The younger woman huffed in exasperation and stomped up the gangplank, demonstrating a more careful way.
Isobel was smiling to herself, watching the exchange, when she heard a male voice behind her.
“I didn’t know if you would actually come,” he said, “until I saw you with my own eyes.”
The rumble of his voice set off a shimmer in Isobel’s stomach. She gripped the umbrella tightly. She closed her eyes and then opened them. She turned.
The Duke of Northumberland, dressed for sailing in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, stood behind her, staring up at the brigantine.
And now she could add “gentleman at sea” to all the inciting ways the duke could look. As if the cravat and trousers or the black buckskins and greatcoat had notbeen enough. She would not stare. A mantra, perhaps, for this journey.
No staring at the handsome duke. No banter with the handsome duke. Nothing to do with the handsome duke but translate Icelandic and give advice andnotbecome affected.
Isobel had devoted seven years to rising above the emotional fray of affectation by handsome men. Prudence and restraint had earned her that lofty perch, and she clung to it. It had not come natural to her, but it felt very safe and very stable. She would not concede it now.
The journey to Iceland would not be a return to reckless behavior.
No matter how lovely and compelling the duke was.
Even if she survived Iceland itself, she would not survive another broken heart. Not from him.
“I trust you have everything you need for the journey?” the duke asked. “I sent a note offering to provision you with whatever you may require.”
“Yes, you were very kind, thank you,” she said.
“When you didn’t respond, I assumed you could manage on your own. Or that you weren’t coming.”
“Two things you should understand about me, Your Grace,” Isobel told him. “First, Icanmanage on my own. Second, if I say I’ll do something, I will do it. Trust will not be an issue with me.”
“Dare I anticipate what will be an issue?”
Take your pick, Isobel thought.Impatience. Panic. Seasickness.
Resisting you.
“There will be no issues,” she said. “I will be the model . . .” The word for her precise role in the mission escaped her.
“Attaché?” the duke suggested. “Adviser?”
“Translator?” she countered.
“Well, it’s more than that obviously,” he said, thinking. “But I’d not bother with a title if I were you. None of the men I recruited for this mission have formal roles beyond helping to recover these merchants and slinking away without anyone being the wiser. I’ve embarked on missions with looser order and protocols, but I’m not sure when. I apologize in advance. This brig, in particular, is rather crude.” He stared up at the boat.
“I am widely traveled, Your Grace, in every manner of vessel. The accommodations do not alarm me.”
“Lucky thing,” he sighed. “TheFeatheris fast and safe, with a trusted captain I’ve known for years. He was bound for America but agreed to divert long enough to ferry us to Stokkseyri and back.”
She glanced at him, an eyebrow raised. “Stokkseyri?” she asked. “Not Reykjavík?”
Northumberland shook his head. “You were correct about the ice caves and making landfall farther east. You were correct about everything.”
Well, thought Isobel, that was gratifying. She was rarely considered an expert, even among her clients. Until she proved otherwise, fathers and uncles and brothers assumedsome manhad planned her travel itineraries.
“Regardless,” the duke went on, “we’re not sailing ’round the Isle of Wight on a pleasure cruise. It will take nearly a fortnight to make Iceland. There will be precious few amenities for a lady.”
Isobel blinked. She wasn’t accustomed to being referred to as a lady. Was he teasing? She raised the umbrella.
No. He wasn’t. He wasn’t even looking at her. With acringing expression, he watched a crew member lean over the side and issue a prodigious stream of spit into the Thames.
