For now, he would allow their time together to marinate. Let her remember the happiness and understanding and passion.
He was glad he’d told her, I know how your story ends. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, but he knew the ending was happy.
He could wait.
She could not evade him forever. Middlesex was not so very large.
He would wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Isobel was in possession of a very durable pair of buckskins.
Like all of the clothes she’d formerly worn to ride horses and scale walls and tangle with pirates, the buckskins had been originally made for a boy. The britches had traveled home from Europe and lived in the bottom of her trunk at the Starlings’. After that, they had progressed to her flat above Everland Travel. She’d gone to throw them out several times, but something always held her back. When she’d packed for Iceland, she’d tossed them in the trunk as an afterthought.
Now she slid them on and dropped the linen shirt from Godfrey’s over her shoulders. Taking up her new dagger, she cut the tail from the shirt, leaving it to hang only so far as her hips.
Her hair, which annoyingly she would leave entirely unbound, tangled in the neck of the shirt and fell over her eyes. It would be in her way, but yellow hair, entirely unbound, was a known distraction to men, and she would need every advantage.
Plucking out several strands, she plated loose braids here and there. She took up the feather ornamentation and pinned it just above her ear. As a Lost Boy, she’d adorned her hair with feathers, beads, ribbon, and fresh or dried flowers. It had felt provocative and wild, but now it seemed a little like dismantling a hat and hanging bits of it in her hair.
Tucking her hair back, she was just about to mold the red-and-black striped fabric around her hips when a knock sounded on her cabin door.
“Isobel? Twenty minutes.” It was North. The sound of his voice set off a rain of shimmers inside her chest.
“Are you . . . ?” he went on, speaking through the door. “Having second thoughts?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She was not having second thoughts. In fact, her determination mounted with every passing minute. The longer she remained in Iceland, the more wrenching it would be to return to her old life. And her old life was the key to her survival. Her old life would not shatter her heart.
She looked at her stockinged feet, the buckskins, and the linen shirt. She was clothed enough to open the door, surely. It wasn’t as if she was dressing, more like . . . layering. And she was not back to her old life yet.
“No,” she said, pulling open the door, “no second thoughts. Have Shaw and his men gone?”
She stepped away to mold the striped fabric around her waist like a skirt.
“Yes,” he said, “I sent them ahead to—”
He stopped talking.
He said, “No.”
She looked up. “No, they haven’t gone?”
His expression was the most gratifying mix of disbelief and admiration. “No,” he corrected, “you cannot be serious about this . . . attire.”
More shimmers tumbled in her belly.
“Do not begin,” she sighed, forming a skirt from the fabric. Her hands had taken on the tiniest tremble.
“What are the chances that Doucette will not show?” she asked. She took up the leather belt and cinched it tightly around her waist, securing the fabric over the buckskins.
“I hope he does not show,” said North, watching her. He checked the passageway and leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest.
The night Isobel convinced the duke of her plan, he had dispatched a man to find the pirate liaison in Reykjavík. He delivered an offer from the Duke of Northumberland to pirate captain Phillipe Doucette. The offer was, let’s make a trade.
“Isobel Tinker,” the offer had read, “so-called Lost Boy and Known Accomplice of the International Grifter Peter Boyd, in exchange for the seven captive Englishmen.”
“I’m wondering now why we sent something so dull as a letter. A sketch of you in this ensemble would have been more effective. Any man who saw you dressed like this would be at the bargaining table. Early. With the captives. And a pot of gold.”
“Doucette will not want me for himself,” she assured him.
“The devil he won’t.”
She sighed and picked through the golden necklaces from her trip to Godfrey’s. The first she looped around and around her neck like a choker. She looped the other once, allowing it to hang to her waist.
“I’ll set the tone from the first moment,” she explained. “Seize the upper hand. It’s not always a matter of who will possess whom; what matters is my perceived role in their lives.”
“Yes, and your role will begin as currency, but rapidly shift to—”
She said, “Informant,” in the same moment he said, “Plaything.”
“Stop,” she said, taking a seat on the bed and hiking up her makeshift skirt to pull on the black boots. “I am currency to you, because you want your cousin.”
“You are not currency to me, damn it.” He stepped forward and dropped to his knees, taking over the job of fitting her feet into the boots. With deft, sure movements, she slid one stockinged foot inside and he began to lace. The task was subordinate and intimate, but his movements were terse and jerky.
He said, “Never forget that this was your idea.”
“Ouch,” she pronounced, frowning at his angry lacing.
He mumbled an apology and cinched the stiff leather with less force.
He took up her other foot, squeezing it. After a long moment, he guided her foot to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her instep.
Isobel closed her eyes and let out a little whimper.
“So small,” he mumbled, massaging her foot. He slid it into the other boot. “They could overpower you in an instant. Even I—even Shaw—can be overpowered if we are outnumbered by armed men.”
“I’ve dealt with this lot before, please don’t forget.” She opened her eyes and watched him, staring at the top of his head.
The ordinary head of an ordinary man, she thought. It is not beautiful or perfect. I am not falling in love with this head or with him.
The lies she told herself.
He was in fancy dress. Fine overcoat, brocade waistcoat, cravat. Every inch the duke. He was a duke who laced her boots.
Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, staring up.
“Men overpower when they feel threatened,” she declared to the ceiling. “I am not a threat; I am a means to an end to obtain Peter Boyd. I can be used as bait or . . . I actually hope to convince them that I can lead them to Peter. I’m an asset.”
When the boots were secured, he sat back on his haunches, gazing at her.
“You are an asset,” he repeated blandly.
“Stop worrying,” she continued, shoving up and stepping around him. “The plan is to extricate myself by nightfall. There won’t be time to menace me. We’ve a primary plan. We’ve a secondary plan. We have that dashing third plan where you kick down the door and rescue me at gunpoint. Please have faith in my ability to do this.”
“My lack of faith is not with you,” he said, rising. He caught her hand, stopping her. “It’s these men. There are reasons to overpower a woman that have nothing to do with feeling threatened, and I think we both know it. We could plan for weeks, and yet, so many things are out of our control.”
“Everything is out of control,” she said, pulling her hand free. “I haven’t the stomach for chaos. I’ve outgrown it.”
“And yet you’re willing to undertake this incredibly risky, wholly chaotic ‘trade’?”
“If it hastens us along—yes. I will do it.” She turned to face him.
“The only reason I’ve consented is because it feels important to you. I’m doing it for you.”
“And I’m doing it for you. How altruistic we both are.”
“Is that it?” He raised an eyebrow.
The air between them strummed with energy. He was watching her closely, waiting for her to give some sign. A yes, or a please or an I-feel-it-too.
“Can you excuse me?” she asked, turning away. There was no time for yes and no future for feeling-it-too.
“Isobel.” Not a request, simply a statement of her name.
“Not long now,” she said. “Meet on deck in ten minutes?”
She glanced at him, perhaps her greatest act of courage today. His eyes were anguished and searching, but he nodded and quit the room.
With considerable effort, Isobel forced the duke from her mind and settled at her desk. Working quickly, she laid open the small black vest and secured the dagger inside the lapel. She’d devoted several hours last night to sewing by candlelight, engineering a slot to conceal the blade. She preferred to seat a dagger tip up, so it could be drawn and ready for defense in one, slick movement.
Next, she took up the apple seeds. Another nighttime hour had been spent in the galley of the brig, grinding the seeds into a fine powder and measuring the dust into a tiny saltcellar. She’d scoured the reference book to be reminded of the procedure. To do lasting harm, it would take ninety apple seeds, but Mr. Godfrey had sold her fewer than twenty. It was enough to cause intestinal distress but nothing more. She hid the vial inside the tiny black pouch and secured it inside her belt.
Lastly, she scrawled out a note to her mother.
“Georgiana,” it read.
I’m up to my old tricks. The situation here has demanded a touch of drama and daring. Luckily, I’ve been able to call up these skills and find them not entirely withered inside me. If you are reading this, something may have gone a little off, and I am sorry.
Please know that I have been fearless to the end and that I love you. There is money to see you through many happy years in Cornwall. Samantha will know what to do.
Yours,
Bell
After she sealed it and tucked it among her things, she cast one look around her tidy cabin and quit the room.
Isobel Tinker was afraid of many things, but pirates were not one of them.
Jason paced on the deck, going over and over the ill-advised plan in his head. If it had sounded like a bad idea three nights ago, now it felt like Certain Doom.
He’d spent hours squabbling with Isobel about her safety and even more time poring over maps with Shaw. In the end, he’d given the plan his reluctant blessing.
Their goals were: give the pirates very little time to prepare, hence the three-day window between his proposal of the trade and today.
Give off the impression that he and his party were stiff and untrained. He’d laid the groundwork for this in the language of the proposal. He would further cultivate it at the bargaining table.
Finally, separate the pirates from their ship on dry land.
Jason had designated a remote tavern beside the River Pjorsa as the location for the trade. According to Donatello Beddloe, the tavern was known to the pirates because it was near to the farm of their Icelandic allies. To reach it from their location in the eastern part of the country, the pirates would sail around the southeast tip of the island, drop anchor at the mouth of the river, and row smaller crafts inland. They would have their rowboats but be half a day’s paddle from their ship. They would also be exhausted from rowing upstream.
Meanwhile, Jason, Isobel, and their team would be two hours’ ride from the village of Stokkseyri.
If Isobel managed to drug the pirates as she proposed, Doucette and his men would be incapacitated long enough for everyone, including a horse-drawn cart containing Reggie and his lot, to return to Stokkseyri and the waiting brigantine. When they convened on the Feather, they would sail for home.
As if on cue, Isobel now emerged from belowdecks, her long, loose hair blowing in the wind like a pennant, skirts swishing to reveal the buckskins and tall boots.
He hadn’t known what to expect when she vowed to “dress the part” of her old self, but nothing could have prepared him for the effect of her full costume. She looked like a lady-pirate-fairy-enchantress. Other descriptors also sprang to mind, but Jason dared not explore them. He was already struggling. He was in so far over his bloody head.
“You look far too beautiful for this,” he muttered, helping her into the tender that would row them to shore.
“You miss the point of a costume,” she said.
They settled on opposite seats while two sailors rowed them to shore.
“If you think I’ve missed a single thing about the way you look, Isobel, you are sorely mistaken.”
He’d not missed her logic or cunning either, not from the beginning. Her plan was brilliant. Efficient, light on resources, and low on violence. Best of all, if she could manage the pirates, the chance of success was high.
At some point—likely right now—he would be forced, as a leader, to let go of his reluctance and anxiety and embrace an attitude of “Go.” In his mind, he would analytically and tactically win. Missions succeeded when every operative did the correct thing at the correct moment, and then did it again and again. There was zero time or energy for worrying about her. It had been unprofessional and sloppy to remain so reticent for so long. This was happening.
Letting out a huff of breath, he took up a silk rope coiled on the bottom of the boat.
“I suppose it’s time,” he said, holding up a frayed end.
“I suppose it is.” She held up her hands, wrists together.
“From the moment we set foot on the dock, the charade will be on.”
Isobel leaned in, extending her wrists.
Jason glanced at the shore. “One kiss,” he said. Not a question.
North, she mouthed, glancing at the sailors churning the oars.
“For luck,” he said. “Or . . . just in case.”
She bit her lip.
“To remember me by?” he tried. “Until we meet again. For love’s labor’s lost. For King and Country? Dong dong dell—”
“Fine,” she laughed, touching a gloved hand to her mouth.
He took that hand and tugged her against him. She went, tumbling into his lap. He buried his face in her hair.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing this ensemble again,” he whispered in her ear, “without the paid mercenaries or the pirates or my cousin.”
She laughed again. “These garments will be retired to a watery grave as soon as we are safely under sail.”
“You take my breath away,” he whispered.
“North,” she sighed, sounding fraught, which had never been his intent.
“Forgive me,” he said, rising up to kiss her. She threaded her hands around his neck and met his lips. Her hair enveloped him; he breathed in the sweet smell of her, the taste. Sensation washed over him, and he basked in the rhythm of the kiss, at once familiar and thrilling. He held her like she might jump overboard and swim away.
Isobel kissed him but she kept part of herself back. She was tense and reserved.
He growled in frustration. I love you. He said the words in his head. He dared not distress her; he dared not distress himself when she pushed the words away. He would wait. He would send his love for her silently into the universe and wait patiently for it to circle back.
In the meantime, he would bind her hands and drag her behind him like a prisoner.
Chapter Nineteen
Doucette came, as Isobel had known he would.
He was standing outside the little tavern, a phalanx of pirates flanking him, a grimace on his bearded face.
Isobel’s vision of the scene was obscured. They’d positioned her in the wagon to increase suspense and suggest docility and defeat. She kept her head bowed. When she could steal a glance, she saw that Phillipe Doucette looked much as he had seven years ago. Likewise, his pirate crew seemed largely unchanged. Their clothes were disheveled and mismatched, everything from ratty evening attire, to far-flung military uniforms, to kaftans and turbans. Long hair and beards prevailed, intersperse
d with a few shaved heads. There were no women, including no sign of Doucette’s Icelandic wife. To a man, they looked highly suspicious and anxious to fight.
Isobel took a deep breath, bracing herself. Since the kiss in the rowboat, North had, thankfully, set aside his hesitation and hand-wringing and regarded her with a professional detachment. He would deliver the performance of a lifetime, of this she had no doubt. He would seem overstuffed and out of his depth while Shaw and the other men would appear twitchy and uncertain. The pirates must be made to feel at ease. Isobel, when she was revealed, must come off as outraged and defiant. She would be flashy and difficult to control, a very exclusive prize they were lucky to have won.
The more appealing Isobel could look, the more the pirates would be ready to offload the captives, who had, no doubt, been a hassle to keep alive and held very little appeal.
After Isobel scouted the ragtag array of pirates, she took in the surroundings. Their pirate informant, Donatello Beddloe, had settled nicely into his role as “adviser.” They’d offered him thirty pounds and the promise of a lawyer back in Wales for an unnamed legal battle. After that, he’d sung like a bird. The tavern on the River Pjorsa had been his idea.
North and Declan Shaw had scouted the area and briefed Isobel on what to expect. Casting furtive glances, she saw the tavern, a stone structure half-buried in the sloped side of the riverbank, the rocky area that lined the river, the open plain inland, and, in the misty distance, the lip of the cliffs that dropped off into the sea. It was like most places in Iceland, desolate and untamed.
The pirates numbered eight or nine, but there would be more, she knew.
North’s great hope was that the pirates would bring no horses. The river had been strategic for this reason. Pirates always traveled by boat when possible.
At the moment, North was the only mounted rider in their party, not including the four horses that pulled the cart. This allowed him to appear vulnerable and plodding, even while a band of mounted horses had been secretly stabled at a missionary outpost nearby.
When You Wish Upon a Duke Page 23
