Scoundrel's Kiss (8 page)

Latorre covered his mouth and nose and
peered closer. "Unwell? Is it catching?"

"No, we would not dream of
bringing a contagion into your midst," Pacheco said, his voice nearly bare
of politeness. "But we should like to get her settled."

Latorre turned his small black eyes to
Gavriel, assessing him as he would a horse for sale. "Has she a
chaperone?"

Pacheco colored red. Gavriel held Ada
as his shield against mounting frustrations. Fernan pressed his back to the
nearest wall, his eyes lifted to the high woodwork and painted plaster ceiling.
A smile graced his thin face, the first he had worn since the Almohad raid.

"No," said Pacheco with a
sigh. "She has no chaperone."

"On the road from Toledo, we were
attacked by those intent on kidnapping. Local shepherds aided them in setting
the trap." Gavriel shot his novice master a dark look, willing him to keep
quiet. "Her chaperone... well, you understand."

"I see. Pardon my
disrespect." Latorre cleared his throat. "But you are a novice, are
you not? Where are your robes?"

Arms aching, he glared at the squat
man. "I believe I mentioned we were attacked. If you should like to see
the injury on my arm, I'll be glad to offer proof."

The majordomo paled but did not put his
fussy manners aside. "All for the sake of propriety, I assure you. I shall
have our personal physic see to her, just to be certain."

"She needs no doctor, only
rest," Gavriel said.

Ada moaned. Latorre skittered back.
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," he said.

"Tis not my place to forgive
you."

Pacheco stepped between them, a look of
warning on his aged face. "We appreciate your kindness. Please, send for
your doctor and have your people show us to our rooms."

Latorre bowed and departed through a
nearby archway, his gaggle of attendants close behind. Pacheco said under his
breath, "You lied to him."

"No. I said, we were attacked. He
made his own assumptions."

"This isn't right, Gavriel."

Fernan, always climbing out of the
shadows when the confrontation had passed, stepped away from the wall.
"Let him say what he will, Master. Tis that or sleep in the stables. I
prefer a pallet to hay myself, but I cannot speak for everyone. What say you,
Gavriel?"

"I say you talk too much."

Pacheco held up a hand to silence them
both. "Latorre is right to wonder where she will sleep. None of us can
stay with her."

Gavriel knelt and gently stretched Ada
along the polished marble floor. His arms shook from the exertion. But his
trembling was nothing to hers.

"She. is a danger to
herself," Gavriel said. "Would you rather have her sick, on her own?
Or have her recover before dawn and try to escape again?"

"What would you suggest?"
Pacheco asked.

"Perhaps this physician might
recommend a woman who can stay with her."

Pacheco nodded and exhaled.
"Good."

Rolling his shoulders, Gavriel caught
sight of the bloody gash on his forearm. It burned with a slow and persistent
ache. "What did you expect, Master? That I would stay with her
myself?"

Fernan grinned. "I was about to
offer my services, actually. I'm a renowned nursemaid."

"Cavorting with nursemaids doesn't
qualify you as one," Gavriel said.

"You know nothing of the mystic
arts of healing."

Pacheco looked heavenward and mumbled
quick prayer. "I'm going to find whatever slothful attendant is to show us
to our rooms."

He turned and strode along the wide
corridor. Fernan knelt next to Ada, his face momentarily composed and somber.
"She's in a terrible way. Can you do this, man?"

Ada thrashed once and moaned again. She
needed cool water and a soft place to rest, not delays and intrusive questions.
Gavriel looked at Fernan, almost wishing for the return of his wretched sense
of humor. At least that would be normal. And he desperately craved normal.

"I must, Fernan. This is my
duty."

God help me.

Chapter 6

Fernan Garza stretched on his pallet.
The sight of those bloody and limp corpses on the roadside danced in his brain,
no matter how many times he rubbed his eyes. He should have fainted.

Pacheco, however, seemed untroubled by
the surprising bout of violence. The novice master smoothed his robes, checking
here and there, picking lint from one sleeve before sitting on his pallet No
concern marred his wrinkled skin and neutral expression. Fernan continued to
watch his easy demeanor, all the while staunching the need to vomit again.

"Sleep now, Fernan. All will be
well come morning."

Fernan thought maybe, perhaps, on some
deep level, he should take offense that a man of advanced years such as Pacheco
would feel the need to coddle him. But no, the offense never came. Being
coddled was far preferable to the time-honored notions of strength,
nobility—or God forbid— making one's own way.

And besides, Pacheco knew his secrets.
No sense in resisting.

Sinking into the stiff straw of his
pallet, Fernan glanced one more time at the door. "Master, you cannot
truly expect Gavriel to look after that woman."

"And why not?"

"The trial is unjust. Cruel,
even."

Deeply damaged and unpredictable, the
Englishwoman possessed the face of an angel and the body of the most sumptuous
harlot. The idea of spending time in her company without taking advantage of
those rare female attributes was too severe to contemplate—even for
Fernan, who had one beautiful, compelling reason to confine his desire to bawdy
jests.

"She's quite a woman,
Master," he said. "Even you must see that. I cannot think any of our
lot could gird himself against one such as her."

Pacheco leveled cold black eyes, eyes
that made for an eerie contrast with his curtailed silver hair. "Nor do I
expect Gavriel to."

"You—?" Fernan lost
track of his customary glibness, at a loss for words. Uncomfortably so.
Ignoring the trickle of sweat along his spine, he tried not to cower. "You
want him to fail? It would be a waste of my breath to ask why, I suppose?"

"Quite."

He grinned. "But Master, why not
give her to me? If failure is imminent, I would enjoy the fall far more than
Gavriel."

"We both know that's a lie,"
Pacheco said, rising from his pallet. "I want you to keep your mouth shut
No, let me correct that: Prattle on as you always do. No one listens to your
nonsense."

"Surely, and of course."

"But I expect discretion." He
took Fernan’s chin in one hand, twisting slightly, pulling his gaze up.
"All you have to do is consider the alternative."

Fernan tried to smile again, anything
to crawl from under Pacheco's condemning stare, but the smile he managed felt
warped and melted.

Pacheco finally let him loose. He
turned to a squat table and poured a mug of wine. While the novice master drank
deeply, Fernan rubbed the bruised skin along his jaw.

"Gavriel is a grim sod, but I pity
him."

"Do not," Pacheco said.
"He's bound for greater purposes."

"You speak in puzzles, for
certain. What would the Grand Master think if he heard you say such
things?"

Pacheco's eyes narrowed. Every breath
flared his nostrils like an angered bull. Aging hands that bore no calluses,
only pale blue lines beneath leathery skin, clenched into fists. Fernan had
thought the man incapable of committing the same violence they had witnessed on
the roadside, but he altered that opinion.

"Remember your tongue and where
your loyalties lie," Pacheco said, his voice unyielding. "Not with
the Order. Not with the Grand Master. "With me. I determine your future.
That is, unless you'd rather I reveal to your father the" location of your
Moorish bastard."

Najih. His son.

"Ah," Fernan said unsteadily,
bringing shaky fingers to his throat. "I'm hearing threats. At least, I
believe them to be threats. Alas, I am as dumb a fool as ever you saw."

Pacheco grinned, a predator toying with
its next meal. "And I have never expected more from you."

Gavriel laid Ada on a fresh pallet, her
room across a corridor from the one Pacheco and Fernan shared. He dropped
then-satchels. Compared to the modest accommodations of the Jacobean house in
Toledo, this room was sumptuous and smelled of sweet straw, incense, and herbs
dusted among the floor rushes. Dark murals adorned the smooth plaster walls; it
was a cool and private retreat illuminated by a pair of oil lamps.

His burden discharged, Gavriel should
have turned and walked away. Weariness and his inner turmoil demanded rest. But
he could not leave, not until she was cared for.

Ada's shivering would not abate.
Looking around the room, he found a thick sheepskin throw. He draped the heavy
mantle over her and knelt to touch her forehead. Cold skin, still, but slicked
with foul sweat A most abnormal fever.

He set about attending the wound at the
base of her skull. Her scalp bled considerably, binding the hairs at her nape
in a sticky mass, but the cut was shallow and no longer than one of his
fingernails. He washed the area with cool water and a strip of linen until he
was satisfied the bleeding had stopped.

She gasped. Pale lids opened wide to
reveal panicked blue eyes, her pupils shrunken to tiny points. Her hands
flailed wildly as she struggled to sit up. "No! Don't cut me again!"

Gavriel dropped the cloth and held her
wrists. The sudden gentleness he found within himself came as a surprise. She
was sick and lost—and he could understand being lost

"Inglesa. Inglesa,
settle
yourself."

She fought him, albeit with less
strength. "You'll let him cut me. Don't! I haven't done anything
wrong!"

"Ada," he said, her name
feeling heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue. "Calm yourself. I'm here to
offer aid."

Her struggles eased, those blue eyes
still wide and shimmering with tears. "You won't let him?"

"Let him what? Who? Who cut
you?" He glanced around the room. "See, no one else is here. Do you
remember who I am?"

She sank into the pallet, overcome by
ceaseless tremors, but she studied his face with something akin to her
previous, sharp-minded thinking. She was in there, whoever she was. And she was
suffering.

"You are Gavriel."

The words rattled past her chattering
teeth, a surprise. But more surprising was his reaction to hearing his name
from the disturbed woman. A warmth like anticipation spread across his chest.
Whether he awaited danger or pleasure he could not know.

"Yes," he said.

"Gavriel, my captor." Her
unfocused eyes veered to the ceiling. "My feet ache. Will you remove my
boots?"

He rubbed his eyes, clinging to his
dwindling patience.

"Need a moment to pray?" She
stretched on the pallet, arms above her head. "Although I can't imagine
why you might ask for divine intervention. They're only boots. And you're only
offering aid."

"You enjoy baiting me. Why?"

"A man who sets himself apart as
purer than anyone else is asking to be brought low."

He stood, jaw aching. "You intend
to bring me low?"

"If I must. All I want is to be
free of here and to make my own choices."

"So you can choose more opium?
That's not freedom."

"You righteous—"

"Stop." He stalked to the end
of the pallet and began to unlace her boots. "I'll feel more inclined to
help if you cease the name-calling."

"I've said I don't want your
help."

He opened his hands. Her foot dropped
to the bed. "Then take off your own boots."

Ada raised her upper lip in a snarl and
threw back the mantle. She swung her feet to the floor, hiked her skirts to the
knee, and knelt over the complicated leather laces. Her fingers grasped and
fumbled, too impaired to unravel the mystery of those knots. She yanked hard,
whimpering. The shaking increased until she could hardly stay seated on the
edge of the pallet Her foul cry split the air.

Gavriel knelt and caught her shoulders,
steadying her. He said nothing, only met her eyes and slowly shook his head.
She looked away, a silent acquiescence. He lifted her foot to rest on his
thighs, making short work of the puzzle that had thwarted her so completely. He
urged her to lie back, her feet bare. Only when he went to replace the sheepskin
mantle over her lower body did he notice the long, matching scars on her soles.

A vice pinched his chest. She flinched
when he traced one silvery scar, heel to toe. He needed to swallow twice before
finding his voice, an unsteady one at that.
"Inglesa,
what happened
to your feet?"