by L. L. Muir
Another hour passed before Gaspar took a single candle up the tower steps. Each stair built the excitement in his breast until, when he reached the landing and opened the door, he thought his heart might burst.
He should have paid Ferro more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isobelle sat abruptly in her bed.
Had someone knocked upon her door, or had it been a dream? Was it only an echo in her sleepy mind of the knocking two nights before?
That night, before she and her cousin had time for a proper fare thee well, a lad had come to the door to collect Ossian, to help carry his weapons and such to the ship. She could not follow along and wave at the dock—it would hardly be safe for her to head for home alone, in the darkness. But perhaps a quick farewell was for the best. At least she’d been able to shed her tears without getting her cousin wet.
The pounding came again. Not by a small hand.
“Signorina Ross,” came the old woman’s wavering voice. “Signorina!” The rest was Italian. She couldn’t possibly expect Isobelle to understand her. But why would she come so early in the morning to spout nonsense?
Grudgingly, Isobelle got to her feet, wrapped her Ross plaid around her night clothes, and went to the door. Through the wood, she heard a man speak low. Signora Crescento answered.
Isobelle whipped the door open and stood in the opening with her hands on her hips.
“Signora. This is no hour to start yer wee parade...” Isobelle’s rant was cut short by a sudden loss of wind in her sails. A striking man, far and above more handsome than the likes of the previous four days’ procession, stood head, shoulders, and chest above the old woman. His hair was dark, but a warm color, not the black of many Italians. The length of it disappeared against the sober darkness of his tunic. His shoulders were broad enough to block her small doorway if he took another step forward. A long scar across his features suggested he was no stranger to battle. The white brand ran from his left brow, across his nose and cheek, then hooked around the edge of his right jaw in an angry pucker.
A fine scar indeed. But the face beneath it was even finer. The chin was square, not unlike that of her brother Monty. The planes of his cheeks were flat and on the hollow side, topped with high, wide cheekbones. His brows formed a dark ridge. His black-brown eyes peered into her soul. They dropped briefly to note her state of dress, including the Ross plaid, then returned her gaze once more. Whether he liked what he saw was a mystery. Not even his lips moved.
Four guards in black and yellow uniforms stood at his back with pikes. Four bees holding their stingers at the ready, she thought. An important man, then.
Isobelle did not yet know how to say, “Too important,” in Italian, but the word she did know was more accurate in any case.
“Troppo perfetto,” she said, stepped back, and shut the door before the man’s gaze persuaded her to reconsider.
Her heart raced with an odd sort of panic, as if the man on the other side of the door might just be handsome enough to weaken her resolve. But she mustn’t give in to temptation. She had to hold strong and hope that one day the suitors would give up hope. She would not marry, no matter what a man’s station, no matter how pretty. And it might be wiser not to learn their language after all. If she couldn’t understand them, they could not impress her, seduce her, or change her mind.
Neither would she teach any of them English, let alone Gaelic. The sound of her own language from the mouth of that handsome man at her door might mean her doom.
The wood shook behind her as the pounding resumed.
She sighed, supposing it might not be so painful to look upon the man one last time, but only once. After all, she’d hardly been gracious. And since he was likely unaware of the men Signora Crescento had previously brought to her door, he would think her quite rude indeed. A pity he didn’t speak English, or she would explain.
But then again, he was no commoner. Perhaps he did speak English.
She whisked the door open once again and offered the little company a smile, despite their frowns. The old woman appeared downright frightened, crushing the skirt of her apron to her heart, her eyes wide and wild. Was she frightened for herself, or for Isobelle? Was it the man’s temper she feared? If he were a tyrant, he would find no welcome from her.
“Signore,” she began. “Do you perhaps speak English?”
The man nodded once, then gestured for her to come forward.
Isobelle left her feet where they were, tipped her head to one side and raised a brow.
Signora Crescento began spouting in Italian again, until a sharp look from the gentleman stopped her mid-sentence. She nodded, bowed, and took a step back.
So. He was a tyrant. Turranos, in Latin. The man had to know his Latin.
“Signore Turranos,” she said, “I am not in want of a husband just the now. I appreciate that ye’ve risen so early to see me this morn, but I assure ye—”
“Silence,” he said, and though he’d not raised it, his deep voice cut through the pale dawn.
His audacity so surprised her, she complied without intending to. But to compensate for lack of speech, she stepped back and took hold of the door once again, prepared to shut it on the man’s nose if need be. But he put a foot forward, over her threshold, to prevent just that.
“Go away,” she demanded.
“Signorina Ross,” he barked loudly, even though they were only an arm’s length apart. He then said something in Italian, no doubt for the sake of anyone who was awake at that hour and of a mind to listen. He took a breath, then lowered his chin and his voice. “Isobella Ross, you are under arrest. In the name and holy office of his Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice, you are accused of witchcraft and are to be removed for examination and interrogation. I advise you to come willingly, for your actions here and now will be taken into consideration.”
Witchcraft!
Panic flooded her chest and made breathing impossible, but after glancing at a pale and hysterical Signora Crescento, Isobelle resolved not to show her fear. Her actions were being considered? Then she refused to act guilty in front of the tyrant who had apparently not come to consider her for marriage. Witchcraft was an ugly word that had nearly gotten her killed before. She had no idea how they dealt with witches in Italy, but such a religious state would surely treat her no better than her own kirk had.
She forced a smile and laughed. “Witchcraft? Yer jesting, of course. ‘Tis hardly me own fault, this red hair. It vexes me something awful, so I assure ye, I pay dearly for bearing it. But a reasonable man like yerself would not think to punish a woman for the color of hair God Himself granted her.”
The man glanced briefly at her hair, then back at her face. In his eyes she saw some soft thought, then regret, but that was quickly replaced by something harder.
“This has naught to do with your hair,” he said. A soldier behind him frowned and Isobelle supposed it was likely no one else spoke English but her and the handsome one.
“Please, sir.” She kept her voice steady so no one might suspect she was begging. “What can I say to help you believe me? I am not a witch. I’ve known real witches in Scotland and I assure ye, I am not one of them. I have no knowledge of medicines, herbs, or the like. And I’ve been here for six days, no more. Who could possibly know me well enough to accuse me of such a thing?”
She suddenly remembered the abbess, who could not have been pleased with her. Then there was a ship full of oarsmen and passengers who’d avoided her. But she’d supposed that was only because Ossian had hovered over her like an angry wolf. Sophia could not have been displeased with her, after what Isobelle had done to ensure the young woman’s freedom, to run away with the young man she loved. And the only mention of witches, since she’d left Scotland, had been between herself and Ossian, and then only in private—
Or that once, in the abbey, when none had spoken English...
She took another step back, deeper into her house. The guards started, but made no move to come a
fter her. She looked into the tall man’s dark eyes and imagined a rood screen before him.
“It was you,” she whispered. “In the abbey. Behind the screen.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm, but recovered quickly. “Will you come willingly, Venafica?” His voice poured over her like warm, trickling water. The word venefica might have been an endearment if it had not been for the rest of their conversation.
“Venefica?” she queried.
The old woman crossed herself and whimpered. That alone told her what she needed to know. But he answered her in any case.
“Witch.”
CHAPTER NINE
Through her frighteningly calm interpreter, Isobelle was promised Signora Crescento would care for the cottage and Isobelle’s things. The tyrant relayed the message as if there was actually a chance she would be returning, and she was grateful for the small comfort it gave her, even though she knew he didn’t believe it. She was unable to think clearly at the moment, so a little false comfort was enough to keep her calmer than she truly felt.
The man walked into the lane and the guards took positions around her as she followed after him. They’d allowed her a precious pair of boots—with her little dagger thankfully hidden inside—and the length of Ross plaid she kept wrapped around her shoulders, but the man hadn’t allowed her enough privacy to change into a gown. Anyone watching would recognize her voluminous folds as her nightdress. And if she never returned for it, it seemed the green gown had never been destined to be hers after all. Ossian should have allowed young Sophia to keep it.
One guard before her, a man to each side, and a man behind. Back at Castle Ross, when they’d escorted her to her tomb, to be buried alive, the kirk’s henchmen had surrounded her the same way. But she’d been allowed no plaid, no comfort. And in those twelve days that followed, while she’d shivered and waited for her brother to dig her out, she’d wished a thousand times that she would have tried to escape that escort. If she didn’t try now, she’d never be able to forgive herself—or at least, for as long as she was allowed to live.
And she did wish to live.
She might be miserable to be so far from Scotland, but it did not mean she did not hope for a happy life. There was no clear future for her, yet, but she intended to be around to discover it. She would not go along quietly. She would not!
The road turned left ahead. On the right, there was a break between two buildings. Beyond that break would be the small wall and then the sea. At the turn, the gap widened between the man at her side and the man behind, and she bolted between them. The quick fingers of the last man clutched her plaid, but she slipped free of it and fled. She prayed she would reach the small alley before the men had their legs under them.
Seven steps and she entered the alley. Another six and the alley was behind her.
The wall! Just a few steps more!
Something hit her leg and screamed at her feet. It was a pig, and her piglets squealed in response. Isobelle had to dance through them carefully. The guards closed the distance. The tyrant pushed one of them aside to pass.
Isobelle spun back toward the wall. The path was clear. One step, then a jump, and she was over the stack of stones. Her boots sank in the sand, then were slowed by wet mud. Her only consolation was that the same would hinder her pursuers!
She fought on. The tide had gone and left the beach stretched before her. So much ground between herself and freedom. She had to keep running. She would not repeat the past. She would not be buried alive again. Would not allow these fools to drown her, burn her, or whatever Italians did to witches.
And so she ran.
The water was a dozen strides away. Heaven help her, but she would never get a chance to get her feet wet! Surely they were upon her, but she dared not turn to look.
Pat-pat, pat-pat, said her boots. But she heard no others. Still, she would not look back.
She reached the water, felt the shock of the cold lagoon fill her boots and reach through her sleeping gown. Fighting the folds of wet cloth, she pressed forward into the sea. The enormous lagoon was dotted with fishing boats. All she need do was reach one of them and plead to be taken aboard. She would be free!
There was no splashing behind her. No shouts for her to come back, in any language. And just as the water reached her chin, she twisted the toes of her boots into the sea floor and turned, to know why they’d stopped chasing her.
The dark tyrant stood on the sand with his arms folded, two guards to each side of him. He appeared quite calm as if he were certain she’d return on her own. Did he not suppose a woman could swim?
Fool.
The guards, however, were nodding and pointing out to sea, hopefully at a vessel or two that might be her salvation. The dark one suddenly unfolded his arms and started toward her, the cape on his tunic billowing behind him as he began to run. Grey sand flew from the back of his boots with every stride.
She turned her shoulders and looked behind her, but the triangles cutting through the waves were not the sails of small boats. They were the fins of sharks. Half a dozen, at least.
Calm. Stay calm, she told herself as she backed toward the beach, her toes barely able to find purchase on the sandy sea floor. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.
The guards fanned out and began shouting at the sharks as if they were puppies to be called home. For a moment, Isobelle panicked, thinking they meant to taunt the sharks in her direction. But her breathing eased when the fins moved to the side, the sharks reacting to those taunts instead of coming for her.
Then, as if they’d reconsidered, or sensed her fear, those fins turned as one in her direction.
She was still waist deep.
She jumped back, but her skirt was beneath her feet and she stumbled, landing on her backside. The water swamped her shoulders, then her face. She took hold of her skirts and pulled them higher. Her boots found the sand, and she stood once more.
One fin sliced between two others and sped forward.
Isobelle ran backward, but again, her skirts washed beneath her steps and tripped her again. Her head remained above water this time, but it was too late. She turned to the side, hoping to save her face from the attack. But strong hands gripped her beneath her arms and hauled her water-laden body into the air. The world spun away from her, her boots escaped the pull of the water, and she landed on her bottom once more, only this time, it was on wet sand. A pair of legs supported her back and remained even after the hands disappeared from beneath her arms.
She was surrounded by four excited Italians who spoke slowly and dramatically to her as if they thought she might understand their language more easily if they did so. She could only laugh. Eventually, that was all anyone was doing, except for the man at her back.
Once the guards sobered, the dark one stepped away from her. She leaned forward quickly, lest he think her too weak to sit on her own. Then she wondered if simpering like a frightened maiden might have suited her better. It was clear the guards thought her a lucky woman to have escaped the sharks all of a piece, but what was also clear was their change in attitude toward her. If she swooned, would the dark one then treat her differently too? Would he consider her less apt to be a witch if she were a more delicate lass?
Somehow, she doubted it—even if she thought he might soften toward her, it was unlikely she could simper in a believable manner. Then her stomach turned on a thought.
Perhaps coming out of the sea, neither drowned nor damaged, has just sealed my fate.
CHAPTER TEN
Gaspar worried his heart might never return to its original rhythm or its original location in his chest. He’d not removed the woman more than a furlong from her house and his body was already crying peace. He’d first been stunned the moment she’d opened the door. All disheveled and defiant, standing in little more than her shift, wrapped in her Scottish heritage, she’d been even more breathtaking upon closer inspection than she had in the dimly lit abbey.
He’d been caught una
wares when she’d called him too perfect. For a moment, he’d believed her far too perfect as well. He’d soon realized, however, she was a clever enchantress who would say anything to distract him, to see to her own ends.
She’d led him to believe she would come along willingly, even though she denied the charges against her. Then she’d fled. If she was the devil’s own, she could have summoned those sharks in order to win the sympathies of both him and the guards. Luckily, it had only worked on the guards.
She’d plunged herself into the water, knowing when she emerged her wet gown would cling to her form and tempt the most righteous of men. And since he was far from the most righteous… Yes, he was tempted. And he’d looked. And he would pay dearly for it, would be tormented by the memory of her lying on the sand at his feet, struggling for breath.
Perhaps not the devil’s enchantress, but an enchantress just the same.
The guards loaded her into the small boat, far too small for more than Gaspar, Icarus, and their charge. Then the four had stood and watched the dingy head into the open lagoon. For all they knew, he and Icarus were rowing her out into the sea to toss her overboard. Now that her hands and feet were tied, she’d not be able to swim. It would mean certain death if she were to jump, but he doubted the woman would take her own life, even though she had to understand that the charge of witchcraft brought a sentence of death. But he’d noted how quickly she’d retreated from the sharks, determined to live, to survive. It was a good sign.
No. This woman would not be jumping into the Laguna Viva. She would fight…until he taught her fighting was futile.
~ ~ ~
Isobelle was grateful for the warm morning sun that quickly dried her nightdress and warmed her bones. Her plaid had been draped over her shoulders after her hands had been tied and she hadn’t imagined the young man’s quick pat of comfort before he’d snatched his hands away. All four of the guards had been so relieved she’d escaped the sharks that they’d softened toward her. If they were travelling far, at least one of them could be persuaded to turn a blind eye and allow her to escape. She knew it.