“She spoke to the sharks!” The second woman lunged to the other side of the table just as her friend reached for her. “She threw herself into the water and called the sharks to come for the dragon. He and his men dared not go after her.”
The first woman folded her arms and glared at the one who kept blurting out the exciting parts of the story.
“So she drowned? Or was killed by sharks?” He needed to keep them focused on the details at hand.
“No.” The women looked at each other as if trying to remember the details. Eventually, they shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Icarus.”
James smiled. Finally, the lead he’d been waiting for. “Tell me. Where do I find this Icarus fellow?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With Icarus in tow, Gaspar raced up the steps as fast as his legs would take him. After years of ascending them, he could have climbed his own steps with a hood over his head and still been in no danger. He did pause as he neared the landing, however, in case his racing feet took him over the edge. There was no time for stumbling. The woman was bleeding and he knew not how badly! Had someone come to his island secretly in the night? For surely, the woman had no blade or she would have used it to escape!
He hurried through the doorway and over to the gate, his hand already extended behind him for the key. Thankfully, Icarus was close on his heels. Gaspar couldn’t see her at first, splitting his attention between the seemingly empty cell and the keyhole. The stool lay on its side beneath the window. The floor was a smattering of bloody footprints. And though he was loathe to do it, he raised his eyes and searched for a white gown that might be hanging from the rafters.
Suddenly, the key was wrenched from his hands and he found Icarus unlocking the gate for him. He pushed past the little man and glanced up again, but there were only morning shadows there.
Where had she gone?
He heard her sniff and turned.
There. She was under the bed.
“Go away,” she growled.
Gaspar’s heart recovered itself with her coherent words. Icarus hurried out the gate and locked Gaspar inside.
“You see?” He bent down to take a look at her. Her gown was smeared with blood, her face was in shadow. “My man has locked me inside so I am unable to leave you.” He gave her a stern frown. “Will you come out, or shall I overturn the bed?”
She made no move, so he lifted the end of the bed and gave it a shove. It hit the back wall and stayed. Her blankets and plaid slid to the ground and it disturbed him to see the colorful plaid there. Whenever she’d been anxious, she’d held the length of wool tight around her. If she had no need of comfort while she lay wounded on the floor…
He scooped her into his arms and braced himself for a fight, but she only hit his chest with her fist, and that, only once. With his foot, he pulled on the edge of the bed and it crashed back into place, the stuffed mattress with it. But instead of laying her upon it, he turned and sat, holding her to him. Finally, he was able to look into her tearstained, blood-smeared face. If there was much damage there, he could not tell.
“You were jealous. I see that now.” He noted the cut across her nose that mirrored his scar. “You wished to have some noble scars of your own. But I am relieved to see you were not nearly as successful.”
She put a hand over her nose and ducked against him. But with the majority of her hair scattered to the winds and thewaves, her high cheeks were visible, along with a lovely pink ear bearing an odd cut in the shape of aV. Such a wound, along with the shallow cut on the bridge of her nose, could account for all the blood in the room as wounds to the head tended to bleed freely.
He checked her over carefully, just to be sure, holding her gently as a bird, turning her arms this way and that. He looked for fresh blood and felt for…injuries.
He’d forgotten that women were so much softer than men.
When his thoughts slipped beyond his control, he concluded there were no other damages to be found and hugged her close so she might not see the grin on his face. He couldn’t help it. He was that relieved.
Satisfied that he had regained his composure, he rolled her away from him a bit. A sad but pink face looked up at him. Her hair had been cut to the breadth of a hand. Some places longer. The left side of her head was matted with blood.
Her green eyes were startling. Her nose was a bit red from crying, and her lips were as smooth and perfect as the petals of a pale rose. He was completely powerless to look away from them.
“Isobelle. Isobelle,” he whispered. “What am I to do with you?”
Those jeweled eyes rolled. “Ye let me go, ye daft dragon.” Then she whispered, “Ye let me go, or ye let me burn.”
“I would like nothing better than to make you burn, my sweet, but not the way you have in mind.” He lifted her head to his and pressed his lips against those perfect rose petals before she had a chance to misunderstand him.
Her arms rose tentatively around his neck and he hoped it was not only for balance that they did so. But to be sure, he ended the kiss and retreated only slightly. To his joy, she pulled him back to her and demanded more. All other such embraces from his past were melted from his memory—like so many dustycandles turned to an indiscernible puddle of wax—by the heat of what he felt for Isobelle.
Kissing her felt like coming home to the only destiny he would ever need, and he was determined to show her the same, worshipping her mouth with his. When he paused for breath, she pushed him away and looked into his eyes. A little fold of worry twisted her brows while she took his measure. Then she shook her head and kissed him again, her hands searching his hair, his face, his arms as if she were trying to convince herself he was real.
“Gaspar,” she breathed. “My dragon.” She kissed his mouth, his cheek, then his ear. “What am I to do with you?”
