She sat up and began working furiously at the knot on her left hand. She’d pulled too much. The knot was seated. She dug with her fingernails, but she only managed to free a few strands. She could slide beneath the bed, cover the remaining hand with a blanket, but it was too late, they were at the door!
“Preparati,” came Gaspar’s voice from the landing. Then footsteps.Prepare yourself. He’d said the same thing to her often enough, before prayers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gaspar fought to remain dignified as he led his employer up the tower steps. His instinct was to send His Beatitude from his home, resign his position, and let the consequences be damned. Perhaps he and Isobelle could be far away by the time those consequences were called due. But he could not. He would act as he had always acted—with confidence. Surely the patriarch would think twice before questioning Gaspar’s actions. He was God’s Dragon, after all. A man to be trusted by church leaders, trusted especially by the patriarch who knew him best.
His mistake had been hiring the metal workers. They’d bragged about their creation. Word had spread during the Regatta, and now that the event had ended, the patriarch had come to look at the work himself. No doubt a secret cell piqued his interest much more than the workmanship, but it was excuse enough to show up on Gaspar’s doorstep.
A consequence he would be paying for in but a few moments.
It was just as well the man demanded to see it immediately, not accepting an offer for tea or refreshment first. This way, Isobelle need not be tied up any longer than necessary.
Why couldn’t he have taken her out the rear door and tried to bury the better part of her in the sand? For surely there was no other hiding place on the whole of the island.
So many things he might have done. He’d thought of half a dozen since he’d left her in the cell—the cell he’d vowed never to use again. There had simply been no time. If it weren’t for his need for a drink and a glance out the window, His Beatitude might have walked into his open home and caught them sleeping in each other’s arms! But thankfully, there had been time enough for Gaspar to lift her unconscious body and take her where he always felt her to be safest.
Carrying a torch, since the stairway was dim even in daylight, Gaspar reached the small landing with the patriarch at his back, followed by two of his guards. The door stood wide, as always, but shutting it would have done no good, not when the screen was the object of the older man’s visit.
A thought occurred to him and he turned to look at Icarus. The man had been acting odd of late, which Gaspar had chosen to ignore—thinking the servant simply guessed too much about his master and the lovely prisoner. But Icarus met his eyes and showed only worry, not guilt. On the boat ride to the island, his servant had not betrayed him.
The patriarch, then, was not expecting a woman to be inside.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, to warn both the elderly man and Isobelle. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, then stepped to the right and slid the torch into the loop. For a moment, his hands lingered on the light, wishing he could have just a moment’s peace more before he had to explain.
“Yes, yes. It is an extraordinary piece,” said His Beatitude. “And what is this?”
“Your Beatitude.” Gaspar turned and joined the man now standing before the gate. But Isobelle was not where he’d left her.
“Please tell me, Gaspar, that you have not been alone on this island with this woman. Tell me!”
Icarus hurried to Gaspar’s side. “Forgive me, Master,” he whispered. “I forgot the key. I left it at home today. I beg your forgiveness.”
Gaspar wondered at the little man’s quick thinking, but wasted no time taking advantage.
“Icarus, I will deal with you later.” He waved the servant away. “I assure you, sir, Icarus alone carries the key to this cell. Though I sleep below and have no wish to spend more time than is necessary with this woman, I could not open the gate had I wanted to. An unnecessary precaution, but all precautions against the devil are wise. Do you not agree?”
Poor Isobelle. She would understand none of their conversation. And he feared what her imagination might do. Already she had freed one of her hands and removed her gag. But what truly frightened him was the awareness that Isobelle knew only one phrase understandable to The Patriarch of Venice.
I love you too much.
At the moment, she had her hands together at the edge of the bed, her head bent forward, and the rosary spilling over her wrist. Gaspar had to ignore outright the blood smeared across that hand.
Isobelle had learned how to pretend meekness. He suspected, however, her whispered prayers were not all for their guest’s benefit. She was also terrified as he was, for he noticed the minute shaking of the rosary beads.
“Who is she?” The older man had trouble taking his eyes off her, but in his voice was disgust. It was the same tone he’d heardfrom many a man when confronted with a beautiful woman. Men who hated what they could never have.
“The daughter of a dear friend.” He’d had time enough to prepare that answer. “She was accused of being a witch, but I have concluded that accusation was inspired by the color of her hair alone. I promised her father I would make certain she would be meek and subservient before I returned her. Although she was a meek child to begin with.”
The patriarch finally turned and frowned at him. “She is clearly no child, Gaspar. You were right to cut her hair, but you should have shaved it all.”
Gaspar shuddered as if revolted by the thought. “You know of my wish to remain as far away from women as possible, Your Beatitude.”
“Then have someone else do it.”
“Yes, Patriarch.”
“And tell the father his daughter could not be saved.”
