Collecting Isobelle

by L. L. Muir

  She nodded and won his full attention. “Battle scars are fine, noble things. But nowhere does it say that the battle cannot be with yerself. Ye had a long fight. Ye should wear yer scars with pride, for fighting on. As for yer mother, she is the unworthy one. She has lost the right to call ye son. As has yer father. Ye are an orphan now. Like me.”

  His right cheek curled in half a smile. “You Scottish are an odd lot. You see battle as honorable. All battle? What about battles you could have avoided?”

  “Could ye have avoided this battle and still found a worthy purpose for your life? Perhaps God allowed the one so ye could find the other.”

  He peered at her closely, looked back and forth, from one eye to the other. Then into her soul. “Isobelle. Can you not give up your unnecessary battles and look for something more worthy? Can you pretend meekness? Can you not threaten men who are certain to be threatened by you?”

  She pulled her hands back, seeing that he no longer wanted comfort as much as he wished to repeat his lectures. “How am I to ken which men will be threatened by me?”

  “Precisely!” He stood. “You cannot. You must assume all men are unlike your Highlanders who treat their women with such care. Assume every man you meet will be threatened by your intelligence, by your clever tongue, by your ability to see them for who they are.”

  His voice had reached such a volume she pushed her stool away and stood to gain a bit of distance for the sake of her ears. Standing beside the bed, she turned to face him. She thought to keep her voice low, hoping he would do the same, even though there was no one else to hear them.

  “Ye ask me to be distrustful of every man I meet?”

  “Yes!” His voice boomed with excitement, as if she’d suddenly understood something important. He shook his fists in the air. “With God Almighty as my witness, I am asking you to suspect everyone. Man and woman alike.” He pointed at the top of her head. “Your hair is cause enough for any woman to envy you. Envy breeds ugliness. Ugliness breeds hate. Hate demands action. Even if no man called you contrary or accused you of blasphemy, a woman will.

  “Someday your hair will turn the head of the wrong man—a man wed to a vindictive wife—and she will find the easiest way to remove you from her husband’s thoughts. It happens every day. It is the way of men and women, this jealousy, this possessiveness. I have seen it. I have been called to rectify it. I have ordered the execution of many an innocent woman because her life was not truly in my hands.”

  He gripped the bars and his knuckles turned instantly white. His face was red above his gray clothing, a brand of fire in a colorless room.

  “When you called me murderer, you couldn’t know how close you were to the mark. I have been an executioner of innocents.” He lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment, then looked up into her eyes. His face and his voice softened. “But not when I could prevent it, like I can prevent it now. I hold one of those precious lives in my hands. And I will not squander it. You are my salvation, Isobelle. If I can keep you from being tried as a witch, perhaps I will win God’s forgiveness for one of those whom I could not save.” With the backs of his legs, he pushed the bench away, stepped around the end of it, then moved to the doorway. “You may say your prayers with privacy tonight.”

  “Wait!”

  He paused with his arm braced against the frame, but would not face her. “Forgive me, Isobelle. I may never be able to permit you to leave.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Stunned, Isobelle collapsed to the floor. Her elbow caught on the bed and kept her upright. Had he truly meant it? She may never be allowed to leave? Ever?

  She fought for breath, but could only manage small gasps of air. She knew the open window was only steps away, but that didn’t keep the room from feeling like a tomb—a tomb that grew smaller with every gasp she took.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. But then she realized there was no need.

  Her arms shook. She dug her fingers into the wood of her bedframe in order to feel something, anything. For she had no solid sense of herself, as if she were slowly fading away like the glow of a fire. There one moment, gone the next. Never to be revived, only replaced. And if she disappeared from the world, the result would be as significant as a thimbleful of water taken from the sea.

  The pressure of the wood against her fingers was all there was left of her. And if that hold broke, she would shatter into a thousand flakes of ash.

  Never permit you to leave…

  She struggled for a rational thought in her head with which she might battle her complete despair. The man was distraught. His cruelty might have naught to do with her. The sorrow from his past had driven him to lash out at her, surely. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to be the only sad soul on the island tonight. Hadn’t she often done the same to Ossian, made him miserable when she was miserable, so she felt less alone?

  Poor Ossian. She had put him through such torment, it was a wonder the man had stood with her all this time in spite of his promise to Monty. No other man would have done so. She’d been cruel and selfish. A spoilt bairn who should have encouraged her cousin to return home long ago. She should have made that first little village work. She should have made friends. She should have found a husband.

  And she should have cut her hair.

  Her heart jumped at the thought, but for once, she viewed her dark red mane as the enemy, not her personal Holy Grail to be defended and preserved. Could her exile have been so different, in truth, if she’d but humbled herself enough to cut her hair?

  Would her tyrant have taken notice of her had her head been covered? She looked back at all the hopes her hair had destroyed, and continued to look back until the most terrible question of all demanded an answer.

  Had the kirk’s bastard condemned her for her hair alone? If not for her unwieldy red tresses, would the matter have been left to Father MacRae when he returned? Would she, even now, be breathing deeply of heather and bracken, knowing no other soil between her toes than that of her ancestors? Monty had urged her to cover her head and keep it covered until the matter had been settled, but she’d been…too proud.

  Pride had brought her here! Her hair had brought her here. Nemeses, both. But the unholy pain in her chest forced her to realize other things as well. The most painful fact was not that Gaspar Dragotti could not love her. It was the recognition that she’d been holding out hope…

  …that he could!

  She furiously shook her head and tears flung from her eyes. How could she have harbored such a hope? How could she have allowed herself to even want such a thing? Was he not the enemy? She had intended to win his affection simply to win her freedom. But was there more?

  Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She struggled against it for a bit longer, to delay yet another blow to a heart already writhing in her breast. But the thought, now exposed, demanded to be acknowledged.

  She hoped for his love…because he already had hers. Isobelle Ross loved the enemy!

  A long, dazed moment later, the cure for all enemies grew warm and heavy against her calf—her skean duh. She lifted her foot to feel the solid rub of it against her leg. It was there. It was waiting.

  She took a deep and filling breath, suddenly calm. It was the kind of calm that comes when a decision has been made and the action needed becomes clear. She relaxed her grip on the bed and stood, then moved the stool beneath the window. Tonight she was wearing her own nightdress again along with the boots and hose in case of escape. It was also the best way to keep her skean duh on her person and close to hand.

  She placed her boot on the stool and lifted her white skirt out of the way. Then slowly, she pulled the little knife from its sheath. Seated on the stool once again, she examined the blade in the light of the candle Gaspar had left behind.

  A fine, sharp edge it still had. The handle was thicker than it ought to be, with layer upon layer of soft leather. A gift from a father she barely remembered. The sheath, a gift from her mother. Would they b
e disappointed to know what their gifts were ultimately used for? No matter.

  She wished there were some polished surface in which she might see her reflection, but the dragon had provided her with nothing more vainglorious than a brush. She felt her head, petted the thick mane she’d wrestled with all her life, wondered if it might be a relief to be free of it now. But where to start?

  She pulled a thick mass forward over her left shoulder and tested the length. It was nearly to her waist. If she cut it at the neck, might she possibly fit the rest beneath a crispin? Or perhaps inside a padded roll as she’d seen the noble ladies wear? She’d tried to wrap her wealth of hair inside a turban and failed with each attempt. But with half the hair, she might succeed.

  But as her captor’s words came back to her, all thoughts of fashion dissolved. She simply wanted to be rid of it all, and rid of the pain that gnawed at her innards. Then she would turn her thoughts to the dragon and how to make him rue the day he’d laid eyes upon her.

  She raised the blade and hoped it might guide itself, but a flash of light made her pause. It was the reflection of her face in the smooth silver surface. Her face. Was that smooth flesh her enemy as well?

  If the dragon kept her locked away so he could gaze upon her at his leisure, she would make true and certain he never wanted to look at her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Gaspar did not go to Isobelle at Compline, leaving her to pray alone as he’d promised. His past always made him feel foolish, and he’d gone to sleep feeling decidedly mean. The kindest thing to do for her was to allow her to sleep. And when she woke, he’d apologize.

  Dawn was not so considerate of him, however, and the pale blue light woke him as surely as a trumpet’s blast. He rose to face his day of penance and decided to walk the beach and practice the apology he must deliver with her morning meal.

  Perhaps he would begin by explaining that it was his heart that was the true captive here. The bars that held him prisoner were long curled strands of dark red hair, and even as he watched her sleep through the intricately designed screen, he was on the inside, looking out. He had no gate, and no key. He would be bound to her forever, even if she left him.

  The sky was clear and empty but for a gull that had much to complain about. His fellows fled the beach and joined him, and together they went in search of something that apparently not be found on Isola del Silenzio, his Island of Silence.

  He strolled to the western point and found the tide had washed nothing interesting onto the shore. The south beach had nothing more than a thin offering of shells. There was something new on the east side, however. A large bit of dark fur. Perhaps a remnant of what was once a sea lion.

  He neared it cautiously, not knowing if some small animal might still be alive enough to strike out at him. But as he bent over it, he realized it was hair—Isobelle’s hair!

  He spun in the sand and looked at the tower, wishing, as he ran, that he could see through the stones. He had to pay close attention to his footing, as he wore no protection on his feet, and he noticed another clump of hair. He snatched it up midstride and continued toward the arched doors. He stopped dead when he noticed the second lock had not been moistened by the sea spray, but by blood.

  The ever-present wind brought a cry to his ears, but it was not the gulls; it was Isobelle, sobbing. A gust tugged at the dark red hair in his hand as if it were determined to take it from him.

  “Isobelle.” It was both a whisper and a prayer, and he repeated it with every step as he ran to her.

  ~ ~ ~

  James Ferguson, former MI6 agent for Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, was pleased to find that people in the fifteenth century were much more trusting than people from his own twenty-first century. He had no need of Google. Everyone knew everything about everyone. He supposed that was what happened when there was no telly to watch. These people simply watched their neighbors for entertainment.

  A Scotsman looking for another Scotsman was nothing to raise a brow over. However, a Scotsman looking for a Scotswoman who’d recently been arrested as a witch was another matter entirely. These Venetians were quick to tell all they knew and quicker still to offer consolation in the form of food. Wonderful food. And to a growing lad of six feet eight inches, they were generous with their plates and their pity.

  “Of course you’ll wish to know where she’s buried,” said one woman with a sly wink, “only there is no grave to find.”

  Another was quick to join in, ladling the last of her rich soup into James’ empty bowl. “And not because she perished, I’d vow.”

  “I was getting to that,” the first complained. “No one witnessed the execution of a red-haired Scotswoman. No one—”

  “Some say she disappeared in a puff of smoke the moment God’s Dragon put her into a boat.”

  “I was getting to that as well!”

  The women began to bicker in Italian, forgetting he only spoke French and could not understand more than a word or two.

  “Ladies, please,” he said in French, reminded them of his limited tongue. “What is this about a dragon? God’s Dragon?”

  “Gaspar Dragotti,” the first woman whispered, looking around her kitchen as if this Dragotti might be lurking among the spices hanging from the ceiling beams. “Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice himself. He is the authority who arrested her. But she disappeared—”

  “As soon as he put her upon the water!” The second woman hurried out of the reach of the first one.

  “Did anyone see this?”

  “Yes! Icarus was there. He saw it all.”

  “Icarus?”

  The dragon’s servant. He swears the woman disappeared.”

  “She spoke to the sharks!” The second woman lunged to the other side of the table just as her friend reached for her. “She threw herself into the water and called the sharks to come for the dragon. He and his men dared not go after her.”

  The first woman folded her arms and glared at the one who kept blurting out the exciting parts of the story.

  “So she drowned? Or was killed by sharks?” He needed to keep them focused on the details at hand.

  “No.” The women looked at each other as if trying to remember the details. Eventually, they shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Icarus.”

  James smiled. Finally, the lead he’d been waiting for.

  “Tell me. Where do I find this Icarus fellow?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  With Icarus in tow, Gaspar raced up the steps as fast as his legs would take him. With years of ascending them, he could have climbed his own steps with a hood over his head and still been in no danger. He did pause as he neared the landing, however, in case his racing feet took him over the edge. There was no time for stumbling. The woman was bleeding and he knew not how badly! Had someone come to his island secretly in the night? For surely, the woman had no blade or she would have used it to escape!

  He hurried through the doorway and over to the gate, his hand already extended behind him for the key. Thankfully, Icarus was close on his heels. Gaspar couldn’t see her at first, splitting his attention between the seemingly empty cell and the keyhole. The stool lay on its side beneath the window. The floor was a smattering of bloody footprints. And though he was loathe to do it, he raised his eyes and searched for a white gown that might be hanging from the rafters.

  Suddenly, the key was wrenched from his hands and he found Icarus unlocking the gate for him. He pushed past the little man and glanced up again, but there were only morning shadows there.

  Where had she gone?

  He heard her sniff and turned.

  There. She was under the bed.

  “Go away,” she growled.

  Gaspar’s heart recovered itself with her coherent words. Icarus hurried out the gate and locked Gaspar inside.

  “You see?” He bent down to take a look at her. Her gown was smeared with blood, her face was in shadow. “My man has locked me inside with you, so I am unable t
o leave you.” He gave her a stern frown. “Will you come out, or shall I overturn the bed?”

  She made no move, so he lifted the end of the bed and gave it a shove. It hit the back wall and stayed. Her blankets and plaid slid to the ground and it disturbed him to see the colorful plaid there. Whenever she’d been anxious, she’d held the length of wool tight around her. If she had no need of comfort while she lay wounded on the floor…

  He scooped her into his arms and braced himself for a fight, but she only hit his chest with her fist, and that, only once. With his foot, he pulled on the edge of the bed and it crashed back into place, the stuffed mattress with it. But instead of laying her upon it, he turned and sat, holding her to him. Finally, he was able to look into her tearstained, blood-smeared face. If there was much damage there, he could not tell.

  “You were jealous. I see that now.” He noted the cut across her nose that mirrored his scar. “You wished to have some noble scars of your own. But I am relieved to see you were not nearly as successful.”

  She put a hand over her nose and ducked against him. But with the majority of her hair scattered to the winds and the waves, her high cheeks were still visible, along with a lovely pink ear bearing an odd cut in the shape of a V. Such a wound, along with the shallow cut on the bridge of her nose, could account for all the blood in the room as wounds to the head tend to bleed freely. He checked her over carefully, just to be sure, holding her gently as a bird, turning her arms this way and that. He looked for fresh blood and felt for…injuries.

  He’d forgotten that women were so much softer than men.

  When his thoughts slipped beyond his control, he concluded there were no other damages to be found and hugged her close so she might not see the grin on his face. He couldn’t help it. He was that relieved.

  Satisfied that he had regained his composure, he rolled her away from him a bit. A sad but pink face looked up at him. Her hair had been cut to the breadth of a hand. Some places longer. The left side of her head was matted with blood.