Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Gaspar worried his heart might never return to its original rhythm or its original location in his chest. He’d not removed the woman more than a furlong from her house and his body was already crying peace.
First, he’d been stunned the moment she’d opened the door. All disheveled and defiant, standing in little more than her shift and wrapped in her Scottish heritage, she’d been even more breathtaking than she had in the dimly lit abbey.
He’d been caught unawares when she’d called him too perfect. For a moment, he’d believed her far too perfect as well. He’d soon realized, however, she was a clever enchantress who would say anything to distract him, to see to her own ends.
Next, she’d led him to believe she would come along willingly, even though she denied the charges against her. Then she’d fled. If she was the devil’s own, she could have summoned those sharks in order to win the sympathies of both him and the guards. Luckily, it had only worked on the guards.
She’d plunged herself into the water, knowing when she emerged her wet gown would cling to her form and tempt the most righteous of men.
And since he was far from the most righteous…
Yes, he was tempted. And he’d looked. And he would pay dearly for it, would be tormented by the memory of her lying on the sand at his feet, struggling for breath.
Perhaps not the devil’s enchantress, but an enchantress just the same.
He sent one guard to collect the woman’s length of plaid, and after she was covered once more, they led her to that small boat with only enough room for himself, Icarus, and their charge. For all the men knew, he intended to row her out into the lagoon and toss her overboard.
With her hands and feet tied, she’d not be able to swim, so it would mean certain death if she were to jump, but he doubted the woman would take her own life, even though she had to know a charge of witchcraft brought a sentence of death.
He’d noted how quickly she’d retreated from the sharks, however. A woman determined to live, to survive. It was a good sign.
No. This woman would not be jumping into the Laguna Viva. She would fight…until he taught her fighting was futile.
Isobelle was grateful for the warm morning sun that quickly dried her nightdress and warmed her bones.
Her plaid had been draped over her shoulders after her hands had been tied and she hadn’t imagined the young man’s quick pat of comfort before he’d snatched his hands away.
All four of the guards had been so relieved she’d escaped the sharks that they’d softened toward her.
If they were to travel long enough, at least one of them could be persuaded to turn a blind eye and allow her to escape. She knew it.
But they’d simply traveled a little farther down the beach, to a man gripping the rope to a small dingy that couldn’t possibly hold them all.
As the tyrant gave the men orders, she knew without the need for an interpreter he was leaving the four behind!
And when he caught her staring, open mouthed, she knew he’d read her thoughts—he knew the guards had softened.
He also knew full well he was crushing her hopes.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. But he knew.
Isobelle thanked the two men who helped her into the boat. They left her seated on the slat at the back. A third man climbed in and bent over her feet. He mumbled, “Mi perdoni,” before tying her ankles together.
The feel of the rope brought her more alert than she’d been those first hours inside her tomb.
It was truly happening! She was truly going to die for witchcraft!
And no matter how powerless she’d felt since leaving home, she’d never felt as vulnerable as she did with her boots secured together.
If she were tossed into the water, she would sink like a heavy rock.
There would be no one to fight. Nothing to struggle against but the sea.
The guard avoided looking her in the eye until just a heartbeat before he stepped out of the boat.
He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but failed.
He’d asked her forgiveness, she was sure.
But she could only hope the men could understand her poorly pronounced Latin when she offered her pardon to them all.
“Remittetur,” she said, smiling at each one in turn. Then she sat as regally as possible and looked out at the open lagoon.
The tyrant took his place at the bow, facing her.
After they were afloat, the short man who’d waited with the boat jumped in and took up the oars, facing her as well.
The dark one frowned toward the shore. Isobelle lifted her chin and watched the activity in the lagoon beyond his shoulder as if she were enjoying the ride and the morning sun.
But on the inside, she was crumbling like a poorly stacked wall.
She hoped she’d be well and goodly drowned by the time the sharks found her…
They’d travelled into the heart of the immense lagoon when the smaller man pulled the oars into the boat, bringing her attention with them.
Breathing hard, he tucked both oars safely into their cradles, then rolled his shoulders.
Isobelle braced herself and looked at the water, wondering what made this spot appropriate for drowning witches.
She could see no fins in the waves and gave a little prayer of thanks.
When she opened her eyes again, she found the little man shaking his head and staring at her, his brows knit together in worry. But he made no move toward her. Perhaps his master wished to do the honors himself.
She pulled in a shaky breath and forced herself to look at the tyrant. The little man muttered something over his shoulder.
The big man frowned. “He worries you will jump overboard, Isobella Ross.” And from his frown, she suddenly realized both men shared that worry.
She tilted her head. “Would it lessen yer pleasure if I did it myself, then?”
His eyes widened. “It would give me no pleasure to pull you from the water again, my lady. But be assured, I would if necessary. If you supposed I meant to drown you, you supposed wrong. I told you before, you’re to be examined and interrogated.
That is all.” He turned sideways, looked behind him over the bow, then faced her again.
“Do you see the small island off my right shoulder?” He gestured with his head.
A small black triangle sat in the lagoon nearly three times as far from the boat as the boat was now from shore. And though the little man had stowed the oars, the boat was clipping along steadily in the direction of the triangle. They were caught in a channel.
She looked at her captor and waited for him to say more.
“That is our destination,” he said. “When we arrive, you will be allowed to rest and break your fast before we begin your examination.”
Isobelle refused to show her relief. She refused to hope. But with all the emotions warring inside her like a current of their own, she couldn’t keep her lips together.
With great exaggeration, she glanced down at herself and laid her arms across the bits of her gown that couldn’t be covered by the plaid. Then she sneered, “I would think I’ve been examined quite enough by now, do ye not suppose?”