The Tide Watchers (26 page)

Sensing the anguish beneath the flippant attitude, Duncan closed his mouth.

“That's it, lad. You're wasting perfectly good sarcasm on me.” Stewart was laughing again. They turned a corner, and there was a tiny farmhouse, tumbling into ruin.

Stewart led them into the stable. A cart waited with a donkey in its stall. Stewart laid the boy on the hay and covered him with a rough horse blanket. Duncan hitched the donkey to the cart. Stewart pulled off his cloak and threw it over the boy. Beneath that cloak, he wore a mud-splattered farmer's outfit that wouldn't cause comment. “There's a retired doctor ten miles east.”

Duncan had had a plan ready to go, but muttered, “Well done.”

“Aye, I know you resent it, lad, but we're both trained to have that kind of forethought.” Stewart grinned at him, so absurdly like him, angular, dark with slashing eyebrows and a hawklike nose. “Don't scowl at me, Duncan. It isn't my fault we all take after our father.”

My father, he's always throwing my damned traitor Jacobite father in my face!

He didn't even remember making a fist, but his knuckles hurt, and a gush of blood erupted from Stewart's nose, joining the blood from Símon's wound. Stewart staggered back with the blow dealt him, but he kept grinning.

Horrified by what he'd done, Duncan muttered, “Put your head back.”

Stewart shook his head, leaving it hanging forward. “It's best to let the blood flow, Granddad says. He ought to know, the amount of fights he's been in. Aye, you're a Black Stewart and no mistake. We're all firebrands.”

“I never lose my temper,” Duncan growled.

Stewart's brows lifted in that ghastly, bloodied face. “That's because you've not yet been to a family dinner. There's always a punch-up going on somewhere. There're real shenanigans. You must come sometime, let a bit of that hot blood out. You'll have the time of your life.”

Fighting an insane urge to laugh, Duncan pulled his cloak tight around himself. “You're wasting your attempts at humor on me. Take the boy and get out of here.”

Stewart glanced at Símon and stilled. “All I can do now is to bury him. I'm sorry, lad.”

Duncan saw the boy's face and bowed his head. “Do you have a sheet? He deserves to be buried at sea with full honors. It's what he would want.”

Stewart nodded. “He'll be ready for you by full dark.”

“Thank you.” Unable to bear looking at the boy, Duncan headed for the lane that locals had begun to call rue Laboratoire and the tent he erected every night, where he could see her moving about and know she was safe.

Safe for how long? She's nineteen . . . nineteen.

THE SUN HAD LONG
since set by the time Duncan was inside his tent. After lighting the tiny lantern, just enough to read by, he pulled out the message from Boulogne that Alec had intercepted. The moment he read the first three code words, he knew who'd sent it. “Good God,” he groaned. This had all the makings of a disaster, with no way for him to stop it—just as he couldn't change Lisbeth's mission. With only weeks until Boney's arrival, he couldn't install another woman without Fulton knowing she was a plant.

If only she knew the game better! If she was worldly wise like other female agents, or at least more experienced; if those damned scars didn't make her so delicate, so haunting. If only she didn't treat him as a gentleman, when he was a bastard guttersnipe who was only ever going to betray her. Then he could bear it all better.

Sitting cross-legged on the camp blanket, by the uncertain light of a turned-down lantern, he scribbled another message to Eddie. This one was even less formal than the last.

For God's sake, your daughter will become Fulton's mistress any time now. One word from you, and I'll send her home. The choice is yours.

But he already knew the outcome. Eddie would only throw the burden back upon Duncan by his silence, and blame him for the consequences. The dilemma, and Lisbeth's ruin, or even her death, would be his to bear.

Lisbeth. Símon. Peebles. Mark.
How many of his people would die or be ruined for life before this was over?

Duncan buried his face in his hands.

Ambleteuse, France

September 27, 1802

L
ISBETH AND FULTON ATE
a simple supper of stew and bread in the kitchen, by the fire.

“I hope the meal is acceptable, m'sieur?”

“Your meals are always delicious, Elise.”

He was watching her again. For three evenings now, he combed his hair before coming down to supper, put a clean shirt on, and laid aside his spectacles. He looked younger, more eager, more focused on her. Handsome, if one liked the serious, studious type of man.

“I am glad you like it, m'sieur.” She squirmed at her tone, so stilted and formal. For three days she hadn't dared to smile or wear her prettier dresses, and she couldn't make the slightest feminine movement lest he take it as provocation.

What could she say, when every normal word seemed fraught with danger?

It was as if he heard her thoughts. “Won't you call me Robert?” he asked plaintively yet again, always watching her, avid for any hint of change. He sighed when she dabbed at the stew with the ends of her bread as if she was starving, her gaze fixed on her plate.

He helped her clear the dishes after. “I was thinking of a new additive to the steel for the coil. Perhaps tonight we could work on the—”

She bit her lip. “M'sieur, I've been awake since before sunrise, and my shoulder's aching. Would you mind if I . . .” Not knowing how to put it, she floundered into silence.

The hope blazing on his face turned to anxious regret. “Oh,
certainly, my dear girl. I've worked you like a galley slave these past weeks. Go to . . . um. I can . . . work alone . . .”

Her head drooped. She watched her twiddling fingers as if they held the secrets of life. Their unfinished sentences felt like a jagged symphony in her head. So much she couldn't say. So much he wanted from her. So much she needed from him. So much she wanted to run from.

“Elise . . . perhaps it's best if I terminate your employment. I'm far too tempted by you.”

As if flung from an evil dream, there were the words she'd feared. She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing a little rosebud face, blond half curls, and innocent eyes. There wasn't a pore or cell of her that didn't ache for her baby. Not a thought that wasn't terrified of Edmond becoming like his father. She couldn't think, could barely breathe, but forced words out. “Please . . . Robert, if—you like . . . you may visit my room tonight.” She couldn't look up. Ridiculous temptress couldn't make the offer without becoming greensick, shaking with fear—

“Ah, Elise, my dear girl, you've made me so happy.” She was in his arms. He held her in complete tenderness, and again she fought the tears. He was a good person, kind and brilliant—but when it came to sex, he was no different from any other man.

Or was he? When she didn't speak, gentle fingers tipped up her face. His body grew tense against hers. Unspoken questions filled those kind eyes.

It was always going to come to this. Smile at him. It's not his fault that I despise myself.

Her smile was a stillborn thing, vanishing with its dawn; but he relaxed and leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “You're nervous. That's understandable, my dear. I'll wash the dishes. You go upstairs and—and prepare yourself . . .”

Forcing herself not to bolt, Lisbeth nodded, tried another smile. Its ghost vanished, walking in the dark with her morals and regrets and her self-respect—all the things she missed when she looked into the mirror and saw a stranger with her features. Like grist in the mill,
she'd ground down one principle at a time. Only a vision of a sweet baby face led her on, bull to the slaughter.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and fled the kitchen.

As she climbed the stairs, she refused to listen to her conscience. If she ruined herself, if she must give him to her parents, or one of her brothers, she could at least be glad she'd played her part in saving Edmond from becoming his father's son.

Or, it seemed, his mother's.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER LISBETH
sat at the edge of her bed, waiting for Fulton to enter.

He'd laid the fire for her hours ago. She'd lit it, warming her bare toes and fingers. Yet still she shivered in the pretty, filmy night rail the commander had bought for this purpose.

She'd never worn something so revealing before. Was that why her feet kept twitching?

Her hair was still braided. She couldn't bring herself to loosen it as she'd heard men liked. Surely it was what a whore—a
mistress
—would do?

She looked around. Though this had been her room for more than two weeks, there was no sense of belonging, no sense of home. Was this how all mistresses felt—empty, terrified, wondering if anything their lovers gave was truly theirs, or only on loan until they grew tired of them?

Scratching on the door heralded Fulton's presence. This was it, the moment she came undone; but Edmond had no one else to save him. “Come in.” Her voice sounded brittle.

Fulton entered and closed the door behind him. He was arrayed in a red banyan, tied at the waist with a silken cord. Though his smile was tender, his gaze swept her body in the negligee, and her heart pounded so much she couldn't breathe. She lowered her gaze, but even his feet were naked. Anything unclothed was a threat. She stared at the floor, wishing he'd hurry, get this over with.

The silence grew dark, like the shadows of the fire dancing in the
colder corners of the room, broken only by the soft popping of burning logs. Why didn't he
do
something? Was she supposed to start it? Who started what or took their clothes off?

“You've never done this before, have you?” he asked at last.

She heard the scornful laugh and wondered who else was in the room. It couldn't be her, the woman sent here for this purpose, to seduce him into giving her a boat so she could save her son. She was a woman on the verge of her great success as a spy. “I'm nineteen, monsieur. Until I married fifteen months ago I was at home with my mother.”

She felt him stiffen. “I believe you worked in a tavern?”

“My husband left me to starve.” Her teeth snapped together. She spoke through them. “I served food and drink and cleaned up after closing, monsieur. I worked to pay for my room and to eat. I
never
took a paying customer upstairs.”

“But now I am making you feel like a whore.”

The sad insight shouldn't have startled her, since she'd pushed it in his face. But a flurry of panic flew around inside her like a pack of moths. “I-I'm sorry . . . I . . .”

“Why did you make me this offer?” he asked. “Look at me, Elise, and tell me.”

Her gaze fluttered up. At the sight of him so close to naked, all the warmth drained from her face. She must look like the snow outside, just as white, just as cold. All the words she'd rehearsed the past half hour fled and she floundered, a landed fish waiting to be gutted.

Her fingers twisted around each other until they ached; she could barely breathe. “He-he has my son.”

“You have a
child
?”

The horror in his voice barely touched her. Without warning she'd become wrapped in the past, flung back to that night in The White Goose where Edmond was conceived. “He took Edmond away the night he was born,” she said, struggling to remain on mission.

“Why did that propel you into asking me to your bed tonight, Elise?”

Not even knowing she did it, she shuddered. “He hid what he was
until we returned from . . . from . . .”—
don't say Scotland, fool—
“nine days later. We needed my family's blessing, he said. My father wouldn't let us in the door. I thought it was for marrying against his will, but now I think he knew the truth, knew about the things he does. I can't let my son grow up to be like his father, hurting people and enjoying it.” Without conscious thought, she touched the scar on her face. “I have to save my baby.”

Fulton sounded subdued. “I'm so sorry for what you've been through, but what does this have to do with me?”

She gave a little shrug. “My father won't forgive me if I enter into this liaison with you. I don't expect it of a man of his pride. But he'll take his grandson—or if he refuses, Mama will. She has such compassion for those suffering in our village, you see. If I can get Edmond to”—oh,
stupid,
she'd all but said
to England
—“to my parents, they'll raise him as he ought to be.”

“As a gentleman, you mean?”

Wrapped in her dilemma, she sighed and nodded. “I'll be ruined after this. It's the best I can do for him.”

Another soft pop sounded as wood crackled and splintered in the fire. And then Fulton spoke. “You need my help? Is that why you agreed to this?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, I don't expect you to become involved. But if I . . .” She trailed off in horror, realizing what she'd almost said this time.
If I fulfill my mission.
Then she realized what she'd already done—said
monsieur
three times, instead of the servile
m'sieur
. She scrambled to finish the sentence. “If I lose my position, I have no money, no way to get my baby home.” She looked at her toes scuffing on the rug. “What happens to me is nothing. Only Edmond matters.”

Fulton muttered something she couldn't hear. “How do you plan to recover your son?”

Shaking and cold in the fire's warmth, she stuttered, “If-if I save enough, I can return, take my son when my husband least expects . . . he leaves home often. Edmond stays with his grandmother, who—is not well . . .” Oh, how stupid! It had sounded so much better in her mind.
But if she couldn't stop Alain from hurting her, how could she expect to take her son from him without help?

“Is your
belle-m
è
re
a lady also?”

Lisbeth frowned, unable to see the point of his question. “My husband's father was a
châtelain,
a hereditary knight. But Marceline, my
belle-m
è
re
—has suffered . . .”

“I understand,” he said. He probably did, having lived here for the better part of a decade.

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but she didn't know what he wanted her to say. At last she whispered, “Shall-shall we begin? Will I take off my night rail now?”

“Dear Lord, what a mess,” he muttered. “No, Elise, you will continue as you have done since your employment began. I beg your pardon for any distress I have caused you.” With a new tenderness in his eyes, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it, bowed, and left the room as quietly as he'd entered.

A SOFT RUSTLE OUTSIDE
his tent didn't alert Duncan at first; it was the season for late-night winds, he was pitched amid brambles, and lost in his thoughts. But then a male voice calling softly, “Hie there,” had him scrambling up and to the tent flap.

“Fulton.” He greeted the other in an undertone, resigned to whatever the American was about to say. He'd known this time would come; the man was a genius, after all. “Come in, make yourself comfortable,” he added, sweeping a hand to his roll-up blanket with a fine irony.

With lifted brows, Fulton squatted down on the makeshift seat. “She couldn't go through with it. You ought to have known that about her.”

There was no point in deception. “I knew she wouldn't, unless . . .” He left it there.

Fulton's mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “Precisely so. I am here now to tell you that I will
not
go to England. Neither will I give your Admiralty one of my boats, or a specification on how to make one. That will not change.”

Intrigued by the odd tone, the thinly veiled hint, he waited.

In an even thinner voice, edgy, Fulton said, “I will, however, teach her what I assume she was sent for . . . how to use a submersible. Why do you need it?”

The other's gaze held his, demanding truth. But though he must give in, Duncan wasn't about to give the whole game away to a brilliant, stubborn republican. “Something dangerous is happening at Boulogne-sur-Mer. My man was killed there last week. There's a plot to kill the first consul, who will visit the region in a few weeks. We need to know why Bonaparte has blockaded the town by land and sea.”

“Ah, I see—a sneaking entrance, using my submersible. You suspect invasion, then.” Fulton nodded. “I will teach Elise—is that her real name?”

“It's not my secret to tell.” What a day this had been.

Fulton's smile was secretive, accepting the challenge. “I will teach her how to use my smaller submersible and allow you to borrow it one time, to—ah—visit Boulogne on one condition. You are to leave Elise strictly alone for the next few weeks.”

“Why?”

“I believe she's been through enough, without your demands being added to them.”

About to repeat his question, Duncan saw the truth when Fulton's gaze met his again. The American had divined what had always been there to see: Lisbeth was a lady, and not just born. She was a woman worthy of respect—and worth marriage.

“You have enough to do, in attempting to save the first consul, and Elise's son,” Fulton said quietly, surprising Duncan with the knowledge. Why had Lisbeth told him about Edmond? “She will have more than enough to do, learning how to work the submersible. She still hasn't completely recovered from her injuries.”

Guilt again, always the damned guilt where she was concerned. There was nothing to say.

“You need not concern yourself with her welfare. I will take good care of her—and there will be no further importunities.”

Duncan felt gritty sands of anger he couldn't wash off. He was too bloody
tired
for these undercurrents. “If you force her into anything she doesn't want, I'll—”