by L. L. Muir
James lifted the small and haggard chest that, thanks to a dangling strap, looked like a poor container for anything of value. No one would guess the amount of gold coins filling the bottom half. “I assume you have a plan,” the big Scot said, and handed the chest to Gaspar. He picked up Isobelle by the waist and sat her on the dock while Gaspar’s hands were occupied.
She squeaked in surprise, but did not fall. When she had her balance, she let go of the man’s hands and wrapped her colorful plaid tighter around her head and shoulders. Other than the locks hanging about her face, there was little of her red hair to be seen. It made Gaspar a little sad, but he was grateful she would draw less notice.
“You there!” A man stood in the middle of the dock and waved them forward.
Gaspar gestured for Isobelle to walk behind him. Icarus followed James. But as they approached the quay’s official, the man’s eyes lit, and Gaspar’s stomach tightened.
Had the patriarch spread the word the day before, as soon as he’d first left Isola del Silenzio?
“Signore Dragotti! Forgive me! I did not recognize the boat.” The official’s waving grew desperate. “Come! Come. Let me offer you a seat in the shade. My name is Spini. I am at your service.” He glanced briefly behind Gaspar while he bowed, then straightened, his expression showing none of the curiosity that was surely eating at him.
Gaspar’s painful shoulders dropped in relief. The man simply recognized him and wished to please him.
“I have urgent business,” he barked in his usual manner—usual until recently. “I need a fast ship. A small crew. And I need them within the hour. Can this be done?”
The man’s eyes bulged. “Si, Signore. Anything His Beatitude might need.” He ran off the dock to another man who stood shuffling papers and arguing with a ship’s captain. After a few gestures and even fewer words, the arguing ceased and the red-faced captain headed down the gangway.
Long painful fingers of dread started working their way into Gaspar’s stomach and he thought to shore up his courage with the sight of Isobelle. So he glanced over his shoulder, to give her a quick but private smile, only to find her tucked beneath the arm of the big Scotsman, the chest of gold sitting all but forgotten at the man’s feet. While Gaspar wished James could protect the woman without the need to touch her, he took some comfort in the fact that even James chose not to hold the heavy chest over long. He was no Hercules then. Nothing so godlike to easily steal away Isobelle’s attention.
She’s mine!
James sent him a wink as if he’d read at least one of his thoughts, and Gaspar faced forward just as the captain arrived. He recognized the man.
“Captain Ermacora,” he said in greeting before the man could speak.
“Signore Dragotti.” The captain offered a low bow. “I was just arguing with Spini and his brother over the fact that my ship is ready to depart with its glass for France, the tide will be leaving soon, but half of my crew is still in the city. Lying drunk between a woman’s—” Ermacora glanced over Gaspar’s shoulder and choked. “That is to say, they are the most slovenly of my men, and of little use. My error was in thinking one of the brothers could be spared to gather them up. But that hardly matters now.” He waved his hand as if to wave away everything he’d just said. “My ship and what men I have are at your disposal, Signore. I would be happy to act as captain, if you wish, and take you wherever the patriarch has ordered you. I have no fear allowing a woman aboard my ship as long as God’s Dragon is in attendance. The good luck of one will reverse the ill luck of the other, no?”
Gaspar watched the man closely, but there was no sign he thought much more than what came from his mouth. Ermacora’s greed was famous, but his loyalty to the church was unquestionable. He’d simply confirmed his own reputation.
“I appreciate your willingness to serve His Beatitude, Ermacora. Your leadership is appreciated. Let us make all haste.”
~ ~ ~
Each minute passed like her days in the tower while Isobelle waited for the ship to start moving. Every man who glanced Gaspar’s way added a weight to her stomach. Boats came and went, and more boats arrived at the quay. And any of them, from a distance, might have been carrying the patriarch’s men. Only there was no telling, without an eyeglass, until the boat grew close enough to see its occupants.
After a while, she couldn’t bear to watch any longer.
A few of Ermacora’s overdue men tried to climb aboard, but the theatrical captain pushed them back into the water as a lesson in punctuality. Eventually, the ship began moving and in her excitement, Isobelle glanced at Gaspar, hoping to share at least a silent bit of relief, perhaps even joy. But the handsome man was turned away, as he’d been each time she’d looked to him. In appearance at least, he’d turned back into the controlled, unapproachable man who had arrested her.
“Dinna worry so,” James whispered in her ear. “He has to wear the dragon mask for the now, aye? Dinna put words in his mouth, or guess his thoughts.” He chuckled. “But ye can take comfort in the fact he’s being eaten from the inside with jealousy, because I hold yer hand.”
She was ashamed by how much comfort the idea did give her. In fact, it brought a cheerful smile to her face, but she was careful to turn that smile on the waters, and not where anyone would see it. She’d kept her head down and her hair covered well, looking no one in the eye since they’d boarded. Ossian would not know her if he were standing right beside her, and not just because she was lighter an armful of hair. She was that changed. Her old self would have started frightening the sailors the moment she’d stepped on board.
~ ~ ~
The ship was a two-masted caravel that traveled much faster than the larger Spanish carrack, even when riding low in the water with a cargo of glass. There were only eight oars to each side, but there was much less ship to move. Another few minutes and they would near the Porto di Lido and leave the islands and lagoon behind.
The captain barked an order and suddenly the oars lifted from the water and hovered above it. Isobelle willed them to lower and resume their work, but her will had no effect. The ship slowed quickly while the captain descended the few steps from the upper deck. He strode directly to Gaspar and leaned close.
“Two lanchas approach, Signore…filled with the patriarch’s guards. I wonder…if you would prefer to wait for them. They seem most anxious to stop us. Perhaps they are hoping to be of assistance to you.” The Italian captain’s eyes watched Gaspar closely. “But if your business is too urgent to delay…”
The side of Gaspar’s jaw jumped, the man unable to sit quietly within the beast. And Ermacora saw it. But there was no time for chess moves. They were about to be boarded, and he couldn’t allow that, for it would mean Isobelle’s death. Capitulation was vital.
“You are quite right.” Gaspar gave a nod. “My business is too urgent. I shall have to manage without their assistance.”
The captain turned and shouted for the oarsmen to resume, and the wood blades dug back into the water like the claws of a single animal. Grasp, release. Grasp, release. And the ship moved.
Another man called out from the bow. After a warning look to Gaspar, Ermacora ordered the oars up again. “It seems the patriarch’s guards are well motivated, Signore. They move to block our escape, risking their very lives.”
Gaspar was tempted to look, but since there was still a chance those in the small boats did not yet know Gaspar and his party were aboard. However, if the caravel was searched…
The captain moved closer still. “The damage to my ship will be minimal, but the damage to my soul might be expensive indeed.” The man glanced at the old trunk at James’ feet, then back to Gaspar.
He didn’t know if James spoke Italian or not, but the big man seemed to sense the danger and reached for something at his back. But Gaspar shook his head. James could not use his small black weapon now. Those young men in black uniforms would not die because of him. And it seemed the captain had not surrendered just yet.
/> Gapsar nodded again to Ermacora. “Unquestionable compensation, Captain.”
The man frowned, wasting precious time. “Is it your money, or does it belong to The Patriarch of Venice?”
“Mine.”
Ermacora smiled. “Then I shall have no qualms about taking it.” He strode quickly to the port side and shouted over the rail at the unseen boats. “Stay back, my friends, or we will send your lanchas to the bottom of the lagoon! I was warned at Murano that the patriarch’s guards carry the Black Death. Even now, you come too close.”
A denial came from the distance along with a command to allow them to board.
Ermacora laughed. “You leave me no choice. I hope your men can swim.” He then ordered the oars back in the water and for the crew to brace themselves for impact.
Gaspar translated for James and Isobelle.
Ermacora walked back to them. “I suggest you and your friends go into my cabin immediately.” He gestured to a set of steps that led beneath the upper deck. “And decide how much I am to be compensated.”
Gaspar gave the captain a grateful bow and led the others away before they might be noticed. James brought the trunk and Gaspar took the opportunity to take Isobelle’s hand to pull her along. Icarus followed.
“And consider carefully, Dragon,” Ermacora said to their backs, “the worth of a soul.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Edinburgh, two weeks later…
Isobelle sat glaring at James and hoping the gash on his chin hurt him something fierce. He and Gaspar had been poking at each other for the past week and she was prepared to clunk their heads together if they went at it again.
They were seated around a corner table at the Black Hart Coaching Inn, but she kept her head covered with a dark hood in case the serving women might gossip. Anyone who caught sight of her unsettling hair would find it difficult to keep their tongues between their teeth, and if anyone recognized her from some visit to Castle Ross…
Of course, it was difficult not to draw attention to a party that consisted of scarred dragon with a black eye and a giant with hair the color of flame and a handsome, foreign look about him—though, when he opened his mouth he could be nothing but a Scot. His French accent was atrocious, but Icarus had proven the most talented with that language. In fact, the little man had decided that France was the best place for them to part company. He had his freedom, after all. And James had hesitated when asked if the little man might be welcomed when they met up with Monty.
“It isn’t that he won’t be welcomed, mind ye. More like he may wish he hadn’t gone. There would be no coming back.”
Icarus hadn’t liked the sound of that detail, so he’d disembarked in Cherbourg. Gaspar spent a good while thanking the man before Icarus disappeared, becoming part of the crowd moving along the docks.
Now, they were three, sitting in an inn, stuffing their gobs, as James put it, and waiting for horses.
Isobelle noticed that Gaspar grimaced and turned his head to the wall each time a well-dressed woman entered the Inn. And after he’d reacted the same way half a dozen times, she teased him about it.
“You will remember,” he said quietly, “that I have known a fair share of noble Scotswomen from my years at the English court. I merely prefer not to be recognized.”
She sat straight when she did, indeed, remember what he’d shared with her about his youth. And she suddenly understood why the man had been fighting with James. He was jealous. Fearful James might win her away from him. It was the same way she now felt about the better-dressed women in the room, as if each of them might have known her dragon, even if it was long, long ago.
James wanted to know more. She told him to shut his gob. And when Gaspar started laughing at James for having been put in his place, she slapped his arm, though gently.
Then James snorted.
Isobelle glared at the big man. “I will not stand for more of yer nonsense.” Gaspar laughed again and she turned her glare to him. “Nor yers, ye daft dragon. If ye wish to punish every man who looks my way, and I begin punishing the women for looking at ye, the whole of Scotland will be orphaned, ye ken? I’m yers, ye eegit. Ye must be content with that. Ye canna be the only man to see me unless ye lock me in a tower, aye?” Then she rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, but that didna work so well, did it?”
Gaspar sobered, then grumbled an apology to her.
“Not to me, my love. Apologize to Wee James.”
Gaspar gave a devilish smile. “I beg yer pardon…Wee James.”
James’ grin fell from his face. His jaw ground back and forth, then he winced and stopped abruptly. He continued to glare at Gaspar while he put his finger gently to his damaged chin.
Isobelle sighed and got to her feet. “Lads,” she said in disgust, and glanced toward the door for signs of their horses. She was anxious to quit the place if only to be free of prying eyes. But there was no sign yet of the stable lad.
“Isobelle Ross!” A voice called from behind her as she turned back to the table and she froze like a stone. If she turned, someone would know they’d identified her correctly. If she ignored them…
She looked frantically to Gaspar and noted the tiniest shake of his head. Then he said something to her in Italian, as if they were in the middle of a discussion. He looked at her, as if waiting for her to respond in kind. But she could count her Italian words on ten fingers.
“Troppo grasso,” she said with a shrug. The veil beneath her hood draped down both sides of her head and she tucked it closer to her cheeks.
“Forgive me.” The stranger was suddenly at her shoulder. He spoke English. “I have seen you before, have I not?”
Again, Gaspar shook his head and stood, for which she was grateful, since she was fair to certain she was about to collapse to the floor and she hoped he might catch her.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” Gaspar didn’t reach for her. In fact, he moved away from her a bit.
“I am Father Clellan. And you are surely Gaspar Dragotti? Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice?”
“I am Dragotti.” If he would have said, “I am a dragon,” he would have been believed as well, his old confidence was that effective. He hoped a stern look would convince the man to leave him in peace.
But the unwelcomed priest lingered. “You will find this amusing then, Signore. When I first glimpsed this lady, I mistook her for a young woman who had once been condemned as a witch. A Scottish woman, in fact.”
The priest tilted his head to one side to get a better look at her. Gaspar stepped further away and she realized he did so to lure the man’s attention from her. When the man continued to peer around her hood, Gaspar gestured for the man to come to him, which he did. Finally free of his attention, she stepped closer to James and bent as if to speak to him. Then she listened.
“Father Clellan, I promise not to translate your words, so Signore Crescento will not be offended. In these frightening times, you can understand why she would not view your mistake as amusing.”
The priest stammered. “Uh…uh… Of course, of course! And travelling with God’s Dragon…” He gasped. “Of course. Forgive me.”
After an uncomfortable pause, Gaspar continued. “This is the problem with our kind, Clellan. We have condemned innocent women for less, have we not?”
Through the edge of her veil, she watched the priest nod until he grasped what he was confessing to. His head stopped and his eyes widened.
Gaspar raised an imperious brow. “We must work harder to find the truth. Must we not?”
Clellan nodded quickly, then looked awkwardly about him. James stood and the priest started, then offered Gaspar a shallow bow.
“Forgive me, Signore. I have Mass to prepare. Godspeed to you and… He waved a hand toward her and James. “I am at St. Mary’s.” He started backing away. “If you have any need of my services, you need only send word.”
Gaspar only nodded. Clellan turned and scurried away like a nervous r
at.
Once the man was gone, Isobelle sat again, breathing unsteadily. Clellan had been the priest to whom young Orie had confessed. And the bastard who’d condemned her to die had come from St. Mary’s as well. The one whose hands Montgomery had offered to cut off.
And he was probably still there in Edinburgh! Within minutes from her! But she wasn’t thinking of discovery just then—she was thinking about revenge.
Gaspar and James, no longer squabbling, both stood over her protectively. She opened her mouth to tell them…something, but she couldn’t form the words. She was both terrified and seething with hatred. There was little doubt—if she asked them—that the two men beside her would send the man to Hell…
But the words would not come.
Unfortunately, her tears had no such trouble and poured freely down her cheeks to splash on her veil now bunching at her neck.
Gaspar pulled her up and into his arms in spite of a wide room filled with witnesses. After pressing her head briefly against him, he pulled back to look into her eyes.
“Je suis désolé,” he said in French. “There is no English way to express it accurately. I am desolated for you, that you should have suffered such torture at the hands of men…like me. And then, for the benefit to fall to me—one of them.” He shook his head feverishly. “How can you possibly forgive me, sweet Isobelle?”
Suddenly, she felt much too wonderful looking into Gaspars warm eyes, and all thoughts of revenge melted through her fingers. As close as she was to vengeance, as easily as she might reach for it, she knew that there was a choice to make—one and not the other. Gaspar and happiness and love, or hate and anger and vengeance. An easier choice had never been.
