“Pah! I know men,goodmen, who do not seek dominion over their women. I believe God is well-pleased with these men, and that those who would rule over women do so to satisfy their own hunger for power. And it doesna take a witch to foretell that one day, women will rise up and take that dominion back.”
He jumped to his feet. “Enough. Enough.”
“What I say frightens ye?”
He moved to the gate so she could more clearly read the concern on his face. She stepped off the bed and moved to the gate as well. There was but two feet and a few iron bars between them. He could barely see her features what with the candle behind her.
“Certainly, I am frightened,” he said. “I fear what will happen to you if you cannot control yourself. Men will not stand idly by while you guess what pleases God. You could be easily condemned and burned for the arguments you so freely give. If you believe you can speak what you think, simply because you truly believe what you say, then you must change your thinking. For your own survival.”
She stared at him in silence. And he stared back, hoping she at least believed thathebelieved where her true danger lay. After a long minute, she gave a half-hearted smile and shrugged. “Well, ye’re not the first to say so, if that gives ye comfort.”
He wished he could reach through the bars and shake those shoulders, and he gave thanks for the wise plan to send the key away with Icarus, or he would have had his hands upon her again. But all that was left to him was to try shaking her with his words.
“And of those who have warned you, woman, who among them remains at your side? Who among them was able to remain standing in spite of the winds that come so forcefully from your mouth?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, and with her eyes on the floor, she shook her head, sending her hair swaying, then settling again. Answer enough.
“Look to me,” he said softly.
She shook her head again.
“Look to me, Isobella. Please. You are not alone. I am here. Still here. Still willing to help you.”
She looked up, frowning. “Why? I am a stranger to ye. Why do ye insist on changing me?”
“Because, my Isobella, I have seen so many others like you and could do nothing. They, too, would not curb their tongues, refused to hide their thoughts, would not submit to the will of…men. So many preferred to die a tortured death rather than bow their heads.”
“Ah, then ye do understand. Finally.” Her eyes lit from within. He was unable to look away.
He stepped closer to the bars, wishing she would do the same. “What is it you think I understand?”
She leaned slightly forward. “That I would rather die a tortured death, than change.”
He was afraid that he did, indeed, understand. And the comprehension burst something inside him, something hot and dangerous, like the lava from a volcano, bubbling and expanding, threatening to consume anything in its path.
With more calm than he felt, Gaspar stepped back. He breathed in and out until his breath no longer shook. Only then did he dare speak. “Perhaps,” he growled, “now you will understand why I brought you here.” He moved to the doorway and turned back. “And why I cannot allow you to leave.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Isobelle held her smile until the angry tyrant was gone. She’d seen too much of his softer insides to be frightened. The dragon had a man’s emotions. He had blood in his veins. And he had a weakness for her beauty, a fascination with her hair, though he fought to hide it. One day soon, he would let her leave. He would soften, and he would let her go. And though it was not in her nature to do so, she would be patient.
Considering her imprisonment, Isobelle was relieved to find that her bed was comfortable. Not nearly as comfortable as the one in her new cottage, but much preferred over sleeping in a hammock and rocking all night to the progress of a ship. Her emotions were spent, and with her new confidence that she would indeed leave this prison, her worries faded away with the sounds of the waves patting against the shore below her window. And she slept without dreams, unknowing, unseeing, unhearing.
Until someone began shouting at her.
She lifted her head, but her eyes refused to give up the darkness. A man’s voice. Not Ossian’s. Then she remembered where she’d laid her head to sleep and her eyes flew wide. She leapt from the bed and braced herself for some sort of attack. She pulled up her right leg, to free her small blade, but her foot was bare. No sock. No knife. Had he taken it?
The gate was closed. He had not yet come inside. Where, then, was her knife?
She eyed the mattress to her left, remembered slipping it beneath. She reached for it, but stilled her hands when his words finally reached past her panic.
“Isobella! Rouse yourself, I say.”
Candles lit up the other side of the wall where the bench was placed. She could see the man’s shadow pacing the length of it, stopping short of the gate. She relaxed, knowing he was not watching her through the latticework. He hadn’t seen her reach for the blade.
“What do you want from me?” Her body begged her to crawl back onto the bed, but she could not bear to do so until the man left the room. So she rested her back against the round, outer wall, and waited for him to answer.
“You shall celebrate the hours, Isobella, much as you would have done had you been forced to remain at the abbey. Matins begins at midnight. Lauds at sunrise, then the six hours of the day, ending with Compline, at nightfall.”
