by L. L. Muir
She’d been so surprised by the dragon’s appearance, she’d completely forgotten that only moments ago she’d been preparing herself to pounce on the little man and take his key. She’d dressed in her own clothes, tightened her boots to her feet, and tucked the skean duh in a pocket she’d made of the plaid.
She chided herself. What a coward she was to think she could not fight her way past the dragon. He was clearly distracted. He’d paid her little attention. Perhaps, when they come for the tray, I can still escape.
She prepared herself again, only this time, she imagined spinning out of Gaspar’s reach before getting her hands on Icarus. The man cared for his servant and would surely exchange the key for his safety. Or perhaps she could avoid Gaspar altogether if she were on the bed and they believed her to be asleep. Icarus would take the tray from the table—she could roll off the bed and have her arm around his neck in a heartbeat!
She stretched out on the blanket and practiced rolling off, found the best position from which to start, then settled in to wait. The waves below her window grew louder. Her heart beat harder. Tears rolled unchecked down her face, but she could not understand why. It wasn’t as if she would miss the tyrant. She certainly wouldn’t miss her frighteningly secure cell.
She’d already cried her tears for Ossian. She’d cried for her little cottage, for the knowledge she would never see little Britta again. Even for Signora Crescento and her motley parade of men. Were they tears of joy, then? Once she was away from there and beyond the dragon’s reach, would she truly head for home?
At the moment, she wanted to do nothing more than cry on her sister’s shoulder and have Monty assure her that he would make it all right again. He’d tell her Gaspar Dragotti was a monster fit for killing, let alone escaping. She should be happy to leave him behind.
Warm tears joined with the cooled ones and she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She’d grown to enjoy and crave his company as much as, or more than, she’d first enjoyed and craved the look of him. And even though he was her captor, he believed he was saving her, and she could at least forgive him for trying.
Neither man came to collect her tray. As far as she knew, Gaspar never came to sleep on the other side of the iron wall, as he usually did. Neither did he whisper those strange words, as he had each night after he thought she slumbered. She worried she might not be able to sleep until she heard them.
Say agga po poli. One day, she would discover what they meant.
Eventually, the tears dried and the sound of the waves faded as she fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Twenty
The following day, there were only meals. No lectures. No arguments. And there was no chance for escape. For both the morning and the nooning meal, the gate would not open until she’d moved to the windows, and each time she did, Gaspar came to stand close behind her, nearly pressing her to the window bars and holding firmly to her waist!
Since she’d entered the cell, he’d never touched her. Why would he suddenly do so—unless he knew of her knife and suspected her plans?
Her heart bounced hard in her chest when another thought presented itself. No lessons. No lectures. No prayers. Perhaps he has given up on me. Perhaps he was touching her while he still could…
That evening, the gate opened, and again, Gaspar stood close and put his hands on her. There was pressure enough to tell her he expected something. She moved slightly, to test him, and his grip tightened. He pulled her back against him as if in warning, and then he was gone.
Isobelle stood silent and still for a moment, then turned away from the window just as Gaspar disappeared through the door.
“Wait. Gaspar. Will you sit with me, until nightfall? No use going below stairs when you’ll just have to climb them again, for Compline, aye?”
She thought he would decline her invitation, he took such a long time to answer. Slowly, he walked to the gate without looking at her, pulled his bench before it, and wearily sat down.
“What shall we discuss tonight, Isobelle? How to resist temptation?”
She tried to overlook how intriguing that discussion might be, for it would only lead her thoughts to temptations, and not resisting them.
“Please. Let us speak of pleasanter things than the likelihood I’ll be burned as soon as I step foot off this island.”
Still distracted, he nodded and shrugged. “What then?”
“I told ye what drove me from my home. Perhaps ye will tell me what drove ye from England?”
He snorted. “I thought you wished to speak of pleasanter things.”
“My tale was none too pleasant. I doona suppose yers will be either, for I cannot imagine staying away from home if ye’re not forced away. And yet, ye do.”
“Ah. Well, it is not possible for me to return to England any more than you can return to the Highlands.”
Isobelle pulled her stool over to the gate and sat down opposite him. The way he clenched his jaw led her to believe her proximity bothered him, so she scooted it back a foot. “So. Ye would like to return, but canna?”
“No. I wouldn’t return, even if I could.” His nose curled to one side. “The thought of returning sickens me.”
“Did ye commit some crime then?”
He laughed. “No, my lady. Not crimes. Though a great crime was committed against me.” He shook his head and rose to his feet. “I have business to attend.”
He waved toward the doorway, but his feet remained where they were, and Isobelle understood he didn’t really want to leave. Perhaps he was hungry for a little company too.
“Dinna go, my lord. This tower has been far too quiet of late. Even if ye simply breathe loudly, I’d welcome the sound.”
He grimaced, then nodded in understanding.
“How went the Regatta?”
He started, then frowned at the empty doorway.
“Now, dinna be that way,” she said. “Yer man didna wish to tell me anything at all, but relented. He said only the one word. We haven’t a common language, aye?”
Begrudgingly, Gaspar nodded. She hoped the little man wouldn’t be beaten for speaking to her, even if it was only a word. But she couldn’t believe this man would beat a servant he worried over.
Once the man relaxed, they talked about the tides. He told her how his island altered, albeit slightly, when the seasons changed. They skirted around the possibility of her still being in the tower when the next change occurred. Perhaps he suspected she would rather die before she’d stayed much longer, and he didn’t want to hear it.
After a while, there were no safe subjects that would not upset one or the both of them. So she had nothing to lose.
“Tell me of this crime, Gaspar. Did ye seek revenge?”
He smirked and pointed to his scar. “This is my revenge.”
She shook her head. “I doona understand. Who, besides yerself, would suffer from yer wound?”
His smile widened. “My mother.”
Isobelle’s mouth dropped open and remained that way, waiting for his smile to make sense, but it didn’t. She simply waited for him to explain. He glanced at the doorway again as if he regretted saying anything at all.
She scooted her stool close again, then reached through the bars and took hold of his hand. “Tell me.”
He stared at her fingers for a moment, and when he spoke, he spoke to their hands.
“My parents were—are—nobles. When I was sixteen, they presented me at court.” His fingers tightened slightly, but she didn’t mind. “When my mother noticed how her rivals looked at me…” He cleared his throat and swallowed as if the very words were hindering his speech. “She realized she had something they wanted, so she made me…available to them. For a heavy price, of course. My father stopped looking me in the eye. Stopped speaking to me altogether.”
Isobelle was horrified. “Gaspar!” She snaked her other arm through the bars, to hold his hand tighter.
He shook his head. “Oh, I grew in talent over the years, of course. Qu
ite a weapon, you might say. Then one day, I was ordered to do something even a… Well, who knew there was a line I would not cross?”
Isobelle held her tongue and simply squeezed, wishing she could wrap her arms around his shoulders instead.
Gaspar gave her a little smile. “She wanted me to ruin an innocent, but I wouldn’t do it. My parents fought. I drank myself into oblivion and woke in a church. A fire burned…” He looked into the dark corner, unseeing. “I buried the poker in the hot coals and waited. And an inconceivable peace overtook me. I knew I was doing the right thing, taking my mother’s weapon away so she couldn’t hurt people anymore.” He raised his hand in demonstration, an invisible poker in his closed fist. “I laid it to my face and pulled it across.” He blinked and dropped his arm. “There was a moment where I felt nothing at all. And then Hell erupted in my head, and I fainted.
“A priest found me and cared for my wound before I woke again. I stayed in his care for a sennight, confessing all the while. When I had nothing more to tell, he suggested I devote the rest of my life to God. I simply could not do that in England.”
Gaspar rolled his shoulders and blinked some image from his vision.
“This noble scar was my own doing. Whenever it started healing too cleanly, I would tear it open again. After I nearly died from a fever, I stopped. The result is this.”
He touched the brand tentatively, as if he rarely allowed himself to feel it. Then his hand fell away.
“I was far from worthy to speak to God, but I thought to come to the church states, to be near men who were. Eventually, the patriarch found a need for me. I serve him. He serves God. Thereby, I serve God.” Though he smiled, he had not lessened his hold.
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. But I might never 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 th
at 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 needed action 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 be 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?
