But they’d simply traveled a little farther down the beach, to a man gripping the rope to a small dingy that couldn’t possibly hold them all. As the tyrant gave the men orders, she knew without the need for an interpreter he was leaving the four behind! And when he caught her staring, open mouthed, she knew he’d read her thoughts—he knew the guards had softened. He also knew full well he was crushing her hopes.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. But he knew.
Isobelle thanked the two men who helped her into the boat. They left her seated on the slat at the back. A third man climbed in and bent over her feet. He mumbled, “Mi perdoni,” before tying her ankles together.
The feel of the rope brought her more alert than she’d been those first hours inside her tomb. It was truly happening! She was truly going to die for witchcraft! And no matter how powerless she’d felt since leaving home, she’d never felt as vulnerable as she did with her boots secured together. If she were tossed into the water, she would sink like a heavy rock. There would be no one to fight. Nothing to struggle against but the sea.
The guard avoided looking her in the eye until just a heartbeat before he stepped out of the boat. He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but failed. He’d asked her forgiveness, she was sure. But she could only hope the men could understand her poorly pronounced Latin when she offered her pardon to them all.
“Remittetur,”she said, smiling at each one in turn. Then she sat as regally as possible and looked out at the open lagoon.
The tyrant took his place at the bow, facing her. After they were afloat, the short man who’d waited with the boat jumpedin and took up the oars, facing her as well. The dark one frowned toward the shore. Isobelle lifted her chin and watched the activity in the lagoon beyond his shoulder as if she were enjoying the ride and the morning sun. But on the inside, she was crumbling like a poorly stacked wall.
She hoped she’d be well and goodly drowned by the time the sharks found her…
They’d travelled into the heart of the immense lagoon when the smaller man pulled the oars into the boat, bringing her attention with them. Breathing hard, he tucked both oars safely into their cradles, then rolled his shoulders. Isobelle braced herself and looked at the water, wondering what made this spot appropriate for drowning witches. She could see no fins in the waves and gave a little prayer of thanks.
When she opened her eyes again, she found the little man shaking his head and staring at her, his brows knit together in worry. But he made no move toward her. Perhaps his master wished to do the honors himself.
She pulled in a shaky breath and forced herself to look at the tyrant. The little man muttered something over his shoulder.
The big man frowned. “He worries you will jump overboard, Isobella Ross.” And from his frown, she suddenly realized both men shared that worry.
She tilted her head. “Would it lessen yer pleasure if I did it myself, then?”
His eyes widened. “It would give me no pleasure to pull you from the water again, my lady. But be assured, I would if necessary. If you supposed I meant to drown you, you supposed wrong. I told you before, you’re to be examined and interrogated. That is all.” He turned sideways, looked behind him over the bow, then faced her again. “Do you see the small island off my right shoulder?” He gestured with his head.
A small black triangle sat in the lagoon nearly three times as far from the boat as the boat was now from shore. And though the little man had stowed the oars, the boat was clipping along steadily in the direction of the triangle. They were caught in a channel.
She looked at her captor and waited for him to say more.
“That is our destination,” he said. “When we arrive, you will be allowed to rest and break your fast before we begin your examination.”
Isobelle refused to show her relief. She refused to hope. But with all the emotions warring inside her like a current of their own, she couldn’t keep her lips together.
With great exaggeration, she glanced down at herself and laid her arms across the bits of her gown that couldn’t be covered by the plaid. Then she sneered, “I would think I’ve been examined quite enough by now, do ye not suppose?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gaspar thought only to show the woman his disdain when he glanced at her clothes that were nearly dry from the sun’s warmth and the sea breeze. The plaid wool had parted almost as soon as young Oberto had placed it so gently around her shoulders, and all that remained between her flesh and the wide world was a damp bit of white cloth. Perhaps two layers of it, but still, not enough to keep his thoughts innocent.
By the time he returned his attention to her face, she was blushing, and he feared he was as well. He was grateful Icarus’ back was to him so the little man wouldn’t know just how mortal was the dragon.
Belatedly, the woman raised her tied wrists under her chin and turned her head away. Gaspar released a long-held breath and tried to steer his thoughts inward. He would have to give some thought to his plans and take better precautions against temptation. Already, she sensed weakness in him. But perhaps she would forget this little boat ride once they arrived at his island and she saw Ferro’s work.
And though he had already ensured he could never put hands on her, he would need to be as prudent with his eyes.
He lowered his gaze to the water moving alongside the boat and allowed the slap and swirl of the waves to soothe his senses. He pulled the moist morning air into his body and willed it to take away his tortured thoughts. Instead, the image of the woman’s cottage presented itself behind his eyelids. Not the look of it that morning, but of three evenings past when he’d stood in the shadows of the alley across the way staring at the little blue door.
That had been his first mistake, to have stood for hours willing her to come outside, straining his ears for the sound of her voice or the low murmur of her cousin. It nearly drove him mad contemplating the ordinary little tasks that might have occupied her. And then a treacherous thought had slipped to the fore—an image of him as a simpler man coming home to his wife, a beauty from Scotland whose gaze would rest on him—only on him—when he walked through that little blue door.
Much like she’d looked upon him that very morning.
That single treacherous idea had been the result of a dozen other, seemingly innocent thoughts and a curiosity that compelled him to her door that first time. So he would need to stay mindful—that his curiosity could bring him to his knees.
For, the most frightening realization of all was the way that thought had made him feel. Or rather the way it hadnotmade him feel. He’d expected guilt and revulsion, but experienced neither.
Frightening indeed.
