The man sighed and gave her a pitying look, and Gaspar wondered what might make such a beauty unappealing.
“Let the nun go, Izzy.” The Scot gestured for her to come to him. “Let us be away from here and hope we’re nay tossed from Venice before we’ve tried the place.”
Again, the redhead looked at the screen, frowning.
Gaspar took a step backward into the shadows just as the Scotsman began to follow her gaze.
Suddenly, she released the nun. “Beg yer pardon,” she said sweetly, though sincerely. Then she bent forward, took hold of the bottom of her brown robe, and pulled it up and over her head before Gaspar had a chance to avoid the sight. But instead of the woman standing nude before them all, she was clothed like a man, in hose and a tunic.
While the nuns stood in shock, the man took his countrywoman’s hand, and together they ran to the near aisle and raced the abbess to the doors. Gaspar didn’t know who he hoped would win until the last locks of red hair disappeared from sight and his gut clenched. The abbess stopped at the last pew and sat, breathing furiously.
Damn, he thought, and in a church too.
Standingbefore the charming wee home, Isobelle’s heart beat like the hooves of a heavy horse across a thin wood bridge. The stone house was everything their living quarters in Spain had not been. This one had windows in all three rooms, and better still, sunlight shining through them. In Spain, the windows had been small, the single room dark and smelling of the parade of people who had come before. She and her cousin had been forced to leave Spain quickly, however, before she’d been able todo much about the smell. She ought to feel contrite about it all, but she did not.
Her cousin, Ossian, had done an admirable job of caring for her since they’d left Castle Ross nearly a year and a half ago. He’d promised Monty, her brother and laird of the clan, that he’d see her settled and happy somewhere. It was no fault of hers if they were still looking for a place where both those needs might be met. Ossian had all but given up ever going home again—she should regret that too--but the idea of being left behind while Ossian returned to the Highlands was unbearable.
Sadly, she had no ear for languages. Hadn’t she tried to learn Spanish? So close to French, but not close enough to make her feel as if she could remain there alone when neither the Spaniards nor Moors could understand her. If Ossian had left her there, she’d have been dead in a week if only from frustration. The men were the worst, choosing to believe Isobelle was flirting with them, making up their own interpretations to fit their moods. It was no wonder their wives were so suspicious.
And before Spain, it had been France. Before that, Denmark. She’d refused to freeze in Norway. Now she wished she would have tried harder to convince Ossian to try Ireland from the first. At least she might have been able to look out over the Irish Sea for a glimpse of home. But Ireland wasn’t far enough, he’d said. And one familiar face might mean her destruction.
But the farther they travelled, the more danger she faced from simple differences. Her cousin had jested once that in Mesopotamia, her hair could cause war.
Now, Venice might well be her last hope. And standing in front of the cheery cottage, in spite of the light and fresh breeze blowing from the lagoon nearby, she felt the weight of the moment. There was a tender balance beneath her feet and the slightest disturbance might destroy it. Her last chance. A promising chance, but still her last.
The choice was at hand. Did she want this life? If Venice was her last prospect and something went wrong, would Ossian give up trying and take her home? And if home meant death for her? Would she rather go home to die than live a half-life here?
A hundred times, she’d wondered what the difference might have been between water and spirits. If, when she’d escaped the tomb in which she was supposed to die, Ossian and Ewan had given her water to sooth her twelve-day thirst instead of heady spirits, would she have argued against leaving Scotland? Would she have taken a moment or two and decided for herself? Or could it be that she’d been fighting happiness all this time simply because leaving home had been someone else’s decision?
She thought of all the places they’d lain their heads since that choice was made. If she’d wanted to find happiness, could she have found it long ago? If she wanted it now, was it hers?
Isobelle inhaled slowly. Her chest expanded with excitement. It was time to decide, but she didn’t want to rush. She would consider first, then the choice would be hers. Not Ossian’s. Not Ewan’s. Not Montgomery’s.
Venice was a busy city with little space between houses and waterways, let alone people. Not like the Highlands. Even Edinburgh sprawled like a yawning beast compared to this place. But the people smiled. The sun shined. And perhaps the sea would give up a rain storm every now and again to help a lass feel at home. She may never see snow again…
Of course, it was still wise to keep her hair covered when possible. She hated plaits, but she could get used to them. At night, she could close up her shutters and let her hair do what it willed. Perhaps she could convince Ossian to take up farming, or raising chickens, or anything that might keep him close at hand this time.
Everywhere they’d lived, the trouble began only because Ossian found work with his sword arm. A man-at-arms wasrarely at home. But he’d promised things would be different here, and there had been a surety in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. She only hoped this sunny house was the first of many differences.
As she stepped outside into the sunshine, leaving her cousin inside to negotiate with the owner, she realized her decision was already made. Life. She would choose life. And when she lifted her face to the Mediterranean sun, the warmth and glow of it sunk into her very bones.
Ossian emerged with a frown marring his handsome face, and Isobelle couldn’t stop the tears from collecting behind her eyes. The house had been so perfect. Would they be able to find another so fine as this?
Her cousin came to stand before her and toed the dirt at her feet. “The house is yours,” he muttered, then looked up and grinned. He’d only been teasing!
Isobelle jumped forward and nearly knocked him off his feet with her fierce embrace. “Oh, Ossian! I shall love it here. I know it. We’ll both love it.”
He cleared his throat and took hold of her waist, setting her back a bit. Still grinning, he shook his head. “I am glad ye think so, Izzy. But it matters not how I feel about it.”
“What do ye mean? Ye’ll have to stay at least long enough for me to learn the language, will ye not?” And they both knew she wouldn’t learn quickly.
He raised his brows. “Perhaps a husband can teach ye.”
She put a hand over his mouth and looked up and down the little street to see if anyone had overheard. They were thankfully alone for the moment.
“Wheesht!” she hissed. “All must believe ye are my husband, aye?”
He winked at her and pulled her hand from his mouth. “Nay this time, lass.”
