When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Doucette came, as Isobel had known he would.

He was standing outside the little tavern, a phalanx of pirates flanking him, a grimace on his bearded face.

Isobel’s vision of the scene was obscured. They’d positioned her in the wagon to increase suspense and suggest docility and defeat. She kept her head bowed. When she could steal a glance, she saw that Phillipe Doucette looked much as he had seven years ago. Likewise, his pirate crew seemed largely unchanged. Their clothes were disheveled and mismatched, everything from ratty evening attire, to far-flung military uniforms, to kaftans and turbans. Long hair and beards prevailed, interspersed with a few shaved heads. There were no women, including no sign of Doucette’s Icelandic wife. To a man, they looked highly suspicious and anxious to fight.

Isobel took a deep breath, bracing herself. Since the kiss in the rowboat, North had, thankfully, set aside his hesitation and hand-wringing and regarded her with a professional detachment. He would deliver the performance of a lifetime, of this she had no doubt. He would seem overstuffed and out of his depth while Shaw and the other men would appear twitchy and uncertain. The pirates must be made to feel at ease. Isobel, when she was revealed, must come off as outraged and defiant. She would be flashy and difficult to control, a very exclusive prize they were lucky to have won.

The more appealing Isobel could look, the more the pirates would be ready to offload the captives, who had, no doubt, been a hassle to keep alive and held very little appeal.

After Isobel scouted the ragtag array of pirates, she took in the surroundings. Their pirate informant, Donatello Beddloe, had settled nicely into his role as “adviser.” They’d offered him thirty pounds and the promise of a lawyer back in Wales for an unnamed legal battle. After that, he’d sung like a bird. The tavern on the River Pjorsa had been his idea.

North and Declan Shaw had scouted the area and briefed Isobel on what to expect. Casting furtive glances, she saw the tavern, a stone structure half-buried in the sloped side of the riverbank, the rocky area that lined the river, the open plain inland, and, in the misty distance, the lip of the cliffs that dropped off into the sea. It was like most places in Iceland, desolate and untamed.

The pirates numbered eight or nine, but there would be more, she knew.

North’s great hope was that the pirates would bring no horses. The river had been strategic for this reason. Pirates always traveled by boat when possible.

At the moment, North was the only mounted rider in their party, not including the four horses that pulled the cart. This allowed him to appear vulnerable and plodding, even while a band of mounted horses had been secretly stabled at a missionary outpost nearby.

The amount of time Isobel must remain with the pirates depended primarily on the condition of the captives. If they appeared well enough to tolerate a bouncing wagon speeding away at a fast clip, she could begin trying to escape very soon, an hour at most.

If, however, the captives were in poor health, if the cart was forced to trundle away without jostling or jolting, Isobel would need to occupy the pirates longer.

Assessing the condition of the captives had actually been her first priority, but so far she’d seen only pirates. She wanted to glance at North, but that would be out of character. Instead, she kept her head bowed and listened.

“Captain Phillipe Doucette,” North called, speaking in tight, formal English, the English of aristocrats from a generation ago.

“I am the Duke of Northumberland. I’ve come to recover my cousin Reginald Pelham and merchants from the town of Grimsby in Lincolnshire, England.”

“So you have,” said Doucette, his English thickly accented. “Show me the girl.”

“You can see her there, bound inside the cart,” said North touchily. “And there she will remain until I see my cousin.”

“How did you come into possession of this girl?” asked Doucette.

“The same way you came to be in possession of these men. I captured her.”

“Where?”

“Greece.”

“But why?”

“Why capture a group of merchantmen from Lincolnshire?” North shot back.

“Because I hate the English. Now say your excuse.”

“I made a study of what you might value instead of the exorbitant five hundred pound ransom, and discovered that she was an answer. I am a negotiator at heart, you might say. I’m sorry I could not deliver one Mr. Peter Boyd, but I ran out of time.”

“Did you see him? Boyd?” blustered Doucette.

When Isobel heard this, she knew they had him. His voice burned with vengeance. His open desire for Peter betrayed any useful strategy or bargaining. He would take her. They were very close.

Swallowing hard, Isobel checked the dagger and the concealed apple seeds with her bound hands. He’d tied her in such a way that she looked constrained but could, in fact, free herself at any moment. That moment had not yet come. Close, but not yet.

“Bring me the girl,” Jason ordered Declan Shaw. He dismounted from his horse and squared off with the pirate captain.

Phillipe Doucette was like any pirate Jason had ever met, overconfident and undergroomed. He wasn’t fond of pirates on a good day. As if navigating oceans and skirting hurricanes wasn’t enough, pirates forced honest sailors to dodge cannon fire too. He viewed pirates as petty thieves who stole everything they possessed. Add the abduction of his cousin and their voracious interest in Isobel, and Phillipe Doucette ranked very low on Jason’s list of people he tolerated.

But now he must pretend not to care—not about piracy or about Isobel. He must pretend to have eyes only for Reggie.

“Show me the Englishmen,” North said, “or the girl remains in my possession.”

“Doucette!” called a female voice from behind him.

North ground his teeth. They’d not rehearsed this bit, line for line, but he knew Isobel intended something like shock and awe.

“Captain Doucette!” she called again.

The pirate stepped around to see Shaw lifting Isobel from the cart, her hands bound in front of her.

“Get off of me, you oaf!” she yelled at Shaw.

Very slowly, North turned to see. His regard for her was meant to be irritation and disgust. It was the most challenging duplicity of his career.

Shaw dragged Isobel forward by the wrists. She staggered, blond hair tossing, skirts fanning out. When they reached Jason, he twisted his expression into extreme distaste and fastened his hand around her arm. He held her out from his body, as if her nearness offended him. She raised herself up to her full five-foot-two-inch height.

In rapid-fire French, the accent so thick Jason struggled to follow, she cried out, “I can give you Peter, Doucette. I know where he is. And when he discovers that this Coward Aristocrat . . .” she sneered and pointed at Jason, “. . . has bound me like chattel and traded me like a mare, Peter will come for me. You know he will. I’ll help you. I’ll do anything if you’ll get me away from these ham-handed Englishmen!”

Doucette’s hard eyes had gone wide, taking in the sight of her. He stepped up and took Isobel by the chin to examine her face. She glared at him, her eyes flashing, and Jason held his breath. She was safer when Jason appeared not to care.

“Never mind the ravings of the girl,” North warned, pulling Isobel from the pirate’s hold. “She’s not yours until I have the Englishmen.”

Doucette glared at North, examined Isobel again, and then shouted something in a language that was neither French nor English. A pirate jerked open the tavern door and seven men in chains were prodded into the sunlight, staggering, squinting, holding on to each other for support.

Jason almost forgot his panic for Isobel. The men looked wretched, beaten and starving. He searched the bruised, haggard faces for his cousin.

How many times had he retrieved Reggie from gaming hells, brothels, and gentlemen’s clubs of dubious repute? Reggie was frequently drunk or recovering from a fight or both, and he always needed money. This was so much worse.

It was Reggie who spotted him first.

“Jason?” called a stooped man with matted hair. “Jason Beckett? Your Grace?”

Jason followed the sound and finally distinguished Reggie from the other haggard men. His cousin endeavored to wave but the chains prevented it. He tried to make himself taller but appeared too feeble to stand upright. His yellowish pallor and hollow-eyed expression were corpse-like. He was brittle-thin, unwashed, with a bloody nose and open sores on his face and neck.

Panic spiked through Jason like a lance. He’d gotten Reggie, or rather he’d gotten some half-alive version of Reggie, only to deliver Isobel to the men responsible for this?

She must have sensed his hesitation, because she pulled her arm from his grasp and skittered from him.

Shaw stepped up, but she pointed a finger and said, “Stay back, all of you, or I swear I will fight you to the death.” She looked wild and beautiful and deadly serious.

Shaw took a step back.

“Quiet,” Jason said flippantly, dismissing her.

To the pirate Jason said, “These men have been starved and beaten, Doucette. Is there no honor among thieves?”

Doucette shrugged. “They are weak. Too soft for our way of life. But they are alive.”

“Barely.” To Shaw he said, “Help them into the cart.”

“Give me the girl,” said Doucette.

The next words were the most difficult Jason would ever say. “Take her. She will walk to you as the Englishmen walk to my men.”

Jason nodded to Declan Shaw and the large man gave her a shove. Isobel affected a perfect stumble, righted herself, and then walked, head high, to the pirate captain.

A pirate unlocked the long chain confining the merchants and they trudged in the direction of the cart.

“Jason, you’ve come!” Reggie rasped, his voice a prayer. “You’ve come, you’ve come. Thank God. I said that you would come. But who is the woman?”

Reggie disentangled from the group to watch Phillipe Doucette snatch Isobel’s arm and jerk her to his side.

“No, Jason, you mustn’t allow this,” Reggie called weakly. “A woman has no place among these barbarians. It’s no good, Jason—”

“Reggie, shut up,” 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.