“No, Jason, you mustn’t allow this,” Reggie called weakly. “A woman has no place among these barbarians. It’s no good, Jason—”
“Reggie, shutup,” ground out Jason.
“But she’ll be—”
“I said shut it, Reggie,” growled Jason.
Shaw stepped up to push Reggie back to the group. His grumbling continued and he craned around to catch sight of Isobel. The wagon was small but sturdy and the other merchants had begun to comprehend what was happening. They heard the King’s English, saw English faces, and hustled into the wagon, dragging Reggie along with them.
“Our business is done,” proclaimed Jason, turning to remount his horse. “Take her.”
“Yes, go,” spat Doucette. “Hopefully these men will spread the word to other ambitious exporters. Keep out of Iceland. All smuggling will be managed by the Skallagrímur family and Phillipe Doucette.”
“The devil take the lot of you,” grumbled Jason. He swung into the saddle and gave a nod to Shaw. The wagon began a slow turn in the direction of Stokkseyri. Shaw’s team took up positions flanking it, marching in formation.
Reggie was talking—Reggie was always talking—calling to him, explaining to his fellow merchants that his cousin was a duke and a foreign agent. “I can’t believe he’s traded that girl to rescue us,” he marveled.
Jason ignored him, watching the assembled pirates and the little tavern on the horizon. His last glance was to Isobel. She glared back with believable contempt. They’d planned for this last moment. If he touched his hat, it meant she could begin trying to escape almost immediately. If he made no gesture, she should hold off for as long as possible—at least an hour—so the wagonload of injured Englishmen could make more progress.
The merchants in the cart looked as if they’d been collectively kicked in the teeth, but Jason didn’t care. He wouldn’t leave her in the hands of these criminals for a second longer than necessary. He would be back for her as soon as the wagon was out of sight and the pirates were distracted.
He glanced at her, touched his hand to his hat, and then kicked the horse into a spin and cantered away.
Chapter Twenty
North idled in the distance, his impatient horse stamping and throwing its mane, while the wagon with his cousin trundled ahead. When the procession of men and cart made fifty yards, the duke spun the animal and cantered ahead. He did not look back.
Isobel watched him disappear onto the horizon, savoring the sight of him, and buying time. Three main thoughts jostled around in her head.
First, the pirates were not, in fact, the same as they had been. They were harder, leaner, more desperate. It appeared as if they’d not only starved the English merchants, but beaten them as well.
Second, she would need to win over Doucette. If he was an ally, they all became allies.
Third, the Duke of Northumberland had faith in her abilities. He would not have left her if he did not.
She was determined to prove him correct.
If Doucette had allowed it, she would have watched North until he was a tiny speck on the horizon, but the pirate captain was already dragging her around the side of the tavern.
“To the boats!” he bellowed.
The boats?Isobel felt a jolt of panic. She looked around.The pirate crew was lurching to comply. Doucette’s face was set with a sort of greedy determination; he looked as if he intended to sail to Peter Boyd’s unknown location this very night. But they couldn’t go now, not before they’d taken refreshment at the tavern. They were meant to be exhausted from rowing upriver. And thirsty. Very thirsty.
Isobel dug in her heels. “Stop, Captain, if you please!” she demanded in French. “I need food and drink.”
She employed her most upper-class French accent and used tenses consistent with an order. The pirate paused a fraction of a second.
Isobel swallowed and doubled down. “The English duke has starved me,andbeaten me,andhumiliated me. He and his men were crude and brutish. I’ve never been so grateful for your recovery of me.”
“There is food on the ship,” he said, moving again, dragging her along.
“I will not make the ship if I do not eat. I’ll faint. I’ll faint and have to be carried. I am strong but I require food, just like anyone.” She pulled against his hold, straining her entire body toward the tavern door.
Doucette hovered between the river and the building, his expression torn. This was the moment of truth. He’d agreed to release the Englishmen because he gainedherinstead. Extraneous, irritating captives for one highly prized ally. She was trying to shift his view, make him believe he’drescuedher.
“The tavern will haverúgbrauð,” she insisted. “And butter. Oh God, my kingdom for a dab of butter!”
The bread she’d named, a traditional Icelandic dark rye, was meant to prick Doucette’s nostalgia and remind him that, for a time, Isobel had been a local.
