Scoundrel's Kiss (27 page)

"It does." She rubbed her
hands along her forearms. "La Senora offered endless observations about
the kinds of men in the world. She said that one is the kind you trust
immediately, while another is the sort who should never be trusted. Fernan may
be the latter."

Forcing a smile, she tried to keep from
needing to justify herself to this confused Englishwoman. But Blanca felt like
a simpleton, a mere girl from the country. To have traveled so far from home...
one had to be strong for such an adventure. Or very, very scared.

"I've lived my entire life in a
small town," she said. "But in working with La Senora, I learned a
great deal—especially with regard to men."

Ada offered a skittish laugh. "You
comprehend more than I do, I fear. I used to know how to talk to men, to gauge
their moods and personalities..."

Her exotic voice trailed off, eyes
distant and fogged.

Blanca touched her arm. "When
you've lost yourself, it's difficult to know how to find others."

Ada's face opened into a wide smile.
"You are far too wise. Well if not Fernan, then who?"

"Someone kind, funny, handsome, I
suppose. Someone who could respect me. After how I was treated in Yepes, I fear
being able to find anyone who will look beyond that." Blanca tipped her
head closer, knowing she treaded a path too near to prying. "And you? You
and Gavriel?"

A quick look of panic crossed Ada's
face, but then her shoulders hunched a little. Blanca had heard the two of them
together by the river—quiet words followed by quiet sounds she knew to be
private and intimate. Sleep had not found her again. She had lain awake, her
heart sick with wanting a companion of her own.

Believing Ada had found such a love,
her envy of the beautiful woman nearly eclipsed her strange admiration. But
since their arrival to the monastery, the two lovers had worked tirelessly to
avoid one another.

No, Blanca had rid herself of envy days
before. On top of the endless nightmares, the cost of Ada's fascinations seemed
far too high.

"My apologies," Blanca said.
"He is a difficult one, another kind of man altogether. Whether to love
him or to hate him— who can tell? But he's certainly not for me because
he has no sense of humor."

Ada laughed quietly. "At times I
wonder if his face will break if he smiles."

“You'll do fine, then. If you can laugh
at a man, he does not dictate your thoughts."

"I'm glad you're here, Blanca. You
remind me of my sister, and I'm reminded of how much I miss her. Without you, I
should not know what to do with myself, given the choice between solitude and
Gavriel."

"That would depend on his
mood."

With a heavy knock at the chamber door,
Ada gasped and put her bandaged hand to her throat

"Inglesa?
May
I speak with you?"

Ada's face drained of its scant color,
and then her cheeks burned a dark pink. "Shall I open the door and
discover his mood?" she asked.

"Only if I can. hide beneath my
cot," Blanca said.

"Coward."

"The battle is not mine."

Gavriel pounded again, the heavy door
shivering. "Ada? Are you in there?"

"As to his mood, he sounds
glowering," Blanca said.

"Inhospitable, at the least"

No, Blanca thought. His voice exactly
matched Ada's face—resigned, wary, and unbearably sad.

Gavriel did not merely stand in the
doorway; he dominated that space. She had not seen him up close since the night
in the weapons hall, and her greedy eyes absorbed the sight. White robes covered
him from neck to ankle, but her body responded to the powerful man beneath. She
had gripped his taut backside, her mouth on his sex. She had kneaded the
muscled caps of his broad shoulders and felt the firm weight of him move
sinuously, then more urgently above her.

How could he hide among men half his
stature and authority? How did he expect to belong hi such a place, following
orders and ignoring the most elemental facets of himself? And how could he
stand there as if their tryst by the river had never occurred?

For that matter, how could she?

She looked again, searching deeper.
Restlessness overlaid his strength and distance. His face was a grim picture of
fatigue, his cheeks hollow. His lips were chapped. Did statues grow weary? No,
only human men—men like Gavriel beset by demons as vicious and
unrelenting as her own.

The waking memory of her nightmares
slid across her vision. A dungeon cell and fiery pain. Loneliness. Terror. And
over the slivers of her past, these new dreams layered regret and desire—
regret for having abandoned her sister and treating Jacob so badly, and desire
for a little peace. Be that opium or Gavriel she no longer cared. They both
brought her as much misery as pleasure. Doing without either was slowly driving
her mad.

"Gavriel," she said, erasing
wariness from her voice. "I'd not expected to see you today, as you've
been doing your best to avoid me."

She wanted to slap him, make him hurt
and cry out. At the very least, she wanted proof that her words reached him.
His potent impact on her life had proven humbling, her every thought turning to
him. And so quickly.

"May I speak with you, Ada?"

"We've said quite enough."

Gavriel eased into the sleeping
chamber, his broad shoulders making the space feel cramped and overly warm.
"I want to tell you," he said quietly. "Everything."

Her mind and her body froze. He was
offering... what exactly? And was she brave enough to hear it?

She flexed the fingers of her good
hand. "You expect my curiosity to get the better of me?"

"Please,
inglesa"

Ada had mustered little patience for
her sister's experiments.

She had assisted out of obligation but
also because, on occasion, Meg revealed marvelous things—unexpected
beauty and wrath, all pulled from the natural world, manipulated and made
extraordinary. The subtle shift of Gavriel's expression reminded her of those
moments of wonder.

As much as she steeled herself against
his plea, she remembered the moment she had begged of him, cornered by the
archbishop’s physician and his tools made for bleeding. What weighed so heavily
on Gavriel that he, too, felt the need to beg?

She nodded once and moved to accompany
him into the corridor.

"No, please stay," Blanca
said. After retrieving her cloak, she flipped the hood over her knotted black
hair and made for the door. "I believe I shall make that trip into town
this morning."

Ada stared into the girl's impenetrable
black eyes, finding only caring, sympathy, and a pinch of curiosity—the
sentiments of a friend. An unlikely friend in that unlikely place. She breathed
a little more calmly when she squeezed Blanca's hand.

"Be careful."

Blanca tossed a cautioning look toward
Gavriel. "And yourself."

With Blanca gone, the stillness between
them was like mud drying on skin, prickly and irritating. Ada retrieved a
headdress she had borrowed from a canoness and affixed it over her hair. His
eyes followed her every move. Yes, the statue was gone, but the man who took
its place could harm her a hundred times over.

She swept her gaze over the room.
"Where can we talk? I assume the Order does not allow unmarried men and
women to have conversations in private chambers."

"No," he said on an exhale.
"The weapons hall remains empty. Sunshine lures everyone out of
doors."

"Well good. We'll hold swords and
talk. If you aren't honest with me, I reserve the right to be your
executioner."

He blinked and turned on his heel. Ada
made a face at his retreating back, cursing his severity. One smile. Not so
much to ask.

She followed him through the endless
corridors of stone and slivers of light, the Castilian spring sunshine weaving
its way into every corner. Men in robes passed them in silence, heads bowed,
while a group of women in the courtyard knelt among the foliage to tend the new
growth. Their quiet chatter offered a semblance of normalcy to the endless
quiet Ada had grown up thinking the forest a lonely and isolated place, but the
solemnity of the monastery—for her, an outsider—seemed even worse.
How would it feel to be among so many people, all of whom worked toward common
goals and held common beliefs?

As soon as Gavriel closed the door to
the weapons hall, Ada stepped clear of his heat and his scent. She pinned him
with her eyes, merely waiting. No sense in making this easier for him, whatever
he felt compelled to say.

"I wish to tell you about my
past," he said. "I should, for no other reason than you must
understand how important this is—that I stay here."

"Why must I understand?"

He flicked his dark gaze over her body.
Heat rippled beneath her skin, deep in her bones and in soft, aching places.
"I want you," he said. "But I cannot have you. This is why, and
why you must understand. You... you can help me."

"You're asking that I help deny
you? Deny us both?" She laughed, a ragged sound. "Do you remember who
I am? I have a mean history of damaging myself."

He pressed a fist to his mouth, eyes
never leaving hers. "You must, must."

Ada threw up her hands and sought
solace in the ceiling. Only cold stones. "Say what you will, Gavriel I'll
not interrupt, nor will I tempt you unreasonably. Have done with it, just as we
both want done with this confinement of mine."

Chapter 21

"I was born to a Berber
woman," he said simply. "My father is Lord Joaquin de Silva, a
nobleman from Leon. He brought her from Mora, here in Castile."

Ada nodded. Wide blue eyes traced the
lines of his face. Yes, she would see the Berber influence on every plane, in
the tint of his skin.

"I know Mora," she said
quietly. "Southwest of here. Another Castilian outpost town."

"The town had been newly taken from
the Moors when I was born. According to
local flierus,.
a father has a
great deal of power over a child's future when there is no marriage."

Marriage.
His
brain spat the word again and again. There had been no marriage. Only slavery.
And after what Gavriel had witnessed of his father’s behavior, she had been
forced Repeatedly. For the pure pleasure of controlling another person, utterly
and completely.

Past and present fighting a pitched
battle behind his sternum, he opened his eyes to escape the visions he had
conjured. He focused on Ada—Ada, who was beautiful and who was listening.
How he wished she had not bound her hair beneath that plain headdress, but it
was best she had. Taking her head between his hands, threading fingers into
those thick , tresses, kissing her. So natural and easy.   

He cleared his throat. "A father
can have his illegitimate son baptized to become his heir. As long as there was
no adultery, the child is natural. That is, unless the mother was a
slave."

"And then the child is a slave as
well," she said, her eyes widening. She reached for him like a mother
reaching out to steady a babe's first steps—quick, protective, without
thought. But she jerked her fingers back and tucked them within the folds of
her gown. "What did they do?"     

Gavriel wanted none of her forgiveness,
for such a luxury would weaken his tenuous resolve. He turned away and traced
the blade of a sword with his gaze, over and around the honed edges. "He
raised me without an education. I knew nothing but weapons, horses, and
fighting rings. I breathed and ate warfare, a feral child with no language
beyond violence.

"A year later, de Silva married
and had a son named Sancho. He was groomed to be the rightful heir, but our
father pitted us against each other, to make him strong and to remind me of my
place. Then when I was fourteen, I killed Sancho."

"Your brother?"   
                     
                     
           

"My opponent."   
                     
                     
           

Ada recoiled, eyes wide and wary. He
forced his body to relax even though his mind was awash in vile memories. She
did not deserve the anger he reserved for only his father and himself.

"We were practicing the
joust," he said, more calmly now. "He was my opponent. That was all.
My father ensured that I knew nothing else, all the better to make me a
killer:"

She nodded, looking lost. But how could
she understand that life and death struggle? Every morning, every night, he was
the enemy of Sancho de Silva. The weakling heir of a nobleman against the
illegitimate half-Berber slave who had neither the wits nor words to defend
himself. Sancho's taunts
 
and
humiliating jests had defined their childhood. When Gavriel had known naught
but violence and the thrill of success in the training arena, Sancho taught him
shame. Only when they took to the practice ring did Gavriel find victory over
his nemesis.