The Tide Watchers (35 page)

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.

He hadn't noticed her using it before he'd sent her to Fulton. Had he given it to her?

She's probably using the rest of the bottle Clare sent for her injuries.
A comfortable conviction—but he wished he'd thought to buy her some kind of personal gift. The only things he'd given her were for the mission.
Nightwear that embarrassed her,
she'd said.

This had to be the strangest courtship in the history of mankind, if it was a courtship at all. She still hadn't accepted him, or rejected him. Or Fulton.

He struggled to concentrate on her lesson.

“The lever opens a small hatch beneath
Papillon
to let water in to fill the space beneath the floor. The weight of the water submerges us. It's a tiny keel, so we can only submerge six feet, four knots on the rope. We have to peg the air hose shut when we submerge, and then blow the seawater out of the hose when we emerge again. It's best to keep close to the surface, to keep a supply of fresh air. We need to follow the tidal eddy.” In the light of the lantern, she frowned. “If Fulton had given us the breathing apparatus he'd been working on . . .”

“Yes,” he agreed, trying not to be distracted by the swish and slide of her hair, the riband barely holding her braid together. Maybe he could rebraid it later, the intimacy of bumping his fingers against her skin.

He'd never seen her hair in a mess since the day she'd fainted on the path. Fulton must have dressed her until she'd healed. No wonder he'd given her
Papillon
. If he'd felt half the tenderness she'd roused in
him
when he'd dressed her—seeing the life-threatening injuries that
made it impossible for her to dress herself for weeks; her delicacy, the desperate embarrassment—yes, the plan had gone perfectly. That they were sitting inside
Papillon
now was proof. Lisbeth had all the makings of a brilliant spy. If she didn't have the child—

“What did you say?” he asked too late.

“It's not important.” She was peering through the tiny window. “The tide's rising. If it grows stronger, we'll be in trouble. Let's try the pump.”

At least she hadn't laughed at him, but the irony
was
laughable. Just five weeks ago he'd seen the luminous desire in her eyes and pushed her away for the sake of the mission. Now, when he'd finally allowed himself to admit his feelings, to propose to her, her whole concentration was on the mission. His desire awoke only as hers died.

With a tight jaw he turned to the pump. It was like a bilge pump on a ship, but using it while sitting in a cramped position, fighting the tide, brought on a slight panic that they'd sink beneath the waves if he got it wrong. He felt them submerging, knew in his mind that this was the desired result, but he couldn't stop his mind from chanting the names.

The Mary Rose. The Flying Dutchman. The White Ship.

He didn't want to lie forever at the bottom of the ocean like those famous shipwrecks. Neither did he want to be a hero like Nelson or St. Vincent. If this mission was successful, he'd be a nameless “discovered by” in someone's files, but he'd know.

“You've turned too far south.”

“I know, but it's hard to use the rudder and pump together effectively.” He sounded like Hazeltine when his third lieutenant first became part of his team, and made excuses for his little failures.

He frowned. Hazeltine's clumsiness of word and deed . . . accidentally giving information away . . . turning the rowboat by seeming accident as he had the day he'd been shot—

“Then we've learned to use only one of those two at a time when possible.” The words slid into his thoughts and scattered them. She spoke French, as they'd agreed to do during the mission; but the slight
rasp in her English vanished, turning her voice melodious and fluid.

Damned irritating to be so distracted by her. He forced his focus onto the task at hand. “We're five feet under. The craft feels strained. Bring her back up to two feet to go forward.”

When they were at two feet, she pulled the peg from the air tube and blew the water out. Even the trickle of air coming in through the hose refreshed the cabin, if only a little.

“Now we're at sea, you should take the propellers, Commander. You'll get us there faster. I'll use the rudder and pump.”

“Duncan,” he reminded her yet again.

She nodded, frowning. “We should stop speaking. The air grows warmer as we submerge, and we need to check the surface for ships before we can open the hatch.”

He gave up. He'd created this distance, now he was stuck with it. “Let's go as far as we can before emerging again.”

“That's sensible. Underwater,
Papillon
's movements are smoother and faster.”

She'd already moved on to the next task, and the little craft moved in time to the combined symphony of wave and woman.
Papillon
was created for this kind of motion, and Lisbeth, with her quick intelligence, lively curiosity, and heedlessness of social norms, had been born to take her. Bringing her into his world had been the blindest stroke of luck he'd had in the game. Now he'd trust the instinct he'd had about her from the first and give her the lead. He learned to follow her hand movements and obeyed her while keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts under firm control.

The ship's mole watched the commander's brother deciphering the semaphore from where he lay flat on the upper deck.

It gave the code name three times, then said,
Messages still being passed to the French. Change the signalers. The sous-préfet has gendarmes everywhere in town. Do not enter.

The mole smiled. Even if Stewart could send a message, it was hours too late to warn the commander and Delacorte's blond leftovers. They wouldn't see it.

Then he frowned. Delacorte had killed Peebles almost a month ago. So who was in Boulogne working against him? He had to be found and killed. Until then, he dared give no message even if he could. He had to wait until they were in Jersey.

English Channel, French Waters (Inside
Papillon
)

November 2, 1802

F
OUR HOURS LATER, DUNCAN
was hunched over almost double as he tried to peer through the tiny window at the top of the dome. “We seem no closer to land than two hours ago.”

“We can't fight the tide.” Lisbeth was too tired for anything but truth. “That's why we started so far north, to have drifting miles. I think we're south of Wimereux. Can you see land?”

“I think you're right, but this is taking too long.” He was bent so far over, his voice came warped by the dome and the smacking waves. “We won't make Boulogne harbor by sunset.”

“The tide will turn. We'll go faster then.” Lisbeth was miles past amusement at his grumbling. Though it made him human, she was too aware of her own fragility at this point.

At first the awareness of his closeness made concentration a struggle. For the mission's sake she pushed away all thoughts of him as anything but her commander and limited her conversation to teaching him. His subtle irritation at her distance was perversely pleasing.

After being locked inside
Papillon
for hours, reality set in, and her body's needs became so urgent, she got over the embarrassment of using the chamber pot with him there. Though the air tube was above the waves, only a trickle of air entered—enough to breathe, but the capsule felt like an oven. They came up for air every hour, but within minutes of submerging, the heat, the smell of sweat, and their irritation swamped them.

Duncan kept watching for ships as he turned the propellers, find
ing it easier to go by sight than by compass. Then he snapped, “Avast and submerge!”

She worked the pump and rudder to stop, turn, and dive while he cranked the propellers, but
Papillon
rocked so hard he walloped his shoulder on the propeller lever and fell. He swore as she landed on him. “What is it?” she cried as she scrambled up, hanging onto the copper pipe for dear life.

“Cannonballs. We're close by one of Boney's new gun batteries along the coast. They probably test their cannons every day at this time. Submerge faster, for God's sake. If one hits us, we're dead.”

She fought to keep them deep below the waterline as deadly hail hit the water above and around them, and
Papillon
became a crazed pendulum.
If we're hit, I can use the flotsam to hold on to . . . at least my skirts and petticoats do not hamper me now
. . .

Unfortunately for her dignity, her stomach decided to upend itself all over the floor. “Don't touch it now,” he snapped when she moved to clean it. “We can do it later. Hold to the pump and rudder!”

At last they passed the gun battery, but they kept working the levers in suffocating darkness. Too little light filtered in from the observation dome, but they had to keep the lantern for when full darkness came.

“We've passed the danger. Emerge,” Duncan said a few minutes later, voice harsh.

Lisbeth frowned. “Are you sure we've passed?”

“Right now I don't care if a bloody bomb hits us. I have to breathe!”

“Stubble it, Commander,” she snapped, using a cant term she'd learned from Leo and Andrew. “We'll emerge to the level of sight and make certain we're safe.”

The hard words brought him back to himself. He shook, like a dog throwing water off its fur, but he snapped right back, “For God's sake, call me Duncan. We're clear.”

“Thank heaven for that—Duncan,” Lisbeth conceded, glad they could open the hatch and breathe clean air, untainted by vomit. It was humiliating to have to clean the mess by hand, scooping it into the
chamber pot and then rinsing the floor with water, but he said nothing.

An hour later, he snarled, “I'm cooking inside this thing, and it stinks. We need to rinse it again.”

Embarrassed that the vile smell was her fault, she snapped as his hands lifted to the hatch, “No! We're just outside Boulogne.”

“All the more reason to do it now, before we hit the patrols.”

She tried to clear her mind, but it was fixed on reaching her goal, one task at a time.
Turn and crank. Check the pump. Turn and crank.
And the waves splashed and the tide rocked them, and no matter how many peppermint sticks she sucked on, she wanted to throw up again. “If we don't emerge above the line of the screws, you'll drown us both. I understand your panic—”

“I never panic.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I can't bear the smell.”

“I understand.” She bit back a smile. “I'd kill for fresh air myself. Let's raise
Papillon
to the surface, but check the window first.”

“It's too close to sunset, which means they won't see us.” He hit his head on the edge of the observation dome and swore with vicious fluency in three languages.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Sit down and work the pump.” But he grabbed the pump lever too hard; the craft jerked upward, and they tumbled off the bench. He swore again. “Raise handsomely,” she snapped, using one of the nautical terms he'd taught her yesterday, which meant to go smooth and even. “Unless of course you
want
to drown.”

He slowed his movements without a sound.

She peered through the observation window and made a stifled sound. “We're too close to shore.” She took control of the rudder handle and steered
Papillon
back on a southwesterly course. “Avast
now,
or we'll founder on the rocks.”

Duncan stopped, then turned the craft in the semisilence of wave and wind and cranking levers. He was dying to put her in her place, which was ridiculous, because this
was
her place. He'd sent her to Fulton to become an expert, now he resented that she'd done just that.

Using the rudder and pump, one held hard in place, one slowly lifting, she asked to distract him, “Why do you want to marry me?”

His body was right beside hers, so she felt him go still.

It was obvious he didn't want to answer. “You can't expect me to decide on something that will change my life knowing only half the story. So let's talk. We could die in this thing.”

After a few moments, he said, “We will not die.”

“Are you a prophet now, too?” she taunted. “It seems sharing anything of yourself with me terrifies you. If I know the truth, where will you hide from me?” With a lifting of one shoulder, she continued working the propeller with both hands. “If that's your first priority, what incentive do I have to agree to be your wife?”

“A logical argument,” he muttered, sounding petulant. But he didn't say more, and she knew he wouldn't unless she goaded him into it.

“I realize how hard it is for you to trust me,” she said, slow and cutting. “But this mission will only last a day or two. You're asking me to give you my life. I don't know anything about you apart from your name and title, and what school you attended. I don't know why your brothers have a different name than you, or why you wanted to marry a girl you'd never met. I don't even know how you met my father.”

“He came to Harrow, to watch Leo playing cricket. I was on the team.”

Intense disappointment filled her when he said no more. “So I've risked my life for you, and you refuse to trust me beyond a game of cricket? There's your answer, Commander.”

“If you've risked your life for me, I've saved yours three times now. That ought to inspire trust at least.” He sounded furious.

“Thank you—but you still say nothing of real value,” she said coldly. “You're cranking the propellers backward, and they're fighting the pump. We're going nowhere.”

Hastily he revised his actions, swearing again.

She sighed. “How about this: I bow with appropriate feminine submission whenever your masculine esteem demands it, and you'll allow me to do the job for which I have been trained. Does that work
for you . . . Duncan?” she asked with mock sweetness, lowering her face until her nose almost touched her knees.

A stifled sound greeted her parody of a bow. “That has to be the least graceful show of respect I've seen in a long time.”

“Why, thank you. And how many prospective fiancées or wives have you had to judge on this matter? Are you a pasha now?” she teased, hoping to see a smile in return. Disappointed yet again, she had to reach over his body to take over the pump. “Remember, this is how it's done on
Papillon
. It's the opposite of your ship, I gather.” She kept pumping until she heard the swish and slide of water leaving the hull. “We're above the tide now, I think. Would you like to—”

Like lightning he opened the hatch, his head and shoulders through the aperture. “Ah, winter, I never knew how I love your cold air,” he mumbled, and breathed a few more times.

“I might love it too, if I could take any in,” she groused. “The sooner you sit and allow the air in here, the sooner we can be on our way. Don't forget that the rocks still exist. Keep working the propellers!”

The air must have cooled his temper, for he laughed as he took control of the propeller cranks. It was only a quick chuckle, and by the time he sat, no trace remained of it; yet the low rumbling sound lifted her mood to almost ridiculous proportions.

“Oh, that's so good,” she breathed as the cool air rushed in. Then the frigid air filled the cabin, and she shivered with the fast change from overheated to cold.

“Wear this until we close the hatch.” He tossed her cloak over her, and then, when she shivered still, threw his over her shoulders as well. “We need the clean air to keep going. Stand and stretch your muscles for as long as you can. But come about; we're drifting to shore.”

A few minutes later, cabin as clean as they could make it, Duncan locked the hatch, and they headed south once more.

“I'm Lord Annersley's heir, but he isn't my father,” he said as he took his turn at the rudder and pump. “Broderick Stewart was my real father, but he couldn't marry my mother, at least not using his real
name. He was an outlaw, having fought on the wrong side at Culloden when he was fourteen. He escaped to France and Rome afterward with the Pretender and married Alec and Cal's mother there. She died in childbirth, and he sent the twins to his family in Scotland. Eventually he became disenchanted with the Pretender's drinking and self-pity and returned to Britain, where he met your father. Eddie gave him work as a King's Man under a cover name. When he met my mother—she was a chambermaid at an inn—he resigned.” When she didn't speak, he went on. “They went to Norfolk a month before I was born. Annersley—he has one of the Old Saxon baronies, with a different name to the title—fought the Stewart clan at Culloden. When he saw them, he recognized the Black Stewart face—you've seen we're all rather alike. Annersley saw his chance to gain an heir he hadn't been able to get through three wives, and he betrayed my father to the magistrate. Stewart was hanged two weeks before I was born. My mother wed Annersley to give me a name and a place. When I was born, Annersley paid her to disappear without me. She left within a week of my birth. So I'll inherit the barony legally. Annersley named himself my father in the church records.”

Lisbeth blinked, then opened her mouth and closed it. Like champagne shaken and uncorked, information exploded over her until she felt drenched in it, unable to find her bearings. “I see.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

The odd, laughing demand made her turn to look at his face around the pole dividing them. Like him, really. Split in two, half of him keeping secrets and the other half throwing them at her in warm laughter. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Oh, so polite. Thank you for telling me,” he mimicked her, laughing still. She couldn't work out what he was hiding behind it. “I'll understand if your answer remains the same. Most ladies prefer their husbands to be of the legitimate variety.”

She tossed off the cloaks as sweat trickled down her back. “You are legitimate. You just said so.” She half stood and looked outside. “We're too close to land.”

He changed tack. “Some women might want to see me as legitimate . . . those who'd like to be elevated to the peerage, for example.”

“Thank you,” she replied, hurt. “If that's what you think of me—”

“It isn't. Lisbeth, I'm sorry.” His hand touched hers. “If you were that kind of woman, you'd have accepted me right away. I'm irritable and sore, and dying to stand upright again. Walk a few steps. Have a cool drink of ale.” His face came around the pole, wearing a rueful smile. “Despite my boast of being able to bear confined places, I'm drowning in my own sweat and constantly fighting against being sick, and taking it out on you.”

She smiled back, feeling oddly shy. She loved it when he looked at her like that. How weak and foolish she was. “Have another peppermint.”

He took the confection but returned to hold her hand. “Forgive me?”

She could only nod.

“Thank you.” He lifted her hand to his mouth.

Such a simple thing, a kiss on her knuckles, one she'd known a hundred times from a hundred gentlemen during her brief Season. Until now, none had made her heart stutter and her breath catch and her gaze cling to him as if he'd just changed the world.

He lifted the lantern before turning back to her, touching her cheek. “Poor, battered little face. You've endured so much, and still you fought to come with me. You're the strongest woman I've ever known.”

When he smiled at her, she forgot her body was cooking inside the cramped confines, forgot to work the rudder. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her breath came in rapid spurts. He dropped her hand and leaned back so his upper body was behind the pole—and she could only smile as his hand cupped the back of her neck, bringing her to him.