by L. L. Muir
He gestured to her still-bound wrists. “You will need your balance,” he murmured. Then he cut the rope and tossed it away before starting up the stairs.
She clutched her skirts and pulled them high, vowing not to trip on them again. Rest and food, she reminded herself. He’d promised her rest and food. And beyond that, she would not worry until she must. She would have a bit of peace before they began, but she refused to fash over what the man planned to begin.
One mystery at a time.
One danger at a time.
And a little peace between.
Gaspar led the way up the winding tower steps that hugged the round wall. There was no banister. If strict attention was not paid and a person tripped, they would fall all the way to the hard floor below. From the top of the tower, the woman could easily try to harm herself by jumping off the edge, but she’d already proven her desire to live. He would trust that for the present.
He was well pleased with his little island, which he’d acquired for privacy and to remove himself from the worldly temptations of the night. Perhaps God had inspired him to purchase it, since it had turned out to be the perfect place to keep the woman safe. And he was anxious for the moment when she would understand just that.
Not long now. A few steps more.
The door came into view. Closer still.
He reached a hand and pulled the latch. The door opened. Would she notice there was no lock on the door? No bar on the outside?
He entered the tower room first, then turned to watch the woman’s face. A hundred times in the past few days, he’d imagined her reaction and guessed what she might say, but now that the moment was upon him, he was nervous.
But there was no time to explain. She was on the threshold, waiting for some signal perhaps, so he held a hand out to her. She looked briefly at the latch while pretending to lift her hair from her face. Clever girl. She’d noticed.
Hesitantly, she put her fingers into his glove but then held tight. There was a tremor in the delicate bones as he guided her into the room. Perhaps she was duly frightened of the stairwell. Over his shoulder, he nodded at Icarus to leave them. This occasion was too momentous for an audience.
The sun beamed through the barred window and she shielded her eyes against it briefly. A moment later, she dropped her hand away and looked at the structure before her. The intricately decorated wall of iron. The iron curtain hanging above it. The open gate.
A scream flew from her mouth, the scream of a furious animal, and she spun back to the doorway. But Gaspar lunged and was there to stop her. His immediate concern was the thirty foot drop off the landing’s edge. It was dangerous even when one was calm and careful. He thought she’d realized that. But apparently, her carefully designed cell frightened her even more.
“Calm yourself, Isobella,” he implored. “The only danger here is in falling to your death. I vow it!”
There was no sign she’d heard his voice. She continued to fight for escape as if the room at her back held the most frightening of beasts. Was she mad? Or could she simply not trust him?
“Isobella, you must hear me. I have brought you here for your own protection.”
She screamed and spun in his grasp, then pushed for the door again. He blocked the opening with his body and anchored his hand on the wall. She grabbed his arm and wrenched on it with all her might, but it did not move. When she tried to duck beneath it, he swayed to fill the void.
She gave another shrill scream and threw her body at him. If he’d been a smaller man, they might have tumbled to their deaths together. But he stood his ground for both their sakes.
Her plaid dropped to the floor, forgotten. Her face was a study in abject fear and desperation as her fists turned to claws, and it sickened him to know he was the cause of it. She tried to grab handfuls of flesh from his chest, but ended with a mass of cloth that did her little good, even when she used it to pull him to the side. When she turned and put her shoulder into his middle, he worried she’d either forgotten the danger, or no longer cared for her safety.
Had she given up on living so quickly then? He would have asked her just that, but she was senseless.
She planted her feet and pushed him. First left, then right. Then backward. When all that failed, she started again, shrieking and grunting, then pausing for half a breath before beginning once more. He imagined her stubborn enough to continue until she collapsed, until all her strength was spent. But he couldn’t allow it, not if there was a chance she might catch him unawares and fall.
He’d been right—the cell was the safest place for her, even if it took time for her to understand.
She lunged to her right and pulled his hip out of her way, spinning him easily since he was braced to be pushed in the opposite direction. He was forced to release the wall and wrap his arms around her or the clever minx might have succeeded!
He pulled her close, forcing her elbows up and away, limiting her ability to gain momentum against him.
She screamed up into his face. “Nooo!”
He was grateful she had returned to human language.
Her lungs pumped like billows against him and he realized he was also struggling for breath. She was so much stronger than he’d believe her capable.
And so much softer, damn her.
Chapter Twelve
With one arm wrapped about her waist and the other across her back, he slowly moved his hand up beneath her glorious tresses, but only for a more secure hold, not to enjoy the feel of the heavy strands against the flesh of his hand.
Yes, he knew better than to touch her. But her safety had to come before all else or his preparations were for naught.
She struggled against him, but beneath her grunts of frustration he felt her barely concealed sobs, and he suddenly understood. She would rather fight to the death than allow him to see her weakness.
He almost laughed in relief but knew the woman would take insult.
Pride.
Her pride had very nearly killed them both. And perhaps her pride was the source of her previous woes as well. But Gaspar took heart, for pride was an affliction he could cure. He only needed to get her safely inside her cell, and he could begin.
He pressed the side of his face to hers and whispered in her ear. “My lady, do you wish to live?”
She lifted a boot and kicked his shin in answer.
He reached up and put his hand at the back of her head, rotated with her, and crushed her body against the wall, knocking the wind from her and pressing so firmly she was unable to breathe deeply. She panted in his ear while he waited for her to appreciate the power he held over her. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have the strength to fight her way out.
He tried not to dwell upon what any other man would do with that power, especially with a woman who felt as if she were designed to fit perfectly against him. To say nothing of the taste of her. He had no need to put his lips to her in order to know her flavor. Just the smell of her hair woke his senses more easily than any woman from his youth. If he were ever to taste her in earnest, his soul would be lost to the devil in the blinking of an eye. The knowledge was as certain as the scar across his face.
Isobelle Ross was the embodiment of his salvation. It was one of the two reasons he’d brought her to his island. But the body he was pressed against could just as easily be his destruction. So he would tread carefully—just as carefully as he must tread those steps beyond the door.
“Please…” she whispered.
He stopped pressing, but did not step back. “You wish to live?” he asked into her ear.
“Aye.” Her word was little more than a breath, and chills raced up his back and into his hair where that breath had burrowed itself.
“I wish you to live as well, woman. So I suggest you trust me.” He leaned back to look her in the eye.
She shook her head. “Trust is earned, not freely given for any who would demand it.”
He sighed. “You must step inside your…room.”
“Hear me, my lady. This was fashioned for your safety. Can you not look upon it as such?”
“I canna,” she whispered. “Ye doona mean to keep me safe, but only to keep me. And when ye’ve wearied of me, ye’ll make a fire at me feet.”
Her fingers moved slightly between his hands and the wall against which he pressed them, and he realized it would be much easier for her to trust him if he weren’t poised to ravish her. So, still holding her hands, he lowered them, warily, while looking into her eyes, willing her not to fear him.
“I vow, Isobella Ross, I have brought you to this tower to save you from such fires.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. He licked them without thinking, and her eyes widened. Without realizing it, he’d begun to lean toward her, and her panic threatened to return. He took one step back and released her hands, then turned so his body remained between her and the door.
He smiled and gestured to the open gate. “Perhaps, then, you can think of it as the only place you will be safe…from me.”
She straightened away from the wall and when he tensed, she very nearly smiled. “Aye, my lord. I will try to see it as a sanctuary, but only if I alone hold the key.”
Gaspar shook his head. “Perhaps we can begin again.” He bowed slightly. “Welcome to my island and to my home. This room has been prepared especially for your visit.”
One of her brows rose sardonically. “Only a visit, then? Such implies ye dinna expect me to stay long.”
He smiled. “We shall see.”
She gave a single nod, then turned to examine the ironwork. Her next step faltered and she glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide.
“My, my,” she breathed. “Does the Pope come to visit much? I expect you allow him his key.” She stepped forward and caressed the intricate pattern in the screen that was worthy of any artist in Venice. Small fleur de lis covered the lower three quarters of the screen, while the top quarter was arrayed with holes in the same pattern. Here and there, one of the small symbols was turned on its head, drawing the observer forward, drawing in the eye, demanding attention as one tried to discern the true pattern. The closer one moved, the more brilliant the pattern. Not unlike the woman herself.
Gaspar resisted the draw of the screen and forced his eyes to remain upon his new guest. Her gaze scanned the room even as she closely examined the screen. She’d missed nothing. Not the fact that the screen ran down the middle of the floor and turned at an angle near the end. The cell ran from the far half of the stone room to the front. The screen was anchored to walls and floor, just as the bars were to each side of a section of screen that acted as a gate. Another solid section of screen hung from the ceiling and attached to the top of the more intricate section. For the prisoner, there would be no escaping over the metal walls. Neither could there come any threat from outside them.
Of course, there was no such threat. Gaspar himself would be the only person to see her, and he posed no danger to her, though she would not believe it for a while. But he’d made special arrangements for her to be perfectly safe from himself, even if he were tempted to touch her a second time, which would never happen.
It might seem unfortunate that the little holes allowed only a modicum of light to pass through them, thus leaving the inner half of the room in shadow, but Gaspar had designed the room with just that in mind, so he might watch her at times without her knowledge, to assess her progress.
Curious as a child, but still wary, she stood to the side of the gate and peeked into the cell. She would have noted the narrow bed and stool. The chamber pot. The small table and single candle.
“More than they allowed me in my tomb,” she murmured.
The sudden wave of sympathy caught him off guard. She was lying, of course. He needed to remember to trust nothing she said. Nothing. But it would explain why she was so terrified of being locked away.
He resisted the urge to order her inside and bit his tongue while he waited for her first step. He would maintain his position until the gate was securely closed. Isobella Ross was no simpleton, and he had to remain on his guard lest she think of a clever way past him.
She paused and glanced his way, noting his stance. “Ye demand my trust, but ye canna seem to give it in return, aye?”
He laughed. “You, my lady, are far too clever to trust. I admit it freely.”
She snorted delicately and walked to the barred window, as if stepping into the cell was of no consequence. He was certain she was taking the tower’s measure, guessing her chances of escaping.
“Dare I ask,” she said, still looking out the window, “the true reason ye’ve brought me to yer little paradise? Ye’ve promised no fire. And if ye would see me drowned, ye could have left me to the sharks. So. Do tell.”
He waited for her to face him before he answered, hoping to witness her perfect understanding when it finally came.
“My lady, I have brought you here to save your soul, to take you back from Satan’s ranks.”
“Oh, is that all?” She grinned. “Then I should be back in my cottage by breakfast, I reckon.”
He allowed himself to smile at her jest, though inside he was disappointed indeed. She did not understand anything. Yet. But he was going to help her, even if it killed him to do it.
She kept her gaze on the blue waters outside the window and started only slightly when he swung the gate shut. The click of the lock was both satisfying and sad, knowing she was finally in his care, but that there would ever be a solid wall between them.
She would need a few moments alone to allow her new situation to settle in her mind, and then they could begin. But first, he needed to refresh himself…
…with the coldest water he could find.
Chapter Thirteen
Isobelle stood at the window and waited for the madman to leave. She would not greet while he watched, though it was plain to see he was waiting for her to do just that.
Fabric swished. Footfalls moved out the door and down the steps. Though she was alone, the feel of him lingered in the room and sent a fissure of fear through her.
How could one man raise so many emotions in her in only a morning?
His eyes were beguiling. To spend time looking into them would be any woman’s downfall. And to have the man pressed against her…
She shivered. It would be folly to dwell over-long on the memory of it. In fact, it would be wiser to allow her thoughts to simmer and steep into a fine hatred of the man instead.
Man? Hah! A monster. No different than the pious jack-n-apes who’d forced Montgomery to bury her alive. Oh, how she wished she could visit that wicked bastard in his sleep.
She noticed her hands first. Her fingers trembled over the edge of the glassless window. But it wasn’t just her hands. The vibrations moved up her arms, into her shoulders. The back of her head tingled where his fingers had held her, had protected her head from knocking against the rough wall. She pulled her shoulders up to erase the sensation.
Even her breath vibrated as she exhaled. Then worse, still, the floor itself moved beneath her as her knees joined in.
She’d known these tremors before. In her tomb, the shaking had overtaken her while she waited to be rescued, not knowing if it was possible for the men to chisel through the thick stone floor upon which her tomb had been erected.
She forced her eyes to remain open and searched the distance for sunlight dancing on the waves.
“Ye see?” she whispered to herself. “Out…outside. I am outside.” She stretched her shaking limbs between the bars, rustled her fingers together. “Air. Sunshine. Sea.”
Outside.
Eventually, the shaking ebbed away. And the tears began.
A while later, there came slow footsteps in the stairwell. More than just her captor. A few more steps. A pause. More steps.
Isobelle’s curiosity could be contained no longer and she turned. Was she to be a sacrifice? Would a true monster be coming to collec
t her as his dinner? There had been a dragon carved into the wood above the arched doors, and a dragon carved on a pylon next to the dock. Was there a dragon living within her very tower?
She marveled that the memory of her tomb and the fear of another such sentence were more frightening to her than the possibility of a scaled beast coming for her. Perhaps it was because such a beast would kill her swiftly—a merciful death—while men who once sat in judgment of her had no mercy at all.
This time, she’d been arrested, imprisoned—albeit an unusual prison—and yet she could not say for certain her captor lacked compassion. There had been something in the way he looked at her, almost pitying, that made him different from the priest who had so gleefully sentenced her to death in Scotland.
This man, with his painfully beautiful face, had already plucked her from an unfriendly sea, had stood at her back while she recovered herself, had allowed her to take her plaid. He’d even given her hope that she might return again to her little cottage—though she could never return in truth, for Signora Crescento now feared her to be a witch. And even if she returned there on the morrow, the suspicion would grow and spread like a fire on a dry moor. She would be forced to move on, forced to leave no word for Ossian, for if she left a trail, those who sought out witches would be able to follow.
Without Ossian to stop her, she’d likely go home, even if it meant her death.
Thus, her captor might not be a monster, but he had surely ruined her new life in Venice. A fair enough reason to hate the man. It was not much, but if she protected that little seed of hatred, it would keep her from looking too deeply into his eyes…
The servant he’d called Icarus shuffled into the room backward, carrying the ponderous end of a long wooden bench. The man’s face was dark red and his cheeks pumped like billows as he walked beyond her vision into the shadowed side of the room, outside the decorative cage.
