Scoundrel's Kiss (41 page)

"You didn't bring them to His
Majesty today. Why not?"

He exhaled and fingered the hilt to one
of his curving blades, noting that she had not asked him to remove his weapons.
She should not be so trusting, even in the company of a man who would die
defending her.

"The de Silva family has returned
from exile under the protection of King Ferdinand," he said. "They
conspire with the Leonese and the Almohads, intent on conquering Castile and
sharing its spoils."

Her pale honey eyes widened, but she
quickly masked her shock. A consummate aristocrat. "These scrolls
implicate the Leonese? Do they dare—?"

"Listen to me!" Her flinch
would have stopped him, but the safety of too many lives depended on his being
understood. "You were disobeyed. Did you know that? The judge who was to
release Ada sentenced her, instead, to trial by combat. He did not allow her a
second. She fights for her life in the trial arena. And you—" He
drew one of his blades and brandished it in the bright sunlight. "And you
did not demand I remove my weapons."

She backed away in haste. Drops of wine
sprinkled onto the heavy woolen rug. "You would do me harm?"

Despite her obvious fear, her voice
remained steady. Jacob sheathed his blade and held out his hands, empty, palms
up. "Of course not, milady, but you're too trusting."

"Perhaps."

From behind her back, she drew forth a
dagger just as long as her hand. Their eyes held for a moment.

He grinned and nodded in approval.
"The de Silva family has returned to the Peninsula. They assume
hostilities will resume—"

"—at the conclusion of the
truce. Just in time for a summer campaign." She tucked the blade into a
sheath hidden somewhere in the many pleats of pale blue silk. "What of His
Majesty? Do you fear for his life?"

He hesitated, every answer jamming in
his throat like water behind a dam.

"No reason to hide your thoughts,
Jacob," she said, her words a mixture of steel and softness. Few men would
have been able to resist her quiet authority. Jacob had no desire to.
"You've had access to the scrolls and all of the intelligence. Please, I
ask your opinion."

"Milady, I believe the de Silvas
have positioned an assassin here in Toledo."

"Do you know his identity?"

He swallowed. "I do."

"Then I'll ask my personal cadre
to accompany you. Secure the traitors, and feel free to dispatch my men to free
Ada."
If she yet lives. Please, God.

Ada stared at the latched doors.
Outside the chamber where she stood in wait, the crowd bellowed its approval.
Wild applause followed. Three men had walked out those doors. Three men had not
returned. Each time one fell, the arena erupted into that same gleeful riot of
noise.

Her wrists remained bound by manacles,
the chains draping heavily to just above her knees. In her right hand she held
the short sword she had selected from among the armaments available to the
condemned. She was not officially condemned, not like those men who hanged for
their crimes. She merely stood on the cusp of providing a fair amount of
spectacle to a bloodthirsty crowd, all in the name of justice.

But there was no justice if her debts
and broken contracts meant death.

She exhaled, eyes closed. If she
intended to survive the next hour, she would need every resource and all of her
wits. Clear and focused. Other thoughts would only get her killed.

Flanked by two guards wearing helmets
and quilted armor, the bailiff approached. He did not wield an ax or tie
nooses, but he would open those doors and send her out to do battle, one on
one, with a trained warrior.

"Ada of Keyworth," he said,
reading from a scant piece of parchment. "For the crimes of debt and
negation of contracts perpetrated against citizens of the Prelate of Toledo,
Kingdom of Castile, you have been ordered to endure a trial by combat Best your
opponent and you will be released Do you acknowledge these charges?"

"I acknowledge I've been judged by
a corrupt minister of these courts."

She could not help herself. The truth
was simply too gruesome. She felt the absurd need to confront her captor with
it, as if her tale might open a mind long closed to the pleas of the guilty.
Having read from the parchment, he had at least a little education.

Lord, let him be a thinking man.

But the bailiff merely blinked.
"If you are innocent, this trial will prove as much."

She gripped the hilt of the dull sword.
Although the metal was relatively light, her forearm already ached. Waiting.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked, her eyes direct

The man glanced behind her and around
the cell. "Where's your second?"

"I have none."

He blinked again, but this time his
brows drew together in a frown, one that seemed to surprise him too. "You
have no second?"

"I was not permitted one,"
she said "The judge banned my husband from standing in my stead. Did you
think I came here by choice or sheer pigheadedness?"

"But you're a woman."

"I am." Ada smiled, a little
saddened by the man's confusion, desperate enough to use it against him.
"You're sending a woman into the trial arena. I hope you'll be able to
sleep tonight"

Whatever fleeting moment of doubt she
saw on his face vanished. He nodded to the guard on his left who used a key to
unlock the manacles. The bailiff turned and opened the doors.

Her time had come.

Every morsel of food she had forced
herself to eat that morning splattered onto the grimy, blackened floor of the
chamber. Half-kneeling, she fought the endless waves as they stole her courage.
But she never let go of her sword. It was part of her now.

Looking up to the doors opened wide,
she watched how the bailiff negligently turned his back. His posture said she
was no threat to him. Her fate had already been decided. Ada drew nourishment
from her indignation. She was not done yet. And no captor should ever turn his
back to his prisoner, especially when she held a sword.

Once she had thought to kill Hamid
al-Balansi. To kill for opium—the plan seemed, in hindsight, too terrible
and wretched to contemplate, and that old need flooded her with shame. But could
she kill an innocent man to save her own life, as she had threatened Paco?

Before Ada could steal her nerve, the
bailiff returned and knelt beside her. He gripped her forearms and pulled her
upright, his mourn close to her ear. "Rumor has it he's blind in one
eye," he whispered. "I don't know which, or even if it's true."

Soaking up the words, she set aside
thoughts of taking the bailiff's life. He had offered the only help he could.
Now the responsibility was hers.

Luckily, she knew a thing or two about
blind opponents.

Gavriel wondered if it was possible to
go mad by bearing witness to the unimaginable. As Ada stepped into the dazzling
spring sunshine, he put his palm to his forehead, half expecting to feel his
mind give way beneath the bone. His life, the one he wanted to share with Ada,
was poised on the verge of destruction, and he would die before allowing that
to happen.

Hundreds lined the arena's four sides,
armed with quick judgments and insults. De Silva stood silent and tall beside
him, his eyes riveted to Ada, just like the other fifty people perched on that
high observation platform. A tiny smile curled the corners of his mouth. He
snapped his fingers.

Four hands like vices seized Gavriel's
upper arms. De Silva family guards, including the false shepherd who had been
following them for weeks, held him fast. The man grinned, his ruined eye like a
blight across his face. Soon Gavriel was bound by ropes at the wrists and
ankles. He struggled, pulling against each new restraint As his knees hit the wooden
platform, he was forced to kneel. De Silva's fingers wrapped around his skull
and wrenched his eyes forward. Gavriel could not look away.

"Are you watching, Gavriel? This
should be quite a display."

The crowd cheered the arrival of Ada's
opponent Bloodied from his previous three victories, he wore battered armor and
a dull steel helmet with a full visor. His curved sword was Arab in origin,
possibly brought from the Holy Land.

And Ada, a scholar and a woman, was
supposed to defend herself against such a man?

The awaiting warrior caught sight of
her by the open doors and strode forth to initiate their duel. She waited, her
agile little sword balanced easily in both hands, feet planted.

Even as his mind shouted for her to
run, he waited until the men pinning him against the wooden platform relented,
just a bit, their attention shifting to the arena. He shoved his shoulder hard
to the right, toppling the nearest guard. Ankles and wrists bound, Gavriel
could only use the bulk of his body as a weapon. He ground his elbow into the
fallen man's sternum, then jumped away from two more guards who mustered
against his aggression.

Before he could stand, he kicked both
feet up and connected with the hand of a man bearing down on him. The sword
flew free and into the crowd, well out of reach. He rolled to his feet, all
grace gone, and shoved into the guard's gut, pushing him hard against the
platform's railing. Wood cracked. Gavriel's thighs ached with the tension of
pushing, pushing against his enemy, fighting to keep his own balance. One slip
and he would plummet into the crowd below.

A second sentry attacked, sword raised,
but Gavriel shuffled aside. When the sword sliced downward, it found the metal
of the shepherd's armor. The clang of iron preceded another splitting crack as
the wood gave way. Momentum propelled both men through the barrier and down,
landing atop the bloodthirsty spectators below.

Ada would live. She had to. All he
could do was fight, hoping she kept running until he could reach her.

Gavriel spun away from the arena and
right into his father's fist His nose exploded in pain. His head snapped back,
blood rushing into his throat.

Instinct pushed to the fore. More
quickly than he would have thought possible, he recovered from the punch and
bowed his body into a crescent to avoid de Silva's sword. He somersaulted
forward.

"Gavriel!"

Blanca?

And there she was, shoving closer with
Fernan at her side. Armed with more steel than sense, they frightened onlookers
with random swings of their weapons.

"I would've liked to finish what I
started there in the baths," she said about the fallen shepherd. "But
your way will do, Gavriel."

With Fernan's sword momentarily holding
de Silva at bay, Blanca used Ada's dagger to slice the binding ropes. Gavriel
was free. He snatched the sword from Fernan and jumped past his unlikely aides,
catching his father's blade with his own. Fury propelled his movements and
infused them with more speed, more strength.

De Silva caught every blow with expert
precision. He backed away from Gavriel's assault with measured steps, the crowd
fleeing from their duel. Hot red anger on his face admitted no defeat and
offered no quarter. His tunic ripped at the armpit as he struck out and sliced
Gavriel's left arm..

Gavriel skirted backward, hunched over,
his sword lowered and one hand clutching his wound. Blood oozed through his
fingers. His knees shook. An agonizing fire sapped the dexterity from his
muscles, but he, too, refused to yield. Death had no power to frighten him, not
when he had already seen the worst of all scenarios: Ada fighting for her life.

She needed him.

Slippery fingers interlacing with dry
ones, he gripped the hilt and attacked anew. De Silva continued to accept each
jolting strike of metal on metal with an expression perched between amusement
and fury. Gavriel was a nuisance, a broken slave, a barrier to be stepped over
on his way to power. But that barrier still had a weapon and a reason to fight.

Renewed power surged through his body.
The sword he held became lighter and more agile. He moved with longer strides,
pushing de Silva back, back still. His throbbing wound faded into the back of
his mind, like Fernan and Blanca fending off the soldiers or the continued
shouts of the crowd. He could only hope they shouted for Ada.

One last furious strike and de Silva
lost his balance and fell backward, clinging to the broken handrail. Gavriel
twirled his sword for a better grip and raised it for a killing blow. Easy.
This was easy, the pain and rage finding a home, like the tip of a sword
imbedding in flesh.

But he hesitated. All he vowed had been
to keep from exacting revenge on this man. His father. His master. He had
learned strange lessons in the. monastery, the foremost of which was that he
could no longer kill as blithely as he once had.

When forged steel finally met flesh, de
Silva's right hand and the sword it held dropped to crowd below. His savage
howl sailed over the noise of the crowd. He clasped the ruined limb to his
chest as the howls collapsed into sobs.

Another scream climbed Gavriel's
scarred back.
Ada!