“Perhaps they will be fresh out of daggers,” said North, “and you can pick up a heavy Saxon bludgeon instead.”
She spun on him. “Stop. You would not send me into the pirates’ lair unarmed, so do not suggest otherwise.You know me well enough by now: I’m neither delicate nor clumsy. You’ve made it clear that you do not like the plan, but you agreed to it, so let us not pretend I should face pirates unprotected. This cannot be the first time you’ve provisioned your team for some subterfuge, it cannot.”
The duke exhaled deeply and turned his head to the side. His aristocratic jaw was granite, but he appeared to be grinding his teeth. He was so handsome it took her breath away. She wanted to fall against him and thank him for being afraid for her. She couldn’t remember when anyone had worried that she might be out of her depth. She wanted to shake him and tell himnotto worry, that Phillipe Doucette scared her not in the least.
But she must not thank him or shake him or touch him in any manner.
She must simply go through the motions of rescuing his cousin and slogging her way back to England.
“I’m going inside,” she said. “If you remain in the street, please endeavor to look beastly and vigilant. Actually, your current expression will do nicely.”
North swore under his breath and snatched off his hat. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. “Can you not comprehend how difficult this is for me?” he gritted out. “Will you make no allowance for how wrong it feels? Everything about it?”
He looked so miserable then, like a man inside a cage watching her stride about beyond the bars, jangling the key.
Isobel sighed and reached for his hand, tugging him into the shop.
“Pretend you’re dragging me,” she ordered, although it was plainly clear who dragged whom.
North followed. It occurred to her he’d always followed her. Since they’d met. He’d adhered to her. Another tendril of life unfurled inside her.
“Good afternoon!” sang a voice from inside the dim shop. “Godfrey’s Treasures, at your service, sir, madam. I am Mr. Godfrey; do let me know how I might assist you.”
“Hello,” Isobel said cautiously. “You are English, are you not, sir?”
She looked about, noting shelves of books with English titles, at a moth-eaten Beefeater’s uniform hanging from a hook, a bust of Shakespeare surrounded by faded silk roses.
The shelves held talismans from other cultures too. A glorious Mayan headdress, a Venetian mask, Swiss clocks ticking on a wall.
The shop was veritably bursting with merchandise. Sagging shelves, overflowing trunks, bins filled with everything from shoes to crockery. The smell of strong tea and something sweet—raspberry tarts?—wafted in the air.
Mr. Godfrey was a tall, soft man, with round shoulders and a large belly. He was dressed in the striped waistcoat and arm garters of a shopkeep. He stood behind a wide counter as if they were all in Bond Street.
“I am English, in fact,” he confirmed. “Although I pride myself in stocking novelties from around the world.”
“How did you come to set up shop in... Iceland?” asked North, appearing, at long last, to notice the sheer oddness of the place.
“Oh, I move about, sir,” assured Mr. Godfrey. “This shop has served customers in twelve countries and two island territories. Diversity wants travel, I’ve found, andso does Mr. Godfrey.” He chuckled. “I’ve had a lovely run in Iceland. Been here about six months, I’d say. I may move on before winter, or I may not. One never knows where one will wind up, do they?”
“No,” muttered Isobel, nosing around the shelves, “one does not.”
Mr. Godfrey was certainly unexpected, but he seemed harmless and very useful. She could provision for every contingency from among these offerings. She lowered the hood of her cloak to take a closer look.
“But how do you transport your inventory?” North asked. A fur rug of some indeterminable animal brushed his foot and he jabbed at it with his boot.
“Oh, this way and that,” said Mr. Godfrey. “Carriage. Coach. Cart. Camel. Caravan. Canoe—”
“Right,” said North, cutting him off. He leaned to Isobel and whispered, “The less we know about this place, the better. Hurry, can you?”
Isobel nodded and crossed to a display of leather goods. Her eyes lit immediately on a worn kid scabbard protruding from beneath droopy foliage of a spidery plant. She reached for it, nudging the leaves to the side to reveal a knife handle made of antler, its finger demarcations worn smooth. Isobel picked it up, tested its weight, and slid the dagger free.
She let out a little gasp. Perfection. The blade was short and wide, her favorite dimension, and keenly sharp. She’d always preferred a fat, stunted blade to long and thin.
Scooping a basket from the floor, she tossed the dagger inside.
Next, she found a length of heavy fabric, striped red and black—probably a former curtain—and stuffed it into the basket.
She came upon a tangle of belts and shook free a wide strip of floppy leather and added it to her pile.
