Isobelle glared at James and hoping the gash on his chin hurt him something fierce. He and Gaspar had been poking at each other for the past week and she was prepared to clunk their heads together if they went at it again.
They were seated around a corner table at the Black Hart Coaching Inn. She kept her head covered with a dark hood in case the serving women might gossip. Anyone who caught sight of her unsettling hair would find it difficult to keep their tongues between their teeth, and if anyone recognized her from some visit to Castle Ross…
Of course, it was difficult not to draw attention to a party that consisted of a scarred dragon with a black eye and a giant with hair the color of flame. He had a handsome, foreign look about him—though, when he opened his mouth he could be nothing but a Scot. His French accent was atrocious, but Icarus had proven the most talented with that language. In fact, the little man had decided that France was the best place for themto part company. He had his freedom, after all. And James had hesitated when asked if the little man might be welcomed when they met up with Monty.
“It isn’t that he won’t be welcomed, mind ye. More like he may wish he hadn’t gone. There would be no coming back.”
Icarus hadn’t liked the sound of that detail, so he’d disembarked in Cherbourg. Gaspar spent a good while thanking the man before Icarus disappeared, becoming part of the crowd moving along the docks.
Now they were three, sitting in an inn, stuffing their gobs as James put it, and waiting for horses.
Isobelle noticed that Gaspar grimaced and turned his head to the wall each time a well-dressed woman entered the Inn. And after he’d reacted the same way half a dozen times, she teased him about it.
“You will remember,” he said quietly, “that I have known a fair share of noble Scotswomen from my years at the English court. I merely prefer not to be recognized.”
She sat straight when she did, indeed, remember what he’d shared with her about his youth. And she suddenly understood why the man had been fighting with James. He was jealous. Fearful James might win her away from him. It was the same way she now felt about the better-dressed women in the room, as if each of them might have known her dragon, even if it had been long, long ago.
James wanted to know more. She told him to shut hisgob.And when Gaspar started laughing at James for having been put in his place, she slapped his arm, though gently.
Then James snorted.
Isobelle glared at the big man. “I will not stand for more of yer nonsense.” Gaspar laughed again and she turned her glare to him. “Nor yers, ye daft dragon. If ye wish to punish every man who looks my way, and I begin punishing the women for lookingat ye, the whole of Scotland will be orphaned, ye ken? I’m yers, ye eegit. Ye must be content with that. Ye canna be the only man to see me unless ye lock me in a tower, aye?” Then she rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, but that didna work so well, did it?”
Gaspar sobered, then grumbled an apology to her.
“Not to me, my love. Apologize to Wee James.”
Gaspar gave a devilish smile. “I beg yer pardon…WeeJames.”
James’ grin fell from his face. His jaw ground back and forth, then he winced and stopped abruptly. He continued to glare at Gaspar while he put his finger gently to his damaged chin.
Isobelle sighed and got to her feet. “Lads,” she said in disgust, and glanced toward the door for signs of their horses. She was anxious to quit the place if only to be free of prying eyes. But there was no sign yet of the stable lad.
“Isobelle Ross!” A voice called from behind her as she turned back to the table and she froze like a stone. If she turned, someone would know they’d identified her correctly. If she ignored them…
She looked frantically to Gaspar and noted the tiniest shake of his head. Then he said something to her in Italian, as if they were in the middle of a discussion. He looked at her, as if waiting for her to respond in kind. But she could count her Italian words on ten fingers.
“Troppo grasso,” she said with a shrug. The veil beneath her hood draped down both sides of her head and she tucked it closer to her cheeks.
“Forgive me.” The stranger was suddenly at her shoulder. He spoke English. “I have seen you before, have I not?”
Again, Gaspar shook his head and stood, for which she was grateful, since she was fair to certain she was about to collapse to the floor, and she hoped he might catch her.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” Gaspar didn’t reach for her. In fact, he moved away from her a bit.
“I am Father Clellan. And you are surely Gaspar Dragotti? Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice?”
“I am Dragotti.” If he would have said, “I am a dragon,” he would have been believed as well, his confidence was that effective.
Isobelle prayed his stern look would convince the man to leave Gaspar in peace. But the unwelcomed priest lingered.
“You will find this amusing then, Signore. When I first glimpsed this lady, I mistook her for a young woman who had once been condemned as a witch. A Scottish woman, in fact.”
The priest tilted his head to one side to get a better look at her. Gaspar stepped further away and she realized he did so to lure the man’s attention from her. When the priest continued to peer around her hood, Gaspar gestured for the man to come to him, which he did. Finally free of his attention, she stepped closer to James and bent as if to speak to him. Then she listened.
“Father Clellan, I promise not to translate your words, so Signore Crescento will not be offended. In these frightening times, you can understand why she would not view your mistake as amusing.”
The priest stammered. “Uh…uh… Of course, of course! And travelling with God’s Dragon…” He gasped. “Of course. Forgive me.”
