Izzy was not on deck, damn her.
Yet anotherlanchawas lowered away from the ship and his patience fled.
What the devil was she about?
He stomped the entire distance to the ladder, then lowered himself into the cargo hold where he and his bonny cousin had separated themselves from as many of the passengers and crew as possible. Isobelle’s hair never failed to cause problems; sherefused to cut it, and the hair itself refused to be controlled beneath caps of any kind, so it was best Isobelle’s entire person was kept from sight as much as possible.
None of their meager belongings remained, nor the hammocks they’d slept in.
Ossian started stringing together some choice words for the moment he found her. But by the time he finished scouring every corner below decks, they were all but forgotten. A tiny seed of worry began to sprout in his belly, but he ignored it and planned to drown it as soon as they found a public house.
Assuming his and Izzy’s paths had crossed while he’d been searching, he returned topside. A quick glance around proved the last of thelanchaswas gone, damn it anyway. He sighed and meandered to the railing. There was no hurry now. He would leave it to Izzy to find him.
Ossian maneuvered his elbows between ropes and spindles and leaned on the wood rail. A twist and a stretch, this way and that, loosened the muscles in his back. It would be good to sleep in a real bed for a change. Isobelle would feel the same after sleeping in a hammock. She might be dreading the task of settling in a new city, but she was as anxious as he to get off the carrack. He was surprised his cousin wasn’t the first over the rail when they reached the harbor.
He frowned down upon that lastlanchamoving away from the ship. It was full of black-veiled nuns in brown tunics with a uniformed guard at each end. In the center of the boat sat Sophia, the new addition to their order. She was dressed in brown as well, but with only a white veil. By the time Ossian had a glimpse of her, the girl’s face was but a pink circle in the center of her wimple as she looked back at the ship. The veil seemed terribly large for her size, as if her hair were standing on end beneath it.
He knew the spoilt lass didn’t wish to join the convent, but she’d been promised to the abbey by parents who could better afford a dowry to the church than a dowry to a husband.
A horrible possibility suddenly occurred to him, and Ossian’s gullet started climbing up his throat. He couldn’t manage to swallow or breathe while he pushed away from the rail and spun on his heel. Up on the quarter deck, the green dress remained, as did Sophia, standing in the circle of Trucchio’s arms. She was all teeth and tears as she watched the small boat move farther away.
The boat carrying Isobelle…headed for a convent.
Trucchio looked over at Ossian and dared to lift his chin. The Highlander hoped the fury on his face expressed even half of the contempt he had for the wee bratlings. When the boy finally lowered his gaze and blushed, Ossian was mollified, but only for the moment. He would follow the pair, of course. He would need to know where to find Sophia in case the nuns tried to keep Isobelle.
Heaven help them if they did.
CHAPTER TWO
Gaspar stood in the chancel behind an iron lattice. The screen, with its intricate spiral pattern, was a bitgrandiosoconsidering the abbey housed a Franciscan cloister, but it was not for him to judge. No. His judgment was reserved for more important matters.
Discretion was necessary for another moment or two while he gave Bishop Gallo time to leave the grounds. There was no need for the man to know he’d been spied upon. An anonymous report claimed the bishop enjoyed a questionable relationship with one of the abbey’s nuns, and since Gallo was a bit enthusiastic about serving those particular sisters, the report warranted a closer look.
Gaspar had been sent by The Patriarch of Venice to observe the forty-year-old bishop, but as it turned out, one of the cloister was a blood sister to the man, nothing more. It would be a rare treat to be able to report that all was well, and Gaspar was almost eager to do so.
But he was equally eager to leave the abbey grounds for the simple fact the place was filled with women and therefore no place for a man like him—not that there were others like him. He’d made a vow twelve years ago that he would forswear the company of women and dedicate his life to serving God however he could, a vow easily honored if he kept his distance from any and all females. And though he was often called upon to judge a woman, he was determined to remain as detached as possible, especially if she could not be helped.
And after twelve years of distance, it was difficult to linger in their presence, nun or no, holy ground or no.
A few minutes, but no more. A few minutes to prove to God that I am able to withstand the temptations of the flesh. To prove I am able to stand in a nave full of nuns and virgins and come away with unsullied thoughts.
Of course, after a dozen years of discipline, he hardly noticed temptation anymore.
The narthex doors flew open and banged against the stone walls interrupting his thoughts. The nuns were still about then. He’d been wise to remain concealed.
Gaspar Dragotti, sometimes called God’s Dragon—though typically not to his face—was Special Investigator to His Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice. He was an Inquisitor, sometimes a judge, and when the circumstances demanded, an executioner. He was not Italian by birth, but had come to the church states to be closer to those who could speak to God. He’d taken the name Gaspar to replace that uglier name, the one women had called him by long ago, the name he’d all but forgotten. It was no longer a part of him.
Gaspar was no priest, of course, but his position made him a powerful man among the clergy. His missions were usually grave and secretive, though everyone knew their nature. Therefore, he was given a wide berth by the people of Venice and the rest ofthe church states, for to have God’s Dragon knock upon one’s door could sometimes stop a man’s heart in his chest. Especially if that man suffered a guilty conscience.
Women simply fled. Well…after pausing a moment to stare.
Nuns were different, however. His business rarely involved the sisters more than it had that day, so for the most part, they flitted around him like excited birds that imagined themselves immune to his dragon’s fire, exempt from his adjudication. Their fearlessness made him uneasy.
Through the streams of sunlight and dust motes, he watched four guards usher a novice inside the narthex and then hurry back out the doors and bang them closed once more. The woman stared at the blocked exit for only a moment before her shoulders began to shake.
What was this? A novice being handled so by guards? And worse yet, the chapel used to cage her? What irreverence!
The woman’s voice broke into pieces, but she was not weeping as he’d supposed, she was laughing. And the unholy sound winged into the rafters on sharp feathers and chased away Gaspar’s concern for her treatment.
