When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Yes, Isobel wanted to say. Yes! It was unbearably painful.

  That is why I have not wanted to return to Iceland.

  That is why I cannot trust you or any charming, handsome man.

  That is why I cannot trust myself when I am near you.

  I want too much from the wrong men.

  While she studied him, his eyes opened. She forced herself to hold his gaze. She wanted to say all of this too, but she’d already said so much. And none of this was North’s fault.

  He said, “What happened, Isobel?”

  “Well,” she said, “my mother was halfway across Europe doing a long run of Tartuffe, her favorite play.” She simply let the words spill out, flowing like her tears.

  “The other Lost Boys—the girls, perhaps—might seem like natural confidantes, but they were all waiting hopefully for their chance to have a go at Peter. They idolized AnaClara. I was alone.”

  She dragged in a deep breath, but what she really wanted to do was scream. To scream for the lonely, terrified girl she had been.

  She finished with, “Before Peter reunited with AnaClara, I was going to tell him. But then she returned and he threw me over. When it was clear I was an afterthought to him, second best, then I sort of . . . stopped. In all things that pertained to him. I stopped watching, stopped scheming, stopped hoping. I simply . . . was.

  “I held myself very still for the first time in as long as I could remember. I thought of me and me alone—well, and the baby. I considered my situation. When I fully grasped what had happened, when I allowed myself to conceive everyone’s role in it—mine, Peter’s, AnaClara’s, my mother’s, even these Icelandic people in whose home we were living—I experienced a sort of . . . awakening.

  “Peter’s selfishness had finally pierced the fog of my hero worship. Something like . . . good sense, and independence, and self-preservation began, ever so slowly, to stack up, brick by brick, inside me. I had the strength to choose my own interests ahead of the group’s. I had the strength to see beyond Peter, to not look at him at all actually. I could determine some way to survive for myself and for this new life. Alone. I had to . . . grow up.”

  “But where is—?”

  “I lost the baby,” Isobel said quickly.

  There was no way to say it except to force the words out. They cut her every time she said them. She was cut in two to say it.

  “Isobel,” he breathed. His hands went gentle on her arms but he did not let her go.

  She nodded, responding to the softness in his voice. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “I’d already written to my uncle by then. The letter honestly and frankly described my situation so that the Starlings could decide what manner of help, if any, they were willing to lend. They had a houseful of impressionable daughters. My uncle was running for parliament. And I was alone and unmarried and expecting a child. Sir Jeffrey, God bless him, arranged for me to sail to London as soon as a ship could reach Iceland. By the time that ship made landfall in Reykjavík, I’d lost the baby. I was only about eight weeks along. My body simply . . .”

  She couldn’t finish.

  “Were your friends with you when . . . ?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head. “I was alone. The Lost Boys had gone, but this family, the Vagns, had allowed me to stay behind. I told them I wanted to continue to learn the language and implored them to host me for a while longer. They sensed some distress, I believe, and allowed it. They never knew about the pregnancy.”

  She stopped talking then and wept in earnest. Her face crumpled; her throat cinched painfully tight. Despite her sobs, she heard North make a mournful noise—a sort of moaned oath—and the next thing she knew, he was pulling her against him. She felt hard chest and warm arms, but her brain was consumed with the old pain and guilty relief of that night. She cried until she was wrung out, until there were no tears left to cry. He held her and she lacked the energy to move away; she didn’t want to move away. Her breath came in slow, raspy gasps. She sounded like a dying thing. Without thinking, her hands found the lapels of his coat and she squeezed, holding on.

  She should say something, she thought. This was her terrible history and she’d revealed it of her own volition; no one expected such vivid detail, least of all her.

  She looked up to his face.

  He looked down, his brown eyes gentle and also . . . bright. Wet. With tears. He cried too.

  The realization hit Isobel like a roiling wave from the North Sea. When the force subsided, the shimmers in her belly, as resilient and reliable as the tide, bubbled up.

  She was doomed.

  She took a deep, shuddered breath. “There,” she whispered. “So now you know. That is why I was in Iceland and that is why I did not wish to come back. And that is how I am in the acquaintance of the Vagns, God love them.”

  “I was wrong to compel you,” he confessed. The look on his face was pure misery.

  “I would never have agreed without the offer of the building—you did not compel me, you made it worth my while. The building is worth it,” she assured him. “The building will change my life. And, ultimately, this return to Iceland will have no impact on me, except perhaps to allow me some . . . reckoning.”

  “Does ‘reckoning’ with pain really ever make a difference?” he asked, his voice a scoff.

  “I think, perhaps, it does. On the very rare occasions that I have related this story, I have felt better. Perhaps I feel better already.”

  “You do?”

  “No,” she said, laughing sadly, “but I can see where I might.”

  “You are too generous.” His words were angry. “I have wronged you on behalf of . . . of Reggie.” He made a face. “It’s exactly the sort of thing he, and only he, would cause me to do.”

  “It’s your cousin’s fault, is it?” She released the handfuls of his coat and laid her palms flat against his chest. She could just feel his heartbeat through her gloves.

  “Of course not. Even when it is Reggie’s fault, it is never really his fault. I did this, and cannot think of what I’ve done to deserve anything but resentment from you. But I am grateful. And I understand your . . . trepidation.”

  “If I’d told you from the beginning, I feel sure you would have left me alone. And perhaps that is why I did not tell you. I didn’t want to be left alone—not yet—by you.”

  His face took on a sharper expression. He ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back and sluicing rainwater onto the yoke of his coat.

  “Do not,” she said. “We’re both ‘adults of the world,’ so I needn’t feign obviousness or pretend there is not a considerable . . . attraction between us. But as an adult, I can make responsible choices. And I will. I chose to assist you on this mission but also to do nothing else with you. So flatter yourself if you must, but don’t indulge in delusions of grandeur.” She forced herself to drop her hands and shrugged out of his hold. It was the adult thing to do.

  She added, “And do not feel guilty about dragging me to Iceland. I am many things, but a coward is not one of them.”

  “No,” he said softly, “I would say that you are not.”

  They stood a moment longer, staring at each other through the mist, rain soaking every garment, the brigantine gently rocking beneath their feet.

  “So, what do we do now?” she asked softly. Her brain hadn’t allowed her to think beyond telling him.

  “I suppose we plan for how to quickly and peacefully extract my cousin and his lot.”

  “I may put on dry clothes first,” she said, shrugging out of his coat.

  He watched her peel the wet garment from her shoulders. If she’d asked him to accompany her to her cabin to assist with the dry clothes, he would have done it. If she’d asked him to take her to his cabin, to see her dry and comfortable and comforted, he would have done it.

  Her pulse leapt at the thought, and desire began to beat back the cold.

  She would not, of course. And he would not. And his expressio
n, although hungry and proprietary, was also assessing. He was looking at her with new eyes. He looked at her like a stranger who’d just revealed that they hailed from the same hometown. They’d hit upon this sort of shorthanded intimacy. A new kinship. They knew some of the same people and places. They understood the culture of this shared thing.

  Did he consider her less for having traveled and cavorted and leapt from carriages? For having loved and lost so much? Or more like him? Or both?

  Again, she dared not ask.

  “Meet again in an hour?” she asked quietly, extending his wet coat.

  “Alright,” he said. “An hour.”

  “Do us both a favor?” she said, turning away. “Bring your friend. I learned too late in life the value of a chaperone.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Mama,

  Hello. I hope this finds you well. I have a precious few minutes to dash this off and hurl it in the general direction of Cornwall. Forgive the obvious haste and the disorganized thoughts. How long has it been since I’ve written you in a manner “on the run”? Not long enough—and yet here I am.

  The most relevant news first: I’ve reached Iceland safely and in good humor. We sailed from the Thames Estuary at Margate up across the North Sea. We enjoyed fair weather and made excellent time.

  We’ve dropped anchor in the waters outside the small port city very familiar to me, not far from the home of the Vagn family.

  As expected, the voyage made me very ill, although the practice of frequent walks on the deck and lots of fresh air gave me some relief. The moment the barrier islands were in view, I was vastly improved.

  The Duke of Northumberland has been very generous—both in allowances for my discomfort and also in terms of my contribution to this mission. I am the only woman among twenty men at least. You would love it; the evenings want only a piano and a buxom soprano. But the men are cordial to me and I feel very safe. I’ve been left to my own company mostly (at my request) and any anxiety I have felt has been due to my own missteps or wrong-mindedness. Obviously my life in Mayfair felt very safe and unchallenged (bland and boring, if I’m being honest) while this endeavor is the opposite. This has called for some adjustments, but I’ve discovered a well of versatility that I thought had long since run dry.

  Once in Iceland, the duke relied upon me to navigate our reconnaissance within the port city.

  I’ve sought out the Vagn family and enacted a small reunion to learn local gossip.

  I was uncertain of how the family would receive me but they were warm and welcoming and appeared delighted.

  In the interest of brevity I will not detail our reunion, but allow me to skip to the bit that you’ll want to hear. According to the younger Vagns, I’ve not been the only Lost Boy to venture back to Iceland. Peter has been back, and more than once. I know you keep in touch with his father so perhaps this will not surprise you, but I was wholly unprepared for the news. It was never Peter’s nature to revisit an area, especially somewhere as remote as Iceland. I’m not afraid of Peter Boyd, but I have no wish to encounter him. I am grown now, a new woman; I am . . . beyond. How loath I would be to circle back.

  The Vagns said that Peter, although not in Iceland at the moment, has returned often to take the healing thermal waters, nose around the volcanoes, and—most compelling of all for our mission—engage in some revelry with the very blaggards who committed the crimes we have come to undo. The world is very small indeed.

  So, onward. I will close this letter now and race to deliver it. Another vessel in port is sailing this very night for England. I’ve paid a steward to post it as soon as they make landfall. If we are very lucky, this will reach you within days of my own return to England.

  If you don’t receive this, there is no great loss. You will see me again soon enough. It has felt restorative to write these words, even if they sink to the bottom of the sea.

  One thing I might add: seeing Iceland again has not been as terrible as I once thought. In truth, it feels little more than vaguely familiar or like the scene of a small, personal triumph from long ago.

  There are places that we thrive and places that we merely survive, and perhaps they are both important.

  I do not regret this journey, even without gaining the new building from the duke.

  But now, on to recovering these Englishmen and returning home. I pray that you are well and behaving yourself. I look so forward to seeing your beautiful smile very soon.

  Love,

  Bell

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Duke of Northumberland lay on his back on a table in the kitchen galley. At the end of the table, bound loosely but effectively, sat one Donatello Beddloe, pirate and outlaw, snarling in some combination of Italian and Welsh.

  Jason had just asked him a question in broken Italian and was waiting for an answer. To entertain himself while he waited, Jason extended his right arm above his chest and balanced an orange on his pointer finger. He’d almost managed it when—

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” a familiar voice called from the galley door.

  The orange toppled and rolled away. Jason swung upright.

  “North?” asked Isobel Tinker, her gaze swinging back and forth between the pirate and him.

  “What am I doing?” he repeated. “What are you doing?”

  “I came for my traveling case,” she said. “Mr. Shaw rowed me from shore. The Vagns invited me to take a room in the living quarters above their warehouse while we are in port. But . . . is this a pirate?”

  She was examining Mr. Beddloe from the distance of the door.

  Jason shot the man a warning look and stepped into the passageway. Isobel scuttled back. He’d stripped from his coat and waistcoat and wore only his shirt, open at the throat, sleeves pushed to his forearms, and buckskins. She openly eyed his bare arms and chest; she’d have to be blind not to notice.

  He raised a muscled arm over his head and propped it on the doorjamb. “It is, in fact, a pirate,” he said.

  “But I cannot believe you actually managed to locate a pirate,” she whispered, craning around him to study Mr. Beddloe.

  “Wasn’t that the plan?” he asked. “Pirate interrogation?”

  “Well, yes—I never dreamed you’d run one to ground so quickly. It was meant to take days. I thought you might—”

  She paused and craned around him, trying to see through the crack in the door.

  Jason reached behind him and closed the door.

  She exhaled in frustration and shot him an exasperated look. He cocked a brow. The stale air of the passageway stirred. A bright energy sparked whenever they were alone. It hummed between them.

  “I would like to observe the interrogation,” she said.

  “Isobel,” he began.

  “It’s so terrible, is it?”

  “I can certainly think of better ways to pass an afternoon. Roughing up unsuspecting criminals to pick through his profanity for truth is not my favorite activity.”

  “Is it working?” she asked.

  “I would not trust him to lead me to a chest of buried treasure, but he has revealed one or two truths, given sufficient motivation.”

  “Good Lord, you’re not beating him, I hope?”

  Jason bit back a smile. His reputation at the Foreign Office had been built on strategy and intrigue, not brawn. He lowered his arm and leaned against the door with his arms over his chest. Perhaps he wouldn’t correct her.

  “Would you like to know what I’ve learned?” he asked.

  “Yes. If I cannot observe.”

  Jason swallowed another smile. It felt so very good to collaborate with her. Her mind was quick and inventive and she showed uncommon courage. He’d loved almost every second of his career, but he was discovering how much more fun it was to play out the last act with a skilled accomplice.

  He told her Beddloe confirmed what they’d suspected. An international band of pirates had abducted seven Englishmen here in the port village of S
tokkseyri. They now held the Englishmen as captives.

  Pirate captain Phillipe Doucette had sent the ransom letter to Jason’s uncle. Doucette would hold the captives until he had some answer to that letter—or until he grew weary of keeping the captives alive. His spies were awaiting some answer in Reykjavík.

  “At least that is what I think he’s told me,” Jason added. “Our chat has been complicated by his outrage and my inability to speak Welsh or Italian, his two languages of choice. He speaks a small amount of English and I speak a bit of Italian. Our relationship is . . . evolving.”

  “A Welsh-Italian pirate,” she marveled.

  Jason nodded. “But what of your reunion with this family, the Vagns?”

  A success, she told him. She’d been warmly welcomed and learned that her friends had encountered the Lincolnshire merchants before they disappeared. The Vagns even considered joining their offer of smuggled goods—but then, with no warning, the Englishmen had disappeared.

  “One day they were in Stokkseyri,” she told him, “and the next they were gone.”

  “Taken by the pirates,” provided Jason.

  “The Vagns had the same suspicion.”

  “But did they venture a guess as to why they absconded with the hapless Englishmen?” Jason asked.

  Isobel nodded. “The Vagns believe another family, the Skallagrímurs, were angry because the Englishmen had not approached them, and them alone, about the smuggling. The Skallagrímurs are allied to the pirates. They used that alliance to have the Englishmen removed from the island.”

  “Useful resource—pirates. If someone doesn’t get their way.”

  Jason’s brain was ticking through all they’d learned. He’d require far more details to mount any sort of a rescue, and the interrogation with Beddloe was progressing painfully slow.

  He glanced at Isobel.

  “The answer is yes,” she said.

  He’d never meant to put her in the path of living, breathing pirates. When it came time for the actual recovery, only himself and the men he’d hired were meant to approach Doucette. But they were bounding over the discovery and thundering toward the rescue. To be fully effective and efficient, he could use her help.