When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  “Actually,” replied Isobel, “I noticed the old apothecary’s case of vials and bottles. There, in the corner? Although the vials appear to be long since empty of any potions.”

  “Oh yes,” said Godfrey. “The original owner, I believe, made the poor choice to consume all of his own inventory. After he recovered, he traded the case for a set of juggler’s pins and a harpsichord. Likely a better path for the man.”

  Isobel flashed an impatient smile. “But I was wondering if you have, among your inventory, any medicinal herbs or tinctures? Especially anything that a lady might use . . . sort of . . . in—well, as a defense? That is, in self-defense? Fast-acting sleeping drafts or something that might induce sickness but not, er, death?”

  Beside her, she heard North make a miserable sort of moaning sound.

  Mr. Godfrey hummed contemplatively. “Hmm. In fact, I might have just the thing you’re looking for. I traded for something like this in a market at Wandsworth.”

  He disappeared behind a curtain that concealed the rear of the shop.

  Isobel glanced at North.

  “Poison,” North stated. “You’re asking for poison?”

  Isobel shrugged. “It’s more of a drug, I’d say. It was my weapon of choice, once upon a time. It is nonviolent but incapacitates someone just long enough for me to . . . do whatever I may need to do.”

  “I should wait outside,” North said, glancing around, but Mr. Godfrey bustled back to the counter bearing a small leather pouch.

  “Are you familiar with the effects of ground apple seeds, miss?” the man asked.

  “Oh, cyanide, yes,” Isobel mused. “But is that dried apple seed?”

  “In fact, it is. I’ve been told when ground into a fine dust, apple seeds can make a strong man very sick, but not kill him. In small doses.”

  “I need only a small dose,” Isobel assured him, reaching for the pouch.

  She could feel North watching her as she tugged open the tie and tapped the seeds into her gloved palm. “But might you have a book I can reference to get the dosing correct?” she asked.

  “Let me see . . .” said Mr. Godfrey, disappearing behind the curtain again.

  “I’m beginning to think I would be safer if I traded myself to the pirates,” said North.

  She chuckled. “I’m more than you bargained for. I know. I tried to warn you.”

  “I’ll not underestimate your warnings in the future. Nor will I accept any refreshment you may offer.”

  I would never hurt you, she thought, funneling the seeds back into the pouch. If only you could promise the same.

  Mr. Godfrey returned with a dusty leather-bound book. “I’m afraid I have a reference book, but it’s written in Dutch.”

  “Not a problem,” said Isobel. “I’ll take it all. These items, the apple seeds—and the book. How much, if you please?”

  “Oh,” tsked Mr. Godfrey, “but did you not read the sign, miss?” He pointed to a faded wooden sign. “Godfrey’s Treasure Trove does not operate on a system of monetary exchange. I only deal in merchandise for trade.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Currency is not accepted here,” he proclaimed. “You must trade something in your possession for these items.”

  “Currency not accepted,” challenged North, his voice hard.

  Isobel waved him off—they didn’t have time to argue. “Very well,” she said. “What sort of trade? How many of our own items will compensate for all of this?” She gestured to her not insignificant pile of purchases.

  “That depends,” mumbled Mr. Godfrey speculatively. “What do you have?”

  North was growing indignant. “Now wait a bloody min—”

  “How about this?” Isobel cut in, reaching inside the collar of her gown to pull up a small compass on a gold chain.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Godfrey, his eyes lighting up. He held out meaty hands, fingers spread eagerly as Isobel unlooped it from her neck. “What have we here?”

  “Isobel, wait—” ordered North, but she ignored him.

  “The pendant of this necklace is a golden compass,” she said. “The needle actually spins; it functions like a real compass. You may take the chain too, if it is enough for these items.”

  “A compass necklace,” marveled Mr. Godfrey, holding it up to the light.

  While Isobel waited and North drummed his fingers in irritation, the shopkeep examined the necklace under a magnifying glass and smoothed his fingers over the compass face.

  “Oh, it’s engraved,” cooed Mr. Godfrey.

  “It is,” confirmed Isobel.

  “ ‘Second star to the right,’ ” read Mr. Godfrey, squinting at the back of the compass. “EoC.”

  “Yes,” said Isobel. She was well aware of the inscription. She waited for some reaction inside her chest, some cry of regret or clawing hesitation, but she felt nothing. The inscription might as well have read, “Made in Birmingham.” She was glad to see it go and what better place to part with it than Iceland?

  “But was this a gift, Isobel?” North asked lowly. “Who is EoC?”

  Isobel shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. If Mr. Godfrey will accept the trade, we can be on our way. We’ve lingered in the village too long.”

  “Look,” said North, turning to Mr. Godfrey, “I’ve a sword on my ship, Spanish steel, gold and silver on the hilt, if you must have—”

  “Swords are of far less interest,” dismissed Godfrey. “Jewelry with some function—like this compass—is rare, and this piece is also beautiful. A true ‘treasure’ for my ‘trove.’ I’ll gladly accept this in trade; in fact, I am in your debt. Will you not take something else from the shop?”

  Isobel exhaled in relief. “Thank you. I require nothing more, but if you will remain quiet on the topic of this visit, I would be grateful. No man and woman called today, nothing was traded, you did not see us.”

  “Never you fear,” assured Mr. Godfrey. “All of my clients are entirely confidential.”

  “Excellent,” she said.

  While North glared at Mr. Godfrey, shaking his head and making wordless noises of discontent, Isobel loaded his arms with her purchases and wound her way out of the shop and into the street.

  The sun had burned through the white haze of morning, and wet rooftops and slick pathways sparkled.

  “Isobel,” North said lowly, coming up beside her, “the initials on the necklace were EoC. That can only mean Earl of Cranford. Have you traded a piece of jewelry given to you by your father?”

  “I did, in fact,” she said, “and good riddance.” She pulled up her hood.

  If she expected him to protest or scold her for making the trade, he did not. He stood silently beside her, frowning at the possessions in his arms.

  Isobel said, “These clothes will need to be . . . roughed up a bit. There is a canyon just outside of the village. A shallow river runs through it.”

  She looked right and left. The street was deserted except for milling dogs and a handful of sailors from their own ship. No one would notice them slipping away.

  “If I dunk them now and beat them against a rock,” she mused, “they should be dry by tomorrow. I’ll need to look worse for the wear.”

  North nodded and said, “God only knows what you’ve been through, Isobel, and you look no worse for the wear. Beautiful and unscathed, that is how you look. I’d wager you’ll remain so, no matter how many times you dunk yourself in the river.”

  It was an odd compliment, part acknowledgment of her past, part nod to her courage. Also, he said she was pretty. The shimmers inside her belly tumbled.

  She set out in the direction of the trail. “I intend to dunk the clothes, not myself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Isobel led him to the end of the street, and then another, and then civilization seemed to drop off and the wilderness opened up to a vast plain of rough green, cut here and there by jagged rock. In the far distance, thick mountains loomed like the shoulders of giants.


  The sky was a color of blue Jason had never seen. The air smelled loamy and verdant, undercut by an acrid wind. When the grass swayed, it made a light hissing noise. He no longer heard the sea.

  A trail wound through the tall grass, and Isobel set out, her heavy cloak bending the blades as it dragged behind her.

  “I would have paid for these provisions,” he called, following. His boots made a crunching noise on the black silt of the trail, and he looked around, making certain they were alone. “I’d never hold you responsible for supplies.”

  “The man didn’t accept money,” she called back.

  “There is a sum he would’ve accepted, I assure you, given the correct placement of the decimal.”

  “Why challenge him? It’s part of the character of the shop.”

  “Yes, and that character just robbed you of a necklace that might’ve had sentimental value. Likely it held some tangible value. It looked to be real gold.”

  “The compass had no value to me,” she said.

  “You wanted to be rid of it, is that it?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I wanted to be rid of it.”

  “What did it mean?” he prodded. “The inscription?”

  “It meant nothing,” she said. “Meaningless poetic drivel.”

  Jason exhaled in frustration. She didn’t want to tell him. Fine. It was his nature to be curious about people—it made him an excellent spy—but it wasn’t his nature to pry family secrets from women who didn’t want to explain. Or at least this hadn’t been his nature before he’d met her.

  Not that it mattered; she was impervious to prying. She did as she pleased obviously.

  They trudged on another five yards. Jason paused, shrugging from his coat and fashioning it into a crude sack to carry her myriad purchases.

  But was it prying, he thought, to sense pain or injustice and to want to know?

  Was it prying to strive for greater understanding of her?

  Isobel Tinker was like a very bright, very warm thing that he—

  That he wanted.

  There were no other words. He wanted every part.

  Alarmingly, and perhaps for the first time ever, he had no idea how to attract or sustain her. Learning her history seemed as useful as anything else. If he meant to travel to the moon, he would need a map.

  He glanced around him, acknowledging the beauty of the landscape. Iceland was spectacular, he’d give it that. Untamed and dramatic. They’d progressed through a field of tall grass, but the vegetation had given way to rocks. Lichen edged out the grass, glazing every stone with green.

  “What did it say?” he asked, trying again. “The inscription on the compass?” If she could not tell him, perhaps she could tell the landscape. The vast wildness would swallow it up.

  “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “You do remember.”

  “What could it matter?” she sighed.

  “If it didn’t matter, you would say it freely.”

  “Fine,” she said, stopping to lean against a craggy outcropping. They were climbing steadily higher. Pillars of rock had formed a stone forest around them.

  She caught her breath. “It said, ‘Second star to the right.’ And before you ask, I’ll tell you what it meant. The earl meant, ‘Seek direction in your own imagination. Or in your dreams. Or your heart.’ As I said, useless babbling.”

  She shoved off and climbed on. Over her shoulder, she said, “What he meant was, ‘You are not important enough for me to make an effort . . . you’ll have no one to guide you or to protect you . . . unfortunately your mother is bollocks at anything approaching guidance . . . so good luck sorting out life’s challenges, large and small.’ ”

  She turned to face him, walking backward. “That’s what the engraver should have stamped on the compass.”

  “Perhaps there wasn’t room?” he joked.

  She laughed. His heart tapped against his chest. He could protect her. He wanted to protect her. She turned back to the trail.

  They came to a dropping-off place where the ground formed a low cliff over a wide ravine. At the bottom, some ten yards beneath, a shallow river snaked right and left, the water obscured by a rising mist.

  “How do we descend?” he asked.

  “The rocks form steps just . . . here.”

  She led him around an outcropping of stone and then to a natural ramp.

  The canyon was enchanting, an open-air cathedral. Rock statues loomed, jagged and gnarled, veiled by vapor from the stream.

  When they reached the water, Isobel removed her heavy cloak and rolled up her sleeves. She bade him unfurl her purchases on a high rock, and she collected the striped fabric, the linen, and the vest from inside his coat. Kneeling beside the water, she lowered the pieces into the river, weighing them down with stones. The water was shallow, no deeper than her hand, and they were easily pinned. Water rushed over and under, soaking the fibers until they fluttered against the riverbed.

  Next she located a paddle-shaped rock and scooped up a slug of sediment. Bending over the striped fabric, she scraped the mud here and there, streaking it with black.

  Jason sat down on a nearby rock, relishing the view of her bending over the steamy water, skirts hiked over an elbow, deft hands ministering to the clothes. She’d worn lavender today, a departure. He couldn’t remember her in anything but some shade of green. The pale purple fabric seemed to glow in contrast to the landscape. Here and there, small purple flowers dotted the riverbank, their blossoms almost the same color as her dress. The combination of purple against green grass was as beautiful on Isobel as it was on the flower. The mist from the water set her creamy skin glowing; blond hair dropped from her bun in damp tendrils and curled against her neck.

  The urge to go to her, to take her by the waist and pull her to him, to kiss her, to really kiss her, was almost too much to bear. He bit off his gloves and dug his hands into the serrated rock. He forced his brain to return to their conversation. More than he wanted to hold her, he wanted to know her.

  “Would it have been better to have no relationship whatsoever with the earl,” he asked, “than to know him only a little?”

  She sat back on her haunches on a smooth flat stone. She extended her palm, hand up, like a footman with a tray. The gesture of Who knows?

  Jason waited, allowing the question to float between them. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his waistcoat. The air was cool but there was no shade from the sun. He unbuttoned two more.

  After a moment, she told him, “You should feel the water.”

  He paused, the waistcoat halfway down his arms. He looked to her.

  She had begun to remove her boots. “You’ve traveled all this way,” she said. “You might as well experience the heated waters.”

  Jason shucked the waistcoat with due speed and pulled at his boots. He hiked his buckskins to his knees, and picked his way to her.

  She was sitting with her knees drawn up, her discarded boots and a pile of her stockings beside her. Small feet poked from beneath her skirt. She wiggled her toes.

  “Sit here and put your feet in,” she instructed, not looking at him. “Careful, it’s rather hot. Hotter than you expect.”

  She extended her feet and held them over the rushing surface of the clear water. He watched her dip her toes in the stream and stir them in a small circle. He’d stopped breathing or he was panting, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

  “If you move about,” she said, “you’ll hit upon a streak of cold to temper the very hot. The cold is runoff from the mountain snow. The hot is water heated by the volcanoes. You’ll want to find the place where they mingle.” When, finally, she sank her feet in, she let out a little sigh.

  Jason swallowed hard and tried to tamp down his body’s response. Every newly revealed part of her—trim ankles and shapely legs, delicate toes and high arches—was beautiful. His heart thudded. His loins tightened.

  “Go on,” she said, glancing up. She was smiling, but she must have s
een the look of longing on his face, because her smile faded. She blinked slowly, sensually, once, twice.

  Jason forced himself to move, dropping beside her on the rock and extending his feet. The heat was so hot at first touch, it registered as cold. He jerked back, and she laughed. “I warned you,” she said.

  He stood up—it seemed like the manly thing to do—and waded into the boiling water, his hands on his hips. She laughed, and he looked back, winking at her.

  “It’s glorious,” he said. Goose bumps rose on his skin. The water, when he found the right spot, was deliciously warm.

  “You’re glorious,” she whispered, and he missed a step. He went very, very still. He turned.

  “Isobel?” he asked softly.

  She stared back through a veil of mist. Her bun had slid to her neck; damp ringlets framed her face. Her throat was wet. Her cheeks were pink. Her blue eyes had narrowed to lazy slits.

  Jason’s body felt languid and heavy but his need for her was very hard and utterly relentless.

  “What could it possibly matter?” she asked softly. He studied the dewy beauty of her face.

  “S’bell?” he asked, wading to her.

  He came to a stop before her, looking down. She stared at the swirling water. After a long, charged moment, she reached out and placed a small, flat hand on his leg, just above the knee. Pleasure radiated from the imprint of her hand. Every cell in his body strained to her.

  Spreading her fingers, she kneaded his quadricep.

  Slowly, almost dreamily, she slid the hand higher.

  Jason let out a hiss.

  “We are alone,” she remarked softly to his leg.

  She extended the other hand and clasped it around the back of his knee. He staggered a little. His body was as hard as the riverbed.

  “Why aren’t you terrible?” she asked, looking up.

  “Well,” he began. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I am prepared to trade a young woman to pirates. Does this count for nothing?”

  “I want you to kiss me,” she whispered. “I cannot bear it if you do not.”

  It was what he’d been waiting for. In an instant, he dropped to one knee in the water. She grabbed his shirtsleeves in handfuls.