Scoundrel's Kiss (20 page)

Ada did not look down, would not break
the spell of their locked eyes. Questing fingers found his upper arms by
instinct She tightened her grip and reveled in that thick strength, thinking
him invincible—infuriating and difficult, but invincible. And for that
span of breath, she saw more than the features of his face. Through anger and
frustration, she found a deep and hungry passion in his eyes. Want Pain and
want and a fear she could not comprehend.

What could such a man fear?

Seeking answers, seeking his kiss, she
reached an unsteady hand to cup the roughened line of his jaw. He tilted his
head into her palm, only slightly, giving her me faintest impression of
surrender. She flexed her fingers. The heady rush of victory twined with
desire.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

"Do my vows mean nothing?"

"They meant nothing in the
bathhouse, or when we fought those men."

His expression soured. The heat in his
dark gaze cooled until only two nuggets of coal remained. Calmly, with neither
haste nor hesitation, he pulled her hand from his face. The scant distance
between them became a wide sea. The flesh and blood man hardened, a cold statue
taking his place.

"I do not want you," he said.

She could only stare, defeated and
confused, as he walked away to follow Blanca.

Chapter 15

Gavriel secured the horses as the group
settled near the river to wash and recuperate. He handed Ada a bundle of dried
dates, but she kept her eyes lowered, an unusual silence wrapped around her.
Blanca also kept her own counsel. The strained mood in their tiny
camp—only two horses, a rim of scraggly trees, and the meager contents of
their satchels—stood at odds with the stark, serene beauty of sunrise
over the plateau.

He walked to the river, sheltered by
thick trees tinged green with spring growth. Only here could trees survive the
desert conditions of the Meseta, and they harbored wildlife of all kinds.
Thrushes and sparrows paused in building their nests to greet the daylight,
while common cranes milled on the opposite bank.

The fat waters of the Tagus rushed past
with numbing monotony, loud, fast, and clear. He stood at the bank and edged
the toes of his sandals over the moist loam, watching the water. Remembering
and sorting. But not a single idea made sense.

How had he become so lost? Two weeks
previous, he had been one task away from entering the Order, on the path to becoming
a clergyman. He would have been safe then—safe from the men who hunted
him, safe from becoming the hunter.

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.