“I doona ken what ye mean,” she said, though she did indeed know. He might suppose she came from a barbaric Highland clan that had little dealings with the church, and if that would make his task harder for him, all the better.
She heard a faint sigh of exasperation and grinned.
“Come to the gate,” he barked.
She tucked away her smile and slowly swayed to the other end of her cell, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child, peering at him from half-closed lids.
“Take this,” he said, over-loud, no doubt trying to clear her head with his volume alone. He opened a small silver box with a dark lining and pulled a string of beads from inside.
“What is it?” she asked. She raised her brows as if they might lift her eyelids a wee bit more.
“A rosary. Take it.” He pushed the loop of the beads through a large triangular gap in the gate’s decoration and waited.
She blinked her eyes wide and recoiled. “No! I’ll nay touch it!”
“Isobella. Do not be foolish. I know you are not, in fact, a witch. Touching the beads will cause you no discomfort. We both know it.”
She was so tired, she wished only to fall onto her bed and escape back into slumber, but she could not resist toying with the man further.
“I was allowed to take nothing inside the tomb with me,” she whispered, “save a bewitched torque and a rosary. I vowed I would never touch one again.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if waiting for her to say more. When she did not, he rolled his eyes. “Cease your nonsense, Isobella. Take the rosary. If you want to be left in peace, to sleep until sunrise, you will pray the rosary.”
She frowned, stepped up and drew the things through the hole, not at all happy he’d taken no pity on her.
“It is true,” she mumbled.
“I do not doubt it,” he said, his handsome smile showing his pleasure and chasing away her sleepiness, damn him. “I am relieved a mere necklace does not truly frighten you. However, if you had given that little performance before any other audience, you might have been tried on the spot. Surely you realize that.”
It was her turn to roll her eyes.
“Proceed, Isobella. And if you lose count, you will begin again.”
She marched back to the far wall and ungraciously lowered herself to the floor. “Our Father,” she began. And while she recited the prayer, she watched his shadow move back toward the bench. She was three quarters of the way finished, when she paused, to see if he was still listening.
“Yes, Isobella. I still listen. And I count.”
She smiled and resumed praying. Toying with Gaspar, the dragon, would not be dull work.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day, to Gaspar’s relief, Isobella gave no protest and prayed when she was expected to pray. Each time she acted as if she were an unschooled waif, he would laugh as if she were simply trying to amuse him. Then he would carry on with his instruction.
They practiced arguing, at which she demonstrated just how keen was her mind, and at other times, she simply turned away from him and ignored him until he left the room. She was as clever as she was stubborn. He simply had to show her that she need not give up the former if she ceased the latter.
The next day of prayers passed without any reminders from him. She knew her prayers like any lady of nobility should. And she seemed to harbor no real resentment toward the church as a whole, only toward the exact men who had sent her to her grave in Scotland. It was a tremendous relief he would not have the task of rehabilitating her views toward a quarter of the men on the face of the earth.
He also realized, with a measurable amount of dread, she could learn so quickly he might not have the pleasure of her company for long if she applied herself.
What he planned next was justified, even though it might upset her enough to reverse some of her progress, but he refused to imagine he might be sabotaging her progress on purpose. He did want to allow her to leave his island—he wanted it equally as much as he wished for his own salvation. For were the two not linked?
However, he also had to admit his curiosity, a weakness he tried not to indulge often. He found it impossible to believe there were, in fact, real witches roaming the world, so he was anxious to hear more about these witches Isobella claimed to know. And it was necessary to discuss it with her, if only to show her why she should wipe any witchly experiences from her memory, to never admit them again, so she might not suffer from her association with them.
So, that night, after Vespers, he lingered. She noticed and backed away from him, wary. He’d been training her up to be distrustful, had he not? So her close attention was good for the most part. But at the moment, he wished she would trust him.
“Isobella,” he began.
“‘Tis Isobelle,” she snapped.
