The Tide Watchers (31 page)

The deep boom of musket shots split the air; ball shot screamed past them, and the sweating horses whinnied and reared. Duncan snatched Lisbeth's reins, grabbed her by the waist, and swung her off. “Run!”

She stumbled down the rocky path, across the sand, and into near-freezing water. She gasped as the cold hit her thighs, but then another shot hit the water beside her and she waded faster. The moment she reached the rowboat two sailors hauled her up by her arms. “We've got you, miss.”

Another boom came, and water splashed up. “Turn tail!” Duncan yelled as he threw himself up and over. Shots came thicker as the men jumped around. Duncan took another oar and passed one to Lisbeth. Against the incoming tide, they all rowed for their lives.

English Channel (English Waters)

October 30, 1802

T
HIS IS NOT NEGOTIABLE.
The moment I put foot on English soil your admirals will confiscate my work and force me to work for them. I refuse to leave this ship!”

Sitting at his nailed-down desk in the commander's quarters of the ship, Duncan fiddled with a quill. Fulton wasn't backing down—and unfortunately for all Duncan's arguments, he knew the American was right. One of the Admiralty would seize Fulton's work in the name of peace, and he'd never give it back. If some clever Johnny replicated the inventions, it would be the admiral sitting pretty on the profits, cheerfully ignoring its inventor's rights.

“Fulton has the right of it, Duncan,” Alec said, with a meaningful look.

“Well, you choose a safe port! Boney controls all of 'em in northern Europe, and he'd steal everything just as fast, and take the profits,” Duncan snapped.

Fulton snarled, “I'd prefer my work to be in the hands of a republican than a royalist!”

Good humor restored with the naive remark, Duncan smiled politely. If Boney had been the best thing to happen to France in decades, his overweening ambition would see him crowning himself sooner or later. If Fulton couldn't see it, Duncan wasn't about to burst his bubble. “I fear he'd take more than your inventions. Once they were with the Ministry of Science, I doubt he'd leave you alive. Are you willing to give your life for the glorious Republic of France?”

Fury and dislike burned in Fulton's eyes. “How do I know the
whole scenario yesterday wasn't a setup by you to seize my inventions? I didn't see any danger.”

In the stunned silence, Lisbeth said from her seat by the fire, “I was hit on the head, dragged to the fort, and interrogated for hours. My husband held a pistol to my head. Do you think I'd willingly go through all that, just to gain a boat . . . or do you think I'm lying?”

Fulton, Duncan, Cal, and Alec all swung around to Lisbeth, sitting in a wing chair by the fire. She kept the scarred side of her face in the shadows, but that only highlighted the lump on the other side of her head, the delicacy of her pale face. As she sat quietly in a corner, they'd forgotten she was there.

Voice and hands shaking, gaze on her lap—the trauma was clear. A flash of remorse came and went, lost in admiration. Almost any other woman would be in nervous prostration with all she'd been through, but she was here, doing her duty.

His mobile face filling with guilt and shame, Fulton crossed the length of the commander's cabin to her. “My dear, of course I don't. You are the one honest person in all this.”

In a low voice, shaking, Lisbeth murmured, “For a while, I thought the same as you. I thought he'd deserted me. I wondered if the whole thing was set up. But they saved my life. They bombed the fort. They stopped him from killing me. It was real, Mr. Fulton.”

He patted her hand, but she withdrew it. His hand hovered awkwardly above her lap before he stood. “Why did yesterday occur? Where were all of you when Lisbeth was taken?”

It was a good question. Lisbeth looked up, met Duncan's look, hers uncertain, her trust a rope frayed with overuse. She deserved to know where he'd been.

Mentioning his promise to Fulton weeks ago would only leave her feeling more betrayed. Duncan chose his words with care. “You know why we came to Ambleteuse in the first place.”

“October twenty-ninth,” she said, slowly, frowning. “The colonel at the fort said there had been an attempt on Napoleon's life yesterday.”

A stifled sound came from Fulton, still standing beside Lisbeth,
giving himself rights Duncan doubted Lisbeth had offered. The battleground still existed weeks after his withdrawal. “Did he survive?”

“Aye,” Cal said when Duncan didn't answer. “The conspirators disappeared a few days ago. Only one remained to make the attempt, which is why it failed.”

The shadowy figure who'd been silent since entering the room finally spoke. “I was sent to scarper the attempt without giving away my loyalties.”

Fulton frowned at the man who refused to come into the light. “Who are you?”

“Deville,” the man said curtly, “though you can also call me O'Keefe. I joined the ship yesterday.” The air pulsed with the explanation he refused to give—to Fulton at least.

“Are you French or Irish?” Fulton demanded, and Duncan hid a smile.

“Both,” the agent code named Tamerlan snapped, “and a British agent since the betrayal of the principles of the Republic when the Terror started. It sickened me to my stomach, seeing women and children guillotined, raped, or left for dead in the name of freedom.”

Fulton flushed heavily, as he opened his mouth and closed it.

To mend fences, Duncan said, “Twelve men were sent to the Ambleteuse region to kill the first consul and replace him with a Bourbon prince. Deville worked on them all, and they left France before Bonaparte arrived. Most of them have ties to the British government, and we can't afford to break the peace.”

Fulton frowned. “Then who tried to kill the first consul?”

“I'm assuming an English lord named Camelford,” Alec put in when Duncan didn't want to answer. “He's madder than Bedlam. He ought to have been locked away years ago, but he's first cousin to William Pitt.”

“Ah.” Fulton's voice was rich with irony. “The English aristocracy will protect their own, no matter what the damage to others.”

“Not my family,” Lisbeth murmured. Suspicion shattered, a wineglass with blood-red wine seeping on Fulton's boots. He turned to her, face alive with emotion, but stopped when she looked away to the fire. The lady was fair and cold.

Damage.
And Duncan knew he'd done it to her by his inattention to all but the mission. By trusting Fulton to keep her safe . . . and all to get a damned stupid boat.

“That's where we were yesterday, Lisbeth,” he said, willing her to hear. “If I'd known Delacorte was here, I'd never have left you. I'm sorry.”

She neither moved nor spoke. Her eyes had the blind distance of the night he'd met her.

“Call the right spade, lad.” Alec crossed the room to Lisbeth, but stopped at a safe distance, looking down at her with an odd affection, seeing that he'd only met her yesterday. “Lass, Duncan was near you the whole time until yesterday. I'm sorry, lass. I believe Delacorte took my men so we'd do exactly as we did, and you'd be left exposed.”

No response. Her only movement was breathing, and her fingers, twisting on her lap.

This was
his
fault. He'd relied so heavily on her strength, he'd forgotten she was barely a woman, and one who'd seen more than enough pain. “We came for you the moment we knew.” Duncan halted before naming her again. He had no right. Shoving down the odd ache inside him, he turned to Fulton. “I swore there would be no confiscation of your inventions, and if that means staying aboard ship until we find a safe port for you, so be it. What's important now is getting
into
Boulogne harbor and discovering what Boney's hiding.”

When Fulton didn't answer, Alec shrugged. “By the murder of your younger agents, it's obvious he's got something vital there. His obsession with becoming the next William the Conqueror or Caesar makes it obvious it must be an invasion fleet, or he's preparing for war.” When Fulton made a scoffing sound, Alec grinned instead of taking offense. “Do you deny Boney's attempt in 1798 via Ireland, sir?”

Fulton made a dismissive gesture. “You were at war then.”

“And that excuses invasion, when our army was on the Continent and in Egypt?”

The American shrugged. “It would have ended the war, wouldn't it?”

Duncan snapped, “So it's fine with you that thousands of innocent people die if they're ruled by a king, but not if they are part of a republic? Their lives are worth more to you?”

“He would have
freed
Ireland, Scotland, and Wales from domination!”

“As he freed Piedmont, Parma, Venice, and Switzerland?” Duncan retorted without a trace of mockery evident in his voice. “I'm sure the women of those nations thank Boney daily for the invasion that freed them of their homes, men, possessions, and virtue.”

Fulton flushed and muttered something beneath his breath. “He stopped them as best he could, and you know it—unlike your generals in our war for independence.”

“Bonaparte's preparing for war again. I'm certain of it,” Duncan said quietly, holding Fulton's gaze; but the inventor turned from him, breathing harshly. God help them all, he was going to withdraw his support—

“Your agents were murdered?”

Duncan breathed again in relief. This odd, brilliant girl was saying the right thing at the right time, even through her suffering. “Two of them, both under twenty-five,” he answered, feeling the dull ache grow. “A boy of fourteen is somewhere with that mad lord who likes to kill people he considers beneath them.”

Her face turned, no more than a moment. Eyes still lost, haunted. Looking beyond him to something only she could see. “You used a boy of fourteen.”

He was the one flushing now. “He's my cabin boy. He escaped with Camelford while I was in Abbeville. I didn't know Camelford was on my ship. He posed as a fourth lieutenant.”

A mere shake of her head, and she contemplated the fire again. “Rather than fight over where we can't go with Mr. Fulton's inventions, can't we go to Jersey?”

They all stared at Lisbeth.

“Jersey's an English port, Lisbeth,” Fulton said gently, his eyes softening.

Duncan saw the effort she made to hold her temper in her tightened mouth, her half-curled fists. “Yes, but until we decide on a safe port, or if we do need to work on
Papillon
or
Nautilus,
it's a compromise. The island is close to France, and they're a fiercely independent people. Neither side needs to know we're there. And perhaps it has a shipbuilding port that's no part of the British navy—a private one?”

Though she didn't look at him, Duncan was the one who answered. “Yes, it does.”

She stammered, “Also, would there be a blacksmith willing to take payment to share his forge? If we paid enough, might he give us private space to work without spreading gossip?”

Oh, the clever girl. In a feminine, self-deprecating manner she was wresting control from Fulton and leading the horse to British waters. Hiding a smile, he waited for Fulton to answer.

Fulton conceded, “It's a good compromise for now. Thank you, Lisbeth.”

For the first time since her rescue Lisbeth smiled, humble and shy, her face still half in the shadows. Fulton lit up with warmth. His return smile was tender.

Duncan had no right to know if her feelings for Fulton were pretense for the mission, if the temptation to become respectable was pulling at her, or if she really cared for the man. It was her choice to make, and not her fault that either option made him bloody irritable.

“It's best if I start teaching the two men you choose to take the voyage in
Papillon
now,” Fulton said.

Duncan nodded. “I was thinking of Lieutenant Flynn, and myself, of course. Flynn's a shipbuilder's son and would have some expertise.”

Fulton frowned. “He's almost as tall as you are. Two men of your size could never fit. There'd be no room to operate
Papillon
. If you go, Commander, the second man must be much smaller. Though it would be an advantage if he has the knowledge you mention.”

Duncan sighed. “It's unfortunate that Carlsberg is, ah . . .”

With hidden smiles, the men thought of the plump ship's engineer.

Nobody bothered to ask Fulton to go on the mission. He'd given
Lisbeth the boat to fulfill his own purposes, but made it clear he'd rather die before he helped the empire he despised.

“That lets us out. It's a hard life,” Alec muttered to Cal, mock morose.

Fulton went on, the humor wasted on him. “Don't forget the man you choose must be comfortable in enclosed spaces. It gets very warm inside, and the air tube only lets in a trickle at a time. It's enough to keep two men alive, but if one of you should succumb to panic—”

“I won't panic,” Duncan said curtly.

Alec and Cal stopped sniggering, and he realized—again—the Black Stewarts knew more about his past than he was comfortable with.

“I think you gentlemen are overlooking two—no, three salient points.” When the men turned to Lisbeth, she said in an even tone, “One: I'm small enough to fit. Two: after many weeks of instruction, I have the required knowledge. And three: as
Papillon
's legal owner,
I
am the one with the right to choose my crew.”

Indeed, Fulton had given her a deed to the underwater boat that morning in a private ceremony; but whatever he'd hoped to gain from the gift hadn't materialized. Though touched and grateful, she'd seemed to size Fulton up anew. The girl was nobody's fool—and if Duncan hadn't had prior experience with her unpredictable brilliance and stubborn courage, he thought his jaw would be dropped as low as Fulton's was right now. He felt unwilling awe at her spirit, and an absurd urge to protect her. Absurd because though she'd been through more than enough, he knew she'd still fight him all the way for the right to go on
Papillon
.

Before Duncan could speak, Alec burst into delighted laughter. “Aye, you tell us, lass! It'll teach us to think before dismissing a woman's strength, not to mention property rights.”

Lisbeth grinned at him.

Duncan interjected before Fulton could protest. “Miss Sunderland, while I agree with the owner's right to choose the crew, you also have overlooked a salient point or two.”

Smile fading, she turned to him, brow lifted. “Yes, Commander?”