Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Perhaps it is Icarus?” Isobelle tried to sound more hopeful than she felt.
“It is no boat of mine.”
The dark spot grew into a wide bottomed boat, a smaller rendition of a Viking’s vessel with one oar working at each side.
She’d seen a dozen of the same once the carrack had entered the Mediterranean with Ossian and her on board, though she’d never seen one so sparsely manned.
This one appeared to be empty if not for those oars dipping into the water over and over again.
A shiver ran through her. “I see no one,” she whispered. She was frightened. Someone should have hailed by now.
Gaspar came to stand beside her and wrapped his free hand around hers, but he offered no assistance as the boat neared his dock.
Suddenly, the oars were tucked in and a great beast rose up and lunged out of the center of the vessel, landing smoothly and silently on the wooden planks.
It stood on its hind legs and pulled the boat close, then wrapped a single rope around one of the dragon heads carved on the top of a pylon.
Not a beast, but a beast of a man covered in fine furs despite the warm climate. He would have stood head and shoulders, and more, above the guards who had walked those planks earlier that day.
A healthy mane of hair draped from his head in disarray, not unlike her own. When his boots crunched onto the sand, he drew a long-sword as easily as he would an eating knife. He stopped ten feet away and rested the sword on his protected right shoulder. Then he grinned.
Gaspar tensed.
Isobelle could not resist grinning back. He seemed a cheerful sort. Nothing like the sober party that visited that morning. Surely not the enemy.
“Gaspar Dragotti?” the man asked.
Gaspar hesitated for so long that Isobelle wondered if he would lie.
“I am,” he finally said.
“I wondered,” the man said in English, “since the lass there was supposed to be well and goodly secured in a tower, aye?”
A Scotsman?
Gaspar pulled her behind him and braced his legs apart. “Who are you?”
The man offered a little bow, not taking his eyes off Gaspar. “The newly appointed executioner…of The Patriarch of Venice.”
Isobelle’s head began to shake and she noted Gaspar’s head was doing the same.
“We were promised five days,” he said. “We will have our five days.” The last sounded like a threat to Isobelle. By the look on the big man’s face, he’d heard the same.
“Weel,” his brogue was thick but strange, “perhaps the patriarch decided ye couldna be trusted to be here when he returned.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the bench wrapped in plaid, just beyond the reach of the waves.
“Or perhaps it was me own suspicion. I’ve heard tell that Isobelle Ross canna be trusted to stay anywhere for long.
And I thought I should come quickly, before she got away.
” He took no step forward, but seemed content to stand where he was and visit a while, as if the heavy sword weighed nothing at all.
“Icarus was kind enough to give me directions. Though I very nearly missed ye.” His grin broadened. “I do thank ye for the signal, aye?”
Gaspar’s head was shaking again. “Did my servant give you her name?”
The beast lowered the tip of his sword to the side and started forward. Gaspar lunged for the torch, then returned to stand before her.
“Easy, now, mate. My name is James. I’ve been sent by Montgomery Ross to collect his Isobelle and take her home again.”
“Monty?” Her hand flew to her breast. The sound of her brother’s name was like a gift of sweet heather. “My Monty?”
“His Isobelle?” Gaspar’s voice sounded coarse, as if he’d swallowed a bit of sand.
“His sister,” James clarified, grinning. “I take it ye’re less than anxious to be rid of her, then? Ye’ve not taken her from her tower just to put the torch to her?”
Gaspar’s shoulders relaxed, as did his grip on her fingers. But she felt better only after she wrapped herself around his arm and held tight.
“No. Er, yes,” Gaspar said. “I am fond of her. Did you ask if I was fond of her?”
James laughed. “I suppose I did, in a way. Ye canna guess how relieved I am I doona have to kill ye in order to save her. I’ll not meddle with history. Killing a man meddles with history something fierce, as ye can imagine.”
Gaspar laughed. “I do not understand what you mean, in truth. But I assure you, I am equally relieved I have no need to kill you in order to save her. Your progeny be damned.”
James laughed again, obviously amused by the notion of anyone besting him. Gaspar laughed again, but warily. She remembered Monty and his friends laughing and posturing in much the same way, and she was overcome with hunger for any news of home. “Tell me, James. Is my brother well?”
The giant man considered the ground for a moment and she worried he had bad news to share.
She clutched Gaspar’s arm tighter still, but he shrugged her off and wrapped his arm around her shoulder instead.
In his other hand, the torch flagged, but she suspected he wouldn’t lower it so long as James held his sword.
James finally faced her again.
“Weel, first, let me tell ye that Monty is fine. He’s a happy mon, but for his worry over ye. The fact that Ewan is laird now doesna mean there is anything wrong with yer brother. It is just, he has...moved away, ye might say.”
“So we can join him?” Her heart soared. “But what of my sister, Morna? Do ye ken anything of her?”
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard plenty of her and her husband. Happily married. Expecting a bairn, I believe. As is Monty’s wife, or so the witches tell me.”
Gaspar tensed. Isobelle shook her head and patted his chest. “I’m certain they are only Muir witches, my love. The ones I told you about.”
Gaspar didn’t seem to take any comfort in that fact, but she was more worried for her sister at the moment. “But Morna. How can she be happy with her husband? I warned her to stay away from him.”
James nodded vigorously. “Oh, aye. The Curse of Clan Ross. ‘Tis over. Of course, they willna be telling the tourists the prophecy was fulfilled, but—”
“Prophecy?” Gaspar’s head began shaking again.
Isobelle hardly dared ask, knowing the man at her side would not take the question well. But Gaspar’s comfort would have to wait.
“Do you know, James? The faery, did it come?”
James gave her a wink, then a slight nod. “All tales yer brother and sister are anxious to tell ye.”
“But what of Ivar?”
Gaspar tensed again. “Ivar?”
“Easy mon. He’s marrit to Morna, Isobelle’s sister.”
Isobelle jumped and wrapped her arms around Gaspar’s neck.
No news could have made her happier. She could stand to wait a wee while for other details.
The important thing was that Morna and Ivar had been reunited.
All her suffering had not been for naught.
And if she hadn’t suffered as she had, been chased out of a town or two, she might never have met Gaspar.
Her dragon held her close until the big Scot cleared his throat. “Here now. Shall we all rest a bit on the beach, and away with the tide? I must admit, my rowing muscles could use a bit of recovery time.”
“Indeed,” Gaspar said. “It will come in on the south of the island, and roll north. We can reach the channel with little effort.”
Isobelle did have one more question that could not wait to be asked. “Tell me, whom did my brother marry?”
James was suddenly uncomfortable again, but she was not about to show him mercy. Who knew how long it might be before she was able to ask her brother anything?
The big man looked at Gaspar, then at the sea. Finally, he turned back. “It seems as though yer brother… uh, Monty…” He took a deep breath and rubbed his face. “Monty married the faery, lass.”
“The faery?” She and Gaspar said in unison.
She looked at her poor confused dragon and wondered if returning to Scotland with him might not be a good idea.
Of course, she did not fear he would change his views and begin executing witches, but she did worry all the talk of the wee folk, and selkies, and loch monsters might be too much of a strain on his mind.
“Well,” her dragon said with horribly false cheer, “I cannot wait to meet a real faery.”