When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  He laughed. He actually laughed. “If you think you can bait me by wounding my pride, Isobel, you don’t know me at all.”

  “Perhaps I know you or perhaps I don’t. But one thing is certain: you don’t know me if you don’t trust me to manage this.” Her eyes flashed.

  Jason stared back, his heart pounding. He did trust her. But he also—

  He could not risk her safety.

  He could not risk losing her.

  “If ever you wanted to know me,” she added, fresh challenge in her voice, “you would allow this. So that I might demonstrate.”

  Jason leaned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Trading you to pirates is the key to your true self, is it?” he asked. “If I won’t go along, you’ll keep me forever at arm’s length?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said defensively, and Jason cocked an eyebrow.

  “Look,” she went on. “We will do this. We’ll do it because it’s quick and clean and efficient and cheap. And when we’re finished, I’ll return to England in time to book spring holidays in my new shop. And I will celebrate my mother’s birthday. And prevent Drummond Hooke from poaching all of my clients.”

  The image of her . . . behind a desk . . . planning holidays for rich women . . . toiling in her old life . . . took shape in his mind, and Jason felt a wave of something like panic.

  “I cannot return to port now,” she proclaimed. She took up her case and began backing away. “Going forward, I must look like your prisoner. I’ll send a note to the Vagns asking them to not discuss my visit today with anyone.”

  “You’re not commanding this mission, Isobel,” he said, but the words came out like a test. He sounded nothing like a duke or a spy.

  He sounded like a man who could not tell her no.

  “I want to go home,” she reminded in a singsongy voice. She was still backing away. “This is a bit of luck, North—a wonderful bit of luck. Do not squander it out of some misplaced sense of caution. Unless this is about your avoidance of the dukedom.”

  “It’s not,” he called, and he meant it. It was about her.

  It is about you, he wanted to call, but she’d turned and was striding down the passageway.

  “Make Mr. Beddloe comfortable but don’t release him,” she said over her shoulder. “If he reports what he’s seen and heard to his comrades, the plan will never work.”

  The plan, thought Jason, his stomach filling with dread.

  Isobel made the corner at the end of the passageway and was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  One day later, Isobel stood in her cabin, examining tidy stacks of green garments on her bed. This would never do. The soft wool, the fine muslin, the silk and lace detailing of her wardrobe—these were the clothes of an elegant Mayfair shopkeeper, not . . . pirate bait.

  She’d evolved in so many ways by returning to London, including the way she dressed. She adored the color green and had made it her signature hue. Fashion and finely made clothes had always been a passion, and her London wardrobe had been designed to impress her female clients and make her feel tasteful and confident.

  When she’d been one of Peter’s Lost Boys, she’d dressed to appear careless, natural, and wild, relying on a versatile collection of well-made staples: men’s linen shirts; brocade skirts; a silk shawl that could be worn as a sash, cloak, turban, or ten other ways. The result had been provocative—but not because it was revealing (although it was often revealing)—but rather, because it seemed unconsidered. She cared so very much but worked very hard to look as if dressing had been an afterthought.

  None of that mattered now, except that she would work very hard to make herself, now seven years older, appear as carefree as she once had.

  Starting with this very morning, when she would have to leave the brig and go out. Stokkseyri was hardly known for its shops, but there would be a meager mercantile and a storehouse selling provisions for fishermen and sailors. She had other needs too. One did not submit oneself to pirate capture without a ready supply of decoys, distractions, and defenses. How proud Samantha would be.

  Isobel sent a note to the duke, requesting a trip to shore. Now that the plan was to trade her life for the Englishmen, she must always appear to be Northumberland’s captive.

  “This feels risky,” North told her an hour later. She balanced on the bench seat of the swaying tender while sailors lowered it to the water with a splash. Mr. Shaw sat at the helm, ready to row them to shore. North sprawled on the opposite bench.

  “If Mr. Beddloe can be believed,” she told him, “there are no pirates or pirate spies in Stokkseyri. He was only in town himself because of a woman.”

  “His first mistake,” grumbled Jason, and Mr. Shaw snickered.

  “Calling to shops in Reykjavík would be a risk,” she predicted. “But a quick trip to these shops will not disrupt our plan. Although you should pretend to sort of . . . lord over me, just in case.”

  He laughed at this, amused, she assumed, by the notion that she could be lorded over. Isobel smiled a little herself. In fact, he did not lord over her. He was not happy about trading her to the pirates, but he was doing it. He’d consented.

  She’d worried so much about fighting her attraction to some man—any man, especially him—but had the real triumph been her newfound ability to speak her mind? To fight for her notion of the best plan?

  The thought of telling Peter Boyd what to do, or how, or when, had been absurd. Everything about him pointed to complete acquiescence. He alone played the tune to which they all danced.

  It was not the same with North. Yes, he’d compelled her to come on this mission, but he’d earned her cooperation with something very valuable.

  And trading with the pirates had been her idea. In this, they were equal collaborators. He’d resisted heartily, but in the end, he’d taken her seriously and done things her way.

  “What do you need in the village?” he asked, staring at the craggy rocks of the shore and rough-hewn wharf.

  “Clothes actually,” she said. “Doucette will expect to see the Isobel Tinker he remembers, not a travel agent from Mayfair.”

  “You expect to find a dressmaker in Stokkseyri?”

  “I don’t need a dress,” she said. “I need to cobble together some semblance of a costume.” She took a deep breath. “And I require a few other . . . staples.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  “Better, perhaps, if you do not.”

  The tender slid to the pier, sloshing unsteadily as North handed her onto the slick planks. She turned her back to the warehouses and pulled up the hood on her cloak, shielding her face within its velvety folds. Her peripheral vision was blocked, but she could feel Jason hovering beside her, large and uneasy. Even on the rowboat, the tight set of his shoulders and his glower conveyed deep objection. He wasn’t happy, a circumstance she did not relish, but at least it would play well with the locals.

  “Has your messenger reached Doucette’s man in Reykjavík, do you think?” Isobel asked, keeping her head bowed, her posture submissive. They walked briskly to Stokkseyri’s lone shopping street.

  “By dawn, I hope.” A weary sigh. “The die has been cast.”

  “I suppose we can rely on Mr. Beddloe’s claims about the best site to set the swap.”

  “The entire plan is built on supposition,” said North flatly. “Where to meet, who will come, if they will want you, what they’ll do with you when I trade you.”

  He was unhappy. This was no secret. Even so, he’d made a handful of declarations to her. Not promises. Not poetry. Overtures. And she’d made no response.

  No, that wasn’t true. Inside her mind and her heart, hidden where no one could see, her response had been the most wonderful sort of unfurling. She’d heard everything he’d said, from the smallest half sentence to the declaration that he “valued” her too much to trade. The words had been a warm sun to a thawing soil. Her heart had sprung up, growing from a hard seed, buried deep, into a life that wan
ted to flourish.

  On the inside.

  On the inside, she’d grown and flourished.

  On the outside, she must appear dormant and stony.

  Dukes, no matter how much they “valued” girls like Isobel Tinker, did not love them and respect them—not as their wives or the mothers of their children.

  They did not acknowledge them in public places, or pass Christmas morning in their company, or introduce them to family and friends.

  They did not marry them.

  Isobel had seen this, and she was certain she would not survive being anything less.

  “Here we are,” North sighed, rounding the corner on a muddy street lined intermittently with clapboard buildings and crude stone structures. “Let us make haste. Shaw and I have plans to ride to the proposed meeting site to scout the terrain.”

  “I’ll come too.”

  “Nosing around this fishing village is one thing,” he said, “but it’s too risky for my bargaining chip to scout a meeting site alongside me. You must hole up on the brig like a good little captive. Unless . . .” he glanced at her, “. . . you’re having second thoughts.”

  “No second thoughts.”

  “I felt like it was too much to hope. Enjoy your last breaths of freedom until this is over.” He looked up and down the street. “What first? The milliner or the stationer?”

  “Very clever,” she said. “If I recall, there is a fish stall whose proprietor will, for the right price, part with one of his very handy little gutting knives, which is the perfect—”

  “You’re buying knives?” he gritted out, stepping in front of her. “I’ve escorted you on a shopping trip to buy knives?”

  “Shhh,” she warned. “Remember you are my captor. If you must know, I left my favorite dagger at home.”

  “You have a favorite dagger?”

  “Lower your voice and keep calm or people will take notice.”

  “Oh, and a young woman buying a dagger will come off as unremarkable?”

  She was just about to tell him that a fish-goring knife would not be considered an odd purchase for anyone in rural Iceland, but her eye was caught by an unfamiliar shop across the wide street. She paused. Took a step closer. The shop was crowded in between two existing structures, the blacksmith’s and a wainwright. Seven years ago, there had been nothing there but an open space.

  The new shop was housed in a wooden building with a cheerful awning, a wide front window, and a walkway littered with what appeared to be merchandise spilling from an overrun inventory.

  Above the door, a rustic sign hung crookedly, the red lettering surprisingly bold despite the obvious age.

  “Godfrey’s Treasure Trove,” read the sign. A subheading beneath said, “Fripperies, Oddities, Baubles, and Relics.”

  Isobel squinted at the shop, surprised to encounter plain English signage in a remote Icelandic fishing village. All of the other businesses were labeled in Icelandic, if their owners bothered to advertise at all.

  The items scattered beneath the shop window included a dress form, a yellow velvet chair, a basket of sculptural driftwood, and colorful wooden crates balanced in a stack.

  With North trudging behind her, Isobel crossed the street to have a closer look. Inside the glass, translucent stones hung on silk threads, catching the pale sun. Crystals glistened from within goblets that lined the windowsill.

  Isobel stepped back and read the sign again.

  “This is an English establishment, I believe,” she said.

  “Perhaps they will be fresh out of daggers,” said North, “and you can pick up a heavy Saxon bludgeon instead.”

  She spun on him. “Stop. You would not send me into the pirates’ lair unarmed, so do not suggest otherwise. You know me well enough by now: I’m neither delicate nor clumsy. You’ve made it clear that you do not like the plan, but you agreed to it, so let us not pretend I should face pirates unprotected. This cannot be the first time you’ve provisioned your team for some subterfuge, it cannot.”

  The duke exhaled deeply and turned his head to the side. His aristocratic jaw was granite, but he appeared to be grinding his teeth. He was so handsome it took her breath away. She wanted to fall against him and thank him for being afraid for her. She couldn’t remember when anyone had worried that she might be out of her depth. She wanted to shake him and tell him not to worry, that Phillipe Doucette scared her not in the least.

  But she must not thank him or shake him or touch him in any manner.

  She must simply go through the motions of rescuing his cousin and slogging her way back to England.

  “I’m going inside,” she said. “If you remain in the street, please endeavor to look beastly and vigilant. Actually, your current expression will do nicely.”

  North swore under his breath and snatched off his hat. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. “Can you not comprehend how difficult this is for me?” he gritted out. “Will you make no allowance for how wrong it feels? Everything about it?”

  He looked so miserable then, like a man inside a cage watching her stride about beyond the bars, jangling the key.

  Isobel sighed and reached for his hand, tugging him into the shop.

  “Pretend you’re dragging me,” she ordered, although it was plainly clear who dragged whom.

  North followed. It occurred to her he’d always followed her. Since they’d met. He’d adhered to her. Another tendril of life unfurled inside her.

  “Good afternoon!” sang a voice from inside the dim shop. “Godfrey’s Treasures, at your service, sir, madam. I am Mr. Godfrey; do let me know how I might assist you.”

  “Hello,” Isobel said cautiously. “You are English, are you not, sir?”

  She looked about, noting shelves of books with English titles, at a moth-eaten Beefeater’s uniform hanging from a hook, a bust of Shakespeare surrounded by faded silk roses.

  The shelves held talismans from other cultures too. A glorious Mayan headdress, a Venetian mask, Swiss clocks ticking on a wall.

  The shop was veritably bursting with merchandise. Sagging shelves, overflowing trunks, bins filled with everything from shoes to crockery. The smell of strong tea and something sweet—raspberry tarts?—wafted in the air.

  Mr. Godfrey was a tall, soft man, with round shoulders and a large belly. He was dressed in the striped waistcoat and arm garters of a shopkeep. He stood behind a wide counter as if they were all in Bond Street.

  “I am English, in fact,” he confirmed. “Although I pride myself in stocking novelties from around the world.”

  “How did you come to set up shop in . . . Iceland?” asked North, appearing, at long last, to notice the sheer oddness of the place.

  “Oh, I move about, sir,” assured Mr. Godfrey. “This shop has served customers in twelve countries and two island territories. Diversity wants travel, I’ve found, and so does Mr. Godfrey.” He chuckled. “I’ve had a lovely run in Iceland. Been here about six months, I’d say. I may move on before winter, or I may not. One never knows where one will wind up, do they?”

  “No,” muttered Isobel, nosing around the shelves, “one does not.”

  Mr. Godfrey was certainly unexpected, but he seemed harmless and very useful. She could provision for every contingency from among these offerings. She lowered the hood of her cloak to take a closer look.

  “But how do you transport your inventory?” North asked. A fur rug of some indeterminable animal brushed his foot and he jabbed at it with his boot.

  “Oh, this way and that,” said Mr. Godfrey. “Carriage. Coach. Cart. Camel. Caravan. Canoe—”

  “Right,” said North, cutting him off. He leaned to Isobel and whispered, “The less we know about this place, the better. Hurry, can you?”

  Isobel nodded and crossed to a display of leather goods. Her eyes lit immediately on a worn kid scabbard protruding from beneath droopy foliage of a spidery plant. She reached for it, nudging the leaves to the side to reveal a knife handle made of antler, its finger demarca
tions worn smooth. Isobel picked it up, tested its weight, and slid the dagger free.

  She let out a little gasp. Perfection. The blade was short and wide, her favorite dimension, and keenly sharp. She’d always preferred a fat, stunted blade to long and thin.

  Scooping a basket from the floor, she tossed the dagger inside.

  Next, she found a length of heavy fabric, striped red and black—probably a former curtain—and stuffed it into the basket.

  She came upon a tangle of belts and shook free a wide strip of floppy leather and added it to her pile.

  Next, she chose a length of rope, two golden necklaces with paste stones, black boots with pointed toes and high heels in exactly her size, an eel-skin pouch on a string thin enough to secret beneath her clothes, a voluminous linen shirt with long sleeves, a felt vest likely designed for a fourteen-year-old boy, and a clutch of feathers, secured at the quill with a wire. She snatched up one item after another, dropping them into her basket.

  As North chatted with Mr. Godfrey about the heat in India and the snow in Bavaria, she grabbed a few more items, then she made a final circuit of the cluttered shop and joined North at the counter.

  “Ah, I see you’ve found one or two things to delight you,” exclaimed Mr. Godfrey, peering inside her basket.

  “Indeed,” said Isobel. “What a boon your shop has been. I hadn’t hoped to find so many treasures in one place. In fact, I had not hoped to find so many treasures in all of Iceland.”

  “We aim to please, miss,” he said unpacking her basket. “But have you found everything you require? I have a few more items in the back, and I am happy to order custom items from my headquarters in London.”

  “You have a London headquarters?” repeated North, a strange look on his face.