“Isobelle!”
She flinched away from his voice and hurried to the far end of her cell where she whimpered and cowered.
There was a tiny fear hovering in the back of his mind that told him he had performed his duty too efficiently, that Isobelle Ross was indeed, prepared to survive in a world of angry men. Prepared to leave him. But he refused to believe it.
Still she cowered. Her single candle cast a shadow beneath her head covering and he couldn’t see her face, but her hand shook more steadily than she could have pretended.
Had he broken her? Had he ruined her?!
“Isobelle,” he whispered. “Stop this. It sickens me. Please, stop.”
She shrieked once and tried to muffle the sound with the plaid.
“You laugh at me?” He was angry at being mocked. He was horrified by her talent to fool him, if only for a moment. But he thanked God he hadn’t broken the precious spirit within her.
She straightened, instantly sober, but remained at the back wall as if she wished to stay as far from him as possible.
“Yes, I was laughing,” she scoffed. “It was either laugh like an eegit or choke on the prattle ye would have me speak. I’ll tell ye true, Dragon. I’ll go mad, and quickly, if ye doona give up changin’ me. For if ye change a part of me, ye change the rest.” She waved to the window. “If you wish to keep a submissivewoman about, I trust ye’ll find them aplenty on the streets of Venice. Find a lazy one who would like nothing more than have her meals served by Icarus and have a lovely man come tell her she’s not worthy to have her own thoughts.” She dropped her arm. “Find another. I beg ye. I am not the woman to please ye.”
Gaspar stared at her a moment, waiting for her to come closer. But she didn’t. So he turned and left the tower. Then he paced happily along the southern side of the island, unable to worry what the morrow might bring because he was too happy by half.
She thought he was lovely.
Isobelle woketo the smell of cooked chicken eggs.
Gaspar hadn’t come to rouse her for prayers, and she hadn’t risen on her own. She hadn’t slept well until the blue cast of dawn told her she was running out of time to do so. She said nothing when both men arrived with her morning meal. And when she’d finished eating it, she’d still been weary, so she’d crawled back on her bed. When next she woke, the tray was gone. And still, Gaspar had not demanded the hours.
Icarus brought her the next meal alone. He glanced nervously at the window. She hurried to her station and held the bars high until she heard the slide of her tray on the floor and the click of the locking gate.
“Dragon?” she asked.
From the doorway, Icarus walked slowly back to the gate and frowned at her.
“Signore Dragon?” she asked again.
He shook his head. “Venecia.” He shrugged. “Regatta.” Then he put his hands together as if in prayer, but pulled his thumbs apart and wiggled his hands like a fish cutting through water.
She assumed he was referring to the boat races, and nodded.
He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her and held up three fingers.
She smiled and nodded and let the nervous man leave without further questions. They’d apparently exhausted their common ground in any case. As she ate her supper, she was left to wonder whether or not Gaspar Dragotti had three boats in the race, or if he wouldn’t be back for three days. Or was it three weeks?
Three weeks!Poor Icarus would never live that long. If she were forced to remain there in silence, she would go mad in a matter of days. And she would bring to pass the little man’s worst fear—an angry Scotswoman with a sharp blade in her hands.
But why could she not frighten the key away from the little man tonight and get away with the dragon gone?
She ran to the window with her heart pounding. The water was blue, the waves were calm, but the only thing bobbing on the water next to the dock was an albatross! The boat was gone.
She spent the rest of her day imagining her escape and the problems she might face. When her next meal arrived that evening, she learned Icarus hadn’t meant three days or three weeks—he’d meant three hours.
Gaspar entered with a scowl on his face and a rich green tunic she’d never seen him wear before. He’d glanced away each time she looked his direction, and then he was gone again, with Icarus scurrying behind. The two spoke rapidly as they’d descended the steps, but she hadn’t understood a word of it.
She’d been so surprised by the dragon’s appearance, she’d completely forgotten that only moments ago she’d beenpreparing herself to pounce on the little man and take his key. She’d dressed in her own clothes, tightened her boots to her feet, and tucked the skean duh in a pocket she’d made of the plaid.
She chided herself. What a coward she was to think she could not fight her way past the dragon. He was clearly distracted. He’d paid her little attention.Perhaps, when they come for the tray, I can still escape.
She prepared herself again, only this time, she imagined spinning out of Gaspar’s reach before getting her hands on Icarus. The man cared for his servant and would surely exchange the key for his safety. Or perhaps she could avoid Gaspar altogether if she were on the bed and they believed her to be asleep. Icarus would take the tray from the table—she could roll off the bed and have her arm around his neck in a heartbeat!
