The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  “There was no one else to send,” Duncan murmured, wondering when he’d sat beside Stewart. “Eddie sent me to find her, to see if she was well and happy, and bring her home if she wasn’t. The situation was thrown into my lap the night I found her. She was working at the tavern where political dissidents meet. While I was trying to recruit her—just to listen in at the tavern—Delacorte set us up for murder and tried to have her killed. I got her out.”

  “I understand the need, but why not send her home when she was so injured and ask Zephyr to send a more experienced woman?”

  Duncan hunched up one shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me? There was no time. Fulton’s no fool. He’d have seen through an experienced woman, but he has a weakness for young girls. And she’s not working on her back,” he growled. “Fulton’s a gentleman, and she’s still fragile.”

  “Too bloody fragile to be here.” Alec shot Duncan a look, and his face softened. “That’s why you’re camped by the house. Why you’re handing over assignments to your men. If Fulton crosses the line, you’ll take her away.”

  He caught himself just before he nodded. He didn’t want to bond with Stewart, the perfect mirror of all he could never be: a family man, a brother—and legitimate. Now he’d become the mirror of his conscience, seeing Lisbeth as he saw her—so young and vulnerable. Now Stewart was saying everything Duncan had been trying to deny these past weeks. His duty, even saving a nation, was no justification for destroying her. There was no such thing as acceptable sacrifices of innocent girls. That was something monsters like Fouché and Delacorte did.

  He jerked to his feet. “I should go.”

  “One day you’ll trust me,” came the quiet voice from behind him.

  Duncan swung back. “I told you: I want none of you, or your family.”

  “Yet you turned to me in need. They’re our family, Duncan.” Stewart wasn’t the slightest bit out of breath from carrying the unconscious Argenteuil, even when they climbed up the other side of the creek bed to a small road. “Your mother, Meggie, was younger than your lass when she had you. She was an orphan, alone and scared after our father died, which was why she took Annersley’s deal. She died of an inflammation of the lungs many years ago. We’re all you have.”

  “I have no one.” Early life had proven it to Duncan beyond doubt. He wasn’t Annersley, with all the inbred disdain for and abuse of those in a lower position. He’d never quite be a Sunderland. But he’d never become a Stewart. Why did Alec keep bothering with him?

  He had a life of duty to king and country. It was his pride, his purpose.

  “You do have us,” Stewart said gently. “Our grandmother’s in her eighties and frail. Granddad’s ninety-two and hale enough, but he can’t last much longer. They pray every day for you to join the family before they die. It means everything to them.”

  That was beyond his comprehension. How could the Baron and Lady Stewart want to know the bastard-born child, the son of a chambermaid—and the cause of their son’s death? “We need to get the boy to someone who can give him medical help.” Conversation closed.

  “You can’t take him to your lass. It puts her in greater danger.”

  The calm assumption of authority irked Duncan, as did the continual references to his lass. “Doesn’t your being here put me in danger, since our resemblance is so strong? Isn’t that why Zephyr recruited you and Cal in the first place?”

  “Odd the way you’ll name Cal, and not me. Must be something I’ve done,” Stewart stated with a return to that infuriating cheerfulness. “Right now it seems we’re all needed where we are, or Zephyr wouldn’t have sent us. But, aye, Cal and I have acted as your alibi on many occasions, as you’ve done for us. In fact you’ve saved my life more than once just by being somewhere else, including when you were in London while I—during the rue Saint-Nicaise debacle.”

  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 hi
s face in his hands.

  CHAPTER 30

  Ambleteuse, France

  September 27, 1802

  LISBETH 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-mère 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-mère—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?”