by Tracy Grant
His careful deliberation stirred her and drove her mad. She kissed his shoulder and the angle of his jaw and the pulse beating at the base of his throat. He had removed his coat and his neckcloth, but there was still his waistcoat to contend with and his shirt. She pushed back the waistcoat and fumbled with the shirt and pressed her lips against the tangle of dark hair on his chest. And then she gasped because he had unfastened her dress and she felt the heat of his hands through the thin linen of her chemise.
Adam gathered her hands in his and lifted them to his lips one after the other, sending streaks of lightning through her. Caressing her wrists, he undid the buttons on her cuffs. She lifted her arms and somehow the dress was on the floor, followed by his waistcoat and shirt.
With a laugh of pure, intoxicating happiness, Adam swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. It was softer than the pallet and he laid her on sheets, not blankets, cool, smooth sheets. She stretched up her arms and looked into his eyes, not dark now but alight and glowing. And as she did so, she had an image of Jared's twisted face, the day his father had come to the house and denounced him.
No. Her silent scream echoing in her head, she drew Adam to her and buried her face in his shoulder. Jared was dead. She could no longer betray him. Joy and delight were here and now and she was determined to snatch happiness while she could.
Adam cradled her against him, seeming to understand her feelings if not their cause. The urgency that had gripped him two nights ago had given way to tenderness. It was more than she could bear. She didn't want tenderness, she wanted the feverish hunger that freed her from the need to think.
She drew his head down to her own in an urgent, desperate kiss. Adam shuddered and tightened his arms round her, straining her to him. But then, as if with conscious effort, his touch eased. His hands moved on her back in slow, soothing circles. He dragged his lips far enough from her own to murmur against her cheek, his voice caressing. "Caro—"
"No." This time Caroline spoke the word aloud. She pulled him down on top of her, tearing frantically at his clothes. Adam tried to be slow and gentle but she wouldn't let him. She moved impatiently beneath him, her nails raking his skin, losing herself in the feel of his hands and the heat of his flesh and the fire raging within her own body.
But still it wasn't enough. A terrifying welter of thoughts and feelings hovered just at the edge of her consciousness. Adam's skin was slick with sweat and his breathing had grown ragged, but when he spoke her name his voice held a tenderness that brought unbidden tears to her eyes.
Her throat tight with panic and need, Caroline tugged down his breeches and pulled him into her, crying out in relief as his body filled her own. Only then, when sensation drove out reason and all else gave way to the current that flowed between them, did she know any peace.
By now he seemed as desperate as she was. They moved together in a frantic, uneven rhythm until the fire consumed them both and she was lost in blazing, cleansing heat.
Afterward they lay still for a long time, his head on her breast, his body still buried deep inside hers. A sense of contentment filled her and wrapped itself around her heart. She hugged him to her. "Thank you."
Adam raised his head and looked down at her with a crooked grin. "That's an odd remark from someone who's just bestowed so great a gift."
Caroline felt suddenly embarrassed. There was no way to explain what their encounter had meant to her. Not without treading on waters they had determined to avoid. "Surely it's appropriate, when a gift of equal value has been bestowed in return," she said.
Adam's eyes glinted. He lowered his head and kissed her. A gentle kiss, but she could taste his longing. She felt him beginning to grow hard again and felt an answering tension coiling within her. Another moment or two and she would not be able to leave. And that mustn't happen. She couldn't risk falling asleep and spending half the night in his bed as she had at their last encounter. With the part of her brain that still allowed for rational thought she managed to say the word that would set her free. "Emily."
Adam nodded, withdrew from her body, and stood, naked and glorious. Avoiding temptation, Caroline turned her gaze away and searched for her chemise, which had been dropped on the floor by the bed. Adam helped her into her dress and between them they managed to gather up her hair pins. After one last kiss, which nearly overwhelmed all her good intentions, she slipped from the room and made her way down the corridor.
It was dark in her chamber and she didn't want to risk waking Emily by lighting the lamp. She closed the door carefully behind her and picked her way across the floor, relying on a faint shaft of moonlight that seeped between the shutters. She could see the outlines of the bed and, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, the empty space on the near side where she could slip under the covers. Emily must be lying in the shadows, which was odd. Usually she took up the whole bed when she had it to herself.
But as Caroline moved closer, the shadows dissolved into empty space. She reached the bed and felt across it. Her hand met nothing but rumpled bedclothes.
Caroline fumbled with the flint on the nearby table, but even before she had lit the lamp, she had forced herself to face the truth. Emily was not in the room.
Chapter Nine
It did not occur to Caroline to be frightened. What she felt, after the first flash of annoyance because Emily knew better than to wander off without telling her, was guilt. She had left her daughter to wake and find herself alone, in an unfamiliar room in an unknown inn in a strange village. And all because she, Emily's mother, could not control her carnal appetites. Caroline's body felt heavy, sated with lovemaking, but even as the thought came to her she felt the stirring in her loins that told her she had not had enough. If it were not for Emily she would be in Adam's bed still, with Adam still inside her.
Caroline left the room and went back into the corridor. Emily might have gone looking for Adam and, confused by sleep, mistaken his room. But if she had entered the wrong room she would have quickly backed away and tried another. And there was no sign of her daughter, nothing to be seen but closed doors. Not Adam then. Caroline made her way quickly down the steep wooden steps and looked about the common room. She called her daughter's name softly, then called it again as she crossed the room and pushed open the door to the kitchen. There was no answer and she did not really expect one. Emily sought people, not solitude. If she hadn't gone to Adam, she would have looked for Hawkins.
The warmth and smell of horses assailed her as she pushed open the heavy door to the stable. It was black inside, the only light coming from the waning moon that sent a faint shaft of light through a window set high in the wall. "Hawkins," Caroline called, moving toward the light. "Hawkins!" she called more sharply, for by now she was afraid. If Emily had come seeking her friend, Hawkins would not be hiding with her in the dark. Caroline stopped and listened to the stirring of hooves, then the whinny of a horse disturbed in its slumber, and above this the sound of an oath and a man stumbling toward her.
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?"
