Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gaspar pulled a fine gray tunic over his head and chided himself for having entered her chamber without proper garments.
The woman had reacted no differently than the rest of her sex, raking her gaze over him, assessing his body.
He was usually immune to such attention, but for some reason, this woman’s assessment had caused him a moment’s pause.
Bah! She’d been inside his home for little more than an hour and already vanity had sunk its teeth into him.
But no more. Never again would she have reason to look closely at him.
There was simply nothing he could do about his visage.
He refused to walk about with a mask, and he certainly wouldn’t torture her with a dark sack over her own head.
But wiser clothing could keep her from appreciating his body, at least.
The memory of that morning swamped him like an unexpected tide.
She’d called him perfetto. She’d looked him in the face and seen nothing of the scars he’d created there.
Unlike anyone he’d encountered since coming to Venice, her gaze had not been frightened away from the silver gash.
In fact, she seemed not to mind the damaged flesh at all.
Perfetto. His memory strained to hear it again, exactly as she’d said it. Troppo perfetto. Not just perfect, but too perfect. He’d grown to hate the word in his youth. And for the first time in his life, it had sounded like an endearment.
He imagined pressing her against the wall again, commanding her to repeat it. Heaven help him!
Vanity invaded his chest, threatened to make camp within him, but he refused to let it stay.
She could not think him perfect now. No doubt he was a monster in her eyes, the beast who had watched her from the shadows at the abbey, who had turned her words against her.
Who had locked her in a cage and shown no compassion for what might have happened in the past.
Every man and woman of the church states could view him as God’s Dragon and it bothered him not a pip. But now, in his own home, with a woman who reminded him of simpler days, when he’d been a simpler man, the title grated him.
But did he truly wish her to see him as just a man?
He’d faltered in the boat, believing he could look upon her person and keep his thoughts chaste.
Then he’d touched her as he’d vowed not to do.
If he’d simply closed the door and held tight, he’d have had no reason to hold her.
He’d pressed her against the wall when he could so easily have forced her in the other direction, into the cell, and closed the gate, putting cold iron safely between them.
He should have anticipated. He should have known himself better. He should have never sent Icarus to find her in the first place!
When they’d arrived at the island, Isobelle had watched her captor so intently, she’d noticed little more about the island than the dragon carvings.
And now that she’d seen all there was to observe out her window, she was curious what lay behind her little tower, on the south.
Would there be a garden flourishing in the warm Italian sun?
Perhaps she was about to find out, for someone was ascending the stairs once again.
She hoped he’d reconsidered, that he might be coming to offer her a look around the island and a moment or two to sit near the water.
But one thing was certain, if he let her out, she’d never enter the tower again unless she was well and truly dead.
Considering the confident cadence, she expected her captor to be the one coming to call.
And she was right. She turned her back to the window, but moved no further.
The precious opening to the outside world was her salvation at the moment.
To remove her from it would cost someone a great deal of effort and pain.
Unless, of course, she was given her freedom.
If the tower room were the face of a clock, the window sat at the three. The bottom section of that clock was cut off by the only straight wall that ran from the five to the seven and prevented the room from being perfectly round.
Her visitor stepped in the door at the eleven mark.
Now dressed in grey that made his eyes seem darker still, her captor moved to the gate.
In his hands, he held a small black chest with bright silver fittings.
Just the right size for her head to fit in, but not so big as to hold all her hair.
In Scotland, however, it was the men who were hung and quartered, decapitated.
Not the women. Perhaps it was the same in Venice.
She looked from the chest to the handsome face, but would not give him the satisfaction of asking what was inside.
He peered closely, perhaps looking for proof of tears. Then he released a dramatic breath and produced a small table from behind him, which he must have brought along, and upon which he set the chest.
She would not step closer. From a distance, it was easier to see the whole of him through the gate’s design.
The chest opened silently and the pungent smell of cedar filled the room.
If he withdrew a pair of sheers, he would need to kill her with them, for she refused to part with her hair.
However, when he lifted his hand, it was clutching cloth.
As the garment unfurled, it became a drape of white that fluttered as if a light breeze were toying with its soft folds.
Though the cloth was as fine and costly as the trunk from which it sprung, she recognized the long narrow cuffs.
“I will not wear it,” she hissed and backed closer to the window.
He was taken aback for a moment. His brows lowered and he looked closely at the gown. He pondered the floor for a bit, peered closely at her face again, then his brow smoothed.
“Ah. Perhaps you imagine this is a gift, that I would ask for some favor in return. I assure you, this is nothing of the sort. Your own gown must be crusted with salt from your brief swim this morning. I only thought to give you something clean to wear. But I fear this is the only female garment on the island.”
She shook her head. “Ye doona suppose I have seen such a thing before? I assure ye, I have. I was given such a gown on the day I was entombed, though not nearly as fine. I shall never wear one again. Nay!”
Rage flickered back and forth across his features, alternating with horror. His eyes grew fierce and his nostrils flared, though she had the oddest notion he was not angry with her, but rather, for her.
“You are no ghost,” he whispered as if trying to convince himself of that fact.
She chuckled. “Nay. At least, nay yet. I was quite alive when me brother was forced to seal me inside me tomb. And still alive, happily, when I was rescued from it some twelve days later.”
“Twelve days.” His voice was hoarse as if he’d been inside that tomb with her, crying out for mercy, calling out in madness. He eyed the gown in his hands as if it were a serpent come to life. “I shall find you something else.”
Then he was gone.
Isobelle stood bemused. What a strange creature her captor was.
Indeed, her gown was crusted with salt. Only a moment ago, she’d worried at the cloth that scratched her neck. And now, she could almost feel the cool softness of the white gown as it moved down the stairs, away from her.
“Wait!” she called. “Come back!”
She strained to hear. Were his footsteps returning?
He appeared again, the gown balled in his fist, his breathing slightly labored. He said nothing.
“Do you mean this gown to be my death shroud?” Her fingers were itching to see if it felt half so glorious as it looked, like a bed of fresh white heather, like a cloth made of breeze and misty breath on a chilly Highland morning.
His brows dipped in earnest before he thought to school his expression. Then he shook his head once, then again.
“Then I’d be pleased to have it, while my other things might be washed, aye?”
He stepped forward and offered her the ball of white. His smile was a grimace, an apology.
“A fine gown. I thank ye.” She took it and laid it across the bed. Then she turned back to the gate. “My lord, would ye be willing to tell me, again, why ye’ve brought me here? Ye doona seem prepared to burn me at the stake today. But tomorrow perhaps?”
That rage still simmered within his eyes, but it no longer made her nervous.
“No,” he said and walked away before she could determine which question he’d answered.