by L. L. Muir
She pulled a thick mass forward over her left shoulder and tested the length. It was nearly to her waist. If she cut it at the neck, might she possibly fit the rest beneath a crispin? Or perhaps inside a padded roll as she’d seen the noble ladies wear? She’d tried to wrap her wealth of hair inside a turban and failed with each attempt. But with half the hair, she might succeed.
Gaspar’s words came back to her, and all thoughts of fashion dissolved. She simply wanted to be rid of it all, and rid of the pain that gnawed at her innards. Then she would turn her thoughts to the dragon and how to make him rue the day he’d laid eyes upon her.
She raised the blade and hoped it might guide itself, but a flash of light made her pause. It was the reflection of her face in the smooth silver surface. Her face. Was that smooth flesh her enemy as well?
If the dragon kept her locked away so he could gaze upon her at his leisure, she would make true and certain he never wanted to look at her again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gaspar did not go to Isobelle at Compline, leaving her to pray alone as he’d promised. His past always made him feel foolish, and he’d gone to sleep feeling decidedly mean. The kindest thing to do for her was to allow her to sleep. And when she woke, he’d apologize.
Dawn was not so considerate of him, however, and the pale blue light woke him as surely as a trumpet’s blast. He rose to face his day of penance and decided to walk the beach and practice the apology he must deliver with her morning meal.
Perhaps he would begin by explaining that it was his heart that was the true captive here. The bars that held him prisoner were long curled strands of dark red hair, and even as he watched her sleep through the intricately designed screen, he was on the inside, looking out. He had no gate, and no key. He would be bound to her forever, even if she left him.
The sky was clear and empty but for a gull that had much to complain about. His fellows fled the beach and joined him, and together they went in search of something that apparently could not be found on Isola del Silenzio, his Island of Silence.
He strolled to the western point and found the tide had washed nothing interesting onto the shore. The south beach had nothing more than a thin offering of shells. There was something new on the east side, however. A large bit of dark fur. Perhaps a remnant of what was once a sea lion.
He neared it cautiously, not knowing if some small animal might still be alive enough to strike out at him. But as he bent over it, he realized it was hair—Isobelle’s hair!
He spun in the sand and looked at the tower, wishing, as he ran, that he could see through the stones. With no protection on his feet, he paid close attention to his footing, as thus found another clump of hair. He snatched it up midstride and continued toward the arched doors. He stopped dead when he noticed the second lock had not been moistened by the sea spray, but by blood.
The ever-present wind brought a cry to his ears, but it was not the gulls; it was Isobelle, sobbing. A gust tugged at the dark red hair in his hand as if it were determined to take it from him.
“Isobelle.” It was both a whisper and a prayer, and he repeated it with every step as he ran to her.
James Ferguson, former MI6 agent for Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, was pleased to find that people in the fifteenth century were much more trusting than people from the twenty-first. He had no need of Google. Everyone knew everything about everyone. He supposed that was what happened when there was no telly to watch. These people simply watched their neighbors for entertainment.
A Scotsman looking for another Scotsman was nothing to raise a brow over. However, a Scotsman looking for a Scotswoman who’d recently been arrested as a witch was another matter entirely. These Venetians were quick to tell all they knew and quicker still to offer consolation in the form of food. Wonderful food. And to a growing lad of six feet eight inches, they were generous with their plates and their pity.
“Of course, you’ll wish to know where she’s buried,” said one woman with a sly wink, “only there is no grave to find.”
Another was quick to join in, ladling the last of her rich soup into James’ empty bowl. “And not because she perished, I’d vow.”
“I was getting to that,” the first complained. “No one witnessed the execution of a red-haired Scotswoman. No one—”
“Some say she disappeared in a puff of smoke the moment God’s Dragon put her into a boat.”
“I was getting to that as well!”
The women began to bicker in Italian, forgetting he only spoke French and could not understand more than a word or two.
“Ladies, please,” he said in French, reminded them of his limited tongue. “What is this about a dragon? God’s Dragon?”
“Gaspar Dragotti,” the first woman whispered, looking around her kitchen as if this Dragotti might be lurking among the spices hanging from the ceiling beams. “Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice himself. He is the authority who arrested her. But she disappeared—”
“As soon as he put her upon the water!” The second woman hurried out of the reach of the first one.
“Did anyone see this?”
“Yes! Icarus was there. He saw it all.”
“Icarus?”
“The dragon’s servant. He swears the woman disappeared.”
“She spoke to the sharks!” The second woman lunged to the other side of the table just as her friend reached for her. “She threw herself into the water and called the sharks to come for the dragon. He and his men dared not go after her.”
The first woman folded her arms and glared at the one who kept blurting out the exciting parts of the story.
“So she drowned? Or was killed by sharks?” He needed to keep them focused on the details at hand.
“No.” The women looked at each other as if trying to remember the details. Eventually, they shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Icarus.”
James smiled. Finally, the lead he’d been waiting for. “Tell me. Where do I find this Icarus fellow?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
With Icarus in tow, Gaspar raced up the steps as fast as his legs would take him. After years of ascending them, he could have climbed his own steps with a hood over his head and still been in no danger. He did pause as he neared the landing, however, in case his racing feet took him over the edge. There was no time for stumbling. The woman was bleeding and he knew not how badly! Had someone come to his island secretly in the night? For surely, the woman had no blade or she would have used it to escape!
He hurried through the doorway and over to the gate, his hand already extended behind him for the key. Thankfully, Icarus was close on his heels. Gaspar couldn’t see her at first, splitting his attention between the seemingly empty cell and the keyhole. The stool lay on its side beneath the window. The floor was a smattering of bloody footprints. And though he was loathe to do it, he raised his eyes and searched for a white gown that might be hanging from the rafters.
Suddenly, the key was wrenched from his hands and he found Icarus unlocking the gate for him. He pushed past the little man and glanced up again, but there were only morning shadows there.
Where had she gone?
He heard her sniff and turned.
There. She was under the bed.
“Go away,” she growled.
Gaspar’s heart recovered itself with her coherent words. Icarus hurried out the gate and locked Gaspar inside.
“You see?” He bent down to take a look at her. Her gown was smeared with blood, her face was in shadow. “My man has locked me inside so I am unable to leave you.” He gave her a stern frown. “Will you come out, or shall I overturn the bed?”
She made no move, so he lifted the end of the bed and gave it a shove. It hit the back wall and stayed. Her blankets and plaid slid to the ground and it disturbed him to see the colorful plaid there. Whenever she’d been anxious, she’d held the length of wool tight around her. If she had no need of comfort while she lay wounded on the floor…
; He scooped her into his arms and braced himself for a fight, but she only hit his chest with her fist, and that, only once. With his foot, he pulled on the edge of the bed and it crashed back into place, the stuffed mattress with it. But instead of laying her upon it, he turned and sat, holding her to him. Finally, he was able to look into her tearstained, blood-smeared face. If there was much damage there, he could not tell.
“You were jealous. I see that now.” He noted the cut across her nose that mirrored his scar. “You wished to have some noble scars of your own. But I am relieved to see you were not nearly as successful.”
She put a hand over her nose and ducked against him. But with the majority of her hair scattered to the winds and the waves, her high cheeks were visible, along with a lovely pink ear bearing an odd cut in the shape of a V. Such a wound, along with the shallow cut on the bridge of her nose, could account for all the blood in the room as wounds to the head tended to bleed freely.
He checked her over carefully, just to be sure, holding her gently as a bird, turning her arms this way and that. He looked for fresh blood and felt for…injuries.
He’d forgotten that women were so much softer than men.
When his thoughts slipped beyond his control, he concluded there were no other damages to be found and hugged her close so she might not see the grin on his face. He couldn’t help it. He was that relieved.
Satisfied that he had regained his composure, he rolled her away from him a bit. A sad but pink face looked up at him. Her hair had been cut to the breadth of a hand. Some places longer. The left side of her head was matted with blood.
Her green eyes were startling. Her nose was a bit red from crying, and her lips were as smooth and perfect as the petals of a pale rose. He was completely powerless to look away from them.
“Isobelle. Isobelle,” he whispered. “What am I to do with you?”
Those jeweled eyes rolled. “Ye let me go, ye daft dragon.” Then she whispered, “Ye let me go, or ye let me burn.”
“I would like nothing better than to make you burn, my sweet, but not the way you have in mind.” He lifted her head to his and pressed his lips against those perfect rose petals before she had a chance to misunderstand him.
Her arms rose tentatively around his neck and he hoped it was not only for balance that they did so. But to be sure, he ended the kiss and retreated only slightly. To his joy, she pulled him back to her and demanded more. All other such embraces from his past were melted from his memory—like so many dusty candles turned to an indiscernible puddle of wax—by the heat of what he felt for Isobelle.
Kissing her felt like coming home to the only destiny he would ever need, and he was determined to show her the same, worshipping her mouth with his. When he paused for breath, she pushed him away and looked into his eyes. A little fold of worry twisted her brows while she took his measure. Then she shook her head and kissed him again, her hands searching his hair, his face, his arms as if she were trying to convince herself he was real.
“Gaspar,” she breathed. “My dragon.” She kissed his mouth, his cheek, then his ear. “What am I to do with you?”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck, ignoring the blood, searching for the taste of her flesh. “You let me—”
Burn, he was going to say, but his whisper was interrupted by the click of the lock. He closed his eyes and took her scent deep into his lungs for fear of never knowing another chance to do so. Then he looked up, while he still hovered over her, like a predator interrupted mid-meal.
Icarus stood against the open gate as if prepared to defend it from being closed again, his chin held high, his eyes on the ceiling. Gaspar thought him both foolish and stout of heart…and far too loyal to the man he used to be.
The little man cleared his throat. “Mi perdoni,” he said in a small voice, his eyes never lowering.
“No, please.” Her whisper was warm against his neck. “Take me with you.”
Gaspar knew that if he carried the woman out of the tower, he’d continue on to his bedchamber. He was that untrustworthy at the moment, but could not find the words to explain.
She kissed him again, to plead her case. It might have been one of the most difficult things he’d done in all his years, but finally, he turned his lips away and gasped for breath.
“I am not the man who brought you here, Isobelle. You have changed me to my soul, truly. But you must give me time to consider what this new man must do.”
He laid his hand gently against her cheek and waited for her complete attention. Finally, she raised her gaze from his lips.
“When I attended the commencement ceremony for the Regatta, I so easily slipped back into that other man, and it frightened me. Will I always do so? I am a man torn in twain. One very much alive. One very much…apart. You brought me to life, Isobelle. I must be certain I will yet live if you are no longer within my reach. Do you understand?”
“Ye are too quick to worry, my love. Ye returned to yer duty and felt familiar with it, ‘tis all. Ye’re the same man now as the one before ye left, are ye not?”
“I am. But the moment I returned to the patriarch’s presence, I saw you differently.” He hung his head, ashamed. But he would not keep the truth from her. “I thought of you as a temptress come to ruin me. When I returned, I tried to stay away from you until I knew what to do with you.”
She tried to climb from his lap, but he wouldn’t let her go.
“Don’t you see? I left this island and I became dead again. One touch from your hand and my foolishness dissolved. My heart beat again.” He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest. “You see? The man lives.” He shook his head sadly. “But does the dragon merely sleep?”
Her struggles resumed, so he set her off his lap. He refused to release her hand.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll tell ye true, I am not flattered to be thought a temptress.”
“I do not—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “You must release me, Gaspar. Send the temptations away and slay this dragon if that is what you truly wish. And if the man survives, find me.”
Gaspar released her hand and stood. He paced to the window and back, looking for an argument to offer, but he found nothing. Removing her from his island, however, felt as foolish as removing his heart from his breast. She could not expect it of him!
He stomped to the gate and Icarus scurried out of his way. He ignored her gasp as he stepped out of the cell and pulled the gate closed again.
“I will consider it, Isobelle. But I must have time to examine how much of me is the man, and how much the dragon. And if I can survive the separation…” He locked the gate and turned away. This time, walking down the steps was no easier than walking into a dark, incoming tide.
Her voice trailed him into the stairwell.
“Ye only use the beast to excuse yerself, Gaspar. Dinna offer me hope when ye’ll only recant. I know ye now. Through and through. I will not be fooled again…Dragon.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Icarus was so distracted by the excitement on the island that he’d rowed the small boat off course three times, causing him to arrive home later than usual. His sister would be sufficiently displeased he was tempted to find another place to sleep for the night. He could tell the woman the dragon had detained him until morning.
He stared at his sister’s door while he weighed the possibility of her believing his tale, that the dragon would allow him to go home in the morning, only to break his fast and return again.
Not likely at all.
He steeled himself and headed for the door, but a giant shadow stepped in front of him, barring the way. The man was so large in fact, he might well be his master, so he swallowed his surprise, stepped back, and waited for the shadow to speak. But after his gaze took in the length of the silhouette from boots to head, he concluded this man could not be his master. Not even God’s Dragon stood so tall.
“Easy, Icarus, m’ friend. I’ll not harm y
e.” He spoke the same language as the woman, and even to his simple mind, Icarus knew that could be no coincidence. “Parlez Francais?”
Icarus nodded. “I speak a little,” he said in clumsy French.
“Ye understand why I am here?”
He nodded. “She has not been harmed, monsieur.”
The man smiled as wide as Icarus’ own head.
“Happy I am to hear it, my friend. Let us go inside and show yer sister that ye, too, are unharmed.”
The cruelest twist of all was that Isobelle’s window faced northwest. Toward home. Just so many mountain ranges between herself and East Burnshire, Scotland. Castle Ross and the clan would be rising to a fine mist, perhaps—a fine mist that would be such a relief from the warm Mediterranean nights here. Although she’d been given water for bathing and cleaning her wounds, the heat had long since dried her short hair and left her wishing she could bathe all over again.
Only once had the tyrant demanded to know what she’d used to cut her hair and face, but he’d quickly retreated without an answer. It seemed he was all dragon again, and the sight of a woman shedding her clothes was a temptation to which he refused to subject himself.
She smiled at the memory of his face just before he’d turned and fled. The dragon did not love her, but he wanted her, and she would use it against him.
She refused to think about the feel of his arms around her, or the taste of his mouth, his skin. For a few foolish moments, she’d forgotten that Gaspar could not truly love her. But she would never forget again.
Her gaze dropped to the surf below. There was a fine spray taunting her to come out and play, to cool herself at her leisure. A wee swim. Far and away the most immediate relief to hand. Far and away as likely as her tasting a bit of Scottish mist before nightfall.
