If a man wanted to marry her, he would just have to learnherlanguage. And if she proved to be a poor teacher? Could she be blamed?
Aye, she could do worse things than live out her life alone.
The little Greek,Icarus, pushed himself away from the shadows of the little cottage and headed down the path, certainhe’d not been noticed. If his master, God’s Dragon, were any other man, Icarus would suspect he was smitten with the beauty. But if the rumor was to be believed, the same sword that created the frightening scar across Gaspar Dragotti’s face had done much more frightening things to other parts of his body. So it was doubtful his master had any personal interest in the woman. More likely, he’d been ordered to investigate her and her companion—a man who was not her husband after all.
Icarus smiled as he picked his way down the road, knowing his master would be well pleased with the details he’d learned. And Icarus was pleased God’s Dragon had chosen to spend the night in the city, for it meant no rowing out to the man’s private island to fix his supper, or rowing back, as Icarus did each night.
He rolled his shoulders in anticipation of a painless evening.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gaspar sat on a simple wood bench at the rear of the gardens absently watching the Augustinian friars collecting food in their aprons. Dressed in black and sitting silently in the summer shade like the shadow of a true dragon, he made them nervous, he knew. But he preferred to sleep on hallowed ground, when not at home, and as Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice, he could go wherever he willed. And he willed to sit in a peaceful garden—where Satan had no reach—while he waited for Icarus to bring him news.
He had no interest in the woman. It was only the inflection in her speech he wished to understand. As a student of many languages, he was frustrated when he misunderstood someone speaking one of those languages. And English, as his native tongue, never troubled him. But Gaelic was a problem. He’d hoped to never hear it again, in truth. But he was determined to know why the woman had used that inflection when calling the manhusband.
It was the only reason he’d sent Icarus to find them. He wanted his curiosity settled. It was as simple and as sinless as that.
Finished with their gathering, the friars scurried away and left Gaspar alone with his thoughts and the echo in his head of their shuffling feet. Or was it the echo of the woman’s feet as she meandered up the aisle of the church?
Was she avenefica?A witch? Had he finally happened upon one in truth?
If she were executed, she could tempt me no more.
He shook the voice from his head because it was wrong. Not only was he not tempted, it would be a sin, surely, to punish a woman for her beauty. Of course, men tried to do just that on many occasions. Husbands, jealous and suspicious, would run to the church and accuse their wives of witchcraft, to rid themselves of their own weaknesses. And it would surprise him not at all to learn that most investigators, excluding himself, would believe the men in most occasions.
Gaspar Dragotti had naught in common with those men. He had a gift. He could read the guilt on the faces of most men as if they’d opened their mouths and confessed. He always knew when a man was lying, even if the man had convinced himself otherwise.
A gate squeaked open and he turned toward the sound, hoping to see Icarus. It was only a friar, returning for a knife he’d left lying among the plants. He gave Gaspar a smile and a slight bow, then returned from whence he’d come.
Gaspar took a deep breath and settled into his thoughts.
Yes. He could tell if a man was lying, and the knowledge turned his stomach. He could tell when a man was lying, and this time, it was himself. The truth was Gaspar Dragotti was tempted by the Scotswoman. The vision of her hair, her face, her lips—they all haunted him each time he closed his eyes. And thoughhe ignored the stirrings of his body in response to that vision, he could not wipe it from his memory.
Of course, he would never consider the woman for himself. He had vowed never to marry. But it would help him, somehow, to know she was the wife of another. If she was married to the Scotsman, he could stop thinking of her, let her go.
Let her go!As if he were holding onto her. With both hands. Trying not to forget her, even now.
His chest tightened and he looked skyward for relief, but found only the pale, full moon looking down from a blue sky, too anxious to be about its business to wait for the coming night.
Let her go, he told the moon.
I cannot, it seemed to reply.
“It seems,” he murmured aloud, “neither can I.”
Icarus foundhim just after Vespers. Gaspar did not attend with the friars, but he appreciated the stolid murmur of voices coming from the chapel washing over him like baptismal waters, replacing the sound of the Scotswoman’s lilting tongue with the steady, comforting voices of the devoted.
“My lord! I have interesting news.”
“Tell me.” With his own low tone, he warned the servant to lower his voice.
“The man is not her husband,” Icarus whispered with excitement. “He is her cousin. A warrior hoping to find work as a crossbowman. He told an old Venetian woman he plans to man a ship and leave his pretty cousin in the old woman’s keeping, to find a husband that can take her in hand, but can also make her happy. He was quite forceful about her being happy, in the end. He offered the old woman compensation if she found theright man. And more for keeping the wrong men away from her. The old one will have even more compensation if the pretty one makes trouble. Or rather,whenshe makes trouble. He expects it, I think.”
Gaspar was grateful the little Greek had so much to report since he was momentarily unable to speak himself. Something powerful rose inside him at the first news—the man is not her husband. He struggled to understand the rest of the details while he fought for calm. And for air.
“Will the Scotswoman be living with this old woman?” he finally asked.
“No, my lord. The old one has provided her with a cottage. Perhaps I can show you tomorrow?—”
