Scoundrel's Kiss (39 page)

Forever. Yes, she could stay in that
place forever. And she would have, no matter the cost

As the euphoria of their passion
receded, cooling, she shivered in the fading night. Not even Gavriel’s warm,
lean body and the shielding strength of his arms could protect her from the
morning. Grief scratched the inside of her eyelids. It settled across her naked
body like a shroud, one that knives could never cut or tear.

But if she had hours, mere minutes left
with him, she would not waste them on useless grief. The future was not fixed.
If Gavriel believed she was fierce enough to fight her way to freedom, she
would do it. She would survive, eager to wake in his arms for the remainder of
their days.

She rolled over and warmed the front of
her body along his. He smiled against her cheek, a beautiful smile that still
surprised her. Humbled her. But she felt the ridges along his back. He flinched
and his smile died.

"Let me see ," she said.

He did not move. His breathing
accelerated An echo of that familiar distance hardened his face, so near to
refusing her.

She petted up and down his back, like
easing a terrified child. "Please, Gavriel. Share this with me."

With a shuddering exhale, he rolled
onto his front and rested his head on crisscrossed forearms. In the slanting
moonlight, the scars on his back stood in exaggerated relief. Roads and valleys
of old, old injuries stretched beneath newly healing wounds. Sitting back on
her heels, she traced one diagonally from the cap of his shoulder to his hip.
Layers of pain. Years of hatred, from others and toward himself. The physical
proof of his past added scars to her own heart.

Can you forget this?

She continued to pet the furrowed skin.
His muscles bunched beneath her fingers—a man at war, not a man who had
just found satisfaction. But she kept touching, not knowing how else to reach
her wounded warrior. The smooth rhythm of her hands across his body soothed her
own nerves, and Gavriel's breathing evened, softened She moved to his
shoulders, arms, and the back of his neck. Her fingers pressed deeper, more
massaging than touching. Then she skittered a touch up, along his sides, the
lightest feather's caress.

He laughed

Ada held perfectly still. "Are you
well?"

She moved her hands again, along his
ribs. His shoulders quivered Laughter shook free as he flinched, protecting
himself from her touch. "Ada, stop!"

The startling sound, one she never
thought she would hear, echoed with the strength of a shout.

"Let me see your face," she
said

She leaned low over his body and turned
his face to the side, meeting his eyes. His tentative smile eased into deep,
masculine laughter. As she had wanted to that morning, when he had first offered
his smile there at court, she touched his face—his lower lip, then his
dimples and the rounded tops of his cheeks. Fire tingled against her
fingertips. His gaze never left hers, as dark and intimidating as ever, but
made more potent by the emotion swirling in his eyes.

"You aren't supposed to be
laughing," she whispered.

"Then don't tickle me."

Breath clogged her throat. Breath and
wanting. "Remember what I told you about small steps."

"I remember."

The temptation to continue beyond the
boundaries of those scars pulled at her. She slid her palms down his sides to
his hips. He groaned. Not from pain. He groaned like when he pushed into her,
the sound of a man in need of more.

Bolder how, she touched his firm,
rounded buttocks. He tensed and choked on some sound She grinned and straddled
his thighs, clenching hers to keep him still. The rumbling vibrations of his
welcoming laugher slid up the insides of her thighs. Although he could flip
her, pin her, take her with ease, he lay there and let her explore. The heady
strength of him coiled in waiting. She tightened her fingers into muscle,
deeper, deeper still. He hissed and exhaled a shaky breath.

Rubbing his backside, his thighs, she
felt the pulse of desire accelerating again, beating a familiar pattern of push
and retreat. She leaned into each stroke of her hands, putting more force into
the sensuous, massaging strokes. He groaned again. The deep and dangerous sound
settled low in her belly.

"Lift up," he said.

She raised on her knees, just slightly.
He turned beneath her with one fluid movement. Instead of looking at his
scarred back and his taut backside, she found herself staring at his face. Then
down to the breadth of his chest. Then to the rigid length of his manhood. Her
fingers hovered above the feast of his flesh, uncertain which of the bounty to
touch first He smelled of sweat and of her.

His smile flashed, that bright and
unexpected lightning. The very wonder of it stole her will to resist. How could
she? Why would she?

"Come to me,
inglesa."

"Did you still want me to cut your
hair?"

Ada roused from her near-sleep,
snuggled alongside Gavriel's body. Muscles she had never known protested as she
stretched.

"Yes," she said groggily.

Then, before she changed her mind, Ada
struggled free of his bewitching arms and retrieved the two largest clay
shards. The chill air nipped at her skin, but Gavriel stretched across the
tattered mattress like the promise of a roaring fire.

He raised his brows. "You won't
try to attack me with them again?"

She handed him the shards and knelt,
her back to him. "No. I'm trusting them to you."

Gavriel pushed to his knees and leaned
close, placing a kiss on her cheek. A tender kiss. The heat and scent of his
body enveloped her senses. "You're certain?"

"You said yourself, 'tis a
liability I cannot afford."

He used the wall to hone one of the
shards. The scrape of each stroke grated against her contentment, a violent
sound that brought terrible tidings of the day to follow. He flicked the pad of
his thumb against the sharpened edge and nodded.

Ada straightened her back and waited.
His hands cupped her face from chin to ear.

"Right there," he said.
"Where you catch the moonlight"

He gathered her hair, pulling each wisp
away from her face. Then he smoothed the long strands until she nearly closed
her eyes, drifting on the tender cadence of his touch.

"Still now," he said.

She set her shoulders and held her neck
firm as he began to cut. The clay blade sawed against her hair, rough and noisy
in the near darkness. Gavriel worked at his chore with steady patience. He
stopped twice to sharpen the edge, never speaking. Hunks of hair fell around
her hips, then shorter, tickling filaments, until nothing remained to be cut.

Gavriel sat back, still naked, his eyes
unreadable. She raised a hand to her head, which felt light and awkward.
Unencumbered. Long, glossy hair had been chopped to short, uneven locks around
her chin. She rubbed the back of her neck, itching. Roughened fingernails
scored her scalp as she scratched the short strands into a wild mess.

Although Gavriel offered a proud smile,
she ducked her head. "I must look ridiculous."

"Not at all," he said.
"Not for a warrior."

She exhaled. "Well, 'tis done.
Nothing that can't be undone if I survive the day."

"When.
When
you survive the
day"

"You believe I can do this?
Truly?"

"Truly," he said. "I
would not have marred your beauty for any cause less worthy."

She pulled at a short lock.
"Marred my beauty? I knew it must be bad."

"Come." He held out his hand,
that smile quirking at his lips. "Let me show you how little it matters to
me."

Although Ada slept, Gavriel could not
let go of the world. She lay beside him, her leg draped across his middle. His
tunic served as their only blanket, and she used his shoulder as a pillow. His
greedy body had claimed hers once again, bringing them both to that dizzying
point of exhausted completion, but he felt none of the peace he hoped to find.

Only dread.

He kissed the top of her head and
smiled there, her short hair tickling his lips. But the twinkle of amusement
faded. Although he was glad to have convinced her of the need to fight, now he
faced the consequences of the morning.

And if she was with child...

They were married, at least Their child
would not be raised a bastard. No matter what she eventually believed of his
decision, she would raise their child to be strong and well-loved.

That she might resent him so terribly
as to neglect the child pressed against his temples. Perhaps she would return
to opium. Perhaps she would find the reminder too painful to keep.

Behind closed lids, he pictured her
astride him. She had laughed when she took him inside her once again, shaking
her shorn head, enjoying the freedom of it. With every lift of her hips, she
had brought him closer to release. Then she had collapsed, trembling like him.

But memories of their coupling paled to
the thought of her hands moving over his back. She had explored those terrible
scars without fear or revulsion, easing the pain of his past For a breath or
two, he had felt released and revived. Ada helped him lower those defenses, and
he had done so when the reward was her love.

Now he would be stripped of the armor
forged by long years of pain and discipline. He would return to the masters of
his youth with no more resistance than a child could muster, a slave once
again. To do their bidding.

And he was terrified.

Eyes wide, he looked up to the narrow
window and saw the glimmer of fading moonlight. He found himself desperate
enough to ask for assistance. He begged for it, in truth, and approached the
idea of prayer with a soul uncluttered by Pacheco's warped demands. He
prayed—not for himself, but for Ada's safety. He prayed she would find
the strength to live well and raise a child with all the love she was capable
of providing, love that he might have shared.

But with his face upturned to the
night, he knew he could not trust his future to Joaquin de Silva. His father
had never kept a promise. Promises meant honor. De Silva had none.

He stared into the black as his mind
raced across the possibilities. This was a game, nothing more. He sat on one
side of the chessboard, his treacherous father on the other. Only when the dawn
began to cleanse the sky of darkness did he find the maneuvers that might set
them both free.

"Quickly now. Ada, quickly."

She snapped to wakefulness with the
rattle of keys down the corridor. Gavriel was already tugging her kirtle over
her head. She pushed clumsy male hands aside and finished dressing, gown to
boots.

"Wait," he said.

Gavriel knelt before her, taking the
clay shard in hand. She thought he was ready to fight back with that crude weapon.
But her giddy hope dried to dust. She did not want him to resist because the
guards would only kill him. No matter the bargain he had made to stay with her
through the night— and she knew he had made one, knew it without a
doubt—they would not hesitate to end his life. Even her warrior could not
stand before such poor odds.

She was ready to kick the shard from
his hands, but he touched the sharpened clay to the hem of her gown. He split
the fabric with two rough slashes, then tore away the bottom third of her
skirts. From her knees to the tops of her leather boots, her legs were bare.

"What are you doing?"

"You can run fester now." He
flashed his grin. "And the sight of your naked legs will distract any man
you face in combat"

"Certainly, like my hair."

The door flew opened and hit the wall
with a thick wooden thud. Six guards stood ready. Their leader held two sets of
manacles. "Ada of Keywood—"

"Keyworth, you dullard," she
mumbled in English.

"You are hereby ordered to
accompany us to where you will be tried by combat."

She glanced at Gavriel. His face had
turned to stone, having shared their goodbyes through the fleeting night of
loving. "And what of him?'

"His fate is not your concern.
You're coming with us."

"Answer me or I'll die right
here."

Gavriel seized her from behind and
offered her hands to the guard, who slapped on the manacles. Metal bit into her
wrists. Breath burned her throat in sharp gasps.

"My warrior," Gavriel said,
his voice deep and close. "Open your eyes."

She watched his expression change. The
guards would not have noticed. Perhaps no one else would. But Ada did.

She had come to dislike the shrewd mask
he wore when he was ready to finish a game of chess, his victory a certainty.
But on that morning, she welcomed it with all her soul.

The room righted itself. She breathed
through her nose, confronting each guard with unblinking coldness. The manacles
were heavy and sharp around her wrists, but she would not be bound when she
fought As for her husband, she had no notion of what he planned, but she
trusted him. No matter his past or Jacob's warnings, she trusted him
implicitly.