She forced a smile and laughed. “Witchcraft? Yer jesting, of course. ‘Tis hardly me own fault, this red hair. It vexes me something awful, so I assure ye, I pay dearly for bearing it. But a reasonable man like yerself would not think to punish a woman for the color of hairGod Himselfgranted her.”
The man glanced briefly at her hair, then back at her face. In his eyes she saw some soft thought, then regret, but that was quickly replaced by something harder.
“This has naught to do with your hair,” he said. A soldier behind him frowned and Isobelle supposed it was likely no one else spoke English but her and the handsome one.
“Please, sir.” She kept her voice steady so no one might suspect she was begging. “What can I say to help ye believe me? I am not a witch. I’ve known real witches in Scotland and I assure ye, I am not one of them. I have no knowledge of medicines, herbs, or the like. And I’ve been here for six days, no more. Who could possibly know me well enough to accuse me of such a thing?”
She suddenly remembered the abbess, who could not have been pleased with her. Then there was a ship full of oarsmen and passengers who’d avoided her. But she’d supposed that was only because Ossian had hovered over her like an angry wolf. Sophia could not have been displeased with her, after what Isobelle had done to ensure the young woman’s freedom, to run away with the young man she loved. And the only mention of witches, since she’d left Scotland, had been between herself and Ossian, and then only in private?—
Or that once, in the abbey, when none had spoken English...
She took another step back, deeper into her house. The guards started, but made no move to come after her. She lookedinto the tall one’s dark eyes and imagined a rood screen before him.
“It was you,” she whispered. “In the abbey. Behind the screen.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm, but recovered quickly. “Will you come willingly,Venafica?” His voice poured over her like warm, trickling water. The wordveneficamight have been an endearment if it had not been for the rest of their conversation.
“Venefica?” she queried.
The old woman crossed herself and whimpered. That alone told her what she needed to know. But he answered her in any case.
“Witch.”
CHAPTER NINE
The frighteningly calm tyrant promised Isobelle that Signora Crescento would care for the cottage and her things. He made it seem as if there was an actual chance she would be returning, and she was grateful for the small comfort it gave her, though doubted he believed what he said. With her heart racing, a little false comfort was something she could hang on to.
The man walked into the lane and the guards took positions around her as she followed after him. They’d allowed her a precious pair of boots—with her little dagger thankfully hidden inside—and the length of Ross plaid she kept wrapped around her shoulders. She hadn’t been allowed enough privacy to change her gown.
Anyone watching would recognize her voluminous folds as her nightdress. And if she never returned for the green gown, she would accept it as a sign that it had never been destined to be hers after all. Ossian should have allowed young Sophia to keep it.
One guard before her, a man to each side, and a man behind.
Back at Castle Ross, when they’d escorted her to her tomb, to be buried alive, the kirk’s henchmen had surrounded her the same way. But she’d been allowed no plaid, no comfort. And in those twelve days that followed, while she’d shivered and waited for her brother and cousins to dig her out, she’d wished a thousand times that she would have tried to escape that escort.
If she didn’t try now, she might never forgive herself—for as long as she was allowed to live.
And she did wish to live.
She might be miserable to be so far from Scotland, but she’d still hoped for a happy life. There was no clear future for her, yet, but she intended to be around to discover it.
She would not go along quietly to face another death sentence. She wouldnot!
The road turned left ahead. On the right, there was a break between two buildings. Beyond that break would be the small wall and then the sea. At the turn, the gap widened between the man at her side and the man behind, and she bolted between them. The quick fingers of the last man clutched her plaid, but she slipped free of it and fled. She prayed she would reach the small alley before the men had their legs under them.
Seven steps and she entered the alley. Another six and the alley was behind her.
The wall! Just a few steps more!
Something hit her leg and screamed at her feet. It was a pig, and her piglets squealed in response. Isobelle had to dance through them carefully. The guards closed the distance. The tyrant pushed one of them aside to pass.
Isobelle spun back toward the wall. The path was clear. One step, then a jump, and she was over the stack of stones. Her boots sank in the sand, then were slowed by wet mud. Her only consolation was that the same would hinder her pursuers!
She fought on. The tide had gone and left the beach stretched before her. So much ground between herself and freedom. She had to keep running. She would not repeat the past. She would not be buried alive again. Would not allow these fools to drown her, burn her, or whatever Italians did to witches.
And so she ran.
The water was a dozen strides away. Heaven help her, but she would never get a chance to get her feet wet! Surely they were upon her, but she dared not turn to look.
