“The entire plan is built on supposition,” said North flatly. “Where to meet, who will come, if they will want you, what they’ll do with you when Itrade you.”
He was unhappy. This was no secret. Even so, he’d made a handful of declarations to her. Not promises. Not poetry. Overtures. And she’d made no response.
No, that wasn’t true. Inside her mind and her heart, hidden where no one could see, her response had been the most wonderful sort of unfurling. She’d heard everything he’d said, from the smallest half sentence to the declaration that he “valued” her too much to trade. The words had been a warm sun to a thawing soil. Her heart had sprung up, growing from a hard seed, buried deep, into a life that wanted to flourish.
On theinside.
On the inside, she’d grown and flourished.
On the outside, she must appear dormant and stony.
Dukes, no matter how much they “valued” girls like Isobel Tinker, did not love them and respect them—not as their wives or the mothers of their children.
They did not acknowledge them in public places, or pass Christmas morning in their company, or introduce them to family and friends.
They did not marry them.
Isobel had seen this, and she was certain she would not survive being anything less.
“Here we are,” North sighed, rounding the corner on a muddy street lined intermittently with clapboard buildings and crude stone structures. “Let us make haste. Shaw and I have plans to ride to the proposed meeting site to scout the terrain.”
“I’ll come too.”
“Nosing around this fishing village is one thing,” he said, “but it’s too risky for my bargaining chip to scout a meeting site alongside me. You must hole up on the brig like a good little captive. Unless...” he glanced at her, “...you’re having second thoughts.”
“No second thoughts.”
“I felt like it was too much to hope. Enjoy your last breaths of freedom until this is over.” He looked up and down the street. “What first? The milliner or the stationer?”
“Very clever,” she said. “If I recall, there is a fish stall whose proprietor will, for the right price, part with one of his very handy little gutting knives, which is the perfect—”
“You’re buying knives?” he gritted out, stepping in front of her. “I’ve escorted you on a shopping trip to buyknives?”
“Shhh,” she warned. “Remember you are my captor. If you must know, I left my favorite dagger at home.”
“You have a favorite dagger?”
“Lower your voice and keep calm or people will take notice.”
“Oh, and a young woman buying a dagger will come off as unremarkable?”
She was just about to tell him that a fish-goring knife would not be considered an odd purchase for anyone in rural Iceland, but her eye was caught by an unfamiliar shop across the wide street. She paused. Tooka step closer. The shop was crowded in between two existing structures, the blacksmith’s and a wainwright. Seven years ago, there had been nothing there but an open space.
The new shop was housed in a wooden building with a cheerful awning, a wide front window, and a walkway littered with what appeared to be merchandise spilling from an overrun inventory.
Above the door, a rustic sign hung crookedly, the red lettering surprisingly bold despite the obvious age.
“Godfrey’s Treasure Trove,” read the sign. A subheading beneath said, “Fripperies, Oddities, Baubles, and Relics.”
Isobel squinted at the shop, surprised to encounter plain English signage in a remote Icelandic fishing village. All of the other businesses were labeled in Icelandic, if their owners bothered to advertise at all.
The items scattered beneath the shop window included a dress form, a yellow velvet chair, a basket of sculptural driftwood, and colorful wooden crates balanced in a stack.
With North trudging behind her, Isobel crossed the street to have a closer look. Inside the glass, translucent stones hung on silk threads, catching the pale sun. Crystals glistened from within goblets that lined the windowsill.
Isobel stepped back and read the sign again.
“This is an English establishment, I believe,” she said.
