“Yes,” confirmed Shaw.
“Very good,” said Isobel. “Then of course you should remain. I’ve come to share my knowledge of the port in Stokkseyri. I’ve had previous experience dealing with the locals, so I’ll tell you what I can. This may be helpful as you plan your recovery mission.”
“Plan?” said Shaw, coughing.
Jason shot him a look and said, “Please come in, Miss Tinker. How heartened I am to see you. Are you . . . well?”
Jason plunked a chair beside his desk and Isobel, skirts swishing, settled in. Pushing away detritus with the blunt end of a pencil, she cleared a spot for her notebook on his strewn desk. Jason watched her, unable to conceal a smile. He realized he was staring, looked away, and then turned back. He felt as if someone had opened the door of a very dark cell to the bright light of day.
She’d come. Dressed, alert, potentially healthy. And she appeared ready to work.
He’d not seen her since the kiss and he’d replayed it in his mind a hundred times. She’d left of her own accord, but it felt like she’d been snatched away by demons from her past.
And yet now, here she was.
“I wasn’t certain,” he began, “when we might benefit from your wealth of experience.” He kept his tone light and teasing, but he wanted to snatch up her hand and feel her pulse, test the strength of her grip. She was visibly thinner but no less robust. Her color was good, her eyes bright.
“Nonsense,” she was saying, spreading her paperwork on his desk. “What purpose would I serve as a cultural attaché if not to share my experience?”
Declan Shaw coughed.
Jason shot Shaw a warning look and swiveled to Isobel. “Would you speak more freely if Mr. Shaw were not he—”
“No, I would not,” she said. “Shaw remains. If he goes, so do I.”
“Mr. Shaw, it is,” amended Jason, narrowing his eyes at his friend. He cocked his thumb toward the small stool.
“Now,” began Isobel, fanning out watercolor renderings and unfolding a map. “The port at Stokkseyri is here, and we will, no doubt, approach from the southwest...”
She went on from there, talking about currents and the number of harbor warehouses.
Jason tried to listen. He leaned forward in his chair, he nodded, he mimicked the pose of rapt attention. And in fact, he was paying very close attention, but not to her words—not yet. He was taking her in. The pink had returned to her lips. She spoke animatedly, her hands expressive. Tight, smooth wool sheathed her body, curve by curve, in a snug jacket.
“What do you think, Your Grace?” she was asking, pointing to a watercolor painting of a wide river cutting through a barren plateau.
“Ah,” said Jason, scrambling.
“I think you’ve the right idea, miss,” provided Shaw. He gave Jason a look that said,Pathetic.
Jason had spent the last four nights prowling the passageway outside her cabin. He’d interrogated her tight-lipped steward, a man who’d developed a fierce and protective loyalty to her. He’d berated the men in the berth belowdecks for banging the floorboards. He’d sent her notes.
Despite this, there had been no reliable sign that she was well. Or willing to cooperate. Or that she did not hate him.
He’d missed sleep and meals worrying about her. For a time, he’d forgotten about poor Reggie or the cursed dukedom waiting for him in Middlesex. He’d wallowedin something like “regret,” a sentiment in which he rarely indulged, especially not for kissing a pretty girl who absolutely needed to be kissed.
“Andthat,” she was saying, sketching a wide circle around a blue area on her map, “amounts to all I know about the harbor in Stokkseyri. Which admittedly is not a lot. The comings and goings of ships simply was not a focus when I was there. I spent a great deal more time inland.”
“Very thorough,” praised Jason. He needed to saysomething.
Isobel stared at him, unimpressed.
“But do you have some plan for what you intend to say when you reach the docks?” she asked. “To the locals? Who is meant to be your contact or resource in Iceland?”
Jason blinked, glancing at Declan Shaw.
Shaw piled on. “Yes, Your Grace. Tell us of your contact or resource in Iceland?”
“Ah,” Jason began, unaccustomed to accounting for his plans, or rather lack thereof. “I have the letter sent to my uncle, asking for ransom money in exchange for the safe return of my cousin.” He riffled through papers on his desk. “I believe it says something about asking for a man in a certain street in Reykjavík calledHans...Something or other. It was cruder than most ransom letters I’ve seen, almost comically cloak-and-daggerish, but it made it clear the pirates want money.
