Scoundrel's Kiss (23 page)

"Is that why you left
England?"

"No," she said, face turning
pink. She had hardly blushed during the course of their sultry morning, but now
she did. "The swordsman who detained me for the sheriff, his name was Will
Scarlet. He was also the man who mounted an army to come to my rescue. He and
Meg had formed an attachment and were married. Because Jacob had always longed
for adventure, we departed for London, then Toledo." She knelt with him,
their faces level, hers a picture of abject grief. "I could not forgive
her for what I thought of as her betrayal."

Fear gripped him around the middle.
"And this man, Scarlet—he could not be redeemed to you?"

"She abandoned me. For
him.
No
matter what I'd done, and no matter what he did to atone, he was the man who
had locked me in a dungeon where the Devil played." Wiping at her eyes,
she shook her head. "Do you know what it is to need someone to
blame?"

Images of Sancho's lifeless body ruined
their riverside retreat. The sword that severed his brother's head had been
Gavriel's, but the blame for their confrontation was Joaquin de Silva's to
bear. His alone. At least, that was what Gavriel had long worked to convince
himself.

"Yes," he said. 'That I
understand."

"That's what I needed. I blamed
Will Scarlet for taking my sister from me, when I'd already done my level
best" In her eyes he read nothing but concern, more unnerving, even, than
if he had seen scorn. She touched his face. "Who hurt you?"

"I will not, Ada."

Her hand stiffened against his cheek.
"I've answered your every question."

"You offered"

She sunk her fingers into the cropped
hair at the back of his skull, tugging their faces together. Close enough to
kiss. Close enough to tempt a saint

"Your back looks streaked with
cart paths." Her hushed voice trembled. "What unearthly animal would
do such a thing to you? Who?"

"I did."

"You?"
Concern
dissolved into disbelief, then something darker. He saw revulsion. "You
scarred yourself? I don't believe it."

Her hand dropped to her side, and
Gavriel steeled himself against that loss. Standing, his legs stiff and aching,
he clenched his fingers. Blisters rubbed together and split skin
throbbed.   

That pain—yes, he needed that
pain.   

"Now that you are recovered, we'll
be traveling to Ucles," he said. Ada still knelt in the grasses and sandy
loam, her face to the horizon. They regarded each other as strangers again, and
Gavriel pushed back a strange welling of grief. "Considering what happened
in Yepes, you would do best to wait at the monastery until Jacob returns
for you. Do you intend to accompany me willingly?"   
 

"Yes."     
                     
                     
                     
                   
 

"And how will you be traveling
there?" he asked. She rose. Tendons tensed in her neck. If she forced his
hand, he would make her walk once again—regardless of her scarred
feet. He had nothing left but his will over hers, however useless and damaged
that was. She lifted her head. "May I have a horse to ride?"

"Yes. But I hold the
reins."                 
                     
     

Ada wanted to collapse across the
horse's neck. The strain
 
of their
long, strange night heightened her fatigue. The stark
 
sunlight, so beautiful and gentle at dawn, had turned
fierce
 
come midday. Sweat lined
her forehead, and her eyelids did
 
nothing to bank the brightness. She missed wearing a veil, as
 
her skin sizzled beneath those intense
rays.                   
       

And her hand ached, a lingering
reminder of the morning's many follies.

Blanca sat behind her on the horse, the
girl's plump arms circling Ada's waist in what could only be described as
death's own grip. The quick, steady gait of their mount terrified her. And,
true to his word, Gavriel rode just ahead of them, the reins of her horse in
hand. Straight and tall in his saddle, he inspected every shallow and rise with
unblinking eyes. The sword looked right in his hand, perfectly fitting his
warrior's physique.

But seeing him carry it without
reservation sent a shiver of regret through her. He had made vows. For her,
because of her, he had broken those vows. The rigid determination in his
posture meant he was still on the lookout for men who would endanger their
lives, but he wore the responsibility like a noose. He would return to Ucles,
yes, but to what life?

She stared at the expanse of his
shoulders, his back, and tried without success to understand him, unable to
banish memories of the vicious scars crisscrossing his supple skin. He claimed
to have committed that villainy himself, but she could not imagine why or how.
Gavriel was a hard man, almost entirely opaque to her, and the need to touch
him again raged through her body with the force of another familiar craving.

No.

She had hurt Jacob and her sister, her
own flesh and blood, and had learned to expect as much heartache in return. If
Gavriel spoke the truth, if he had truly caused himself those dreadful
injuries, then he was entirely too damaged, beyond reach of even the steadiest
and most accepting of touches— certainly beyond what she could ever hope
to accomplish.

Instead, she would put this miserable
mistake behind her. He expected her to stay at the monastery through the month.
So be it. She would practice translating Daniel's scrolls until Jacob arrived
to retrieve her. Upon returning to Toledo, she would resume her work for Dona
Valdedrona. And if the nightmares returned, well, she would be better equipped
to handle her craving. She could take comfort in opium's floating release
without succumbing to it entirely.

Just as you've handled your need for
him?

Gavriel rode alongside them, his hair
illuminated by the sun, a great ball of gold in the sky, as it tipped toward
afternoon.
"Inglesa."

"We'll be at Ucles by this
evening." He pointed to the east horizon, a cathedral and two towers
emerging from the endless Meseta. The structures must be massive to appear so
large at that distance.    "Is Ucles an exciting place,
senor?" 
                     
       

His expression did not soften even for
Blanca's eager question. "Not particularly. Tis the same, I should think,
as the town you wanted to escape. Only, come evening, it sits in the shadow of
the monastery."

Blanca relaxed her bruising grip only a
little. "I never considered where I would go, only that it should be
somewhere else."

Ada smiled, memories of her childhood
as thick as mud.
 
"I
understand you entirely," she said softly.       
                   

"How is England, Ada? Is it as
terribly dreary as they say?"

She glanced at Gavriel, her eyes and
thoughts drawn to
 
him, inevitably.
Wiping the back of his neck, he had taken
 
shelter in silence. But she knew he was listening.     
             

"England is lush and covered in
forests," she said. "In the spring, green covers the countryside.
Winters can be a misery,
 
indeed,
but summer is a time for celebration. Crops grow, the
 
sun shines, and everyone comes out of doors."
Indicating the
 
rough sun at their
backs, she said, "But even at its hottest, our
 
summers are never quite this powerful."

"And what of you,
senor?
How
is Marqueda?"               
   

Although his watchful expression never
changed, he favored Blanca with an answer. "Midway between the two,
perhaps. Hot, yes, but also green and fertile. This—" He waved a
hand toward the empty plateau. "This is too...
open"

"Then why come here?" Blanca
asked.

"The Order is here."

Blanca stiffened against Ada's back,
quiet now. Smart girl. Far smarter than Ada, for she knew when to retreat.

"My apologies," Blanca said
quietly. "I know I sit a horse rather poorly."

She patted the girl's hands where they
clasped around her middle. "No matter. We'll be there soon."

The landscape changed from the rugged,
barren expanse of the flat Meseta to shallow hills spiked with tall conifers.
They stopped briefly to rest their horses before pressing on, the cathedral and
castle coming clearer into view. Their shadows stretched long and reached the
defenses well in advance. Guards along the saw-toothed stone wall wore identical
white robes adorned with the red Cross of Santiago. They nodded a silent
greeting but kept the gates locked, lances at the ready.

One stepped forward. "Your name
and business,
senor?"

"My name is Gavriel de
Marqueda," he said, easily handling his skittish mount "I am a novice
under the direction of Gonzalo Pacheco. These women are under my care and in
need of admittance."

"Of course," the guard said.
"Brother Pacheco told us we should expect you. Proceed "

The guards cranked opened the narrow
iron gates. Though they passed through one stretch of defenses, another wall
and a second compliment of guards awaited them on the other side of a
cultivated field. They permitted entry as simply as had the first, leaving Ada
to wonder at the ease of their arrival, such a contrast to their most difficult
exit from Yepes.

After having traveled alone across La
Mancha for the entire day—and before that, isolated in various rooms for
her recovery—Ada noticed nothing but people, people everywhere. Women and
men tended the monastery's lush gardens. Younger boys used pails of water to
wash horses in the waning sunlight Tall conifers rimmed the inside of the wall,
a forest contained, while the Order's
caballeros
practiced jousting and
swordplay in a tilting yard along the southern fortifications. And above
everything, the cathedral spire and matched square towers of the fortress
waited high on the hill like a benevolent parent.

"The fortress retains its Moorish
appearance," she said. "When was it reclaimed?"

"Numerous times," Gavriel
said. "A century ago, a generation ago, and again two years ago. It's a
fortress for a reason,
inglesa.
All of La Mancha is a
battleground."

Tension accumulated in tiny wrinkles at
the corners of his eyes as he watched, still watching. Their safe arrival had
apparently done nothing to alleviate his vigilance. Or perhaps he simply
dreaded the judgment he yet faced from Pacheco.

With their horses at a slow walk across
the fields, Ada craned her neck. Brick filigree patterned the ramparts atop the
two west-facing towers, but the fortress's other features seemed designed to
intimidate, all hulky, block construction, rectangular windows and steep
stairs. No softness and no weakness.

They skirted the lower rim of the
earthworks, around to its southern side where a squat, square building
sprawled— a simple companion to the magnificent fortress. This one had
two towers as well, but they were blunt and unadorned, one taller than the other.

Gavriel pulled to a stop and eyed the
austere building. "The monastery," he said.

Blanca let out a quiet sigh. "And
where is the town from here?"

He pointed. "On the eastern side
of the monastery and fortress, below the sheer face of the defensive wall.
Walking there takes but a few minutes."

A young squire approached and helped
Blanca dismount. Ada followed, her knees shaking because of more man simple
fatigue. This place... this place was intensely important to Gavriel and his
future, but she could not diminish her sense of unease. Why had he come here,
to this place of contrasts— piety and warfare, charity and opulence?

One of the doors opened. In the archway
stood Fernan, a grin splitting his amiable face. "Welcome home, Gavriel.
Leave it to you to gather two women when I have none."

Gavriel dismounted. "Fernan, I've
not missed you."

"With such company, I should hope
not" He smiled wider, his eyes blue and sparkling. Not even those pious
robes lent authority or decorum to his teasing expression.

After handing reins to the squire,
Gavriel edged past Fernan and into the cloister surrounding the central
courtyard. Ada and Blanca followed where they made introductions.

Fernan kissed Blanca's hand. "No
need to forego courtly manners, even in such a wretched place of exile."

Blanca laughed, her gaiety finally
pulling a scowl from where it had been lurking within Gavriel. "Show the
women to appropriate rooms, Fernan, if you would."

With a mock bow to Gavriel, Fernan
offered one arm each to Ada and Blanca. "My pleasure, you can rest
assured. And come morning, Gavriel, Pacheco wishes to speak with you."

Chapter 18

Gavriel left the women with Fernan,
desperately wishing he
 
would never
see them again. He made fists so tight that he lost all feeling in his fingers.
The lambskin riding gloves he wore engraved deep grooves between his
knuckles—he could see the second skin wrapping around his—but he
felt nothing, nothing '. but the choking desire to pull Ada close and taste her
again.