Collecting Isobelle

by L. L. Muir

  COLLECTING ISOBELLE

  By L.L. Muir

  DIGITAL EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  COLLECTING ISOBELLE © 2014 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Suzi

  my childhood friend.

  Like Isobelle,

  to have survived

  is our greatest triumph.

  PROLOGUE

  Scotland, Castle Ross’s dungeon, 1496

  In an out-of-place workroom, hidden among the twisting and turning caverns below Castle Ross, James Ferguson—until recently, an MI6 agent—stood between two Muir witches and stared at Laird Ewan Ross across the top of a large barrel. The bulky, shaggy-maned, fifteenth century man stood perfectly still with a torch raised in one hand, his head cocked to one side.

  “Do ye suppose they’re gone?” James finally asked when he’d heard nary a whisper for some time.

  “Aye,” said the witch to his left. “They are far from here, though they’ve been gone only a moment.”

  James eyed the hole in the ceiling that led to the inside of the tomb of yet another witch, Isobelle, a tomb that had become a portal in time. It was true, he’d come through that very tomb from the twenty-first century and into the fifteenth, but it now seemed as if the future was but a dream.

  He tried not to dwell on the fact that, only moments before, he’d had a chance to join the others as they tried to travel through time in the opposite direction. But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that his place was still here, in the past. There was so much to see of history as it was being made. How could he give up the chance to witness a bit of it? Even if it meant he might never return to the amenities of the future. After all, there was no one special waiting for him, wondering where he’d disappeared to, other than a few fellow agents at MI6.

  While standing inside that tomb a few moments ago, contemplating the lures of both the future and the past, James had known in his bones he should stay. But he’d needed a more tangible reason to bow out, and a search for Montgomery Ross’s sister was the best excuse he could pull from the air on short notice. Finding this Isobelle would remain his first priority, of course, but there was no hurry. She was in another country, for one thing, so he couldn’t very well walk up to her, toss a bag over her head, and carry her back to Castle Ross.

  When he did find her, as he’d vowed to do, he’d need to convince her he was no madman. She’d been buried alive at one point and he was going to suggest she not only return to Scotland where she would be in danger, but that she climb back into her tomb. What reasonable woman would believe his assurance that this tomb would spirit her away to a strange land where her brother and sister awaited, along with their new spouses, for their family circle to be complete?

  He would simply hold out hope that Isobelle Ross was not overly reasonable.

  James sighed and turned to Ewan. “Montgomery said ye’ve received a letter from Ossian, that he and Isobelle had been staying in Spain. Do ye ken the city? Spain’s hardly a wee place, aye?”

  Ewan’s hoary brows rose toward the thin, long hair on the top of his head. He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

  “They are no longer in Spain.” A bony hand wrapped itself around James’ arm. The frail sister witch frowned up at him. “East,” she said.

  “Yes, East,” said the other. “An island. Perhaps an island city.”

  “Venice?” James glanced at the sisters, then at Ewan. The big man’s eyes were wide as saucers as he too looked from one sister to the other. He then met James’ gaze, shook his head, and shrugged.

  A great help he was.

  “Venice,” the sisters said in unison.

  James peered closely at the one holding his arm. Her confidence shined back at him in the reflection of the torchlight. Not a wrinkle wavered.

  “Fine, then. Venice.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Porto di Lido, Venice 1496

  Ossian Ross stood near the bow of the Spanish carrack and growled.

  Where the bloody hell is she?

  He would worry for Isobelle’s safety if it weren’t for the fact that every man on the ship, including the rowers, believed she was his wife, a Highlander’s wife—and believed they would die if they so much as stared overlong in her direction. In spite of the fear Ossian engendered with his braw form and his tendency to carry a blade in his hand at all times, however, there was always a chance a weak man might succumb to temptation. But then, Ossian would have heard screamin’. Not Isobelle’s screamin’, of course, but that of any man who dared lay a hand upon her. For his bonny cousin was nearly as dangerous as himself—he’d seen to that—and Isobelle had a temper to match her impressive red mane. By instinct alone, men aboard the carrack had backed away from the pair of them since they’d first boarded the ship. It was a pity the Spaniards and Moors of Segorbe had not shared that instinct, or he and Izzy might have found peace on the Spanish coast.

  Ossian stared at the young Italian lass, Sophia, standing on the quarter deck wearing Isobelle’s best dress, a dress for which he’d paid far too much for it to be handed off to a spoilt child. The green velvet puddled at the lassie’s feet, and she repeatedly pushed the over-large sleeves off her hands so she might better hold onto Trucchio, the young man beside her. Anyone with eyes could see the dress belonged to someone else. Everyone who’d traveled with them knew who that someone was.

  Isobelle.

  But if the lass wore Isobelle’s finest, the very dress his cousin planned to wear as she greeted her new city, what was Isobelle wearing?

  The ship had arrived a day ahead of schedule, so they’d been ordered to stand at anchor just inside the Port of Lido until a dock was free. If they hurried, he and Isobelle could find room in one of the small lancha boats and not be forced to wait.

  Ossian turned away from the young lovers and went in search of a mass of red hair, since he had no ken how his Scottish cousin would be dressed. Young Sophia was headed for the Franciscan abbey, so it was understandable she’d want to look pretty for Trucchio while they spent their last few hours together. But Isobelle was mistaken if she expected Ossian to stand about waiting patiently for the lass to finish with the dress.

  Izzy was not on deck, damn her.

  Another lancha was lowered away from the ship and his patience fled.

  What the devil was she about?

  He stomped the entire distance to the ladder, then lowered himself into the cargo hold where he and his bonny cousin had separated themselves from as many of the passengers and crew as possible. Isobelle
’s hair never failed to cause problems; she refused to cut it, and the hair itself refused to be controlled beneath caps of any kind, so it was best Isobelle’s entire person was kept from sight as much as possible.

  None of their meager belongings remained, nor the hammocks they’d slept in.

  Ossian started stringing together some choice words for the moment he found her. But by the time he finished scouring every corner below decks, they were all but forgotten. A tiny seed of worry began to sprout in his belly, but he ignored it and planned to drown it as soon as they found a public house.

  Assuming his and Izzy’s paths had crossed while he’d been searching, he returned topside. A quick glance around proved the last of the lanchas was gone, damn it anyway. He sighed and meandered to the railing. There was no hurry now. He would leave it to Izzy to find him.

  Ossian maneuvered his elbows between ropes and spindles and leaned on the wood rail. A twist and a stretch, this way and that, loosened the muscles in his back. It would be good to sleep in a real bed for a change. Isobelle would feel the same after sleeping in a hammock. She might be dreading the task of settling in a new city, but she was as anxious as he to get off the carrack. He was surprised his cousin wasn’t the first over the rail when they reached the harbor.

  He frowned down upon that last lancha moving away from the ship. It was full of black-veiled nuns in brown tunics with a uniformed guard at each end. In the center of the boat sat Sophia, the new addition to their order. She was dressed in brown as well, but with only a white veil. By the time Ossian had a glimpse of her, the girl’s face was but a pink circle in the center of her wimple as she looked back at the ship. The veil seemed terribly large for her size, as if her hair were standing on end beneath it.

  He knew the spoilt lass didn’t wish to join the convent, but she’d been promised to the abbey by parents who could better afford a dowry to the church than a dowry to a husband.

  A horrible possibility suddenly occurred to him, and Ossian’s gullet started climbing up his throat. He couldn’t manage to swallow or breathe. He pushed away from the rail and spun on his heel. Up on the quarter deck, the green dress remained, as did Sophia, standing in the circle of Trucchio’s arms. She was all teeth and tears as she watched the small boat move farther away. Trucchio looked over at Ossian and lifted his chin.

  The highlander hoped the fury on his face expressed even half of the contempt he had for the wee bratlings. When the boy finally lowered his chin and blushed, Ossian was mollified, but only for the moment. He would follow the pair, of course. He would need to know where to find Sophia in case the nuns tried to keep Isobelle.

  Heaven help them if they did.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gaspar stood in the chancel behind an iron lattice. The screen, with its intricate spiral pattern, was a bit grandioso considering the abbey housed a Franciscan cloister, but it was not for him to judge. No. His judgment was reserved for more important matters.

  Discretion was necessary for another moment or two while he gave the Bishop Gallo time to leave the grounds. There was no need for the man to know he’d been spied upon. An anonymous report claimed the man enjoyed a questionable relationship with one of the abbey’s nuns, and since Gallo was a bit enthusiastic about serving those particular sisters, the report warranted a closer look. Gaspar had been sent by The Patriarch of Venice to observe the forty year old bishop, but as it turned out, one of the cloister was a blood sister to the bishop, nothing more. It would be a rare treat to be able to report that all was well, and he was almost eager to make it.

  But he was equally eager to leave the abbey grounds for the simple fact the place was filled with women and therefore no place for a man like him—not that there were others like him. He’d made a vow twelve years ago that he would forswear the company of women and dedicate his life to serving God however he could, a vow easily honored if he kept his distance from any and all females. And though he was often called upon to judge a woman, he was determined to remain as detached as possible, especially if she could not be helped.

  And after twelve years of distance, it was difficult to linger in their presence, nun or no, holy ground or no.

  A few minutes, but no more. A few minutes to prove to God that I am able to withstand the temptations of the flesh. To prove I am able to stand in a nave full of nuns and virgins and come away with unsullied thoughts.

  Of course, after a dozen years of discipline, he hardly noticed temptation anymore.

  The narthex doors flew open and banged against the stone walls interrupting his thoughts. The nuns were still about then. He’d been wise to remain concealed.

  Gaspar Dragotti, sometimes called God’s Dragon—though typically not to his face—was Special Investigator to His Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice. He was an Inquisitor, sometimes a judge, and when the circumstances demanded, an executioner. He was not Italian by birth, but had come to the church states to be closer to those who could speak to God. He’d taken the name Gaspar to replace that uglier name, the one women had called him by long ago, the name he’d all but forgotten. It was no longer a part of him.

  Gaspar was no priest, of course, but his position made him a powerful man among the clergy. Though his missions were usually grave and secretive, everyone knew their nature. Therefore, he was given a wide berth by the people of Venice and the rest of the church states, for to have God’s Dragon knock upon one’s door could sometimes stop a man’s heart in his chest. Especially if that man suffered a guilty conscience.

  Women simply fled. Well…after pausing a moment to stare.

  Nuns were different, however. His business rarely involved the sisters more than it had that day, so for the most part they flitted around him like excited birds that imagined themselves immune to his dragon’s fire, exempt from his adjudication. Their fearlessness made him uneasy.

  Through the streams of sunlight and dust motes, he watched four guards usher a novice inside the narthex and then hurry back out the doors and bang them closed once more. The woman stared at the blocked exit for only a moment before her shoulders began to shake.

  What was this? A novice being handled so by guards? And worse yet, the chapel used to cage her? What irreverence!

  The woman’s voice broke into pieces, but she was not weeping as he’d supposed, she was laughing. And the unholy sound winged into the rafters on sharp feathers and chased away Gaspar’s concern for her treatment.

  Is she inebriated ?

  The laughter died with a sigh, and the novice turned and walked up the far aisle. Her gait was light and animated and she turned this way and that, walking sideways at times as her attention was drawn to the nave’s architecture and not where her feet fell. The silhouette of her veil swelled out behind her head as if she were hiding a satchel there, and the odd thought made it impossible for him to look away.

  When she reached the transept, she turned and walked to the center, her head bowed, her hands lifting to her veil. She pulled off the head cover and flung it toward a pew as if it meant nothing. Then she raised her hands again to her wimple.

  Gaspar wrenched his head to the side, refusing to look upon her, refusing to feed his own curiosity. He turned bodily toward the small door at his back, no longer content to stand behind the rood screen and wait for others to go along their ways. If someone noticed him, so be it. His observations were complete. There was no true need for secrecy. Besides, the young woman would answer to God for her irreverence, not to Gaspar. He had a vow to keep, after all.

  “Damn you!”

  The curse struck Gaspar as if he’d taken a blow to the stomach, and he turned back to the screen, his reaction no longer his to control. Avoiding the woman was no longer possible. He could not walk away and leave her free to further desecrate God’s house. But he hoped a brief bit of instruction would be enough to put an end to her thoughtlessness.

  He stomped to the screen and raised his hands to the gate, but they stilled in the air before reaching the latch, his a
ttention caught on the sight unfolding in a glorious stream of late afternoon sunshine. And he the only witness.

  A thick, decadent mane of red hair poured around the woman’s shoulders while she struggled to remove the wimple from her face. Dark red hair that looked far too familiar, though it could not belong to one of the ghosts from his sinful youth. How could it be anything other than a test from the Almighty Himself?

  Chaos galloped and kicked in his breast like a mad horse in a confined space. He could not bring order to his thoughts, though in the back of his mind, he suspected he was being punished for believing himself above temptation. He immediately prayed for forgiveness, his mouth shaping the words easily and silently, but he should have closed his eyes to do it, for the prayer was forgotten as he watched the woman struggle with the wimple. A long copper strand wrapped itself around the white cloth like a living vine.

  Perhaps God means to strangle her.

  A preposterous thought, considering that in all Gaspar’s years engaged in the patriarch’s business, he had yet to see such direct intervention from Heaven.

  The woman took a firm hold on the wimple with both hands and braced her feet apart as if preparing to rip the hair from her very head. Gaspar’s gasp betrayed him and the woman stilled. For a long moment, neither of them moved. But the silence was broken when the large doors opened once again. The woman released the worrisome cloth and glanced in his direction before turning to the back of the church.

  The manly-sized abbess glided into the nave with six nuns behind her, seven faces lit with a combination of determination and excitement, all hands tucked modestly inside their sleeves. They moved in such uniformity, they might have been a company of soldiers.