PROLOGUE
Scotland, Castle Ross’s dungeon, 1496
Four people stood inside an out-of-place workroom that was hidden among the twisting and turning caverns below Castle Ross. James Ferguson—until recently, an MI6 agent—stood between two Muir witches and stared at Laird Ewan Ross across the top of a large barrel. The shaggy-maned leader of fifteenth century Clan Ross stood perfectly still with a torch raised in one hand, his head cocked to one side.
“Do ye suppose they’re gone?” James finally asked when he’d heard nary a whisper for some time.
“Aye,” said the witch to his left. “They are far from here, though they’ve been gone only a moment.”
James eyed the hole in the ceiling that led to the inside of the tomb of yet another witch, Isobelle, a tomb that had become a portal in time. It was true, he’d come through that very tomb from the twenty-first century and into the fifteenth, but it now seemed as if the future was but a dream.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that, only moments before, he’d had a chance to join the others as they tried to travel through time in the opposite direction. But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling thathisplace was still here, in the past. There was so much to see of history as it was being made. How could he give up the chance to witness a bit of it? Even if it meant he might never return to the amenities of the future. After all, there was no one special waiting for him, wondering where he’d disappeared to, other than a few fellow agents at MI6.
While standing inside that tomb a few moments ago, contemplating the lures of both the future and the past, James had known in his bones he should stay. But he’d needed a more tangible reason to bow out, and a search for Montgomery Ross’s sister was the best excuse he could pull from the air on short notice. Finding this Isobelle would remain his first priority, of course, but there was no hurry. She was in another country, for one thing, so he couldn’t very well walk up to her, toss a bag over her head, and carry her back to Castle Ross.
When he did find her, as he’d vowed to do, he’d need to convince her he was no madman. She’d been buried alive at one point and he was going to suggest she not only return to Scotland where she would be in danger, but that she climb back into her tomb. Whatreasonablewoman would believe his assurance that this tomb would spirit her away to a strange land where her brother and sister awaited, along with their new spouses, for their family circle to be complete?
He would simply hold out hope that Isobelle Ross was not overlyreasonable.
James sighed and turned to Ewan. “Montgomery said ye’ve received a letter from Ossian, that he and Isobelle had been staying in Spain. Do ye ken the city? Spain’s hardly a wee place, aye?”
Ewan’s hoary brows rose toward the thin, long hair on the top of his head. He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted.
“They are no longer in Spain.” A bony hand wrapped itself around James’ arm. The frail sister-witch frowned up at him. “East,” she said.
“Yes, East,” said the other. “An island. Perhaps an island city.”
“Venice?” James glanced at the sisters, then at Ewan. The big man’s eyes were wide as saucers as he, too, looked from one sister to the other. He then met James’ gaze, shook his head, and shrugged.
A great help he was.
“Venice,” the sisters said in unison.
James peered closely at the one holding his arm. Her confidence shined back at him in the reflection of the torchlight. Not a wrinkle wavered.
“Fine, then. Venice.”
CHAPTER ONE
Porto di Lido, Venice 1496
Ossian Ross stood near the bow of the Spanish carrack and growled.
Where the bloody hell is she?
He would fear for Isobelle’s safety if it weren’t for the fact that every man on the ship, including the rowers, believed she was his wife—a Highlander’s wife—and believed they would die if they so much as stared overlong in her direction. In spite of the fear Ossian engendered with his braw form and his tendency to carry a blade in his hand at all times, however, there was always a chance a weak man might succumb to temptation. But then, Ossian would have heard screamin’. NotIsobelle’sscreamin’, of course, but that of any man who dared lay a hand upon her.
His bonny cousin was nearly as dangerous as himself—he’d seen to that—and Isobelle had a temper to match her impressive red mane. By instinct alone, men aboard the carrack had backed away from the pair of them since they’d first boarded the ship. It was a pity the Spaniards and Moors of Segorbe had not sharedthat instinct, or he and Izzy might have found peace on the Spanish coast.
Ossian stared at the young Italian lass, Sophia, standing on the quarter deck wearing Isobelle’s best dress, a dress for which he’d paid far too much for it to be handed off to a spoilt child. The green velvet puddled at the lassie’s feet, and she repeatedly pushed the over-large sleeves off her hands so she might better hold onto Trucchio, the young man beside her. Anyone with eyes could see the dress belonged to someone else. Everyone who’d traveled with them knew who that someone was.
Isobelle.
But if the lass wore Isobelle’s finest, the very dress his cousin planned to wear as she greeted her new city, what was Isobelle wearing?
The ship had arrived a day ahead of schedule, so they’d been ordered to stand at anchor just inside the Port of Lido until a dock was free. If they hurried, he and Isobelle could find room in one of the smalllanchaboats and not be forced to wait.
Ossian turned away from the young lovers and went in search of a mass of red hair, since he had no ken how his Scottish cousin would be dressed. Young Sophia was headed for the Franciscan abbey, so it was understandable she’d want to look pretty for Trucchio while they spent their last few hours together. But Isobelle was mistaken if she expected Ossian to stand about waiting patiently for the lass to finish with the dress.
