by L. L. Muir
This man, with his painfully beautiful face, had already plucked her from an unfriendly sea, had stood at her back while she recovered herself, had allowed her to take her plaid. He’d even given her hope that she might return again to her little cottage—though she could never return in truth, for Signora Crescento now feared her to be a witch. And even if she returned there on the morrow, the suspicion would grow and spread like a fire on a dry moor. She would be forced to move on, forced to leave no word for Ossian, for if she left a trail, those who sought out witches would be able to follow.
Without Ossian to stop her, she’d likely go home, even if it meant her death.
Thus, her captor may not be a monster, but he had surely ruined her new life in Venice. At least it was reason enough to hate the man. It was not much, but if she protected that little seed of hatred, it would keep her from looking too deeply into his eyes…
The servant he’d called Icarus shuffled into the room backward, carrying the ponderous end of a long wooden bench. The man’s face was dark red and his cheeks pumped like billows as he walked beyond her vision into the shadowed side of the room on the far side of her decorative cage. Carrying the other end of the bench was her tall tyrant who looked only mildly uncomfortable with his load. His tunic and cape were gone. His white under-tunic hung against his lean stomach. At the shoulders were tied full white sleeves that billowed around his arms, giving her no sense of his strength if not for the ease with which he’d thwarted her escape.
He gave her barely a glance before turning away, disappearing through the door. His servant limped along behind, one hand pressed to his back. The door remained open. Their descending footsteps were easily heard.
Why the bench? What purpose would it serve? Would she be expected to entertain an audience? Would a jury of the kirk’s men sit before her and wait for a confession? Or did they hope to see some madness overtake her, to compel her to do something only a witch would do?
Well. They would be sorely disappointed on both counts.
She stood on the bed and peered through the little holes that decorated the upper edge of the iron wall. The bench was a stretch of brown shadow. No markings. No notches carved into it. No curve to the wood. With nothing to hint at its purpose, she was left wondering. The possibility of an audience left her a bit wounded, betrayed by her captor.
Her handsome captor.
What could he be thinking, to bring her here? To a remote island, away from the city, away from the church and its leaders? An inconvenience for any who might be brought to see her. Or…
Or is he hiding me from them?
A flash of hope caught in her chest. It made no sense to hide a witch, unless… Unless he thought she might be of use to him.
“Hah!” Would that she were a witch, for the first charm she would attempt would be something to get her free again.
Was it only this morning she had awakened in her own cottage, free from the interference of any man? Left on her own. Abandoned by Ossian. The first day of a life she alone would determine?
Only that morning?
What heinous thing had she done that God would see her penalized yet again in a stone room? What sin had she committed this time?
“Why must I be punished?” she shouted to the ceiling and to God beyond.
When the echoes of her voice were gone from the room and from her head, she caught movement by the door. She stepped off the bed and moved to the gate so she could see her captor clearly. Dressed the same as before, he stood with arms folded, his shoulder resting against the frame. He didn’t smile, but there was some form of excitement just below the surface. It might have been just the reflection from the window, but some type of light danced in his dark eyes.
“Not punished, Signorina.” His voice was deep, almost caressing. “Saved.”
He searched her face for a moment, and when he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, he spun back out of sight. She listened carefully, to be sure he was really gone before she sat on the bed…and wondered if she dared take heart in a word like that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gaspar pulled a fine gray tunic over his head and chided himself for having entered her chamber without proper garments. The woman had reacted no differently than the rest of her sex, raking her gaze over him, assessing his body. He was usually immune to such attention, but for some reason, this woman’s assessment had caused him a moment’s pause.
Bah! She’d been inside his home for little more than an hour and already vanity had sunk its teeth in him. But no more. Never again would she have reason to look closely at him. There was simply nothing he could do about his visage. He refused to walk about with a mask, and he certainly wasn’t about to torture her with a dark sack over her head. But wiser clothing could keep her from appreciating his body, at least.
The memory of that morning swamped him like an unexpected tide. She’d called him perfetto. She’d looked him in the face and seen nothing of the scars he’d created there. Unlike anyone he’d encountered since coming to Venice, her gaze had not been frightened away from the silver gash. In fact, she seemed not to mind the damaged flesh at all.
Perfetto. His memory strained to hear it again, exactly as she’d said it. Perfetto.
He’d grown to hate the word in his youth. And for the first time in his life, it had sounded like an endearment.
He imagined pressing her against the wall again, commanding her to repeat it. Heaven help him!
Vanity invaded his chest, threatened to make camp within him, but he refused to let it stay. She could not think him perfect now. No doubt he was a monster in her eyes, the beast who had watched her from the shadows at the abbey, who’d turned her words against her. Who had locked her in a cage and shown no compassion for what might have happened to her in the past.
Every man and woman of the church states could view him as God’s Dragon and it bothered him not a pip. But now, in his own home, with a woman who reminded him of simpler days, when he’d been a simpler man, the title grated him.
But did he truly wish her to see him as just a man?
He’d faltered in the boat, believing he could look her person over and keep his thoughts chaste. Then he’d touched her as he’d vowed not to do. If he’d simply closed the door and held tight, he’d have had no reason to hold her. He’d pressed her against the wall when he could so easily have forced her in the other direction, into the cell, and closed the gate, putting cold iron safely between them.
He should have anticipated. He should have known himself better.
He should have never sent Icarus to find her in the first place.
~ ~ ~
When they’d arrived at the island, Isobelle had watched her captor so intently, she’d noticed little more about the island than the dragon carvings. And now that she’d seen all there was to observe out her window, she was curious what lay behind her little tower, on the south. Would there be a garden flourishing in the warm Italian sun?
Perhaps she was about to find out, for someone was ascending the stairs once again. She hoped he’d reconsidered, that he might be coming to offer her a look around the island and a moment or two to sit near the water. But one thing was certain, if he let her out, she’d never enter the tower again unless she was well and truly dead.
Considering the confident cadence, she expected her captor to be the one coming to call. And she was right. She turned her back to the window, but moved no further. The precious opening on the outside world was her salvation at the moment. To remove her from it would cost someone a great deal of effort, and pain. Unless, of course, she was given her freedom.
If the tower room were the face of a clock, the solid iron wall ran, like the long hand, from just south of center to the twelve and was attached to the wall there. The window sat at the nine. The bottom section of that clock was cut off by the only straight wall that ran from the eight to the four and kept the room from being perfectly round. The door was located at the four. On the other
side of that straight wall was the staircase with a small landing at the top. The short hand of the clock would be represented by the gate with all its artful holes. It ran from the southern end of the wall, off on an angle, toward the seven.
Her visitor stepped in the door at the four o’clock mark.
Now dressed in grey that made his eyes seem darker still, her captor stepped to the gate holding a small black chest with bright silver fittings. Just the right size for her head to fit in, but not so big as to hold all her hair. In Scotland, however, it was the men who were hung and quartered, decapitated. Not the women. Perhaps it was the same in Venice.
She looked from the chest to the handsome face, but would not give him the satisfaction of asking what was inside.
He peered closely, perhaps looking for proof of tears. Then he released a dramatic breath and produced a small table from behind him, which he must have brought along, and upon which he set the chest.
She would not step closer. From a distance, it was easier to see the whole of him through the gate’s design.
The chest opened silently and the pungent smell of cedar filled the room.
If he withdrew a pair of sheers, he would need to kill her with them, for she refused to part with her hair. However, when he lifted his hand, it was clutching cloth. As the garment unfurled, it became a draping gown of white. It moved and fluttered as if a light breeze were toying with its soft folds. Though the cloth was as fine and costly as the trunk from which it sprung, she recognized the long narrow cuffs.
“I will not wear it,” she hissed and backed closer to the window.
He was taken aback for a moment. His brows lowered and he looked closely at the gown. He pondered the floor for a bit, peered closely at her face again, then his brow smoothed.
“Ah. Perhaps you imagine this is a gift, that I would ask for some favor in return. I assure you, this is nothing of the sort. Your own gown must be crusted with salt from your brief swim this morning. I only thought to give you something clean to wear. But I fear this is the only female garment on the island.”
She shook her head. “Ye doona suppose I have seen such a thing before? I assure ye, I have. I was given such a gown on the day I was entombed, though not nearly as fine. I shall never wear one again. Nay!”
Rage flickered back and forth across his features, alternating with horror. His eyes grew fierce and his nostrils flared, though she had the oddest notion he was not angry with her, but rather, for her.
“You are no ghost,” he whispered as if trying to convince himself of that fact.
She chuckled. “Nay. At least, nay yet. I was quite alive when me brother was forced to seal me inside me tomb. And still alive, happily, when I was rescued from it some twelve days later.”
“Twelve days.” His voice was hoarse as if he’d been inside that tomb with her, crying out for mercy, calling out in madness. He eyed the gown in his hands as if it were a serpent come to life. “I shall find you something else.”
Then he was gone.
Isobelle stood bemused. What a strange creature her captor was.
Indeed, her gown was crusted with salt. She’d been worrying at the cloth scratching her neck only moments ago. And now, she could nearly feel the cool softness of the white gown as it moved down the stairs, away from her.
“Wait!” she called. “Come back!”
She strained to hear. Were his footsteps returning?
He appeared again, the gown balled in his fist, his breathing slightly labored. He said nothing.
“Do you mean this gown to be my death shroud?” Her fingers were itching to see if it felt nearly as glorious as it looked, like a bed of fresh white heather, like a cloth made of breeze and misty breath on a chilly Highland morning.
His brows dipped in earnest before he thought to school his expression. Then he shook his head once, then again.
“Then I’d be pleased to have it, while my other things might be washed, aye?”
He stepped forward and offered her the ball of white. His smile was a grimace, an apology.
“A fine gown. I thank ye.” She took it and laid it across the bed. Then she turned back to the gate. “Would ye be willing to tell me, milord, why ye’ve brought me here? Ye doona seem prepared to burn me at the stake today. But tomorrow perhaps?”
That rage still simmered within his eyes, but it no longer made her nervous.
“No,” he said and walked away before she could determine which question he’d answered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gaspar’s chest was a riot of warring emotions. He was offended she still did not trust him, though he’d done nothing, truly, to earn it. She continued to worry she’d be burned at the stake? Impossible!
One day, she would understand him better and trust him completely. He vowed it!
He was also pleased. Too pleased in fact. Her appreciation for the gown should not be so gratifying, and yet it was. Perhaps it was the relief he’d experienced at finding his gift was not as loathsome an offering as it first appeared. She need not know it was a gift, of course. She could not know how much consideration had gone into the purchase, but she did seem to appreciate the fine material.
There was no doubt she was a noblewoman, even though her forthrightness proved a lack of proper instruction. But Scottish lasses were a stubborn, willful bunch. No wonder so many red-headed women were accused of witchcraft.
Bah! The word, even unspoken, left a foul taste in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself for ever considering this woman might be the first real proof of witchcraft, but she’d spoken so confidently of spells…
“Bah!” There were no such creatures. And there never had been. But his employer could not know he felt the way he did. Out of necessity, Gaspar had been forced to play along with superstitious clergymen for the most part, so they would never suspect that God’s Dragon was determined to save the very women they had already condemned. He had to be clever. He had to be creative. And sometimes, he had to allow a woman to perish—in as painless a manner as possible—so he might keep his powerful position, to save another woman on another day.
And now, that day was upon him. Every role he’d played had brought him to this point. And now he was untouchable. He would save this woman from her own loose tongue, and no one could stop him from doing so. When he stood before God for judgment, he would have this one act of compassion to prove he was not an evil man.
Isobella Ross was going to be his salvation. And he would be her earthly savior.
~ ~ ~
The smell of bread reached Isobelle before she ever heard footsteps. Her stomach complained loudly and she pressed her hands to her middle to try and muffle the noise. It would do her no good to remind the man of her dependency upon him, so she would show no weakness if she could help it. Until she understood his intentions clearly, any information about her, even something as human as hunger, would be a weapon he could use against her. Even now, she regretted taking the luxurious gown from him.
There was more than one set of steps. He was not alone. Was Icarus with him? Or would there be others?
She sat calmly on the end of the bed so he might not remember how she’d clung to the window before.
Save her from herself? She had heard that before, a dozen times at least, from Ossian’s mouth, and earlier still, from her brother’s. They implied that Isobelle, being Isobelle, speaking and living and breathing like Isobelle, was somehow unwise. That she would suffer if she did not change.
Well, be damned with them all. She would not crawl along the walls like a titmouse, hoping to draw no notice. She would not cut her hair and disappear beneath a covering, as if it were her own fault that weak men were drawn to her. She bared no skin to tempt them. She was no seductress. And wasn’t their advice the very type of thing a harlot would hear—a wish that she could be saved from herself?
But this man should be concerned more with his own welfare—if he did not release her soon, he would be wishing to be saved from her
.
Her captor entered along with his servant, but there were no others. She released the breath she’d been holding in anticipation.
“Stand at the window, if you please,” the tyrant said. “Icarus, here, will place the tray on your table while you hold to the bars. I will not have him fearing an attack.”
She folded her arms and remained seated even though she feared to do so might cost her a meal. “Who are you?”
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Hold to the bars.”
“Who are you?” She had to make this stand. Now. She had no choice. To crumble now in order to simply fill her stomach would be his first step toward victory over her.
“My name is Dragotti.” He smiled. “Hold to the bars, please. I will give no quarter where Icarus is concerned.”
A compromise. Surprising. Appreciated. She stood and walked to the window and placed her hands high on the bars so both men might be able to see them clearly.
The gate opened with no complaint. Fabric rustled. The air shifted behind her, grew instantly warmer, and she realized with surprise that Dragotti stood at her back. She squeezed the bars, refusing to panic. Hairs rose at the nape of her neck and on the backs of her arms, but those were hidden by the generous white sleeves. She realized her skean duh, her small Scottish dagger, was hidden beneath her pallet while she waited for her boots and hose to be returned to her. Her feet were bare. She was defenseless but for the hard bones of her elbows she might use to strike out with.
He came no closer, made no move to touch her while the little man shuffled into the cell and shuffled out once again. And still, Dragotti lingered.
“Dragotti?” She released the bars and began to turn. The man stepped quickly back, then rounded the gate as if he were as wary of her touch as she’d been of his. She pretended not to notice. “Meaning, dragon?”
He frowned. “Gaspar Dragotti,” he said with an Italian lilt.
It was her turn to frown. “But you’re English.”
He stared into her eyes for a moment, as if he wished her to pay close attention. “I was English. Now I am Dragotti, Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice.”