Save her from herself?She had heard that before, a dozen times at least, from Ossian’s mouth, and earlier still, from her brother’s. They implied that Isobelle, being Isobelle, speaking and living and breathing like Isobelle, was somehow unwise. That she would suffer if she did not change.
Well, be damned with them all. She would not crawl along the walls like a titmouse, hoping to draw no notice. She would not cut her hair and disappear beneath a covering, as if it were her own fault that weak men were drawn to her. She bared no skin to tempt them. She was no seductress. And wasn’t their advice the very type of thing a harlot would hear—a wish that she could be saved from herself?
But this man should be concerned more with his own welfare—if he did not release her soon,hewould wish to be saved fromher.
Her captor entered along with his servant, but there were no others. She released the breath she’d been holding in anticipation.
“Stand at the window, if you please,” the tyrant said. “Icarus, here, will place the tray on your table while you hold to the bars. I will not have him fearing an attack.”
She folded her arms and remained seated even though she feared to do so might cost her a meal. “Who are you?”
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Hold to the bars.”
“Who are you?” She had to make this stand. Now. She had no choice. To blindly obey him simply to fill her stomach would be his first step toward victory over her.
“My name is Dragotti.” He smiled. “Hold to the bars,if you please. I will give no quarter where Icarus is concerned.”
A compromise. Surprising. Appreciated. She stood, walked to the window, and placed her hands high on the bars so both men might be able to see them clearly.
The gate opened with no complaint. Fabric rustled. The air shifted behind her, grew instantly warmer, and she realized with surprise that Dragotti stood at her back. She squeezed the bars, refusing to panic. Hairs rose at the nape of her neck and on the backs of her arms, but those were hidden by the generous white sleeves.
At that moment, her skean duh, her small Scottish dagger, hid beneath her pallet while she waited for her boots and hose to be returned to her. Her feet were bare. She was defenseless but for the hard bones of her elbows she might use to strike out with.
He came no closer, made no move to touch her while the little man shuffled into the cell and shuffled out once again. And still, Dragotti lingered.
“Dragotti?” She released the bars and began to turn. The man stepped quickly back, then rounded the gate as if he were as wary of her touch as she’d been of his. She pretended not to notice. “Meaning,dragon?”
He frowned. “Gaspar Dragotti,” he said with an Italian lilt.
It was her turn to frown. “But you’re English.”
He stared into her eyes for a moment, as if he wanted her to pay close attention. “IwasEnglish. Now I am Dragotti, Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice.”
“A priest?”
“No. But I have substantial authority.” It was a statement, not a boast.
Not a priest, but powerful. An investigator for the patriarch? He might as well be the right hand of The Pope. As an investigator, an inquisitor, he likely held the power of life anddeath in the palm of his hand. The murderer of witches, for instance—most of them wrongly accused.
While he’d been eavesdropping in the abbey, she’d all but confessed to being one, admitted that she’d already been found guilty. He’d heard her ask Ossian if she might need to cast a spell to keep Sophia and Trucchio together.
She looked up to find his face twisted with fury and she realized she’d spoken at least one word aloud...
Murderer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gaspar sucked in a breath to cool the fire in his breast. With one soft word, she’d ruined everything he’d wished to do this first day. Destroyed it.
“One hour,” he growled. “When we return for the tray, you will stand at the window.”
He cleared his mind of all thoughts as he made his way down the darkening stairwell, thinking of nothing, nothing, nothing. But once he was outside, on the south side of the island, he could not contain his frustration and howled like a wounded, angry animal. When the sound settled back to the ground, he allowed himself the perverse wish that she’d heard it—that she’d heard it and worried.
He took a deep breath. Then another. Then a bright and shining emotion washed ashore before his very eyes and it took a moment for him to recognized it.
He was alive again!
The waves roared, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
