Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Ossian Ross stood near the bow of the Spanish carrack and growled.
Where the bloody hell is she?
He would fear for Isobelle’s safety if it weren’t for the fact that every man on the ship, including the rowers, believed she was his wife—a Highlander’s wife—and believed they would die if they so much as stared overlong in her direction.
In spite of the fear Ossian engendered with his braw form and his tendency to carry a blade in his hand at all times, however, there was always a chance a weak man might succumb to temptation.
But then, Ossian would have heard screamin’.
Not Isobelle’s screamin’, of course, but that of any man who dared lay a hand upon her.
His bonny cousin was nearly as dangerous as himself—he’d seen to that—and Isobelle had a temper to match her impressive red mane.
By instinct alone, men aboard the carrack had backed away from the pair of them since they’d first boarded the ship.
It was a pity the Spaniards and Moors of Segorbe had not shared that instinct, or he and Izzy might have found peace on the Spanish coast.
Ossian stared at the young Italian lass, Sophia, standing on the quarter deck wearing Isobelle’s best dress, a dress for which he’d paid far too much for it to be handed off to a spoilt child.
The green velvet puddled at the lassie’s feet, and she repeatedly pushed the over-large sleeves off her hands so she might better hold onto Trucchio, the young man beside her.
Anyone with eyes could see the dress belonged to someone else.
Everyone who’d traveled with them knew who that someone was.
Isobelle.
But if the lass wore Isobelle’s finest, the very dress his cousin planned to wear as she greeted her new city, what was Isobelle wearing?
The ship had arrived a day ahead of schedule, so they’d been ordered to stand at anchor just inside the Port of Lido until a dock was free. If they hurried, he and Isobelle could find room in one of the small lancha boats and not be forced to wait.
Ossian turned away from the young lovers and went in search of a mass of red hair, since he had no ken how his Scottish cousin would be dressed.
Young Sophia was headed for the Franciscan abbey, so it was understandable she’d want to look pretty for Trucchio while they spent their last few hours together.
But Isobelle was mistaken if she expected Ossian to stand about waiting patiently for the lass to finish with the dress.
Izzy was not on deck, damn her.
Yet another lancha was lowered away from the ship and his patience fled.
What the devil was she about?
He stomped the entire distance to the ladder, then lowered himself into the cargo hold where he and his bonny cousin had separated themselves from as many of the passengers and crew as possible.
Isobelle’s hair never failed to cause problems; she refused to cut it, and the hair itself refused to be controlled beneath caps of any kind, so it was best Isobelle’s entire person was kept from sight as much as possible.
None of their meager belongings remained, nor the hammocks they’d slept in.
Ossian started stringing together some choice words for the moment he found her.
But by the time he finished scouring every corner below decks, they were all but forgotten.
A tiny seed of worry began to sprout in his belly, but he ignored it and planned to drown it as soon as they found a public house.
Assuming his and Izzy’s paths had crossed while he’d been searching, he returned topside. A quick glance around proved the last of the lanchas was gone, damn it anyway. He sighed and meandered to the railing. There was no hurry now. He would leave it to Izzy to find him.
Ossian maneuvered his elbows between ropes and spindles and leaned on the wood rail.
A twist and a stretch, this way and that, loosened the muscles in his back.
It would be good to sleep in a real bed for a change.
Isobelle would feel the same after sleeping in a hammock.
She might be dreading the task of settling in a new city, but she was as anxious as he to get off the carrack.
He was surprised his cousin wasn’t the first over the rail when they reached the harbor.
He frowned down upon that last lancha moving away from the ship.
It was full of black-veiled nuns in brown tunics with a uniformed guard at each end.
In the center of the boat sat Sophia, the new addition to their order.
She was dressed in brown as well, but with only a white veil.
By the time Ossian had a glimpse of her, the girl’s face was but a pink circle in the center of her wimple as she looked back at the ship.
The veil seemed terribly large for her size, as if her hair were standing on end beneath it.
He knew the spoilt lass didn’t wish to join the convent, but she’d been promised to the abbey by parents who could better afford a dowry to the church than a dowry to a husband.
A horrible possibility suddenly occurred to him, and Ossian’s gullet started climbing up his throat.
He couldn’t manage to swallow or breathe while he pushed away from the rail and spun on his heel.
Up on the quarter deck, the green dress remained, as did Sophia, standing in the circle of Trucchio’s arms. She was all teeth and tears as she watched the small boat move farther away.
The boat carrying Isobelle…headed for a convent.
Trucchio looked over at Ossian and dared to lift his chin.
The Highlander hoped the fury on his face expressed even half of the contempt he had for the wee bratlings.
When the boy finally lowered his gaze and blushed, Ossian was mollified, but only for the moment.
He would follow the pair, of course. He would need to know where to find Sophia in case the nuns tried to keep Isobelle.
Heaven help them if they did.