Scoundrel's Kiss (2 page)

He pushed open the heavy door, and the
brothel inside confirmed his darkest fears.

"Well, well" said Fernan,
peering over his shoulder. "Perhaps this is my sort of destination after
all."

Illuminated by meager torchlight, a
score of women in varied states of undress lounged on pillows and sloping
chairs. Men lingered with the harlots, ducking beneath low, irregularly spaced
beams. The shadowed mess of garish colors contrasted with the dark streets
outside, but finery and incense could not mask the underlying stink of unwashed
bodies and sex.

At the far end of the wide, windowless
room, a man stooped on a raised platform. An olive-skinned girl wearing only a
kirtle stood at his side. The man spoke in a clipped mash of
languages—Castilian and Mozarabic, the vernacular of the
underworld—and espoused the girl's virtues. She had no family, no
disease, no debts. Neither did she have her virginity, the man disclosed, but
patrons lined the platform anyway, gold and morabetins in hand. Eyes closed,
the girl swayed on the verge of collapse.

Merciful Lord. An auction.

Six brawny guards surrounded Gavriel
and his companions, an offensive maneuver for close-quarter combat. He watched
for weaknesses but found none in their formation. With the exit at his back, he
felt confident in his ability to make a hasty escape—except for Fernan
pressing close and whimpering.

The largest of the six men drew a
lustrous, engraved sword of Berber origin, barring their entrance. "What
business have you here, Jacobeans?"

The blade glinted beneath the
torchlight. What Gavriel would have given to grip that sword. But his hands
were empty and his vows heavy. He was an aspirant to a sacred order, an
obstinate fact that had been much easier to remember while secluded in Ucles.
Before any manner of belligerence, he was defenseless.

Pacheco pushed forward and addressed
the lead guard. "Salamo Fayat is expecting us."

The words were a key to unlock the
human gauntlet. Five of the armed men dispersed, blending with the shadows,
tapestries, and patrons. The lead man sheathed his sword and offered Pacheco a
curt bow. "This way, honored guests."

Gavriel exchanged a quizzical glance
with his fellow novice. Fernan smiled and said, "This is a greeting more
befitting the Order, don't you agree?"

"At a brothel?"

"Pacheco has influence enough, and
the Order has gold enough, to ensure everyone finds a happier afterlife. No
wonder they welcome him."

"I am curious," Gavriel said
with a heavy sigh. "Why would the owners of such a place want their
clientele redeemed?"

"What would it matter to them?
Sinners are easy to come by. Tomorrow there will be just as many eager to gain
entrance." Fernan grinned, his pale skin shining with sweat and oil and
his eyes wide to the room's delights. "Oh, that I could be one."

Weaving a narrow and careful path
between the harlots and their patrons, edging nearer the auction platform,
Gavriel followed the burly guard. He wished he had kept his hood in place, for
he felt curious eyes walking over his face, his neck and hair, while his own
curiosity swelled like a gorging tick. Waiting. Waiting for Pacheco's decree.
The brothel's ominous temptations and his worries about the upcoming test
crushed against his breastbone. The air vibrated with currents of lust and
greed, the laughter of the damned.

"Stay near the platform,"
Pacheco said before slipping into the crowd.

Gavriel lost sight of the slender man's
silver hair near a rear alcove. Minutes passed, leaving him no choice but to
confront the auction proceedings. The girl in the linen kirtle had been
replaced by a young Moorish boy with skin like oiled wood, dark and smooth. He
wore wrapped breeches and a neck manacle, his skittish eyes the size of eggs. A
handful of murmured bids later and the boy was sold.

The hands Gavriel clasped at his back
tensed and released, almost of their own accord. He stilled the anxious rhythm
and fought a quick surge of nausea. Sweat slid between his shoulder blades,
pressed on all sides by the heat of torches and bodies and wild memories. The
urge to flee was nearly as strong as the urge to fight.

"You are to choose one,"
Pacheco said upon his return. "Each of you."

Gavriel turned to him. Questions stuck
in his mouth. But Fernan found no difficulty bridging the silence. "I have
dearly missed the luxury of personal slaves since leaving my parents' estate.
Very thoughtful, Master"

"This is your trial, Fernan, just
as you are mine." Pacheco's black eyes narrowed and swiveled between his
aspirants. "These souls are in desperate need of redemption. You will work
with one to provide spiritual guidance. Turn them toward the Church. Help
redeem them of their wicked ways and you will pass your final test."

A year spent within the confines of the
Order and living by its doctrines had taught Gavriel not to disagree with
Pacheco's commands. His word determined if and when men passed their
novitiates, the period of penance and trials before being accepted into the
brotherhood.

But how Gavriel wanted to disagree.

The lines on either side of Pacheco's
mouth deepened into trenches. "You fear this challenge, Gavriel.
Why?"

Because I am not ready.

For once, he wished Fernan would
intervene with some inane drivel, but the man was busy assessing the next slave
standing at auction. Gavriel exhaled through his nose and forced tense muscles
to relax. He toughened his lies until they became the truth.

"I have no fear, Master."

"Then choose one," Pacheco
said quietly. "It's quite intimidating, I know, to look upon a sea of
depraved faces and know that you can give such a gift to only one. How do you
choose?"

Fernan rocked back on his heels, that
idiot grin stretching his lips. "I, for one, will choose some terrible
good-for-nothing. No sense busting my hopes on a near miss."

Pacheco scowled. "You will regard
this challenge with great sincerity, or you will not be returning to
Ucles."

"And how is this a threat?"

"Your father has indicated that
you are no longer welcome at your family estate. As of last week, the retreat
at Ucles is your one and only home. Treat it with the respect it
deserves."

Fernan's features drained of their
scant color. He used a wide sleeve to mop the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
"Well, then, that changes my standards considerably." He turned
toward the bulk of the room and addressed its seedy occupants. "Are there
any virgins here? Virgins with an inclination toward study and prayer? And
perhaps rudimentary husbandry skills?"

Gavriel tugged on Fernan's arm.
"Stop it, you fool."

"This isn't working. Should I try
speaking in Mozarabic?"

"You should try behaving as if you
wear the Cross of St. James," Pacheco said with unmistakable menace.

"Master," Gavriel said.
"What if the one I choose does not wish to accompany us?"

"This is a slave auction. What
choice will they have?"

"You intend that the Order will
own them?"

"Of course," Pacheco said
with a shrug. "Gavriel, you of all people should know this is no ordinary
brothel. Make your selection and let us have done with this place. Now that our
business in Toledo is concluded, we will return to Ucles tomorrow."

Fernan nodded toward another Moor on
the platform. "I'll take him then. One's as useless as another."

Pacheco placed the appropriate bids and
purchased the slave. The stooping auctioneer led his most recent sale down the
steps. Fernan looked the young man up and down, his expression twisted in a
distasteful sneer. "I wonder if he even speaks Castilian."

"You could ask him," Pacheco
said.

"Oh, the hassle this will
be."

A woman with fair skin followed the
auctioneer to the center of the platform—a woman to stop the breath in
Gavriel's lungs. The muddied sounds of the brothel faded. Fashionably dressed
in a deep blue linen gown decorated with fine embroidery, she surveyed the
crowd of buyers with a placid look. No fear tainted her shadowed eyes. No
tension contorted the muscles of her body. No bitterness ruined the smile on
her mouth. For all the world; she embodied the peace Gavriel had yet to find,
this woman on the verge of bondage.

She rolled her eyes shut and licked her
lips, head falling back. Unbound hair the same red-brown of ripened dates
stretched to the shapely curve of her waist. Gavriel imagined digging his hands
into those silky strands, bending her body to his, tasting her white flesh.
Mouth dry, he choked on the image of transforming her look of peace into one of
desire. Desire for him.

A quick glance revealed that animal
hunger mirrored across dozens of faces. Fernan bathed her with a look of abject
lust "Can I change my mind?" he asked.

The muscles in Gavriel's arms and torso
tensed. The nameless woman inspired more thoughts of sin than he had suffered
in a month. Lust Envy. Wrath. He closed his eyes, breathless, but dark
imaginings would not leave him be. Squeezing his fists until he thought his
fingers would break, he prayed for strength—strength enough to hold his
temper until she was gone, until temptation passed.

A loud commotion of shouts and drawn
swords clamored from the entrance. Heads turned. The same six guards materialized
out of the shadows, barring entrance to a young man with black, curling hair.
Patrons around the auction platform backed away from the disorder, cramming
bodies against bodies. One man elbowed Gavriel in the stomach. A woman
screamed.

And so did the man at the door.

"Ada!"

Chapter 2

The intruder, nothing more than a
half-grown boy, dodged swinging swords—jumping first, then rolling clear.
He scrambled between two guards and slipped like a fish from their grasp.
Spinning once, he drew a pair of exotic, curved blades from their sheaths.
Metal met metal as he defended against another guard, a man twice as wide and
twice as slow. The boy caught his opponent's sword between the curved blades
and twisted, sending the much heavier weapon to the ground.

Gavriel watched the display with
curiosity, admiration, and envy. Saints save him, mostly envy. He had not seen
fighting skills of such refinement and natural grace in years, not since he
last held a weapon. Young and agile and calculating, the intruder fairly danced
through his attackers, disarming them when possible, incapacitating them as a
last resort.

Well, that was one difference. Gavriel
had never hesitated to kill.

The brothel's patrons bunched and
shrank like sheep in a pen. Women screamed and covered their exposed bodies;
only now, with the threat of violence, did they find their modesty. The
musicians tucked close to the rear alcove continued to play, oblivious to the
threat, or perhaps accustomed to a steady diet of violence and nightly disruptions.

"This way," Pacheco said,
grabbing Fernan's slave by the arm. "Toward the alcove. There's a back
door."

Hood in place, mouth agape but
blessedly silent, Fernan followed their master's urging. Tugging his slave's
arm, he turned toward the task of navigating a safe escape. But Gavriel did not
move.

Another handful of guards emerged from
secret places. Roused from sleep or maybe from a harlot's bed, one had
forgotten his tunic but not his sword. Another strapping man picked up a piece
of wood from a broken table and used it as an impromptu shield. The boy was
outnumbered, and for what? Why? The slave girl?

Gavriel found the woman rooted to the
same spot on the platform. The boy's desperate shout, the rolling waves of
violence and fear—none of it had changed her placid expression. She idly
reached a hand to the low beam ceiling, the stretch pulling her fitted bodice
taut over her breasts. A private smile turned the corners of her lips as she
teased loose a bit of crumbling plaster.

"Gavriel, we must leave. This is
my command." Pacheco's thundercloud expression left no room for argument,
but Gavriel offered one anyway.

"That boy stands eight to
one."

"Do not think of going to his
aid." Pacheco squinted, reddening with anger. "Now do as you're told,
novice."

Gavriel retrieved a fallen sword and
stood ready to aid the boy, to defy his master. He tightened his fingers around
the hilt and sank into a relaxed stance. The heft and weight of the weapon was
a homecoming, more familiar than the billowing robes he wore. But the contrast
gave him pause, that place where the white linen at his wrists draped over
gleaming steel.

"You have responsibilities,"
Pacheco said, his voice devoid of the previous flash of anger. Cold now.
Threatening. "You made a vow—not to me, but to God."

Yes. One of three. He would abstain
from violence.

The second vow, obedience, pressed down
on the backs of his hands. The sword grew twice as heavy, then heavier still,
until it dropped from numb fingers. The muffled clang of metal against the swept
earth floor rattled into his bones.