Scoundrel's Kiss

by Carrie Lofty

  "Yes."

  "And how will you be traveling there?" he asked. She rose. Tendons tensed in her neck. If she forced his hand, he would make her walk once again—regardless of her scarred feet. He had nothing left but his will over hers, however useless and damaged that was. She lifted her head. "May I have a horse to ride?"

  "Yes. But I hold the reins."

  Ada wanted to collapse across the horse's neck. The strain of their long, strange night heightened her fatigue. The stark sunlight, so beautiful and gentle at dawn, had turned fierce come midday. Sweat lined her forehead, and her eyelids did nothing to bank the brightness. She missed wearing a veil, as her skin sizzled beneath those intense rays.

  And her hand ached, a lingering reminder of the morning's many follies.

  Blanca sat behind her on the horse, the girl's plump arms circling Ada's waist in what could only be described as death's own grip. The quick, steady gait of their mount terrified her. And, true to his word, Gavriel rode just ahead of them, the reins of her horse in hand. Straight and tall in his saddle, he inspected every shallow and rise with unblinking eyes. The sword looked right in his hand, perfectly fitting his warrior's physique.

  But seeing him carry it without reservation sent a shiver of regret through her. He had made vows. For her, because of her, he had broken those vows. The rigid determination in his posture meant he was still on the lookout for men who would endanger their lives, but he wore the responsibility like a noose. He would return to Ucles, yes, but to what life?

  She stared at the expanse of his shoulders, his back, and tried without success to understand him, unable to banish memories of the vicious scars crisscrossing his supple skin. He claimed to have committed that villainy himself, but she could not imagine why or how. Gavriel was a hard man, almost entirely opaque to her, and the need to touch him again raged through her body with the force of another familiar craving.

  No.

  She had hurt Jacob and her sister, her own flesh and blood, and had learned to expect as much heartache in return. If Gavriel spoke the truth, if he had truly caused himself those dreadful injuries, then he was entirely too damaged, beyond reach of even the steadiest and most accepting of touches— certainly beyond what she could ever hope to accomplish.

  Instead, she would put this miserable mistake behind her. He expected her to stay at the monastery through the month. So be it. She would practice translating Daniel's scrolls until Jacob arrived to retrieve her. Upon returning to Toledo, she would resume her work for Dona Valdedrona. And if the nightmares returned, well, she would be better equipped to handle her craving. She could take comfort in opium's floating release without succumbing to it entirely.

  Just as you've handled your need for him?

  Gavriel rode alongside them, his hair illuminated by the sun, a great ball of gold in the sky, as it tipped toward afternoon. "Inglesa."

  "We'll be at Ucles by this evening." He pointed to the east horizon, a cathedral and two towers emerging from the endless Meseta. The structures must be massive to appear so large at that distance. "Is Ucles an exciting place, senor?"

  His expression did not soften even for Blanca's eager question. "Not particularly. Tis the same, I should think, as the town you wanted to escape. Only, come evening, it sits in the shadow of the monastery."

  Blanca relaxed her bruising grip only a little. "I never considered where I would go, only that it should be somewhere else."

  Ada smiled, memories of her childhood as thick as mud. "I understand you entirely," she said softly.

  "How is England, Ada? Is it as terribly dreary as they say?"

  She glanced at Gavriel, her eyes and thoughts drawn to him, inevitably. Wiping the back of his neck, he had taken shelter in silence. But she knew he was listening.

  "England is lush and covered in forests," she said. "In the spring, green covers the countryside. Winters can be a misery, indeed, but summer is a time for celebration. Crops grow, the sun shines, and everyone comes out of doors." Indicating the rough sun at their backs, she said, "But even at its hottest, our summers are never quite this powerful."

  "And what of you, senor? How is Marqueda?"

  Although his watchful expression never changed, he favored Blanca with an answer. "Midway between the two, perhaps. Hot, yes, but also green and fertile. This—" He waved a hand toward the empty plateau. "This is too... open"

  "Then why come here?" Blanca asked.

  "The Order is here."

  Blanca stiffened against Ada's back, quiet now. Smart girl. Far smarter than Ada, for she knew when to retreat.

  "My apologies," Blanca said quietly. "I know I sit a horse rather poorly."

  She patted the girl's hands where they clasped around her middle. "No matter. We'll be there soon."

  The landscape changed from the rugged, barren expanse of the flat Meseta to shallow hills spiked with tall conifers. They stopped briefly to rest their horses before pressing on, the cathedral and castle coming clearer into view. Their shadows stretched long and reached the defenses well in advance. Guards along the saw-toothed stone wall wore identical white robes adorned with the red Cross of Santiago. They nodded a silent greeting but kept the gates locked, lances at the ready.

  One stepped forward. "Your name and business, senor?"

  "My name is Gavriel de Marqueda," he said, easily handling his skittish mount "I am a novice under the direction of Gonzalo Pacheco. These women are under my care and in need of admittance."

  "Of course," the guard said. "Brother Pacheco told us we should expect you. Proceed "

  The guards cranked opened the narrow iron gates. Though they passed through one stretch of defenses, another wall and a second compliment of guards awaited them on the other side of a cultivated field. They permitted entry as simply as had the first, leaving Ada to wonder at the ease of their arrival, such a contrast to their most difficult exit from Yepes.

  After having traveled alone across La Mancha for the entire day—and before that, isolated in various rooms for her recovery—Ada noticed nothing but people, people everywhere. Women and men tended the monastery's lush gardens. Younger boys used pails of water to wash horses in the waning sunlight Tall conifers rimmed the inside of the wall, a forest contained, while the Order's caballeros practiced jousting and swordplay in a tilting yard along the southern fortifications. And above everything, the cathedral spire and matched square towers of the fortress waited high on the hill like a benevolent parent.

  "The fortress retains its Moorish appearance," she said. "When was it reclaimed?"

  "Numerous times," Gavriel said. "A century ago, a generation ago, and again two years ago. It's a fortress for a reason, inglesa. All of La Mancha is a battleground."

  Tension accumulated in tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes as he watched, still watching. Their safe arrival had apparently done nothing to alleviate his vigilance. Or perhaps he simply dreaded the judgment he yet faced from Pacheco.

  With their horses at a slow walk across the fields, Ada craned her neck. Brick filigree patterned the ramparts atop the two west-facing towers, but the fortress's other features seemed designed to intimidate, all hulky, block construction, rectangular windows and steep stairs. No softness and no weakness.

  They skirted the lower rim of the earthworks, around to its southern side where a squat, square building sprawled— a simple companion to the magnificent fortress. This one had two towers as well, but they were blunt and unadorned, one taller than the other.

  Gavriel pulled to a stop and eyed the austere building. "The monastery," he said.

  Blanca let out a quiet sigh. "And where is the town from here?"

  He pointed. "On the eastern side of the monastery and fortress, below the sheer face of the defensive wall. Walking there takes but a few minutes."

  A young squire approached and helped Blanca dismount. Ada followed, her knees shaking because of more man simple fatigue. This place... this place was intensely important to Gavriel and his future, but she
could not diminish her sense of unease. Why had he come here, to this place of contrasts— piety and warfare, charity and opulence?

  One of the doors opened. In the archway stood Fernan, a grin splitting his amiable face. "Welcome home, Gavriel. Leave it to you to gather two women when I have none."

  Gavriel dismounted. "Fernan, I've not missed you."

  "With such company, I should hope not" He smiled wider, his eyes blue and sparkling. Not even those pious robes lent authority or decorum to his teasing expression.

  After handing reins to the squire, Gavriel edged past Fernan and into the cloister surrounding the central courtyard. Ada and Blanca followed where they made introductions.

  Fernan kissed Blanca's hand. "No need to forego courtly manners, even in such a wretched place of exile."

  Blanca laughed, her gaiety finally pulling a scowl from where it had been lurking within Gavriel. "Show the women to appropriate rooms, Fernan, if you would."

  With a mock bow to Gavriel, Fernan offered one arm each to Ada and Blanca. "My pleasure, you can rest assured. And come morning, Gavriel, Pacheco wishes to speak with you."

  Chapter 18

  Gavriel left the women with Fernan, desperately wishing he would never see them again. He made fists so tight that he lost all feeling in his fingers. The lambskin riding gloves he wore engraved deep grooves between his knuckles—he could see the second skin wrapping around his—but he felt nothing, nothing '. but the choking desire to pull Ada close and taste her again.

  So he left without a backward glance. To look back and contemplate anything about their time together would cripple whatever pride or resolve he yet retained.

  He strode through the narrow halls of the monastery and to his quarters, its four unadorned walls as austere as a dungeon. He stripped bare. His skin smelled of Ada, of their shared musk. After a quick, brutal wash, he dressed and pulled a second set of robes over his fresh clothes.

  White enveloped him. The red cross glared from the left side of his chest.

  A sham, all of it.

  Rosary in hand, he knelt and began to pray. But somewhere between his mind, his mouth, and his soul—a divide. He prayed to God for guidance, not forgiveness. But he could not concentrate. Soft whispers of Ada overlaid with images of blood to become a black curtain, barring him from the certainty he craved. Or perhaps God refused to hear him.

  He set aside the rosary and took a deep breath. Although he had likely decided on his course some hours ago, he finally admitted it to himself. He would lie to Pacheco. He would say whatever he must in order to remain at the monastery. And he would spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins.

  He returned the rosary to the small chest at the foot of his sleeping cot. Inside, beneath a piece of wool, laid a long strip of learner. Seven braided cords dangled from a sturdy leather handle, the ends of those cords tipped with tiny iron barbs. He removed the wool and touched the handle. He trailed two fingers down to the shining metal. Memories of pain burned along his back, but so did the echo of Ada's touch.

  He dropped wearily onto his cot and faded toward sleep, caught between those contrasting sensations.

  Come morning, with the resignation of a prisoner awaiting execution, he departed for Pacheco's common room. Walking through the stone halls held none of its previous familiarity and reassurance. The monastery did not welcome; it confined. Men followed his progress with their eyes as he passed, despite strict rules in the Order's edicts against gossip. A group of canonesses skittered aside. One crossed herself. The robes he had missed for those first few days after the bandit raid twirled conspicuously about his feet as he strode past, head high, but he was the worst sort of deceiver.

  A knock on Pacheco's door and the novice master permitted him entry. Gavriel stood at the threshold, then stepped inside the dark, tastefully appointed room. Tapestries from Morocco to the Holy Land lined the cool walls. Plush horsehair cushions circled a woven Sicilian rug, its colors still bright despite the dim illumination of a torch in its sconce. To the left, an onion top archway connected the sitting room to Pacheco's sleeping chamber.

  His novice master sat behind a writing desk on a squat three-legged stool at the center of the room. Silver hair and robes of spotless white accentuated his tanned skin, still handsome although touched with wrinkles.

  "Gavriel," he said, setting aside a quill. "I am glad to see you safely returned. Did you find success with the girl?"

  He remembered Ada's cries of pleasure beneath his hand, her softness clenched around his need. The skin between his shoulder blades itched, burned. "I did, Master. She is well and clear of her sickness, awaiting the opportunity to demonstrate as much."

  Black eyes scrutinized his face, but Pacheco did not move. "I heard that you arrived with another woman. A girl?"

  The gossips' tales had moved quickly. "She was the niece of the covigera you recommended us for quarter. Blanca is her name. When the old woman ran afoul of the law, Blanca came with us. I saw no harm in bringing her to the canonesses, especially because the Englishwoman and I were left without a chaperone."

  "Of course," Pacheco said, his eyes fixed on Gavriel's face. "You sought to do everything properly... didn't you?"

  Inhaling slowly, Gavriel did not lower his gaze. He could do this. He would save his place with the Order and await the day when Ada left. For good.

  "Master," he said quietly. "Are you asking if I have sinned?"

  Pacheco relaxed as well as he could on his uncomfortable stool. He missed the creature comforts of his appointments in Toledo, those he had enjoyed while working on behalf of the exiled de Silvas. Forgoing those comforts for the sake of appearances at the monastery had long ago lost its appeal.

  Soon, however. Soon he would return to the city. Lord de Silva would honor Pacheco success in returning this wayward bastard for the punishment Gavriel deserved

  Tall and proud and thoroughly confused, Gavriel needed to be turned from his chosen path of redemption, back toward the life for which he was destined. The de Silvas needed his strength, but they also needed him beaten. Soulless. And Pacheco, a man of the cloth, had been given the task of stripping away that soul.

  He smiled at the irony.

  And if Gavriel refused to take up arms for his family, he would be killed. Lord de Silva would have his slave, one of muscle and depravity, or he would have his revenge for young Sancho's death. The choice would be Gavriel's to make. His days of hiding were nearing an end.

  "This is not confession, Gavriel," he said at last. He arose from the stool and resisted the urge to massage stiff muscles in his lower back, never at ease with showing his age in front of his subordinates. "These wild rumors aside, we both know I gave you authority over that young woman's condition and care. Just as with your vows, your progression toward becoming a clergyman is the business of no one else."

  "Gramercy, Master."

  Pacheco walked around his desk to stand toe to toe with the taller man. Gavriel's height was irrelevant Sometimes power was a matter of internal perspective, and at that moment, Gavriel had lost his entirely. Pacheco would have put gold toward a wager that not one of Gavriel's vows remained unbroken—if anyone in this hole of a monastery would accommodate such a bet.

  Fernan would, poor fellow. But his trial would come soon enough.

  "I hope your journey from Yepes fared well," he said. "Did you face any trouble?"

  "Yes," Gavriel said, eyes fixed and unblinking.

  Pressing a fist to his lips to keep from smiling, he knew very well that the men who tangled with Gavriel were hired pedones. Gavriel would know it, too. That he was willing to lie showed how far he had fallen, how near Pacheco was to completing his objective.

  "But you survived, and with two women in tow?"

  No reply, at least with no words. Gavriel dropped his eyes and closed them.

  Pacheco raised an eyebrow and glanced down to Gavriel's hands, but he kept them clasped behind his back and out of view. "Does she intend to stay, or will
she return to Toledo?"

  "That boy Jacob will come for her at the end of the month."

  He returned to his desk. "Then by all means," Pacheco said, "you should be the one to acquaint her with our rules."

  Those dark brown eyes remained fixed on an unknown point in the middle distance. "Master, I'd hoped my responsibility to her has been discharged."

  "Is there a reason why you wish to relinquish this obligation?"

  Life returned to Gavriel's eyes, aggression to his posture. Then the quietest sigh. "No, Master"

  "Good. You are free to leave. Inform me should you require anything."

  Gavriel turned to leave. At the sight of his pupil's hands still clasped behind his back, Pacheco said, "Gramercy, please take these documents to Brother Ualard."

  He offered a bundle of scrolls. Gavriel returned to the desk and held out his hands, palms mangled and blistered. The corrosion of combat. Red-faced, jaw tight, Gavriel only stood there and awaited his verdict Pacheco handed him the documents and affixed a weighty stare. "You've broken one vow, at least. But we both know how you can make this right"

  "Yes, Master." That uncomfortable wooden stool held more life than did Gavriel's voice.

  Good.

  As the door closed, Pacheco wondered if pride and vanity should prevent him from celebrating this latest success. Not everyday did a slave return voluntarily to captivity, so well trained as to conduct his own flogging. And if Gavriel had actually succumbed to the Englishwoman's charms, the punishment he inflicted on himself would probably be far worse than even Pacheco imagined.

  And that made him smile.

  Ada untwined her arm from Fernan's for the fourth time and passed him another useless warning look. The strange clown of a man knew no bounds of propriety. He was amiable enough, however, and kept her distracted from the persistent turn of her thoughts. He had also proved perfectly willing to assist her and Blanca in acclimating to their new surroundings, the entire time handing out smiles like alms for the poor.