Scoundrel's Kiss (5 page)

Resentment boiled in his body, every
piece of him rebelling against the task Pacheco had assigned. He would have to
live with the burden or risk being cast back into the world where his need for
revenge would reign unchecked. The Order stood between Gavriel and doing
murder.

His vows had been much easier to keep
at Ucles. Except
she
would be there too, bringing with her all of the
temptations life had to offer.

No. The drowned rat of a woman was just
short of a harlot, no matter her fine clothes and patrons. Scrubbed of the
opiate, her blue eyes held none of the intoxicating peace he had envied. It had
been a lie. She was a woman torn by vice, and the spell she had woven around
him at the brothel was thankfully broken.

He inhaled deeply. He would obey his
master and do right by Ada—no matter her reluctance—and take his
place as a Jacobean.

With Fernan marginally in control of
his mount and Ada momentarily accepting her confinement, the small party
resumed its journey. The plateau stretched east ahead of them, bleached of
every color except parched brown earth and pale green wheat and scrub grass.

How different from where Gavriel was
raised in Marqueda, a small city in Leon, the kingdom just west of Castile.
Temperate and green, Marqueda supported lush vineyards and citrus and olive
orchards. Sitting high on his mount, dwarfed by an endless sky and flat land,
he felt exposed, restless.

He topped a slight rise and gazed on
the shallow valley below. In the far distance, a caravan of merchants plodded
eastward. Men on horseback flanked three ponderous wagons, their drivers and
horses. Sunlight twinkled off weapons and helmets. A flock of sheep milled in
front of the lead horses, spanning the road and ambling toward the Tagus River
Just to the north. The calls of the wagon masters echoed dully over the
grasslands. The lead wagon driver and one of the shepherds exchanged angry
gestures, their body language conveying more than Gavriel could hear of their
exchange.

Fernan nickered to his skittish mount
Gavriel shot him a dark look. "What?" the other man asked. "This
horse is the terror!"

Pacheco rode alongside him. "What
goes?"

"Seems harmless enough,"
Gavriel said. "There, the armed men are helping to push through the sheep.
Watch the woman while I ride ahead. I wouldn't put it past her to—"

'To try and make an escape?" She
had climbed out of the cart and stood just to the rear of the horses, smiling
like an angel. The rough leather satchel she wore looked at home draped across
her spoiled garments. She shook her head, sending shivers through unkempt hair.
"What would give you that notion?"

He tugged the reins and swiveled his mount
to face her. "Get back in the cart."

"No. What are you called?"

"Gavriel de Marqueda. Now back in
that cart before I drag you there myself."

"We might enjoy that." Full
lips curled into a wider smile. She spoke flawless Castilian, but her unusual
accent fashioned familiar words anew.

She eased nearer with the grace of a
cat He leaned over on the horse, bringing his face to hers. "You'd say
that to any man who has what you want," he said.

"Si."

"You forget, I'm not a man,"
he whispered. "I'm a servant of God."

"And my captor."

He nodded. "For now."

"And for my own good, I
suppose?"

'To be certain."

She looked to his groin. Her parted
lips invited every sin he could imagine, and no amount of prayer or penance
could blunt the vividness of his imagination. "For my own good or for
yours?" she asked.

Fernan slid off his mount at the top of
the rise, but he had eyes for only Ada and Gavriel. "No one told me there
would be merrymaking on this expedition."

"Keep quiet, Fernan, and take the
donkey's leads," said Pacheco. "We must circle this impasse if we're
to make Yepes by nightfall."

"Or we could be attacked by
bandits." Fernan pointed behind them. His idiot grin dissolved.
"Those ones, perhaps."

Gavriel jerked around. Nine roughly
armored men rode light chargers from the southwest. Their flanking position was
loose and undisciplined but retained the hallmarks of their military style.
Almohad raiders. Thieves bent on finding human fodder to exchange for ransom.

To her credit, Ada did not flinch or
scream. She propelled herself onto Fernan's horse. Yanking the reins, she
swiveled it around with an expert hand, belying Fernan's claim that the animal
had been the source of his trouble.

"We cannot outrun them,"
Pacheco said. "Nor can we fight them."

"No, but
they
can—the
guards who ride with the caravan." Gavriel hoisted Fernan up to share his
saddle. He circled and wedged a bar across the wheels of the cart to keep it
still. "Last chance to behave yourself,
inglesa.
Or should I waste
time tying you to your horse?"

He could have saved his breath, for she
held a jeweled dagger in her hands. A determined expression hardened her
features.

"I'd have cut you if you
tried." She looked him up and down with an appreciation only a corpse
would miss. "And that would've been a shame."

Her bottom still smarted from when
Gavriel had shoved her into the cart, but Ada rode hard into the shallow
valley. Spring winds became a torrent at that speed, flinging her hair and
skirts behind her like an army banner. Her colors. She squinted against the
full, bright glare of the sun on the pale grasses. The mass of wagons and sheep
became clear, closer.

Gavriel's horse ran alongside hers.
Fernan clung to the taller man, his eyes pinched shut Gavriel urged the animal
to a faster pace, hunched low, a warrior’s steady resolve on his face.

Ada squeezed her thighs to propel her
horse over a shallow ditch, landing with an easy thud. Already the men of the
caravan had circled a trio of wagons in preparation for the bandits' onslaught
Six armed guards took position and brandished long blades of steel. She sucked
in a mouthful of fear and scorching air, aiming for the safety of those drawn
swords.

Panicked sheep bleated and scattered.
Gavriel pulled his animal to a stop, dust tinting the wind a sandy brown.
"Almohad raiders," he said. "Fast approaching."

"How many?" asked a guard
with a jagged scar down his cheek.

"Nine."

"We are clergy of the Order of
Santiago," Pacheco said. "May we depend upon your protection?"

"You'd be better to take up a spare
sword and help defend," the scarred man said.

Ada wiped sweat from her forehead and
looked to the south. The bandits closed in like a deadly swarm. "Give me a
sword." She must have looked determined enough—or wild enough—
because the guard reached for a second blade at his hip.

"Don't be absurd," Gavriel
said. He dumped Fernan on the packed road and grabbed the huge sword from the
bald man. "Take him and the girl to safety."

She tightened damp palms on the reins.
"I'm not getting off his horse."

"That dagger of yours will do
nothing to protect you."

"True. I would've had a sword, but
someone just kept it from me."

He glared at her, temper fraying behind
his eyes. "I can't save a woman intent on meeting her death. Find her
something lighter. Smaller."

A squat merchant wearing a white cap
hurried from the nearest wagon and handed her a short sword, its blade
gleaming. Ada smiled.

"Dios
keep
you safe," Gavriel muttered, brandishing his own weapon.

"Gavriel, you cannot,"
Pacheco said. "Put that away!"

"As a last resort, Master. I swear
it."

Ada flashed her eyes between them.
"How do you mean, 'as a last resort'? You're a
caballero,
surely!"

"I've taken a vow to abstain from
violence."

She looked him up and down. From the
width of his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw to the tall, assured way he
sat a horse, he cut the very figure of a man meant for warfare. "You
jest."

Gavriel did not answer. He turned his
mount and ran a quick circle around the wagons, proving right Ada's initial
assessment: he could ride without use of the reins. His robes bunched at his
waist and furled in his wake, revealing muscled legs wrapped in close-fitting
breeches. Every flex and move of his thighs directed the animal, leaving hands
free to hold the massive sword and direct the guards.

"You there, close that gap.
They'll try to pin us against the river. Steady!"

She stared in amazement. The guards
listened, as did their scarred and hardened leader.

The raiders closed in on the merchant
caravan. Tunics dyed to match the browns of La Mancha covered them from head to
mid-calf, hoods draping down over close-fitting metal helmets. Some wore
quilted armor over their tunics, and full beards covered most of their
sun-darkened faces. Their horses trailed the colors of the rainbow from trim,
functional saddles. And weapons. So many weapons. The hilts of short knives
glittered at waist scabbards. Cavalry axes and swords were drawn and ready.

A heavy pulse clogged Ada's ears. No
one in Castile was ignorant of renegade horsemen who lived on the frontier;
kidnapping was their sole occupation. They valued Christian women of good
breeding, especially, because of the reliable ransoms paid for their safe
return. But parties to negotiate ransoms with the outlaws could take months to
organize. With Jacob and the condesa in Segovia, no one would realize Ada's
absence. She would be a prisoner again. No rescue in sight.

But the sword, the dagger, even the
bodies of these men— all would protect her. She would not be taken. She
would not be held.

The pounding of the horses' hooves
rolled like thunder, ever closer. The raiders attacked with the ferocity of
seasoned combatants, their war cries splitting the searing midday air. Fanning
out across the plain of battle, the cadre cut down stray sheep and hacked toward
the wagons. Steel danced in the sunlight and connected with shields in a thick,
irregular cadence. The guards held their ground. Horses screamed. Hooves kicked
the sky as their riders dueled.

Master Pacheco huddled with Fernan in
one of the wagons. Ada dismounted and tied the reins to a lateral wagon slat.
She edged closer to the holy men. Her thighs trembled from wild streaks of
fear. A raider sped toward her, blocking her path.

She dropped to her knees and rolled
beneath the wagon. Metal cracked above her head and shavings of wood rained
down.

Crouched behind the spokes of
waist-high wheel, halfway between her horse and the Jacobeans huddling one
wagon over, she looked up. A pair of shepherds snuck behind the lone rear guard
and pounced, dragging him from his horse. Dark blood sprayed from the guard's
neck. His body jerked to sudden stillness.

Ada fought a gorge of rising bile. She
had been determined before—
she would not be taken
—but that
determination splintered, broken by fear. She had not seen a man killed since
she had taken the Sheriff of Nottingham's life. Old memories mingled with that
nightmare scene, stealing the strength in her hands. She looked down and saw
the sword, gripped tight in her palm, but she could no longer feel her fingers.

She searched the noisy, furious scene
for a tall man in white robes. Gavriel circled his horse, waiting, not
attacking, his face a twisted mask of conflicted emotions. He held to his vow,
yes, but the effort was written like words across his pinched lips and narrowed
eyes.

"Gavriel!"

He whipped his head toward her and
raised his sword.

She peaked Out from beneath the wagons.
"The shepherds! It's a trap!"

Chapter 4

The vicious brawl faded, slowed, as
Gavriel watched an Almohad raider pull Ada from beneath the wagon.

His arm beneath hers, clamped around
her chest, the bandit dragged her onto his horse and stripped her of the short
sword. She thrashed and kicked, but he held fast until she sat on his lap. His
free hand wove into her long tangles and yanked back, baring her neck. He
pressed a knife there, the horse's dancing steps shifting the blade, tempting
disaster.

Gavriel jerked hard on the reins and
turned his mount toward the fray. Everywhere guards fought bandits, thrusting
and shouting desperate orders to one another. He wove through the confusion,
past the laden wagons and the cowering, ashen-faced merchants. His eyes never
left the knife at Ada's throat.

That is, until another glint of metal
sliced across his view.

Her flailing hands had not been searching
for balance but for her jeweled dagger. She knocked her head back, connecting
with the raider's nose just as she jammed the dagger into his thigh. The man
shrieked. She used the moment when his hands went slack to snake free.

She jumped without grace to the ground,
rolling in a tangle of skirts, rolling again, getting clear. Gavriel lifted his
sword. Once, he would have decapitated the man. He would have enjoyed watching
the villain drop, headless and bloody— a threat dispatched.