“You’ve just said we must devise alibis and backstories and pretend to repair a fully functional brigantine, just to survive local gossip. Your history with these people may matter a great deal. It is very relevant, I’d say.”
“No,” she disagreed, albeit weakly. She was shaking her head miserably. Jason’s heart began to throb.
“Look,” he said, “I may be casual and appear carefree, but the key to my success has always been information. The more I know about everybody, the more I can either help or hinder whatever happens. It is, at its heart, the essence of being a spy.Knowing.”
Without warning, Isobel shoved from her chair.
Jason and Declan Shaw scrambled to stand.
“I need air,” she said.
“It’s raining,” Jason said.
“I don’t care.”
Without another word, she turned and quit the room.
Jason grimaced at Declan Shaw, took up two coats, and followed.
Chapter Twelve
How foolish she’d been to believe she would never tell him.
She was always going to tell him.
And not even because he truly needed to know.
She could make up a lie that served the mission and protected her privacy, but no.
She would tell him because shewantedto.
Ifthe duke followed her to the misty haze of this rain-drenched deck, she would tell him.
Isobel moved blindly in the fog, navigating crates and coils of rope, making her way to the railing. She was invigorated by the gusty chill. Her nerves were stretched taut, strained like the rigging; the threat of this conversation was wind to the sails. The raindrops were cold when they kissed her cheeks, but turned hot on her flushed skin. The fog seemed to swallow her up, and she was grateful. She wanted to be swallowed. Perhaps saying it all would be easier from behind a screen of mist.
Almost no one knew what had happened in Iceland. With whom could she share such a great burden? Casual friends or relations would judge her, and those who loved her would feel undue pain on her behalf.
She had told her mother, which, then and now, felt correct. She drew comfort from her mother. And a small part of herblamedGeorgiana Tinker for all that happened.
But Samantha? The Starling daughters? She had not elaborated. Why introduce the heartbreak to them?
Northumberland’s heart will not break, she thought.
No, not “Northumberland,” she reminded herself. He wished for her to call him “North.”
Northwas big enough and strong enough and, perhaps most importantly, unrelated to her future (enough) to survive this story. He could absorb the terribleness of it without breaking stride.
She wanted to try. It had been such a great relief to tell her mother. Perhaps every time she said the words, she could believe in her survival a little bit more.
“Isobel?” North called from somewhere behind her.
Shimmers dripped down her insides. He had followed.
“I’m here,” she called back, speaking to the fog. “Starboard.”
He materialized out of the vapor—first a man-sized shadow, then a silhouette, then all of him. Brown eyes and broad shoulders and large hands. His black overcoat swirled about him and his hat was pulled low against the rain.
He held out a navy greatcoat to drape across her shoulders. The coat settled around her in awhoosh, immersing her in the musky, outdoorsy smell of him. Isobel closed her eyes and breathed in.
