by L. L. Muir
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.
Isobelle followed the tyrant and the little man followed her, but there was little need. As they’d approached the island, she’d seen how small it was, and how isolated, and there was simply nowhere for her to go. The boat was small but too heavy for her to manage on her own since all her time on the sea, in all manner of vessels, she’d never been reduced to rowing. Thus, she would have little chance of mastering the oars while being pursued.
There was a narrow strip of beach at the end of the dock, followed by patches of long, wind-blown grasses. A long pebbled path cut through the patches and up to a large arched entrance. The wide doors were banded with dark metal and spikes, but the details were old and worn as if it had once been a small fortress, but its enemies had long ceased visiti
ng.
The dark one flung the doors wide and marched inside. She glanced into small, modestly furnished rooms—a solar on one side and a kitchen on the other—as she followed the fellow to the rear wall where a spiral staircase began. He turned back to her then with a small blade in his hand, then gestured to her wrists that were still bound.
“You’ll need your balance,” he murmured. Then he cut the rope and tossed it away before starting up the stairs.
She clutched her skirts and pulled them high, vowing not to trip on them again. Rest and food, she reminded herself. He’d promised her rest and food. And beyond that, she would not worry until she had to. She would have a bit of peace before they began, but she refused to fash over what they would be beginning.
One mystery at a time.
One danger at a time.
And a little peace between.
~ ~ ~
Gaspar led the way up the winding tower steps that hugged the round wall. There was no banister. If strict attention was not paid and a person tripped, they would fall all the way to the hard floor below. From the top of the tower, the woman could easily try to harm herself by jumping off the edge, but she’d already proven her desire to live. He would trust that for now.
He was well pleased with his little island, which he’d acquired for privacy and to remove himself from the worldly temptations of the night. Perhaps God had inspired him to purchase it, since it had turned out to be the perfect place to keep the woman safe. And he was anxious for the moment she would understand just that.
Not long now. A few steps more. The door came into view.
Closer still.
He reached a hand and pulled the latch open. Would she notice, as she entered, there was no lock on the door? No bar on the outside.
He entered the tower room first, then turned to watch the woman’s face. A hundred times in the past few days, he’d imagined her reaction and guessed what she might say, but now that the moment was upon him, he was anxious for her. But there was no time to explain. She was on the threshold, waiting for some signal perhaps, so he held a hand out to her. She looked briefly at the latch while pretending to lift her hair from her face. Clever girl. She’d noticed.
Hesitantly, she put her fingers into his glove but then held tight. There was a tremor in the delicate bones as he guided her into the room. Perhaps she was duly frightened of the stairwell. Over his shoulder, he nodded at Icarus to leave them. This occasion was too momentous for an audience.
The sun beamed through the barred window and she shielded her eyes against it briefly. A moment later, she dropped her hand away and looked at the structure before her. The intricately decorated wall of iron. The iron curtain hanging above it. The open gate.
The scream of a furious animal flew from her mouth, and she spun for the doorway, but Gaspar lunged and was there to stop her. His immediate concern was the thirty foot drop off the landing’s edge. It was dangerous even when one was calm and careful. He thought she’d realized that. But apparently, her carefully designed cell frightened her even more.
“Calm yourself, Isobella,” he implored. “You are only in danger of falling to the bottom of the tower. I vow it!”
There was no sign she’d heard his voice. She continued to fight for escape as if the room at her back held the most frightening of beasts. Was she mad? Or could she simply not trust him?
“Isobella, you must hear me. I’ve brought you here for your own protection.”
She screamed and spun away, only to fly back toward the door again. He blocked the opening with his body and anchored his hand on the wall. She grabbed his arm and wrenched on it with all her might, but it did not move. When she tried to duck beneath it, he swayed to fill the void. She gave another shrill scream and threw her body at him. If he’d been a smaller man, they might have tumbled to their deaths together. But he stood his ground for both their sakes.
Her plaid dropped to the floor, forgotten. Her face was a study in abject fear and desperation as her fists turned to claws, and it sickened him to know he was the cause of it. She tried to grab handfuls of flesh from his chest, but ended with a mass of cloth that did her little good, even when she used it to pull him to the side. When she turned and put her shoulder into his middle, he worried she’d either forgotten the danger, or no longer cared for her safety.
Had she given up on living so quickly then? He would have asked her just that, but she was senseless.
She planted her feet and pushed him. First left, then right. Then backward. When all that failed, she started again, shrieking and grunting, then pausing for half a breath before beginning once more. He imagined her stubborn enough to continue until she collapsed, until all her strength was spent. But he couldn’t allow it, not if there was a chance she might catch him unawares and fall.
He’d been right—the cell was the safest place for her, even if it took time for her to understand.
She lunged to her right and pulled his hip out of her way, spinning him easily since he was braced to be pushed in the opposite direction. He was forced to release the wall and wrap his arms around her or the clever minx might have succeeded!
He pulled her close, forcing her elbows up and away, limiting her ability to gain momentum against him.
She screamed up into his face. “Nooo!”
He was but grateful she had returned to human language.
Her lungs pumped like billows against him and he realized he was also struggling for breath. She was so much stronger than he’d believe her capable.
And so much softer, damn her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
With one arm wrapped about her waist and the other across her back, he slowly moved his hand up beneath her glorious tresses, but only for a more secure hold, not to enjoy the feel of the heavy strands against the flesh of his hand.
Yes, he knew better than to touch her. But her safety had to come before all else or his preparations were for naught.
She struggled against him, but beneath her grunts of frustration he felt her barely concealed sobs, and he suddenly understood. She would rather fight to the death than allow him to see her weakness.
He almost laughed in relief but knew the woman would take insult.
Pride.
Her pride had very nearly killed them both. And perhaps her pride was the source of her previous woes as well. But Gaspar took heart, for pride was an affliction he could cure. He only needed to get her safely inside her cell, and he could begin.
He pressed the side of his face to hers and whispered in her ear. “My lady, do you wish to live?”
She lifted a boot and kicked his shin in answer.
He reached up and put his hand at the back of her head, then spun with her and crushed her body against the wall, knocking the wind from her and pressing so firmly she was unable to breathe deeply. She panted in his ear while he waited for her to appreciate the power he held over her. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have the strength to fight her way out.
He tried not to dwell upon what any other man would do with that power, especially with a woman who felt as if she were designed to fit perfectly against him. To say nothing of the taste of her. He had no need to put his lips to her in order to know the flavor of her. Just the smell of her hair woke his senses more easily than any woman from his youth. If he were ever to taste her in earnest, his soul would be lost to the devil in the blinking of an eye. The knowledge was as certain as the scar across his face.
Isobelle Ross was the embodiment of his salvation. It was one of the two reasons he’d brought her to his island. But the body he was pressed against could just as easily be his destruction. So he would need to tread carefully—just as carefully as he tread those steps beyond the door.
“Please…” she whispered.
He stopped pressing, but did not step back. “You wish to live?” he asked into her ear.
“Aye.” Her word was little more than breath, and chills raced up his back and into his hair where that breath had burrowe
d itself.
“I wish you to live as well, woman. So I suggest you trust me.” He leaned back to look her in the eye.
She shook her head. “Trust is earned, not freely given for any who would demand it.”
He sighed. “You must step inside your…room.”
Her head shook faster.
“Hear me, my lady. This was fashioned for your safety. Can you not look upon it as such?”
“I canna,” she whispered. “Ye doona mean to keep me safe, but only to keep me. And when ye’ve wearied of me, ye’ll make a fire at me feet.”
Her fingers moved slightly between his hands and the wall against which he still pressed them, and he realized it would be much easier for her to trust him if he weren’t poised to ravish her. So, still holding her hands, he lowered them, warily, while looking into her eyes, willing her not to fear him.
“I vow, Isobelle Ross, I’ve brought you to this tower to save you from such fires.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. He licked them without thinking, and her eyes widened. Without realizing it, he’d begun to lean toward her, and her panic threatened to return. He straightened and released her hands, then turned so his body remained between her and the door.
He smiled and gestured to the open gate. “Perhaps, then, you can think of it as the only place you will be safe…from me.”
She straightened away from the wall and when he tensed, she very nearly smiled. “Aye, my lord. I will try to see it as a sanctuary, but only if I alone hold the key.”
Gaspar shook his head. “Perhaps we can begin again.” He bowed slightly. “Welcome to my island and to my home. This room has been prepared especially for your visit.”
One of her brows rose sardonically. “Only a visit, then? Such implies ye dinna expect me to stay long.”
He smiled. “We shall see.”
