“Ye ask me to be distrustful of every man I meet?”
“Yes!” His voice boomed with excitement, as if she’d suddenly understood something important. He shook his fists in the air. “With God Almighty as my witness, I am asking you to suspect everyone. Man and woman alike.” He pointed at the top of her head. “Your hair is cause enough for any woman to envy you. Envy breeds ugliness. Ugliness breeds hate. Hate demands action. Even if no man called you contrary or accused you of blasphemy, a woman will.
“Someday your hair will turn the head of the wrong man—a man wed to a vindictive wife—and she will find the easiest way to remove you from her husband’s thoughts. It happens every day. It is the way of men and women, this jealousy, this possessiveness. I have seen it. I have been called to rectify it. I have ordered the execution of many an innocent woman because her life was not truly in my hands.”
He gripped the bars and his knuckles turned instantly white. His face was red above his gray clothing, a brand of fire in a colorless room.
“When you called me murderer, you couldn’t know how close you were to the mark. I have been an executioner of innocents.” He lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment, then looked up into her eyes. His face and his voice softened. “But not when I could prevent it, like I can prevent it now. I hold one of those precious lives in my hands. And I will not squander it. You are my salvation, Isobelle. If I can keep you from being tried as a witch, perhaps I will win God’s forgiveness for one of those whom I could not save.” With the backs of his legs, he pushed the bench away, stepped around the end of it, then moved to the doorway. “You may say your prayers with privacy tonight.”
“Wait!”
He paused with his arm braced against the frame, but would not face her. “Forgive me, Isobelle. But I might never permit you to leave.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stunned, Isobelle collapsed to the floor. Her elbow caught on the bed and kept her upright. Had he truly meant it? She may never be allowed to leave? Ever?
She fought for breath, but could only manage small gasps of air. She knew the open window was only steps away, but that didn’t keep the room from feeling like a tomb—a tomb that grew smaller with every gasp she took.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.But then she realized there was no need.
Her arms shook. She dug her fingers into the wood of her bedframe in order to feel something, anything. For she had no solid sense of herself, as if she were slowly fading away like the glow of a fire. There one moment, gone the next. Never to be revived, only replaced. And if she disappeared from the world, the result would be as significant as a thimbleful of water taken from the sea.
The pressure of the wood against her fingers was all there was left of her. And if that hold broke, she would shatter into a thousand flakes of ash.
Never permit you to leave…
She struggled for a rational thought in her head with which she might battle her complete despair. The man was distraught. His cruelty might have naught to do with her. The sorrow from his past had driven him to lash out at her, surely. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to be the only sad soul on the island tonight. Hadn’t she often done the same to Ossian, made him miserable when she was miserable, so she felt less alone?
Poor Ossian. She had put him through such torment, it was a wonder the man had stood with her all this time in spite of his promise to Monty. No other man would have done so. She’d been cruel and selfish. A spoilt bairn who should have encouraged her cousin to return home long ago. She should have made that first little village work. She should have made friends. She should have found a husband.
And she should have cut her hair.
Her heart jumped at the thought, but for once, she viewed her dark red mane as the enemy, not her personal Holy Grail to be defended and preserved. Could her exile have been so different, in truth, if she’d but humbled herself enough to cut her hair?
Would her tyrant have taken notice of her had her head been covered? She looked back at all the hopes her hair had destroyed, and continued to look back until the most terrible question of all demanded an answer.
Had the kirk’s bastard condemned her for her hair alone? If not for her unwieldy red tresses, would the matter have been left to Father MacRae when he returned? Would she, even now, be breathing deeply of heather and bracken, knowing no other soil between her toes than that of her ancestors? Monty had urgedher to cover her head and keep it covered until the matter had been settled, but she’d been…too proud.
Pride had brought her here! Her hair had brought her here. Nemeses, both. But the unholy pain in her chest forced her to realize other things as well. The most painful fact wasnotthat Gaspar Dragotti could not love her. It was the recognition that she’d been holding out hope…
…that he could!
She furiously shook her head and tears flung from her eyes. How could she have harbored such a hope? How could she have allowed herself to even want such a thing? Was he not the enemy? She had intended to win his affection simply to win her freedom. But was there more?
Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She struggled against it for a bit longer, to delay yet another blow to a heart already writhing in her breast. But the thought, now exposed, demanded to be acknowledged.
She hoped for his love…because he already had hers. Isobelle Ross loved the enemy!
A long, dazed moment later, the cure for all enemies grew warm and heavy against her calf—her skean duh. She lifted her foot to feel the solid rub of it against her leg. It was there. It was waiting.
She took a deep and filling breath, suddenly calm. It was the kind of calm that comes when a decision has been made and the needed action becomes clear. She relaxed her grip on the bed and stood, then moved the stool beneath the window. Tonight she was wearing her own nightdress again along with the boots and hose in case of escape. It was also the best way to keep her skean duh on her person and close to hand.
She placed her boot on the stool and lifted her white skirt out of the way. Then slowly, she pulled the little knife from itssheath. Seated on the stool once again, she examined the blade in the light of the candle Gaspar had left behind.
A fine, sharp edge it still had. The handle was thicker than it ought to be, with layer upon layer of soft leather. A gift from a father she barely remembered. The sheath, a gift from her mother. Would they be disappointed to know what their gifts were ultimately used for?
No matter.
