The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  He stared at her for a moment, as if waiting for her to say more. When she did not, he rolled his eyes. “Stop your nonsense, Isobella. Take the rosary. If you want to be left in peace, to sleep until sunrise, you will pray the rosary.”

  She frowned, stepped up and drew the things through the hole, not at all happy he’d taken no pity on her.

  “It is true,” she mumbled.

  “I do not doubt it,” he said, his handsome smile showing his pleasure and chasing away her sleepiness, damn him. “I am relieved a mere necklace does not truly frighten you. However, if you had given that little performance before any other audience, you might have been tried on the spot. Surely you realize that.”

  It was her turn to roll her eyes.

  “Proceed, Isobella. And if you lose count, you will begin again.”

  She marched back to the far wall and ungraciously lowered herself to the floor. “Our Father,” she began. And while she recited the prayer, she watched his shadow move back toward the bench. She was three quarters of the way finished, when she paused, to see if he was still listening.

  “Yes, Isobella. I am still listening. And counting.”

  She smiled and resumed praying. Toying with Gaspar, the dragon, would not be dull work.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next day, to Gaspar’s relief, Isobella gave no protest and prayed when she was expected to pray. Each time she acted as if she were an unschooled waif, he would laugh as if she were simply trying to amuse him. Then he would carry on with his instruction. They practiced arguing, at which she demonstrated just how keen was her mind, and at other times, she simply turned away from him and ignored him until he left the room. She was as clever as she was stubborn. He simply needed to show her that she need not give up the former if she ceased the latter.

  The next day of prayers passed without any reminders from him. She knew her prayers like any lady of nobility would know. And she seemed to harbor no real resentment toward the church as a whole, only toward the exact men who had sent her to her grave in Scotland. It was a tremendous relief he would not have the task of rehabilitating her views toward a quarter of the men on the face of the earth.

  He also realized, with a measurable amount of dread, she could learn so quickly he might not have the pleasure of her company for long if she applied herself.

  What he planned next was justified, even though it might upset her enough to reverse some of her progress, but he refused to imagine he might be sabotaging her progress on purpose. He did want to be able to allow her to leave his island—he wanted it equally as much as he wished for his own salvation. For were the two not linked?

  But he also had to admit his curiosity, a weakness he tried not to indulge often. He found it impossible to believe there were, in fact, real witches roaming the world, so he was anxious to hear more about these witches Isobella claimed to know. And it was necessary to discuss it with her, if only to show her why she should wipe any witchly experiences from her memory, to never admit them again, so she might not suffer from her association with them.

  So, that night, after Vespers, he lingered. She noticed and backed away from him, wary. He’d been training her up to be distrustful, had he not? So her close attention was good for the most part. But at the moment, he wished she would trust him.

  “Isobella,” he began.

  “‘Tis Isobelle,” she snapped.

  “In truth?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why did you not tell me before?” He was almost hurt by the omission, like she’d been lying to him.

  “My name was the only thing I still had that was mine alone.” She faced the window and clutched the bars. “I shouldn’t have told ye.” The last, he imagined she had not intended to say aloud.

  “Forgive me, Isobelle.” He took the edge of his long bench and dragged it toward him, then swung it around to face the gate. He gestured toward the end of her bed. “Sit. Please. Let us converse for a while. Night is a while away yet. Will you pass the time with me?”

  She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. Eventually, she gave a single nod, then she moved to the far end of her bed and sat sideways, facing him. He tried not to dwell on the arrangement of her legs beneath the white skirts. She caught him raising his eyes from those skirts and gave a slight shake of her head in warning. There might not be another soul on the island of Venice who would suspect him capable of carnal thoughts, but she did. Of course she could not have heard the rumors that he himself had started, that he was unable to perform as other men. But it was only a rumor, and a rumor he doubted she would have believed, especially after the look they’d exchanged in the boat, and those moments against the wall.

  There was also a chance she had a talent for seeing people as clearly as he did, that she might also know when others were lying.

  Such a talent would prove useful once she left the tower. She would need to know how to recognize those who might prove dangerous to her, so she could watch her tongue. But there was absolutely no one around whom she should not guard her words, even when she was alone. For if she’d been that careful before, he would have never heard the words witch or spell tumble from her lips at the abbey.

  That was all he sought to teach her, in the end. To stay her tongue, to control her temper, and to play the fool so no one would see her as a danger that wanted removing. But that was a discussion for tomorrow. Today, he wanted to hear her tale.

  “Tell me of your home.” He folded his arms and waited, wondering if she would tell him anything at all. And if she did, he may or may not believe what she said.

  She tilted her head and considered him with narrow eyes. He could almost hear the debate in her head. Was her home something else she might hold tight to her? To keep him from knowing all there was to know about her?

  “The Highlands of Scotland.” She shook her head. “I’d rather not specify, aye?”

  He nodded. She had no reason to trust him with the lives of people she loved after what he’d already done to her.

  “My brother is the laird of a clan. Monty, we call him.”

  “Is he one of these good men of whom you speak, the kind who have no need to have dominion over women?”

  She smiled. “Auch, nay. Monty dominates all other women in the clan.”

  “Just not his sister?”

  Her smile fled. “Just this sister. He managed to force Morna into an unwanted marriage.”

  “Ah. Not uncommon for a leader to need alliances.”

  She sat forward. “It was not needed. It was a punishment.”

  Gaspar propped an elbow on a crossbar in the gate, then rested his chin in his palm. “Tell me.”

  Isobelle sat back again, rested against the wall behind her, then pulled her blanket into her lap. She took a deep breath, then huffed it out.

  “Morna fell in love with Monty’s bosom friend, Ivar. He was from Clan—” She caught herself before completing the name. “From a clan to the west, say. They were close as brothers. And one day, Monty found Morna and Ivar together. It broke his heart. He banned Ivar from our lands and sent Morna to marry the son of another chieftain. But Ivar and Morna were made for one another, like a rock broken in twain, then brought back together again. They fit perfectly in every manner, aye?”

  He nodded, understanding too well how two people could fit together so well it made one wonder what God intended.

  “I was desperate to aid them, aye? So I went to the witches for help.”

  He could see the regret contorting her face and wished he could think of the perfect words to comfort her, but before he could, the regret was gone. Her chin rose, and when she looked his way again, there was a hardness in her eyes—a determined hardness—and he wondered if she were simply too proud to believe she’d made a mistake. It was a look he was getting used to, a look she would need to learn away before she could safely be released back into the world again.

  “I went to Mhairi and Margot,” she continued. “Their clan is ste
eped in witches, aye? But mostly when they come in pairs. Sometimes not. But those old sisters visited our clan more often than my brother would like, and I was nay afraid of them.” She smiled. “They were pleased as puddin’ to help me. Said I needed only to create a token, a necklace or a brooch of metal, affixed with a bone from our clan and a bone from Ivar’s. I had the smithy’s young son help me and we ended with a torque. I spoke of it to no one else. There was no danger.”

  Gaspar bit his tongue. Obviously, there had been danger, but to point it out would be to disrupt the moment.

  Isobelle glanced at the window and closed her eyes and he couldn’t resist doing the same, to listen for a moment to the tide rolling onto his modest shore. Sometimes he felt a bit guilty for enjoying the sound as much as he did. He tried to disregard the fact that Isobelle’s voice was equally as pleasurable.

  “I took the torque to the sisters.” Her eyes were open again, her voice dreamy—an indulgence to which he would limit himself. “They cast a spell on it, that one day a faery would come and claim the piece, and this faery would bring Morna and Ivar together again. I only hope it comes soon, aye? While they’re still young and… and can enjoy…” She shrugged and took great interest in her fingers and after a long silence, he worried she had decided to end the tale there.

  “How did the clergy discover you?” he asked. “Did your sister tell them? And were the old sisters tried as well?”

  She shook her head. “Auch. Nay. Morna was glad for a bit of hope. As was Ivar. They’d have never said a word before it became a common tale. It was the smithy’s son. He couldna sleep for the guilt he felt, so he went to the kirk, to confess. Only it wasn’t our Father MacRae who was there to accept his confession that day. It was another. Someone who had no ken of the clan. Our Father MacRae would have known I was not a witch, knowing the sisters as he does. He would never have reported me to others. O’ course I canna blame the wee lad. I should have never sought his help. I only thought he might like a bit of excitement, ‘tis all.”

  “So, what happened at the trial?”

  “The bastard that came to try me only asked the boy to repeat his story. No one was allowed to speak for me. Then the jack-n-apes conferred with the two priests he’d brought along with him. They found me guilty and pronounced a sentence of death.”

  “I must admit, I’ve never heard of a witch being buried alive. Is this something they do regularly in Scotland?”

  “Nay. Nay. That was Monty’s doin’. He’s got a fine temper for a man with no red to his hair. And he would not allow the kirk to kill his sister, even if she was the troublesome sort most days. So he took advantage of the fact the bastard had only sentenced me to death, and announced to one and all that it would be up to him, as laird, to decide how I would die. He chose to bury me alive, for he thought he could dig up underneath the cairn and get me out.

  “But the church’s bastard was not a stupid man. He agreed to allow the burial, but he insisted the tomb be built upon stone. He was right pleased with himself. Thought we’d all be marchin’ up to the quarry, to bury me in the rocks there. But he hadn’t noticed the dais in the great hall. There was stone floor aplenty there. And even though it meant the hall would become a graveyard, Monty avowed my tomb would be built there, and that he would do the building himself.”

  She laughed and leaned forward with a devilish grin.

  “Ye should have seen the bastard’s face when he realized he’d been outplayed. Purple as a turnip, he was.”

  “Does the man know Monty got you out?”

  “Heaven forefend!” She fell back again. “If he knew, he’d have been trailing behind me more than half-and-a-year now. But no. I was told he hadn’t stayed more than a week, watching Monty all the while, waitin’ for the mortar to set the stones. And when he went, he left his guardsmen behind to make certain no one broke into or out of the tomb until it was clear I was dead. When Ossian took me away, the bastards were still standing in the great hall, waitin’.”

  “But how did Monty get you out if the priest was watching him for a week?”

  “The moment the last stone was set in place, Ossian and Ewan, our other cousin, began chiseling from beneath the dais. The stone was more than a foot thick. It took the pair of them twelve days. And all the while, Monty kept up a commotion in the hall, so the kirk’s henchmen couldna hear the pounding.”

  “And all you had for comfort was a torque and a rosary?”

  “Oh, aye. The torque is still inside.” She grinned. “But I’m afraid the rosary didna last long. I suppose it was the second or third day the beads went flying this way and that. I regretted it, of course, every time I stepped on one. And eventually, I ate them just to save me feet.”

  Gaspar laughed in spite of himself. And Isobelle laughed with him.

  The candle sputtered against the wall, reminding him of the coming night. If he were going to convince her there were no true witches in the world, the time was at hand. However, though he tried half a dozen times to order his words, he couldn’t think of a way to say them that wouldn’t offend. Finally, he admitted that he didn’t want to deny her the belief that her sister and her lover would be reunited in some way. She had suffered horribly in a tomb made by the hand of her own kin, suffered for the superstitious nonsense of two old women, and he hadn’t the heart to tell her she’d suffered for nothing.

  That she still suffered for nothing.

  Heaven help him, but he was not ready to end that suffering.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The following day, their arguing practice went well. Too well.

  He’d baited her with unreasonable statements; she hadn’t so much as sniffed at the bait. In fact, she’d responded as Gaspar would expect a circumspect mouse to respond.

  He’d twisted his Latin to prove that God had placed women on earth to reproduce men, and that they were a beast not to be trusted; she’d cheerfully bowed to his better knowledge of the language and his interpretation of the scriptures, for her small mind would never accommodate such immense thoughts.

  He’d ordered her to celebrate the hours while lying prone on the cold floor. She’d thanked him for helping her appreciate how soft and warm she would find her bed if he saw fit to allow her to sleep in it.

  He’d been furious!

  “You cannot have learned so quickly,” he said, after Icarus had left for the night.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said meekly. “As a woman, I must try yer patience sorely. But I can only promise to apply meself better tomorrow.”

  “Stop it!”

  She wrapped her plaid tighter around her shoulders and pulled a fold of it up to cover her hair. “What is it ye wish me to stop, my lord? Forgive me if ye’ve already explained it and I’ve forgotten.”

  “Isobelle!”

  She flinched away from his voice and hurried to the far end of her bed where she whimpered and cowered.

  There was a tiny fear hovering in the back of his mind that told him he had performed his duty too efficiently, that Isobelle Ross was indeed, prepared to survive in a world of angry men. Prepared to leave him. But he refused to believe it.

  Still she cowered. Her single candle cast a shadow beneath her head covering and he couldn’t see her face, but her hand shook more steadily than she could have pretended.

  Had he broken her? Had he ruined her?!

  “Isobelle,” he whispered. “Stop this. It sickens me. Please, stop.”

  She shrieked once and tried to muffle the sound with the plaid.

  “You laugh at me!” He was angry at being mocked. He was horrified by her talent to fool him, if only for a moment. But he thanked God he hadn’t broken the precious doll he’d been given.

  She straightened, instantly sober, but remained at the back wall as if she wished to stay as far from him as possible.

  “Yes, I was laughing,” she scoffed. “It was either laugh like an eegit or choke on the prattle ye would have me speak. I’ll tell ye true, Dragon. I’ll go
mad, and quickly, if ye doona give up changin’ me. For if ye change a part of me, ye change the rest.” She waved to the window. “If you wish to keep a submissive woman about, I trust ye’ll find them aplenty on the streets of Venice. Find a large lazy one who would like nothing more than have her meals served by Icarus and have a lovely man come tell her she’s not worthy to have her own thoughts.” She dropped her arm. “Find another. I beg ye. I am not the woman to please ye.”

  Gaspar stared at her a moment, waiting for her to come closer. But she didn’t. So he turned and left the tower. Then he paced happily along the southern side of the island, unable to worry what the morrow might bring because he was too happy by half.

  She thought he was lovely.

  ~ ~ ~

  Isobelle woke to the smell of cooked chicken eggs.

  Gaspar hadn’t come to rouse her for prayers, and she hadn’t risen on her own. She hadn’t slept well until the blue cast of dawn told her she was running out of time to do so. No one spoke when Icarus brought her meal. And when she’d finished eating it, she’d still been weary, so she’d crawled back on her bed. When next she woke, the tray was gone. And still, Gaspar had not demanded the hours.

  Icarus brought her the next meal alone. He glanced nervously at the window. She hurried to her station and held the bars high until she heard the slide of her tray on the floor and the click of the locking gate.

  “Dragon?” she asked.

  Icarus walked slowly back to the gate and looked at her.

  “Signore Dragon?” she asked again.

  He shook his head. “Venecia.” Then he frowned. “Regatta.” Then he put his hands together as if in prayer, but pulled his thumbs apart and wiggled his hands like a fish cutting through water.

  She assumed he was referring to the boat races, and nodded.

  He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her and held up three fingers.

  She nodded and smiled and let the nervous man leave without further questions. They’d apparently exhausted their common ground in any case. She was left to wonder whether or not Gaspar Dragotti had three boats in the race, or if he wouldn’t be back for three days. Or was it three weeks?