by L. L. Muir
“Yes, Your Beatitude. And I thank you for your…” He could not use the words mercy, wisdom, nor generosity. “Thank you for your patience.”
The old man glared, but eventually nodded and left the room.
Gaspar’s heart jumped again when he remembered the patriarch was determined to collect the key from Icarus, when the key was currently in Gaspar’s pocket!
He turned back to the cell and found Isobelle’s eyes wide with worry. Perhaps she had understood enough. But there was no time to explain. He dug in his pocket, fumbled with the string, but finally wrapped his fingers around the key. Then he hurried to the door and listened. They were only halfway down.
He returned to the gate. “I will cut your binds in a moment, sweet Isobelle, but I must slip Icarus the key first.”
He slid the dangerous thing into the lock and turned it as slowly as possible. Thankfully, the mechanism turned silently. Again, he blessed the artisans. He swung the gate wide, then used the stool to block it open. He would not trust it to remain that way, and the patriarch had already proven the cell could not be compromised if the gate were locked.
“I will return before you finish your prayers.” He smiled and gave her a wink.
She rolled her eyes and returned his smile. It was forgiveness enough to lighten his heart. He needed only to remove the holy man from his island and he could return to her and hear her forgiveness from her own sweet lips.
The patriarch was sufficiently irritated to move twice as quickly back to his boat as he had when he’d arrived. Even so, it was not fast enough to ease Gaspar’s mind, but it was his turn to practice patience. He held the key behind him and felt Icarus take it from his fingers before hurrying to the large boat.
Success! His pounding heart slowed a bit.
Once on board and seated, the old man smiled. “Your man. We will take him with us.”
Had he not noticed Icarus was already seated on his boat? And that his boat was well away from the dock?
The patriarch motioned for the rowers to begin. “We will keep him with us, and we will take his boat along as well.” He smiled slyly. “We shall all see you in five days, Gaspar. Be ready.”
Only then did Gaspar notice the small boat moving to join the larger one. A guard at the rear finished tying the knot that would ensure Gaspar and Isobelle would have no way off the island before the patriarch returned with the executioner.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was tied up, fearful, and bleeding, he might have postponed telling the woman he loved that her life was still very much in danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Isobelle escaped her other binding and walked carefully down the steps alone. Gaspar met her at the bottom of the stairs, his face as pale as the moon the night before. He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her middle. With his ear pressed against her and her fingers running through his hair, he apologized once more for not thinking of a better way to have hidden her from the patriarch.
“There wasna time.” She lifted his chin and smiled into his eyes. “I understand. I do.”
Gaspar took a shaky breath, and pressed his forehead to her middle. “He took my boat, Isobelle. Our way off the island. I thought he would only take Icarus, but he took the boat as well.”
Dread tried to settle on her chest again, but she would not have it. “We will think of some other way off the island. If we swim out into the lagoon, to the busy channel, a boat will surely stop for us.” Then a sickening thought presented itself. “Or do ye not mean to leave with me?”
He stood and led her into the solar. He took a seat and pulled her onto his lap. “Listen, my love.” He wove his fingers through hers and held their hands to his chest. “I do not wish to keep anything from you. The patriarch is going to return in five days…with an executioner. But I vow to you, I will see us safely off the island long before then. Together.”
She smiled, the news of an executioner paling in importance when the man she loved planned to stay by her side.
“We’ve five days then,” she said cheerfully. “Dinna fash. I canna speak Italian, but I understood the disagreement. And I know the number cinque, aye? It was either five days or five journeys.”
Some of the worry smoothed from his brow and he sighed in relief. “You stayed so still, I assumed you understood nothing.”
She pushed a bit of his hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. She laughed when he shivered. “Weel, I’ve been taught, lately mind ye, that it is best to remain quiet when men of the church are about.”
He laughed. It was a rare, but glorious sound.
“The rosary was a nice touch.”
“Oh, aye. I thought so meself, just as ye were coming through the door. Almost hung meself with them.”
He turned their hands and worried over her bloody wrist. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, then kissed the bruised flesh. It was as exquisite a touch from his warm lips as any other had been. And far too brief.
“No need. If we’ve five days to find a way off the island, let us not waste them with more apologies, aye? And will ye be coming with me, not because ye fear the patriarch’s wrath, but because…” She bit her lip and looked down, unable to finish. Releasing her was one thing. Loving her was quite another. “Because…”
“Because I love you.” It was not a question. “I wish to leave with you, Isobella, and remain with you, if you’ll have me.” He shook his head. “I meant to say, Isobelle.”
“Auch, now. Did I say I mind?” She couldn’t help but smile wide with the sudden rightness settling in her chest. “Though Isobella sounds too pretty a name for someone with questionable hair.”
He sighed. His brows knit together while he touched the odd locks on her head. “Your hair makes no matter to me. But I do love to see your eyes so easily. How long will it take to grow again? A year? Two?”
She frowned. “I dinna ken. Me head feels a bit lighter. I may need a pillow now, like I’ve ne’er needed one before. But I doona mind the cool air blowin’ on me neck now and again. Though, in Scotland I would freeze.”
“With the whole of the world to choose from, where shall we go?”
She considered it a moment. She’d been so desperate to go home, to where she was dearly loved, she could think of nothing else. But that desperation was gone. Did she long for the sights and sounds and smells of the Highlands? She did. But now she had a longing of another sort. She’d been alone in the world—excepting a cousin who had been unable to stay with her much. But she was no longer alone, if the look in her dragon’s eyes was to be believed.
“How far must we go to be beyond the patriarch’s reach? I doona expect the man will be overly pleased when he finds us gone.”
His brow lowered like that of a pensive dragon and she could not resist the impulse to kiss him there.
He looked up and gave her a wink. “We would be safe in France. Word will spread throughout the Church States, but with Charles VI trying to steal Naples, the patriarch will not be reaching beyond Milan.”
He freed his fingers from hers, kissed her hands, and released them. Then he braced his arms behind him, allowing her to leave his lap if she wished. But she kept her seat.
“It is likely I will be a hunted man, Isobelle. There will be a price on my head and many a man will try to search me out. Are you certain you’d like to spend your life with a dragon who was once capable of locking you in his tower and demanding your submission? It is a frightening tale for any woman to have endured.”
She thought he might go on, but he left it at that. She’d told him she wanted no more apologies, but that was what he was giving her. One last plea for forgiveness.
“I havena seen that scaly monster for quite some time. I am fair to certain he’ll not be back. Misguided beast. I believe his replacement is a well-meaning lad.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I vow I will never hold you against your will again.”
“Auch, well, the question is, do ye wish
to hold me against yer heart? As I wish to hold ye against mine?”
His arms wrapped around her once more. “Do you mean it, Isobelle?” His whisper made her shiver.
“Aye, I do. Over, and over, and over again.”
~ ~ ~
Taking any gold in their pockets would weigh them down and drown them if they had to swim from the island. But since Isobelle didn’t want Gaspar to leave her often in order to sustain them, wherever they decided to go, she thought they should take a little something along. And that thought led to another, which led them to test the large bench in the water, to see if it might float with both of them and a little bit of coin as well.
It did not. The water seeping between the planks was the problem. So they tried wrapping her Ross plaid around the bench. The wool was woven so closely, it was a great improvement. They assumed the worst, that it would not hold indefinitely, but they decided it was worth the risk. After all, if the odd boat began to sink, they could let the coins go and rely on their ability to swim, a talent Isobelle assured him she possessed when she was not hampered by skirts.
They decided to wait for the tide, which was due to hit the island on the south side in the early morning, and thus push them north, toward the mainland. If they were not pulled onto a boat, they could hope the plaid would hold until they reached the distant shore.
By the time the sun set in the west, they were exhausted. They bathed in the drinking water they’d be leaving behind, dressed for their journey, then ate their suppers on a blanket on the beach. If they slept indoors, they might sleep past the tide, especially with as weary as they were.
Isobelle sat facing the water with Gaspar at her back trying to work a brush through her clean but wet hair. Though the water glowed a lovely pink from the dying sunset, her attention was not on the water, but on a small black speck that appeared and disappeared behind distant waves.
“Do ye see that black bit, on the horizon?” She leaned to the side and pointed.
Gaspar peered over her shoulder and chills bubbled up her spine and spread to the back of her ears. She never wished to be farther away from him than she was at that moment.
“Yes. I see it,” he said. “It is a boat.” He tossed the brush on the blanket and hurried to his feet. “I’ll get a torch. Hopefully, they’ll see it. We may get off the island without getting wet!”
Isobelle strained to keep the black bit in sight as if her concentration might keep it from disappearing. She was pleased when it was still visible when Gaspar reappeared with the burning brand. He carefully waved the fire over his head in a wide arc and she shielded her eyes so the light wouldn’t blind her from seeing the boat.
Then the little spot stopped disappearing behind waves. It remained steady, though it no longer moved to the side.
“It’s coming,” Gaspar said. But there was no celebration in his voice. And he’d stopped waving the torch.
“Are you disappointed we will no longer be alone?” she said with a laugh.
He shook his head, unsmiling. “No, my love. I worry who is coming to our door.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Perhaps it is Icarus?” Isobelle tried to sound more hopeful than she felt.
“It is no boat of mine.”
The dark spot grew into a wide bottomed boat, a smaller rendition of a Viking’s vessel with one oar working at each side. She’d seen a dozen of the same once the carrack had entered the Mediterranean with Ossian and her on board, though she’d never seen one so sparsely manned. This one appeared to be empty if not for those oars dipping into the water over and over again.
A shiver ran through her. “I see no one,” she whispered. She was frightened. Someone should have hailed by now.
Gaspar came to stand beside her and wrapped his free hand around hers, but he offered no assistance as the boat neared his dock. Suddenly, the oars were tucked in and a great beast rose up and lunged out of the center of the vessel, landing smoothly and silently on the wooden planks. It stood on its hind legs and pulled the boat close, then wrapped a single rope around one of the dragon heads carved on the top of a pylon.
Not a beast, but a beast of a man covered in fine furs despite the warm climate, who would have stood head and shoulders, and more, above the guards who had walked those planks earlier that day.
A healthy mane of hair draped from his head in disarray, not unlike Isobelle’s own. When his boots crunched onto the sand, he drew a long-sword as easily as he would an eating knife. He stopped ten feet away and rested the sword on his protected right shoulder. Then he grinned.
Gaspar tensed.
Isobelle could not resist grinning back. He seemed a cheerful sort. Nothing like the sober party that visited that morning. Surely not the enemy.
“Gaspar Dragotti?” the man asked.
Gaspar hesitated for so long that Isobelle wondered if he would lie.
“I am,” he finally said.
“I wondered,” the man said in English, “since the lass there was supposed to be well and goodly secured in a tower, aye?”
A Scotsman?
Gaspar pulled her behind him and braced his legs apart. “Who are you?”
The man offered a little bow, not taking his eyes off Gaspar. “The newly appointed executioner…of The Patriarch of Venice.”
Isobelle’s head began to shake and she noted Gaspar’s head was doing the same.
“We were promised five days,” he said. “We will have our five days.” The last sounded like a threat to Isobelle. By the look on the big man’s face, he’d heard the same.
“Weel,” his brogue was thick but strange, “perhaps the patriarch decided ye couldna be trusted to be here when he returned.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the bench wrapped in plaid, just beyond the reach of the waves. “Or perhaps it was me own suspicion. I’ve heard tell that Isobelle Ross canna be trusted to stay anywhere for long. And I thought I should come quickly, before she got away.” He took no step forward, but seemed content to stand where he was and visit a while, as if the heavy sword weighed nothing at all. “Icarus was kind enough to give me directions. Though I very nearly missed ye.” His grin broadened. “I do thank ye for the signal, aye?”
Gaspar’s head was shaking again. “Did my servant give you her name?”
The beast lowered the tip of his sword to the side and started forward. Gaspar lunged for the torch, then returned to stand before her.
“Easy, now, mate. My name is James. I’ve been sent by Montgomery Ross to collect his Isobelle and take her home again.”
“Monty?” Her hand flew to her breast. The sound of her brother’s name was like a gift of sweet heather. “My Monty?”
“His Isobelle?” Gaspar’s voice sounded coarse, as if he’d swallowed a bit of sand.
“His sister,” James clarified, grinning. “I take it, ye’re less than anxious to be rid of her, then? Ye’ve not taken her from her tower just to put the torch to her?”
Gaspar’s shoulders relaxed, as did his grip on her fingers. But she thought they might both feel better if she wrapped herself around his arm and stood against him.
“No. Er, yes,” Gaspar said. “I’m fond of her. Did you ask if I was fond of her?”
James laughed. “I suppose I did, in a way. Ye canna guess how relieved I am I doona have to kill ye in order to save her. I’m not to meddle with history. Killing a man meddles with history something fierce, as ye can imagine.”
Gaspar laughed. “I do not understand what you mean, in truth. But I assure you, I am equally relieved I have no need to kill you in order to save her. Your progeny be damned.”
James laughed again, obviously amused by the notion of anyone besting him. Gaspar laughed again, but warily. She remembered Monty and his friends laughing and posturing in much the same way.
Isobelle was overcome with hunger for any news of home. “Tell me, James. Is my brother well?”
The giant man considered the ground for a moment and she worried he had bad news to sh
are. She clutched Gaspar’s arm tighter still, but he shrugged her off and wrapped his arm around her shoulder instead. In his other hand, the torch flagged, but she suspected he wouldn’t lower it so long as James held his sword.
James finally faced her again.
“Weel, first, let me tell you that Monty is fine. He’s a happy mon, but for his worry over ye. The fact that Ewan is laird now doesna mean there is anything wrong with yer brother. It is just, he has...moved away, ye might say.”
“So we can join him?” Her heart soared. “But what of my sister, Morna? Do ye ken anything of her?”
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard a’ plenty of her and her husband. Happily married. Expecting a bairn, I believe. As is Monty’s wife, or so the witches tell me.”
Gaspar tensed around her.
Isobelle shook her head and patted his chest. “I’m certain they are only Muir witches, my love. The ones I told you about.”
Gaspar didn’t seem to take any comfort in that fact, but she was more worried for her sister at the moment. “But Morna. How can she be happy with her husband? I warned her to stay away from him.”
James nodded vigorously. “Oh, aye. The Curse of Clan Ross. ‘Tis over. Of course they willna be telling the tourists the prophecy was fulfilled, but—”
“Prophecy?” Gaspar’s head began shaking again.
Isobelle hardly dared ask, knowing the man at her side would not take the question well. But Gaspar’s comfort would have to wait.
“Do you know, James? The faery, did it come?”
James gave her a wink, then a slight nod. “All tales yer brother and sister are anxious to tell ye.”
“But what of Ivar?”
Gaspar tensed again. “Ivar?”
“Easy mon. He’s marrit to Morna, Isobelle’s sister.”
Isobelle jumped and wrapped her arms around Gaspar’s neck. No news could have made her happier. She could stand to wait a wee while for other details. The important thing was that Morna and Ivar had been reunited. All her suffering had not been for naught. And if she hadn’t suffered as she had, been chased out of a town or two, she might never have met Gaspar.
