“So. You dinna believe I’m a witch, then?”
“I do not. But I believe you will burn as a witch in any case.” He paused, waiting for his words to be not only heard, but believed. “Unless you learn how to tread carefully, how to school your thoughts, and thereby school your tongue.”
The sound she made could have been deemed a growl, and it worried him.
“Please. Heed me,” he cautioned. “Have you been told of Joan of Arc?”
“Aye.”
“Joan failed to consider before she spoke. She insulted powerful men. She frightened the simple of mind. She gave her critics the very stake on which to burn her. And I cannot stand by and allow you to do the same. I have smelt the burning flesh of too many a woman who might have been saved if they’d only known, and understood?—”
“Theirplace? If they’d understood their place? Beneath all men’s boots?” She began pacing from wall to gate and back again. It would not surprise him to learn that someone in her life had already tried to help her. But whomever it was, they’d failed.
He kept a soothing voice. “There is more than learning your place, Isobella.”
She laughed, but continued to pace.
He watched her shadow grow and fade on the ceiling in relation to her distance from the candle. “You need not believe your place is beneath a man’s boot, but you must make menbelieveyou believe.”
She stopped pacing and stepped up onto the bed. The little holes looked like a mask across her eyes as she stared at him. “But in order for a man to believe thatIbelieve my place is beneath his boot, I must crawl beneath his boot!”
He stared into her eyes and leaned forward slightly. “Yes.”
Her fingers curled around the top of the wall. She shook it, but the wall didn’t so much as rattle. “So either way, I find myself beneath boots. Nothing is different between me and the woman who submits and cowers.”
Gaspar couldn’t help but be pleased with her reasoning, even if they disagreed. It had been far too long since he’d had a spirited conversation with a woman who didn’t fear him.
“There is a difference,” he said. “You will know the truth, just as Joan of Arc would have known the truth and lived, had she been more clever. I believe you to be clever enough, Isobella. But ask yourself this: are you too proud to confine your rebellion to your heart?”
“Truth be told, I am proud.”
He smiled. “The truth is a fine place to start.”
“Start?”
“It is getting late. But if you care to, we can practice for a moment.”
Her breathing quickened. “And just what is it we’ll be practicin’?”
His blood jumped at the image of his body pressing her against the wall, of tasting her lips, over and over again, until he kissed her perfectly. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, but there were no words at the ready. After a few more such breaths, he’d chased the image away.
She was ready to begin, which was encouraging. He’d all but given up hope that he’d accomplish any change this first day. But the idea of her improving quickly also brought a ring of sadness. Having her near made him feel alive, but if she were ready to leave him too soon, would that feeling depart with her?
“A short practice, then. We shall begin in earnest in the morning.” He frowned up at her. “We shall carry out a harmless conversation. You will attempt to remain submissive, do you understand? Remember your place. And if you cannot remember your place, at least try to remember where I, as a man, believe your place to be.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a quick game of chess?”
He shook his head, frowned harder, then took on a harsh tone. “God would have you submissive.”
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh, no doubt. “No.Menwould have me submissive. Surely, if God Himself wished a woman to hold her tongue, he’d have never given her one.”
God had endowed her with a clever tongue, but it would not serve her.
“Why, then,” he argued, “would God give man dominion over women?”
Through the little holes, he thought he saw her brows rise. “Hah! Did he, now?”
He sat forward. “Do not blaspheme again. I warn you.”
