Scoundrel's Kiss by Carrie Lofty

thought She bore the brunt of the torment. All he had
to do was get a ragged and defenseless woman safely through to morning.
    "I'm trying, Ada," he whispered.
    "I'm not as afraid of the dark,
not with you." She sniffed and wiped a few stray tears as her nightmare
receded and the sobs calmed. "You think I don't know what is happening
here—"
    "Inglesa, don't—"
    "—but I do. No matter your
motives with the Order, you've stayed with me." The golden glow of the
lone oil wick caught the tears in her eyes. Gavriel saw no pretense or
manipulation, only the potent emotion of a humbled young woman. "For that,
I thank you."
    "Does that mean you'll refrain
from taunting me?"
    A weak smile turned up the corners of
her full lips. "Afraid of a little teasing?"
    "Not at all."
    "Good," she said, folding
into his body. "And you should be careful, Gavriel. That was nearly a
jest."
    Ada awoke to find Gavriel sleeping. He
sat upright, legs outstretched, his back pressed against their small room's
only door. The oil lamp at his side burned low. His features were a study in
firm, strong edges: the rugged cut of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose,
and the black slash of his brows. But even sleep did not loosen the rigid line
of his lips, pulled taut, and the tension stretching across his broad, muscular
shoulders.
    Did he dream, too? Did he know about
the cloying darkness?
    Was that why she trusted him?
    For no matter how much she resented his
high-minded interference, she had never been afraid of him. He was achingly,
frustratingly courteous. Had he been any baser sort of man, his body would have
betrayed him by now. She might have traded a quick romp for another dose, or
for her freedom.
    The nausea that swirled in her. stomach
had naught to do with her keening need Mother Mary, she had become the lowest
sort of wretch. That she even contemplated such a thing...
    What have I become?
    She pulled upright on her narrow
pallet. The base of her head ached where she had fallen. The lump on her cheek
had receded but still throbbed if she spoke. On top of those injuries, every
part of her body ached—bruised and swollen and hurting from the inside
out Dizziness clouded her vision with a field of little white spots.
    Although Ada expected him to stir at
any moment, Gavriel remained asleep. Deep circles beneath his eyes spoke of
their endless, sleepless nights confined together. A shiver of tenderness
toward the man, a thankfulness for his tenacity and grudging care, threatened
her with tears. Instead, she found a pitcher and used shaky hands devoid of
strength to carefully pour water into a fired clay mug. When greedy swallows
would not allay her thirst, she poured another and returned to her pallet.
    With no notion of whether it was night
or day, and with her capacity for sleep momentarily depleted, she searched the
room—whether for entertainment or escape she could not say. She found her
satchel of soft, worn Cordovan leather. Only now, days later, did she even
think to rummage through and discover what Jacob had packed for her. Clothing
took up much of the space: two plain kittles, a deep green gown, and a black
woolen cloak.
    Past the garments, she found her late
mother's tortoiseshell comb, one of the few possessions she had brought with
her from England. With time and patience, she used the small comb to work
through every snarl and tangle. The task did nothing to clean her hair, but at
least she could get the long, dark strands off her neck and into a half-hearted
plait.
    Returning to the satchel, she dug into
its contents and caught her breath. The scrolls. The ones she had pilfered from
Daniel of Morley's possessions. Jacob must have simply grabbed her bag and
stowed it with a few sundry necessities. The fine vellum parchment could be
gently scraped of its ink, washed clean for another use. If she managed to
escape from Gavriel's care, she would have a means of bartering her way back to
Toledo.
    She smiled. Maybe they would