by Lisa Chaplin
Pitt needed to be ready, and he needed men of heart and courage on both sides of politics to stand with him.
English Channel, British Waters
Lisbeth looked down at the hand holding hers, his head bowed over it, lips touching her skin; but it was as if he’d spoken Swahili to her. “I don’t understand.”
He looked up. “It’s simple, Lisbeth. I offered you marriage eighteen months ago. I offer it again now.”
Her free hand wandered to her brow. “You’d go so far to secure Papillon for Britain?”
He let out a short laugh. “If you like, I’ll sign everything you own back to you on our wedding day. I’ll have the papers drawn up when we reach Jersey. I’ll never own Papillon, in any case. Fulton’s deed makes you its owner for life, no matter your marital status, and I was a signatory to the deed. Does that satisfy you that I’m not plotting against you in this?”
She shook her head. “No. None of this makes sense. Commander, I—”
“I think we’ve gone past Commander and madame, or even Miss Sunderland,” he said, with a strange smile. “Call me Duncan, Lisbeth.”
His sudden desire for intimacy between them was one change too many in her life. She shook her head. “If you’re a baron’s heir, you can’t be linked to a woman like me. I’d ruin your chances at politics. Society wouldn’t accept me.”
He stilled for a moment, then released her hand and sat back at the chair opposite her. “I couldn’t care less about society or going into politics.” He moved back into the chair until his face disappeared into shadow, the firelight a dancing mask across his features. “I told you I don’t see you that way. You were pushed into your situation, and that was mostly my fault. I should have met you before making you an offer.”
“Yes, you should.” Her fingers smoothed absently at her frown. “Why now?”
He tilted his head but said nothing, watching her closely. Knowing what he wanted, she lifted her chin and waited in turn.
He acknowledged the power play with a small smile. “You learn quickly.” When she still didn’t speak, he nodded. “I wanted you to know you have an option other than Fulton.”
A disbelieving laugh burst from her. “What am I, a chess piece in a private battle between you?” She wouldn’t tell him Fulton had made his proposal days ago, even with the scandal of divorce, as disgraceful as that was in the eyes of almost any society.
As soon as Fulton discovered she was still in truth Miss Sunderland, he’d be searching out rings and churches—and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
She’d spent her rare quiet moments in the past few days trying to find a reason why Fulton had proposed. That he desired her was obvious; they worked well together—but his passion for invention was paramount. To gain vital funding, Fulton had to live within the rules of accepted society. It would have destroyed his career to wed a woman of a lower class, or a divorced woman. So somehow she’d revealed that she was a lady by birth, and her father a wealthy man. It was the only possible reason she could find for him to want to marry her.
The commander—Tidewatcher, Damien, Duncan—was a baron’s heir. No matter what his finances were, he could have looked far higher for a wife, even before she was ruined. So why was he renewing the offer? Despite the Stewart brothers’ presence in his life, he seemed an isolated man. His surname alone told her there was a history he wasn’t telling her.
He always spoke of her father with deep respect, affection—and knowledge. “Are you making the offer to please my father?” It felt right—yet the hurt of it went deeper than she wanted to admit.
“If I did at first, Lisbeth, it was before I knew you. Now, when Eddie wouldn’t blame me for walking away, I’m offering again because I want to.”
It was an answer of sorts, true in its way; yet there was something he hadn’t told her. But when hadn’t that been the case? The man ate and drank secrets like ambrosia and nectar. “Why?”
“I like you,” he said, and once more she hated that he said it so simply, and she believed.
“There’s another reason.” It wasn’t a question.
“Your father knows my financial position. I can easily prove that I have no need of your inheritance, or Eddie’s wealth or influence.” In his eyes, she saw understanding of her turbulent confusion over Fulton’s feelings for her; that she needed to know that either man offering her marriage liked her apart from the Sunderland name, influence—and wealth.
“Then what else is behind this? What do you want from me?” It was the only thing that made sense. “I brought you the boat. I’m willing to let you use it as needed. I expect to have Edmond returned to me without being coerced into agreeing to marriage, or anything else you need for British security. So there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
“I suppose I can understand your suspicion.” With a fatalistic look, he handed her a folded paper. “It’s the marriage license I hoped we would use.”
She looked down at it. “It’s signed by Mr. Kendall, our vicar at home.”
“Yes. Note the date.”
He’d bought the license the day her father had announced her engagement.
“I accept that back then at least, it had nothing to do with British security.” Frowning, she pushed it back at him. “It doesn’t mean you’re not manipulating me now.”
A frozen half smile acknowledged the accuracy of her assessment. “Tell me what else I could want from you, Lisbeth, but your lovely person.”
A short bark of laughter escaped from her. “Don’t try charming me, Commander, it doesn’t suit you.”
He relaxed and grinned. “An accurate hit.”
She laughed with him. It felt comfortable; too easy to imagine a life like this. Laughter by the fire. A man she could respect, desire—but she’d spend her life extracting information from him as a dentist did teeth. Would she die fifty or sixty years from now, wondering if she’d ever truly known the man she’d married?
Slowly, she said, “It occurs to me that if we return to war, I would be useful for further missions of this ilk. You could put off bringing Edmond to me while asking me to rescue this person or that, get this invention or information. As your wife, I would have no right of refusal.”
The smile on his face faded. “I meant it when I said no child should be raised by that man. Your son deserves his mother, all day, every day . . . and a father whose sanity and tendency for violent behavior isn’t in question.”
With those abrupt words, he put her in her place. “I beg your pardon.” He nodded, retreating into the darkness of the chair. Looking down at her hands, she said, “I can’t answer you. I came here to fight for my place on the Boulogne mission, not this. This past week—it’s all too much. I need to be alone for a while, Commander . . . um . . .”
“Duncan,” he said gently.
She wouldn’t look at him, or acknowledge the name. “Tell me I’m part of the mission.”
He sighed. “You know you are. There’s nobody else who can go with me.”
“Thank you.” What was there to thank him for? Acknowledgment of what they’d both always known? Absurd.
Looking up, she saw his face soften. His hand lifted, reaching out to her. “Lisbeth—”
She shook her head again and walked out.
English Channel, French Waters
November 2, 1802
The first fingers of daylight searched the clouds and slate-gray churning waters of the Channel. The morning was frigid, the wind fickle, fighting Lisbeth’s every step. She drew her cape tighter around her. Her heart hammered, but she was no longer afraid, only filled with a sense of purpose as she crossed the deck to the starboard side where Papillon hung suspended, ready to be lowered into the sea.
“Lisbeth.”
His voice rumbled beneath her skin, spreading fingers of warmth in the biting cold. She turned, but knew the familiar black-cloaked figure was behind her. Water splashed up onto the deck from the insane wind, making the cloak fly around
him.
“Lisbeth, we need to go. The ship can’t stay here after daylight.”
Without a word she headed for the gangplank stretched from the starboard rail to Papillon’s hatch.
Papillon shifted as the waves smashing the ship jostled her like a crowd at the theater. Weak rays of a fitful sunrise pushed through thin cloud. A touch of rose-hued light illuminated the craft. Foam from the slapping waves and dried-out tendrils of seaweed crowned her, an obdurate crown. The awkward little sister of Nautilus, with twice the defiance, Papillon filled Lisbeth with wonder and half-fearful respect every time she entered. She heard its silent taunt, lost in the morning’s hard chill. Come and take me. I dare you.
Without meaning to, she turned to him. He held out his hand; she took it and climbed the little stepladder that led to the board that acted as a gangplank. She crossed without losing balance or panicking—one of the many tests she’d passed in the past day. The tests were to show the men she was capable, but in reality, she’d spent the time teaching the commander—Duncan—the inner workings of the boat she’d been given.
Bunching her cloak into her hands, wearing the ragged trousers the cabin boy had left behind when he’d jumped ship, she dropped into the two-legged piece of canvas on ropes called the bosun. Held by ropes, the crew lowered her inside Papillon’s cramped cabin. She’d insisted on the trousers; it made the whole mission from climbing into this bosun to exiting at the other end far easier. A simple winter dress was in a sack tucked beneath Papillon’s bench seat, in case it became necessary to enter the town.
When they were both inside, he pulled the hatch down. “Lower away.”
He locked the hatch tight before Papillon touched the water. It rocked with the wind and waves. Lisbeth’s stomach churned. Fulton had given her a pouch filled with his confectioner’s sticks. She broke one in two and handed the bigger piece to Duncan.
What a good wife you’ll be, her mind mocked—and the words returned, typeset in her mind like a book that refused to remain closed.
My birth name is Damien . . . will you be my wife? Less than three minutes had elapsed between those two utterances. He was trying to be more transparent; he’d been opening up to her ever since. But—she pulled the peppermint from her mouth. Whenever the words came back to her mind, her gut churned, leaving her unable to eat, or think beyond the oddest proposal any woman ever heard.
She pushed it to the back of her mind again. She had to keep her focus on Papillon; but the jangling thoughts crept behind her, tapping her on the shoulder at the worst times. Become an inventor’s mistress, no, his wife. Get an underwater boat, now sail it to find Bonaparte’s greatest secret, but you’re a woman, so you can’t do it. Alain didn’t marry you. Abducted . . . false papers . . . stolen child. I am the baron’s heir, marry me. I’ll return your son.
Had she jumped feet-first into one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels? The Perils of Pamela. The Adventures and Outrageous Marriages of Elizabeth. Surely life could hold no surprises for her after this.
Then she looked at where she was, what she was about to attempt, and laughed.
“What?” Duncan asked in that too-perceptive tone, but she shook her head.
Papillon rocked as the crew released the ropes, and Lisbeth pitched forward. Duncan pulled her back, her head snuggled in the crook of his shoulder. Her heart felt constricted with the breath stopped somewhere in her chest, her concentration broken. “Thank you.” She heard the stilted sound to her voice. “You seem fated to be the one to catch me.”
He murmured into her hair, “We all fall at times. We should be glad if someone’s there to catch us.”
Pretty words. Did he mean any of it?
“We need to stabilize her,” Duncan said, pulling her from her reverie.
Papillon was rocking again. She found her peppermint and sat on her side of the bench, taking everything in one final time. “The lower we go, the harder it is to go forward, and we’ll run out of air faster. We should be no more than two feet under unless we need to avoid ships.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Duncan replied in a warm, laughing tone, and despite knowing he was trying to charm her, she found herself smiling. She’d given him a hundred instructions about Papillon’s use during the past day and a half.
Papillon settled; the world returned to its right axis. “Can you take the rudder and pump? The waves are stronger than our trial run. It will be harder for me to hold it straight.”
Duncan took the rudder in hand. “Can you manage the propeller in this tide?”
“I’ve done it before.” Making sure everything was as it should be, she threw a half smile in his direction. “Papillon’s mine. She’ll work with me.”
She was fey this morning.
From the time he’d first gone inside Papillon, Duncan had seen her become one with the little craft. Her eerie smile now was a vague sop to kindness, because they both knew he was the outsider. This task, this craft belonged to her.
“Of course,” he replied after a minute, hearing the whoosh and slap, slap of waves against the craft. He felt like a giant inside an anthill. The craft’s belly was barely five feet high, and six feet around. Almost every conceivable space was filled with cranks and hoses and pipes and levers and a handle. Even sitting, he wouldn’t be able to stretch his back or neck without hitting one of the contraptions. Every time he’d stepped inside Papillon he’d been careful to avoid all the bits and pieces: a clumsy ox that didn’t have a clue what he was doing here, except that he’d muscled out every other candidate to come with her.
From Eddie’s, Leo’s, and Andrew’s tales, he felt as if he’d known Lisbeth for years without ever seeing her face. Now together, they worked to prevent the cold tide of history repeating. When they were together, he felt more certain, and her unpredictable brilliance came to life.
He knew that, if he’d asked, the inventor would have gone on the mission with Lisbeth. Fulton was certainly the best candidate, but he was no hero. He hadn’t even offered to come to the fort when she’d been taken; although he loved her, his priority had been saving his inventions. There was no way to trust the man with Lisbeth’s life if they met with any peril.
The submersible bucked and bobbed as it moved with the heavy tide; the slap of the waves was a hard rhythm. He took the rudder and held it to the course Lisbeth showed him as she turned the propeller handle. “Can we really reach Boulogne undetected in this little thing?”
“Fulton used her as a model to build Nautilus. She’s smaller, but I think she’s easier to handle without the bomb chamber splitting her in half.” She pushed a sack under the sitting bench. “We have sails packed beneath the bench with rigging attached. We can only use them in fog, at half-light or night, but there’s plenty of that at this time of year on the Channel.”
He knew that, but it still sounded ludicrous. “How do you sail a sinking ship?”
“Call it a sinking boat, or a submersible boat—but not a sinking ship. It invokes thoughts of rats and desertion.” Her cheeky grin told him she was with him again. “It’s easy to sail—and we’ll be grateful for it before the day ends. This voyage will be very uncomfortable. Hold the rudder hard, we’re pulling too far south.”
The discomfort of this voyage seemed minor besides handing control to her—but she’d earned his respect. Deciding to go with the tide, he bowed with a wink. “Aye, Commander.”
When she bit her lip over that shy, eager half smile, his sacrifice seemed much smaller.
“If we arrive in darkness, we shouldn’t be seen,” she went on. “If we dock at the river to the south of Boulogne harbor, we can climb out and go about our business.”
What she proposed sounded reasonable—probably because he must find what Bonaparte was desperate to hide. It was thanks to Lisbeth he had a way in. He seized her hands. “You’ve done it. Even if we only penetrate as far as the river mouth, and see what’s going on there . . .”
He pulled her to him in his excitement, just as a wave hit th
em. She jerked forward, hit her head on the center pipe, fell, and landed on the sail sacking in seconds . . . all without a sound.
He helped her up and released her hands. “I beg your pardon.”
She gave him a half-dazed grin. “Papa always said I needed sense knocked into me. Perhaps that’s why he sent you—to prove he was right in his choice for me.”
Without wanting to, Duncan laughed. “That sounds just like Eddie.”
Her smile felt like sunshine in this closed darkness.
Distance was a necessary safety he’d practiced with outstanding success since he was fifteen; but inside Papillon’s cramped confines there was nowhere to go, and Lisbeth’s complete absorption in the mission combined with cheeky charm made her the most unpredictable woman he’d ever known. Thoughts, questions, and impressions overloaded him—and the softness of her was far too close. Even with winter clothing on, he could feel her arm or thigh brushing his when they moved or breathed. He could smell her skin.
He hadn’t even been alone with her an hour. How would he be in ten? Twenty?
He glanced at her. She was working the propeller crank, her hands moving with complete confidence and concentration. “How do you know when you reach the desired depth?”
“The same way you check ocean depth from a ship with the rope and its knots, except you do it from below the surface. It’s attached to the torpedo screw. It’s harder to measure depth through the observation dome than from the topmast of a ship, so timing the seconds also helps.”
When she turned her head, a slight scent emanated from her hair, her skin, even over the sea brine. She uses lavender water. Ladies used it for headaches, but as a perfume, it suited Lisbeth. Less cloying than the heavy perfumes women used in overcrowded ballrooms to mask the scent of sweat, it was relaxing, comforting, yet somehow stimulating. Like Lisbeth herself.