Scoundrel's Kiss

by Carrie Lofty

  His smile flashed, that bright and unexpected lightning. The very wonder of it stole her will to resist. How could she? Why would she?

  "Come to me, inglesa."

  "Did you still want me to cut your hair?"

  Ada roused from her near-sleep, snuggled alongside Gavriel's body. Muscles she had never known protested as she stretched.

  "Yes," she said groggily.

  Then, before she changed her mind, Ada struggled free of his bewitching arms and retrieved the two largest clay shards. The chill air nipped at her skin, but Gavriel stretched across the tattered mattress like the promise of a roaring fire.

  He raised his brows. "You won't try to attack me with them again?"

  She handed him the shards and knelt, her back to him. "No. I'm trusting them to you."

  Gavriel pushed to his knees and leaned close, placing a kiss on her cheek. A tender kiss. The heat and scent of his body enveloped her senses. "You're certain?"

  "You said yourself, 'tis a liability I cannot afford."

  He used the wall to hone one of the shards. The scrape of each stroke grated against her contentment, a violent sound that brought terrible tidings of the day to follow. He flicked the pad of his thumb against the sharpened edge and nodded.

  Ada straightened her back and waited. His hands cupped her face from chin to ear.

  "Right there," he said. "Where you catch the moonlight"

  He gathered her hair, pulling each wisp away from her face. Then he smoothed the long strands until she nearly closed her eyes, drifting on the tender cadence of his touch.

  "Still now," he said.

  She set her shoulders and held her neck firm as he began to cut. The clay blade sawed against her hair, rough and noisy in the near darkness. Gavriel worked at his chore with steady patience. He stopped twice to sharpen the edge, never speaking. Hunks of hair fell around her hips, then shorter, tickling filaments, until nothing remained to be cut.

  Gavriel sat back, still naked, his eyes unreadable. She raised a hand to her head, which felt light and awkward. Unencumbered. Long, glossy hair had been chopped to short, uneven locks around her chin. She rubbed the back of her neck, itching. Roughened fingernails scored her scalp as she scratched the short strands into a wild mess.

  Although Gavriel offered a proud smile, she ducked her head. "I must look ridiculous."

  "Not at all," he said. "Not for a warrior."

  She exhaled. "Well, 'tis done. Nothing that can't be undone if I survive the day."

  "When. When you survive the day"

  "You believe I can do this? Truly?"

  "Truly," he said. "I would not have marred your beauty for any cause less worthy."

  She pulled at a short lock. "Marred my beauty? I knew it must be bad."

  "Come." He held out his hand, that smile quirking at his lips. "Let me show you how little it matters to me."

  Although Ada slept, Gavriel could not let go of the world. She lay beside him, her leg draped across his middle. His tunic served as their only blanket, and she used his shoulder as a pillow. His greedy body had claimed hers once again, bringing them both to that dizzying point of exhausted completion, but he felt none of the peace he hoped to find.

  Only dread.

  He kissed the top of her head and smiled there, her short hair tickling his lips. But the twinkle of amusement faded. Although he was glad to have convinced her of the need to fight, now he faced the consequences of the morning.

  And if she was with child...

  They were married, at least Their child would not be raised a bastard. No matter what she eventually believed of his decision, she would raise their child to be strong and well-loved.

  That she might resent him so terribly as to neglect the child pressed against his temples. Perhaps she would return to opium. Perhaps she would find the reminder too painful to keep.

  Behind closed lids, he pictured her astride him. She had laughed when she took him inside her once again, shaking her shorn head, enjoying the freedom of it. With every lift of her hips, she had brought him closer to release. Then she had collapsed, trembling like him.

  But memories of their coupling paled to the thought of her hands moving over his back. She had explored those terrible scars without fear or revulsion, easing the pain of his past For a breath or two, he had felt released and revived. Ada helped him lower those defenses, and he had done so when the reward was her love.

  Now he would be stripped of the armor forged by long years of pain and discipline. He would return to the masters of his youth with no more resistance than a child could muster, a slave once again. To do their bidding.

  And he was terrified.

  Eyes wide, he looked up to the narrow window and saw the glimmer of fading moonlight. He found himself desperate enough to ask for assistance. He begged for it, in truth, and approached the idea of prayer with a soul uncluttered by Pacheco's warped demands. He prayed—not for himself, but for Ada's safety. He prayed she would find the strength to live well and raise a child with all the love she was capable of providing, love that he might have shared.

  But with his face upturned to the night, he knew he could not trust his future to Joaquin de Silva. His father had never kept a promise. Promises meant honor. De Silva had none.

  He stared into the black as his mind raced across the possibilities. This was a game, nothing more. He sat on one side of the chessboard, his treacherous father on the other. Only when the dawn began to cleanse the sky of darkness did he find the maneuvers that might set them both free.

  "Quickly now. Ada, quickly."

  She snapped to wakefulness with the rattle of keys down the corridor. Gavriel was already tugging her kirtle over her head. She pushed clumsy male hands aside and finished dressing, gown to boots.

  "Wait," he said.

  Gavriel knelt before her, taking the clay shard in hand. She thought he was ready to fight back with that crude weapon. But her giddy hope dried to dust. She did not want him to resist because the guards would only kill him. No matter the bargain he had made to stay with her through the night— and she knew he had made one, knew it without a doubt—they would not hesitate to end his life. Even her warrior could not stand before such poor odds.

  She was ready to kick the shard from his hands, but he touched the sharpened clay to the hem of her gown. He split the fabric with two rough slashes, then tore away the bottom third of her skirts. From her knees to the tops of her leather boots, her legs were bare.

  "What are you doing?"

  "You can run fester now." He flashed his grin. "And the sight of your naked legs will distract any man you face in combat"

  "Certainly, like my hair."

  The door flew opened and hit the wall with a thick wooden thud. Six guards stood ready. Their leader held two sets of manacles. "Ada of Keywood—"

  "Keyworth, you dullard," she mumbled in English.

  "You are hereby ordered to accompany us to where you will be tried by combat."

  She glanced at Gavriel. His face had turned to stone, having shared their goodbyes through the fleeting night of loving. "And what of him?'

  "His fate is not your concern. You're coming with us."

  "Answer me or I'll die right here."

  Gavriel seized her from behind and offered her hands to the guard, who slapped on the manacles. Metal bit into her wrists. Breath burned her throat in sharp gasps.

  "My warrior," Gavriel said, his voice deep and close. "Open your eyes."

  She watched his expression change. The guards would not have noticed. Perhaps no one else would. But Ada did.

  She had come to dislike the shrewd mask he wore when he was ready to finish a game of chess, his victory a certainty. But on that morning, she welcomed it with all her soul.

  The room righted itself. She breathed through her nose, confronting each guard with unblinking coldness. The manacles were heavy and sharp around her wrists, but she would not be bound when she fought As for her husband, she had no notion of what
he planned, but she trusted him. No matter his past or Jacob's warnings, she trusted him implicitly.

  Her head light and unburdened, her hands bound by steel, she walked from the cell without a look back, her lips curved into a tiny smile.

  Yes, Gavriel had been a remarkably quick study at chess.

  Chapter 32

  Gavriel paced his cell, alone, his mind with Ada. If he stopped, he would break in two. With every movement, he felt the tender ache of the muscles he had used to move with her through the night. He smelled like her. He still tasted her.

  His plan was honed by a madman, he knew. But his choices had been whittled until only one remained: he would fight He was long past submitting to Lord de Silva again, doing his bidding—not that he trusted his father's promise that he would be reinstated among the family's elite.

  When the guards returned, he brought his aim into focus. Matters of revenge and right and wrong no longer mattered. His tasks lined up like chairs along a dining table—neat, ordered, one after the other. Accomplish one, move on to the next At the end, God willing, he would hold Ada again.

  Manacles around his wrists, he followed the guards past a dozen locked cells. De Silva waited at the end of the corridor, tall, strong, and dangerous.

  "Gavriel," he said, his smile smooth and cunning. "I hope you enjoyed your night"

  "I did, Master. She is a serviceable woman." He looked to the pair of men standing behind his father. "I thought you would greet this morning with a smile, relishing the prospect of seeing me in chains once again."

  De Silva laughed without mirth. "I never tire of that sight, mihijo."

  "Your son? I'm no more your son than you are my father."

  "You cannot deny your lineage, Gavriel. Neither could I, much as I wanted to." He motioned for the guards to unlock the manacles. Blood rushed back to Gavriel's hands. De Silva stepped closer and caught him by the chin, their eyes level. "Don't forget what I know of you. You hate me, without a doubt, but tell me your body doesn't thrill at the thought of the de Silva family—our power and potential."

  Gavriel closed his eyes, demons clawing deep in his gut He had lived and thrived and rode amidst barbarous men, all of whom shared his capacity for brutality. The call of that old life sang a careless, murderous song. His mind swam, breathless, as if he had slipped below the surface of a lake. A shiver chased over his skin.

  When he opened his eyes, he found de Silva smiling again. "Good, mi hijo. Very good."

  The sick appreciation Gavriel found on the man's face jerked him free of his moment of weakness. Ada faced the fight of her life. The sickening, hypnotic way his father spoke of violence and freedom seemed like the Devil’s own tongue, weaving tales of disgusting temptations. What was Gavriel doing, his mind sweeping over La Mancha with old and brutal memories?

  He was saving his own life. The only chance he had was in convincing de Silva that his slave had returned to him, all without truly succumbing. And then he might be able to save Ada.

  "I see you've not lost that stony expression," de Silva said. They strode side by side down the corridor and out of the justice building. Eight guards fell into step around them. "Good to see you have your defenses about you. I shouldn't like to think I've missed the chance to break you, once and for all."

  "Pacheco tried."

  "Yes, but Pacheco is a fool. He believed he could control you with his little games, but I never believed it. He is, however, a very good killer. Not so good as you—or myself, for that matter."

  But he'll suit your aim. I know your plan, Father.

  "You failed to kill the king," de Silva said. "Tell me, does it still burn in you, Gavriel?"

  "My life would be very different, Master, had I succeeded." Sunlight stung Gavriel's eyes. The ease with which he fell into calling him master set his confidence off balance. The man brimmed with influence.

  De Silva grinned. He slapped Gavriel on the shoulder and pulled him into a rough embrace. "See, my boy? It's as if you never left"

  Gavriel looked down. His father pressed a palm-sized dagger against his ribs. A single push and the blade would pierce his shuddering heart.

  "Are you listening, Gavriel?"

  I am."

  De Silva's eyes burned like blue flames. "I don't trust you and never have."

  "You do not truly expect me to kill the king."

  "Of course not," de Silva said with a twisted smile. "You agreed last night because you sought pleasure between the legs of that English harlot."

  "Then why give me the privilege?"

  "So that her death will ruin you. This morning, you will watch her die—a small compensation for the son you took from me."

  No!

  Gavriel swallowed a quick surge of nausea.

  "That is my pleasure," de Silva snarled. He pushed the dagger deeper, just enough to draw blood. "The king will die anyway, and then I will end your life myself."

  But Gavriel surprised them both by smiling; it was like practicing a new maneuver. The shock of it registered on de Silva's narrow, lined face. "The move is yours, Father."

  Fernan sat on the top of the wooden barricade surrounding the tiny arena. A ripe orange in his hand, he sucked the juices from each segment and looked across the citizens assembled for the combat trials. Sunshine, always more dratted sunshine, baked the tops of a few bare heads and pulsed from the packed clay floor of the arena. Sweat leaked from his temples and made a wet mess of his cropped hair. He ran his fingers through it, hoping for a breeze. But hundreds of bodies meant no relief, even from his elevated vantage.

  Two days of searching had revealed Abez's whereabouts, safe in the southern quarter of the city with his son and her parents. They had escaped that hideous sort of captivity in Ucles, free of Pacheco's threats. Happy as he was—eating an orange and there days from fleeing south with Abez—the poor bastards ready to die in the arena seemed particularly pathetic.

  But, strangely enough, he spotted Gavriel in the crowd. The former novice was hard to miss. There was no mistaking that stern face. But his stride had been stunted. Gavriel's shoulders dipped slightly, the muscles stiff around his neck. Such a change from when Fernan had last seen him on the day Ada was detained. Another man, equally tall and even more arrogant, walked alongside. Just what the world needed.

  And still another familiar face peeked through the crowd: Blanca, her eyes like those of an owl. He looked side to side, as if the peasants gathered around him could explain the coincidence. Having worked to blend into the dregs of Toledo, he did not relish the idea of falling in with such familiar and dangerous company. Any minute, Ada and Pacheco would reveal themselves and Fernan would be as poorly off as ever.

  But at least Abez was safe.

  He stood, intent on fleeing the scene and getting back to his family. No blood sport was worth the chance of being seen. But Blanca spotted him. That strange girl—was she, in fact, related to an owl?

  He motioned for her to join him and, minutes later, dragged her through the crowd to an empty alleyway. The last thing he needed was for Gavriel to see them again. Fernan's face still throbbed from the healing bruises.

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  At their backs, the crowd surged to life as the first trial began. Blanca flinched and went pale. "Ada."

  "What do you mean, Ada?"

  "Ada was sentenced to trial by combat."

  "Surely no." But he chewed on his lower lip as Blanca related the story of Ada's hearing, from the corrupted judge to Gavriel's imprisonment. "But what is he doing here? He's with another man, under guard although he wears no restraints."

  "No notion. But Pacheco's here too. I saw him this morning when I arrived, first thing. He's lurking about and wearing all black."

  Fernan held up his hands and waved her away. "No, no, no. I cannot be here with that man about."

  "But I need your help."

  "You don't," he said, smoothing his sleeves. He wore no Jacobean robes and held fast to that happy fact. "You look wel
l and safe and good. Now keep it that way. Go home."

  She checked the alley for relative privacy and leaned close. "Very well, they need our help."

  Fernan rubbed the back of his head, sweating and uncomfortable. "Surely the young Jew and those knives would be better suited to a rescue? Where is he?"

  "At Dona Valdedrona's palace. He's to present evidence to King Alfonso against the de Silva family."

  He tried to muster a bit of callousness for Jacob but found none. Only envy. The boy was far too heroic, making everyone else look foppish and careless by comparison. Not that Fernan offered much of a challenge on that score.

  "With that excess of daring, the boy wants his head to dance separately from his body."

  Blanca narrowed her eyes as the crowd chanted for the first combatant. "Ada's turn will come soon."

  "Only a madman would come to watch his woman be slaughtered. The only reason I would watch Abez killed... no, that's not possible."

  "What?"

  Blanca's cheeks had flushed pink, lips parted. He might have considered her a very pretty girl under different circumstances. He shook his head again.

  "I'd have to be forced," he said.

  "Then perhaps Gavriel is being forced? But he must have a strategy."

  . Fernan exhaled sharply. "He must. Even if forced, I'd be watching for any opportunity to fight back—and me, I'm a coward."

  Her face, already soft and youthful, eased into one of sympathy. "You're not a coward."

  "I am," he said. "Gavriel de Marqueda may be out in that crowd right now, awaiting Ada's execution. He may die in some foolhardy attempt to save her life. And Ada—she'll fight You know her chances are slim, but she'll fight to the end." He slumped against the nearest wall, the air pushing from his lungs. "But I'll go home to Abez."

  "You won't."

  He looked up, curious as to Blanca's certainty. Arms folded across her youthful breasts, feet planted firmly in the dirt, she stared at him with the serene expression of a woman having just received absolution. Clear. Certain. Strong.