Dangerous, Isobel countered in her head. “This from the man who is running from a dukedom.”
“Perhaps I should endeavor to be adopted by a traveling actor,” he said.
Isobel chuckled and touched her hair. Her bun was soaked and dripping rainwater down her neck. She’d begun to shiver. The cold felt less exhilarating now, more punishing.
North removed his hat and plopped it on her head. It wabbled on her saturated bun, far too large, and she was swamped again with the smell of him.
Without warning, tears shot to her eyes. Her throat clamped down. For a long moment, she struggled for composure. She tipped her head so he could not see her beneath the brim of the hat.
How far she’d come in seven years, she thought. She had a home—a new home, if she survived this mission—a schedule where days were day and nights were night and she earned a living wage doing work that she enjoyed. A friend in Samantha. A family in the Starlings and her mother.
If her encounters with the Duke of Northumberland felt like a regression—a very wonderful, deceptively harmless regression—well, this story would put an end to all of that. He could mumble, “Extraordinary” and “Fascinating,”and be perfectly lovely about it butthe reality of her indiscretions meant there would be a wedge between them now.
Before, the wedge was small and vague. Now it would be as tall and sharp as the spire of a church. Now she would cease her silly, middle-of-the-night fantasies about him. And the future. And her.
She flashed him a resigned smile and forced herself to continue. “By the time I was fifteen, I’d become part of a cluster of youths—all the grown children of theater people—who traveled Europe on a sort of... whim. That is, we would convene for opening night of our parents’ productions, and then we would set out. Gone was the suggestion that I might join my mother in a week or so. I traveled with these friends for months at a time, embarking on some adventure.”
“Like the sort of adventure where you explored the streets of Paris?” guessed North.
She chuckled. “Like climbing a mountain in Switzerland. Like swimming in the Aegean Sea in Greece. Like learning how they train bull fighters in Spain.”
“But...” began North, now struggling to comprehend, “how did you not run out of money? Your mother could be the most successful actress in history and not support the life you describe. And how did a lot of untended youths gain access to—forgive me—decent establishments? What of your safety? Europe was at war. Was there no adult to mind you?”
“Excellent questions,” Isobel conceded. Defensiveness had begun to creep in, although she had no idea why. This time in her life felt without defense. She’d been dangerously reckless; many nights, she’d been downright stupid. She’d been out of control.
She glanced at North. He watched her expectantly,his expression not so much judgmental as concerned. She turned back to the sea.
She reminded herself that she did not have to tell him every detail. She didn’t have to do anything but traipse through the tundra of Iceland and translate the language and return home to claim her lovely new building.
“How did we not run out of money?” she repeated, determined, in fact, to tell him every detail. “Our lodging and food came mostly as the guests of people we met along the way. Some nights we dined lavishly in the chalets of local bourgeoisie; others we ate bread and cheese and drank wine from the bottle. Some nights we slept in canopied beds inside a castle; others we made camp on the side of the road. We traveled very light; we were prepared for whatever the journey might bring.
“What can I say but...” She sighed. “We were young and beautiful and resourceful. We were from different countries and we spoke various languages, but all of us were interesting and attractive and could, if necessary, demonstrate lovely manners. We could also pick pockets and fight. All of us had traveled since we were children. We were shrewd and savvy, daring and unafraid. We invented new identities based on our needs in any given city. One town saw us as brothers and sisters in a missionary family; in the next we styled ourselves as obscure Baltic royalty.”
She took a deep breath, thinking back. How clearly she could see each of their faces, some fondly, others she barely tolerated. Even then, it mattered less that she enjoyed the group, more that she’d been included in it, that she could keep up, that she was fearless enough.
She shook her head, clearing it. “What else did you ask? How were we safe? We were not safe. More thanonce we fell in with unsavory characters and escaped only by our luck and our wits.
“Have I, you might wonder, done serious injury to a man who climbed on top of me in the middle of the night? Yes, I have done, more than once.
“Have I leapt from a speeding carriage? Also more than once.
“Have I been picked up by the local magistrate only to talk my way out of jail? Yes.”
She snatched off her hat, gave it a shake, scattering rainwater. She glanced at him, reseating the hat.
He was staring at her as if she was a shiny curiosity found in the attic. He looked as if he wanted to hold her up to the light and examine her from every angle.
“And you thought you were the only one to escape from prison,” she teased.
“I had not thought,” he said. “Obviously. But what did your mother know of this? Was she not... concerned?”
“Wait, allow me to finish the last bit.” She held up a finger. “You ask if there was no one minding us. Ultimately, no. However, there was a leader to our merry band. It was a boy—older, but hardly an adult—called Peter Boyd.”
“Peter Boyd?” he repeated. “He was English?”
“Yes, from Manchester of all places. He was the oldest among us, about nineteen at the time. His family was the wealthiest of the theater crowd; his father produced many of my mother’s productions. He was...” she paused, staring into the fog, trying to find words to describe Peter Boyd, “...Peter was a dangerous combination of handsomeness, confidence, cleverness, charm, boldness, and... an inability to stay still.”
“Is that all?” asked North, laughing a little.
