The Tide Watchers (29 page)

Fort Vauban

T
ELL ME ABOUT THE
man masquerading as Gaston Borchonne, where he is, what Fulton's inventing, and what he means to do with it.”

The colonel was no fool trying to dominate her with beatings or sex. Lisbeth couldn't see how to undermine this patient, smiling interrogation. There was no violence, no yelling. He smiled when she lied, as if he knew the truth and expected her not to speak it. She'd tried weeping to convince him she was a weak woman being dominated by the big strong man, but he'd advised her not to waste his time. Layer by layer he'd stripped her games, and she became a little more frightened.

It was as if he knew her, was certain what she'd say or try next.

“Again—tell me about the man calling himself Gaston Borchonne, what Monsieur Fulton's inventing, and what he means to do with it.”

Lisbeth stared at him, eyes big and sad. “I told you, Colonel. I don't know.”

“I think you do.” Colonel Lebrun leaned closer. Strange, his breath was pleasant coffee, but all she smelled was death. “You're a British spy. Why else would a married English lady be living with an American who invents subversive machines with exploding weapons?”

She sighed. “I found somewhere to live and work after my husband gave me no home or choice of living, then tried to kill me.”

His expression was akin to pity. “If you don't tell me, you'll face a harder inquisition tomorrow, madame. Or do you not know Lord Bonaparte is here and blaming the British for the latest attempt on his
life? You're very conveniently placed to help with the attempt . . . or to take the blame, as it seems your friends have deserted you.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and shivered. A bucket of ice water tossed over her soul. The commander had been gone for weeks.

No, he wouldn't desert me. He swore he'd save me.

And you believed him, but didn't you always know you were buying a pig in a poke? If it comes to you or the mission, you knew what he'd choose.

The little smile playing around his mouth told her the colonel knew she was panicking. The first lesson in how to make a woman betray herself and others: cut her off at her emotions. Hell hath no fury . . . especially if he knew she'd remained strong during other interrogations.

And he
did
seem to know it. But how?

That ice bucket became her soul. She doubted Luc knew enough to betray her—and the Jacobins hated Napoleon. That left only one person.

She no longer had to put on a show of terror. If Alain were here, there was only one way to cut
him
off at the knees. The colonel wanted the truth, so she'd give it to him.

“Colonel, in the sixteen months since I arrived in France I've been beaten, cut, shot at, and raped, my child stolen, and that was only my husband's treatment of me. You know my name. I presume you've been told that my father, who is a King's Man, trained me. But my father is a traditional man who disowned me for eloping with an enemy spy. Can you see a loyalist who left me to my fate training me to this work, when it is a shame and disgrace for a lady to do anything but marry well and bear children?”

“Would that not be the perfect cover for a spy?” he asked, still smiling in the way that chilled her, but something had crept into his expression, some kind of doubt.

“I see your point—but as the daughter of a mere baronet, my actions are scrutinized far more closely than, say, the daughter of an earl or a duke. You are old enough to remember this about French society.” Encouraged by the growing uncertainty in his eyes, she went on,
“You must have some record about me. You must know that, until just over a year ago, I was raised in the country with my mother. I only left home to visit my grandmother, and once for the London Season. I am only nineteen now. How could I be a trained spy when my father only came home four weeks of the year? When did I have time to spy for Britain when I was with child nine months of the time I've been here and working ten to twelve hours a day since two weeks after the birth of my son?” Her cheeks burned as she added, “None of those hours at work were spent, ah, entertaining the patrons in a room upstairs. This fact upset Monsieur Marron, the owner of Tavern Le Boeuf greatly, as I'm certain he'd tell you. So again, I had no chance to gather information for anyone.”

Good, she could see more seeds of doubt sown by facts the colonel could check. Throwing pointy little rocks at Alain's castle of glass—and by the look in the other's eyes, she'd hit the target with accuracy.

She allowed pleading to enter her expression. “You see the scars on my face. Do you think I can withstand this kind of treatment for long? I'm tired, and my head hurts from where your men hit me. I just want to go home. Don't you think I'd tell you if I knew anything?”

“That would depend on what you were promised,” Lebrun said, the strain showing in his conversational tone. “Such as the return of your child to you.”

Before she could catch herself she'd gasped . . . and Lebrun slowly smiled.

It was barely six, but early night swamped the thinning snow until it fell, defeated, in the darkness and cold. The crooked house had also given into the weather's domination, dark and silent, with none of the warm laughter Duncan had heard in recent weeks when he'd come to check on Lisbeth's well-being. There was a low light in the kitchen, but none elsewhere.

The only sign of life was in Fulton's stable. A crack of light showed
through makeshift curtains, and cheerful whistling from behind the big wooden doors. “M. Fulton.” Duncan banged on the doors barred from the inside. “M. Fulton, we must talk.”

The whistling halted. “Go away, Englishman. I won't give you anything!”

“You're in danger, as is Madame Dupont.”

After a silence, Fulton called, “Prove it.”

He leaned into the doors, calling as softly as he could through the crack between them. “There was an attempted assassination of the first consul near Boulogne two hours ago. By now he'll have ordered the capture of all foreigners in the region. Your inventions will be forfeit, and Madame Dupont's husband will find her and kill her.”

Banging sounds came, and the stable door jerked open. Fulton was his usual disheveled self, wearing the stained smock, his hair a mess, spectacles askew. “Why don't we call Elise by her real, English name?”

He'd expected this since Fulton's invasion of his tent. “She's Elizabeth Sunderland, daughter of Sir Edward Sunderland of Barton Lynch in Norfolk. If you don't want to come, I won't force you, but I assure you Miss Sunderland will come with me, no questions asked.”

Fulton frowned. “Miss
Sunderland
? Is she not married? Hold—” His eyes widened.“Is she really Sir Edward Sunderland's daughter?”

“Yes, she is.” There, he'd handed Fulton the key to saving her from ruin. “I will explain it all later. Right now you're both in danger. Will you come or not?”

Fulton hesitated, still frowning. “She truly is in danger?”

Duncan nodded. “Her son's father is Fouché's man and possesses the same proclivity for giving pain. He doesn't know she's working for us yet, but when he does . . .” Deliberately, he trailed off, leaving the rest to Fulton's imagination.

Fulton paled. “Fouché . . . ah, I see.”

“If he discovers she's working for us here, close to Boulogne, seizure of your work would become a priority. Fouché would send Miss Sunderland to a brothel. He does that to women he has no use for.” Duncan looked at his timepiece. “My ship is at your disposal. You can
go wherever you wish, no fear of seizure. Your work will remain your own, if you'll accept my word.”

After a moment, Fulton said, “Whatever our differences in ideology, you are a gentleman. And . . .” He lifted a brow. “I've worked on
Nautilus
for weeks, but she isn't ready. However, I'm sure you know about
Papillon,
my smaller, lighter submersible. It is roped underwater in a cave north of Audresselles Beach. It can easily be towed to your ship by a six-man rowboat. I've been coaching Elise—ah, Elizabeth, in its use for the past four weeks. She's become quite proficient.”

Duncan sagged in relief. “Thank you.”

The American said, “Let me be clear. If I do this, it's on the condition that Elizabeth is sent home, her child returned to her.”

Duncan's eyes narrowed. “Her son's rescue is not contingent on her success.”

“I take leave to doubt that—as, I believe, does she,” Fulton said, smiling in a way Duncan didn't like. “Elizabeth will receive
Papillon
as a deeded gift from me, to do with as she wishes, on the written promise that her son will be returned to her safe and whole.”

The commander burned to ask,
Why not just offer both to her as her betrothal gift?
Instead he simply bowed.

“Is she married? She believes she is,” Fulton pressed.

“Did you hear me? She's in danger. I don't have time to forward your courtship,” he snapped, but he saw the writing on the wall. In moments Lisbeth had gone from potential mistress to prospective bride, thanks to three words:
Sir Edward Sunderland.

Zephyr had taken Fulton's measure on accurate scales. Fulton was either a closet snob or just a pragmatist. The world turned on money and influence. If he hoped Eddie would welcome him to the family and fund his work in exchange for Lisbeth's redemption, he'd be right.

Duncan turned away. “Horses and carts are coming for the heavy lifting.”

“
Nautilus
is heavy. Even roped down, it will need two men to hold it in place.”

“My brother will see to it. He'll be here soon. I'll go to Lisbeth.”
Duncan's use of the name implied an intimacy she hadn't given and he hadn't earned. It wasn't fair, but he wasn't in the mood for fairness.

“Perhaps it's best if I go to her.” Fulton flushed and mumbled, “She's probably having an afternoon nap. I've worn her out with work by day and teaching her how to work
Papillon
by night. She's so tired, with, ah, a great deal on her mind.” His cheeks grew even brighter, if it was possible; so red, Duncan wondered if he'd broken his word to stop importuning her.

“Never mind. I know where her room is.” Duncan ran for the house, meeting Alec on the way. “Help Fulton. I have to go to Lisbeth.”

Alec's brows lifted, but he nodded. “Cal's here, too. I left your orders with Flynn.”

“Good.” Duncan strode in, up the stairs and to her room, hoping he didn't frighten her with the rude awakening—

She wasn't there.

He checked the attic, in case she'd taken the chance to search without Fulton's knowing; it was cold and dark, and fear as remorseless as the day he'd just endured cut him with a pointed tip. He searched every room in the house, but each was empty. He paused a moment at the kitchen before running back to the stable. This time he noticed the fort on the beach was blazing with light. At the door he snapped, “Lisbeth's been taken.”

Fulton gasped, and Alec dropped his end of a long steel contraption. Cal looked up sharply from unwinding rope. “What the hell—?”

Duncan cocked his head at his brothers, and they crossed the stable to him. “It has to be Delacorte. I believe he was the one who killed my man Peebles in Boulogne. He must have forced some information about our mission from Peebles. Then he came here, set himself up at the fort, took your men hostage last night to keep us busy with the Boney assassination, and came for her.”

“Bloody clever,” Alec muttered. “But he hasn't reckoned with us, lad. We'll get her.”

Fulton stammered, “But how . . . I was right here! Why didn't they take me?”

“There are several boot marks by the back door and across to the path, going in and out again.” Duncan stared hard at Fulton. “They didn't want you—yet. They passed right by you.”

The inventor's cheeks were chalky. “W-when I'm working I tend to block out everything else. My family says a battle could erupt around me and I wouldn't notice . . .”

Turning his back on Fulton, Duncan looked at his brothers. “Taking only Lisbeth proves that Delacorte's behind this. He's probably hoping to frighten her into giving us up, and leading them to Fulton's inventions.”

Cal said quietly, “There are other reasons why he'd feel it was imperative to take her, lad. He probably wants her dead before certain truths about his personal life come out.”

“She doesn't know those truths yet,” Duncan growled, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Aye, but Delacorte doesn't know that, and he can't ask her without incriminating himself.”

Abandoning the topic that would only cloud his mind with anger, Duncan pointed down the hill to the beach. “Fort Vauban's lit up. She's still here.”

“Aye, for now, but not long,” Alec said. “He'll want to take her to Boney at Villa Pont-de-Briques. Boney would love to blame British spies for the assassination attempt, and Delacorte must know the man rarely sleeps. He'd want to take her by night, to hide his part in all this.”

“He'd want her unable to talk.” Urgency grabbed him. “We need lots of ammunition. I have rifles and pistols stored behind the stable, but we'll need explosive devices.”

“I have only pistols here. Other weapons are at the farmhouse.” Alec made as if to run.

“No, wait. I have barrel bombs here, and something better.” Fulton raced to the other side of the stable, to a covered mound in the corner. He pulled out something shaped like a porpoise but with porcupine spikes. “These are torpedoes—sticky bombs with a timing
device. Push the spikes into any wood, and use the timer button to make them explode. There are six. Take them all. Just save Elizabeth. If she . . . I'll never forgive myself if they hurt her.”