“Yes. It was a lie that I was drowning. I swim like a Venetian fish. Even if I’ve been struck on the head.” He lifted a hand to his bleeding forehead in a bid for sympathy, but she came no closer. “But the other, your freedom, was no lie. You may return to thecity, to your cottage, or wherever you wish. I only hope you will avoid Venice because of what I have done to your name there. And I can afford to send you anywhere in the world. You need only choose.”
Instantly,anywhere in the world, even if it were the next island, sounded much too far away from one particularly lonely dragon. But he bit his tongue to keep from sharing that sentiment. His eyes were open. But after all he’d done to her, she would never believe that his heart was open as well.
“You changed your mind because you thought I intended to drown.”
“You would have drowned, even though you can swim. Even I could not cross this channel without a boat.” He reached out and pushed her shorn hair from her eyes, unable to go another minute without seeing them clearly. “But that was not why I changed my mind. You have transformed me, Isobella. You have made me see the dragon and I have chased it away, never to return, even if the Pope himself demanded I resume my office.”
She eyed him suspiciously while he helped her to the soft grasses where they both collapsed.
“I was attempting to change you as I had once changed myself. I had turned myself into a cold creature that had no place in the world, and I suppose I was trying to make you the same, that somehow you might feel the only place in the world for you was at my side.”
She shook her head and water sprayed around them. “I will not be content in yer tower, Gaspar.”
He nodded and looked out upon the shadowy waves. It was not an easy thing to hear, but he could not blame her.
She sighed. “But at your side would not be such a bad place, I suppose.”
His heart tried to rouse his hopes but he bid it to settle. He dared not hope she could forgive him in truth, and told her so.
“I can try.” Her eyes lit up and her gaze fell to his mouth, then she looked away, embarrassed.
Though he would like nothing better than to take her into his arms and beg her forgiveness in a dozen different ways, he would forbear. He would not risk her mistaking passion for love. And love, like trust, must be earned.
He was finished lying to himself. And he knew that remaining on the beach with her, both of them dripping beneath the starry drapes of a warm sky, weakened their wills. So he got to his feet and brushed half-dried sand from his legs.
“I am going inside, Isobelle. I will change into dry clothes and start a fire in the kitchens. You come inside only if you wish. I will understand if you do not. I can find you a dry tunic. I do not suppose you wish to wear the white gown again?”
She shook her head sharply.
“When you are ready, then.”
She swallowed awkwardly.
He grimaced, then offered a hopeful smile. “We can leave the doors open…”
The woman wrapped her arms around her knees and turned away from him, showing the awkward outline of her hair—another reminder of the damage he had done to her.
No. She would never truly be able to forgive him. Nor did he hold out hope of ever forgiving himself. The morning would bring with it a small Greek man and the vessel that would take her away from him forever.
But he would not waste this final night in mourning. He’d have plenty of time for that after she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They spread a blanket on the floor in the kitchens and, deep into the night, Isobelle lay across Gaspar’s chest watching their small fire die. She was back to wearing the luxurious white gown because Gaspar’s clothes were little better than blankets on her.
“Do ye sleep, Dragon?” she whispered.
“No.”
She grinned into his clean tunic. “What does it mean, this thing you say in Italian—say agga po poli?”
He laughed, and she savored the sound rumbling through the side of her face and into her fingertips. He repeated the phrase, time and again, to show her the intricacies of the words, but she still failed to say it correctly. She wearied of being laughed at, so she stopped trying.
“It is not Italian,” he said. “It is Greek. It means...”
“Yes?”
“It means...I love you too much.”
