by L. L. Muir
She smiled at the memory of his face just before he’d turned and fled. The dragon did not love her, but he wanted her, and she would use it against him.
She refused to think about the feel of his arms around her, or the taste of his mouth, his skin. For a few foolish moments, she’d forgotten that Gaspar could not truly love her. But she would never forget again.
Her gaze dropped to the surf below. There was a fine spray taunting her to come out and play, to cool herself at her leisure. A wee swim. Aye and away the most immediate relief to hand. Aye and away as likely as her tasting a bit of Scottish mist before nightfall.
Away, whispered the serf. Come. Away.
She listened for half an hour longer, while she formed a plan.
~ ~ ~
Later that night, long after the sun had set and the sea had grown black, she stood at the window again, gazing out upon the Quarter Moon seemingly shining down upon the mainland beyond.
And she waited.
Her thoughts lost themselves among her possible routes home—for she would be going home—and she nearly missed the shift in the air behind her. She might have waited, unmoving, for an hour more if not for the chill that ran up her spine.
He was there. Without so much as a toe skimming the floor, she knew. She always knew. It was simply a change…in the silence. An exchange of one emptiness for another. Her own breath joined by his.
“Gaspar,” she whispered out the window. “Gaspar,” she breathed to the moon. “Please.”
“Isobelle.”
He’d spoken so quietly, she wondered if he’d meant her to hear it. But she turned her back on the window, pretending surprise.
“Dragon?”
“Come, now, Isobelle. You knew I was here.”
She considered denial, but nodded.
“Gaspar will do, here in the darkness, do you not think?”
She shook her head. His name was an endearment she would use only when necessary, to control him.
She held on to the windowsill at her back, suddenly frightened to go on with her plan. Did she wish to leave him? To hurt him? To punish him for not loving her, even when she’d always known that for Isobelle Ross to be loved, and loved undeniably, was impossible? Just like many others before him, he wanted her. But now…
No! She had to stand strong. Gaspar Dragotti wanted her only as a pet. Something amusing to lighten his mood. It was madness.
It was possible her life would have ended in a witch’s fire if he hadn’t opened her eyes to the dangers of being accused again. In spite of all Ossian’s warnings, she’d never really understood, could never truly understand how immediate that danger was until God’s Dragon showed her. She supposed she owed him something for that. But he’d already taken something…
She was a habit for him now. And it was difficult for anyone to overcome a habit until they were forced to do so. The problem was, he had become a habit for her as well. She found it hard to sleep until she felt him stretched out on the other side of her wall, until the coolness of the metal faded with the warmth of his body. Did he press himself against it, as she often did, to feel less alone in the world?
Yes. Madness.
And the madness must end. Better to end it quickly.
“Fine, then. Gaspar. Gaspar, I beg ye…”
“What is it, Isobelle?”
Their whispering was ridiculous. Icarus had gone for the night. No one would hear if they screamed at each other, let alone spoke at full voice. And still she whispered.
“Just once,” she sighed. “Just once, can I walk along the shore? Just once, can ye let me outside? No one will see me in the dark. No one. Please.” She whined the last as she could already see his head shaking in the shadows beyond the gate.
“I cannot open the gate. Every night, Icarus takes the key with him. Even if I wished to—”
“Gaspar! I will go mad if ye doona let me outside tonight. I have done my penance. This room is little different than my tomb. I have light. I have life. But what good are either of those without hope? Ye may as well begin collecting wood for me fire, for without hope, any death is welcome.”
He came forward, grabbed the bars to either side of the gate. His chest was bare to her. His hair was mussed and wild, making him seem a different sort of beast, something much warmer than a dragon. His arms were immense but his wide hands and knuckles looked like bones in the moonlight from the way he gripped the barrier between them.
“Say you do not mean it,” he growled.
The sound induced chills up her back and into her hair. Or perhaps it was the sight of him that did so, for she was sorely tempted to go to him, to reach through those bars and prove that he was real—not some shadow that had stalked her each night. She placed her hands on the wall behind her and struggled to stay put.
“Yes, Gaspar. All yer instruction has been for naught. I would confess to witchcraft, or murder, or both, if this prison were my only alternative.”
He was agitated, but not enough to bend to her wishes. She had to push him further.
“Ye never planned to release me, did ye? Ye’ve known it from the first.”
She turned back to the window and grabbed the bars there for strength. She looked down, trying to see the path that led to the dock, to judge the distance for the thousandth time. If she were somehow able to squeeze through the bars, the fall might not kill her. But anyone who jumped from such a height was a fool, even if the dragon might someday leave her alone long enough to work the bars loose.
“Isobelle. You must believe me. I will allow you to leave when I believe you to be ready. I will even send word to Ossian where to find you. I only need time to…accept it.”
“No, Gaspar,” she said sadly. “I am prepared to leave this prison, or leave this earth. But I canna stay another—”
“Yes! Yes, you must. One more day. Be patient one more day. I will keep the key tomorrow, when Icarus leaves. I will allow you to walk along the shore, though you must allow me to tie a rope—”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Why would ye need a rope?”
“You might try to swim—”
“I dinna ken how to swim.” She turned back to view the darkening waves.
“But you tried, that first day, before you saw the sharks.”
She shrugged. “I was going to drown myself, ‘tis all. I thought ye were taking me away only to burn me, so I’d have no body in Heaven. ‘Tis what they did to Joan of Arc, is it not? If I drown in the sea, I might have kept my body, aye? But not if sharks got me.”
“You cannot swim?”
“Nay.”
“Then you might try to drown yourself again? You’ve just said you are ready for death.”
“I want to live, Gaspar, as much as ye yearn to feel alive, aye? If only I could trust ye to keep yer word, that ye’ll return me to Venice…”
He sighed heavily. “No, Isobelle. Not Venice. You would not be safe there. But I will have your things collected and sent to you. Wherever it is you wish to go…”
His voice trailed off. He was unhappy to suddenly be bound to that promise. She could hear the regret in his voice.
Well, damn the man for sending the key away every night. If he hadn’t, she could have ended their little habit much quicker. Now she was going to have to wait another day.
“I will bother you no more tonight,” he murmured. “Sleep. You may walk along the sand tomorrow.”
It may have been the first time she’d actually heard him leave the room so late. His footfalls were heavy, as if he were stomping down the steps.
Isobelle sighed and moved to the bed. Even though the night was warm, she did not welcome the coolness of the metal wall beside her. Just as she teetered on the edge of sleep, listening to the receding waves, she thought she heard a man’s voice. Arguing. Coughing. Arguing again.
It became part of her dream.
She was in her tower. A much higher tower now. And the people of Venice were carrying bundles of sti
cks across the water, walking on the water. They placed their sticks at the base of the tower, then hurried away for more. They were building a bonfire. They were going to burn her, tower and all.
But she wasn’t alone. Gaspar stood inside her cell with her, looking out the window.
“They saw you dancing on the sand, Isobelle. Nothing for it now. They’ll try to burn us both, but the flames won’t harm me.”
She laughed. “Are ye a witch, then?”
He laughed too, then his eyes began to glow. “Not a witch, my sweet. A dragon.”
But a dragon had wings. He could take her away if only he would.
The flames whooshed up the side of the tower and she stuck her head between the wide bars to see it. When she stepped back, Gaspar the dragon was gone.
She should never have danced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Never, since that first week he’d spent writhing in pain from his burns, had Gaspar been known such abject torment. He’d chocked on it with each step as he’d descended the tower, feeling an immeasurable and irreversible form of distance grow between them. Then, when he’d reached his private rooms, he’d released that torment with enough force to bring the dark stones down around him had he not buried his howling in the bedclothes.
He was both monster and man, the halves of two animals fused together. There would be no separating them. He loved her, but more than that, he needed her. Without her company, he would wither and die like a flower with no sun. He’d turn into a dead and colorless creature—the very creature that had stepped behind the rood screen in the abbey and waited for his life to be saved.
The moment he’d stepped into His Beatitude’s presence, he’d lost his color in spite of the extravagant emerald raiment’s he’d been ordered to wear, to mark him as part of the patriarch’s retinue. His mind had slipped back to familiar, emotionless thoughts. Heaven help him, his voice had even changed into something cold and ugly.
But he didn’t wish to be ugly anymore. The world wasn’t ugly anymore. And he wanted to be part of that fresh and appealing world again. But he would lose that chance if he lost Isobelle. And so, Gaspar the man and Gaspar the monster would keep her against her will, even if she hated him for it.
~ ~ ~
The next day passed slowly for Isobelle with nary a breeze to cool the sweat on her brow. The only thought that kept her from going mad was the hope of dipping herself in a dark sea.
The scuff of two pairs of boots on the steps told Isobelle it was time for her supper. Her heart leapt with her, propelling her off the stool. With shaking hands, she moved the seat away from the window, then turned back to take hold of the bars. Each scratch of sole against stone brought him closer. When those boots entered the room she nearly squealed with anticipation. But was it anticipation of her escape? Or was it the anticipation of Gaspar standing at her back for a moment?
Perhaps it was both.
Perhaps she did feel too much for a man who would hold her captive forever if no one stopped him. Perhaps she could love him, if only a little, for what he had done for her. When he’d held her in his arms and kissed her, she’d believed she loved him in spite of his madness. But he’d been unable to return that love—at least not enough to release her.
She would go home, then. Perhaps she’d make her place in Ireland first where she might blend in a bit with other red-headed women. Perhaps she’d send a letter. Perhaps someone could come visit her. And if Ireland was not the place for her, she would go home...
The key scraped inside the lock. The gate groaned in protest, a bit louder than it ever had before, as if it would warn the men of her plans. The air heated at her back. She turned her face to the right, away from the intense orange sunset glaring at her from the left. And from the corner of her eye, she saw Icarus pausing, watching his master, then scurrying away.
“Icarus, hold a moment.” Gaspar’s voice was deep and ragged, revealing as much emotion as she was feeling herself. “Leave the key with me tonight.”
“B...but Master,” the little man stammered. “You made me vow—”
“Rest easy, Icarus. A woman will be coming tonight, to...inspect her. She will need the key.”
“Would you like me to stay?”
“Icarus. No. This will be no place for a man.”
“And her tray?”
“She can slip it under the gate tonight. Neither of us needs to return.”
“Yes, Master.”
The air behind her cooled. God willing, for the last time.
~ ~ ~
For an hour, she sat on the stool and stared at the food on the tray. Cheese, bread, and a plum. She considered eating the plum, but her stomach clenched at the thought. If she had to swim, she would wish to have an empty stomach.
Icarus had left the island long ago and yet Gaspar had not come. Had he changed his mind? Or did he consider the sky too light still? The Quarter Moon would offer enough light for strolling across the sand, but would it be light enough to row a boat in a constant direction? Or lend enough light to swim by?
She’d gone over the possibilities many times, but she would not know how badly she might need to harm the man in order to get away from him, to find another boat, and to get it off the shore before he was able to come after her.
If it came to it, she did not know if she would be able to kill Gaspar Dragotti, even to save what was left of her life. But what if I have no other choice?
God help me.
Her thoughts plagued her so completely that Gaspar was standing before her without her noticing his footfalls. A glance at the floor revealed why; his feet were bare. Bare also were his arms. He wore no tunic, and there were no sleeves tied to his under tunic. His arms were thick with muscle and vein and she was sorely tempted to slide her hands along them.
In anticipation of walking on the beach, she’d removed her own boots and hose, then she’d tied the hose around her thigh so she could keep her skean duh close. The plaid would be a hindrance if she had to swim. She would leave it behind.
“I promised you a walk along the beach, my lady.”
She looked up into the shadows of his face. He appeared a bit ill, as he had each time he’d come to the tower that day. And he acted oddly, as if something between them had changed more than just his acquiescence to allow her outside.
He tilted his head to one side. “You haven’t changed your mind.”
She jumped to her feet in answer and his breath caught. They hadn’t stood so close or touched each other since they’d kissed. But this time, they were alone on the island. Icarus would not come to interrupt them if Gaspar took her in his arms now. She was ashamed to want him to do just that, but she wanted to leave that tower much more.
The air was warm between them. Hot even. Sweat trickled from the side of her neck to pool in the notch below her chin. His gaze followed the moisture’s progress. She sensed him itching to reach out and touch where it gathered at her throat. It was possibly his last chance for a tender touch.
But it was her last chance as well, her last chance to touch him.
Her left hand lifted and her fingers tangled with his as he reached toward her. Suddenly shy, she pulled back.
“Come,” he croaked, then took her firmly by the hand and walked backward, toward the open gate. “You must not release my hand. Is that clear?”
Speech was beyond her ability at the moment, so she nodded. He need never know how torn she was between obeying and disobeying that order. If they had met under simpler circumstances, she might have never let loose of his hand whether he wished it or not.
Her footsteps faltered, tripping over her thoughts. How long had it been since she’d come through that doorway, or glimpsed those steps? He made certain she was steady, then turned and led her down the steps, holding her hand behind his back so that she too could walk close to the outer wall.
A torch hung next to the landing. Another one waited beyond the curve in the stairway luring her with its promised light.
But she needed no luring. She held tight to Gaspar’s tugging fingers as he unwittingly lead her to freedom.
They passed the second torch. Another beckoned. The excitement tempted her to giggle. The thought of leaving Gaspar behind, forever, tempted her to weep. She resisted both.
The last torch. The bottom step. The solid floor. The open archway led to the heavy warm night beyond.
He paused before the threshold and she worried he might have only been teasing her, to teach a lesson in patience. To teach her not to trust in the arm of man—any man, including him. Perhaps he would say it was time for prayers and haul her back up the stairs because it was time for prayers, and prayers were more important than the promise of a walk along the shore.
But he didn’t turn back—he simply removed the last torch and led her outside.
Outside! Heaven help her, she would never walk inside again. She would find a tree on a beach somewhere and make her home of it. Never again would a door close, a gate close, or a tomb seal behind her. Never, ever again!
Gaspar slowed, then stopped, pulling her next to him, their fingers entwined like lovers, their shoulders bumping until she stilled.
“Look.” He looked skyward. His torch swept up and over their heads in an arc, then hung low, out of the way so the stars could be seen. “The unimpeded sky.”
She drank in the utter glory of the lit heavens, but found she was thirstier for another sight entirely—Gaspar, standing with arms uncovered, as unfettered as the night sky. Just a man standing next to her, holding her hand as if he could not bear to let her go. A flood of tears blurred her vision of him, and she looked away before he could catch her staring.
It was her turn to tug him along. She knew just where she wished to go—the little pool of water visible from her window, where she’d wished she might dip her hot and dusty toes. Gaspar followed along happily.
The pool was larger than she’d expected. The rocks at the edge were wide enough to sit upon and keep her skirts from getting wet. But what did wet skirts matter?
