by Carrie Lofty
"And how did you fight free?"
All tenderness drained from his eyes, like a flask turned upside down and emptied. His arm remained in place and gave her his heat, but there was no mercy to be found in his body of stone and steel. None for her. None for himself.
"Who says I have?"
Gavriel picked up the last shards of the earthenware basin Ada had destroyed. He kept one eye on her still body, watching for her unpredictable return to the world. Her howling pain combined the violence of high tide and thunder and angered demons, all whirling forth from one mindless woman. She had lost track of her tongue an hour before, shouting incoherent phrases in her native language, resorting to shrieks, moans, and wordless pleas.
He slumped to the floor, his back against the oaken door.
His eyelids rolled closed, pulled by the weight of his burdens. He edged toward slumber like a man approaching the lip of a high cliff, walking along, looking over, but never quite stepping into the abyss.
He needed to sleep. But what did she need?
To start, she needed a room made entirely of linen and straw. No sharp edges.
She wanted no one's help, and Gavriel had run clean of options. Short of locking her in a windowless room for weeks, he had no notion of what her care would require. The idea of having to tend to her needs, to break her of the opium sickness clinging to her like death—he could not have chosen a more fearsome task.
The door rattled at his back. "Open up! We demand entry."
Old habits refused to die. No matter how long he had lived in the safety of the monastery, the sudden clamor in the corridor set him in search of a weapon. He had scrambled away and grabbed a sizable shard of earthenware before thought caught up to instinct.
He unlocked the door and stood between Ada and the men who entered: Pacheco, Latorre, the physician, and three armed guards.
He glared at each in turn before settling on Pacheco. The shard pinched the inside of his palm as he squeezed. "She rests for the first time in an hour and you choose now to intrude?"
Pacheco glanced at Ada, men pinned his black glass eyes on Gavriel. "What is this I hear from the physician?"
The bird man puffed out his chest Gavriel looked him up and down, once, before asking, "Does he even have a name?"
"I am called Mendes, novice, and—"
"He didn't have the courtesy to introduce himself." Gavriel rubbed the back of his neck but found no relief from the festering tension. "And he insisted on performing a bloodletting."
Pacheco's eloquent shrug cast doubt on actions that had been so clear. "And? If her humors are out of balance, it may be necessary."
"It is necessary," Mendes said, his narrow face darkening to the color of thinned wine. "She is clearly disturbed and a threat to everyone here."
Gavriel inhaled. The more he thought about what he had seen and heard and—saints save him—felt in her company, the more pressing became the need to escape. But then Mendes made ridiculous comments and his every protective impulse raged to life.
Rage. Yes. He breathed it in, welcoming an old friend
"Look at her," he said, pointing with the shard. "That sleeping woman is a threat to you?"
"For certain!"
Gavriel stepped closer, bearing down on the scrawny physician with all the force he could reasonably contain. "Then what does that make me?"
The guards drew their weapons.
"Gavriel!" Pacheco's expression remained mild despite the sting of his voice. "You cannot threaten these people! We are guests in this place."
"But perhaps not for long," said Latorre. "This novice deserves discipline for such behavior, Brother Pacheco."
Gavriel tossed the shard to one side, secretly enjoying how each of the three guards flinched behind their weapons. But not only would a disciplinary action mean confinement or fasting—never an inviting prospect—he would be separated from Ada, his trial a disastrous failure. For both their stakes, he banked the rage that had been such a brief indulgence.
He appealed to Pacheco, the only man of the six who might yet be a friend to her cause. "Master, she is... she is afraid of being cut."
"'Tis the opium," Pacheco said. "You're letting her speak her mind when she has no mind of her own."
Gavriel flinched, suddenly ashamed for having Ada's ailment spoken aloud. Latorre and Mendes no longer regarded her as a witch or a contagion, but as a creature to be pitied. For Ada's sake, he wanted none of their shame.
He awaited only Pacheco's decision, but he did not know what he wanted to hear. An unwilling part of him was invested in her well-being now, if only to win against a very determined opponent. Gavriel had not had the opportunity to compete—to truly test himself against another person—in years. If he could not do it with swords and tactics, he would do so with strength and skill of another kind.
"What happened to allowing me to proceed as I saw fit?" he asked.
"Your judgment is in question," said Pacheco.
"But I know the difference between when the opium speaks for her and abject terror."
Latorre raised his eyebrows and leered. "You know her so well, novice?"
Gavriel turned and removed the sheepskin mantle. "Look for yourself. She has scars on the soles of her feet. Someone deliberately tortured her."
Pacheco stared at him. Ants crawling over his skin would have been more pleasant. "You're tired, Gavriel," he said.
"You cannot possibly understand her fear. She was frightened, and this arrogant swine treated her like the lowest animal."
Mendes sputtered again. His eyes bounced between Pacheco and Latorre, perhaps looking for someone to voice the indignation he could not
But Latorre only gaped at Ada's bared feet and calves. "You removed her boots? Without a chaperone?"
Gavriel yanked the mantle into place. "She has a fever and was unable to remove them. What was I supposed to do?"
"Send for a maid or a nun," said Latorre.
"Like the one who held her down?" The sharp spike of his voice bounded around the room's low stone walls.
"She did so that I might perform bloodletting," said Mendes. "This woman would be recovered by now had you not interfered."
"You did not even inquire as to her illness," said Gavriel. "Opium, plague, dropsy—the remedy is all the same to you."
Mendes pointed with his flapping sleeve. "This is intolerable. I want him disciplined!"
Latorre nodded, turning his doughy face to Pacheco. "I agree with Senor Mendes. This boy must be reprimanded"
Gavriel clenched his fists. "I'm no boy, you—"
"I'll not be told how to oversee my own novice." Never raising his voice to the others' distress, Pacheco's black eyes held each man enthralled. "Do you understand my meaning?"
"I understand," said Latorre. "But I also understand that my place as the archbishop's majordomo entitles me to permit you refuge. Or to deny it."
"Brother Latorre, are you threatening me?"
"No, only this novice of yours." Latorre glanced at Ada. "Him and the madwoman you've brought into our midst I want them both out. Tonight"
Chapter 7
'They made us leave? Because of me?"
Gavriel said nothing, only supported her weight against his shoulder. Their possessions, hastily gathered, thumped against their backs with each shuffling step. Ada's knees and ankles had turned to water. The springtime chill wrapped around her and filled every pore. She nestled deeper into Gavriel's arms for both steadiness and warmth. She hoped that, in her moment of desperation, she would have held to any man with as much fervor.
When she lifted her head, she saw two parallel lines of houses stretching before them. An interminable length. Nausea blossomed at the prospect of walking such a distance—or being dragged, more like.
"Hardly seems fair to you," she said, choking back the taste of bile. "Cast out with me."
His voice rumbled near her ear, a quiet thunder. "Is that an apology?"
"I don't believe so. You br
ought this on yourself."
"Keep saying that, inglesa." He stopped and hiked her up as she slumped. "Then you won't share the responsibility."
She licked her lips, thirstier than she could ever remember. "You're not my master."
"Nor do I want to be."
"Then why do you do this?"
"I am bound to," he said quickly. "All I want is your cooperation."
She stumbled, but he did not let her fall. Anger and the familiar whiplash of betrayal struck against her breastbone. "This is Jacob's fault, isn't it?"
"Not entirely. You are my..."
"What?"
He stopped before the wide arches and painted brick of a former mosque, now a renovated cathedral, and scowled down at her. But the hesitance in his voice spoke of doubt. "You are my final test before joining the Order. I must get you ' well or risk failing my novitiate."
Every sensation of safety and unexpected comfort fled. He had defended her against the physician, keeping her warm, all to fulfill an obligation. "You treat me as a game you must win."
"And I will win, for your sake and for mine."
"Do what you must I haven't the energy to fight you. Not tonight" The dim, narrow street threatened to tip upside-down. Her pulse thrummed at the pace of a galloping steed She swallowed like trying to gorge on her own tongue—anything, anything to keep from vomiting in his presence. "Where are we going?"
"You shouldn't talk," he said.
"Ask questions, more like. Because you don't know yourself?"
"I seek a place that has neither a mewling physician nor delicate furnishings. With you, sturdiness takes precedent overall.”
He nodded to an adarve, a dead-end courtyard opposite the cathedral. They hobbled across the narrow street to one of the meager dwellings that abutted the courtyard's far side. Although deserted, the poorly lit stretch of crude brick hovels fairly hummed with unseen activities. Night places.
"Jacob rescues me from a brothel, you hobble us both with the need to keep me from harming myself, and then you bring me here? Odds on my finding opium are high."
"I have no intention of letting you try," he said. "Master Pacheco gave me the name of a woman who might take us in."
Ada stared at him, trying to interpret the strange catch in his voice. The pale moon and sprinkled stars did not provide light enough to read him—but then, neither would full sunlight. But he was uncomfortable. The arm he wrapped beneath hers had tensed, as had the rippling strength of his abdomen.
"Tell me."
Gavriel frowned and shook his head. "She... the woman. She's a covigera."
Laughter pushed into her throat where bile had been. She savored that brief moment of levity, watching his embarrassment. "I have nothing to tempt a covigera"
Eyes made black by shadows probed hers and skittered over her features, cataloguing each expanse of skin. Ada felt a blush crawl over her cheeks, following the path of his eyes—a heat altogether different from her fever.
His arm still banded her middle, pulling her closer than she had been. With a voice almost too low to be heard, he whispered, "You.. r
"I what?"
"You tempt me."
She breathed. Only just. The harsh honesty of those three words peeled past her pain and anger, just for a moment, and revealed a much deeper need for hard muscle and warm skin. But to acknowledge that need—no. She had no desire to surrender to the man who insisted on keeping her prisoner. One foolish craving was already more than she could bear.
"But you're not in the business of arranging illicit affairs with married women," she said, trying to revive her fleeting laughter. "One such as me would not be worth her notice"
He pulled his spine straight and withdrew to a place of I safety within himself, like donning armor before battle. As he knocked on the covigera's door, his eyes blank and his face impassive, he concealed that spark of honest lust He hid it so thoroughly as to make Ada doubt its existence. The tingling along the backs of her thighs could have been fever, not the effect of his heated stare. And those throaty words could have been a whimsy created by her addled brain.
Caught by sickness, her body and her mind could not be trusted.
Yes. That was it.
"She's a mess," said the grizzled woman, her wispy gray hair like a halo. Pacheco had referred to her as simply La Senora.
A constellation of brown spots colored her papery skin. Watery eyes, one of them pure white, roved over Ada where she had slumped against the wall, awake but quiet and still. "You looking to sell her?" she asked.
Gavriel pushed his lips together and worked to keep his temper in check, an increasingly difficult task as fatigue ate , his patience. "No. I need a place to stay with her, unnoticed. Most likely for a few days."
"Ah, keep her for yourself. Comprendo." The crone hobbled to Ada and bent low, taking her chin between gnarled fingers. Ada did not resist, but neither did she meet La Senora's eyes. Her listlessness and pallor could only mean her fever had returned, shoving her personality into a distant corner. "Could be pretty when she's clean."
He pulled a bag of morabetins from his satchel and rattled the heavy gold coins. "Do you have water? And a room?"
La Senora stood and looked him full in the face. "You a caballero? Here to mess my business?"
"The girl is my only concern."
A bright cackle sprang from her mouth, revealing crusted yellow teeth spaced with gaping holes. He stifled the need to shield his nose from her foul breath. "Girl is your only concern. Ha! I like your mind." She pointed a knobby forefinger to his chest, then snatched the bag of coins. "But mess my business and you leave. Wives want no witnesses, hear? None. Lovesick boys don't want no wives scared off. And me, I don't want the pyre."
He bowed his head, just slightly. "As you say."
"This way."
Gavriel tried to bury his distaste for both his hostess and her residence. The purpose of a covigera was to arrange affairs between married, highborn women and clandestine suitors. Their disruptive presence in the community—subverting marriage vows and tempting respectable women to fall— meant harsh sentences if convicted. Gavriel no more wanted to finance such a woman than he wanted to be trapped in her peculiar little residence. With Ada.
But the situation had become desperate. Pacheco had ordered him to stay in Yepes for as long as he needed to insure Ada's initial recovery. Then they could travel the remaining distance to the monastery.
At least the tiny old woman would be discreet. Her business demanded it.
"In here," she said.
He shifted Ada's limp weight and angled her through the narrow entryway to a private, windowless room. A single pallet was its only furnishing. He laid her down and returned to the hallway for their satchels. The crone stood in the doorway, watching Ada.
"She sick?"
"Yes."
"Don't like none of that poison. Not in here. You keep her clear of it or you can go. Don't care the gold."
Gavriel studied her lined face arid nodded. "Good. Bring the water, please."
La Senora shuffled down the hallway and out of sight, returning moments later with a simple clay pot and scraps of linen. "Need una herbolera? Make you potions? My niece does good potions. She make your girl strong and make you—" She glanced down to his groin, that sickly smile returning. "She'll make you stronger."
"No." He ground his molars together. "Water is all we need."
He closed the door and locked it, taking the pot of water and the linen to where Ada lay. The cool water felt good-refreshing him, grounding him—and he splashed some on his hair, face, and neck before wringing a cloth.
Ada opened her eyes and met his with a look of panic.
"Are you going to fight me again?" he asked.
"What do you know of tending people?" Her eyes narrowed and probed around, deep in his soul, chilling him from the inside out. She was right to ask. What did he know of caring for others? He had only known hardness and cruelty. The instinct to protect and
care for her was as foreign as her native language. Doubt threatened to rust his good intentions,
No, not good intentions. Not really. Merely selfish. Her well-being would determine his future. No sense covering his deeds in a cloak of charity.
"I'll be honest with you, as I'm sure you appreciate honesty more than being played for a fool."
She shivered. "Very considerate."
"I've no experience tending the needs of another person." He smoothed the hair from her face and brought the dampened cloth to her forehead. Had he not been kneeling already, the heavy, contented sigh that escaped her lips would have brought him to the floor. "But I'm trying. What more can I do?"
"More of that." She nuzzled against the cloth, arching her neck. "Feels good."
"Not too cold?"
"Just right."
He returned to the basin to refresh the cloth, each time pausing to summon from his depleted stores of strength.
"Thirsty," she said weakly.
Gavriel looked around but could find no cup. He dipped a new cloth, not bothering to wring out the excess. He supported the back of her head and brought the cloth to her mouth. She sucked greedily, eyes drifting Shut. He did the same, closing his eyes against that erotic and vulnerable act.
When he opened them again, he found her watching him with the smallest smirk, their faces nearly touching. She blinked, parted her lips. "More."
"Please."
She looked away. "More, please."
Nodding once, he dipped the cloth again. He felt like celebrating a tiny victory, but any victory was tainted. He used the same techniques against Ada that had been used against him in his youth, forcing obedience. The realization sat heavily on his upper back, pressing on his conscience. But he did it for her own good, not to turn her into a broken and compliant slave.
He touched the water-laden cloth to her lips and she sucked again, covering his hand with one of hers. She twined their fingers and held fast The air thickened between them like a hot, sticky summer fog. All he could think was that, without the cloth, she would be pressing her lips to his palm. His skin. Suckling and teasing him, flesh to flesh.
He unwound their fingers and eased her back into the pallet's softness. A cat's grin shaped her mouth.