She made no reply so she might not sully the man’s favorite spot with memories of what she was about to do.
“Come,” she said. “I want to see the rest of the island.”
“I regret there is not more for you to see, my lady. But when I purchased the island, I had need of privacy, not land.”
She suddenly wished to hear nothing further about his little island. She wanted no memories to add to the ones she would already carry with her. If he were to reveal anything more of his private life, she might not be able to bear what she meant to do.
And the first thing she meant to do was to find a boat.
She dragged him up to the ridge and around to the side of the tower, to see whatever had been hiding from her for weeks. And there, behind his small fortress, was an extension of the beach she’d been staring at from her window. That and nothing more.
No boat.
No boat.
And no boat.
All her excitement drained from her in a single beat of her heart, then she quickly welled again…with fury.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Gaspar resisted the urge to lift Isobelle into his arms. Her disappointment nearly dropped her to the ground, but she recovered quickly.
“Ah. I see you are more disappointed than I expected. Perhaps you were hoping to find some way of escaping my little idyll. But there is no escape, my sweet. If something were to happen to Icarus and he failed to return in the morning, we might well die here together if we ever tired of fish.”
It might have been the play of stars, but Isobelle seemed to be shaking—no doubt from the shock of finding nothing more interesting than a continuation of beach. She pulled her fingers from his and he allowed it. If he were wise, he might consider moving out of her reach, but he did not feel particularly sensible at the moment. In fact, he felt nearly as disappointed as she. Of course, he had not wished her to escape, or to attempt it, but he had wanted her happiness to last a bit longer. They might have sat at the little pool for hours talking nonsense, but her impatience had stolen that bit of peace from them both.
“Leave me,” she whispered. “I beg ye, leave me in peace for a bit.”
If she were anyone but Isobelle, he might have granted such a request. But he knew her too well now to believe she might sit quietly and contemplate her fate, that she might not do something as foolish as to throw herself into the sea.
“I am sorry, my lady, but I cannot leave your side. Perhaps, on the morrow, you might have a different outlook on your time here. Perhaps you can find contentment…with me. And one day, we might leave this place…together.”
She dropped her chin to her chest, then collapsed to her knees in the sand, and the only thing visible, in the blue starlight, was that little cut across the bridge of her nose. His stomach turned at the thought of her feeling as hopeless as he’d once felt, just before he’d slid that hot iron across his face.
But of course, she already had.
He’d taken away all hope when he’d warned her she might never leave. Hadn’t his mother done the same to him? Taken away all hope to escape the life she’d shaped for him?
Heaven help him, he’d tried to make her into himself. And she was right—letting her live or die by the sharpness of her own tongue would have been better. He should have never taken her. Never supposed his intervention would save her. He hadn’t saved her. He was the man from whom she needed saving!
He’d been lying to himself from the beginning. He’d stubbornly ignored the truth.
He had to let her go!
“I could convince ye I am content to stay with ye.” She whispered, but with the stillness of the sea, he heard, clearly, every word. “I could convince ye of anything, but it would be a lie.”
His chest caved in upon itself at the bursting of his heart, but he fought against the pain. Surely there were some things he had come to believe that were not a lie.
“Ye doona believe me? Here. Sit beside me. I will tell ye everything.”
Gaspar forced breath in and out of his body and wondered which of her words might have been the truth. What of this world could he trust? The sea? The stars? Was his redemption now so out of reach? Could he be forgiven, as he refused to forgive his mother? The doctrine of forgiveness tried to flood his mind but he would hear none of it.
He remembered his first sight of her, through the rood screen. The way he felt about her then was nothing compared to his feelings for her now. But even so, they’d been strong enough to prod him on, to make her his own in the only way he would allow himself—as his possession.
And he’d given her nothing but pain.
As for himself, he felt more mortal than he’d felt for years. Mortal. Vulnerable. Alive. Wounded, but breathing deeply of the world around him. And now he felt it all simultaneously. Isobelle was to blame. Isobelle was to thank. She’d done this for him, brought him back to himself. The least he could do was return the favor.
