Scoundrel's Kiss (31 page)

She rinsed her mouth with clean water
from his washstand and sat heavily, watching that flogger as she would a snake.
Gavriel remained by the door, his arms crossed and his body swathed in white.

"I'm glad you came to me."

She laughed sharply. "I do not
seek your counsel, not after last night. I came to find out why you beat
Fernan."

He blinked. Nothing more. She sat on
her hands, sat on the desire to beat him until he felt something, anything. But
the image of his scarred, ruined back changed her mind. She only wanted him to
admit to the pain and fear she knew lurked inside.

"His face," she said clearly.
"I saw him at the noontide meal. Someone thrashed him. I can only imagine
what the rest of him looks like."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I know
nothing about it."

"God hears you when you lie."

"Yes." He stepped away from
the door and sat on the floor in front of the cot. Head bowed slightly, he
seemed to be watching the toes of her boots. "And He saw me when I beat a
man this morning."

"He didn't deserve it,
Gavriel."

His head jerked up and his dark eyes
snapped, that veneer of serenity stripped away. "We came here to retreat
from the temptations of the world. He brought that poison and gave it to you
purposefully. For that, he deserved the punishment I meted. And more."

Chapter 24

Ada's shock and confusion were
palpable, and Gavriel could not hide from her scrutiny. His gut still churned
at the memory of bloodying Fernan’s face, beating a man who had submitted to
his blows even before they began. Yet a more ancient instinct had found satisfaction—a
satisfaction that extended even beyond protecting Ada. That beast had been
freed, the one he found within himself in times of battle, the one that had
been dragged into existence at the hands of his father.

Two
caballeros
had been needed
to pull him clear of Fernan's limp body.

"Does the
Trecenezago
know
what you've done?" she asked.

"No, but Pacheco does." His
head throbbed, unsure whether he was more disgusted with himself for relishing
his violence against Fernan or for handing their novice master control over his
life, his very soul. And now representatives from the
Thecenezago
—the
Council of Thirteen that governed Jacobean life—would punish him.
"Grand Master Rodriquez is absent, touring the Order's territorial
holdings. My sentence will be decided when he returns."

Blue eyes opened wide. "What will
happen to you?"

"Beating another member of the
Order, even for novices, is an appalling crime. Punishment will last for six
months, during which I'll have my cross taken," he said, glancing at the glare
of red on the left side of his chest. "I'll take my meals on the floor,
and endure floggings and solitude if I do not comply."

The soft lines of her mouth tightened.
She shook her head, dark curls shaking loose from a hasty arrangement of
plaits. "You'll be mad at its end."

Slavery had been the mark of his
childhood, but he would no longer submit. Pacheco did not work alone; that much
seemed obvious. His plots involved Gavriel but likely at the behest of a higher
hand. Bleak forces worked against him, and he would not meekly bow his head and
leave Ada alone.

He would be forced to choose between
protecting Ada and obeying the tenets of the Order. Again. Only now that the
Order suddenly seemed an unholy place filled with untrustworthy masters and
spying eyes, his choice would be a simple one.

But he refused to decide until he knew
where her addiction would take them.

She picked at the hem of one sleeve,
the fine embroidery beginning to fray beneath her ragged fingernails. "Why
did you do it?"

"He hurt you."

Her eyes glistened. "I brought
this on myself."

"Fernan set back all our
progress," he said, his voice barely more than a growl. "I showed him
that such actions are not without penalty."

"I've made no progress,
Gavriel."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with
you."

Ada's head jerked up, her expression
wounded "You agree?"

"I do."

He stood from the floor and massaged
the small of his back. The sharp snap of pain beneath his fingers, his
lacerations throbbing, made him stop. Over the past year, that echo of pain as
the cuts healed assured him of his spiritual improvement. He was conquering the
beasts and expunging the blackness from his soul. Now that he doubted Pacheco's
cruel advice, the reminder only amplified his anger and strengthened his
resolve to unravel the man's motives.

He removed a small leather pouch from
beneath his pillow, its contents surprisingly light for all the damage they
wrought "And because we've made no progress, I brought something for
you."

Gavriel sat on the cot, his bent knee
barely brushing the softness of Ada's upper thigh. They both glanced at that
spot, a small moment of connection, and then at one another. What would she
read in his eyes? Did she see the shift that had taken place in him? Or just
the anger—no longer directed at her, the source of his temptation, but at
the wickedness and the vice that worked to keep them apart. His own included.

Without explanation or ceremony, he
dumped the contents of the small leather sack on the bed. Four poppy pods
tumbled onto his coarse woolen blanket.

Ada's gasp filled the room. Eyes wide,
she scrambled away as if burned by fire. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged and lifted one of the
poppies, the location of which Fernan had disclosed. Pacheco had given him six,
enough to have stolen Ada for days rather than hours. That Fernan had only
offered a third of his supply had kept Gavriel from doing him permanent harm.

Just.

"Can't you see? I've decided you
are a hopeless case, Ada. Denying you is even harder than keeping my own vows,
and we both know how wretched I've been at that."

He drew the washing stand near to the
cot and retrieved a flask and the mortar he had taken from her room. Layers of
resin coated the head of the hardened clay pestle, making it sticky. Using the
washing stand as a table, he mashed the green pod to release its milky juices
and added a splash of wine. He strained the liquid to another bowl and repeated
the process until all four poppies had released their devilish essence.

"That's how to do it,
si?"
He waved a hand over his offering where it waited on the stand. "I
must apologize for the wine. It's new and bitter, and I'm at a loss as to what
spices you prefer."

Ada had backed against the wall, as far
from the opium as she could manage without leaving the bed. Face pale, eyes
wild, she looked just as he had found her in the hallway— alight with
struggle and fear and the knowledge that what she wanted would be the end of her.

"This isn't fair," she
whispered, licking her lips once, again, until they began to redden. "You
know I... you know I can't..."

"Face this? Look temptation in the
face and say no?" He leaned across the space between them and touched her
cheek. "Because you will not be well until you can do that on your
own."

She slapped his hand, a stinging crack
like the whip across his back. "Is that what you're doing with me? Keeping
temptation within reach for weeks so you can practice and say no and say no
again? It's not fair to me. This game of yours— I don't want anything to
do with it."

"I've never played games," he
said, throat raw. "But let me assure you, the rules I live by are changing
"

Her eyes burned hot and angry. Anything
but the numbness. Anything but the vacancy he had once mistaken for peace.
"How opportune for you," she said. "Now you think to have me
join you in falling?"

He nodded to the bowl. "Take it,
inglesa."

"What do you want for it?"

"I said it was a gift."

Doubt spread over her face. Doubt and
desperation. "Fernan said the same to me, and you made his face a plate of
meat as thanks. You've fought me like a cat in a bag, trying to keep me from
it. Why this change?"

"I don't require anything of
you," he said. "But I do have a condition."

She exhaled. Her shoulders sagged.
"I knew it."

"For every swallow you take, I
shall take three."

Trembling fingers covered her open
mouth. She seemed incapable of stopping the rocking rhythm of her body, her
eyes never leaving his. That crazed stare clung to him. "Are you mad? You
must be! Haven't you seen? Haven't you seen what I've been through? And you
would bring that on yourself?"

"I've seen what you've endured,
yes." He edged nearer. One of her plaits had fallen loose, and he stroked
the ragged ends of her dark chestnut hair. "But I've also seen your joy.
Why shouldn't I have a taste?"

"You're scheming."

He wished he could deny her accusation,
but in truth, the tincture called to him. How easy would it be to succumb, as
she did, to the release that drug offered? No more pain and bitter memories. No
more conscience to war with his impulses. No more obstacles in his search for
peace.

Gavriel lifted the bowl and inhaled its
sickly sweetness. "Take a sip. Let's find out."

"No!"

She jumped off the cot. The skirts of
her gown caught beneath her boots. With a curse, she fought free of the
entangling fabric. Standing with her back pressed against the door, she pushed
frantic breaths in and out of her open mouth. Her hysterical eyes never touched
the bowl in his hands.

"Do what you will, but I'll not be
party to it"

He brought the burgundy tincture to his
lips and smiled. "More for me."

* * *

"Gavriel, no!"

Ada bridged the span between them with
one leap. She swatted the bowl from his hands and watched with grim
satisfaction as the tincture spilled over the washstand, dripping to the floor.
The earthenware bowl cracked into half a dozen chunks against the wall.

She stood silent before him, breathing
fast, neither of them moving. No matter how her body yearned for the
debilitating bliss of that sweet poison, she could not allow him to become like
her. Yes, she had known moments of sweetness, but so too had she known mindless
craving and the deepest despair. In her mind, she knew the release was not
worth the pain. She knew she would endure any deprivation to keep Gavriel from
suffering what she did.

So the tincture gathered in sticky
burgundy pools around the wooden feet of the washing stand. It coated the
floor, not her tongue. But for all her craving, she felt no regret. Only a
profound sense of triumph.

Her gaze covered Gavriel's angular,
unreadable face in search of his mood. Had he been bluffing? Had he really
intended to drink the poison? Would he be angered or relieved at her actions?

He arose from the bed and stepped over
the sticky mess. She smelled what remained of the concoction and her mouth
watered, but then he stood near, very near. The spicy male scent of him mingled
with the opium, overtaking her completely. She wanted him—whole and safe
and hers. Whether she was simply replacing one craving for another hardly
mattered when he loomed near enough to touch, to kiss.

"Say something," she
whispered.

The warm tingle of his fingers along
the side of her neck covered her in shivers. His eyes darkened to the purest
black, his pupils and irises bottomless. "I'm proud of you,
mi
inglesa."

She inhaled and closed her eyes,
hoarding the sound of his deep voice, his praise, and that familiar
endearment— possessive now. Every fiber of her body yearned for
satisfaction. With the opium tincture spilled across the floor, he remained as
her pleasure of choice.

"What do I do?" she asked,
feeling hollow and limp.

He slid her into an embrace. Their
bodies touched, thigh to chest. "I've been telling you what to do since we
met"

His voluntary closeness and droll
teasing set her off balance. All she knew was that he held her. He had saved
her yet again. "Yes, you have."

"Now it's your turn to give the
orders."

An unexpected smile lifted one corner
of her mouth. Warm, wet heat pooled in her stomach. What would it be to have
this man at her command?

"Is that an order?"

The darkness in his eyes turned to
pleading. "A request," he said. "For I'm as lost as you. No matter
what I've insisted or denied, I am lost."

Expecting him to retreat with every
passing breath, she gingerly slid a hand around his ribs, to his spine, down
the length of his muscled back. Where smooth flesh should be, he had only scars
and pain.

But he did not retreat. His eyes slid
closed and his head angled back, just a little, as if savoring the feel of her
hands on him, her body pressed to his. Impossible. Even when they had lain
together by the river, he had never succumbed, never enjoyed her touch—not
entirely. The barrier of his vows had stood between them. Even with the deed
done and his promise of chastity a broken one, he had resisted.