When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  “Say something that will make me stop touching you,” she whispered.

  “I, ah—?” He stared at her hand on his sleeve and then at her.

  She couldn’t look at him. She also couldn’t seem to release him.

  “You want me to make you stop touching me?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Are you mad?”

  Her fingers moved down his arm to graze his wrist. There was a gap between the glove and his bare hand, and she slid her fingertip so that it nudged his skin. She wouldn’t look at his face.

  He turned his wrist, pulse up, and gave a little jerk. The motion notched her index finger inside his glove, along with two other fingers.

  And now they shared the same glove.

  “No man would make you stop touching him, least of all me,” he rasped.

  Isobel was awash in shimmers. She slid deeper into his glove, so deep the tight leather refused to give. Next she peeled the offending accessory from his hand. The duke wiggled his fingers, helping. When his hand was bare, she interlaced their fingers and squeezed.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you,” she whispered, finally meeting his eye.

  “At the moment, neither do I,” he said.

  “And I cannot be intimate with you.”

  “You’ve mentioned this.”

  “I’ve had my heart broken before.” She held his hand tightly between them.

  “Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me who hurt you.”

  The very odd thing was, even odder than her clasping his hand between them, was that she wanted to tell him.

  She shook her head wildly. No. Tears stung her eyes.

  “Why not?” His voice was gentle.

  “Because you will be compassionate.” This was true, she realized. He would not scoff or deride or hold her at an arm’s length. It had been a wretched time, and he would understand. She was already too fond of him. He was too handsome and clever. And the prison escape story and orphanage rescue? So capable and brave. His fear of retiring, the vulnerability.

  Isobel Tinker was not made of stone, but perhaps she was made of something like . . . porcelain? Strong but also breakable. And she could not allow herself to become his random, unaccounted lover.

  She recited in her head, Dukes do not marry travel agents and I cannot be his lover.

  “I will not be compassionate about it,” he assured her.

  He was trying to make her smile. She wanted to smile and laugh and make light of it all. This particular conversation should not feel so very important. She could not discover another irresistible piece of him every time they spoke. First he was charming and dashing. Then he was anxious but resigned. Now he was brave and commanding. What next? Did he fly?

  She didn’t have the stamina to learn another reason to want him. She was too old for the racing heart and the belly shimmers—and for the hope.

  Slowly, without any real design, their joined hands fell to hang between them, still joined. It was less like they were arm wrestling, more like they were sweethearts. It was worse.

  They stood so very close. The sun had been swallowed by the sea, and the moon slid into position, frosting them in silver light.

  “I wasn’t trying to charm you, Miss Tinker,” he said. “I was illustrating one of the many miserable contrasts between life as a spy and life as a duke.”

  “Miserable?”

  “Perhaps ‘miserable’ is an exaggeration.” His expression was miserable. “ ‘Dull’ may be a better word. When I am duke, there is a good chance that I will drop into the ducal bed at Syon Hall and never awaken.”

  Isobel had a flash vision of Northumberland’s “ducal bed” and felt a ping of desire.

  “Life is what you make of it,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Has no one said this to you?”

  “Not really. You know what has been said? I’ve heard different variations of the same thing: your father is dead, and then your brother August, also dead; and now your brother James, dead too. The job that killed the three of them now rests on your unwilling shoulders. So pack it in and get home.”

  “They said this to you. You were summoned?”

  He shrugged. “Not in as many words, but—”

  “If there was no summons, then perhaps it is not what was expected, not to the very letter. Perhaps you may reinvent the dukedom in a way that allows you freedom to—”

  “There is no reinvention, Miss Tinker. There is only five hundred acres, eighty-three families, a foundry, four ancient structures in various states of modernization, a mother and three sisters, and countless sheep. The lot of them cannot mind themselves.”

  She opened her mouth to contradict him and then closed it. He knew his responsibilities obviously. Anything she offered was only conjecture.

  She studied his profile: his shoulders, large and powerful beneath his coat; his broad chest, exactly at the level of her gaze. His body seemed impossible to defeat; he was muscled and nimble and effortless. Why, then, did she want to reassure him? To lay her cheek against his heartbeat? Why did she clasp his hand as if the next strong gust might blow him away?

  She wanted to kiss him.

  No, that was inaccurate, the desire to kiss him had been an ever-present hum in the back of her mind since Grosvenor Square. Now her mind’s eye envisioned the kiss. She saw herself step forward, go up on her toes, and tip her face up. She saw him manage the rest.

  One of the many lovely things about the Duke of Northumberland was that he would manage the rest.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said suddenly.

  Isobel’s eyes snapped to his. Had he read her mind?

  He went on. “You’ve said that we will not, and for good reason, but I cannot not say it.”

  “If there is a pretty girl in the vicinity,” she guessed, “of course you must kiss her.”

  “No. If I initiate a kiss, I guarantee that it’s not because she’s convenient.”

  Why is it? Isobel thought, her breath held.

  “It’s because,” he whispered, reading her mind again, “I’ve the feeling that I’m flying, and I don’t want to do it alone. Are we flying, Isobel?”

  “Northumberland,” she said breathlessly.

  “Please call me North,” he whispered. “My friends call me North.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “We are not enemies. You are not my family nor my commanding officer nor anyone I’m trying to impress.”

  I’m so impressed by you, she thought. She looked into his amber eyes and saw patience and longing and sweetness reflected back. He cocked an eyebrow.

  He said, “Or you could simply call me Jason. My given name.”

  Jason. The shimmer inside her chest made a swooping revolution. She cleared her throat. “ ‘North’ will be sufficient, thank you very much.” She repeated it. “North. Like the star.”

  “More like you’ve bitten off the first mouthful of the title and spat out the rest.”

  She giggled and he laughed with her.

  “North,” she sighed, feeling the shimmers flick on and off.

  And then, before she allowed herself to think, she pushed up on her toes and kissed him. Just a quick peck, her cold lips against the warmth of his mouth. A confirmation. She was flying too.

  North made a noise, half surprise, half delight, and scooped her up. His hands went around her waist and she was against him. His mouth moved possessively, kissing her like he’d stolen her. She relaxed in his arms, allowing the kiss to launch them higher and higher. The peck melted into a real kiss, and she wound an arm around his neck and sunk a hand in his hair.

  She could barely breathe, and standing upright was out of the question. He leaned against the railing of the ship and held her.

  For a minute, or an hour, or a year, they were lost in the roiling sensation of that kiss. The boat rocked and swayed, and their pressed bodies rocked and swayed together. The wind whipped around them and they clung, warm and secure and flying.

  “Iso
bel,” he whispered gruffly, pulling away to breathe. “It doesn’t have to be—”

  “Don’t say it,” she begged, panting for breath.

  “You don’t know what I’m going—”

  “There’s too much at stake,” she insisted. “My new life—your responsibilities to the dukedom. We cannot be reckless.”

  He kissed her again, hard and demanding. “The best things in life are reckless,” he moaned against her ear. “It is flight.”

  He went to kiss her again, his hand moving from her waist to palm her bottom. He pressed her against his erection and her body pulsed with sensation.

  Her eyes watered, her breath caught. She bit her lip and pulled away.

  Breathing hard, she said, “I am not flying. I am drowning.”

  “Wait, Isobel, no—” He reached for her.

  She hopped out of reach and backed away. “Thank you for taking the air with me, Your Grace—er, North. In the future, we will speak only of pirates. And ice caves. And Icelandic farmers and their alliances. And nothing more.”

  He opened his mouth again, but she held out a hand with her index finger raised, the universal gesture of Do not say it.

  He closed his mouth. He stooped to retrieve his discarded glove. He did not take his eyes from her face.

  Isobel fled, running from the conversation, and the sunset, and him.

  Chapter Eleven

  “This open door is an invitation, is it not?” asked mercenary Declan Shaw, standing in the passageway outside the Duke of Northumberland’s cabin.

  “ ‘Invitation’ is a stretch,” said the duke, not looking up. He’d been staring at the same page of a Scandinavian atlas for twenty minutes, seeing nothing. “Invitation for what?”

  “We’ve not seen you for two days, Your Grace,” said Shaw, stepping inside. “The men want to know what to expect when we make landfall.”

  “What to expect . . .” repeated Jason slowly, drawing out the words.

  “Not me, mind you,” said Shaw. “My philosophy, as you’ll remember, is ‘Surprise me.’ Especially when it comes to pirates.”

  Jason laughed. Declan Shaw was a known planner. Jason tossed the atlas aside.

  “Tell the men,” the duke said, “to expect very little ice—the country’s name is misleading—and lichen apparently. Cod at every meal? This is what I’ve been told.”

  “Hilarious,” said Shaw. “So tell them you haven’t the slightest notion?”

  Jason leaned back and closed his eyes, propping his boots on the desk. “These men were chosen for their ability to improvise. Why the hand-wringing? We are three days out.”

  “We are a day and a half out,” corrected Shaw. “And clearly you really don’t know. North, this cannot—”

  He was cut off by a sudden knocking. Shaw blocked the door, but the force of the knock and the speed of the rap-rap-rap could mean only one thing. Jason sat up and slid his feet on the floor.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.” Isobel Tinker stood in the corridor behind Declan Shaw.

  Jason pushed to his feet. She was dressed in a smart, moss-colored suit, her hair swept neatly into her signature bun. She stood straight and steady, clutching paperwork to her chest.

  “I’ll call back,” said Shaw. “If you’ll excuse—”

  “You will stay, if you please, sir,” said Isobel, extending her small, gloved hand. “Miss Isobel Tinker,” she said, introducing herself. “I’m—well, I’ve been given the title of ‘cultural attaché’ on this mission. Or so I’m told.”

  Shaw had no choice but to take her hand. He affected a confused half bow, shooting Jason a glance that said, Surely you’re joking.

  Jason nodded back. Introduce yourself.

  “Declan Shaw,” said Shaw. “Leader of His Grace’s, ah—”

  “Hired thugs?” provided Isobel.

  “Yes,” confirmed Shaw.

  “Very good,” said Isobel. “Then of course you should remain. I’ve come to share my knowledge of the port in Stokkseyri. I’ve had previous experience dealing with the locals, so I’ll tell you what I can. This may be helpful as you plan your recovery mission.”

  “Plan?” said Shaw, coughing.

  Jason shot him a look and said, “Please come in, Miss Tinker. How heartened I am to see you. Are you . . . well?”

  Jason plunked a chair beside his desk and Isobel, skirts swishing, settled in. Pushing away detritus with the blunt end of a pencil, she cleared a spot for her notebook on his strewn desk. Jason watched her, unable to conceal a smile. He realized he was staring, looked away, and then turned back. He felt as if someone had opened the door of a very dark cell to the bright light of day.

  She’d come. Dressed, alert, potentially healthy. And she appeared ready to work.

  He’d not seen her since the kiss and he’d replayed it in his mind a hundred times. She’d left of her own accord, but it felt like she’d been snatched away by demons from her past.

  And yet now, here she was.

  “I wasn’t certain,” he began, “when we might benefit from your wealth of experience.” He kept his tone light and teasing, but he wanted to snatch up her hand and feel her pulse, test the strength of her grip. She was visibly thinner but no less robust. Her color was good, her eyes bright.

  “Nonsense,” she was saying, spreading her paperwork on his desk. “What purpose would I serve as a cultural attaché if not to share my experience?”

  Declan Shaw coughed.

  Jason shot Shaw a warning look and swiveled to Isobel. “Would you speak more freely if Mr. Shaw were not he—”

  “No, I would not,” she said. “Shaw remains. If he goes, so do I.”

  “Mr. Shaw, it is,” amended Jason, narrowing his eyes at his friend. He cocked his thumb toward the small stool.

  “Now,” began Isobel, fanning out watercolor renderings and unfolding a map. “The port at Stokkseyri is here, and we will, no doubt, approach from the southwest . . .”

  She went on from there, talking about currents and the number of harbor warehouses.

  Jason tried to listen. He leaned forward in his chair, he nodded, he mimicked the pose of rapt attention. And in fact, he was paying very close attention, but not to her words—not yet. He was taking her in. The pink had returned to her lips. She spoke animatedly, her hands expressive. Tight, smooth wool sheathed her body, curve by curve, in a snug jacket.

  “What do you think, Your Grace?” she was asking, pointing to a watercolor painting of a wide river cutting through a barren plateau.

  “Ah,” said Jason, scrambling.

  “I think you’ve the right idea, miss,” provided Shaw. He gave Jason a look that said, Pathetic.

  Jason had spent the last four nights prowling the passageway outside her cabin. He’d interrogated her tight-lipped steward, a man who’d developed a fierce and protective loyalty to her. He’d berated the men in the berth belowdecks for banging the floorboards. He’d sent her notes.

  Despite this, there had been no reliable sign that she was well. Or willing to cooperate. Or that she did not hate him.

  He’d missed sleep and meals worrying about her. For a time, he’d forgotten about poor Reggie or the cursed dukedom waiting for him in Middlesex. He’d wallowed in something like “regret,” a sentiment in which he rarely indulged, especially not for kissing a pretty girl who absolutely needed to be kissed.

  “And that,” she was saying, sketching a wide circle around a blue area on her map, “amounts to all I know about the harbor in Stokkseyri. Which admittedly is not a lot. The comings and goings of ships simply was not a focus when I was there. I spent a great deal more time inland.”

  “Very thorough,” praised Jason. He needed to say something.

  Isobel stared at him, unimpressed.

  “But do you have some plan for what you intend to say when you reach the docks?” she asked. “To the locals? Who is meant to be your contact or resource in Iceland?”

  Jason blinked, glancing at Declan Shaw.

&nbs
p; Shaw piled on. “Yes, Your Grace. Tell us of your contact or resource in Iceland?”

  “Ah,” Jason began, unaccustomed to accounting for his plans, or rather lack thereof. “I have the letter sent to my uncle, asking for ransom money in exchange for the safe return of my cousin.” He riffled through papers on his desk. “I believe it says something about asking for a man in a certain street in Reykjavík called Hans . . . Something or other. It was cruder than most ransom letters I’ve seen, almost comically cloak-and-daggerish, but it made it clear the pirates want money.

  “Of course we’ve not sailed to Reykjavík,” Jason conceded. “Honestly, I’d hoped to circumvent any formal meeting with pirates and steal away with the captives without relinquishing a single farthing. The ransom was difficult for my uncle but not impossible. The money sent by the families of the other merchants, however, will bankrupt them. And it’s not as if they could scratch together gold on such short notice. They’ve sent bank notes. Not a pirate’s preferred form of currency, one would assume.”

  “Alright,” conceded Isobel slowly. “So you hope to evade the ransom and outwit the pirates. How?”

  “Well,” Jason ventured cautiously, “by using whatever lovely intelligence you share with us.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Me? Me? Is that all? You know no one in Iceland and will have no local support?”

  Jason drummed two fingers on the desktop, allowing this (apparently) unsettling bit of (also apparently) bad news to sink in.

  Shaking her head, Isobel began scribbling a note on a piece of parchment. Jason tried to read it but saw that it was in a different language. He felt a little like an insubordinate pupil who had just been taken to task by a very irritated, very pretty teacher. Unbidden, he felt a pulse of desire.

  Isobel continued. “But what will you claim when you sail this not-small brigantine into the very tiny harbor of Stokkseyri and drop anchor? The locals will be curious. You must have some narrative about who you are and why you’ve come. If the pirates have a man in Reykjavík, you can be certain that Stokkseyri is thick with their spies and allies. It’s far closer to the glacier caves.”

  “Honestly, I hadn’t planned to offer any excuses at all. When I discern the way the wind blows, so to speak, I’ll either steal away with my cousin and his colleagues in the middle of the night. Or I might simply demand that they are returned. I didn’t set out on this mission with twenty . . .” He looked at Shaw. “How did she describe you?”