Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gaspar’s chest was a riot of warring passions. He was offended she still did not trust him, that she continued to worry she’d be burned at the stake. Impossible!
One day, she would understand him better and trust him completely. He vowed it!
He was also pleased. Too pleased in fact.
Her appreciation for the gown should not be so gratifying, and yet it was.
Perhaps it was the relief he’d experienced at finding his gift was not as loathsome an offering as it first appeared.
She need not know it was a gift, of course.
She could not know how much consideration had gone into the purchase, but she did seem to appreciate the fine material.
There was no doubt she was a noblewoman, even though her forthrightness proved a lack of proper instruction. But Scottish lasses were a stubborn, willful bunch. No wonder so many red-headed women were accused of witchcraft.
Bah! The word, even unspoken, left a foul taste in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself for ever considering this woman might be the first real proof of witchcraft, but it was she who had spoken of spells…
“Bah!” There were no such creatures. And there never had been.
But his employer could not know he felt the way he did.
Out of necessity, Gaspar had been forced to play along with superstitious clergymen, so they would never suspect that God’s Dragon was determined to save the very women they had already condemned.
He had to be clever. He had to be creative. And sometimes, he had to allow a woman to perish—in as painless a manner as possible—so he might keep his powerful position, to save another innocent on another day.
And now, that day was upon him. Every role he’d played had brought him to this point.
And now he was untouchable. He would save this woman from her own loose tongue, and no one could stop him from doing so.
When he stood before God for judgment, he would have this one act of compassion to prove he was not an evil man.
Isobella Ross was going to be his salvation. And he would be her earthly savior.
The smell of bread reached Isobelle before she ever heard footsteps.
Her stomach complained loudly and she pressed her hands to her middle to try and muffle the noise.
It would do her no good to remind the man of her dependency upon him, so she would show no weakness if she could help it.
Until she understood his intentions clearly, any information about her, even something as human as hunger, would be a weapon he could use against her.
Even now, she regretted taking the luxurious gown from him.
There was more than one set of steps. He was not alone. Icarus? Or would there be others?
She sat calmly on the end of the bed so he might not remember how she’d clung to the window before.
Save her from herself? She had heard that before, a dozen times at least, from Ossian’s mouth, and earlier still, from her brother’s. They implied that Isobelle, being Isobelle, speaking and living and breathing like Isobelle, was somehow unwise. That she would suffer if she did not change.
Well, be damned with them all. She would not crawl along the walls like a titmouse, hoping to draw no notice.
She would not cut her hair and disappear beneath a covering, as if it were her own fault that weak men were drawn to her.
She bared no skin to tempt them. She was no seductress.
And wasn’t their advice the very type of thing a harlot would hear—a wish that she could be saved from herself?
But this man should be concerned more with his own welfare—if he did not release her soon, he would wish to be saved from her.
Her captor entered along with his servant, but there were no others. She released the breath she’d been holding in anticipation.
“Stand at the window, if you please,” the tyrant said. “Icarus, here, will place the tray on your table while you hold to the bars. I will not have him fearing an attack.”
She folded her arms and remained seated even though she feared to do so might cost her a meal. “Who are you?”
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Hold to the bars.”
“Who are you?” She had to make this stand. Now. She had no choice. To blindly obey him simply to fill her stomach would be his first step toward victory over her.
“My name is Dragotti.” He smiled. “Hold to the bars, if you please. I will give no quarter where Icarus is concerned.”
A compromise. Surprising. Appreciated. She stood, walked to the window, and placed her hands high on the bars so both men might be able to see them clearly.
The gate opened with no complaint. Fabric rustled.
The air shifted behind her, grew instantly warmer, and she realized with surprise that Dragotti stood at her back.
She squeezed the bars, refusing to panic.
Hairs rose at the nape of her neck and on the backs of her arms, but those were hidden by the generous white sleeves.
At that moment, her skean duh, her small Scottish dagger, hid beneath her pallet while she waited for her boots and hose to be returned to her. Her feet were bare. She was defenseless but for the hard bones of her elbows she might use to strike out with.
He came no closer, made no move to touch her while the little man shuffled into the cell and shuffled out once again. And still, Dragotti lingered.
“Dragotti?” She released the bars and began to turn. The man stepped quickly back, then rounded the gate as if he were as wary of her touch as she’d been of his. She pretended not to notice. “Meaning, dragon?”
He frowned. “Gaspar Dragotti,” he said with an Italian lilt.
It was her turn to frown. “But you’re English.”
He stared into her eyes for a moment, as if he wanted her to pay close attention. “I was English. Now I am Dragotti, Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice.”
“A priest?”
“No. But I have substantial authority.” It was a statement, not a boast.
Not a priest, but powerful. An investigator for the patriarch? He might as well be the right hand of The Pope. As an investigator, an inquisitor, he likely held the power of life and death in the palm of his hand. The murderer of witches, for instance—most of them wrongly accused.
While he’d been eavesdropping in the abbey, she’d all but confessed to being one, admitted that she’d already been found guilty. He’d heard her ask Ossian if she might need to cast a spell to keep Sophia and Trucchio together.
She looked up to find his face twisted with fury and she realized she’d spoken at least one word aloud...
Murderer.