The Tide Watchers (49 page)

H
ER FATHER WAS GONE
by the time Lisbeth woke up the next morning.

Leo and Andrew at least had waited to say farewell, but they'd been so stiff and cold she wished they'd sneaked off as well. Their coaches had barely disappeared beyond the gates before she turned on Duncan. “When are you leaving?”

He regarded her with eyes gentle with compassion. “I'm staying.”

“Please don't.” Her knees were shaking. Half afraid she'd fall down, she turned away, walked in the house, and up the stairs.

Duncan followed her to her mother's sitting room, her mother's chair. Saying nothing, not even always looking at her. Just there.

“When are you leaving?” she repeated.

With difficulty he knelt at her feet, balancing awkwardly with the broken shoulder. “I gave you my word. I'm not going anywhere, no matter how you push me away.”

“What if I want you to go?” she demanded, low and quivering.

The growl that shivered into her soul from the first time he'd spoken to her was still quiet and gentle. “I understand now. We stand on the same side of the mirror. If I don't know women, men are strangers to you. You believe all the men in your life will leave you—your father, your brothers, Alain, me. Even Edmond left you.”

His damaged warrior's face rocked back with the force of her slap. “My baby is innocent!” Her hand stung and burned.

He remained at her feet, his cheek red with the imprint of her blow. “That's it, love. Hit me, hate me, I deserve you to.”

In his words, she saw herself through a new, horrified set of eyes.
She dragged in a breath and looked at her hand as if it had betrayed her. “No. I won't hit you, not ever again. I won't be like them.”

But he wouldn't give up. “Edmond couldn't help leaving you—but it's what you're afraid of, aren't you? That he'll become like your father, like me, and leave you to save the world, the nation, or someone else. That's why you made me swear not to train him.”

She fought the childish urge to cover her ears. “Stop it.”

From his kneeling position he looked up at her. Just as in her romantic novels, a knight vowing fidelity to his lady. The irony of it was almost ridiculous. She'd have believed it only a week ago. “Every man you've ever loved has left you. So you're pushing me until I go.”

“No, I'm not.” She looked in his eyes and saw his fear, a reflection of her suffering. He did understand. “You can't make this right. You didn't tell me about Mama, and it makes all your vows worth nothing. The only man who ever loved me, who never let me down, was Robert.” She stared out the window, unblinking in the weak sunlight, silvery scudding cloud. “I chose the wrong man.”

He kept his gaze on hers, the shutters into his turbulent soul fully open. Too late. A week, a lifetime of choices too late. “I'm sorry.”

“I loved you,” she whispered. “I thought I'd finally found a man to believe in.”

After a few moments, he said unsteadily, “I'm still not leaving. You promised to teach me to be a family man. You're teaching me now not to walk away when life gets hard. I don't care if it takes a lifetime, I'm never leaving you.”

His declaration only brought stinging tears. Lies, all lies.

He remained on his knees before her. When she finally stopped crying, he said, “All my life I've been taught to obey, to put duty above everything—as a child, a King's Man, in my short stint in the navy. With your father. Duty was the highest calling of man. It was only when we came here that I realized the real cost, the true sacrifice.”

It sounded like something her brother Andrew had once said to her, and most likely he'd taken it from their father. “My father told you
to say that. Say something to make me pity you, and I'll forgive you. I'm not my mother.”

This time he remained still. The silence was almost hopeless. “So that was wrong, too?”

A helpless shrug. “I don't know if anything could be right.”

After a minute of unspoken acceptance of her accusations, he said quietly, “You'll remember me telling you that the only thing I knew nothing about was women? If you'll—”

With remembered nausea at his story, she could only look at him with bleary eyes. “You won't leave me in peace until you've had your say. I've lost the only person who ever loved me, and you still push for what you want.”

The tired pain in his expression, and she knew what he was going to say. “Lizzy, please believe that—”

“I don't.” She kept her voice down. Back in England, keeping up appearances for the servants. Accepting what wouldn't change. “The girl you married died last week. As my father created you, this is what you made me. Now live with it. God knows I have to.”

He whitened, got to his feet, and backed away. “Alec wrote to me today. He said Cal's had trouble leaving the continent with Boney's soldiers everywhere. He's made it as far as Amsterdam. Alec is sailing to Holland to get them. They'll be here in two weeks. If you want my house in Frampton Lacey for you and Edmond—”

She shook her head. “Grand-mère left me her house in the Cotswolds. I'll go there if the Stewarts won't have me.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. How could he answer that? His own family was as unfamiliar to him as they were to her. “You'll have my best carriage, a generous quarterly allowance, and a full contingent of staff. If there's ever anything else you need, write to me.”

Her hand crossed her brow, covering her eyes. “For God's sake, Duncan, give me a little peace—
please
.”

Ten seconds of silence. “If you need me, I'll be in the study.” He bowed over her hand and quit the room without another word.

The uncertainty of cold, windy spring finally gave way to warmer days, but Lisbeth was like the half-frozen nights that followed. Sitting by a fire didn't melt the ice in her. It walled around her, and nothing she did warmed her up or broke her out of this prison.

She walked the gardens in the watery sunshine. It grew a bit warmer each day, but the breeze was cool and playful, loosening the careful chignon. Her skin itched and sweated beneath her heavy black dress, but at least she felt something other than this awful numbness.

Duncan, still at his post half a garden length from her. Watching.

Irritation swelled up in her; but at least she felt something other than the bitterness of his betrayal. He did nothing but give to her, but it was weeks, months too late. He was putting her first at last, but it was all aimed at gaining forgiveness. Perversely, she couldn't blame him for that. He was so alone, and she was so tired of fighting, of pushing him off. If . . . if she gave into her shameful craving and allowed him back into her bed—

Then I'd be the thing I despised. Hasn't Duncan been used enough by selfish women?

Nobody had ever told her grief was such a stupid thing, turning her into a total lackwit.

A cloud scudded across the washed-out blue of the sky. A bird cawed. Rumbling slowly came to her ears, the wheels of a coach. Lisbeth held her breath as she did every day, waiting until the sound passed, leaving her in the same disappointment she'd felt for the past three days.

The sound slowed, the carriage trundling over stones as it turned into the gates. The gatekeeper let it in, and it began the long drive up. Lisbeth had to stop herself from running. If it was another condolence call by curious neighbors, she'd—

A face appeared at the window of the big, brand-new carriage with the Annersley crest on it. A face with hard features, black eyes
and hair, and a smile as wide as the sea. Alec met her agonized gaze and nodded.

She almost fell to her knees. Now beside her, Duncan put his good arm around her waist and led her to the coach.

The driver let down the stairs. Alec alighted, his smile blazing, holding a blanket-clad bundle in his arms. “I think you've met this little lad before.” And he handed the baby to her.

Edmond was asleep. The warmth of the blanket, the sight of satin skin, the dreaming crooked smile . . . for the first time in months, her son was in her arms. So much bigger; so much she'd missed. He made a soft baby noise, opening his mouth. He had teeth.

Vaguely she saw another form coming down the coach stairs. Absorbed in her son, she knew it was Cal by the endless silent grief emanating from him.
Thank you,
she mouthed, and saw the strange, hurting half smile that was uniquely Cal. He was limping.

A young woman emerged, holding another child. Edmond's wet nurse, she assumed.

Then another face appeared. Thin, hollow eyed, with frizzled gray hair. Marceline's gaze met hers, asking the question.

How could she do less for Marceline than she'd had done for her in Eaucourt, and at far more risk? Lisbeth nodded. Her son's grandmother left the coach on Cal's hand. Trembling fingers touched Edmond's hair. “
Merci,
” was all she said—but Lisbeth knew her gratitude would turn to hatred if Marceline discovered it was she who'd killed her son.

Barton Lynch, Norfolk

April 14, 1803

W
HAT A BEAUTIFUL BOY.”
Sitting on the floor in her old nursery, Lisbeth cooed in her son's face, making the baby giggle and bounce in her lap. She'd discovered he liked it when she said “boo-ful,” and said it at every opportunity.

For days she'd spent every waking moment with Edmond, playing with him, changing him, feeding him, and holding him. The wet-nurse, who'd brought her own child with her, a toddling girl, only took Edmond to give him milk. Lisbeth hung over his cradle in ecstasy when he slept, spoke to him in English, in French, and held and kissed him constantly. Edmond was fascinated by her in seconds, loved her within a day, and Marceline did everything she could to strengthen the bond between mother and son.

“My son was damaged by the Revolution,” was all she'd said of Alain's abuse.

Lisbeth had bit her lip and said, voice breaking, “Edmond needs a grandmother.”

“We'll do better outside of France,” Marceline whispered, patting her arm.

“He is beautiful,” Duncan agreed now, but he felt slashed by the sword of her uncertain half smile. She was trying to be nice but clearly wished him at Jericho. She was still leaving him, and guilt held him back from forcing her to stay.

Marceline stood from the chair beside where mother and son played and left the room.

Lisbeth's gaze dropped. “We're leaving in the morning.”

He couldn't help it. “I'll come with you. Or stay with me here. This is your home.”

“This will never be home again.” Her lips sucked in, drawing slow breaths. “Your love is an anchor pulling me underwater, drowning me. I can't forgive you.”

Closing his eyes, he nodded. “What do you want done with
Papillon
?” he asked at length, gruff with the pain he couldn't hide.

“Give it to the Admiralty,” she murmured, caressing Edmond's hair as he bashed wooden blocks together. “I never want to see it again.”

“They'll kick up a fuss, but I'll make sure they won't demand your presence.” He tried to smile, but he was shaking. “Poor Fulton, they'll probably kidnap him for his expertise.”

“Alec has written to prepare the family for our arrival.” She hadn't mentioned Fulton since the day she said she'd chosen the wrong man. She didn't deny her part in destroying Fulton's love and his faith. She never excused her actions as others did.

Loyal, faithful Lizzy, she'd be fond of Fulton until she died, wishing she'd married the American instead. Duncan's throat ached. The only woman who'd ever just loved him, and she was leaving. He'd scraped empty the barrel of her forgiveness. “They'll love you.”

Though she hadn't hit him or even spoken harshly to him since their shattering scene, the echoes of her anguish were all the louder for their remaining unspoken.
My mother died believing I didn't care enough to come home
,
that everyone in her family put duty above her.

She spoke again. “When I was in France and Jersey, I thought I could forgive my father—and you—anything. But I can't.”

Platitudes, useless and stupid, filled his mind again. What if time
didn't
heal all wounds? How the hell would he know, when he had never healed from his own wounds in more than sixteen years? “If you wanted the world, I'd try to give it to you. You're everything to me.”

She looked in his eyes. “I don't care.” She unwound her legs and stood, carefully holding Edmond. “I'm broken, and you just keep hitting me.”

He didn't answer. Keeping a lid on all the love he felt inside, because every time he spoke it aloud, her numbness flayed him.

At the door she turned, holding her sleeping child, mother and son so beautiful they made him ache. “You should talk to your brothers. Something happened to Cal. I think he needs you.”

Moments later, the door closed, and his wife and the only son he'd ever have left his life.

HE FOUND HIS BROTHERS
in the garden. Cal stood staring into the washed spring sunlight, where the poppy buds emerged from green sheaths, and lavender stalks had a hint of the luscious purple to come. Alec stood behind his twin, a hand on his shoulder. Neither spoke.

Duncan felt like the worst of blundering intruders. The last thing he wanted was to be here. But the promise he'd made Lisbeth only minutes ago—
If you wanted the world, I'd give it to you
—would be worthless in her eyes if he didn't do the first thing she asked of him.

“Lisbeth thinks something happened to you, Cal, and you need to talk,” he said, cursing his bluntness. Cal and Alec had each other. What possible use could he be?

Cal turned his head, and Duncan forgot his stupidity. His brother's eyes were dry and red, filled with the well of blackness Duncan knew well. “She was already half dead when I got there. I had to finish it. I was ordered not to kill the bastard, and I had to save his son, his mother. I can't look at them, not even the baby.”

Clare.
Duncan didn't know what to say or do.

“All I want is to kill him, slowly and painfully. The bastard, the . . .” A sound came from the door behind Duncan, and after a quick glance, Cal ground out savagely, “the filthy boggin-faced clagtail, what he did to her . . . to them both.”

He guessed either Lisbeth or Marceline stood nearby, and he'd modified his language only in changing it to Gaelic, calling Delacorte an unwiped arse. It was far less than he deserved.

“How could you have made his death worse?” he asked in Gaelic, in case Marceline was behind him. “He died at the hands of the woman
he'd abused and ridiculed as weak. He'd tried over and over to kill her, and she destroyed him instead. To a man like him . . .”

He ran out of words; but Alec smiled at Duncan and nodded. “He's right. How could his death be worse at your hands?”

Cal stared narrow-eyed at his brothers. “Are you certain he's dead? They never found his body.” He stalked away.

Duncan glanced at the door, seeing Marceline disappear. “I only made things worse.”

“No, lad.” Alec shook his head, smiling. “He hasn't said this much about himself since Rose and little Frances died. I gather he was fond of this woman?”

I think Cal's suffering,
Lisbeth had said. “He had a wife and daughter . . . and they died,” Duncan muttered in horror. “And now Clare's dead.”

The subtle glow vanished from Alec's face. “Our father cursed the people of Tyburn as they watched him hang. He said they'd suffer until the German kings stopped ruling Scotland.”

Confused, Duncan asked, “But wasn't he a King's Man? Eddie told me . . .”

“It's true. But at heart, despite the Bonnie Prince's faults, our father was a Jacobite. When Annersley turned him in, he said at an open hearing he wanted a return to the Stuart throne—and Scottish freedom—with all his heart and soul. The government couldn't save him after that. He was bitter that at the end his life amounted to nothing. He cursed the people watching him die for entertainment.” He curled his hands into fists. “I believe the curse rebounded on us, his sons. We've each had a wife and child and lost them.”

Alec's voice was cynical, touched with self-loathing, taking Duncan aback. Before he could think of anything to say, Alec said, “Cal lost Rose and Frances through no fault of his own. My wife and son aren't dead, but I lost them fifteen years ago. Don't make the mistakes I made. Do what you can to repair the damage you created with Lisbeth while you still can.”

Finally the laughing mask had been snatched from Alec's face.
After all he'd lost, Alec kept reaching out, trying to bring Duncan into the family. Humbled, he touched his half brother's shoulder. “I think it's too late.”

Alec's eyes stopped looking inward at blackness and turned to him. “Lad, don't mistake suffering with finality. Let her grieve; let her blame you. Give her room to breathe, to think, to forgive—but don't give up. Somewhere inside she knows you had to make the choices you did.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I've been trying to reach her for weeks, Alec. I don't know what else to say or do.” It was the closest to a cry for help he could make.

Alec's hand landed on his shoulder. “It's only been a few weeks, Duncan. Think about it, lad. Why is she coming to Scotland with us? Look at that, and you'll know what to do.”

For once Alec was the one to walk away from him, leaving Duncan feeling as if he'd been handed a gift he didn't know how to unwrap.