkly before her, she might well despise herself. Or feel he had taken advantage of her. Or both. The strain that had existed between them on the early part of the journey would become unbearable. It would be far better if it had never happened, for his sake as well as her own. One night could not possibly assuage his need of her.