Scoundrel's Kiss (12 page)

But when he circled her in his arms, he
banished the despicable thought She bore the brunt of the torment. All he had
to do was get a ragged and defenseless woman safely through to morning.

"I'm trying, Ada," he whispered.

"I'm not as afraid of the dark,
not with you." She sniffed and wiped a few stray tears as her nightmare
receded and the sobs calmed. "You think I don't know what is happening
here—"

"Inglesa,
don't—"

"—but I do. No matter your
motives with the Order, you've stayed with me." The golden glow of the
lone oil wick caught the tears in her eyes. Gavriel saw no pretense or
manipulation, only the potent emotion of a humbled young woman. "For that,
I thank you."

"Does that mean you'll refrain
from taunting me?"

A weak smile turned up the corners of
her full lips. "Afraid of a little teasing?"

"Not at all."

"Good," she said, folding
into his body. "And you should be careful, Gavriel. That was nearly a
jest."

Ada awoke to find Gavriel sleeping. He
sat upright, legs outstretched, his back pressed against their small room's
only door. The oil lamp at his side burned low. His features were a study in
firm, strong edges: the rugged cut of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose,
and the black slash of his brows. But even sleep did not loosen the rigid line
of his lips, pulled taut, and the tension stretching across his broad, muscular
shoulders.

Did he dream, too? Did he know about
the cloying darkness?

Was that why she trusted him?

For no matter how much she resented his
high-minded interference, she had never been afraid of him. He was achingly,
frustratingly courteous. Had he been any baser sort of man, his body would have
betrayed him by now. She might have traded a quick romp for another dose, or
for her freedom.

The nausea that swirled in her. stomach
had naught to do with her keening need Mother Mary, she had become the lowest
sort of wretch. That she even contemplated such a thing...

What have I become?

She pulled upright on her narrow
pallet. The base of her head ached where she had fallen. The lump on her cheek
had receded but still throbbed if she spoke. On top of those injuries, every
part of her body ached—bruised and swollen and hurting from the inside
out Dizziness clouded her vision with a field of little white spots.

Although Ada expected him to stir at
any moment, Gavriel remained asleep. Deep circles beneath his eyes spoke of
their endless, sleepless nights confined together. A shiver of tenderness
toward the man, a thankfulness for his tenacity and grudging care, threatened
her with tears. Instead, she found a pitcher and used shaky hands devoid of
strength to carefully pour water into a fired clay mug. When greedy swallows
would not allay her thirst, she poured another and returned to her pallet.

With no notion of whether it was night
or day, and with her capacity for sleep momentarily depleted, she searched the
room—whether for entertainment or escape she could not say. She found her
satchel of soft, worn Cordovan leather. Only now, days later, did she even
think to rummage through and discover what Jacob had packed for her. Clothing
took up much of the space: two plain kittles, a deep green gown, and a black
woolen cloak.

Past the garments, she found her late
mother's tortoiseshell comb, one of the few possessions she had brought with
her from England. With time and patience, she used the small comb to work
through every snarl and tangle. The task did nothing to clean her hair, but at
least she could get the long, dark strands off her neck and into a half-hearted
plait.

Returning to the satchel, she dug into
its contents and caught her breath. The scrolls. The ones she had pilfered from
Daniel of Morley's possessions. Jacob must have simply grabbed her bag and
stowed it with a few sundry necessities. The fine vellum parchment could be
gently scraped of its ink, washed clean for another use. If she managed to
escape from Gavriel's care, she would have a means of bartering her way back to
Toledo.

She smiled. Maybe they would fetch
morabetins enough to buy another dose. Now that Gavriel had helped her endure
the worst of her sickness, she would know better how to moderate her craving.
This time, she would be able to control herself.

One kirtle swathed a small hard box.
She unwrapped the linen and found her chess set. Her heart pinched. Jacob.
Silly, foolish, thoughtful Jacob.

She opened the polished wooden case, no
bigger than the width of her knees pressed together, and pulled out one of the
carved waxed pieces.

"Ada, what do you have?"

She jerked. The box snapped shut
between her knees and fell to the floor. Gavriel was on his feet and across
their small room before she could slide the box out of sight.

His expression contorted with anger yet
blurred by sleep, he grabbed her wrist "Let me see!"

"'Tis a queen, from chess,"
she said, yanking free. "A chess set, Gavriel."

She opened her fingers to reveal the
small figurine. When Gavriel took it, she retrieved the fallen box and offered
it for his inspection.

"Chess?" His expression faded
into confusion as he touched one piece, then another. "I thought you
had—"

"You thought I hid opium in my
satchel?"

He nodded.

The scrolls might eventually buy her as
much, but Ada preferred to set that knowledge aside. Seeing Gavriel contrite
was a happy treat. She had to keep the scrolls away from him, lest he discover
their value and strip away her last means of freedom.

"I adore chess," she said.
"And behind this sham of playing at a holy man, I believe you have the mind
of a tactician."

"I'm no sham,
inglesa.
And
I have nothing so devious as a tactical mind."

"I've seen how you move, how you
watch." She opened the board and began to arrange the remaining pieces
along the tiny, checkered field of battle. "Men who live their entire
lives in cloisters and libraries and churches do not watch the horizon as you
do. They look only as far as the nearest bookshelf."

She stared at him, flaying the layers
of his skin, his muscles, his bones, until Gavriel felt exposed to his very soul—
if he had one. The feeling that she could see that deeply unnerved him. His
heart still hammered at having awakened to find her crouched low over some
mysterious possession. Thoughtless man, he should have checked her satchel. But
he had compromised so much of her privacy already.

"And those are the men you
know?" he asked. "Academics and theologians?"

The last he had seen of her, just
before he slept, she had been a witch made real, wild and disheveled. Now her
hair, woven into a makeshift plait, hung heavily across one shoulder. The deep
red dress made for a striking contrast to her pale skin. And her expression was
entirely lucid. Frighteningly so. Blue eyes the color of the sky at midday
continued to scrutinize him without shyness or fear, as if seeing him for the
first time.

"My father was an alchemist,"
she said, her voice steady and measured. "He learned from his great uncle,
Adelard of Bath, who had traveled to Toledo in his youth to study philosophy
and languages. What he learned here in the Peninsula was passed down to my
sister and me."

"Is that how you can speak Romance
so well?"

She waved a hand. "Romance is no
trouble. Portuguese, Catalan, Castilian—not much more than dialects of
Latin. Mozarabic, however..." She squished her features into an expression
of distaste. "That took a few months."

He frowned, wondering at the woman
sitting before him. "Months?"

"Daniel of Morley is an Englishman
who works as Dona Valdedrona's translator and resident scholar. He helped me
learn."

"How many languages do you
know?"

"I've lost count I was training to
take Daniel's place within Her Excellency's household." She paused,
shadows at work behind her eyes—an echo of the lost girl he had so
recently known. "Maybe. Maybe one day."

"Why hide it?"

"People find my education
intimidating," she said, setting her last piece into place on the
checkered board. He still held the one he had taken from her hands. "They
might not appreciate my understanding of a game of war. Fancy a round?"

Shame mingled with frustrated rage,
that old insufficiency, until red dotted his vision. He could not read, he
could not write, and he certainly could not play courtly games.

"I know not how," he said
tightly.

All guile lifted from her expression.
"Then I shall teach you. I'll be grateful for an occupation, now that I've
come free of my other... pursuits."

"Is that what you call it? Like
recreation?"

An invisible pressure bowed her
shoulders, the posture of defeat and submission. She closed her eyes and let
her chin drop to her chest "It was medicinal, initially."

"Your feet."

She blanched "I forgot you knew.
These few days—forgive me if I cannot remember much beyond disliking
you."

"Tell me."

He thought she would deny him. A
flicker of that reflexive defiance tightened around her mouth. Then she sighed.
'was detained for a minor crime. Because he thought I could fabricate emeralds
and gold, the sheriff tortured me."

Her voice caught.

Gavriel curled his fingers into fists.
"But why? What he asked of you is impossible."

"Not for my sister." A wan
smile tugged at her lips, and quiet pride shaded her words.

"Unabruja?"

"A witch? No. Merely an alchemist,
like my father was." All emotion disappeared. She narrated events as if
they inhabited someone else's past. "It was a case of mistaken identity,
I'm afraid. The sheriff enjoyed the sport of hurting me. Afterward, my feet
became putrid and I turned to opium to ease the pain. I've not had idle time
without it in... in more than a year."

"Has it been so long since your
life was different?"

"And let that be a lesson to me, I
suppose?"

Rubbing a hand over the back of his
skull, he concentrated on the spiky bristles of his cropped hair. "I said
no such thing."

Ada pushed the fat plait over her
shoulder and looked around the room. "How long have we been here?"

"Five days, in total," he
said, although that seemed paltry. A year would have done justice to the
fatigue he felt

"And how long will we stay?"

"Until you're well enough to
travel. Perhaps on the morrow."

She nodded to the board and its
opposing wooden armies. "Then let me teach you chess."

"I should not"

The days-long temptation of
Ada—knowing her, being with her—returned with more force than
before. She was no needful harlot, just another wounded soul. But smart, too.
Her intelligence made him all the more aware of his own barbarous upbringing.

"What's the harm, Gavriel?"
Her smile returned, revealing the dimple on her left cheek. "You've sworn
not to use your skill or your sword. Use your mind instead."

He wanted to argue, that old response.
No mind. No soul. Only a conscience so very aware of his deficiencies. But they
had ages until dawn, and he was suddenly curious. Anything to withstand another
handful of hours trapped with Ada and her clear, keen eyes.

The protests faded as he examined the
piece he held. "She is the queen?"

"Yes," she said, setting the
queen alongside her dark countrymen. "One of the least powerful pieces on
the board."

He raised his brows. "Least
powerful? Whoever invented this game had no notion of women."

"Perhaps that will change one
day," she said with a laugh. The light, carefree sound and that
frustrating little dimple had him thinking of far more than chess. Dark and
dangerous urges, willing him to be reckless. But he shut out the sound, the
thought, the temptation, and focused on where her finger pointed next.
"Now, this is the king..."

Ada chewed a fingernail as Gavriel
moved his rook. She had seen her fate coming for three moves, but he must have
been planning this final blow well before that.

"Check mate," he said.

"And you're being honest with
me?" She tipped over her king, resigning the round. "You've never
played before?"

The severity of his taut lips
softened—not a smile, but something akin to it. "Not once."

"I suspected you had a mind for
strategy, but this ... this is astonishing."

He seemed embarrassed, twirling one of
Ada's slaughtered pawns idly between his fingers. "A lucky beginning,
nothing more."

"Luck has naught to do with this.
I claim one victory, then you win five straight games."

"You're only upset I beat
you."

"Not a bit. I never stood a
chance."