Scoundrel's Kiss

by Carrie Lofty

  "The boy, Jacob," he said. "He mentioned a promise you'd made and broken. What was it? Did you promise him not to use the tincture again?"

  "No, nothing so grand." She licked her lips, eyes closed. "I—I promised that I would refrain when he was not there to care for me."

  The tension in his shoulders doubled until the muscles felt hewn of rock. "He gave you permission?"

  "No, no." Ada reached for the linen, dipping it and sucking her fill. "Do not disparage Jacob or his efforts, please. I've done too much of both. He does not deserve it."

  "He could not stand up to you."

  She nodded slightly. "I know."

  "Yet you pressed the advantage?"

  "I worked at Dona Valdedrona's palace where he could watch over me. He made sure I never consumed to excess. He kept me safe from people who would harm me." She slumped back onto the pallet, her chin wet. "Perhaps that's why I thought myself more in control than I am. He protected me."

  Gavriel pressed the heels of his palms together, wringing his fingers until his mind registered pain. "Did he buy it for you? Did he hand you the bottle?"

  That little nod. "On occasion."

  "Merciful God," he said on a quiet exhale. "He was in love with you."

  "Yes. Has been for years." Tears gathered at the corners of her blue eyes. She looked away from him, a blush darkening cheeks already beset by fever. Her full lower lip trembled, whether from the withdrawal or emotion he could not be sure. "I took advantage of his affection to get what I wanted."

  "And with this tearful confession, you think to manipulate me as well."

  "No. I'm being truthful. I'm simply... tired."

  "I don't believe you." He stood and ran his hand over his good forearm, unable to banish the strain of being in the same room with her. She wove under his skin like a needle and thread. Every joint stiffened against the need to leave her, to abandon his responsibilities. "You must trust someone to believe them, inglesa. And I don't know you. I don't trust you."

  She doubled over suddenly. Anguish blended guttural cries with her native English and its clipped sounds. Unable to stay away in the face of that pain, Gavriel knelt beside her. Her neck was slick with sweat, and he bathed that fiery skin with the damp cloth. She groaned, a low and wrenching torture.

  "Should I stop?"

  "No," she said.

  He continued to bathe her heated body until the pain relented. She lay on the bed like a crushed flower, her red-rimmed eyes unfocused and staring at the low, cobwebbed ceiling. Her voice, when it returned, was like that of a woman twice her age, all misery and resignation. "All of two evenings and you expect to know me?"

  "You could be in my company a year with no alteration— as long as the opium yet claims you. No amount of time would make a difference. It will always speak for you."

  He laid a hand on her forehead, smoothing, trying to say with his touch what sounded so awkward from his tongue. She met his eyes with a directness that stalled the breath in his chest. For a moment, he glimpsed who she must have been. Stubbornness shone like a hot blaze, but a deep intelligence tempered it and gave it strength.

  The compulsion to make her well filed through his veins. Cured, this formidable woman would put his untoward impulses in their place. She would stare his unnatural lust in the face and reject him. Deservedly. And he would welcome the rejection as a return to his chosen life.

  "I wonder if you even realize that you've given it your voice," he whispered. "All your power."

  She shook her head to dislodge his hand. "I'm beginning to mislike when you minister me. You stand on your pedestal and look down on my mistakes."

  Gavriel moved the jug away and stretched on the floor between her and the door. "I'm not looking down on you, inglesa. I'm trying to do more good than young Jacob did"

  "Trust goes both ways," she said. "I don't trust you because I don't know you. You watch me sideways, waiting for me to make a mistake."

  "How else should I approach this situation? You're an untrustworthy person. Whether or not that is due to the opium, I cannot know."

  A hearty shrug rumpled her coverlet. She hauled it back into place. "You may as well tie me up for the month and have done with it But that would be too difficult for you, wouldn't it? Tying me up?"

  A tingle of lust shot through from head to feet, gathering halfway between. "I've no notion of what you mean."

  "For at least one year you've been without a woman in your bed. And the notion of tying me up, having complete say over what I do or think or feel isn't attractive to you?"

  "You think me so cruel?"

  "No, I think you so wretched." Her eyes drifted shut and her throaty voice slowed. "Your robes fool no one, Gavriel."

  Chapter 8

  If he stayed in the world for too long, someone would recognize him.

  Lying on the floor, fitfully striving for sleep for the third night straight, Gavriel faced the unavoidable truth. Until he returned to Ucles and donned those protective white robes once again, he would be vulnerable to his father's searching henchmen, to punishment for his part at Alarcos, to temptation. But with the Englishwoman in tow, he would remain so. She threatened to tear down the very shelter he had worked to create. Anew life. A new purpose. A means of dispelling the murderous need for revenge that burned under his skin.

  He closed his eyes. Joaquin de Silva's image appeared out of the blackness. His father's eyes were ice blue, but they shared the same hooded expression and grim mouth. Gavriel's dark coloring, from his hair to his skin and eyes, came from the Berber woman who had never lived to see his first birthday. A slave raped by her master, she had been left to die after child birth so that her son might be stolen, conditioned, and raised to become the family's deadliest defender. As a slave, he had been denied an education beyond what could be learned with fists and swords and horses.

  He had been little more than an animal.

  But he had escaped that spiral of death, confronting his barbarism and trying to become a better man.

  He raised a hand to his eyes and pushed against closed lids, rubbing until bright blue blemishes floated there. Breathing slowly, he struggled for calm. Calm heart, calm mind. He was not an animal but a servant of God. And even more than the need to take revenge on his father, he feared returning to that violent, mindless way of life. It called to him, so much easier than the struggle to be virtuous.

  Better he should recall the horrors of two days spent confined with Ada, the screams and keening and mindless violence. He wore scratches after having removed her torn blue gown, and was covered in bruises after struggling to dress her in a dark red one—proof that a woman caught in the throes of such desperation could do untold damage.

  Her distress did not prevent Gavriel from noticing the ivory luster of her skin and the smooth flex and pull of muscles beneath it Lithe and firm, her flesh awakened a deep and needy part of him. But indulging those enticing memories and temptations would do him no good.

  She cried out in her sleep, thrashing again. Another nightmare—a small and deadly beast scratching its way out of her brain. They occurred as regularly as a muezzin's call to prayer, laying waste to whatever strength and peace she managed to gather. If they continued, the dreams would tempt her back to the drug she battled.

  With a heavy sigh and a quick prayer, he crawled the miserable distance between his place on the floor and her shivering body. Touching her was not as difficult now. He even anticipated the feel of her skin, a fact that teased him in his own troubled sleep. How much more could they endure of this torment?

  But when he circled her in his arms, he banished the despicable thought She bore the brunt of the torment. All he had to do was get a ragged and defenseless woman safely through to morning.

  "I'm trying, Ada," he whispered.

  "I'm not as afraid of the dark, not with you." She sniffed and wiped a few stray tears as her nightmare receded and the sobs calmed. "You think I don't know what is happening here—"

  "
Inglesa, don't—"

  "—but I do. No matter your motives with the Order, you've stayed with me." The golden glow of the lone oil wick caught the tears in her eyes. Gavriel saw no pretense or manipulation, only the potent emotion of a humbled young woman. "For that, I thank you."

  "Does that mean you'll refrain from taunting me?"

  A weak smile turned up the corners of her full lips. "Afraid of a little teasing?"

  "Not at all."

  "Good," she said, folding into his body. "And you should be careful, Gavriel. That was nearly a jest."

  Ada awoke to find Gavriel sleeping. He sat upright, legs outstretched, his back pressed against their small room's only door. The oil lamp at his side burned low. His features were a study in firm, strong edges: the rugged cut of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose, and the black slash of his brows. But even sleep did not loosen the rigid line of his lips, pulled taut, and the tension stretching across his broad, muscular shoulders.

  Did he dream, too? Did he know about the cloying darkness?

  Was that why she trusted him?

  For no matter how much she resented his high-minded interference, she had never been afraid of him. He was achingly, frustratingly courteous. Had he been any baser sort of man, his body would have betrayed him by now. She might have traded a quick romp for another dose, or for her freedom.

  The nausea that swirled in her. stomach had naught to do with her keening need Mother Mary, she had become the lowest sort of wretch. That she even contemplated such a thing...

  What have I become?

  She pulled upright on her narrow pallet. The base of her head ached where she had fallen. The lump on her cheek had receded but still throbbed if she spoke. On top of those injuries, every part of her body ached—bruised and swollen and hurting from the inside out Dizziness clouded her vision with a field of little white spots.

  Although Ada expected him to stir at any moment, Gavriel remained asleep. Deep circles beneath his eyes spoke of their endless, sleepless nights confined together. A shiver of tenderness toward the man, a thankfulness for his tenacity and grudging care, threatened her with tears. Instead, she found a pitcher and used shaky hands devoid of strength to carefully pour water into a fired clay mug. When greedy swallows would not allay her thirst, she poured another and returned to her pallet.

  With no notion of whether it was night or day, and with her capacity for sleep momentarily depleted, she searched the room—whether for entertainment or escape she could not say. She found her satchel of soft, worn Cordovan leather. Only now, days later, did she even think to rummage through and discover what Jacob had packed for her. Clothing took up much of the space: two plain kittles, a deep green gown, and a black woolen cloak.

  Past the garments, she found her late mother's tortoiseshell comb, one of the few possessions she had brought with her from England. With time and patience, she used the small comb to work through every snarl and tangle. The task did nothing to clean her hair, but at least she could get the long, dark strands off her neck and into a half-hearted plait.

  Returning to the satchel, she dug into its contents and caught her breath. The scrolls. The ones she had pilfered from Daniel of Morley's possessions. Jacob must have simply grabbed her bag and stowed it with a few sundry necessities. The fine vellum parchment could be gently scraped of its ink, washed clean for another use. If she managed to escape from Gavriel's care, she would have a means of bartering her way back to Toledo.

  She smiled. Maybe they would fetch morabetins enough to buy another dose. Now that Gavriel had helped her endure the worst of her sickness, she would know better how to moderate her craving. This time, she would be able to control herself.

  One kirtle swathed a small hard box. She unwrapped the linen and found her chess set. Her heart pinched. Jacob. Silly, foolish, thoughtful Jacob.

  She opened the polished wooden case, no bigger than the width of her knees pressed together, and pulled out one of the carved waxed pieces.

  "Ada, what do you have?"

  She jerked. The box snapped shut between her knees and fell to the floor. Gavriel was on his feet and across their small room before she could slide the box out of sight.

  His expression contorted with anger yet blurred by sleep, he grabbed her wrist "Let me see!"

  "'Tis a queen, from chess," she said, yanking free. "A chess set, Gavriel."

  She opened her fingers to reveal the small figurine. When Gavriel took it, she retrieved the fallen box and offered it for his inspection.

  "Chess?" His expression faded into confusion as he touched one piece, then another. "I thought you had—"

  "You thought I hid opium in my satchel?"

  He nodded.

  The scrolls might eventually buy her as much, but Ada preferred to set that knowledge aside. Seeing Gavriel contrite was a happy treat. She had to keep the scrolls away from him, lest he discover their value and strip away her last means of freedom.

  "I adore chess," she said. "And behind this sham of playing at a holy man, I believe you have the mind of a tactician."

  "I'm no sham, inglesa. And I have nothing so devious as a tactical mind."

  "I've seen how you move, how you watch." She opened the board and began to arrange the remaining pieces along the tiny, checkered field of battle. "Men who live their entire lives in cloisters and libraries and churches do not watch the horizon as you do. They look only as far as the nearest bookshelf."

  She stared at him, flaying the layers of his skin, his muscles, his bones, until Gavriel felt exposed to his very soul— if he had one. The feeling that she could see that deeply unnerved him. His heart still hammered at having awakened to find her crouched low over some mysterious possession. Thoughtless man, he should have checked her satchel. But he had compromised so much of her privacy already.

  "And those are the men you know?" he asked. "Academics and theologians?"

  The last he had seen of her, just before he slept, she had been a witch made real, wild and disheveled. Now her hair, woven into a makeshift plait, hung heavily across one shoulder. The deep red dress made for a striking contrast to her pale skin. And her expression was entirely lucid. Frighteningly so. Blue eyes the color of the sky at midday continued to scrutinize him without shyness or fear, as if seeing him for the first time.

  "My father was an alchemist," she said, her voice steady and measured. "He learned from his great uncle, Adelard of Bath, who had traveled to Toledo in his youth to study philosophy and languages. What he learned here in the Peninsula was passed down to my sister and me."

  "Is that how you can speak Romance so well?"

  She waved a hand. "Romance is no trouble. Portuguese, Catalan, Castilian—not much more than dialects of Latin. Mozarabic, however..." She squished her features into an expression of distaste. "That took a few months."

  He frowned, wondering at the woman sitting before him. "Months?"

  "Daniel of Morley is an Englishman who works as Dona Valdedrona's translator and resident scholar. He helped me learn."

  "How many languages do you know?"

  "I've lost count I was training to take Daniel's place within Her Excellency's household." She paused, shadows at work behind her eyes—an echo of the lost girl he had so recently known. "Maybe. Maybe one day."

  "Why hide it?"

  "People find my education intimidating," she said, setting her last piece into place on the checkered board. He still held the one he had taken from her hands. "They might not appreciate my understanding of a game of war. Fancy a round?"

  Shame mingled with frustrated rage, that old insufficiency, until red dotted his vision. He could not read, he could not write, and he certainly could not play courtly games.

  "I know not how," he said tightly.

  All guile lifted from her expression. "Then I shall teach you. I'll be grateful for an occupation, now that I've come free of my other... pursuits."

  "Is that what you call it? Like recreation?"

  An invisible p
ressure bowed her shoulders, the posture of defeat and submission. She closed her eyes and let her chin drop to her chest "It was medicinal, initially."

  "Your feet."

  She blanched "I forgot you knew. These few days—forgive me if I cannot remember much beyond disliking you."

  "Tell me."

  He thought she would deny him. A flicker of that reflexive defiance tightened around her mouth. Then she sighed. 'was detained for a minor crime. Because he thought I could fabricate emeralds and gold, the sheriff tortured me."

  Her voice caught.

  Gavriel curled his fingers into fists. "But why? What he asked of you is impossible."

  "Not for my sister." A wan smile tugged at her lips, and quiet pride shaded her words.

  "Unabruja?"

  "A witch? No. Merely an alchemist, like my father was." All emotion disappeared. She narrated events as if they inhabited someone else's past. "It was a case of mistaken identity, I'm afraid. The sheriff enjoyed the sport of hurting me. Afterward, my feet became putrid and I turned to opium to ease the pain. I've not had idle time without it in... in more than a year."

  "Has it been so long since your life was different?"

  "And let that be a lesson to me, I suppose?"

  Rubbing a hand over the back of his skull, he concentrated on the spiky bristles of his cropped hair. "I said no such thing."

  Ada pushed the fat plait over her shoulder and looked around the room. "How long have we been here?"

  "Five days, in total," he said, although that seemed paltry. A year would have done justice to the fatigue he felt

  "And how long will we stay?"

  "Until you're well enough to travel. Perhaps on the morrow."

  She nodded to the board and its opposing wooden armies. "Then let me teach you chess."

  "I should not"

  The days-long temptation of Ada—knowing her, being with her—returned with more force than before. She was no needful harlot, just another wounded soul. But smart, too. Her intelligence made him all the more aware of his own barbarous upbringing.