Rage flickered back and forth across his features, alternating with horror. His eyes grew fierce and his nostrils flared, thoughshe had the oddest notion he was not angry with her, but rather,forher.
“You are no ghost,” he whispered as if trying to convince himself of that fact.
She chuckled. “Nay. At least, nay yet. I was quite alive when me brother was forced to seal me inside me tomb. And still alive, happily, when I was rescued from it some twelve days later.”
“Twelve days.” His voice was hoarse as if he’d been inside that tomb with her, crying out for mercy, calling out in madness. He eyed the gown in his hands as if it were a serpent come to life. “I shall find you something else.”
Then he was gone.
Isobelle stood bemused. What a strange creature her captor was.
Indeed, her gown was crusted with salt. Only a moment ago, she’d worried at the cloth that scratched her neck. And now, she could almost feel the cool softness of the white gown as it moved down the stairs, away from her.
“Wait!” she called. “Come back!”
She strained to hear. Were his footsteps returning?
He appeared again, the gown balled in his fist, his breathing slightly labored. He said nothing.
“Do you mean this gown to be my death shroud?” Her fingers were itching to see if it felt half so glorious as it looked, like a bed of fresh white heather, like a cloth made of breeze and misty breath on a chilly Highland morning.
His brows dipped in earnest before he thought to school his expression. Then he shook his head once, then again.
“Then I’d be pleased to have it, while my other things might be washed, aye?”
He stepped forward and offered her the ball of white. His smile was a grimace, an apology.
“A fine gown. I thank ye.” She took it and laid it across the bed. Then she turned back to the gate. “My lord, would ye be willing to tell me, again, why ye’ve brought me here? Ye doona seem prepared to burn me at the stake today. But tomorrow perhaps?”
That rage still simmered within his eyes, but it no longer made her nervous.
“No,” he said and walked away before she could determine which question he’d answered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gaspar’s chest was a riot of warring passions. He was offended she still did not trust him, that she continued to worry she’d be burned at the stake. Impossible!
One day, she would understand him better and trust him completely. He vowed it!
He was also pleased. Too pleased in fact. Her appreciation for the gown should not be so gratifying, and yet it was. Perhaps it was the relief he’d experienced at finding his gift was not as loathsome an offering as it first appeared. She need not know it was a gift, of course. She could not know how much consideration had gone into the purchase, but she did seem to appreciate the fine material.
There was no doubt she was a noblewoman, even though her forthrightness proved a lack of proper instruction. But Scottish lasses were a stubborn, willful bunch. No wonder so many red-headed women were accused of witchcraft.
Bah! The word, even unspoken, left a foul taste in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself for ever considering this womanmight be the first real proof of witchcraft, but it was she who had spoken of spells…
“Bah!” There were no such creatures. And there never had been. But his employer could not know he felt the way he did. Out of necessity, Gaspar had been forced to play along with superstitious clergymen, so they would never suspect that God’s Dragon was determined to save the very women they had already condemned.
He had to be clever. He had to be creative. And sometimes, he had to allow a woman to perish—in as painless a manner as possible—so he might keep his powerful position, to save another innocent on another day.
And now, that day was upon him. Every role he’d played had brought him to this point. And now he was untouchable. He would save this woman from her own loose tongue, and no one could stop him from doing so. When he stood before God for judgment, he would have this one act of compassion to prove he was not an evil man.
Isobella Ross was going to be his salvation. And he would be her earthly savior.
The smellof bread reached Isobelle before she ever heard footsteps. Her stomach complained loudly and she pressed her hands to her middle to try and muffle the noise. It would do her no good to remind the man of her dependency upon him, so she would show no weakness if she could help it. Until she understood his intentions clearly, any information about her, even something as human as hunger, would be a weapon he could use against her. Even now, she regretted taking the luxurious gown from him.
There was more than one set of steps. He was not alone. Icarus? Or would there be others?
She sat calmly on the end of the bed so he might not remember how she’d clung to the window before.
