When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

In hindsight, Jason could not say why he’d revealed the details of his grief and his work and his . . . sheep.

Informants were often more forthcoming if he gave a little of his own self to the proceedings, but that wasn’t what had happened.

He wasn’t manipulating her; he was talking to her. He’d wanted to tell her. She would not contradict him or smother him. He’d guessed this, and it had been true.

He was intuitive—it was what made him an excellent spy—but what was the value of intuition if he’d rambled on about himself and learned nothing about Iceland?

Who was the excellent spy now? Isobel Tinker knew far more about him than he knew about her.

And she hadn’t even agreed to the bribe.

He cleared his throat and gave the pouch of money another rattle. “Your clerk told me you mean to buy the travel shop from Hooke. Is this true?”

“Ha.” She let out a humorless laugh. “That’s unlikely now that I’m meant to marry him or get out. Anyway, fifty pounds would not be enough. But it will allow me the freedom to take some time exploring what I will do next.”

Jason nodded, watching her. Who are you? he wondered. What of your pain has been dismissed or diminished?

She caught him staring and said lightly, “Stay away from me, Your Grace.”

“I’m standing ten feet from you,” he said. “I’m looking at the birdbath.”

She’d said it like she was warding off a piece of rich chocolate cake. Or a third glass of wine. A warning to herself.

“No. You’re telling me your life. You’re . . . looking at me.”

“Have you noticed that you reply ‘no’ to everything I ask, whether you mean it or not?”

“If you knew my history with men like yourself, you would understand that ‘no’ is always the correct answer.”

“ ‘Men like myself’?” he asked.

“Never you mind,” she said. “Let us talk about pirates. A safer topic.”

She leaned back on her hands and looked up. She studied the night sky as if it might help form the words.

She was so very pretty, he thought—small and purposeful and luminous.

Let’s not, he wanted to say. Let us return to the topic of “men like you . . .”

But of course he mustn’t. He’d come for the pirates. Which was fine.

He would be keenly interested in anything she had to say, so long as she was talking to him, and looking the way she looked.

“Right, so the pirates in Iceland . . .” she began.

The litany of details that followed—names of specific pirates and their ships, the location of glacial ice caves, Icelandic allies—came out in a long, steady stream.

Jason had thought he would listen, soak it all in, understand her atmospheric, cultural insights—but no. It was too much to soak. She spouted detailed facts and directions, so he scrambled for his notebook.

The details came out in low, contemplative tones, the voice of someone giving careful instructions on how to get from here to there. Jason scribbled until the graphite was a nub.

“They’re not ‘Nordic,’ as you first mentioned,” she was saying. “They hail from all over. France. Portugal. Ireland, even. The leader is actually a Frenchman.”

She went on. “For whatever reason, they cease their pillaging and plundering elsewhere during summers and retreat to Iceland. The glacier caves conceal their ships and allow them to train and make repairs. They are usually idle in the summers, only raiding foreign vessels to replenish provisions and stave off boredom.”

She made expressive gestures as she spoke, her tight green gloves slicing and spinning the air in the shape of her story.

“They are tolerated by the locals, but only because one of the farming families, the Skallagrímurs, harbors them.”

He repeated the family name phonetically. “Will you spell it?”

She chuckled and rattled off the spelling. “I believe that’s correct. A niece in the family married one of the pirate leaders. This union afforded an alliance which serves both sides.”

He asked her to explain what could be mutually beneficial among pirates and Icelandic farmers. Her answer, just as the others, was well considered, full of detail, and made perfect sense. She was like a book he’d plucked at random from a shelf. He could have learned anything or nothing at all; instead, she was a trove of information.

“The pirates police the coasts to keep the farms’ common laborers from fishing,” Isobel was saying.

“Prevent them from fishing?” asked Jason. “It’s an island.”

“Quite so,” she said, “but if the commoners could make their livings as fishermen, they would not be available or willing to work the fields. So the pirates suppress any upstart fishermen. And the farmers keep the Danish Navy off the pirates. It has been my observation that, no matter where you go, the people in charge will invoke any means necessary to remain in charge.”

“Hmm,” Jason mused. He left his bench and settled beside her. He took more notes.

He would confirm this—about the pirates and this Skallagrímur family. He would confirm all of it. He’d also have to confirm her identity and history. She was his favorite type of informant, but too much was at stake for her to guess at these details. If she would not tell him how she’d acquired this expertise, he’d poke around until he learned it himself. The uncle who pulled so many strings to get her home, perhaps.

He looked up. “So, if the job of the pirates is to control local fishing, why capture English merchants and hold them hostage? They are hardly local fishermen.”

Isobel shrugged. “This, I cannot say. Ransom money? Have they made any demands?”

“They have actually,” said Jason. “But it’s not a lot. It wouldn’t be enough, to say, retire from pirating and buy a house in the fjords.”

Isobel chuckled. “Perhaps your cousin and his friends did not offend the pirates, but the pirates’ sponsors, the Skallagrímurs?”

“Just to be clear, my cousin has simply gone along. He’s not clever enough to succeed as a smuggler. He was duped into joining this ill-advised endeavor. Poor Reggie, this is not the first time.”

“So it’s not the members of your family you resent, simply the title? Or is it the sheep?”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, looking up from his notes.

Isobel looked startled. “Forgive me, of course we weren’t speaking of—”

“No, I am happy to discuss my family,” he amended. “And my sheep, the dodgy little bastards.”

“It was intrusive of me to—”

“I am fond of my family. I’ve three sisters and a mother who are very dear to me. Various aunts and uncles. Cousins, naturally. Reggie is the son of my mother’s brother—so the nonducal side, but we were brought up in close relation with the maternal branch of the family. I spent summers at the seaside in Lincolnshire.

“Reggie is one of those men who means well but does not . . . er, think things through. My father and two brothers lost patience for him years ago, but I’ve a history of rescuing him from scrapes. A soft spot, you might say.”

“This is the first time you’ve rescued him from pirate captivity, I assume?” she asked.

“Indeed. If I wasn’t so fond of him, I’d alert the Royal Navy and let them sort it out. But he is a gentle soul . . . well-meaning . . . I cannot allow him to be the source of an international incident. Not to mention whatever misery he’s enduring at the hands of the pirates. Their correspondence with my uncle is threatening but I don’t think they are cutting off body parts and feeding them to sharks. Yet.”

“That sounds accurate,” Isobel said, thinking for a moment. “Honestly, the pirates could have simply been bored. They are, after all, pirates. It’s a dying art, and someone must uphold the traditions.”

Jason snorted and tapped the notebook against his knee. He was just about to ask her about the size and speed of the pirates’ ship when they heard footsteps on the path in front of them.

Jason went still and held up a hand. “Shhh.”

Isobel curled her shoulders and pulled up the hood of her cloak.

Jason listened again. The footsteps grew closer. He leaned behind her on the bench, trying to see through the vegetation. Clouds obscured the moon, draping the path in shadows. He eased lower still. The clouds slid eastward and—

“It’s the night watchman,” he whispered.

“Oh God. That will be Matthews.” Her voice was tremulous, barely audible. “I cannot be seen. Matthews is a neighborhood friend. He goes out of his way to be generous and thoughtful. I cannot—He mustn’t see me. My respectability depends on me not being discovered in dark parks with strange men.”

She shrank deeper into her cloak and slid to the darkest end of the bench.

The footsteps grew closer. The watchman whistled a tune and then stopped. Jason heard the strike of a match. The smell of burning tobacco filled the air.

The footsteps and whistling resumed.

Isobel spoke just below a whisper. “I must hide, or run, or . . . hide. I cannot—”

“No, no, no,” Jason breathed slowly. “Do not move. Movement will only draw his eye.”

From outside the alcove, a nervous voice called out, “Who’s there?”

Jason swore in his head. Isobel made a barely audible sound of distress, a heart-wrenching half whine, half hiss.

Another curse. Jason whispered to her, “Would you allow me to pretend to kiss you?”

Isobel Tinker stared at him from deep within her hood.

“It’s an old trick,” he whispered, “but it can work if you keep your face averted.” He held his breath, waiting for her answer. He hadn’t lied; it was an old trick, reliable too. It also happened to be his most fervent wish at the moment.

Still, she could say no. She could slap him. She could call for the watchman and claim abduction. He put his odds at fifty-fifty.

Do it, she mouthed. Hurry. Do it, do it, do it.

Right, Jason thought. He bit the notebook and pencil in his mouth to free his hand and reached for her.

In one, cloak-fluttering movement, he scooped up Isobel Tinker and plunked her into his lap. She settled on his thighs in a puff of green skirts and emerald cloak. She weighed almost nothing. She stared over the notebook into his face, her blue eyes huge.

He removed the notebook from his mouth and whispered, “Sorry.” He settled his hands on her waist.

“I say, who’s there?” the night watchman called again.

Isobel’s eyes bored into his.

Jason mouthed, We needn’t really—

She kissed him.

One moment she was staring at him as if he’d grown horns, the next her mouth was on his.

It was not the faux effort he’d meant to offer. It was her head tilted just so, her mouth fitting perfectly against his, partly open; it was her tongue swiping once, twice, against his bottom lip. And just like that, he was plunged into a pool of sensation. The smell of her enveloped him, warm and herbal; the feel of her slight body, teetering on his thighs; her soft lips, firm and insistent.

Jason’s consciousness departed the leafy square and he floated somewhere above them. Music swelled in his head and lights popped behind his eyes.

There were kisses, he thought vaguely, and then there was this.

Isobel Tinker, he realized, knew how to kiss. And she kissed exceptionally well. There was no shyness, no coquettishness, no ploy for him to draw her out. She fastened her lips to his and feasted.

He had the random thought that Drummond Hooke would be completely out of his depth with this woman. Jason himself, kissing her as if his life depended upon it, strove to keep up. It was exhilarating and sensual and all-consuming. It was quite possibly the best kiss of his life, and he’d enjoyed some rather exceptional kisses.

Only by some miracle did he remember the bloody night watchman. Blinking his eyes, he squinted into the distance. The watchman stood at the mouth of the alcove, lifting a creaking lantern.

Jason closed her in his arms, scooping her closer. He slid a hand up her spine to cup the back of her head. With the slightest pressure, not breaking the kiss, he tucked her face against his cheek. She allowed it, sliding her knees on either side of him, fitting herself astride. She gripped his biceps as if she might be ripped from his arms.

His body responded, a reaction that would be impossible to miss, and Jason swore in his head and pulled his face away, sucking in air.

To the watchman he called, “Give us a minute?” His voice was gruff. He coughed. Isobel tensed, veritably vibrating beneath his touch. He held her tight against him.

“Square closes at sunset, sir,” ventured the watchman. He took a step closer. Isobel burrowed deeper.

“Right, right, sunset,” Jason said, imbuing his voice with posh authority. “I’ll—My friend and I’ll move on. Sorry to be a nuisance. Just a bit of fun . . . summer moon, et cetera.”

The watchman took another step and Jason had the momentary fear that he would not be put off. Jason raised his chin, allowing the lantern to illuminate his face. The watchman would not know him—they’d not be so lucky in that—but he would recognize the expensive coat and boots; he’d see the cut of Jason’s hair, his aristocratic nose, the lazy expression. Everything about him said, I do as I please.

“Very good, sir,” the watchman finally said, falling back. “See that you do. The neighbors don’t take kindly to cavorting in the park after-hours.”

“Good for them,” said Jason on a cough. “We’ll need a moment to, ah, set ourselves to rights. If you’ll indulge us.”

“Yes, sir,” said the watchman, but he seemed disinclined to go. Jason wondered how long Isobel could remain motionless on his lap. Could she breathe? Had he crushed her? She was lodged so very tightly against his erection that Jason’s own mobility would be in question.

“Here’s something for the disturbance,” Jason said, releasing Isobel long enough to fish a coin from his pocket. He tossed it to the watchman with a good-natured flip. As the watchman struggled to catch the coin, Jason ducked his head against Isobel’s neck and breathed deeply. A silent dismissal.

Jason intended to hold that pose, but Isobel shivered. The pulse in her throat raced beneath his lips. She squirmed on top of him, a slow, small, grinding motion. She squeezed her fingers on his biceps.

And just like that, Jason forgot about the watchman and the lantern and even bloody Iceland and he found her mouth again. One more kiss, a final peck, to make it look rea—

Isobel pounced. Her lips opened immediately; her tongue flicked against his bottom lip. He slanted his head and answered. Their tongues met, and he was levitated into another hallelujah moment.

She canted her head to the right, following the ebb of the kiss. Jason redirected, curling them left, keeping her face averted.

He glanced up, checking the clearing, the path, the bushes. The watchman was gone.

Gone, he thought, but he couldn’t say the words. He might never speak again. He might only—

Isobel Tinker kissed him like a drowning woman in search of breath, and he returned the kiss as if he wanted to save her life. While she feasted with her lips, her hands roamed his body. Gloved fingers dug deep, moving from his shoulders, down his chest, beneath the lapels of his greatcoat. His only thought was, Oh God, yes, that, that, that.

His mind homed to the sensation of her small hands, boldly kneading his pectorals, walking down his ribs, twining beneath his arms. She locked him to her in a desperate embrace. Her thighs squeezed his flanks, squirming her urgently closer.

Jason palmed her hips and lifted her, ever so slightly, resettling her closer still. She moaned against his mouth.

He wondered how long it would take the watchman to make another circuit. Thinking was difficult. Remaining upright was difficult. Kissing her was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

How could he end this kiss? Would it be ungentlemanly to pull away? Or was it ungentlemanly to carry on?

The faint sound of whistling on the opposite side of the park pierced the haze. The watchman doing as requested, giving them time.

“Miss Tinker,” Jason panted softly, pulling back. He rested his forehead against her temple. “Isobel.”

She ducked her head, breathing hard. She nodded. She knew.

For a long, charged moment, they sat on the bench, bodies throbbing, hearts racing. They sucked air in small pants.

Jason tried to listen for the watchman’s tune, but he heard only her. She swallowed hard. Her gown rustled and her hood fell back. He saw her face in the moonlight, flushed skin and bright eyes. She would not look at him.

“Here,” he said, reaching for her waist, “let me steady you. Can you stand?”

She nodded and slid from his lap. She turned away, pulling from his fingers.

“Keep to the shadows,” he whispered, adjusting his coat and pushing from the bench. He was painfully aroused.

She shuffled to the darkest corner of the alcove, facing the bushes. Jason recovered his hat and stood in the path to block her from view. She patted and smoothed and tucked. She was silent except for her breathing.

If she’d been a green girl, if the kiss had taken her by surprise and shocked her, he would have said something, taken care to assure her.

If she’d been appalled and offended, he would’ve apologized.

But she’d been neither, and he didn’t know what the hell to do.

“I—ah,” he began, peeking through the dense bush for the location of the watchman.

“No discussion is necessary,” she said briskly. Her tone was enigmatic.

“Right,” he said, plunking his hat on his head.

“How will I get home without being seen?” she asked.

“Do you know the watchman’s route?”

She was silent, thinking. Finally, she said, “When I see him, he’s usually walking up Lumley Street from Oxford.”

“Then we’ll take the same route and be careful to stay well ahead of him. Here in the park, we’ll pick our way through the vegetation and keep under the cover of trees.”

“Yes. Good,” she said. “I will follow you.” But she’d already identified the thickest, leafiest way, and was drifting in that direction.

Jason cleared his throat. “Miss Tinker?”

“Please,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

“I—”

“I cannot bear to examine it. I cannot.”

“Right.”

He stepped around her, inching into a thicket of flowering bushes. He tried again. “Thank you for everything you’ve divulged tonight. About the pirates.”

He held out his hand and she took it. He pulled her along. He whispered, “I might require another conversation, to follow up—”

“Do not approach me again,” she said with finality. “Please. If you have any respect for me—which I would understand how you might not—but if you have any gratitude for the information I’ve given you, do not seek me out again.”

“My respect for you is—”

“Do not. Your Grace. Please.” Her voice cracked.

Was she crying? He glanced back. Her face was buried in the hood and their path took them through a tunnel of darkness. He saw nothing but the outline of her small body.

He squeezed her hand, an unplanned, instinctive gesture, and said nothing more.

She held more tightly but remained silent, allowing him to pull her along.