The Tide Watchers (45 page)

“You have a wife now,” Alec said gently, smiling. “It's after two in the morning. She must think you've forgotten her. Go, lad, and trust me. I'll captain the ship in your absence.”

Duncan stared at this brother he'd tried so hard to push away from the day they'd met, Cal too—but they were still here. Now, during the final hours of this imperative mission, he thanked God he had a wife and family he could trust to the death. He, who'd always been alone, now had a family—and he hadn't done a damn thing to earn their loyalty.

Feeling strange and awkward, he held out his hand. “I'll inform the crew.”

Alec grinned and pushed him. “Go to your lass. She's waiting for you. If there's another mole, he has to come on board with us. Half a dozen Jerseymen guard every Martello tower. If a second mole exists, he can't get a message to Delacorte about your marriage, or where you sleep at night. So go. Maybe you think you don't deserve a honeymoon, but Lisbeth does. A week or two of recovery time, and a bit of happiness, will only improve her outlook for the mission.”

Duncan grinned, feeling foolish and uncertain. “Strip all suspects of weapons or anything that can make fire and keep them out of the galley.” He wished to God the rest of this day hadn't happened. Wishing he could still count on Burton's loyalty, or that any part of his relationship with Lisbeth could have followed a normal course.

“Go. She'll forgive you.” Alec clasped his hand and held out the other crossed over the first. Duncan took the double clasp and, grinning, gripped in return: a cementing of brotherhood.

Acceptance.

The Ship Inn, St. Aubin's Township, Jersey

L
ISBETH WOKE WITH A
start and shiver. The room was cool; she didn't remember going to bed, but she lay on top of the blankets. The candles burned low, but the fire was bright. Turning, she saw a figure crouched in front of the hearth, stoking the fire.

It took a moment to understand why he was here. “Duncan?”

He turned and smiled at her, as uncertain as her tone. The winter in his eyes made her shiver again; the memory of the evening returned. He'd sent her back to the inn with West and Carlsberg after the testing of the drills was done. “Who was it?” she asked softly.

He faced the fire again. After almost a minute, he said, “Burton.”

She pressed her lips together. Only the name of Flynn could have hurt Duncan more. Slipping off the bed, she came up behind him, forgetting all the embarrassment she'd expected to feel tonight. She knelt and put her arms around him. “I'm so sorry.”

The stiffness in his body slowly gave way, and he leaned back against her. “He's dead.”

The warmth of the fire seeped into them. There was nothing to say. Her legs had begun to grow numb by the time he turned and put his forehead to hers.

The log he'd put on the fire crackled, sending a tiny shower of sparks up. His eyes opened. “Lizzy,” he said hoarsely.

Her fears seemed petty in the light of his grief. She kissed him, but he drowned the tenderness in his desperate need to forget. “Come to bed, Duncan.” She stood, took his hand, and led him across the room.

Windham slapped his desk with an open hand. “Hawkesbury, this is a farce! You've seen the confirmation we needed that Boney's been breaking the Treaty of Amiens from day one! Addington's seen this. How can he possibly deny—”

Seated opposite Windham, Foreign Secretary Lord Hawkesbury merely lifted a tired shoulder. “Do you think me privy to the workings of Addington's mind? The Treasury's in a mess; the bulk of the trained army's in Egypt, and recalling the troops from Ireland would invite insurrection there. Though we can recall half-pay officers and sailors in a day, there aren't ships enough for them all, and no time to build. We've recalled two dozen ships from the Caribbean, but they won't arrive for six to eight weeks, depending on the weather. The king's, ah, indisposed again”—ah, the delicate political term for another bout of madness—“and the Prince of Wales doesn't want to send his dear friends to fight the French. Take your choice, Windham. Addington won't declare war or even push back at Boney unless he's forced into it. But since
he
isn't in Paris . . .”

There was a slight emphasis on the final words. Windham searched the other's face, but saw no expression. “Whitworth's new to the embassy. He appears to be doing well.”

The slightly hawkish nose twitched. Windham caught the trace of pleasure in Hawkesbury's eyes in an otherwise morose face. He must be picking up the right crumbs. “He's the essence of a gentleman, Windham. Tact personified.”

“I've heard he has quite the temper when pushed,” Windham pressed, delicately for him since Hawkesbury tended to ride his high horse if he became offended. “Wasn't he, ah”—he scrambled to think of a subtle enough word—“provoked by the Irish once or twice?”

Hawkesbury merely lifted his brows. Windham sensed he was waiting, but Windham had no idea for what, so waited in turn. Eventually Hawkesbury spoke. “Certainly he can, as can all gentlemen when pressed. And his lady wife can be quite haughty.”

Windham held in the grin. Yes, Lady Whitworth could be unpleasant, but much was forgiven in the former Duchess of Dorset, who had a stipend of thirteen thousand pounds a year.

“It's true,” Hawkesbury murmured. “However, Addington says that in post-Terror France, it's easy to see war where there is only violence and savagery. However, a push in the right direction to an easily agitated leader, by a man he is known to fear . . . ?” Again, that little, tired shrug; but Hawkesbury's fine, dark eyes seemed to be conveying a hint.

Windham hadn't gained office by connections alone. “I've heard Captain Wright has a yearning to visit Paris again. If he were to ask you for a recommendation . . . ?”

The gentle set to the peer's shoulders relaxed. Boney had hated Wright since his escape from the infamous Temple prison with Sir Sidney Smith in '98. “I'd be delighted, dear fellow.”

“Did you hear? Alain Delacorte is dead!”

In the tavern on the Eaucourt road leading to Abbeville, one of the men assigned to watch Delacorte's home and family looked around sharply, slopping his ale on his jacket. With a low curse, he shook it off. Asking for a towel meant losing precious seconds of the news.

From a shadowed corner, hat shading his face, Cal Stewart listened as the drama he'd created unfolded.

“No!” one of the wenches gasped, and then she pouted. “He was one of my best customers.”

“
Oui,
he always paid for his whores on time, if nothing else,” the tavern keep muttered with a sour look.

“You wouldn't have customers without us,” the wench retorted with a sneer. “It's not like your ragout or goulash is world famous, and you water the ale and wine.”

General sniffs and sniggers followed.

“Well, he's dead—killed in the attack on Fort Vauban in Amble
teuse back in October—the same night someone tried to kill the first consul,” the carter yelled over the laughter. “I heard the tale when I was picking up my load in Abbeville this afternoon. The Jacobins were celebrating good and loud, after what he did to them.”

Everyone stopped and turned to him again. “What was he doing at Fort Vauban? He's no soldier!”

“I heard tell he was chasing that wife of his who disappeared. I heard she was playing house with some American or Briton, and when Delacorte tried to take her, her lover killed him.”

“Well, which is it? Did he die in Fort Vauban or did his wife's lover kill him?” one man asked in exasperation.

“I don't know, but look here. I got the list on the reward notice for any trace of the killer. The Jacobins were handing them around. Delacorte's on the list of the dead.”

News like this was bound to cause a sensation in a small place like Eaucourt. Everyone crowded around the carter, looking for the name, seeing how much was being offered.

The faces on the reward sheet were nothing like those of the Stewart brothers, naturally. Cal had paid the pamphleteer well.

After seeing Delacorte's name on the list of mostly military victims, Delacorte's man left the tavern. “So much for being paid double when he returns,” he muttered. They'd run out of money weeks ago. “Delacorte can go straight to hell! I'm for work that has payment up front!”

Cal watched Delacorte's man run to his friends. Within a week of receiving Duncan's letter, the mission was almost complete, and all for the price of two carts of logs, three hundred pamphlets, and the promise of public revenge on Delacorte. The conspiracy with the Jacobins had a lovely irony he was sure Delacorte wouldn't appreciate.

Cal drained the last of his watered ale. Now he'd take Lisbeth's baby and the child's grandmother, get the midwife, and leave France. No more perfect revenge could he have on the bastard.

Late that night, the carriage was heading north, Madame Delacorte holding the sleeping child and weeping for the choice of love
she'd been forced to make. Cal had left a note on Delacorte's dresser. It had but two words:

For Clare.

Called to the nearest Martello tower to receive an urgent message from Alec, Duncan returned to the inn to find Lisbeth. In the near month since their marriage, she always understood when he had to go, but he refused to break his word.

He found her at the forge, where Carlsberg and Flynn had taken over Fulton's task. Flynn was twisting the metal in the superheated fire. Once each drill piece was cooled and in its place inside Fulton's clever drill bar, Carlsberg soldered them in. The bar had a cunning device to make the drills move together. If one drill broke, the entire bar would need replacing. They'd have to take
Papillon
to a safe place above the waterline to do it, but there was no other way.

“All's going to plan, Commander. We'll be done with this lot in a few more days,” Carlsberg pronounced cheerfully. “You'll have five dozen triple drills, as planned. I'm just sorry I'm doing the job so much slower than Fulton.”

Duncan clapped Carlsberg on the shoulder. “Thank you for taking over the job.”

The older man winked at Lisbeth. “I'm happy to oblige, so long as you promise me this little girl will get a real wedding trip when the mission's done.”

Duncan grinned. “Now there's a promise I'm delighted to give.”

Flicking a glance at his wife, he finally understood the term
blushing bride
. She slipped out of the forge with murmured excuses.

Duncan smiled. As soon as Flynn and Carlsberg discovered their commander had wed, they conspired to ensure she and Duncan had time alone—and both men gave wedding gifts. Carlsberg had given them a bottle of his old mother's homemade mead to ensure
fruitfulness—and Flynn had given Duncan a wedding ring for his bride. “I'm sorry it's only silver,” he'd said gruffly, the tips of his ears red, “but I noticed Mrs. Aylsham has no ring. My grandfather was a silversmith. I know it's not fancy. I crafted it in haste . . .”

Duncan slipped the simple ring on Lisbeth's wedding finger with quiet thanks.

Tears in her eyes, Lisbeth had shaken hands with his men. “I'll treasure this ring, Lieutenant Flynn. I'll never forget everything you've done for Commander Aylsham and me.”

They'd used the mead that night for a toast, wishing the couple health and happiness together.

A few minutes after Lisbeth left the forge, Duncan found her in the cobblestone lane behind the smithy. It climbed up to the hill above in a world of soft-falling morning rain and lush gardens. They'd taken the spot as their own for the past week. Lisbeth loved the budding flowers and early spring rains, so soft after the hard winter. Spring usually came early to Jersey.

“What was the message from Alec?” she murmured in his ear.

Duncan grinned and held her close. “Cal has Edmond, love.”

With a cry of joy, she slumped against him. “Thank God, oh, thank God!”

“Thank the Stewarts also,” he said, low. “There are too many French patrols for Alec to drop anchor close enough. They're traveling to Calais as a family, with the wet nurse acting as Cal's wife. Edmond's grandmother is with them. They have papers to take the packet to Dover.”

“Marceline's coming?” she asked, with open doubt in her eyes.

Duncan nodded. “Probably she can't bear to leave the child.”

“What if she regrets it later—or if . . .”

He sighed and took her hands in his. “Don't play that game. I doubt she knows where he is; he's been gone for months. Could you leave the poor lady alone after taking her grandchild?” Slowly she shook her head. “Can you accept her as part of our family, Lizzy?”

She thought of the gift Marceline had given her months ago, seeing
and holding Edmond when she had no reason to trust her, and nodded. “But I'll want her correspondence vetted.”

“Of course. Now smile, Lizzy. Our son's coming home.”

She hiccuped, blinked back tears, and smiled up at him. “You don't know how many nights I've stayed awake worrying for him, missing him.”

Disturbed that she must have done that while he slept beside her at night, he said, “Our son's coming home to us.”

Another hiccup, then she nodded. “I so want to show him to Mama.” Her smile was radiant with joy, and Duncan's stomach jerked.
Tell her.
He couldn't.

“If Alec can't anchor near enough for Cal, what does that say for our mission?”

“French patrols are everywhere. It seems Boney's recalled ships from the Caribbean,” he whispered back, glad of the distraction. “We'll have to sail behind Guernsey and Alderney islands into English waters facing Boulogne, and go from there. It will be longer than the first time, and—”

She put a finger to his mouth. “Don't say it. You won't make it without me now.”

He laid his forehead against hers. “You've been through so much. I worry for you, Lizzy.”

“As I'll worry for you on every mission you go on when I'm at home.”

“You really know how to take the wind from my sails,” he mock-complained.

She grinned. “No, it's just the reality of family life that my mother never taught my father.”

He sighed and kissed her, but after a while he murmured, “Your dress is damp. You should get out of this weather and change into something warmer. Sit by the fire.”

“I think we should both change.” Impish smile, invitation in her sparkling eyes, and the happiness that was marriage to Lisbeth flooded him anew. With her past abuse, he'd hardly expected to know this kind
of joy with her; but his need for her after Burton's hanging seemed to have broken any barriers she could erect in fear. He'd taken care to be tender with her, both then and since, but even now, he could hardly believe it was enough.

He grinned, unable to resist teasing her. “I only have a few drops on me. I could dry by the fire downstairs.”

“No, you can't,” she retorted, her chin jutted. “Come upstairs with me.”

He tweaked her braid. “You're a wicked woman, Elizabeth Aylsham.”

She smiled, slow with promise, and tugged at his hand. “Come to bed, Duncan.”