Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The frighteningly calm tyrant promised Isobelle that Signora Crescento would care for the cottage and her things.
He made it seem as if there was an actual chance she would be returning, and she was grateful for the small comfort it gave her, though doubted he believed what he said.
With her heart racing, a little false comfort was something she could hang on to.
The man walked into the lane and the guards took positions around her as she followed after him.
They’d allowed her a precious pair of boots—with her little dagger thankfully hidden inside—and the length of Ross plaid she kept wrapped around her shoulders.
She hadn’t been allowed enough privacy to change her gown.
Anyone watching would recognize her voluminous folds as her nightdress. And if she never returned for the green gown, she would accept it as a sign that it had never been destined to be hers after all. Ossian should have allowed young Sophia to keep it.
One guard before her, a man to each side, and a man behind.
Back at Castle Ross, when they’d escorted her to her tomb, to be buried alive, the kirk’s henchmen had surrounded her the same way.
But she’d been allowed no plaid, no comfort.
And in those twelve days that followed, while she’d shivered and waited for her brother and cousins to dig her out, she’d wished a thousand times that she would have tried to escape that escort.
If she didn’t try now, she might never forgive herself—for as long as she was allowed to live.
And she did wish to live.
She might be miserable to be so far from Scotland, but she’d still hoped for a happy life. There was no clear future for her, yet, but she intended to be around to discover it.
She would not go along quietly to face another death sentence. She would not!
The road turned left ahead. On the right, there was a break between two buildings.
Beyond that break would be the small wall and then the sea.
At the turn, the gap widened between the man at her side and the man behind, and she bolted between them.
The quick fingers of the last man clutched her plaid, but she slipped free of it and fled.
She prayed she would reach the small alley before the men had their legs under them.
Seven steps and she entered the alley. Another six and the alley was behind her.
The wall! Just a few steps more!
Something hit her leg and screamed at her feet. It was a pig, and her piglets squealed in response. Isobelle had to dance through them carefully. The guards closed the distance. The tyrant pushed one of them aside to pass.
Isobelle spun back toward the wall. The path was clear. One step, then a jump, and she was over the stack of stones. Her boots sank in the sand, then were slowed by wet mud. Her only consolation was that the same would hinder her pursuers!
She fought on. The tide had gone and left the beach stretched before her. So much ground between herself and freedom. She had to keep running. She would not repeat the past. She would not be buried alive again. Would not allow these fools to drown her, burn her, or whatever Italians did to witches.
And so she ran.
The water was a dozen strides away. Heaven help her, but she would never get a chance to get her feet wet! Surely they were upon her, but she dared not turn to look.
Pat-pat, pat-pat, said her boots. But she heard no others. Still, she would not look back.
She reached the water, felt the shock of the cold lagoon fill her boots and reach through her sleeping gown.
Fighting the folds of wet cloth, she pressed forward into the sea.
The enormous lagoon was dotted with fishing boats.
She only needed to reach one of them and plead to be taken aboard. She would be free!
There was no splashing behind her. No shouts for her to come back, in any language. And just as the water reached her chin, she twisted the toes of her boots into the sea floor and turned, to know why they’d stopped chasing her.
The dark tyrant stood on the sand with his arms folded, two guards to each side of him. He appeared quite calm as if he were certain she’d return on her own. Did he not suppose a woman could swim?
Fool.
The guards, however, were nodding and pointing out to sea, hopefully at a vessel or two that might be her salvation.
The dark one suddenly unfolded his arms and started toward her.
The cape on his tunic billowed behind him as he began to run.
Grey sand flew from the heels of his boots with every stride.
She turned her shoulders and looked behind her, but the triangles cutting through the waves were not the sails of small boats. They were the fins of sharks. Three, at least.
Calm. Stay calm, she told herself as she backed toward the beach, her toes barely able to find purchase on the sandy sea floor. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.
The guards fanned out and began shouting at the sharks as if they were puppies to be called home.
For a moment, Isobelle panicked, thinking they meant to taunt the sharks in her direction.
But her breathing eased when the fins moved to the side, the sharks reacting to those taunts instead of coming for her.
Then, as if they’d reconsidered, or sensed her fear, those fins turned as one in her direction.
She was still waist deep.
She jumped back, but her skirt was beneath her feet and she stumbled, landing on her backside. The water swamped her shoulders, then her face. She took hold of her skirts and pulled them higher. Her boots found the sand, and she stood once more.
One fin sliced between two others and sped forward.
Isobelle ran backward, but again, her skirts washed beneath her steps and tripped her again.
Her head remained above water this time, but it was too late.
She turned to the side, hoping to save her face from the attack.
But strong hands gripped her beneath her arms and hauled her water-laden body into the air.
The world spun away from her, her boots escaped the pull of the water, and she landed on her bottom once more, only this time, it was on wet sand.
A pair of legs supported her back and remained even after the hands disappeared from beneath her arms.
She was surrounded by four excited Italians who spoke slowly and dramatically to her as if they thought she might understand their language more easily if they did so. She could only laugh. Eventually, that was all anyone was doing, except for the man at her back.
Once the guards sobered, the dark one stepped away from her.
She leaned forward quickly, lest he think her too weak to sit on her own.
Then she wondered if simpering like a frightened maiden might have suited her better.
It was clear the guards thought her a lucky woman to have escaped the sharks all of a piece, but what was also clear was their change in attitude toward her.
If she swooned, would the dark one then treat her differently?
Would he consider her less apt to be a witch if she were a more delicate lass?
Somehow, she doubted it—even if she thought he might soften toward her, it was unlikely she could simper in a believable manner. Then her stomach turned on a thought.
Perhaps coming out of the sea, neither drowned nor damaged, has just sealed my fate.