Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gaspar thought only to show the woman his disdain when he glanced at her clothes that were nearly dry from the sun’s warmth and the sea breeze.
The plaid wool had parted almost as soon as young Oberto had placed it so gently around her shoulders, and all that remained between her flesh and the wide world was a damp bit of white cloth.
Perhaps two layers of it, but still, not enough to keep his thoughts innocent.
By the time he returned his attention to her face, she was blushing, and he feared he was as well. He was grateful Icarus’ back was to him so the little man wouldn’t know just how mortal was the dragon.
Belatedly, the woman raised her tied wrists under her chin and turned her head away.
Gaspar released a long-held breath and tried to steer his thoughts inward.
He would have to give some thought to his plans and take better precautions against temptation.
Already, she sensed weakness in him. But perhaps she would forget this little boat ride once they arrived at his island and she saw Ferro’s work.
And though he had already ensured he could never put hands on her, he would need to be as prudent with his eyes.
He lowered his gaze to the water moving alongside the boat and allowed the slap and swirl of the waves to soothe his senses.
He pulled the moist morning air into his body and willed it to take away his tortured thoughts.
Instead, the image of the woman’s cottage presented itself behind his eyelids.
Not the look of it that morning, but of three evenings past when he’d stood in the shadows of the alley across the way staring at the little blue door.
That had been his first mistake, to have stood for hours willing her to come outside, straining his ears for the sound of her voice or the low murmur of her cousin.
It nearly drove him mad contemplating the ordinary little tasks that might have occupied her.
And then a treacherous thought had slipped to the fore—an image of him as a simpler man coming home to his wife, a beauty from Scotland whose gaze would rest on him—only on him—when he walked through that little blue door.
Much like she’d looked upon him that very morning.
That single treacherous idea had been the result of a dozen other, seemingly innocent thoughts and a curiosity that compelled him to her door that first time. So he would need to stay mindful—that his curiosity could bring him to his knees.
For, the most frightening realization of all was the way that thought had made him feel. Or rather the way it had not made him feel. He’d expected guilt and revulsion, but experienced neither.
Frightening indeed.
Isobelle would have dissolved to tears when the little man carefully cut the rope binding her feet. But she wouldn’t show any more weakness than she already had.
The dark one stood on the dock and waited for her to climb out of the boat, then he turned and led the way toward the single towered structure that covered the center the wee island.
The stones were enormous and gray, and the keep itself appeared to be so much shadow dredged up from the depths of the lagoon and stretched to the sky.
The wind and waves pushed and pulled at the island’s edges, as if to say go back from whence you came, you don’t belong in the sun.
But the tower stood quiet and oblivious, not unlike the man.
Isobelle followed the tyrant, and the little man followed her, but there was little need.
On approach, she’d seen how small the island was, and how isolated, and there was simply nowhere for her to go.
The boat was small but too heavy for her to manage on her own; in all her time on the sea, in all manner of vessels, she’d never been reduced to rowing.
Thus, she would have little chance of mastering the oars while being pursued.
A narrow strip of beach greeted them at the end of the dock, followed by patches of long, wind-blown grasses.
A long, pebbled path cut through the patches and up to a large arched entrance.
The wide doors were banded with dark metal and spikes, but the details were old and worn as if it had once been a small fortress, but its enemies had ceased visiting long ago.
The dark one flung the doors wide and marched inside.
As she strode through the hall, Isobelle glanced into small, modestly furnished rooms—a solar on one side and a kitchen on the other.
In the center of the rear wall, a spiral staircase began.
The man stopped, then walked back to her with a small blade in his hand.
He gestured to her still-bound wrists. “You will need your balance,” he murmured. Then he cut the rope and tossed it away before starting up the stairs.
She clutched her skirts and pulled them high, vowing not to trip on them again.
Rest and food, she reminded herself. He’d promised her rest and food.
And beyond that, she would not worry until she must. She would have a bit of peace before they began, but she refused to fash over what the man planned to begin.
One mystery at a time.
One danger at a time.
And a little peace between.
Gaspar led the way up the winding tower steps that hugged the round wall.
There was no banister. If strict attention was not paid and a person tripped, they would fall all the way to the hard floor below.
From the top of the tower, the woman could easily try to harm herself by jumping off the edge, but she’d already proven her desire to live. He would trust that for the present.
He was well pleased with his little island, which he’d acquired for privacy and to remove himself from the worldly temptations of the night.
Perhaps God had inspired him to purchase it, since it had turned out to be the perfect place to keep the woman safe.
And he was anxious for the moment when she would understand just that.
Not long now. A few steps more.
The door came into view. Closer still.
He reached a hand and pulled the latch. The door opened. Would she notice there was no lock on the door? No bar on the outside?
He entered the tower room first, then turned to watch the woman’s face. A hundred times in the past few days, he’d imagined her reaction and guessed what she might say, but now that the moment was upon him, he was nervous.
But there was no time to explain. She was on the threshold, waiting for some signal perhaps, so he held a hand out to her. She looked briefly at the latch while pretending to lift her hair from her face. Clever girl. She’d noticed.
Hesitantly, she put her fingers into his glove but then held tight. There was a tremor in the delicate bones as he guided her into the room. Perhaps she was duly frightened of the stairwell. Over his shoulder, he nodded at Icarus to leave them. This occasion was too momentous for an audience.
The sun beamed through the barred window and she shielded her eyes against it briefly. A moment later, she dropped her hand away and looked at the structure before her. The intricately decorated wall of iron. The iron curtain hanging above it. The open gate.
A scream flew from her mouth, the scream of a furious animal, and she spun back to the doorway.
But Gaspar lunged and was there to stop her.
His immediate concern was the thirty foot drop off the landing’s edge.
It was dangerous even when one was calm and careful.
He thought she’d realized that. But apparently, her carefully designed cell frightened her even more.
“Calm yourself, Isobella,” he implored. “The only danger here is in falling to your death. I vow it!”
There was no sign she’d heard his voice. She continued to fight for escape as if the room at her back held the most frightening of beasts. Was she mad? Or could she simply not trust him?
“Isobella, you must hear me. I have brought you here for your own protection.”
She screamed and spun in his grasp, then pushed for the door again. He blocked the opening with his body and anchored his hand on the wall. She grabbed his arm and wrenched on it with all her might, but it did not move. When she tried to duck beneath it, he swayed to fill the void.
She gave another shrill scream and threw her body at him. If he’d been a smaller man, they might have tumbled to their deaths together. But he stood his ground for both their sakes.
Her plaid dropped to the floor, forgotten.
Her face was a study in abject fear and desperation as her fists turned to claws, and it sickened him to know he was the cause of it.
She tried to grab handfuls of flesh from his chest, but ended with a mass of cloth that did her little good, even when she used it to pull him to the side.
When she turned and put her shoulder into his middle, he worried she’d either forgotten the danger, or no longer cared for her safety.
Had she given up on living so quickly then? He would have asked her just that, but she was senseless.
She planted her feet and pushed him. First left, then right.
Then backward. When all that failed, she started again, shrieking and grunting, then pausing for half a breath before beginning once more.
He imagined her stubborn enough to continue until she collapsed, until all her strength was spent.
But he couldn’t allow it, not if there was a chance she might catch him unawares and fall.
He’d been right—the cell was the safest place for her, even if it took time for her to understand.
She lunged to her right and pulled his hip out of her way, spinning him easily since he was braced to be pushed in the opposite direction. He was forced to release the wall and wrap his arms around her or the clever minx might have succeeded!
He pulled her close, forcing her elbows up and away, limiting her ability to gain momentum against him.
She screamed up into his face. “Nooo!”
He was grateful she had returned to human language.
Her lungs pumped like billows against him and he realized he was also struggling for breath. She was so much stronger than he’d believe her capable.
And so much softer, damn her.