The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  “A priest?”

  “No. But I have substantial authority.” It was a statement, not a boast.

  Not a priest, but powerful. An investigator for the patriarch? He might as well be the right hand of The Pope. As an investigator, an inquisitor, he likely held the power of life and death in the palm of his hand. The murderer of witches—most of them wrongly accused.

  While he’d been eavesdropping in the abbey, she’d all but confessed to being one, admitted that she’d already been found guilty. He’d heard her ask Ossian if she might need to cast a spell to keep Sophia and Trucchio together.

  She looked up to find his face twisted with fury and she realized she’d spoken at least one word aloud...

  Murderer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gaspar sucked in a breath to cool the fire in his breast. With one soft word, she’d ruined everything he’d wished to do this first day. Destroyed it.

  “One hour,” he growled. “When we return for the tray, you will stand at the window.”

  He cleared his mind of all thoughts as he made his way down the darkening stairwell, thinking of nothing, nothing, nothing. But once he was outside, he could not contain his frustration and howled like a wounded, angry animal. When the sound settled back to the ground, he allowed himself the perverse wish that she’d heard it—that she’d heard it and worried.

  He took a deep breath. Then another. Then a bright and shining emotion washed ashore before his very eyes and he recognized it instantly.

  He was alive again!

  The waves roared, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  He laughed, and it felt like absolution. He was suddenly Lazarus, raised from the dead.

  And it hadn’t happened all of a moment, either. It had started when God urged him to hide behind a rood screen and then reminded him what it had once been like to have a beating heart. And since then, how his heart had pounded.

  How long had it been since he’d been swamped by some emotion other than fear? For a decade at least, he’d known only fear on behalf of those wrongly condemned, and disgust for those guilty ones who were wrongly exonerated. Of course, he’d also been fearful for his own soul and well-motivated to tend to it. But the highest emotion he’d enjoyed, for as long as he’d labored in The Republic, had been an abeyance of that fear. No joy. No peace. Just fear, or lack of fear. Disgust and lack of disgust.

  But no more. His spirits tumbled and laughed in the waves, no longer afraid of drowning. And he would not bid them cease.

  She is already my salvation!

  The least he could do in return, was to be hers. And the first step toward that end was to win her trust. He was able to do good things with trust. His superiors trusted him to go out among the people and judge them, trusting that his judgment reflected their own. But he was able to see guilt where it truly lay. His superiors were not always given a clear view of such things.

  She’d condemned him for his office, but she did not understand it. Not yet. But so be it. It had no bearing. He would still save her, whether or not she wished to be saved.

  He composed himself, hid his giddy heart under a familiar sober façade, and headed back inside.

  ~ ~ ~

  The hour refused to pass by more than one minute at a time, which was just as well, for it allowed Gaspar’s excitement to quiet. He was unable to calm his breathing when they entered her chamber, but he hoped she would attribute his breathlessness to the climb of so many steps.

  For a moment, she rebelliously sat upon the bed. He simply waited for her to move to the window, neither chiding her nor urging her to comply before she was ready. He was the picture of patience.

  Finally, she huffed out a breath and did as she was expected. He tried not to breathe too heavily in her ear as he stood behind her and waited for Icarus to remove the tray. But the servant was forgotten while the sunset caressed the left side of her hair bringing the dark red to life in a brilliant show of orange and yellow. And his heart pounded like the heavy tail of a contented puppy when he realized the event would repeat itself each evening while she remained in his care. He would make note of the sunset before coming to collect her tray.

  Impatient feet shuffled near the door, drawing his attention from the woman standing before him. Icarus would be anxious to head for home, and it was hardly fair to make the little man wait while he stood listening to the woman breathe in and out and watched the orange light fade.

  He wrenched himself away and locked the gate behind him, and without a word, he followed Icarus down the steps. At the bottom, the man turned.

  “Mio signore, am I still to take the key home with me?”

  Gaspar frowned. “You suppose I have changed my mind simply because the woman is beautiful?”

  Icarus blushed and shook his head nervously. “No, signore. I… I…”

  Gaspar smiled, which made the little man even more nervous than before. “Be at ease, Icarus. My plans are the same. The woman tries my patience, but I expected as much.” He took the key from his pocket and put the string around Icarus’ neck. “This key must never be left on the island at night. I will not leave such destructive power lying about for Satan’s use. Is that understood?”

  Icarus relaxed. “Si, mio signore. Si.”

  Gaspar waited another hour before he took a candle up the stairs, stopping to light other candles placed in small alcoves that were once meant to store weapons. As he climbed, he looked out the small arrow slits and glimpsed the first of the night’s stars taking up their places in the sky. He was glad he’d allowed the woman an aperture, especially after he’d come to believe she had, indeed, been sealed in a tomb for twelve days. It was cruel to lock her up now, with or without a window, but he feared it was too dangerous not to do so. Once she understood, perhaps she would forgive him.

  He knocked on the open door, not wanting to interrupt her ablutions.

  She made him wait, but that was no surprise. Eventually, she bid him come.

  He’d already spent far too much time gazing upon her that day, so after he handed her the candle, he sat on the bench, content to sit in the near darkness. He watched the little fleur de lis dance along with the flame on her side of the wall.

  “You wish to know what will happen while you are here,” he said softly. “I’ve come three times to explain. Perhaps this time I can do so before I…” He shrugged.

  “Before I provoke you again?”

  He smiled. “Precisely.”

  “Weel, dinna let me stop ye then. I’ll just bite my tongue, shall I?”

  “It may help.” He cleared his throat and made an attempt to sound more sober. “As you know, I overheard your conversation with your cousin in the abbey.”

  She made no comment. Perhaps she truly was biting her tongue.

  “And in my office, as you can imagine, I have investigated many a headstrong woman who could not manage to watch her words.”

  “So. You dinna believe I’m a witch, then?”

  “I do not. But I believe you will burn as a witch in any case.” He paused, waiting for his words to be not only heard, but believed. “Unless you learn how to tread carefully, how to school your thoughts, and thereby school your tongue.”

  The sound she made could have been deemed a growl, and it worried him.

  “Please. Heed me,” he cautioned. “Have you been told of Joan of Arc?”

  “Aye.”

  “Joan failed to consider before she spoke. She insulted powerful men. She frightened the simple of mind. She gave her critics the very stake on which to burn her. And I cannot stand by and allow you to do the same. I have smelt the burning flesh of too many a woman who might have been saved if they’d only known, and understood—”

  “Their place? If they’d understood their place? Beneath all men’s boots?” She began pacing from wall to gate and back again. It would not surprise him to learn that someone in her life had already tried to help her. But whomever it was, they’d failed.

  He kept a soothing vo
ice. “There is more than learning your place, Isobella.”

  She laughed, but continued to pace.

  He watched her shadow grow and fade on the ceiling in relation to her distance from the candle. “You need not believe your place is beneath a man’s boot, but you must make men believe you believe.”

  She stopped pacing and stepped up onto the bed. The little holes looked like a mask across her eyes as she stared at him. “But in order for a man to believe that I believe my place is beneath his boot, I must crawl beneath his boot!”

  He stared into her eyes and leaned forward slightly. “Yes.”

  Her fingers curled around the top of the wall. She shook it, but the wall didn’t so much as rattle. “So either way, I find myself beneath boots. Nothing is different between me and the woman who submits and cowers.”

  Gaspar couldn’t help but be pleased with her reasoning, even if they disagreed. It had been far too long since he’d had a spirited conversation with a woman who didn’t fear him.

  “There is a difference,” he said. “You will know the truth, just as Joan of Arc would have known the truth and lived, had she been more clever. I believe you to be clever enough, Isobella. But are you too proud to confine your rebellion to your heart?”

  “Truth be told, I am proud.”

  He smiled. “The truth is a fine place to start.”

  “Start?”

  “It is getting late. But if you care to, we can practice for a moment.”

  Her breathing quickened. “And just what is it we’ll be practicin’?”

  His blood jumped at the image of his body pressing her against the wall and tasting her lips, over and over again, until he kissed her perfectly.

  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, but there were no words at the ready. After a few more such breaths, he’d chased the image away.

  She was ready to begin, which was encouraging. He’d all but given up hope that he’d accomplish any change in her this first day. But the idea of her improving quickly also brought a ring of sadness. Having her near made him feel alive, but if she were ready to leave him too soon, would that feeling depart with her?

  “A short practice, then. We’ll begin in earnest in the morning.” He frowned up at her. “We’ll carry out a harmless conversation. You will attempt to remain submissive, do you understand? Remember your place. And if you cannot remember your place, at least try to remember where I, as a man, believe your place to be.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a quick game of chess?”

  He shook his head, frowned harder, then took on a harsh tone. “God would have you submissive.”

  She bit her lip, trying not to laugh, no doubt. “No. Men would have me submissive. Surely, if God Himself wished a woman to hold her tongue, he’d have never given her one.”

  A clever tongue had God endowed her with, but it would not serve her.

  “Why, then,” he argued, “would God give man dominion over women?”

  Through the little holes, he thought he saw her brows rise.

  “Hah! Did he, now?”

  He sat forward. “Do not blaspheme again. I warn you.”

  “Pah! I know men, good men, who do not seek dominion over their women. I believe God is well-pleased with these men, and that those who would rule over women do so to satisfy their own hunger for power. And it doesna take a witch to foretell that one day, women will rise up and take that dominion back.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Enough. Enough.”

  “What I say frightens ye?”

  He moved to the gate so she could more clearly read the concern on his face. She stepped off the bed and moved to the gate as well. There was but two feet and a few iron bars between them. He could barely see her features what with the candle behind her.

  “Of course it frightens me,” he said. “I fear what will happen to you if you cannot control yourself. Men will not stand idly by while you guess what pleases God. You could be easily condemned and burned for the arguments you so freely give. If you believe you can speak what you think, simply because you truly believe what you say, then you must change your thinking. For your own survival.”

  She stared at him in silence. And he stared back, hoping she at least believed that he believed where her true danger lay.

  She gave a half-hearted smile and shrugged. “Well, ye’re not the first to say so, if that gives ye comfort.”

  He wished he could reach through the bars and shake those shoulders, and he gave thanks for the wise plan to send the key away with Icarus, or he would have had his hands upon her again. But all that was left to him was to try shaking her with his words.

  “And of those who have warned you, woman, who among them remains at your side? Who among them was able to remain standing in spite of the winds that come so forcefully from your mouth?”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, and with her eyes on the floor, she shook her head, sending her hair swaying, then settling again. Answer enough.

  “Look to me,” he said softly.

  She shook her head again.

  “Look to me, Isobella. Please. You are not alone. I am here. Still here. Still willing to help you.”

  She looked up, frowning. “Why? I am a stranger to ye. Why do ye insist on changing me?”

  “Because, my Isobella, I have seen so many others like you and could do nothing. They, too, would not curb their tongues, refused to hide their thoughts, would not submit to the will of…men. So many preferred to die a tortured death rather than bow their heads.”

  “Ah, then ye do understand. Finally.” Her eyes lit from within. He was unable to look away.

  He stepped closer to the bars, wishing she would do the same. “What is it you think I understand?”

  She leaned slightly forward. “That I would rather die a tortured death, than change.”

  He was afraid that he did, indeed, understand. And the comprehension burst something inside him, something hot and dangerous, like the lava from a volcano, bubbling and expanding, threatening to consume anything in its path.

  With more calm than he felt, Gaspar straightened and took a step back. He breathed in and out until his breath no longer shook. Only then did he dare speak.

  “Perhaps,” he growled, “now you will understand why I brought you here.” He moved to the doorway and turned back. “And why I cannot allow you to leave.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Isobelle held her smile until the angry tyrant was gone. She’d seen too much of his softer insides for her to be frightened. The dragon had a man’s emotions. He had blood in his veins. And he had a weakness for her beauty, a fascination with her hair, though he fought to hide it. One day soon, he would let her leave. He would soften, and he would let her go. And though it was not in her nature to do so, she would be patient.

  Considering her imprisonment, Isobelle was relieved to find that her bed was comfortable. Not nearly as comfortable as the one in her new cottage, but much preferred over sleeping in a hammock and rocking all night to the progress of a ship. Her emotions were spent, and with her new confidence that she would indeed leave this prison, her worries faded away with the sounds of the waves patting against the shore below her window. And she slept without dreams, unknowing, unseeing, unhearing.

  Until someone began shouting at her.

  She lifted her head, but her eyes refused to give up the darkness. A man’s voice. Not Ossian’s. Then she remembered where she’d laid her head to sleep and her eyes flew wide. She leapt from the bed and braced herself for some sort of attack. She pulled up her right leg, to free her small blade, but her foot was bare. No sock. No knife. Had he taken it?

  The gate was closed. He had not yet come inside. Where, then, was her knife?

  She eyed the mattress to her left, remembered slipping it beneath. She reached for it, but stilled her hands when his words finally reached past her panic.

  “Isobella! Rouse yourself, I say.”

&nbs
p; Candles lit up the other side of the wall where the bench was placed. She could see the man’s shadow pacing the length of it, stopping short of the gate. She relaxed, knowing he was not watching her through the latticework.

  “What do you want from me?” Her body begged her to crawl back onto the bed, but she could not bear to do so until the man left the room. So she rested her back against the round, outer wall, and waited for him to answer.

  “You shall celebrate the hours, Isobella, much as you would have done had you been forced to remain at the abbey. Matins begins at midnight. Lauds at sunrise, then the six hours of the day, ending with Compline, at nightfall.”

  “I doona ken what ye mean,” she said, though she did indeed know. He might suppose she came from a barbaric Highland clan that had little dealings with the church, and if that would make his task harder for him, all the better.

  She heard a faint sigh of exasperation and grinned.

  “Come to the gate,” he barked.

  She tucked away her smile and slowly swayed to the other end of her cell, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child, peering at him from half-closed lids.

  “Take this,” he said, overloud, no doubt trying to frighten her more alert. He opened a small silver box with a dark lining and pulled a string of beads from inside.

  “What is it?” she asked. She raised her brows as if they might lift her eyelids a wee bit more.

  “A rosary. Take it.” He pushed a loop of the beads through a large triangular gap in the gate’s decoration and waited.

  She blinked her eyes wide and recoiled. “No! I’ll nay touch it!”

  “Isobella. Do not be foolish. I know you are not, in fact, a witch. Touching the beads will cause you no discomfort. We both know it.”

  She was so tired, she wished only to fall back onto her bed and escape back into slumber, but she could not resist toying with the man further.

  “I was allowed to take nothing inside the tomb with me,” she whispered, “save a bewitched torque and a rosary. I vowed I would never touch one again.”