by L. L. Muir
“Witch.”
Chapter Nine
The frighteningly calm tyrant promised Isobelle that Signora Crescento would care for the cottage and her things. He made it seem as if there was an actual chance she would be returning, and she was grateful for the small comfort it gave her, though doubted he believed what he said. With her heart racing, a little false comfort was something she could hang on to.
The man walked into the lane and the guards took positions around her as she followed after him. They’d allowed her a precious pair of boots—with her little dagger thankfully hidden inside—and the length of Ross plaid she kept wrapped around her shoulders. She hadn’t been allowed enough privacy to change her gown.
Anyone watching would recognize her voluminous folds as her nightdress. And if she never returned for the green gown, she would accept it as a sign that it had never been destined to be hers after all. Ossian should have allowed young Sophia to keep it.
One guard before her, a man to each side, and a man behind.
Back at Castle Ross, when they’d escorted her to her tomb, to be buried alive, the kirk’s henchmen had surrounded her the same way. But she’d been allowed no plaid, no comfort. And in those twelve days that followed, while she’d shivered and waited for her brother and cousins to dig her out, she’d wished a thousand times that she would have tried to escape that escort.
If she didn’t try now, she might never forgive herself—for as long as she was allowed to live.
And she did wish to live.
She might be miserable to be so far from Scotland, but she’d still hoped for a happy life. There was no clear future for her, yet, but she intended to be around to discover it.
She would not go along quietly to face another death sentence. She would not!
The road turned left ahead. On the right, there was a break between two buildings. Beyond that break would be the small wall and then the sea. At the turn, the gap widened between the man at her side and the man behind, and she bolted between them. The quick fingers of the last man clutched her plaid, but she slipped free of it and fled. She prayed she would reach the small alley before the men had their legs under them.
Seven steps and she entered the alley. Another six and the alley was behind her.
The wall! Just a few steps more!
Something hit her leg and screamed at her feet. It was a pig, and her piglets squealed in response. Isobelle had to dance through them carefully. The guards closed the distance. The tyrant pushed one of them aside to pass.
Isobelle spun back toward the wall. The path was clear. One step, then a jump, and she was over the stack of stones. Her boots sank in the sand, then were slowed by wet mud. Her only consolation was that the same would hinder her pursuers!
She fought on. The tide had gone and left the beach stretched before her. So much ground between herself and freedom. She had to keep running. She would not repeat the past. She would not be buried alive again. Would not allow these fools to drown her, burn her, or whatever Italians did to witches.
And so she ran.
The water was a dozen strides away. Heaven help her, but she would never get a chance to get her feet wet! Surely they were upon her, but she dared not turn to look.
Pat-pat, pat-pat, said her boots. But she heard no others. Still, she would not look back.
She reached the water, felt the shock of the cold lagoon fill her boots and reach through her sleeping gown. Fighting the folds of wet cloth, she pressed forward into the sea. The enormous lagoon was dotted with fishing boats. She only needed to reach one of them and plead to be taken aboard. She would be free!
There was no splashing behind her. No shouts for her to come back, in any language. And just as the water reached her chin, she twisted the toes of her boots into the sea floor and turned, to know why they’d stopped chasing her.
The dark tyrant stood on the sand with his arms folded, two guards to each side of him. He appeared quite calm as if he were certain she’d return on her own. Did he not suppose a woman could swim?
Fool.
The guards, however, were nodding and pointing out to sea, hopefully at a vessel or two that might be her salvation. The dark one suddenly unfolded his arms and started toward her. The cape on his tunic billowed behind him as he began to run. Grey sand flew from the heels of his boots with every stride.
She turned her shoulders and looked behind her, but the triangles cutting through the waves were not the sails of small boats. They were the fins of sharks. Three, at least.
Calm. Stay calm, she told herself as she backed toward the beach, her toes barely able to find purchase on the sandy sea floor. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.
The guards fanned out and began shouting at the sharks as if they were puppies to be called home. For a moment, Isobelle panicked, thinking they meant to taunt the sharks in her direction. But her breathing eased when the fins moved to the side, the sharks reacting to those taunts instead of coming for her.
Then, as if they’d reconsidered, or sensed her fear, those fins turned as one in her direction.
She was still waist deep.
She jumped back, but her skirt was beneath her feet and she stumbled, landing on her backside. The water swamped her shoulders, then her face. She took hold of her skirts and pulled them higher. Her boots found the sand, and she stood once more.
One fin sliced between two others and sped forward.
Isobelle ran backward, but again, her skirts washed beneath her steps and tripped her again. Her head remained above water this time, but it was too late. She turned to the side, hoping to save her face from the attack. But strong hands gripped her beneath her arms and hauled her water-laden body into the air. The world spun away from her, her boots escaped the pull of the water, and she landed on her bottom once more, only this time, it was on wet sand. A pair of legs supported her back and remained even after the hands disappeared from beneath her arms.
She was surrounded by four excited Italians who spoke slowly and dramatically to her as if they thought she might understand their language more easily if they did so. She could only laugh. Eventually, that was all anyone was doing, except for the man at her back.
Once the guards sobered, the dark one stepped away from her. She leaned forward quickly, lest he think her too weak to sit on her own. Then she wondered if simpering like a frightened maiden might have suited her better. It was clear the guards thought her a lucky woman to have escaped the sharks all of a piece, but what was also clear was their change in attitude toward her. If she swooned, would the dark one then treat her differently? Would he consider her less apt to be a witch if she were a more delicate lass?
Somehow, she doubted it—even if she thought he might soften toward her, it was unlikely she could simper in a believable manner. Then her stomach turned on a thought.
Perhaps coming out of the sea, neither drowned nor damaged, has just sealed my fate.
Chapter Ten
Gaspar worried his heart might never return to its original rhythm or its original location in his chest. He’d not removed the woman more than a furlong from her house and his body was already crying peace.
First, he’d been stunned the moment she’d opened the door. All disheveled and defiant, standing in little more than her shift and wrapped in her Scottish heritage, she’d been even more breathtaking than she had in the dimly lit abbey.
He’d been caught unawares when she’d called him too perfect. For a moment, he’d believed her far too perfect as well. He’d soon realized, however, she was a clever enchantress who would say anything to distract him, to see to her own ends.
Next, she’d led him to believe she would come along willingly, even though she denied the charges against her. Then she’d fled. If she was the devil’s own, she could have summoned those sharks in order to win the sympathies of both him and the guards. Luckily, it had only worked on the guards.
She’d plunged herself into the water, knowing when she emerged her wet gown w
ould cling to her form and tempt the most righteous of men. And since he was far from the most righteous… Yes, he was tempted. And he’d looked. And he would pay dearly for it, would be tormented by the memory of her lying on the sand at his feet, struggling for breath.
Perhaps not the devil’s enchantress, but an enchantress just the same.
He sent one guard to collect the woman’s length of plaid, and after she was covered once more, they led her to that small boat with only enough room for himself, Icarus, and their charge. For all the men knew, he intended to row her out into the lagoon and toss her overboard.
With her hands and feet tied, she’d not be able to swim, so it would mean certain death if she were to jump, but he doubted the woman would take her own life, even though she had to know a charge of witchcraft brought a sentence of death.
He’d noted how quickly she’d retreated from the sharks, however. A woman determined to live, to survive. It was a good sign.
No. This woman would not be jumping into the Laguna Viva. She would fight…until he taught her fighting was futile.
Isobelle was grateful for the warm morning sun that quickly dried her nightdress and warmed her bones. Her plaid had been draped over her shoulders after her hands had been tied and she hadn’t imagined the young man’s quick pat of comfort before he’d snatched his hands away. All four of the guards had been so relieved she’d escaped the sharks that they’d softened toward her. If they were to travel long enough, at least one of them could be persuaded to turn a blind eye and allow her to escape. She knew it.
But they’d simply traveled 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. They left her seated on the slat at the back. A third man climbed in and bent over her feet. He mumbled, “Mi perdoni,” before 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 since leaving home, 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.
“Remittetur,” she said, smiling at each one in turn. Then she sat as regally as possible and looked out at the open lagoon.
The tyrant took his place at the bow, facing her. After they were afloat, the short man who’d waited with the boat jumped in and took up the oars, facing her as well. 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 smaller man pulled the oars into the boat, bringing her attention with them. Breathing hard, he 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.
When she opened her eyes again, she found the little man shaking his head and staring at her, 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 tilted her head. “Would it lessen yer pleasure if I did it myself, 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 turned sideways, 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 waited for him to say more.
“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 their own, she couldn’t keep her lips together.
With great exaggeration, she glanced down at herself and laid her arms across the bits of her gown that couldn’t be covered by the plaid. 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 disdain when he 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.
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 under her chin 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 of the waves 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 had been 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 the result of 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 cou
ld bring him to his knees.
For, 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 would 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 the center 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 the island’s 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. On approach, she’d seen how small the island 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; in 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.
A narrow strip of beach greeted them 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 ceased visiting long ago.
The dark one flung the doors wide and marched inside. As she strode through the hall, Isobelle glanced into small, modestly furnished rooms—a solar on one side and a kitchen on the other. In the center of the rear wall, a spiral staircase began. The man stopped, then walked back to her with a small blade in his hand.
