I’ve actually done it.
They need only drink, and I need only wait.
The next half hour passed in flashes of distorted time.
She fabricated the location of Peter Boyd by recounting one of her Spanish holiday itineraries, stop by stop. The words came out quickly and she gestured like a demented uncle making finger shadows for children.
Tankards hit tabletops with a heavyclunk.
Pirates belched and slurped.
Someone sang a little sea chantey in Italian.
She spoke about Peter and his prized collection of stolen timepieces.
She described how Peter would, without a doubt,come for her. Doucette need only dangle her like bait, she said. The pirate captain listened but said nothing. Time seemed to stop.
She was just about to begin with local gossip when an old pirate across the room stood up, made a gagging sound, and then collapsed on the floor.
“Oh dear,” said Isobel, leaping up.
She put her hand on the hilt of the dagger. Her speeding heart raced so fast she couldn’t distinguish the beats.
One minute later, another pirate made gurgling sounds and staggered to the slop bucket in the corner.
A minute after that, another slumped against his table. Another doubled over.
Isobel spun around to check Doucette, and he was leaning back in his chair, his head facing the ceiling, eyes closed and mouth open.
That was her cue. She slid the dagger from inside her vest and backed herself against the bar. Whispering a warning to the barkeep, she inched a wide circle around the room, keeping her back to the wall. She kept the knife drawn but at her side. All around her, the room became a morass of collapsing, gasping pirates.
Five steps from the door, she bolted, charging past an unaffected pirate. Isobel saw him in time to fake left but darted right.
His reflexes were good, and he caught her by the arm. Isobel tried to break free but his hold was punishing.He reached for her neck with his other hand. Lashing out, Isobel transferred the dagger to her free hand and buried the blade in his bicep. He shouted in pain and released her. She scampered away, but a second pirate stepped up to block the door.
“No, you don’t,” he said in English accented with an Irish lilt.
“Move,” she demanded.
He swiped for her with a meaty hand, and she leapt, barely evading him. He kept coming and she scrambled back. She tripped over the body of a pirate and fell.
The pirate on the ground was ill, but not too ill to reach for her ankle. She kicked him with the heel of her boot and he rolled in pain.
Meanwhile, the Irish pirate was still coming, his eyes locked on her dagger. He was large and seemingly unaffected by the poison; it would take no effort for him to overpower her. She had time to scramble to her feet or throw the dagger but not to do both.
Without hesitation, Isobel flung the dagger in the direction of his shoulder. The blade sliced through the air and caught him at the top of the arm. He roared in pain, struggling to pull out the knife. Isobel leapt up and darted to the door, overturning chairs and scattering tankards as she went.
When she reached the door, she flung it open without stopping to see who was in pursuit. The sky outside was a gray-lavender. Dusk fell, bringing with it a foggy sort of vapor. She darted into the mist and slammed the door behind her. Shoving her shoulder against the door, she unlooped the rope at her belt and bound the door handle to an iron torch claw on the wall. It was a feeble obstacle, but it would buy her time.
She was giving the rope a final tug when she felt the door shudder with the weight of a pirate on the other side. Isobel yanked the knot once more and bolted.
The plan had been to follow the river in the direction of the sea. It would be the route the pirates would take back to their ship, and the very last direction they would expect a fleeing woman to run. She ran low, darting from bolder to bolder, keeping fifty yards from the water in case they managed to gain their boats.
For five minutes, she ran full out, falling twice, recovering, running again. The air was cold and acrid, and she drank it in. She loosened the vest and then stripped it off. The belt and fabric skirt came next. Only the buckskin, the linen shirt, and her boots remained.
Her lungs had just begun to protest when she saw him—North, thundering over the next rise on his horse, pulling a spirited mare on a lead behind him. Isobel said a silent prayer and stepped away from the rock to wave a hand.
North galloped up, yanking on his rein. Isobel glanced at him in the dim light, a look of triumph and relief and love, and then held up her hands to the dancing mare. North tightened the lead and she got close enough to put a foot in the stirrup. She calmed the horse with a caress to her neck and soothing words. When North dropped the lead, the animal spun, but Isobel was already vaulting into the saddle.
