Scoundrel's Kiss

by Carrie Lofty

  Gavriel's horse ran alongside hers. Fernan clung to the taller man, his eyes pinched shut Gavriel urged the animal to a faster pace, hunched low, a warrior’s steady resolve on his face.

  Ada squeezed her thighs to propel her horse over a shallow ditch, landing with an easy thud. Already the men of the caravan had circled a trio of wagons in preparation for the bandits' onslaught Six armed guards took position and brandished long blades of steel. She sucked in a mouthful of fear and scorching air, aiming for the safety of those drawn swords.

  Panicked sheep bleated and scattered. Gavriel pulled his animal to a stop, dust tinting the wind a sandy brown. "Almohad raiders," he said. "Fast approaching."

  "How many?" asked a guard with a jagged scar down his cheek.

  "Nine."

  "We are clergy of the Order of Santiago," Pacheco said. "May we depend upon your protection?"

  "You'd be better to take up a spare sword and help defend," the scarred man said.

  Ada wiped sweat from her forehead and looked to the south. The bandits closed in like a deadly swarm. "Give me a sword." She must have looked determined enough—or wild enough— because the guard reached for a second blade at his hip.

  "Don't be absurd," Gavriel said. He dumped Fernan on the packed road and grabbed the huge sword from the bald man. "Take him and the girl to safety."

  She tightened damp palms on the reins. "I'm not getting off his horse."

  "That dagger of yours will do nothing to protect you."

  "True. I would've had a sword, but someone just kept it from me."

  He glared at her, temper fraying behind his eyes. "I can't save a woman intent on meeting her death. Find her something lighter. Smaller."

  A squat merchant wearing a white cap hurried from the nearest wagon and handed her a short sword, its blade gleaming. Ada smiled.

  "Dios keep you safe," Gavriel muttered, brandishing his own weapon.

  "Gavriel, you cannot," Pacheco said. "Put that away!"

  "As a last resort, Master. I swear it."

  Ada flashed her eyes between them. "How do you mean, 'as a last resort'? You're a caballero, surely!"

  "I've taken a vow to abstain from violence."

  She looked him up and down. From the width of his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw to the tall, assured way he sat a horse, he cut the very figure of a man meant for warfare. "You jest."

  Gavriel did not answer. He turned his mount and ran a quick circle around the wagons, proving right Ada's initial assessment: he could ride without use of the reins. His robes bunched at his waist and furled in his wake, revealing muscled legs wrapped in close-fitting breeches. Every flex and move of his thighs directed the animal, leaving hands free to hold the massive sword and direct the guards.

  "You there, close that gap. They'll try to pin us against the river. Steady!"

  She stared in amazement. The guards listened, as did their scarred and hardened leader.

  The raiders closed in on the merchant caravan. Tunics dyed to match the browns of La Mancha covered them from head to mid-calf, hoods draping down over close-fitting metal helmets. Some wore quilted armor over their tunics, and full beards covered most of their sun-darkened faces. Their horses trailed the colors of the rainbow from trim, functional saddles. And weapons. So many weapons. The hilts of short knives glittered at waist scabbards. Cavalry axes and swords were drawn and ready.

  A heavy pulse clogged Ada's ears. No one in Castile was ignorant of renegade horsemen who lived on the frontier; kidnapping was their sole occupation. They valued Christian women of good breeding, especially, because of the reliable ransoms paid for their safe return. But parties to negotiate ransoms with the outlaws could take months to organize. With Jacob and the condesa in Segovia, no one would realize Ada's absence. She would be a prisoner again. No rescue in sight.

  But the sword, the dagger, even the bodies of these men— all would protect her. She would not be taken. She would not be held.

  The pounding of the horses' hooves rolled like thunder, ever closer. The raiders attacked with the ferocity of seasoned combatants, their war cries splitting the searing midday air. Fanning out across the plain of battle, the cadre cut down stray sheep and hacked toward the wagons. Steel danced in the sunlight and connected with shields in a thick, irregular cadence. The guards held their ground. Horses screamed. Hooves kicked the sky as their riders dueled.

  Master Pacheco huddled with Fernan in one of the wagons. Ada dismounted and tied the reins to a lateral wagon slat. She edged closer to the holy men. Her thighs trembled from wild streaks of fear. A raider sped toward her, blocking her path.

  She dropped to her knees and rolled beneath the wagon. Metal cracked above her head and shavings of wood rained down.

  Crouched behind the spokes of waist-high wheel, halfway between her horse and the Jacobeans huddling one wagon over, she looked up. A pair of shepherds snuck behind the lone rear guard and pounced, dragging him from his horse. Dark blood sprayed from the guard's neck. His body jerked to sudden stillness.

  Ada fought a gorge of rising bile. She had been determined before—she would not be taken—but that determination splintered, broken by fear. She had not seen a man killed since she had taken the Sheriff of Nottingham's life. Old memories mingled with that nightmare scene, stealing the strength in her hands. She looked down and saw the sword, gripped tight in her palm, but she could no longer feel her fingers.

  She searched the noisy, furious scene for a tall man in white robes. Gavriel circled his horse, waiting, not attacking, his face a twisted mask of conflicted emotions. He held to his vow, yes, but the effort was written like words across his pinched lips and narrowed eyes.

  "Gavriel!"

  He whipped his head toward her and raised his sword.

  She peaked Out from beneath the wagons. "The shepherds! It's a trap!"

  Chapter 4

  The vicious brawl faded, slowed, as Gavriel watched an Almohad raider pull Ada from beneath the wagon.

  His arm beneath hers, clamped around her chest, the bandit dragged her onto his horse and stripped her of the short sword. She thrashed and kicked, but he held fast until she sat on his lap. His free hand wove into her long tangles and yanked back, baring her neck. He pressed a knife there, the horse's dancing steps shifting the blade, tempting disaster.

  Gavriel jerked hard on the reins and turned his mount toward the fray. Everywhere guards fought bandits, thrusting and shouting desperate orders to one another. He wove through the confusion, past the laden wagons and the cowering, ashen-faced merchants. His eyes never left the knife at Ada's throat.

  That is, until another glint of metal sliced across his view.

  Her flailing hands had not been searching for balance but for her jeweled dagger. She knocked her head back, connecting with the raider's nose just as she jammed the dagger into his thigh. The man shrieked. She used the moment when his hands went slack to snake free.

  She jumped without grace to the ground, rolling in a tangle of skirts, rolling again, getting clear. Gavriel lifted his sword. Once, he would have decapitated the man. He would have enjoyed watching the villain drop, headless and bloody— a threat dispatched.

  But he had vows to keep.

  The bandit blanched at the sight of Gavriel bearing down on him and put up his hands. Ada grabbed his leather belt and yanked him to his knees with one fierce pull. She retrieved her dagger from the fallen man's leg and ended his life.

  Gavriel could only stare, mouth agape.

  She stood and wiped the blade along her skirts, then turned to him. Eyes that had once tempted him with a false peace raged with wild madness. Her voice was lower as she asked, "What stayed your hand?"

  "My vows."

  "I have vows of my own," she said. "I'll never be held captive again."

  The pair of shepherds jumped between them. Gavriel kicked one man in the head, sending him in a twirling flight to the dirt. The second lunged and caught Ada's gown, ripping the linen down her back.
She spun in an erratic dance and caught the man's hand, biting down hard. He screamed, then elbowed her hard in the chest She collapsed and gasped.

  Gavriel spurred his horse. Leaning low, he looped his arm around the shepherd's neck and squeezed, dragging him off the ground. The muscles of his right arm protested. His writhing prisoner kicked and gagged, his face darkening to a sickly purple. The horse carried them into to the rushing current of the Tagus. Gavriel shrugged free of the scraping, sputtering man, and watched him flail in the waist-high water.

  He veered back to the skirmish. Only three guards remained and as many bandits.

  And Ada—Ada had climbed atop Fernan's horse once again, riding hard to the west

  * * *

  With the furious howl of air rushing past her ears, Ada could hear nothing else. Crouching low, urging more speed from her tiring mount, she chanced a look behind her. She had hoped to reach a village or perhaps another caravan, but Gavriel dogged her every cut and jump. His horse gained, charging as if it did not carry a muscled male rider and his hefty sword.

  She had killed a man. Her second. The fresh image of blood and the glint of jewels merged with old nightmares and gave them new life. How often had she tried to force those gruesome pictures into a box in her mind, memories of what Finch had done to her?

  Although she wanted to close her eyes against the terror, her safety atop the sprinting horse claimed her attention. The terror would wait, as it always did;

  The thunder of her mount's hooves gained strength. No, a harmony. Gavriel had bridged the entire distance. Ada veered her horse toward an irrigation ditch and cut hard to the left. Propelled by momentum, Gavriel had no choice but to make the jump over the channel. She pushed several hundred lengths between them by the time he slowed, circled, and followed in pursuit

  She rode without destination. The plateau stretched in all directions, a flat and endless prison. No village. No caravan. Never had she experienced a moment so wide and open. It should have made her brave, set her free, but she recognized the inevitable. Her horse would tire. She would be left to the whims of the harsh mesa—its foul weather and bandits—with nothing but a dagger and an exhausted animal.

  She straightened and pulled the reins. The horse slowed beneath her, its flanks lathered and chest heaving. The wind tugged at her ruined gown where it flapped open across her back, offering relief from the heat. Her hands were sticky, and a taste like the bitter rind of a lime coated her tongue.

  Gavriel caught up with her even before she could crawl out of the saddle and crumple into the tall, wild grasses.

  "Why did you flee?"

  Gavriel's nostrils flared with every harsh inhale. When he went to dismount, his robes caught on the pommel. He whipped the abused linen over his head and tossed it into the grass. Dark woolen breeches clung to lean legs. A tunic, dyed blue like the color of a midnight sky, stretched across his wide chest and draped past his hips. The ties at his throat dangled open, revealing a glimpse of his chest—paler skin and dark hair.

  "I knew you were a man beneath those robes. Care to remove any more?"

  He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to unsteady feet Her pulse throbbed in the soles of her feet, a ghostly pain.

  "I asked you a question," he said.

  "I was breathless with fright."

  Dark eyes scrutinized her. Cheeks, mouth, forehead, and back again. "You're mocking me."

  "Of course. I was running from you and you know it."

  "You killed that man."

  Blood and shining jewels. Death throes. Weeks of isolation ending in fire. She pushed those memories aside and focused on her mysterious menace. Gavriel. Playing with him was more entertaining. And if she had any chance of returning to Toledo, she needed to learn more about him.

  "Me? Kill a man? Are you sure you didn't mistake me for someone else?"

  He scowled, pointing to the scene of the attack. "I saw you!"

  "But it couldn't have been me, senor. My dagger is of no use. You said as much. And I'm but a woman."

  He stood there, his face a mask and his finger still pointing in mid-air. Only when she smiled did he react—not with violence or more irate words. He simply stepped away, crossed himself, and knelt. He lowered his head. She could not make out every word he mumbled, but the meaning was clear.

  For the span of a breath, surrounded by endless crops and grasses, covered from neck to knees with a dead man's drying blood, she wanted to tap him on the shoulder and beg a favor.

  Pray for me, too.

  Ridiculous.

  She searched Fernan’s saddlebags and found a half-filled flask of young ale. She drank with greedy gulps, then poured some on her hands to wash away what she had done. To no avail. Fingers, palms, forearms—all remained inked in sticky red.

  "Would you like to make confession?"

  She yelped. "Do you sneak up on people at the monastery? Or are you too busy maintaining vows of silence?"

  "I'm under no such obligation."

  "Are there other vows I should know about?"

  "Chastity," he said, his voice thick. "I've sworn chastity as well."

  "I'm not surprised."

  A tremor of cold shook through her limbs, suddenly stealing her attention. A quick glance at the sky revealed no change in the weather. Only more sun, more wind. The shiver had been on the inside. And again. Her hands jerked and the flask landed on the ground, spilling the ale.

  Oh, please. No.

  Gavriel held fast to his patience. Barely. The moment of prayer had done wonders while he was still kneeling. But standing before her undid all of his calm, especially because her gown hung loosely around her shoulders, open at the back. He had resolved to be strong and of use to his new charge, this peevish woman, but her every gesture was a threat: You'll break your vows.

  Unacceptable.

  He retrieved another flask from his own saddle. "Put out your hands. Let me help."

  "Gramercy, I'll do it myself."

  "Do you think because I've taken vows to obey and abstain from violence that I cannot be strong?"

  A smile pulled the corners of her lips, dimpling one cheek. The left one. "You cannot fight or lose your temper or lie with a woman? However do you find a release?"

  "Prayer and contemplation."

  She reached between their bodies and touched his forearm. Her fingers became snakes slithering up to his bicep. "Does that work?"

  "Better than opium."

  Her twisted smile widened. "Have you tried it?"

  "No," he said, shrugging free of her distracting touch. "But I can see that it brings you only a false peace."

  "It's not false. Not if I..." She shivered once and dropped her head.

  "What?"

  She inhaled, the breath hunching her shoulders. "Tis not false as long as I have more."

  Gavriel tipped up her chin. "That took quite some courage to admit"

  She jerked away. "That was no admission, you simpleton— merely the truth. If you men of merit wouldn't keep it from me, I would feel better. I would be better."

  She balled the cloth in her trembling hands. Ball, clench, release. Ever more trembling. Her eyes had clouded. They rolled and jumped, skittering.

  "Inglesa, are you well?"

  "Of course not! This is your fault. You and your mission, dragging me away from the world!"

  "Away from the nearest apothecary, you mean."

  "Yes! You could've left me be. I would've been fine." She sneered and spat at his feet. "Better than being here with you."

  Energy pulsed from her body in steady waves. Her eyes moved in ever-faster skips and jumps, refusing to rest. The long night, during which he would have to keep her from harming herself or anyone else, stretched ahead like a never-ending journey.

  "We should ride back to the others," he said quietly. "We'll go to the archbishop's villa in Yepes. You can change clothes."

  "I want to go home."

  "Home is Ucles—for one month. I've told you that."


  "Madness. You're a fool and a hypocrite and a bore and'—"

  "I thought I might be of assistance to you, but I was wrong. I cannot even get you to wash your hands!" He dropped the corked flask to her feet. "Godspeed, inglesa?

  "No! Don't leave. I'll do whatever you want."

  "And what would you do?"

  Ada threaded her fingers into her hair, down to the scalp. When she raised her eyes, she flung her hands away and laughed, her mood a shifting wind.

  "I'll do anything," she said, a stranger's smile warping her mouth. "Name your price, novice. Out this far from the others, we could do a great deal."

  Gavriel scowled first, glad to know his initial reaction to such a brazen proposal was outrage. But the fear and the shock of desire followed closely behind. He wrestled both into submission. "I want nothing of your bawdy offers, mujer."

  "So pious."

  "I'm trying, yes."

  "No, you're lying to yourself."

  He tethered his hands to the reins. "Tis no concern of yours."

  "Forgive me," she said with a sneer. "I'm more accustomed to dealing with men, not servants of God."

  "You're accustomed to dealing with a lovesick boy who could not refuse you. I'm no such boy, and I want you to use your manners."

  "Manners?"

  "Yes. When you ask my help, you'll say 'please'."

  Her eyes lost their brightness. Every drop of blue melted into an overcast gray. "Never."

  "I won't offer my assistance again," he said. "Do this willingly, or you'll spite yourself much worse than I ever could."

  "And that will cure me?"

  "Eventually."

  "I'd kill you first," she said.

  "But I want you cured more than you want your poison."

  "I very much doubt that."

  "And when the next band of renegades comes this way, they'll number too many for you to defend against."

  A quiet voice, one unlike any he had ever heard, crept across the mesa. "But then I might have an end to all this."

  An unwanted flicker of sympathy and a stronger, more nourishing anger propelled his words. "Do you seek death, inglesa? Is that what you crave?"