Scoundrel's Kiss (21 page)

"You're not my confessor,"
she said, toying with one sleeve. Her filthy kirtle reeked of smoke. "I
shall say nothing. More intriguing to discover what you're willing to
assume."

"Yet the more I know about you,
inglesa,
the less likely I am to judge you."

"Your place is not to judge at all
novice." She looked at his empty hands and his satchel slung over one
shoulder. "Because I wonder what happened to the clothes you wore last
night. Will you ever be able to remove the stains?"

"This has naught to do with
me," he said. "Why did you turn to opium if you had learned to
fight?"

"No matter how hard I practiced,
no matter what I learned, the nightmares returned. Even after my feet had
healed, opium ... it became everything." She wanted to whirl and pace, but
she held perfectly still and drew nourishment from that gathering rage. "I
would sleep and face terrible things, bringing none of my new skills into my
dreams. Only pain and fear. Opium erased all of that."

His face twisted into a sneer.
"And it was far easier than training and working, I suppose. And now?
You're not cured, you must know."

"Don't you think I know
that?" Tears stung behind gritty lids. "It's here with me, no matter
that my sickness has ebbed. A lack. An absence, like a missing limb."

He stood motionless, staring at her.
His face softened—only a little, briefly—leaving her to wonder if
she had imaged it. "Ada, would you drink the tincture right now if I
offered it?"

"Yes."

She shut her eyes and slapped one hand
across her mouth. But the blunt, ugly truth had already been spoken.

Reaching up, he tugged her hand away
from her mouth and held it in both of his. "You would go back to that
life?"

"And why not? Because this place
offers such charms? You insulting me—no, kissing me first and then
insulting me." Ada wrenched free of his gentleness and pity, at last
giving way to the frenetic need to spin and pace and shout "My head is
clearer and my eyes are open wide, but that only means I can see how
awful
this
is. I once had family and friends and a purpose. I threw away what wasn't taken
from me. Is that what you want to hear? Because I threw it away!"

She slammed her fist into the craggy
bark of a cork oak. Pain flamed from her knuckles to her shoulder.
"Ada!"

Gavriel took up the ball of her hands,
the right wrapped tightly over the injured left, and pried her fingers back.
Skin atop the hill of each knuckle had split The tears that had threatened all
evening, all morning, burst free, but she did not sob. Cheeks wet, she simply
stared at the damage she had wrought, all blood and ruined skin.

The fight boiling in her veins cooled
and slowed. "Don't touch," she said. "You've just had a
wash."

A frown sat on Gavriel's brow but he
did not let go. "I've had blood on my hands before."

They walked to the river where Ada
rinsed her knuckles in the cold water. She kept her hand submerged long after
the wound was clean, welcoming the soothing numbness. Minutes passed as Gavriel
used the ripped remains of his white robe to bind her hand. She kept her mind
focused on his agitated breathing and that constant frown, a statue no longer.

"Do you see that nothing will keep
me from going back?" she asked. "What do I have?"

"Pride. Respect for yourself. A
future."

"You speak of futures." She
shook her head, eyes closed around the memory of her last floating high.
"You have no notion of how beautiful it is."

"No, I won't let you."

Chapter 16

"You'll not let me?"

"No." Gavriel finished
binding her hand, grateful to put an end to touching her. Yes, grateful.
Tension pressed inside his lungs and threatened to burst "Not after all
I've done to drag you to health."

"What am I, a ewe?" She
pulled her hand back, cradling it against her abdomen. Salty lines streaked her
cheeks, but at least she had stopped crying. "Would you be my shepherd,
leading me back to the flock?"

"What I say is intended to
help."

"You care nothing for me,"
she said. "And your only value to me is as a distraction."

"A distraction?"

"Oh, let's not forget your skill
with a sword." She pinned him with a taunting look, one he wanted to kiss
off her face. "You think you can offer help, but you are quite possibly
the most confused individual I've ever known—without exception for even
my sister."

"Confused, am I? I'm not the one
who just ruined my hand."

Her blue eyes narrowed. "No,
you're a warrior who thinks he has the patience and restraint to become a
clergyman. But I wonder what your masters would think if they knew all that has
occurred. Will they accept you, welcome you home?"

The same defeat and despair he had
battled moments before, alone by the river, needled him again. But this time he
had no illusions. They stripped away as violently as Ada had flayed the skin
from her knuckles.

"No, they won't," he said.

"Then I have an offer, if you're
willing to hear it."

Insides cold, he nodded.

"A generous boon," she said,
smiling slightly. He had learned to be wary of that smile, like heeding the
growl of a starving dog. "I'll listen to whatever pearls of wisdom you
have for me. And I'll present your story of these last days however you want.
The masters need be none the wiser. You don't believe me, but I will. Ill
listen and protect you."

"You'll obey?"

Her smile widened. "Of
course."

He searched her face, every soft slope
and bend. Caution and her devilish smile warned against using rational thought.
Nothing they did bore resemblance to logic. Their days and nights were
determined by instinct and urges alone—fight, survive, need.

"Nothing comes easily, especially
not with you," he said. "What do you want?"

"Tell me who you are."

"Inglesa."

Not even his warning tone diminished
her teasing. She rose up on her knees and leaned near enough to tempt him with
the dark drape of her hair tumbling over one shoulder. "You have the
power, Gavriel," she whispered. "Me—cooperative, sweet natured,
genial. Completely docile and willing to listen to you. All I want is something
true. From you."

"I am Gavriel de Marqueda."

She traced his earlobe with her
fingertip, down to his jaw, down to his chin. At the slightest pressure, urging
him to lift his face, he met her gaze of heat and promise and the sweetest sin.
She touched the pad of her thumb against his lower lip. Breath scorched his
lungs.                   
                     
   

"An imbecile can change his name,
and you're no imbecile," she said. "Tell me."

He swallowed. Certainty swirled away, a
victim of the
 
desire ebbing
between them. All he knew, all he could claim in the world, was that this
Englishwoman had become his responsibility. He had sacrificed his future, his
security, perhaps his very soul. Her welfare had eclipsed all other
obligations.

He grasped her upper arms. Their faces
came together,
 
only his hesitation
separating them. He tightened his grip but
 
she did not flinch. Her lips merely parted, a silent
invitation..

"I am your guardian," he
rasped.   

"And you
do
want
me."                   
                     
         

"SI"     
                     
                     
                     
   

Touching his lips to hers, he felt the
urge to punish her for
 
the
confusion and useless desire she had thrust into his life..Breeching the
boundary of lips and teeth, he plunged his
 
tongue into her mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of
dates. He circled his arms around her back and dragged her
 
flush against him. She did not resist.
She accepted him and
 
dueled with
him, her pliant body folding into his. Soft, full
 
breasts melded to the firmness of his chest, ripping away
the
 
last of his doubt, reason,
breath.

He wanted to punish her, yes, but Ada
did not relent to the
 
forceful assault
of his kiss. She accepted every thrust of his tongue, meeting him with the same
urgency. She pushed eager fingers through his hair and rubbed down to the
scalp. Her injured hand looped around his neck, her forearm pulling him closer
to deepen their kiss. She moaned, the seductive sound weaving into his blood
and urging more. She nipped at his lower lip. Tiny sparks of pain merged with
mindless pleasure, pleasure he had denied himself for too long.

Every touch, every taste merged with
wild thoughts he strove to repress. She was a fantasy made real, a devilish
goddess sent to drive him mad. And mad he was, kissing her and cupping the
weight of her breasts. He kneaded that tender flesh and found her hardened
nipple through the taut cloth of her kirtle. With thumb and forefinger he
tugged and pinched, damning the clothes that separated them. She moaned again
and pushed into his hand, another invitation that savaged his
 
weak grasp for control.

He pushed her back, back into the rough
grass at the river's edge. With his lips he found the crook of her neck and
kissed, suckled. She grasped the base of his skull as she arched, tantalizing
him with softness and strength. Pent up need burned in his lungs like inhaling
fire and smoke. No number of breaths assuaged the ardor. Only Ada, more of her
kisses and more of her willing, wanton body.

Unruly fingers made a jest of his
attempt to untie the strings at her throat. A knot confounded him.

She pushed against his chest and looked
at him directly, teasing him even now. Blue eyes had darkened, her pupils wide.
"Slow down, for I cannot help you." She glanced to the hand he had
bandaged. "Inconsiderate of me, I know."

"Where's Blanca?"

"Asleep beyond those trees, over
by the horses."

He nodded once and reclaimed her mouth,
but a surprising gentleness overtook him. The desire to linger over the slick
texture of her lips, the roughness of her tongue, and the sharp nip of her
teeth infused him with delicious languor. They moved together, hands and mouths
working toward a common purpose so unlike their combative history. Gavriel
threaded his hand into her dark tangles until he cupped the back of her neck.
She shivered. He groaned and kissed her, nothing remaining but his mouth over
hers, her body under his.

With more haste than patience, he
returned to the kirtle's ties. With more hope than success, he tried to ignore
the brown traces of dried blood remaining beneath his fingernails. The dismal
reminder of his violence should have stilled his hands and left him ashamed.
But what did it matter? What vow of chastity should confine him now that he had
ruined his every other promise? He had wanted Ada, and she was his for the
taking.

The laces finally parted. He released a
shuddering breath, one she matched. Mere moments passed as she shed her kirtle.
Rigid and breathless, Gavriel stared at her, absorbing a sight he never thought
he would experience, let alone twice. But memories of the bathhouse, that dank
and dark place, could not compare. She knelt beside a spring river bathed in early
morning sunlight, pale skin made golden perfection. His hands needed the inward
curve of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips. His mouth needed the pert
pink tips of her breasts.

And her face... she looked at him with
an open and humbling hunger. Once he had thought to replace the blissful
expression she wore during her opium high with one of desire for him. But the
opium had created for her a cloudy place of contentment. Her desire proved more
devastating and greedy, her eyes clear and direct.

"You're magnificent," he
whispered.

She blushed, the first hint of any
embarrassment. But it was gone with a blink. Only hunger remained. "Your
turn."

If he had taken her breath
away—clean, but folly clothed— he threatened her life when he shed
his tunic and breeches. Firm muscles flexed beneath burnished skin. Dark hair
swirled intriguing patterns across his chest and tapered to the thatch
surrounding his large, swollen shaft. A lighter dusting of dark hair colored
his forearms, thighs, and calves.

Yes, this is what she wanted. Needed.
She knew how he tasted and she knew the hard resilience of his muscles, but the
thought of touching that skin, so different from her own, made her edgy and
eager. Pain had not made her regret the damage done to her knuckles; knowing
she would only be able to touch him with one hand did.

She had not expected him to linger. She
had imagined their coupling a quick and furtive thing—Ada pushing and
tempting, Gavriel of two minds until the needs of his body dominated his
conscience. But standing nude and shameless, he showed no sign of hesitation.
Any doubts he harbored had been laid aside with his clothing, even if his
expression was clouded by some grim purpose, not joy or affection or even lust