Sharpe caught up with her. Her face was bright with the rain and with the sudden joy of freedom. This was not the time, he thought, to talk of El Matarife. She looked at him, laughed, then fumbled at her neck. She untied the_ hank_of grey drab rag, tossed it away, and released the great Sen mane of her hair. She was free she was beautiful, and Richard Sharpe followed her into his uncertain future.
CHAPTER 12
He checked La Marquesa at the top of the path. She was cold now. The rain had soaked the woollen shift so that it clung to her body. Sharpe pulled out his cloak that was strapped behind her saddle and draped it about her shoulders, then took his telescope and trained it down the hill. He could see the hairpin bend in the road where Angel was hidden. He could see more. There were two pine branches beside the road. They lay parallel to the track and they told him that at least six men, but less than nine, had climbed past Angel’s hiding place. If they had been at right angles the message would be that the men were waiting in ambush higher on the road, but instead Angel had seen them reach the summit of the hill.
Sharpe closed the telescope. He twisted in the saddle and stared behind him. The convent was out of sight. This northern side of the plateau was broken country, the small trees lashed by the rain, and somewhere in the damp wasteland of rocks, grass and bushes was hidden the enemy. He grinned at her. Her hair was flattened now by rain. `We’ve got company.’
`What do you mean?’
`Enemies.’
She used a word that Sharpe would not have expected a lady to know, even one like the Marquesa who spoke perfect English, just as she spoke a half dozen other languages to perfection. `So what do we do?’
`Ride down.’ El Matarife was doing what Sharpe would have done. He was planning to trap Sharpe on the steep, twisting roadway. There would be men blocking off the track at the foot of the hill, and once Sharpe was committed to the road, the men who had reached the top would follow him down.
She stared at him reproachfully. `Are we in trouble?’
`I’ll take you back to the convent, if you like.’
`Christ, no! Who are these bastards?’
`Partisans.’
She shook the reins and went forward. `You know what they’ll do to me?’
`I know what they’d like to do.’
He followed her. The road zig-zagged sharply down the hillside. It was rutted, showing that carts had used it, but it must have been a nightmare journey to bring a cart or carriage up the track with the steep drop always threatening to one side. She frowned at him. `Do you know what you’re doing?’
`I spent all of last night planning this.’
She shivered. `I’m cold.’
He found it hard to take his eyes from her. Her hair, pale as the palest gold, was normally full and shining, but under the lash of rain it had fallen flat like a shining helmet on her head. It somehow gave her features more prominence and strength. She had a wide, generous mouth, big eyes, and high bones. Her skin was as white as paper. She caught him looking at her. `Forgotten me?’
`No. I thought you might forget me.’
`You were supposed to think that.’ She laughed.
He twisted and looked behind. The track was empty. `What were you doing there?’
`Finding God. What do you think I was doing there?’
`You were kidnapped by the Church?’
`Yes.’
`Why?’
`They want my money, God damn them.’
`Why did you write that letter to your husband?’
She turned her grey eyes to him, wide and innocent. `Don’t be a bore, Richard.’
He laughed. He had ridden across half of Spain for this woman, beaten down the doors of a convent, and now risked disembowelling at the hands of the Slaughterman, all to be told not to be a bore. She smiled at his laughter. `Is that why you came?’
`Partly.’
`What was the other part?’
He felt clumsy and shy. `To see you.’