by L. L. Muir
“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?
Three weeks! Poor Icarus would never live that long. If she were forced to remain there in silence, she would go mad in a matter of days. And she would bring to pass the little man’s worst fear—an angry Scotswoman with a sharp blade in her hands.
But why could she not frighten the key away from the little man tonight and get away with the dragon gone?
She ran to the window with her heart pounding. The water was blue, the waves were calm, but the only thing bobbing on the water next to the dock was an albatross!
She spent the rest of her day imagining her escape and the problems she might face. When her next meal arrived that evening, she learned Icarus hadn’t meant three days or thre
e weeks—he’d meant three hours.
Gaspar entered with a scowl on his face and a rich green tunic she’d never seen him wear before. He’d glanced away each time she looked his direction, and then he was gone with Icarus scurrying behind. The two spoke rapidly as they’d descended the steps, but she hadn’t understood a word of it.
She’d been so surprised by the dragon’s appearance, she’d completely forgotten that only moments ago she’d been preparing herself to pounce on the little man and take his key. She’d dressed in her own clothes, tightened her boots to her feet, and tucked the skean duh in a pocket she’d made of the plaid.
She chided herself. What a coward she was to think she could not fight her way past the dragon. He was clearly distracted. He’d paid her little attention. Perhaps, when they come for the tray, I can still escape.
She prepared herself again, only this time, she imagined spinning out of Gaspar’s reach before getting her hands on Icarus. The man cared for his servant and would surely exchange the key for his safety. Or perhaps she could avoid Gaspar altogether if she were on the bed and they believed her to be asleep. Icarus would take the tray from the table—she could roll off the bed and have her arm around his neck in a heartbeat!
She stretched out on the blanket and practiced rolling off, found the best position from which to start, then settled in to wait. The waves below her window grew louder. Her heart beat harder. And tears rolled unchecked down her face, but she could not understand why. It wasn’t as if she would miss the tyrant. She certainly wouldn’t miss her frighteningly secure cell.
She’d already cried her tears for Ossian. She’d cried for her little cottage, for the knowledge she would never see little Britta again. Even for Signora Crescento and her motley parade of men. Were they tears of joy, then? Once she was away from there and beyond the dragon’s reach, would she truly head for home?
At the moment, she wanted to do nothing more than cry on her sister’s shoulder and have Monty assure her that he would make it all right again. He’d tell her Gaspar Dragotti was a monster fit for killing, let alone escaping. She should be happy to leave him behind.
Warm tears joined with the cooled ones and she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She’d grown to enjoy and crave his company as much as, or more than, she’d first enjoyed and craved the look of him. And even though he was her captor, he believed he was saving her, and she could at least forgive him for trying.
Neither man came to collect her tray. As far as she knew, Gaspar never came to sleep on the other side of the iron wall, as he usually did. Neither did he whisper those strange words, as he had each night after he thought she slumbered. She worried she might not be able to sleep until she heard them.
Say agga po poli. One day, she would discover what they meant.
Eventually, the tears dried and the sound of the waves faded as she fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The following day, there were only meals. No lectures. No arguments. And there was no chance for escape. The gate would not open until she’d moved to the windows, and Gaspar had stood so close to her, nearly pressing her to the window bars, and holding firmly to her waist! Since she’d entered the cell, he’d never touched her. Why would he suddenly do so—unless he knew of her knife and suspected her plans?
Her heart bounced hard in her chest when another thought presented itself. No lessons. No lectures. No prayers. Perhaps he has given up on me. Perhaps he was touching her while he still could…
That evening, the gate opened, and again, Gaspar stood close and put his hands on her. There was pressure enough to tell her he expected something. She moved slightly, to test him, and his grip tightened. He pulled her back against him as if in warning, and then he was gone.
Isobelle turned away from the window just as Gaspar was disappearing through the door.
“Wait. Gaspar. Will you sit with me, until nightfall? No use going below stairs when you’ll just have to climb them again, for Compline, aye?”
She thought he would decline her invitation, he took such a long time to answer. Slowly, he walked to the gate without looking at her, pulled his bench before it, and wearily sat down.
“What shall we discuss tonight, Isobelle? How to resist temptation?”
She tried to overlook how intriguing that discussion might be, for it would only lead her thoughts to temptations, and not resisting them.
“Please. Let us speak of pleasanter things than the likelihood I’ll be burned as soon as I step foot off this island.”
Still distracted, he nodded and shrugged. “What then?”
“I told ye what drove me from my home. Perhaps ye will tell me what drove ye from England?”
He snorted. “I thought you wished to speak of pleasanter things.”
“My tale was none too pleasant. I doona suppose yers will be either, for I cannot imagine staying away from home if ye’re not forced away. And yet, ye do.”
“Ah. Well, it is not possible for me to return to England any more than you can return to the Highlands.”
Isobelle pulled her stool over to the gate and sat down opposite him. The way he clenched his jaw led her to believe her proximity bothered him, so she scooted it back a foot. “So. Ye would like to return, but canna?”
“No. I wouldn’t return, even if I could.” His nose curled to one side. “The thought of returning sickens me.”
“Did ye commit some crime then?”
He laughed. “No, my lady. Not crimes. Though a great crime was committed against me.” He shook his head and rose to his feet. “I have business to attend.”
He waved toward the doorway, but his feet remained where they were, and Isobelle understood he didn’t really want to leave. Perhaps he was hungry for a little company too.
“Dinna go, my lord. This tower has been far too quiet of late. Even if ye simply breathe loudly, I’d welcome the sound.”
He grimaced, then nodded in understanding.
“How went the Regatta?”
He started, then frowned at the empty doorway.
“Now, dinna be that way,” she said. “Yer man didna wish to tell me anything at all, but relented. He said only the one word. We haven’t a common language, aye?”
Begrudgingly, he nodded. She hoped the little man wouldn’t be beaten for speaking to her, even if it was only a word. But she couldn’t believe this man would beat a servant he worried over.
Once the man relaxed, they talked about the tides. He told her how his island altered, albeit slightly, when the seasons changed. They skirted around the possibility of her still being in the tower when the next change occurred. Perhaps he suspected she would rather die before she’d stayed much longer, and he wouldn’t want to hear her say it.
After a while, there were no safe subjects that would not upset one or the both of them. So she had nothing to lose.
“Tell me of this crime, Gaspar. Did ye seek revenge?”
He smirked and pointed to his scar. “This is my revenge.”
She shook her head. “I canna understand. Who, besides yerself, would suffer from yer wound?”
His smile widened. “My mother.”
Isobelle’s mouth dropped open and remained that way, waiting for his smile to make sense, but it didn’t. She simply waited for him to explain. He glanced at the doorway again as if he regretted saying anything at all.
“Tell me,” she reached through the bars and took hold of his hand.
He stared at her fingers for a moment, and when he spoke again, he spoke to their hands.
“My parents were—are—nobles. When I was sixteen, they presented me at court.” His fingers tightened slightly, but she didn’t mind. “When my mother noticed how her rivals looked at me…” He cleared his throat and swallowed as if the very words were hindering his speech. “She realized she had something they wanted, so she made me…available to them. For a heavy price, of course. My father stopped looking me in the eye. Stopped speaking to me altogether.”
Isobelle was horrified. “Gaspar!” She pulled her seat closer, then placed her other arm through the bars, to help hold his hand tighter.
He shook his head. “Oh, I grew in talent over the years, of course. Quite a weapon, you might say. Then one day, I was ordered to do something even a… Well, who knew there was a line I would not cross?”
Isobelle held her tongue and simply squeezed, wishing she could wrap her arms around his shoulders instead.
Gaspar gave her a little smile. “She wanted me to ruin an innocent, but I wouldn’t do it. My parents fought. I drank myself into oblivion and woke in a church. A fire burned…” He looked into the dark corner, unseeing. “I buried the poker in the hot coals and waited. And an inconceivable peace overtook me. I knew I was doing the right thing, taking my mother’s weapon away so she couldn’t hurt people anymore.” He raised his hand in demonstration, an invisible poker in his closed fist. “I laid it to my face and pulled it across.” He blinked and dropped his arm. “There was a moment where I felt nothing at all. And then Hell erupted in my head, and I fainted. A priest found me and cared for my wound before I woke again. I stayed in his care for a sennight, confessing all the while. When I had nothing more to tell, he suggested I devote the rest of my life to God. I simply could not do that in England.”
Gaspar rolled his shoulders and blinked some image from his vision.
“This noble scar was my own doing. Whenever it started healing too cleanly, I would tear it open again. After I nearly died from a fever, I stopped. The result is this.”
He touched the brand awkwardly, as if he rarely allowed himself to feel it. Then his hand fell away.
“I was far from worthy to speak to God, but I thought to come to the church states, to be near men who were. Eventually, the patriarch found a need for me. I serve him. He serves God. Thereby, I serve God.” Though he smiled, he had not lessened his hold.
