“You’re certain you won’t have a maid to attend you?” he said, wincing. “I can provide one if you—”
“I haven’t employed a maid in years, Your Grace. It cannot be overstated: I can manage on my own. You’d do well to think less of my comfort and more of my inconsistent skill as a translator and my potential enemies among the locals.”
Northumberland raised an eyebrow. “Enemies?”
“In Stokkseyri? Possibly—yes.” He might as well know.
“Pity we’ve not met before this very hour, or I could have learned more about your rapport with the locals.”
“Pity,” she repeated. “But please remember, I am notcollaboratingwith you; I amcooperating. I’ll only do what is strictly necessary to gain my new shop.”
“One marvels at the distinction.”
“You did not stipulate meeting before now, so...” She hunkered beneath the umbrella like a turtle retracting into her shell.
Isobel had hired her own lawyer to review the duke’s legal papers and to assure her new situation in Hammersmith. If her cooperation amounted to work-in-trade, she would know exactly what work was expected.
The duke had sent requests, asking to meet with her, to hear her opinion on provisions and course and strategy, but no such meetings had been stipulated, and she had refused.
“I’ve been very busy, you see,” she said, speaking from within the umbrella. “It is no small thing to leave the country while planning a secret defection from your place of business. In five days.”
“Well, you’ve promised me an appraisal once we’re on board. Enemies and allies, sympathetic bystanders, double-crossers, safe and unsafe havens, known traps, dead ends.” He leaned to peek at her beneath the cover of the umbrella.
Rain was sluicing off his hat and the yoke of his coat, but he didn’t seem to care. He looked so very rugged and impervious and handsome.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, tipping the umbrella to shield herself. “I suffer from seasickness and will succumb within an hour of losing sight of land. I warned you of this. The first few days will be spent confined to my cabin. After that, I may creep to the deck at sunset to take fresh air. We can talk then, but more than that I cannot promise.”
“You’re always ill at sea?” he asked.
“Every time.”
“How can I help?”
“I’ve already provided meal instructions to the steward. Just leave me be, if you will. I can manage. As I’ve said.”
“Right,” he said, his voice growing fainter. He was walking away. “You can manage.”
Chapter Nine
“Waiting for someone, Your Grace?”
Former mercenary Declan Shaw stood on the deck of theFeathersmoking with the duke. Shaw watched the pale sun arc into the black waters of the North Sea, while Jason stared at a closed hatch on the brig’s foredeck.
“What?” Jason asked.
“I said,” repeated Shaw, “are you waiting for—?”
“Waiting for you to finish that sodding cheroot,” said Jason testily. “You’re like a calf on a teat. If I’d only known I could pay you in tobacco.”
The duke had assembled a small crew of trusted comrades in arms, retired soldiers, and off-duty agents to travel to Iceland as tactical support. Leading the crew was his old friend Declan Shaw.
Shaw was a retired mercenary who now lived in Somerset with his new wife and infant son. Before his unexpected foray into family life, Shaw had been a cunning warrior, the type of man for whom fighting pirates would be all in a day’s work. Jason could think of no one more qualified for this mission, and he’d paid Shaw triple to convince him to leave his young family, even for a month.
“My wife detests smoking,” Shaw said, exhalinga ribbon of smoke. “I am happy to oblige her. You? I couldn’t care less. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a cheroot.” He took another puff.
Jason checked the deck hatch again. “Precious few cheroots in prison, I presume,” the duke said.
“Precious few visitorsto this deck,” Shaw replied.
