by Carrie Lofty
Now his vows lay in tatters. He had killed and wounded too many men to number.
And Ada. His obligation to her safety and wellbeing had burgeoned to an all-consuming need. Every sense, every thought conspired to render him vulnerable. A fire flared in his blood when he recalled her husky voice, when she had stood before him naked and waiting, bathed in the scent of her lemony soap. He groaned at the memory of her deep blue eyes and the stream of dark hair trailing over her shoulders, down to curl around her breasts.
Dios, he had lied to her. He wanted her—wanted her more than any woman he had known. What would it be like to possess her? She had such a powerful sprit and hectic mind. Beneath her unyielding craving waited strength and passion. He had seen it, felt it. He had tasted it. The idea of taking such a woman ignited his body. The idea of holding such a woman, holding her through the night...
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Wishing he could vanquish thoughts with swords and brute strength, he stripped out of the ruined, splattered tunic. Dawn air helped cool his ardor. He hesitated briefly, thinking of the Order's strictures against nudity, before removing his sandals and breeches, too. At the retreat, brothers were expected to take sponge baths and sleep in their robes. But he wanted his body clean, wholly clean, even if everything else about him had been corroded and spoiled
He jumped in.
Breath exploded from his chest as the frigid water enveloped his wayward body. Thought fled. Pure sensation overwhelmed him. He kicked once, twice, and found the surface, swimming against the current to the bank. There he reclaimed his footing on the sandy riverbed, standing in the chest-high water. The cranes squawked and took flight, winged silhouettes against the early dawn sky.
He lifted a handful of sand and scoured his skin and his hair, every pore stinging from the abuse. The blisters on his palms screamed in protest. Caked blood on his neck and arms dissolved and scraped away, just as new blood flowed from blisters. But he grabbed more sand and kept cleansing. Finally satisfied, he laced his hands at the back of his neck and squeezed, kneading the tendons and taut muscles. A headache pressed back from where it lodged at the base of his skull.
After a quick dunk to rinse, he propelled himself onto the bank and lay flat on his back. He closed his eyes and tried to overpower the shivers of cold, concentrating on stillness. But his body refused. Goosebumps covered him from scalp to sole, and he could no more stop his shivering than he could stop wanting Ada.
He swore softly. Cold water, cold air—none of it mattered. He responded to the mere thought of her name. Blood sped through his veins and gathered in his shaft. Lying there by the river's edge, he wanted to take his hard length in hand and find a moment of release.. But he did not. He would not.
Shooting to his feet, he rummaged through the contents of his satchel until he found a change of clothes, all that he owned. He kicked his legs into breeches and punched his arms into a fresh tunic, working, working to regain control.
But what he would tell Pacheco about the past few days, what he would do if Ada approached him again—all mysteries. Baffling and impossible. He could only get them safely to Ucles and stand ready to accept the consequences.
Picking up his ruined, bloody clothes, he briefly considered stuffing them back in his satchel. Perhaps they could be cleaned. But no, he wanted no more reminders. His sharp and malicious memory already served that purpose. He balled the stiff, sickly tunic and breeches and tossed them in the river. Watching them float toward Toledo, he admitted the consequences of his deeds might be more than he could bear.
* * *
Ada pulled the damp red gown from her satchel and laid it across a branch to dry. She knelt next to Blanca where she slept, curled at the base of the tree, and laid her cloak over the girl like a blanket. At home in Charnwood Forest, she had done the same for Meg, a restless sleeper who often kicked their mantle to the floor. Ada always thought her sister would awaken in the middle of a cold night, unable to find it in the perpetual black.
But of course she could. Meg had been capable of anything. What Ada had never thought to accept was that Meg could take care of herself, and that the quiet, reclusive woman could feel so very much. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder what a trial it must have been for Meg to fall in love, the terror and joy of it And for the first time, she admitted she was envious of her sister's happiness. Perhaps she would not have been jealous had she stayed in England to repair the rift between them. Then, at least, she would have kept her sister—even gained a brother-in-law.
The vitriol that normally accompanied thoughts of Will Scarlet flared to her hands. She made hard fists, but the reflex was old and drained of its bitterness. He had made mistakes, like Ada. Like anyone. And he must have been quite a man to keep up with Meg, to understand her and find the secret reserve of her love. Ada never had.
Studying the smooth curve of Blanca's cheek, she wondered again why this girl elicited such thoughts of Meg. Perhaps because they shared the same quiet core, one forged of steel. Meg had listened. Blanca watched. But both of them thrived on stillness and observation. On being underestimated.
The women had one other tiling in common: Ada had hurt them both.
Her voice was a whisper as she asked, "That boy I threatened, was he dear to you?"
She had not expected her to awaken, but Blanca's eyes fluttered open. "Is someone coming?"
Ada shook her head "All's quiet."
"Good. I've had enough of running today, and it's not even full daylight." She squinted against the strengthening sun and pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. "And Paco was a friend. He defended me when the townspeople would talk, said he wanted to marry me one day. But... no, I couldn't have. I wanted only to leave."
Tears pricked the backs of Ada's eyes, some combination of fatigue and swirling emotions. Meg, Jacob—they brought back the worst memories because she had done her best to alienate them both.
"I know a young man like that," Ada said. "And I would be very upset if someone threatened his life."
Blanca frowned and rubbed her button nose. Even now, emerging from the shadows of night, Ada could not determine the girl’s age. "We all faced terrible dangers last night," Blanca said. "You and el hombre risked a great deal to help me leave. But you... you don't behave that way generally." She lifted dark eyes, eyes that were unbearably hopeful. "Do you?"
Ada exhaled. "No," she said, finding strength in that one word. "Can you forgive me?"
"Of course." She offered a shy smile. "Life's too short for ill will."
"You are a strange one, Blanca. Gracias"
She found the sun where it had lifted above the horizon. "El hombre has been gone some time. Is all well?"
"I'll find out. Here are dates to break your fast, if you like. But try to sleep. When Gavriel decides to leave, he'll probably give us little notice."
"And a great deal of ire."
Ada smiled. "Yes, most likely."
"He's the strangest monk I've ever met." Her eyes drifted shut with those last, fuzzy words, returning to sleep.
Standing and stretching the ache out of her knees, Ada pressed a hand to her chest Deep inside, somewhere she could not name or describe, grew an anxious burning. These thoughts of poor choices, missed chances, and long-lost friends and family scratched her pride into shreds. She wanted relief from the shame of it, the loneliness and rejection, and relief meant opium.
Her mouth watered. Breath came in quick gulps while sweat on her forehead caught the early morning breeze. The unending reality of her condition bore down on her, that she would have to make this choice every time, every hour and every day. Strength of body and mind did not seem adequate to combat such a tireless temptation.
She walked closer to the river and lost her cares in the numbing sound of the water. Her eyes closed, urging sleep.
Gavriel entered the tiny clearing, sending a panicky jolt through her body. She clutched the base of her throat with one hand and held her dagger with
the other. Had she really drawn it so quickly?
"You frightened me," she said.
He flicked his eyes to the blade. "Who taught you how to fight?"
He was clean and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. The rising sun burnished his skin to the color of polished wood. His dark, short hair still glittered with river water.
She tore her eyes away.
"Jacob," she said at last, gripping the dagger's jeweled handle. "Ever since we arrived in Castile, we've depended on one another. I wanted that knowledge, and he obliged me. I needed to feel that I could protect myself... better this time."
"This time? Do you mean your feet?"
"Yes."
Inside her boots, she flexed her toes and told herself that she imagined the pain blazing along her soles. A ghostly burning. But she felt the cut of Sheriff Finch's dagger—the dagger she held—as clearly as she had on that distant day in his dungeon.
She needed opium. Nothing else banished that phantom pain. Gavriel thought he was making her well, and she had to admit that her clear mind and invigorated health were both precious possessions restored to her. But she was terribly thirsty.
"Jacob taught you well," Gavriel said. "But he is young and fights with two blades."
He lunged without warning. Although Ada raised her dagger against the attack, he angled around the arc of her blade. His elbow jammed between two ribs and his hand circled her wrist, taking the dagger out of play.
"He's made you vulnerable, your left side unprotected." Elbow withdrawn, he smoothed his hand over her ribs and let her go. "Right here."
Embarrassment heated her face and the skin at the back of her neck, hot as a sunburn. "I never said I was a warrior."
"Then don't posture as one."
"Fair advice from a clergyman."
"You were close, you and Jacob?"
She searched his expression for clues. But his face, like his voice, revealed nothing. Discussing her relationship" with Jacob may as well have been discussing trees or clouds. No judgment or hopefulness. No emotion at all.
"You're not my confessor," she said, toying with one sleeve. Her filthy kirtle reeked of smoke. "I shall say nothing. More intriguing to discover what you're willing to assume."
"Yet the more I know about you, inglesa, the less likely I am to judge you."
"Your place is not to judge at all novice." She looked at his empty hands and his satchel slung over one shoulder. "Because I wonder what happened to the clothes you wore last night. Will you ever be able to remove the stains?"
"This has naught to do with me," he said. "Why did you turn to opium if you had learned to fight?"
"No matter how hard I practiced, no matter what I learned, the nightmares returned. Even after my feet had healed, opium ... it became everything." She wanted to whirl and pace, but she held perfectly still and drew nourishment from that gathering rage. "I would sleep and face terrible things, bringing none of my new skills into my dreams. Only pain and fear. Opium erased all of that."
His face twisted into a sneer. "And it was far easier than training and working, I suppose. And now? You're not cured, you must know."
"Don't you think I know that?" Tears stung behind gritty lids. "It's here with me, no matter that my sickness has ebbed. A lack. An absence, like a missing limb."
He stood motionless, staring at her. His face softened—only a little, briefly—leaving her to wonder if she had imaged it. "Ada, would you drink the tincture right now if I offered it?"
"Yes."
She shut her eyes and slapped one hand across her mouth. But the blunt, ugly truth had already been spoken.
Reaching up, he tugged her hand away from her mouth and held it in both of his. "You would go back to that life?"
"And why not? Because this place offers such charms? You insulting me—no, kissing me first and then insulting me." Ada wrenched free of his gentleness and pity, at last giving way to the frenetic need to spin and pace and shout "My head is clearer and my eyes are open wide, but that only means I can see how awful this is. I once had family and friends and a purpose. I threw away what wasn't taken from me. Is that what you want to hear? Because I threw it away!"
She slammed her fist into the craggy bark of a cork oak. Pain flamed from her knuckles to her shoulder. "Ada!"
Gavriel took up the ball of her hands, the right wrapped tightly over the injured left, and pried her fingers back. Skin atop the hill of each knuckle had split The tears that had threatened all evening, all morning, burst free, but she did not sob. Cheeks wet, she simply stared at the damage she had wrought, all blood and ruined skin.
The fight boiling in her veins cooled and slowed. "Don't touch," she said. "You've just had a wash."
A frown sat on Gavriel's brow but he did not let go. "I've had blood on my hands before."
They walked to the river where Ada rinsed her knuckles in the cold water. She kept her hand submerged long after the wound was clean, welcoming the soothing numbness. Minutes passed as Gavriel used the ripped remains of his white robe to bind her hand. She kept her mind focused on his agitated breathing and that constant frown, a statue no longer.
"Do you see that nothing will keep me from going back?" she asked. "What do I have?"
"Pride. Respect for yourself. A future."
"You speak of futures." She shook her head, eyes closed around the memory of her last floating high. "You have no notion of how beautiful it is."
"No, I won't let you."
Chapter 16
"You'll not let me?"
"No." Gavriel finished binding her hand, grateful to put an end to touching her. Yes, grateful. Tension pressed inside his lungs and threatened to burst "Not after all I've done to drag you to health."
"What am I, a ewe?" She pulled her hand back, cradling it against her abdomen. Salty lines streaked her cheeks, but at least she had stopped crying. "Would you be my shepherd, leading me back to the flock?"
"What I say is intended to help."
"You care nothing for me," she said. "And your only value to me is as a distraction."
"A distraction?"
"Oh, let's not forget your skill with a sword." She pinned him with a taunting look, one he wanted to kiss off her face. "You think you can offer help, but you are quite possibly the most confused individual I've ever known—without exception for even my sister."
"Confused, am I? I'm not the one who just ruined my hand."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "No, you're a warrior who thinks he has the patience and restraint to become a clergyman. But I wonder what your masters would think if they knew all that has occurred. Will they accept you, welcome you home?"
The same defeat and despair he had battled moments before, alone by the river, needled him again. But this time he had no illusions. They stripped away as violently as Ada had flayed the skin from her knuckles.
"No, they won't," he said.
"Then I have an offer, if you're willing to hear it."
Insides cold, he nodded.
"A generous boon," she said, smiling slightly. He had learned to be wary of that smile, like heeding the growl of a starving dog. "I'll listen to whatever pearls of wisdom you have for me. And I'll present your story of these last days however you want. The masters need be none the wiser. You don't believe me, but I will. Ill listen and protect you."
"You'll obey?"
Her smile widened. "Of course."
He searched her face, every soft slope and bend. Caution and her devilish smile warned against using rational thought. Nothing they did bore resemblance to logic. Their days and nights were determined by instinct and urges alone—fight, survive, need.
"Nothing comes easily, especially not with you," he said. "What do you want?"
"Tell me who you are."
"Inglesa."
Not even his warning tone diminished her teasing. She rose up on her knees and leaned near enough to tempt him with the dark drape of her hair tumbling over one shoulder. "You have the power, Gavriel," she whi
spered. "Me—cooperative, sweet natured, genial. Completely docile and willing to listen to you. All I want is something true. From you."
"I am Gavriel de Marqueda."
She traced his earlobe with her fingertip, down to his jaw, down to his chin. At the slightest pressure, urging him to lift his face, he met her gaze of heat and promise and the sweetest sin. She touched the pad of her thumb against his lower lip. Breath scorched his lungs.
"An imbecile can change his name, and you're no imbecile," she said. "Tell me."
He swallowed. Certainty swirled away, a victim of the desire ebbing between them. All he knew, all he could claim in the world, was that this Englishwoman had become his responsibility. He had sacrificed his future, his security, perhaps his very soul. Her welfare had eclipsed all other obligations.
He grasped her upper arms. Their faces came together, only his hesitation separating them. He tightened his grip but she did not flinch. Her lips merely parted, a silent invitation..
"I am your guardian," he rasped.
"And you do want me."
"SI"
Touching his lips to hers, he felt the urge to punish her for the confusion and useless desire she had thrust into his life..Breeching the boundary of lips and teeth, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of dates. He circled his arms around her back and dragged her flush against him. She did not resist. She accepted him and dueled with him, her pliant body folding into his. Soft, full breasts melded to the firmness of his chest, ripping away the last of his doubt, reason, breath.
He wanted to punish her, yes, but Ada did not relent to the forceful assault of his kiss. She accepted every thrust of his tongue, meeting him with the same urgency. She pushed eager fingers through his hair and rubbed down to the scalp. Her injured hand looped around his neck, her forearm pulling him closer to deepen their kiss. She moaned, the seductive sound weaving into his blood and urging more. She nipped at his lower lip. Tiny sparks of pain merged with mindless pleasure, pleasure he had denied himself for too long.