The Curse of Clan Ross (82 page)

He turned.

There! Already so far into the water. How fast she moved! How anxious was she to run into the arms of death!

God help him, what had he done? He’d driven a beautiful creature out of her mind. But he could undo it. He could bring her back if only he could get to her before it was too late.

“Isobelle! Wait! Forgive me! You are free!”

He rushed into the water, blinking over and over, but the white was gone. His skull threatened to come undone beneath his hand, but he could not pause to recover. She was out there, drowning.

“Isobelle!” Waist-deep now.

As if rising to the sound of her name, the white gown surfaced. Twenty feet away!

He lunged, pulled his hand away from his head and swam as furiously as he could. He needed air. He had to pause. Had to breathe.

There
. She was still there. Above water. Pushing the water out of her way.
 

“Isobelle! You are free! Come back!”

The vision turned and faced him, treading water.

She could swim?

He laughed. She could swim! Praise be, she’d lied to him!

“Isobelle, forgive me. Come back! The boat. In the morning. Forgive me!”

He stopped fighting the water, allowed it to cover him. The cool liquid soothed the ache in his head.

Air. He needed air. And he needed Isobelle’s forgiveness.

He kicked, over and over, until the water parted.

She’d come closer. She stayed above the water easily, but her breathing was labored. She could have never lasted long. Even if she could swim, she likely hadn’t done so often. Trying to swim from the island would have been suicide. And she’d nearly done it!

“Gaspar! Are ye badly hurt?”

She sounded so close, and yet, she was still beyond his reach.

Again, he allowed himself to sink. Ah, the relief. Like sleeping when one is tired. So tired. But he needed air again.

He kicked and fought his way to the surface once more and found Isobelle there, coming for him. He permitted her to pull him close, then with a furious kick, he rose above her in the water, wrapped his arm around her, across her chest, and took a firm grasp beneath her arm. Then he began dragging her back to shore in spite of the screaming in his skull. After a few half-hearted struggles, she settled down and allowed him to take her.

When they reached the shallows, he stood and helped her to do the same. Then he took a step away from her.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I was wrong to take you from your home. I was wrong to expect you to change. If I’d have succeeded, I would have never forgiven myself. You may leave the island as soon as Icarus arrives with the boat, Isobelle. I vow it.”

She looked at him askance as she filled her lungs over and over again. “Then it wasn’t a lie, to lure me back to shore?”

“Yes. It was a lie that I was drowning. I swim like a Venetian fish. Even if I’ve been struck on the head.” He lifted a hand to his bleeding forehead in a bid for sympathy, but she came no closer. “But the other, your freedom, was no lie. You may return to the city, to your cottage, or wherever you wish. I only hope you will avoid Venice because of what I have done to your name there. And I can afford to send you anywhere in the world. You need only choose.”

Instantly,
anywhere in the world
, even if it were the next island, sounded much too far away from one particularly lonely dragon. But he bit his tongue to keep from sharing that sentiment. His eyes were open. But after all he’d done to her, she would never believe that his heart was open as well.
 

“You changed your mind because you thought I intended to drown.”

“You would have drowned, even if you could swim. Even I could not cross this channel without a boat.” He reached out and pushed her hair from her eyes, unable to go another minute without seeing them clearly. “But that was not why I changed my mind. You have transformed me, Isobella. You have made me see the dragon and I have chased it away, never to return, even if the Pope himself demanded I resume my office.”

She eyed him suspiciously while he helped her to the soft grasses where they both collapsed.

“I was attempting to change you as I had once changed myself. I had turned myself into a cold creature that had no place in the world, and I suppose I was trying to make you the same, that somehow you might feel the only place in the world for you was at my side.”

She shook her head and water sprayed around them. “I will not be content in yer tower, Gaspar.”

He nodded and turned to face the water. It was not an easy thing to hear, but he could not blame her.

She sighed. “But at your side would not be such a bad place, I suppose.”

His heart tried to rouse his hopes but he bid it to settle. He dared not hope she could forgive him in truth, and told her so.

“I can try.” Her eyes lit up and her gaze fell to his mouth, then she looked away, embarrassed.

Though he would like nothing better than to take her into his arms and beg her forgiveness in a dozen different ways, he would forbear. He would not risk her mistaking passion for love. And love, like trust, must be earned.

He was finished lying to himself. And he knew that remaining on the beach with her, both of them dripping beneath the starry drapes of a warm sky, weakened their wills. So he got to his feet and brushed half-dried sand from his legs.

“I am going inside, Isobelle. I will change into dry clothes and start a fire in the kitchens. You come inside only if you wish. I will understand if you do not. I can find you a dry tunic. I do not suppose you wish to wear the white gown again?”

She shook her head sharply.

“When you are ready then.”

She swallowed awkwardly.

He grimaced, then offered a hopeful smile. “We can leave the doors open…”

The woman wrapped her arms around her knees and turned away from him, showing the awkward outline of her hair—another reminder of the damage he had done to her.

No. She would never truly be able to forgive him. Nor did he hold out hope of ever forgiving himself. The morning would bring with it a small Greek man and the vessel that would take her away from him forever.

But he would not waste this final night in mourning. He’d have plenty of time for that after she was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Deep into the night, Isobelle lay across Gaspar’s chest watching their small fire die. She was back to wearing the luxurious white gown because Gaspar’s clothes were little better than blankets on her.

“Do ye sleep, Dragon?” she whispered.

“No.”

She grinned into his clean tunic. “What does it mean, this thing you say in Italian—
say agga po poli?”
 

He laughed, and she savored the sound rumbling through the side of her face and into her fingertips. He repeated the phrase, time and again, to show her the intricacies of the words, but she still failed to say it correctly. She wearied of being laughed at, so she stopped trying.

“It is not Italian,” he said. “It is Greek. It means...”

“Yes?”

“It means...
I love you too much
.”
 

The words, and knowing he’d been saying them for nearly the whole of their time together, took her breath away. But now that she knew their meaning, she couldn’t resist attempting the phrase one more time.

This time, he didn’t laugh. His breathing had stopped, his chest went quite still beneath her fingers. Then suddenly, he rolled her onto her back. For a long moment, he gazed into her eyes in wonder. Then slowly, his head lowered, closer with each heartbeat, until his lips touched hers.

A long, lovely moment later, she was allowed a breath and she whispered,
“Troppo perfetto,”
 

~ ~ ~

Isobelle woke with a sudden pain in her mouth. Then her hair was pulled as a gag was tied around her head! When she tried to remove it, she found that her hands were tied to either side of her bed. She was back inside her cell!

Her heart burst inside her chest and she waited for death to claim her, but it would not!

The ceiling confused her until she realized she was lying with her head nearest the gate, not the way she usually slept. Gaspar stood over her. Thankfully, his face showed no trace of satisfaction.

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Isobelle, you must stay silent. I had to act quickly. His Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice comes with Icarus. Even now, they are at the dock. I would have asked you to hide, but I could not trust that you would believe me. And if the man demands to see you, you have to be here, in your cell. You cannot tell me you would have willingly come back inside, that you would trust last night was not a trick.”

She tried to argue as clearly as possible, but he pushed another scrap of cloth into her mouth. She could hardly hear the thoughts in her head clearly after that.

“I must go. Please, lie still. Be patient. Say your rosary and I shall kiss you once for every bead. After you forgive me, of course.” He left her side, closed the gate, and turned the key. He gave her one last desperate look. “I will do whatever I can to make him leave quickly. Trust me, I beg you. Either I or Icarus will be up to release you when it is safe. The dragon is dead, Isobelle. I swear it.”

Isobelle screamed, but the sound never made it beyond the room.

Gaspar pressed his face between the bars. “You have seen the island, Isobelle. There is nowhere to hide. If he insists on seeing the tower, the only safe place for you is here. I must go! Keep still and pray he will not have energy enough for the steps!”

And then he was gone.

Isobelle lay on her back in amazement. Fully awake now, she wondered if the night before had been real at all. The cold sea, her dress slowing her progress, the panic of the darkness. And then his voice, calling her back to the lights. Promising her freedom. Promising life away from the tower.

Something had happened to him between the nooning meal and the moment he’d come to open the gate, to release her. She might have saved herself a hard swim if she’d have comprehended sooner. He was no longer God’s Dragon, the sword-arm of the church. He was just a man, offering his open arms in exchange for a prison.

Or was he?

The alarm had been sounded. God’s Dragon had been called back to his duty. And the first thing he’d done was to tie her up and place her back in that prison.

For her safety? Truly? Why not introduce her to the patriarch as his servant, his cousin, his...anything. Why allow the man to see her as a prisoner, guilty of some sin?

If Gaspar was right and she was lucky, the man would go away and never know.

If Gaspar was wrong, and the man came looking, he would not take kindly to Gaspar keeping her alive. What was he thinking? To find her here would mean her death! He should have sent her out into the sea. At least she would have a chance.

Nonsense. It was all nonsense. She needed to calm herself and think clearly. She took a few deep breaths and it helped instantly.

Can it truly be the patriarch he cannot trust?

Voices floated in through the bars of the window. Italian. She could understand nothing but the fact they were moving closer. Then she heard Gaspar’s deep voice booming out in greeting.

She refused to lie still and wait for luck to determine her destiny, so she tugged at the ties that bound her hands. Not painfully tight. She pulled firmly on her right wrist, closest to the wall. The knot tightened, but it allowed for more room between that knot and her wrist! She lifted her elbow and pulled against the restraint. Halfway up her hand, it ceased sliding. She tried folding her hand in on itself. It slid a little more. If she continued to pull, she might pull her bones apart! She relaxed, rested. Then she tested the slack on her left wrist. It was much tighter. And if she pulled on it, the knot might prove too hard to open if she managed to get the right hand free.

What other option did she have? She’d tucked her skean duh inside her boot in the kitchen!

Oh, Gaspar! Gaspar!

She continued to pull her right hand. The skin began to give, then burn, then bleed. Tears sprang to her eyes, not from the pain, but from the hopelessness she felt. So cruel, the twist her life had taken in a matter of hours.

At the sound of voices in the stairwell, dread rested on her chest with the delicacy of an anvil. In a fit of defiance, she gave one last, desperate pull and the tie, now wet with blood, slid up to her knuckles, then over! One hand was free!

She reached up and wrenched off her gag, pulling hair, ripping the thing away. She tossed it aside.

But the footsteps were halfway up the stairs at least!

She sat up and began working furiously at the knot on her left hand. She’d pulled too much. The knot was seated. She dug with her fingernails, but she only managed to free a few strands. She could slide beneath the bed, cover the remaining hand with a blanket, but it was too late, they were at the door!

“
Preparati
,” came Gaspar’s voice from the landing. Then footsteps.
Prepare yourself
. He’d said the same thing to her often enough, before prayers.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Gaspar fought to remain dignified as he led his employer up the tower steps. His instinct was to send His Beatitude from his home, resign his position, and let the consequences be damned. Perhaps he and Isobelle could be far away by the time those consequences were called due. But he could not. He would act as he had always acted—with confidence. Surely the patriarch would think twice before questioning Gaspar’s actions. He was God’s Dragon, after all. A man to be trusted by church leaders, trusted especially by the patriarch who knew him best.

His mistake had been hiring the metal workers. They’d bragged about their creation. Word had spread during the Regatta, and as soon as the event had ended, the patriarch came to look at the work himself. No doubt a secret cell piqued his interest much more than the workmanship, but it was excuse enough to come.