The Curse of Clan Ross (70 page)

She just couldn’t seem to do it.

“I’m sorry ye were disappointed, cousin.” She would not say she was sorry he was staying with her.

“Oh, aye. I was.” He took a deep breath, then another. “But then I happened upon another man who offered me a position on an island in the Laguna Viva, on one of the octagonal islands, where they gather to defend against the Turkish ships. A pretty price, he was willing to pay me, seasoned warrior that I am. I thought I might finally be able to hire a guard or two to see ye safe, that ye’d need not marry if ye didna care to.”

Isobelle said nothing, hoping the strange tone in his voice meant he’d reconsidered that proposition as well.

“But as soon as we’d parted ways, another man came to me and told the same tale, that the captain had decided not to trust a Scot. Can ye believe it? Not to trust
a Scot?
”
 

“Oh, Ossian.” She shook her head. “What could they be thinking? Yer obviously more able than most. But why not trust a Scot?”

There was a familiar niggling in the back of her mind, wondering if someone’s distrust of anyone Scottish had something to do with her. But the only trouble she’d caused since arriving in Venice was to anger a bunch of nuns. And if they were cloistered, how could they have aught to do with seamen? Or men of war?

The only unkindness she’d done since then was to send six men away—only one of whom might have been disgruntled enough to cause trouble for her. But if he had set his sights on her, why would he not wish for Ossian to leave the city?

Her cousin shook his head. “All I can imagine,” he said, “is that some other Scotsman has ruined our reputation in one way or ‘tother.”

Isobelle nodded. That made as much sense as anything else. But as much as she wanted her cousin close, she would not have him insulted. Ossian was a braw, brave man who commanded respect. He was fair and honorable. And considering his talent with most weapons, his loyalty was a boon beyond price.

She felt righteous indignation filling her gullet and wished she could champion her cousin’s cause in some way. It was the least she could do, after the man had put his life aside to help save hers. And he’d risked that same life for her a dozen times over since they’d left their beloved Scotland.

“What can I do, Ossian? Who are these cowards who would imagine ye to be untrustworthy? Surely there is someone who would give ye the chance to prove yerself. That is all ye need, mavournin’. One chance to earn their fine opinion.”

Ossian smiled at her then, and she felt as if she’d finally done something to make the man happy. Had she never told him before how proud she was to call him cousin? Or husband? Whichever the moment required?

“Auch, but I’m pleased to hear ye say such a thing, Izzy. For ‘tis true I was beginning to think ye a selfish woman to want me with ye forever more.”

Isobelle gave him a shove and he nearly stepped on her precious garden of dirt.

“Yer a fine man, Ossian,” she said. “Even if ye are daft as a pike. Did I not tell ye? Signora Crescento has already been draggin’ every male in Venice past me door for inspection. I’ll have yer arse replaced in but a day or two.” She didn’t plan to tell him she’d rejected every one of them, or that she would continue to reject all suitors.

Ossian walked around her and headed for the door and his supper. “Glad I am to hear it, Izzy. For I did find a man who wishes to give me that chance to prove me worth. In fact, he has such faith in me, he’s already paid me a reward for signing on. I dinna think he’ll be reconsidering like the others. And since we leave tonight, with the tide, he won’t have much of a chance to do so, aye?”

She took a handful of his shirt and jerked her cousin backward. He moved quickly, but was unable to stop himself from landing on that arse she was just referring to.

“Yer a daft, daft man, Ossian Ross. Just because I said it, doesna mean I meant it.”

“Weel,” he said with a shrug. “As long as I’m already down here, I may as well tell ye the rest of it. Save ye the need to knock me doon again.”

Isobelle closed her eyes for a moment, putting off the inevitable. But what could possibly be worse news than Ossian leaving her at the mercy of Venetians while he danced about on a ship waiting for attacks that rarely came?

He rested his arms on his knees and waited.

“Out with it then, cousin,” she spat.

He gave a nod. “The ship is leaving for the New World of Columbus, Isobelle. I dinna ken when I’ll be back, aye?”

She let the news sweep through her, taking her breath and leaving its mark on her heart. The day she’d been dreading had arrived, the day Ossian would leave her for good. She’d overheard enough on their latest voyage to know that hundreds of men and entire ships failed to return from the New World, which meant danger—which meant her fearless cousin wouldn’t be able to resist it. She only wondered how long he’d been hoping for just such an opportunity. If he hadn’t been bound to her, he likely would have left Scotland for such an adventure.

Finally, she nodded and backed toward the front of the house. “Me supper’s getting cold.”

He puffed out his chest. “And what of my supper?”

“I suggest ye go find some foosty
pesce
and stuff yerself.”
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gaspar was at war.

He was certain it was the devil with whom he warred, though anyone watching closely could easily misunderstand what drove him. They would see a beautiful woman and assume he was driven by his baser urges. But they would be wrong. He had simply devised an original strategy for fighting Satan. And since he was a man of few words, beholden to few, he set his plans in motion without the need to explain himself to others. He was God’s Dragon, a powerful, mythical thing driven by his need to serve God. There was no reason he could not do it all.

Prove himself.

Save the woman.

And defeat Satan. All at the same time.

His man, Icarus, knew some of his plans, out of necessity, but it was likely he had no notion as to his master’s reasons for them. The little man simply moved about Venice unnoticed, doing Gaspar’s bidding. If he wondered at his master’s motives, he would have his curiosity settled soon enough.

As God’s Dragon, Gaspar had acquired enough wealth over his thirty-two years to rival the treasure of that legendary beast for which he was named. So it was not surprising when his preparations could be ready in a matter of days instead of months.

The iron worker, Ferro, had been quick to do Gaspar’s bidding. He and his men had taken an elaborate rood screen commissioned for the new St. Mark’s church and with it, were able to fill Gaspar’s requirements immediately. The new church was still under construction and there was time enough for another screen to be fabricated. The second screen would still be an original, since the first would be changed to fit Gaspar’s requirements. Only the artwork would be similar. And few souls would ever lay eyes upon the first screen, let alone complain.

Oh, there would be complaining, but not about the design. He imagined a fiery-haired Scotswoman would have plenty to complain about the moment she laid eyes upon the screen.

As Gaspar finished his simple supper, the famous iron worker knocked upon the door of his
stanza privata
. Gaspar bid him enter, then gestured for the man to speak.
 

Ferro’s eyes were drawn to the white scar and froze there. “It is finished, Signore Dragotti.”

Gaspar nodded, but said nothing, for fear his excitement might reveal too much to the workman.

“So,” the man said, as if searching for a topic that might engage Gaspar in conversation. He forced himself to look away from the scar, but his attention quickly returned.

God’s Dragon frowned. “You have been paid.”

It was not a question.

The man’s head bobbed.
“Si, mio signore.”
 

“Paid enough to forget the screen ever existed.”

“Si, mio signore.”

“I suggest, Signore Ferro, you do not allow the devil to tempt you to remember.”

“Si! Si, mio signore!”

Gaspar turned his attention back to the parchment before him. After a moment, Ferro began backing toward the door, though as far as the man knew, God’s Dragon had already forgotten he existed. And if he were waiting for praise, well… Gaspar was not foolish enough to examine the creation while standing beside a worker who might question its purpose.

Icarus shuffled into the room and waited. Gaspar waved a hand for the man to take his tray away. He’d been too distracted with his plans to eat, and yet he was not hungry. Another victory over the temptations of the flesh, he thought, without any effort at all.

“You remember your orders for tomorrow?” he asked the little man.

“
Si, mio signore
. I will have the second boat ready. Just where you said.”
 

“Fine, then. You may go.”

In his usual exercise in self-control, he waited one hour, then another, before he allowed himself to go inspect the work. First, he chose to prove to the devil—if he were watching—that Gaspar Dragotti was no slave to desire. Second, he would not give the iron workers the satisfaction of seeing the window light up at the top of the tower the moment their boat was away. If he showed any pleasure in their fabrication, they would no doubt tell others of their custom work for The Patriarch’s Investigator. And the last thing he wanted was for someone to come to his private island unannounced, expecting to have a good look at the work in question.

It would be best for everyone if the iron workers put this commission behind them and looked toward the next—a feat no artist could manage if they might find praise in a work already completed. Had he not seen the same in Michelangelo?

Another hour passed before Gaspar took a single candle up the tower steps. Each stair built the excitement in his breast until, when he reached the landing and opened the door, he thought his heart might burst.

He should have paid Ferro more.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Isobelle sat abruptly in her bed.

Had someone knocked upon her door, or had it been a dream? Was it only an echo in her sleepy mind of the knocking two nights before?

That night, before she and her cousin had time for a proper fare thee well, a lad had come to the door to collect Ossian, to help carry his weapons and such to the ship. She could not follow along and wave at the dock—it would hardly be safe for her to head for home alone, in the darkness. But perhaps a quick farewell was for the best. At least she’d been able to shed her tears without getting her cousin wet.

The pounding came again. Not by a small hand.

“Signorina Ross,” came the old woman’s wavering voice. “Signorina!” The rest was Italian. She couldn’t possibly expect Isobelle to understand her. But why would she come so early in the morning to spout nonsense?

Grudgingly, Isobelle got to her feet, wrapped her Ross plaid around her night clothes, and went to the door. Through the wood, she heard a man speak low. Signora Crescento answered.

Isobelle whipped the door open and stood in the opening with her hands on her hips.

“Signora. This is no hour to start yer wee parade...” Isobelle’s rant was cut short by a sudden loss of wind in her sails. A striking man, far and above more handsome than the likes of the previous four days’ procession, stood head, shoulders, and chest above the old woman. His hair was dark, but a warm color, not the black of many Italians. The length of it disappeared against the sober darkness of his tunic. His shoulders were broad enough to block her small doorway if he took another step forward. A long scar across his features suggested he was no stranger to battle. The white brand ran from his left brow, across his nose and cheek, then hooked around the edge of his right jaw in an angry pucker.

A fine scar indeed. But the face beneath it was even finer. The chin was square, not unlike that of her brother Monty. The planes of his cheeks were flat and on the hollow side, topped with high, wide cheekbones. His brows formed a dark ridge. His black-brown eyes peered into her soul. They dropped briefly to note her state of dress, including the Ross plaid, then returned her gaze once more. Whether he liked what he saw was a mystery. Not even his lips moved.

Four guards in black and yellow uniforms stood at his back with pikes. Four bees holding their stingers at the ready, she thought. An important man, then.

Isobelle did not yet know how to say, “Too important,” in Italian, but the word she did know was more accurate in any case.

“
Troppo perfetto,
” she said, stepped back, and shut the door before the man’s
gaze persuaded her to reconsider.
 

Her heart raced with an odd sort of panic, as if the man on the other side of the door might just be handsome enough to weaken her resolve. But she mustn’t give in to temptation. She had to hold strong and hope that one day the suitors would give up hope. She would not marry, no matter what a man’s station, no matter how pretty. And it might be wiser not to learn their language after all. If she couldn’t understand them, they could not impress her, seduce her, or change her mind.

Neither would she teach any of them English, let alone Gaelic. The sound of her own language from the mouth of that handsome man at her door might mean her doom.

The wood shook behind her as the pounding resumed.

She sighed, supposing it might not be so painful to look upon the man one last time, but only once. After all, she’d hardly been gracious. And since he was likely unaware of the men Signora Crescento had previously brought to her door, he would think her quite rude indeed. A pity he didn’t speak English, or she would explain.

But then again, he was no commoner. Perhaps he did speak English.

She whisked the door open once again and offered the little company a smile, despite their frowns. The old woman appeared downright frightened, crushing the skirt of her apron to her heart, her eyes wide and wild. Was she frightened for herself, or for Isobelle? Was it the man’s temper she feared? If he were a tyrant, he would find no welcome from her.