Scoundrel's Kiss (3 page)

"Come away now." Pacheco
tugged his sleeve.

Atop the auction platform, the strange
slave girl yelped. Surprise marred her peaceful features as a man grabbed her
around the waist. Gavriel recognized him as one of the patrons who had been
prepared to bid for her. The sleepy-eyed slave laughed, but when her captor did
not relent, she struggled to escape his clutching arms.

"Ada!" The boy intruder
fought past one more guard to within a body's length of the platform. Blood stained
his tunic. "Stop him!"

Gavriel jumped onto the platform
without thought and thrust out his leg.

The abductor and his comely treasure
took a tumble, rolling down a trio of steps near the rear alcove. Startled
musicians stopped short with a screech of dissonant instruments. Her arms and
legs flailing beneath the man's weight, the woman fought with unexpected zeal.
She shrieked in an unfamiliar language and kicked free of entangling skirts,
hooking a boot heel into his calf. He slapped her cheek with the back of his
hand.

But she would not be contained.

She slammed a knee between his legs and
thrust the howling man aside. On all fours, she scampered past fleeing patrons
and screaming harlots to find the sword Gavriel had dropped. She stood, wiped a
mess of tangled hair from her forehead, and raised the weapon in a convincing
stance. Someone had taught her how to hold a blade.

Perhaps the boy warrior who fought to
reach her side.

She began to laugh again and swayed to
a rhythm the frightened musicians had stopped playing. Her purloined sword
dipped. Gavriel hopped off the platform, intent on pulling her from danger.

"Down!" the boy shouted.

Gavriel dropped to the floor and
dragged the woman with him, flinging aside her weapon. A squeal of metal
sounded above their heads where the boy used his curving blades to deflect a
dagger—a dagger aimed at Gavriel's neck. The thwarted abductor wanted his
prize back. Two parries later and the man dropped dead beside Gavriel and the
slave he still held

She smiled up at their champion.
"Jacob!"

The boy named Jacob panted. A riot of
sweaty black hair curled across his brows. He caught Gavriel's eye. "Can
you take her out the back?" he asked in Castilian, his accent thick and
unfamiliar.

"Can you fight free on your
own?"

Jacob only nodded, turning to defend
against another guard.

Gavriel hauled the woman to her feet
and hoisted her over one shoulder. She fought him just as she had fought the
eager patron. Wild limbs struck his back and kicked the air in front of his
face. He squeezed tighter. Some detached part of his brain recognized the curve
of her backside and the deep satisfaction of using his muscles to keep her
close.

Woman and man.

He flinched at the thought, but not at
the chair flying past his head. It crashed into the nearest wall and
splintered. Spongy pillows gave way beneath his feet as he picked through the
messy brawl toward the alcove. Although he wondered about the boy's success
against the armed hordes, he dared not look back. The temptation to exchange a
flailing female for the cool power of a blade might be too great.

Pacheco and Fernan awaited him in the
alley behind the brothel. The stench of fetid but temperate night air was a
welcome change to the heated poison of smoke and perfume. Gavriel's infuriated
burden used the change of scene to renew her efforts. She pounded his back and
scratched his neck with long nails. He cursed, pulling her from his shoulder.

The woman landed with a hard thump on
filthy cobblestones. She wheezed, her breath gone. Gavriel knelt and pressed
his thumbs against two points at her throat, applying pressure until she
collapsed.

"You killed her!" Fernan
gasped.

"I did nothing of the sort. Now
she rests." He unfolded his long limbs and stood tall. "What happened
to your slave?"

"He escaped," Fernan said,
beaming. "Can you believe my luck? I think it means God has freed me from
my obligation."

"Hardly. We'll discuss that
later." Pacheco stared at the motionless woman, eyebrows bunched together.
"Who is she, Gavriel? And what are you doing with her?"

Jacob burst through the alcove door with
a shout. He and Gavriel pushed the door closed and wedged it shut. Pounding
fists echoed into the alley like a war cry.

Picking up the woman in the midst of
chaos had been one thing. Touching her again gave Gavriel pause. But the
pounding fists did not relent. He steeled himself and lifted her limp body.

"What is this about,
nino?"
he asked.

"No time," Jacob said,
breathless. "Run."

Through Toledo's winding cobblestone
streets, where every surface was bathed in shadow, Jacob ben Asher split his
attention between his unexpected companions. The silver-haired man led their
ragged group, while the thin one stumbled behind him, his face a waxen gray
color. The tallest of the three—the one who had tripped Ada's captor and
hauled her from that disgusting place—carried her over his shoulder.

Jacob would have rather taken Ada back
to the condesa's palace, but he could not risk being caught Not by the guards
at the brothel. Not by
lospedones,
the city infantry. Upon finding a Jew
alone with a dazed Christian woman after dark, they would not ask questions
before detaining him. Or worse.

And as blood flowed from his
collarbone, seeping under his tunic and down his chest, Jacob could not be
certain of making it to the palace himself, let alone with Ada in tow. Pain
gathered in a dull pulse, refusing to be ignored.

He tensed his fingers around the hilt
of his knives. The silver-haired man led them deeper into a part of the city
Jacob had never explored. Worry escalated with every fatigued step. These men
were members of a religious order. Their white robes emblazoned with red
crosses and their closely cropped hair said as much. Whether knights or
clergymen, he no more relished being subjected to their varied sense of justice
and inherent prejudices than he did seeing Ada on that auction block.
Bitterness welled beneath his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Foolish woman.

They stopped before a large building,
some blend of residence and place of worship. The exterior, although austere,
was graceful and attractive. Brick and stone alternated up the high, sheer
walls, their creamy color glowing faintly in the deepening darkness. A
defensive wall ran around the second story, and wooden balconies scattered
across the patchwork of windows and arched brick doorways.

"This is one of our
properties," the silver-haired man said in Castilian, his black eyes
intent on Jacob. "You and the girl are welcome to stay with us
tonight."

The design was Mudejar—Moorish
people who had long lived within Christian communities—and Jacob wondered
how these men had come to own a property they obviously had no hand in
designing. Except, perhaps, for the bell tower. Christians added bell towers,
and Moors added minarets. Like stamps of ownership.

"Who are you?" he asked,
working his tongue around then words. Even after more than a year in Toledo, he
claimed no genuine fluency.

"I am Gonzalo Pacheco. This is
Fernan Garza and Gavriel de Marqueda, two of my novices from the Order of
Santiago. We
are freyles clergicos"

"Clergymen?" He glanced at
the one called Gavriel whose height and strength hinted at a capacity for
combat, not prayer and sacrifice. "You are not
caballews?"

"I understand your
hesitancy," Pacheco said, smiling. But whether because of circumstances or
night shadows, the smile did nothing to reassure Jacob. "We have no
intention of trying to convert you this evening—merely in tending the girl
and your wounds."

Jacob flicked his eyes to armed men
walking along the defensive wall. "I worry nothing of conversion."

Gavriel hiked Ada on his shoulder, her
long hair trailing down his back. "We've had enough violence for one
night,
nino."

Boy.

Jacob rubbed his tongue along the roof
of his mouth. Once he had stood alongside Robin Hood and Will
Scarlet—those legendary heroes of England. They had worked to bring low
the villains who had imprisoned Ada and threatened the whole of
Nottinghamshire. Jacob was a clever and worthy fighter, respected by those who
knew him.

With that litany running through his
mind, he said, "I am called Jacob ben Asher, and I appreciate your
generosity."

A maze of corridors and a dozen
inquisitive faces later, Jacob sat bare-chested on the floor of a private room,
the austere space in keeping with the dictates of their order. Pacheco sat at
his side bearing a tray of clean linen strips and a bowl of runny, milky salve.

"I'm surprised you did not suffer
worse," he said, examining Jacob's wounds.

"Master, why tend this Jew?"
asked Fernan. The thin, sallow novice stood in the doorway to an adjoining
room. His frightened expression had been replaced with contempt.

"Although I disagree with his
faith, he saved Gavriel's life," Pacheco said. "He deserves medical
attention at the very least."

"Gracias"
Jacob
said quietly. He had known too many eager zealots who would have left him for
dead in an alley. The aging Jacobean's generosity eased his apprehension.

When the salve bit into the nasty slice
on his upper arm, he clamped his lips together. The other, deeper gash just
below his collarbone awaited treatment, but he would not give Fernan the
satisfaction of seeing him cringe.

The tall one, Gavriel, patted a strip
of cotton to the back of his own neck. Dark dots of blood colored the strip and
stained his draping white hood. Jacob looked to where Ada lay prostrate on a
simple cot and wondered how much of the man's flesh was embedded under her
fingernails.

"Now explain yourself,"
Gavriel said. "You took an unforgivable risk to your person, charging in
as you did."

"That is none of our business
" Pacheco said.

Jacob worked to keep pace with their
conversation, their words a jumble in his brain. Ada was better versed in the
Castilian language. No, she was a master. Truly gifted.

Gavriel loomed above where he and
Pacheco sat, appearing more formidable than pious. "Master, his actions
put us in danger. I for one would like to know why."

"Mind your tone, novice."

Gavriel dropped his gaze and muttered a
thick-voiced apology. He turned to the room's single window, hands clasped at
his back. The thick stained glass was nearly opaque, but light from the room's
two torches reflected patterns of color across his face.

Pacheco exhaled a weary sigh and
returned to Jacob's wounds. "This one at your collarbone may require
sutures. Do you have a physician who can attend you?"

"One of your own kind, no
doubt," said Fernan.

Jacob shook his head and ran an
unsteady hand through his hair. Sweat had dried, curling the ends to the
texture of straw. "Her Excellency's physician is Christian."

Pacheco raised an eyebrow.
"Who?"

"The Condesa de Valdedrona. I was
sent afield with her men and returned only this afternoon." He glanced at
Ada again, her skin pale like the brothers' robes. An impotent feeling of anger
and sadness settled in his stomach. "I searched the palace but Ada was
missing again."

"Missing?" Half of Gavriel's
face caught the torchlight, the other half hiding in night shadows. "She'd
been abducted?"

Jacob hissed as Pacheco probed the
wound at his collarbone. He could endure pain of the flesh, but the pain Ada
had caused burrowed deeper, proving far more destructive. Life in Castile had
aged him more than he cared to contemplate.

"No.
Creo que.
.." He
exhaled heavily, searching for the words. "I believe she was there by
choice."

Gavriel frowned. "Why?"

Meeting the man's fathomless eyes was a
challenge. Admitting the truth was almost impossible, a failure unlike any he
had known. "She has a taste for opium."

The three Jacobeans stilled. They
exchanged soundless looks until, inevitably, they turned to Ada. She always seemed
so peaceful when she slept, cradled by the drug—perhaps in compensation
for the terror of her waking life.

"And she was willing to sell
herself to slavery?" Gavriel's expression held none of the sympathy Jacob
would have hoped for from a man of God.

"Perhaps her debts are too
many." Months of unshed tears clotted in Jacob's throat He wanted to
sleep, sleep without burdens. This devotion did neither one of them any good.
"I could not leave her in that place, a terrible fete. She would never break
her promise, not when well. Her choices are not her own."

Pacheco tied the last of the dressings.
"And what is your connection to her?"

"We have both come from England
and serve Dona Valdedrona. I am... her friend."

"And more if you'd have your way
now?" Fernan asked. "But she wouldn't have you, would she?"