The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  “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 after 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. I
t 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 unawares 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.

  But they’d simply travelled a little farther down the beach, to a man gripping the rope to a small dingy that couldn’t possibly hold them all. As the tyrant gave the men orders, she knew without the need for an interpreter he was leaving the four behind! And when he caught her staring, open mouthed, she knew he’d read her thoughts—he knew the guards had softened. He also knew full well he was crushing her hopes.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. But he knew.

  Isobelle thanked the two men who helped her into the boat. A third man climbed in and bent over her feet. He mumbled, “Mi perdoni,” and began tying her ankles together.

  The feel of the rope brought her more alert than she’d been those first hours inside her tomb. It was truly happening! She was truly going to die for witchcraft! And no matter how powerless she’d felt in the past two years, unable to return home, or write to Monty or Morna, she’d never felt as vulnerable as she did with her boots secured together. If she were tossed into the water, she would sink like a heavy rock. There would be no one to fight. Nothing to struggle against but the sea.

  The guard avoided looking her in the eye until just a heartbeat before he stepped out of the boat. He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but failed. He’d asked her forgiveness, she was sure. But she could only hope the men could understand her poorly pronounced Latin when she offered her pardon to them all.

  “Et dimittam te,” she said, smiling at each one in turn. Then she sat as regally as possible and looked out at the sea.

  The tyrant took his place at the bow and the little man who’d waited with the boat jumped in after they were afloat, then took up the oars. The dark one frowned toward the shore. Isobelle lifted her chin and watched the activity in the lagoon beyond his shoulder as if she were enjoying the ride and the morning sun. But on the inside, she was crumbling like a poorly stacked wall.

  She hoped she’d be well and goodly drowned by the time the sharks found her.

  They’d travelled into the heart of the immense lagoon when the oars swung up and into the boat, bringing her attention with them. Breathing hard, the little man tucked both oars safely into their cradles, then rolled his shoulders. Isobelle braced herself and looked at the water, wondering what made this spot appropriate for drowning witches. She could see no fins in the waves and gave a little prayer of thanks for it. When she opened her eyes again, she found the little man shaking his head and staring at her with his brows knit together in worry, but he made no move toward her. Perhaps his master wished to do the honors himself.

  She pulled in a shaky breath and forced herself to look at the tyrant.

  The little man muttered something over his shoulder.

  The big man frowned. “He worries you will jump overboard, Isobella Ross.” And from his frown, she suddenly realized both men shared that worry.

  She shook her head. “Would it lessen yer pleasure if I did it meself, then?”

  His eyes widened. “It would give me no pleasure to pull you from the water again, my lady. But be assured, I would if necessary. If you supposed I meant to drown you, you supposed wrong. I told you before, you’re to be examined and interrogated. That is all.” He looked behind him over the bow, then faced her again. “Do you see the small island off my right shoulder?” He gestured with his head.

  A small black triangle sat in the lagoon nearly three times as far from the boat as the boat was now from shore. And though the little man had stowed the oars, the boat was clipping along steadily in the direction of the triangle. They were caught in a channel.

  She looked at her captor and lifted a brow.

  “That is our destination,” he said. “When we arrive, you will be allowed to rest and break your fast before we begin your examination.”

  Isobelle refused to show her relief. She refused to hope. But with all the emotions warring inside her like a current of her own, she couldn’t keep from venting her spleen.

  With great exaggeration, she glanced down at herself and ran her fingers down the front of her gown her plaid no longer covered. Then she sneered, “I would think I’ve been examined quite enough by now, do ye not suppose?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gaspar thought only to show the woman his distain and glanced at her clothes that were nearly dry from the sun’s warmth and the sea breeze. The plaid wool had parted almost as soon as young Oberto had placed it so gently around her shoulders, and all that remained between her flesh and the wide world was a damp bit of white cloth. Perhaps two layers of it, but still, not enough to keep his thoughts innocent. But by the time he returned his attention to her face, she was blushing, and he feared he was as well. He was grateful Icarus’ back was to him so the little man wouldn’t know just how mortal was the dragon.

  Belatedly, the woman raised her tied wrists to block his view and turned her head away. Gaspar released a long-held breath
and tried to steer his thoughts inward. He would have to give some thought to his plans and take better precautions against temptation. Already, she sensed weakness in him. But perhaps she would forget this little boat ride once they arrived at his island and she saw Ferro’s work.

  And though he had already ensured he could never put hands on her, he would need to be as prudent with his eyes.

  He lowered his gaze to the water moving alongside the boat and allowed the slap and swirl to soothe his senses. He pulled the moist morning air into his body and willed it to take away his tortured thoughts. Instead, the image of the woman’s cottage presented itself behind his eyelids. Not the look of it that morning, but of three evenings past when he’d stood in the shadows of the alley across the way staring at the little blue door. That was his first mistake, to have stood for hours willing her to come outside, straining his ears for the sound of her voice or the low murmur of her cousin. It nearly drove him mad contemplating the ordinary little tasks that might have occupied her. And then a treacherous thought had slipped to the fore—an image of him as a simpler man coming home to his wife, a beauty from Scotland whose gaze would rest on him—only on him—when he walked through that little blue door.

  Much like she’d looked upon him that very morning.

  That single treacherous idea had been invited by a dozen other, seemingly innocent thoughts and a curiosity that compelled him to her door that first time. So he would need to stay mindful—that his curiosity could bring him to his knees. Because the most frightening realization of all was the way that thought had made him feel. Or rather the way it had not made him feel. He’d expected guilt and revulsion, but experienced neither.

  Frightening indeed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Isobelle could have dissolved to tears when the little man carefully cut the rope binding her feet. But she wouldn’t show any more weakness than she already had.

  The dark one stood on the dock and waited for her to climb out of the boat, then he turned and led the way toward the single towered structure that covered half the wee island. The stones were enormous and gray, and the keep itself appeared to be so much shadow dredged up from the depths of the lagoon and stretched to the sky. The wind and waves pushed and pulled at its edges, as if to say go back from whence you came, you don’t belong in the sun. But the tower stood quiet and oblivious, not unlike the man.