by Carrie Lofty
As soon as Gavriel closed the door to the weapons hall, Ada stepped clear of his heat and his scent. She pinned him with her eyes, merely waiting. No sense in making this easier for him, whatever he felt compelled to say.
"I wish to tell you about my past," he said. "I should, for no other reason than you must understand how important this is—that I stay here."
"Why must I understand?"
He flicked his dark gaze over her body. Heat rippled beneath her skin, deep in her bones and in soft, aching places. "I want you," he said. "But I cannot have you. This is why, and why you must understand. You... you can help me."
"You're asking that I help deny you? Deny us both?" She laughed, a ragged sound. "Do you remember who I am? I have a mean history of damaging myself."
He pressed a fist to his mouth, eyes never leaving hers. "You must, must."
Ada threw up her hands and sought solace in the ceiling. Only cold stones. "Say what you will, Gavriel I'll not interrupt, nor will I tempt you unreasonably. Have done with it, just as we both want done with this confinement of mine."
Chapter 21
"I was born to a Berber woman," he said simply. "My father is Lord Joaquin de Silva, a nobleman from Leon. He brought her from Mora, here in Castile."
Ada nodded. Wide blue eyes traced the lines of his face. Yes, she would see the Berber influence on every plane, in the tint of his skin.
"I know Mora," she said quietly. "Southwest of here. Another Castilian outpost town."
"The town had been newly taken from the Moors when I was born. According to local flierus,. a father has a great deal of power over a child's future when there is no marriage."
Marriage. His brain spat the word again and again. There had been no marriage. Only slavery. And after what Gavriel had witnessed of his father’s behavior, she had been forced Repeatedly. For the pure pleasure of controlling another person, utterly and completely.
Past and present fighting a pitched battle behind his sternum, he opened his eyes to escape the visions he had conjured. He focused on Ada—Ada, who was beautiful and who was listening. How he wished she had not bound her hair beneath that plain headdress, but it was best she had. Taking her head between his hands, threading fingers into those thick , tresses, kissing her. So natural and easy.
He cleared his throat. "A father can have his illegitimate son baptized to become his heir. As long as there was no adultery, the child is natural. That is, unless the mother was a slave."
"And then the child is a slave as well," she said, her eyes widening. She reached for him like a mother reaching out to steady a babe's first steps—quick, protective, without thought. But she jerked her fingers back and tucked them within the folds of her gown. "What did they do?"
Gavriel wanted none of her forgiveness, for such a luxury would weaken his tenuous resolve. He turned away and traced the blade of a sword with his gaze, over and around the honed edges. "He raised me without an education. I knew nothing but weapons, horses, and fighting rings. I breathed and ate warfare, a feral child with no language beyond violence.
"A year later, de Silva married and had a son named Sancho. He was groomed to be the rightful heir, but our father pitted us against each other, to make him strong and to remind me of my place. Then when I was fourteen, I killed Sancho."
"Your brother?"
"My opponent."
Ada recoiled, eyes wide and wary. He forced his body to relax even though his mind was awash in vile memories. She did not deserve the anger he reserved for only his father and himself.
"We were practicing the joust," he said, more calmly now. "He was my opponent. That was all. My father ensured that I knew nothing else, all the better to make me a killer:"
She nodded, looking lost. But how could she understand that life and death struggle? Every morning, every night, he was the enemy of Sancho de Silva. The weakling heir of a nobleman against the illegitimate half-Berber slave who had neither the wits nor words to defend himself. Sancho's taunts and humiliating jests had defined their childhood. When Gavriel had known naught but violence and the thrill of success in the training arena, Sancho taught him shame. Only when they took to the practice ring did Gavriel find victory over his nemesis.
That Sancho would retaliate all the more at the next opportunity never stayed Gavriel's hand. Perhaps such knowledge had pushed him to fight all the harder that day. He had charged at full speed, sword drawn. Nothing held in reserve. No mercy for his own kin.
Ada stood at his side. She had crossed the floor without his noticing, the fresh warmth of her scent pulling him back from blood and death. Sunshine from the window slits above the archery targets slanted across her face, shadow and light.
"I became my father's greatest enemy and his strongest ally," he said. "He did not prosecute me or do me harm, nor did he turn me from his house, as was within his right. Instead he bound me to his family even more surely than my indenture."
"And you agreed?" She shook her head. "Of course you agreed. What choice did you have? You had no other perspective, growing up as you did and harnessed with the responsibility of your own brother's death."
"It makes me ill how quickly you defend me."
"Would you prefer that I condemn you?"
Yes. Condemn me and hate me. Go back to Toledo and leave me be.
But he found only open curiosity in her expression. He had not succeeded in driving her away. He would have to dig deeper and bear more of the memories.
"Six years ago at the Battle of Alarcos, the de Silvas sided with the Almohads to the south—all the better to conclude an old blood feud with King Alfonso. I rode with them, blending in with my dark skin and barbarism. Our victory ... our victory was unparalleled."
Images of that day would not disperse. Every angle of sunlight and every scream had been engraved on the surface of his brain. Although those memories were supposed to repulse him, he could not suppress how proud and triumphant he had been. The height of that battle had been the highpoint of his life. No restraints. No scruples. No mercy. Only a warrior in his element, unfettered and victorious.
His stomach crumpled. Now he paid dearly for that freedom.
"How many I killed that day I cannot know—Castilians, even members of this Order who defended their kingdom. Afterward, I rode with Moorish raiders for a number of years, until the death of their chieftain meant the end of my protection."
He held onto shreds of the tram, those secrets he could not reveal. De Silva hunted him, wanting him dead—not because of young Sancho, but because Gavriel had failed to kill King Alfonso. Fear of his father and fear of the reckoning that awaited him kept the truth buried
"And you came here," she said. "Why? Why this place?"
"Simply another place of refuge. But from what I've learned here, I'd have been better served staying ignorant and barbaric, hiding in exile as a raider."
"Without thought or soul, yes. But you didn't. You came here, to this place of learning and spirituality. It must have opened your eyes to the world you missed."
"Yes." Customary anger shot through his limbs. "I learned, for example, that I was kept a slave illegally. For my entire youth I was told that my mother's fate was my own. Servitude. But I was baptized, Ada. I was not instructed in the ways of the Church, but I am Christian."
Ada gasped as understanding dawned. "But slaves are freed if they convert. Isn't that true?" He masked his anger well, just as he masked his loneliness and lust—every human thing about himself his forearm had turned to rock beneath her hands, muscles rigid and taut.
He might refuse to voice his outrage, but she could not keep silent "You should have been raised a free man!"
"Yes, but I was not" His grim resolution scarred her nerves. "Now I fear being free of this place. I would rejoin their ranks as a warrior, or I would kill the father who bound me."
Her head jerked as if slapped. These dark secrets and the need for revenge had burned within him, but he used the Order as a shield between his leth
al hands and his enemies. And she threatened his acceptance into that sanctuary, not only her stubborn resistance to the aid he offered, but by putting them in situations that required violence.
And she had lain with him. She wanted to still.
She tightened her fingers on his forearm, the only physical contact he had permitted in days. "But if you want to stay, why do you make it so difficult on yourself? Don't these vows pinch and bind? Don't they make you all the more eager to run free?"
"Yes!" Gavriel flung his hands. "Have you listened? Do you know what I've done?"
"You did so at the behest of despicable men. You punish yourself for their wickedness."
One step, then another, he allowed her approach. She reached out to stroke his face. The rough grain of his cheek, freshly shorn but still masculine and course, intriguing, scraped the delicate skin of her palm. "You punish us both," she whispered. "There is such a thing as forgiveness, Gavriel. You've been here long enough to see that, I should hope—to read it to understand for yourself."
He closed his eyes. "I cannot read."
"No?" Their bodies whispered to each other, so near now. "You've been here for more than a year."
"We say our prayers, keep our vigils and routines."
"As a substitute for thought?"
Dark eyes open, he watched with such care and thoroughness that he might be touching her, yet his arms hung like lances at his side, hard, deadly, and unmoving. "Pacheco thought me more apt to respond to lessons of the flesh. To purge myself."
His voice caught on the word 'purge,' and the image of his scarred back blazed in her brain. A quiver warped her chin, near to tears. "He told you... to hurt yourself? Is that—?"
"Yes. My back."
She could see it happening again, Gavriel transforming to stone. In his face and in the hollow deadness of his voice, he was withdrawing. Even his body felt colder. Is that how he dealt with the hardship and abuse of being raised a slave? He banked his body and mind like, a fire, saving only enough to survive. Never enough to feel.
"Aren't you curious?" she asked. "Isn't there a void inside you needing to be filled with information? Questions that need answers? You may not be a man of letters, but you could read if you studied."
"No one has ever..." His. eyebrows pulled together, a quizzical expression, nearly hopeful, but his body remained tense. "You believe me capable?"
She smiled. "Think how easily you bested me at chess. You have a quick mind and the stubbornness that cannot be matched."
"You are my match," he said roughly.
His kiss was sudden and unexpected. Warm lips covered hers and his strong arms garnered her near. His tongue thrust into her mouth. Sensation burrowed-into her core. Her body had been whispering to his, but now it cried out: closer, tighter, never let go.
Relying on his strength to keep her from falling, she met his questing tongue and sparred. The rough stubble along his upper lip abraded hers. His low moan set her alight She poured every drop of her desire and sympathy and confusion into that kiss. She memorized his cinnamon taste and the spiky softness of his hair, uncertain as to whether she would ever touch him again.
A sigh mingled with frustration as they reached the limit of the kiss. She could have kissed him forever. But stretched between yes and no, his indecision cooled her desire. She would not lie with him again, not when he permitted so little. Bodily desires had ruled her for too long, and from this man—this mystery and temptation—she wanted more. Or nothing at all.
His hand still held the curve of her backside. Mouths parted, panting, she found his eyes blackened with desire. "Are you content with being miserable?"
He swallowed in that compulsive way he used when trying to regain control. "I deserve this life," he said.
"And yet here you are living, breathing, and with what looks to be a second chance," she whispered. "But you refuse it. I've never met anyone as stubborn as you. If you knew my sister, you'd understand that to be a remarkable statement."
His face darkened. "What are you suggesting? That I laugh? Will that banish my cares?"
"It might... but no." With her forefinger, she traced the curves of his upper lip. Even now, so close, touching him, she could not imagine him smiling. "I don't recommend anything of the sort. It would be akin to running when you've not learned to crawl. Perhaps you should start with a tiny grin, work up to a smile. As for laughing, I wouldn't want you to fail right at the start."
He stared at her with those unnerving eyes. "And I suppose you think I should fall in love with you."
She ignored the sudden leap of her heart He was a man at sea, looking for any piece of flotsam to cling to, and she was steadily replacing one craving with another. Her anger returned in force, knowing she could no longer trust her own judgment
"You can if you want" she said, pushing free of his embrace. The cool air of the training room sliced between their bodies. Later, alone, she would have time to mourn the loss of his heat "I have no intention of reciprocating."
"No?"
"No. There are so many good men in the world. Why would I want you?"
He flinched.
"Did my words hurt?" she asked. "Did they make you wish circumstances were different?"
Gavriel stood straight arms at his side once again. "I wish you would listen to me. Enough of this, Ada. It ends now."
Chapter 22
"Ada, you are distressed."
Fernan smiled down to where the Englishwoman sat alone on a stone bench outside the monastery. From the slope of her shoulders to the wrinkles pinching the skin around her eyes, she appeared deep in thought. Sunset illuminated her fair skin, her hair concealed by a white linen veil similar to those worn by the canonesses. That Ada would begin to take on the dour and stern-faced behavior of Jacobean women seemed an affront. She was a far more frank and worldly sort Life in the Order would only see her dissolve away.
But perhaps, considering the task Pacheco had assigned, Fernan only tried to convince himself of as much.
Ada offered a cursory smile. "I wish to be left alone, please."
"Come, come—none of that," he said, sitting despite her lack of an invitation. He turned his eyes to the sun where it dipped behind the defensive wall at the western edge of the grounds. "Your dear Blanca is quite a girl."
She shot him a look midway between assessing and warning. "Did she enjoy herself in town today? I haven't seen her since the morn."
"Of course," he said. "She's quite the inquisitive type, all smiles and conversation with the locals."
When Ada smiled too, he breathed a silent sigh of relief, In truth, he had spent no more than a few moments with the girl from Yepes. She seemed quite at home among the doting canonesses and their quiet hierarchy, merely content to be included.
Fernan, however, had abandoned the group upon reaching the outer walls, as was his wont. He had found Abez, held her, stood with her as they watched young Najih sleep. And as always, he had said goodbye, leaving the woman he loved with little more than a lingering kiss and the last of his morabetins.
Let the gossips believe him a philanderer and a spineless buffoon. A hateful man with a bawdy tongue. Any such assumption kept them from the truth.
But Pacheco knew, curse him. He collected tasty morsel about nearly everyone in the monastery, the better to bend his subordinates and blackmail his rivals. That Fernan had been careless enough to fall into the man's trap still rankled. If his father discovered the truth...
He fiddled with the alms bag at his waist. His father would I not find out. No one would.
"And how is our mutual friend?" he asked.
Ada released a breath, her eyes never leaving the far wall. Beyond its boundary, two days to the west, Toledo awaited sunset. "He's no one's friend," she said softly.
"Alas, I believe you may be right What a difficult character, him. Been here a year and no one knows who he is."
"A year. Ten years. No difference." She sat straighter on the bench. "I've given u
p trying to know who he is."
"Probably for the best, wouldn't you think? Considering his vows and his commitment to this place, that is." He nodded toward the west "You'll be leaving come the end of me month?"
"Si."
"Take care, Ada," he said with a laugh. "Don't let his foul temper rub off on you. Quite unbecoming anybody, let alone a body as fine as yours."
"I'm in no mood for your humor, Fernan."
He placed a hand over his heart and affected his most earnest expression. "I see I've offended you. My apologies."
"No matter," she said. "I should go inside."
He had to do this. For the safety of his fledgling little family, he had to do as Pacheco asked.
And then Gavriel would kill him. Fernan had kissed Abez goodbye knowing he would never see her again.
"Wait." He touched her hand, roughly taking her fingers and ignoring the trembling in his own. She frowned at him, but at least she stayed. From the alms bag he removed the packet Pacheco had given him: two poppy seedpods wrapped in a strip of linen.
"A gift," he said. "For you."
Her eyes widened. Her bow-shaped lips parted. Ah, but her mouth was lovely. No matter his love for Abez, he prided himself on being a man who appreciated the fairer sex. And only the thought of that love steadied his conscience and kept his hand from snatching back the unholy offer.
She had not lifted her gaze from his gift. "What is it?"
He raised the packet to his nose and inhaled the cloying sweet scent "I think we both know."
"How?" Her breath was coming fast now. So very close.
"Don't ask, my dear," he whispered, pushing the pods into her hands. "It's yours."