Scoundrel's Kiss

by Carrie Lofty

  And besides, Pacheco knew his secrets. No sense in resisting.

  Sinking into the stiff straw of his pallet, Fernan glanced one more time at the door. "Master, you cannot truly expect Gavriel to look after that woman."

  "And why not?"

  "The trial is unjust. Cruel, even."

  Deeply damaged and unpredictable, the Englishwoman possessed the face of an angel and the body of the most sumptuous harlot. The idea of spending time in her company without taking advantage of those rare female attributes was too severe to contemplate—even for Fernan, who had one beautiful, compelling reason to confine his desire to bawdy jests.

  "She's quite a woman, Master," he said. "Even you must see that. I cannot think any of our lot could gird himself against one such as her."

  Pacheco leveled cold black eyes, eyes that made for an eerie contrast with his curtailed silver hair. "Nor do I expect Gavriel to."

  "You—?" Fernan lost track of his customary glibness, at a loss for words. Uncomfortably so. Ignoring the trickle of sweat along his spine, he tried not to cower. "You want him to fail? It would be a waste of my breath to ask why, I suppose?"

  "Quite."

  He grinned. "But Master, why not give her to me? If failure is imminent, I would enjoy the fall far more than Gavriel."

  "We both know that's a lie," Pacheco said, rising from his pallet. "I want you to keep your mouth shut No, let me correct that: Prattle on as you always do. No one listens to your nonsense."

  "Surely, and of course."

  "But I expect discretion." He took Fernan’s chin in one hand, twisting slightly, pulling his gaze up. "All you have to do is consider the alternative."

  Fernan tried to smile again, anything to crawl from under Pacheco's condemning stare, but the smile he managed felt warped and melted.

  Pacheco finally let him loose. He turned to a squat table and poured a mug of wine. While the novice master drank deeply, Fernan rubbed the bruised skin along his jaw.

  "Gavriel is a grim sod, but I pity him."

  "Do not," Pacheco said. "He's bound for greater purposes."

  "You speak in puzzles, for certain. What would the Grand Master think if he heard you say such things?"

  Pacheco's eyes narrowed. Every breath flared his nostrils like an angered bull. Aging hands that bore no calluses, only pale blue lines beneath leathery skin, clenched into fists. Fernan had thought the man incapable of committing the same violence they had witnessed on the roadside, but he altered that opinion.

  "Remember your tongue and where your loyalties lie," Pacheco said, his voice unyielding. "Not with the Order. Not with the Grand Master. "With me. I determine your future. That is, unless you'd rather I reveal to your father the" location of your Moorish bastard."

  Najih. His son.

  "Ah," Fernan said unsteadily, bringing shaky fingers to his throat. "I'm hearing threats. At least, I believe them to be threats. Alas, I am as dumb a fool as ever you saw."

  Pacheco grinned, a predator toying with its next meal. "And I have never expected more from you."

  Gavriel laid Ada on a fresh pallet, her room across a corridor from the one Pacheco and Fernan shared. He dropped then-satchels. Compared to the modest accommodations of the Jacobean house in Toledo, this room was sumptuous and smelled of sweet straw, incense, and herbs dusted among the floor rushes. Dark murals adorned the smooth plaster walls; it was a cool and private retreat illuminated by a pair of oil lamps.

  His burden discharged, Gavriel should have turned and walked away. Weariness and his inner turmoil demanded rest. But he could not leave, not until she was cared for.

  Ada's shivering would not abate. Looking around the room, he found a thick sheepskin throw. He draped the heavy mantle over her and knelt to touch her forehead. Cold skin, still, but slicked with foul sweat A most abnormal fever.

  He set about attending the wound at the base of her skull. Her scalp bled considerably, binding the hairs at her nape in a sticky mass, but the cut was shallow and no longer than one of his fingernails. He washed the area with cool water and a strip of linen until he was satisfied the bleeding had stopped.

  She gasped. Pale lids opened wide to reveal panicked blue eyes, her pupils shrunken to tiny points. Her hands flailed wildly as she struggled to sit up. "No! Don't cut me again!"

  Gavriel dropped the cloth and held her wrists. The sudden gentleness he found within himself came as a surprise. She was sick and lost—and he could understand being lost

  "Inglesa. Inglesa, settle yourself."

  She fought him, albeit with less strength. "You'll let him cut me. Don't! I haven't done anything wrong!"

  "Ada," he said, her name feeling heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue. "Calm yourself. I'm here to offer aid."

  Her struggles eased, those blue eyes still wide and shimmering with tears. "You won't let him?"

  "Let him what? Who? Who cut you?" He glanced around the room. "See, no one else is here. Do you remember who I am?"

  She sank into the pallet, overcome by ceaseless tremors, but she studied his face with something akin to her previous, sharp-minded thinking. She was in there, whoever she was. And she was suffering.

  "You are Gavriel."

  The words rattled past her chattering teeth, a surprise. But more surprising was his reaction to hearing his name from the disturbed woman. A warmth like anticipation spread across his chest. Whether he awaited danger or pleasure he could not know.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Gavriel, my captor." Her unfocused eyes veered to the ceiling. "My feet ache. Will you remove my boots?"

  He rubbed his eyes, clinging to his dwindling patience.

  "Need a moment to pray?" She stretched on the pallet, arms above her head. "Although I can't imagine why you might ask for divine intervention. They're only boots. And you're only offering aid."

  "You enjoy baiting me. Why?"

  "A man who sets himself apart as purer than anyone else is asking to be brought low."

  He stood, jaw aching. "You intend to bring me low?"

  "If I must. All I want is to be free of here and to make my own choices."

  "So you can choose more opium? That's not freedom."

  "You righteous—"

  "Stop." He stalked to the end of the pallet and began to unlace her boots. "I'll feel more inclined to help if you cease the name-calling."

  "I've said I don't want your help."

  He opened his hands. Her foot dropped to the bed. "Then take off your own boots."

  Ada raised her upper lip in a snarl and threw back the mantle. She swung her feet to the floor, hiked her skirts to the knee, and knelt over the complicated leather laces. Her fingers grasped and fumbled, too impaired to unravel the mystery of those knots. She yanked hard, whimpering. The shaking increased until she could hardly stay seated on the edge of the pallet Her foul cry split the air.

  Gavriel knelt and caught her shoulders, steadying her. He said nothing, only met her eyes and slowly shook his head. She looked away, a silent acquiescence. He lifted her foot to rest on his thighs, making short work of the puzzle that had thwarted her so completely. He urged her to lie back, her feet bare. Only when he went to replace the sheepskin mantle over her lower body did he notice the long, matching scars on her soles.

  A vice pinched his chest. She flinched when he traced one silvery scar, heel to toe. He needed to swallow twice before finding his voice, an unsteady one at that. "Inglesa, what happened to your feet?"

  "He cut me," she said, her voice faraway.

  "The man who held you captive?"

  She sighed. "Yes. And now he's dead."

  "Who was he?"

  The door to her room clanked opened to reveal a slim man and a stout, whey-faced nun. The man held more in common with a bird than a person, all sharp angles and quick movements. A hummingbird, perhaps. Agitated. And all without an introduction.

  "What seems to be the concern, senorita?" he asked.

  Ada burrowed deeper within the shelter of the sh
eepskin. "What do they want?"

  Gavriel glared when the man pushed him aside, the nun bumping into place beside him. "This is the physician, I assume. Here to help."

  Apparently.

  Ada would not look at the newcomers. She worried her chapped lower Up and pinned Gavriel with a look of wild fear. "I hardly want you here, let alone strangers."

  The bird puffed up the feathers of his dark robes. "I'm no stranger," he said. "I'm a physician, a servant of God sent to tend your sickness."

  "I've been hearing that entirely too often," she said

  When the physician put a hand to her forehead, she drew back with a hiss. Gavriel watched with growing irritation as the man treated her with less consideration than would a shepherd inspecting his livestock. Ada withstood the curt appraisal longer than he would have imagined—that is, longer than a breath or two.

  "Stop touching me!"

  The physician blanched at her ear-splitting command and jerked his hand away. "She is clearly disturbed and suffering from a fever. Her humors are out of balance and must be corrected."

  Gavriel curled a fist to his mouth. "Corrected how?"

  "We would make an incision—"

  "Cut me?" Ada's face turned the color of ash.

  "No, no, no. Nonsense." The physician waved his arms to placate her distress, flapping the wings of his waist-long sleeves. "A bloodletting is healthful and restorative, not at all to be feared."

  . "No!" Ada tried to jump clear, but with the stout build of a peasant farmhand, the nun seized her shoulders and pinned her to the pallet. "Let go of me! You can't do this!"

  The nun glanced over to Gavriel, her veiled headdress set askew by Ada's violent struggles. "I'll need your help to hold her steady."

  He shook his head tightly, his gut in a knot. "Por favor, wait a moment—"

  "Young man," the doctor said, his voice reeking of condescension. "No matter the origin of her illness, she is not at all like herself. Do not expect her to react sensibly to proven techniques."

  Frowning, Gavriel tossed his gaze between Ada's wild panic and the dispassionate duo. "Why shouldn't the origin of her illness matter?"

  "I am the physician to the Archbishop of Toledo, and I do not appreciate—"

  "Gavriel!"

  Ada cuffed her female foe and stumbled from the bed, pushing past the startled physician. The nun lunged after her, fleeter of foot than Gavriel would have guessed, but she landed on her side, arms empty. He caught Ada and twirled her down to the floor. She hugged closer, a mass of shaking limbs and sobs.

  "Give her to me," the nun said, standing and rubbing her hip. "Or I shall call in the guards."

  Gavriel denied her demand with a dark glare. "Wait. Both of you."

  "Don't let them," Ada whispered. He had a difficult time understanding her, between the shivering and her unusual accent, but her fear was tangible. The sweat on her skin even smelled different—potent, almost corrosive. "I would rather die tonight than bear his cure."

  "Inglesa, if it's for the best."

  Feverish eyes met his. She panted, briefly managing to quell the tremors. "Have I begged anything of you? I'm begging now. Please."

  He closed an arm around her shoulders, angling his body between her and the red-faced physician. The nun stood as tall as she could muster and looked ready to pounce. Whatever frustration or confusion he had felt only moments before was replaced by a single, instinctual demand: protect.

  "I want you out of this room," he said quietly.

  "You cannot be in earnest," the physic said. "This woman's humors must be balanced or she will suffer the consequences. They are a threat to her health."

  "And to the health of others." The nun's face had squished into a mask of displeasure beneath her crooked headdress.

  Gavriel glanced down at Ada. She had curled into herself, clinging to his arm as if to a branch in a raging stream. "Can that be done without the bloodletting?" he asked.

  "Bloodletting is the most effective—"

  "Out," Gavriel said. "Now. Before I assist you."

  "You cannot—"

  "Cutting her is unacceptable. I asked for alternatives, and you provided none."

  The physician sputtered, his eyebrows twitching like dun-colored caterpillars. But the nun found voice enough to speak for both of them. "We will inform Senor Latorre about this, as well as your novice master. This disrespect will not be tolerated."

  "I will not be intimidated by your threats. Now get out."

  The door closed behind them with a force just short of slamming. The nun's chattering indignation echoed behind the heavy oak partition and down the corridor, blending with the slashing tempest of noise in Ada's head. The screams of goblins, the cries of babies—they demanded the same thing. More. More opium. Anything to silence the noise, end the pain, banish the nightmares.

  She huddled closer to Gavriel, if such a thing were possible. She wore him, a second skin. Sweat covered her like drenching rain but not nearly so clean or refreshing. And still she felt cold, ever more cold—the kind that gnaws on bones and invades even the most restful sleep. He was her tormentor and her captor, yet he offered the warmth of his body and stood against those who would do her harm.

  Could it get any worse?

  Yes, when she did the worst to herself.

  "Why did you do it?"

  Gavriel shook his head and met her gaze with a frown. English again. She had never experienced such trouble with her translations. Keeping thoughts straight and in the proper dialect burdened her, just like the bootlaces—simple things she knew like breathing. But even breathing had become a challenge.

  I do this to myself.

  She sidestepped the thought and saw the face of Sheriff Finh. He had done this to her. And all the while, people like Gavriel judged what she did out of fear and desperation— holy men with more answers than compassion.

  Pain burst in her stomach. She cried out and dug fingernails into flesh. His flesh. A corner of her mind recognized his sharp intake of air, but another cramp shoved away every concern. She struggled for a breath that did not pierce and gouge. Colors responded in frantic patterns, crossing but never blending, shooting into her eyes even when she pinched them shut.

  Patient hands stroked her hair just as soft words eased past the brunt of her agony. She felt calmer, more in control with that soothing presence. Peering past the melange of colors, she tried to see if a kindly nurse had entered the room.

  But there was only Gavriel. His touch. His words. Him.

  Stubborn fool.

  She raised a hand above her face, watching it quiver like a flower trembling on its stem. Castilian this time. "Why? Why did you do it?"

  "Too many reasons."

  "I have nowhere to be." She watched as her feet danced a nervous pattern beyond the hem of her kirtle. Someone else's feet, certainly, except the scars were hers. She felt them still, the burning. A shiver slid under her skin.

  Gavriel pulled her upright. His firm grip on her forearms permitted no refusal. "I've learned to obey my superiors in the Order, but no one else. Apparently."

  "That's why you saved me? You were stubborn?"

  He caught her gaze, looking deep, banishing the garish streaks of color with his dark and steady eyes. "And you said 'please'."

  "You require no more?"

  He shrugged. "It worked this evening. Perhaps you should keep that in mind for the future."

  He stood and scooped her into powerful arms, carrying her as warily as he would a burning log. Another cramp coiled her belly into searing knots. She bent in half and cried out Gavriel held fast until the pain subsided, his arms as firm as hers were trembling. She sagged against that effortless strength, wishing to siphon it from him and fill her veins.

  He laid her gently on the pallet and returned with fresh water from the washbasin. "You'll find another reason less agreeable," he said

  Words spun through her mind in English and Castilian, a mash of language. She grabbed the correct one
s and forced her tongue to move. "You know me so well already?"

  "I thought you would be able to manipulate the physician into giving you more opium."

  She laughed. The unexpected sound fairly jumped from her mouth. Gavriel tensed. But that was not the sound of Ada, a girl from Keyworth; that was an unhinged jester. "I'm not thinking clearly, for I hadn't considered that"

  His mouth flattened into a grim line. Even as he sponged the cloth over her forehead, his expression never altered. Did he even know how to smile?

  Light stabbed her eyes and pain spiked like an ax at the base of her skull. She flung her arms as if defending against a blow to the face. An earthenware bowl dropped to the ground and shattered. But no maneuver shielded her against the torture of those seizures. She had never come so far before. Never. Jacob had given her what she needed to keep her well. This fiend, this holy hypocrite wanted her to suffer.

  "Do you believe this benefits me?"

  Gavriel pulled the fists from her eyes. "I look at you, and I wonder who you were."

  The openness that softened his expression invited intimacy. In that moment, she trusted him—trusted him with her deepest desire. "May I have opium? Please?"

  "No, inglesa. I'll refuse you until you can do the same for yourself."

  She twisted her neck, left to right to left again. The noise had returned, and she wanted to shake it from her ears. "I'll hate both of us."

  "You don't already?"

  "It hurts so badly." Anns—hers, it seemed—clenched her middle and tightened. A wolf writhed inside her, snapping its dagger teeth and slashing without mercy. Tears wet her cheeks and hair, mingling with sweat, but her mouth was a dry wasteland. "How did I get this far?"

  Gavriel reached an arm around her trembling body, and she sank, sank into that bastion of comfort. Anything to keep from doing this alone. He leaned close, the warm breath of his words skimming over the path made by her tears. "Life takes us to dark places," he said "We can either stay there until we die, or we can fight free."