Scoundrel's Kiss (6 page)

But he had vows to keep.

The bandit blanched at the sight of
Gavriel bearing down on him and put up his hands. Ada grabbed his leather belt
and yanked him to his knees with one fierce pull. She retrieved her dagger from
the fallen man's leg and ended his life.

Gavriel could only stare, mouth agape.

She stood and wiped the blade along her
skirts, then turned to him. Eyes that had once tempted him with a false peace
raged with wild madness. Her voice was lower as she asked, "What stayed
your hand?"

"My vows."

"I have vows of my own," she
said. "I'll never be held captive again."

The pair of shepherds jumped between
them. Gavriel kicked one man in the head, sending him in a twirling flight to
the dirt. The second lunged and caught Ada's gown, ripping the linen down her
back. She spun in an erratic dance and caught the man's hand, biting down hard.
He screamed, then elbowed her hard in the chest She collapsed and gasped.

Gavriel spurred his horse. Leaning low,
he looped his arm around the shepherd's neck and squeezed, dragging him off the
ground. The muscles of his right arm protested. His writhing prisoner kicked
and gagged, his face darkening to a sickly purple. The horse carried them into
to the rushing current of the Tagus. Gavriel shrugged free of the scraping,
sputtering man, and watched him flail in the waist-high water.

He veered back to the skirmish. Only
three guards remained and as many bandits.

And Ada—Ada had climbed atop
Fernan's horse once again, riding hard to the west

* * *

With the furious howl of air rushing
past her ears, Ada could hear nothing else. Crouching low, urging more speed
from her tiring mount, she chanced a look behind her. She had hoped to reach a
village or perhaps another caravan, but Gavriel dogged her every cut and jump.
His horse gained, charging as if it did not carry a muscled male rider and his
hefty sword.

She had killed a man. Her second. The
fresh image of blood and the glint of jewels merged with old nightmares and
gave them new life. How often had she tried to force those gruesome pictures
into a box in her mind, memories of what Finch had done to her?

Although she wanted to close her eyes
against the terror, her safety atop the sprinting horse claimed her attention.
The terror would wait, as it always did;

The thunder of her mount's hooves gained
strength. No, a harmony. Gavriel had bridged the entire distance. Ada veered
her horse toward an irrigation ditch and cut hard to the left. Propelled by
momentum, Gavriel had no choice but to make the jump over the channel. She
pushed several hundred lengths between them by the time he slowed, circled, and
followed in pursuit

She rode without destination. The
plateau stretched in all directions, a flat and endless prison. No village. No
caravan. Never had she experienced a moment so wide and open. It should have
made her brave, set her free, but she recognized the inevitable. Her horse
would tire. She would be left to the whims of the harsh mesa—its foul
weather and bandits—with nothing but a dagger and an exhausted animal.

She straightened and pulled the reins.
The horse slowed beneath her, its flanks lathered and chest heaving. The wind
tugged at her ruined gown where it flapped open across her back, offering
relief from the heat. Her hands were sticky, and a taste like the bitter rind
of a lime coated her tongue.

Gavriel caught up with her even before
she could crawl out of the saddle and crumple into the tall, wild grasses.

"Why did you flee?"

Gavriel's nostrils flared with every
harsh inhale. When he went to dismount, his robes caught on the pommel. He
whipped the abused linen over his head and tossed it into the grass. Dark
woolen breeches clung to lean legs. A tunic, dyed blue like the color of a
midnight sky, stretched across his wide chest and draped past his hips. The
ties at his throat dangled open, revealing a glimpse of his chest—paler
skin and dark hair.

"I knew you were a man beneath
those robes. Care to remove any more?"

He grabbed her upper arms and pulled
her to unsteady feet Her pulse throbbed in the soles of her feet, a ghostly
pain.

"I asked you a question," he
said.

"I was breathless with
fright."

Dark eyes scrutinized her. Cheeks,
mouth, forehead, and back again. "You're mocking me."

"Of course. I was running from you
and you know it."

"You killed that man."

Blood and shining jewels. Death throes.
Weeks of isolation ending in fire. She pushed those memories aside and focused
on her mysterious menace. Gavriel. Playing with him was more entertaining. And
if she had any chance of returning to Toledo, she needed to learn more about
him.

"Me? Kill a man? Are you sure you
didn't mistake me for someone else?"

He scowled, pointing to the scene of
the attack. "I saw you!"

"But it couldn't have been me,
senor.
My dagger is of no use. You said as much. And I'm but a woman."

He stood there, his face a mask and his
finger still pointing in mid-air. Only when she smiled did he react—not
with violence or more irate words. He simply stepped away, crossed himself, and
knelt. He lowered his head. She could not make out every word he mumbled, but
the meaning was clear.

For the span of a breath, surrounded by
endless crops and grasses, covered from neck to knees with a dead man's drying
blood, she wanted to tap him on the shoulder and beg a favor.

Pray for me, too.

Ridiculous.

She searched Fernan’s saddlebags and
found a half-filled flask of young ale. She drank with greedy gulps, then
poured some on her hands to wash away what she had done. To no avail. Fingers,
palms, forearms—all remained inked in sticky red.

"Would you like to make
confession?"

She yelped. "Do you sneak up on
people at the monastery? Or are you too busy maintaining vows of silence?"

"I'm under no such
obligation."

"Are there other vows I should
know about?"

"Chastity," he said, his
voice thick. "I've sworn chastity as well."

"I'm not surprised."

A tremor of cold shook through her
limbs, suddenly stealing her attention. A quick glance at the sky revealed no
change in the weather. Only more sun, more wind. The shiver had been on the
inside. And again. Her hands jerked and the flask landed on the ground,
spilling the ale.

Oh, please. No.

Gavriel held fast to his patience.
Barely. The moment of prayer had done wonders while he was still kneeling. But
standing before her undid all of his calm, especially because her gown hung
loosely around her shoulders, open at the back. He had resolved to be strong
and of use to his new charge, this peevish woman, but her every gesture was a
threat: You'll break your vows.

Unacceptable.

He retrieved another flask from his own
saddle. "Put out your hands. Let me help."

"Gramercy, I'll do it
myself."

"Do you think because I've taken
vows to obey and abstain from violence that I cannot be strong?"

A smile pulled the corners of her lips,
dimpling one cheek. The left one. "You cannot fight or lose your temper or
lie with a woman? However do you find a release?"

"Prayer and contemplation."

She reached between their bodies and
touched his forearm. Her fingers became snakes slithering up to his bicep.
"Does that work?"

"Better than opium."

Her twisted smile widened. "Have
you tried it?"

"No," he said, shrugging free
of her distracting touch. "But I can see that it brings you only a false
peace."

"It's not false. Not if I..."
She shivered once and dropped her head.

"What?"

She inhaled, the breath hunching her
shoulders. "Tis not false as long as I have more."

Gavriel tipped up her chin. "That
took quite some courage to admit"

She jerked away. "That was no
admission, you simpleton— merely the truth. If you men of merit wouldn't
keep it from me, I would feel better. I would
be
better."

She balled the cloth in her trembling
hands. Ball, clench, release. Ever more trembling. Her eyes had clouded. They
rolled and jumped, skittering.

"Inglesa,
are
you well?"

"Of course not! This is your
fault. You and your mission, dragging me away from the world!"

"Away from the nearest apothecary,
you mean."

"Yes! You could've left me be. I
would've been fine." She sneered and spat at his feet. "Better than
being here with you."

Energy pulsed from her body in steady
waves. Her eyes moved in ever-faster skips and jumps, refusing to rest. The
long night, during which he would have to keep her from harming herself or
anyone else, stretched ahead like a never-ending journey.

"We should ride back to the
others," he said quietly. "We'll go to the archbishop's villa in
Yepes. You can change clothes."

"I want to go home."

"Home is Ucles—for one
month. I've told you that."

"Madness. You're a fool and a
hypocrite and a bore and'—"

"I thought I might be of
assistance to you, but I was wrong. I cannot even get you to wash your
hands!" He dropped the corked flask to her feet. "Godspeed,
inglesa?

"No! Don't leave. I'll do whatever
you want."

"And what would you do?"

Ada threaded her fingers into her hair,
down to the scalp. When she raised her eyes, she flung her hands away and
laughed, her mood a shifting wind.

"I'll do anything," she said,
a stranger's smile warping her mouth. "Name your price, novice. Out this
far from the others, we could do a great deal."

Gavriel scowled first, glad to know his
initial reaction to such a brazen proposal was outrage. But the fear and the
shock of desire followed closely behind. He wrestled both into submission.
"I want nothing of your bawdy offers,
mujer."

"So pious."

"I'm trying, yes."

"No, you're lying to
yourself."

He tethered his hands to the reins.
"Tis no concern of yours."

"Forgive me," she said with a
sneer. "I'm more accustomed to dealing with
men,
not servants of
God."

"You're accustomed to dealing with
a lovesick boy who could not refuse you. I'm no such boy, and I want you to use
your manners."

"Manners?"

"Yes. When you ask my help, you'll
say 'please'."

Her eyes lost their brightness. Every
drop of blue melted into an overcast gray. "Never."

"I won't offer my assistance
again," he said. "Do this willingly, or you'll spite yourself much
worse than I ever could."

"And that will cure me?"

"Eventually."

"I'd kill you first," she
said.

"But I want you cured more than
you want your poison."

"I very much doubt that."

"And when the next band of
renegades comes this way, they'll number too many for you to defend
against."

A quiet voice, one unlike any he had
ever heard, crept across the mesa. "But then I might have an end to all
this."

An unwanted flicker of sympathy and a
stronger, more nourishing anger propelled his words. "Do you seek death,
inglesa?
Is that what you crave?"

She retreated one step, then two.
"You know what I need. The alternative is going without, and that I cannot
do. Not again."

"You're a coward."

"And what would you know of
bravery, hiding away from the world?"

The image of a battlefield dotted with
corpses and fallen horses appeared in his mind's eye. Alarcos. That heady
victory. He had been as brave as ten men on that long day, slaying enemies with
glee and impunity. His bravery had bordered on bloodlust, devoid of thought or
humanity. But to what end? He had been on the winning side, but those who had
fallen under his sword had been Castilians.

He was a better man now, denying that
barbaric part of him.

"I'm a student, learning to submit
As must you."

"I will not—"

Before Ada had a chance to finish, he
grabbed her forearm and spun her. Their bodies came together, her bare back
against his chest.

"I asked you before," he
rasped. "Now I'll have that answer. Do you want to die?"

"Release me!"

"Submit,
inglesa."
Closer
now, he pulled up on her arm. She winced.

"I will not."

Her dagger flashed in the sunlight and
sliced through his sleeve and skin. Blood welled red and fast. Tensing against
the pain, he snatched the blade and slung it to the ground.