North nodded and said, “God only knows what you’ve been through, Isobel, andyoulook no worse for the wear. Beautiful and unscathed, that is how you look. I’d wager you’ll remain so, no matter how many times you dunk yourself in the river.”
It was an odd compliment, part acknowledgment of her past, part nod to her courage. Also, he said she was pretty. The shimmers inside her belly tumbled.
She set out in the direction of the trail. “I intend to dunk the clothes, not myself.”
Chapter Sixteen
Isobel led him to the end of the street, and then another, and then civilization seemed to drop off and the wilderness opened up to a vast plain of rough green, cut here and there by jagged rock. In the far distance, thick mountains loomed like the shoulders of giants.
The sky was a color of blue Jason had never seen. The air smelled loamy and verdant, undercut by an acrid wind. When the grass swayed, it made a light hissing noise. He no longer heard the sea.
A trail wound through the tall grass, and Isobel set out, her heavy cloak bending the blades as it dragged behind her.
“I would have paid for these provisions,” he called, following. His boots made a crunching noise on the black silt of the trail, and he looked around, making certain they were alone. “I’d never hold you responsible for supplies.”
“The man didn’t accept money,” she called back.
“There is a sum he would’ve accepted, I assure you, given the correct placement of the decimal.”
“Why challenge him? It’s part of the character of the shop.”
“Yes, and that character just robbed you of a necklace that might’ve had sentimental value. Likely it held some tangible value. It looked to be real gold.”
“The compass had no value to me,” she said.
“Youwantedto be rid of it, is that it?”
“Yes,” she said, “I wanted to be rid of it.”
“What did it mean?” he prodded. “The inscription?”
“It meant nothing,” she said. “Meaningless poetic drivel.”
Jason exhaled in frustration. She didn’t want to tell him. Fine. It was his nature to be curious about people—it made him an excellent spy—but it wasn’t his nature to pry family secrets from women who didn’t want to explain. Or at least this hadn’t been his nature before he’d met her.
Not that it mattered; she was impervious to prying. She did as she pleased obviously.
They trudged on another five yards. Jason paused, shrugging from his coat and fashioning it into a crude sack to carry her myriad purchases.
But was it prying, he thought, to sense pain or injustice and to want to know?
Was it prying to strive for greater understanding of her?
Isobel Tinker was like a very bright, very warm thing that he—
That hewanted.
There were no other words. He wanted every part.
Alarmingly, and perhaps for the first time ever, he had no idea how to attract or sustain her. Learning her history seemed as useful as anything else. If he meant to travel to the moon, he would need a map.
He glanced around him, acknowledging the beauty of the landscape. Iceland was spectacular, he’d give it that. Untamed and dramatic. They’d progressed through afield of tall grass, but the vegetation had given way to rocks. Lichen edged out the grass, glazing every stone with green.
“What did it say?” he asked, trying again. “The inscription on the compass?” If she could not tellhim, perhaps she could tell the landscape. The vast wildness would swallow it up.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“You do remember.”
