The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  Her mouth and throat felt rubbed by sand, but in her mind things clicked into place. The strange woman was shielding her from the worst jerking of the coach with her arms and—yes—her bosom; that was the pillow. “What . . . happened to me?”

  “First you need this drink—no, don’t try to sit up, it will make the pain worse.”

  Lisbeth pushed herself away and learned the truth of the woman’s words. Painful nausea; she almost threw up all over her. Aching to take it, she croaked, “No. I won’t take your laudanum.”

  A masculine voice came from the other side of the coach. “I know Andrew and Leo. I also know your friend, the man you call Gaston Borchonne, or perhaps you know him as Tidewater.”

  The French was delivered in the lilting accent of the Scot. When she didn’t open her mouth, the man kept speaking. “Lass, look at me. We’ve never met, but I can prove your friend trusts me.”

  In the uncertain light of the curtained vehicle and another light source—was it a lantern?—she saw only a blur. Blinking, she saw an outline that crystallized into a bulky—no, there were two men—two heads—

  Two almost identical heads. Two men with harsh-featured faces, dark hair, full lips, and dimples in their chins. One face belonged to the speaker; one was the pale, scarred face of her stranger . . . Duncan, if that was really his name. He was sleeping, his head on the Scot’s shoulder.

  It seemed everyone was unfamiliar in this coach. But in the past year she’d learned strangers could be kinder than people she thought she knew.

  The Scot watched her. Like her stranger, his smile didn’t touch his wounded eyes. There were slight differences—the Scot had no scars on his face. He was darker, his cheekbones harder, and his nose more classic—but the resemblance was too strong to deny. “Aye, Duncan’s my brother—my half brother, you English would say. My current assignment is to help him, but when Leo and Andrew discovered I was coming here, they asked me to watch out for you. I’ve been doing that for weeks now, but wasn’t in any position to take you or the child out of Abbeville. I had to wait for Duncan.”

  In those damaged eyes, she read truth. How odd. She’d supposed her stranger to be alone.

  It seemed he read her other, unspoken question. “I became friendly with Leo in particular over a shared liking for euchre, when we were in Neuchâtel. He spoke of you often—they both did. Lizzy the little rebel, they called you. Said you even named your horse Rebel.”

  That he knew her nickname, even the name of her horse, soothed her suspicions. Too exhausted to speak, she opened her mouth.

  “Take care,” the woman said. Moments later, water dribbled down her tongue, and she reveled in the wetness in her mouth and throat. She tasted slight bitterness and closed her mouth.

  “Tell her what is in it,” the woman said. “She has no reason to trust me.”

  “It’s not bad, lass, I promise you. The drops in the water are herbs for pain, and to help you sleep,” the Scot said over the loud rumbling of the coach. “Duncan took it willingly when he woke up. Before long you’ll be anxious to take it, but it will take longer to dim the pain.”

  Duncan. Is it his real name, then? But the drumming on her skull grew insistent; the sharp pains on her face, arm, and shoulder added to the jagged orchestra.

  Duncan slept on the Scot’s shoulder, indicating trust.

  She opened her mouth again and took as much of the laced water as the woman would give her. Eventually her eyes closed again, returning to the welcoming blanket of oblivion.

  WHEN DUNCAN AWOKE, HE was resting against the squabs. The coach door stood open, showing a vista of rivulets and scummy ponds twining through marshy land to the sea. It was late afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, throwing a metallic light on the churning ocean. Thick leaden clouds flew on wings behind, a storm anxious to show its power.

  Men rushed around his biggest rowboats. Cal was barking orders, which everyone obeyed without question. Duncan’s men were setting up makeshift beds between the boats’ benches with spare oars and blankets.

  Too tired to take command, he turned his head. On the opposing squabs, Lisbeth’s head lay on the healer’s breast. What showed of her face around the bandages was porcelain white, her lips pale. Her half-unbound hair tumbled over her shoulder but didn’t disguise the wad of padding beneath. Her arm was under the blankets.

  The woman saw his glance. “We had to leave my house. A neighbor came around, one I do not trust. But your lady has made it so far. I think she will recover.”

  He let out a breath of relief and smiled a little. “Thank you, madame.”

  “You’re in pain.” In the light of day, she was still beautiful, in the calm, ancient manner of a woman familiar with suffering. “Your brother has everything in hand. Makeshift beds are in place for your lady and yourself on the rowboats. Take this if you wish to make the night tide, Monsieur Stewart.”

  Considering she’d been awake over a day treating himself and Lisbeth, the woman’s serenity was remarkable. He took the medicine without argument, thanking her.

  “I shall visit Valery-sur-Somme in the coach, procuring herbs. This is why I hired the coach. A broken coach wheel lies on the road to Valery to explain my late arrival and decision to stay the night.”

  It was a good plan. Unable to think of anything to change he said, “The name Stewart . . .”

  The woman seemed to understand. “The Bonnie Prince and his cousins left behind many children with his name who never returned to Scotland. It’s safe to use the name here.”

  Unsure how to answer, his gaze drifted back to Lisbeth.

  Again the woman said, “Your lady will recover. She has survived the rowboat, the sewing I performed, and this coach ride, which says much for her constitution, and her courage.”

  She’s not my lady. It was too much to explain. He was just glad she was alive.

  “Your brother has the tinctures you’ll need, including lavender to prevent infection in your wounds. I advise you to take everything as required, monsieur. The sooner you recover, the sooner you can take command of your ship.”

  “My sincere thanks for all you’ve done,” he said, finding his voice at last.

  “I’ll have herbs to last the winter, and my cellar will be full of vegetables.” She grinned, and that mature loveliness sprang to life. “Your brother has been generous with your purse.”

  “I’m certain he has been, madame . . . and you deserve it all and more.”

  “I’d have done the same without payment, monsieur. I know of this poor girl—and her husband. I’ve treated some of his victims.” As Clare looked at the girl, Duncan saw Lisbeth through the older woman’s eyes: delicate porcelain, ready to shatter with a touch. When had she last had a good meal or been able to just rest through the night without fear?

  “Delacorte’s father was loved in Abbeville. He would be distressed to see his son’s fall.” A curious heaviness rested in her eyes: the ageless grief of the Madonna portraits. “Do not let him raise her child, monsieur. I’ve seen his descent since his father went to the guillotine.”

  He didn’t know what to say, what promises to make.

  Suddenly he remembered his contempt when Alec told him the Stewarts had tried to rescue him from Annersley’s clutches. For the first time he realized the sheer enormity of what he’d expected the Stewarts to do—to steal a little boy in a medieval stronghold filled with servants. His men had it tough enough retrieving Lisbeth’s son from a much smaller place.

  Clare peered out the door. “If she wakes on the journey to the ship, dose her with this tincture. Do you have a nailed-down bed in your quarters?”

  Fighting an urge to apologize, he shook his head.

  She frowned. “Ask your sailors to nail down some high-backed chairs either side of the hammock, wedging it tightly, and cover her with blankets tucked between for extra tightness and weight. You and she both must be as still as possible for at least a week.”

  Cal stepped halfway into the coach and put
his arms out for Lisbeth. “I’ve already given your orders. Don’t worry so, Clare . . . uh, Madame Faîchot.”

  There were definite undercurrents in that verbal fumble. Flicking a glance from one to the other, Duncan knew where Cal had spent his lonelier nights during the past few months.

  After Lisbeth was in his arms Cal said, “Burton will help you to the launch, lad. I’ll get the lass settled on the ship.” He stepped down to the ground, cradling Lisbeth in his arms like a newborn babe. “I’ll join your men in Eaucourt while you take her home. Tell her the boy will be with her in England as soon as I can rescue him. I wouldn’t leave a dog with Delacorte and his poor mother.”

  Duncan nodded. There was no point in telling him Lisbeth wasn’t going home yet. “My thanks, Cal—and from Lisbeth, if she knew.”

  Lisbeth hasn’t agreed, the voice of his long-dormant conscience nagged. But she will, the agent answered himself. She’ll have her child. Whether she hates me or not doesn’t matter.

  “No need to thank me, lad,” Cal said crisply, as he bore his burden toward the launch. “It’s the Black Stewart way. You’ll learn in time.”

  Duncan fought the urge to growl. What was the point? No doubt Cal was like his twin in the deafness that overtook Alec whenever Duncan said something he didn’t want to hear.

  With Clare’s hands at his back, he hobbled down the stairs. Leaning heavily on Burton, he made it to the launch without breaking open his wound. He hoped to God Lisbeth made it, too, or the mission would end in disaster. Everything was in place except her.

  He had to force the issue now.

  CHAPTER 18

  Rue Saint-Nicaise, Paris

  August 28, 1802

  CAMELFORD HAD KNOWN THAT woman was trouble from the moment he’d seen her in Duchess Gordon’s house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré yesterday. He’d tipped the footman well to let him listen outside the door for a few minutes. It had been enough. The Recamier woman worked for dear Cousin Will, who had set up the Alien Office back in ’93.

  He’d been following the Recamier woman since she’d left the Gordon house yesterday. By now he was certain she knew it and was leading him a merry dance across Paris, shopping, meeting friends, riding in the park. He was even more sure that the meeting she’d had with Will’s precious Alien Office agents had already taken place under his nose.

  No chance of blackmailing her for information, then. He didn’t let it worry him. He’d find a way. He always did.

  Crossing another bridge, they were in the rue Saint-Nicaise, by the Tuileries Palace—the seat of Boney’s power. In dangerous waters now since he’d been deported in April and told not to return to France, with posters of his memorable face to prove it. He felt no concern. He knew his worth, what he could do, the lines he could cross with impunity. They turned into the side alley, the rue de Malte, cramped and dark, with buildings overhanging the cobbled alley like a threat. This was where fifty or more people had died two years ago: the infamous Christmas Eve assassination attempt. More power to whoever did it. It was a shame they hadn’t killed Boney and his trash wife along with the guttersnipes who played in the street late at night.

  Halfway down, Madame Recamier turned. “I believe we’ve played this game long enough, Lord Camelford. What is it you want of me, and why should I give it to you?”

  Camelford grinned down at that exquisite but lowborn face, unmoved by anything but amusement. She played the French noble lady very well, but like an ape taught to imitate its betters, he sensed something just a little off in the performance. He drew her to the side of the alley beneath a sagging old extension of a medieval row house. “Have you informed my cousin as to my current whereabouts yet?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

  She didn’t seem in the least intimidated by him—a novel experience. Since it was obvious by his continued freedom, he asked, “Why hasn’t he given orders to take me?”

  A simple Gallic shrug. She must have been in France some time, then. She knew why Will hadn’t had him taken, but she wasn’t about to tell him. The air around this woman shimmered with well-honed talent. Whoever she was, this Incomparable, she had Will’s confidence—and that was hard to obtain. He had proof of that.

  Hiding his irritation, he asked, “Where have you hidden the real Madame Recamier? Or did you marry the poor fool for protection? Does he believe you’re a real lady, or does he look the other way for gold?”

  The shot went wide of his intended mark. She merely smiled.

  Ah, this woman would be a small challenge. She’d won the first round and was pushing her power today; but breeding always won out in the end. Without warning, he murmured, “Have you yet discovered what day the Corsican will be in Boulogne-sur-Mer?”

  Again, he was disappointed by the simple shrug and smile. “I have no interest in it, Lord Camelford. My work is here in Paris.”

  “Liar,” he returned, wanting to strangle the pretty whore. “I know who you are—Sylvie. I saw papers in my cousin’s study.”

  The pretty bitch laughed, waved, and walked away, with no fear that he’d follow or hurt her. Caring not the snap of her fingers for his threats.

  Why that convinced him to leave her alone, he didn’t know.

  He turned, left the rue de Malte and went out of the rue Saint-Nicaise to the rue Saint-Honoré, straight and wide, where he hailed a hackney. “Rue de Miromesnil, Faubourg Saint-Honoré,” he snapped, after he’d wiped the dirty seat with his handkerchief.

  He’d get the information he needed, one way or another. Lady Georgiana, so new to Cousin Will’s game, would be easier to pump. He needed the date, and he needed it now.

  Fontaine, France

  August 31, 1802

  In the glimmering mist of a river valley sunset, Clare alighted from the coach at the crossroads halfway up the hill above her house and asked the driver to leave everything outside the door.

  Only when he’d gone did she open the door of the farmhouse nestled deep in the valley.

  She’d sent Cal to Eaucourt to meet his brother’s men. Unlike the child, she could look after herself, she’d said—and Delacorte wouldn’t be coming this way until he’d healed.

  The truth was simpler. She knew an injured, furious Delacorte would be here and would kill Cal the moment he walked in. If Cal died, his brothers would start a private war of vengeance; and if the Stewarts lost, the English girl’s son would grow up to become a monster.

  Or maybe, like her child, he wouldn’t grow up at all.

  She’d lived, loved, lost a child, made mistakes. Lisbeth’s son deserved the same rights.

  There was no sign of light in the wattle-and-daub house built by her ancestors; all was silent. After bringing in her packages, she closed the kitchen door. A slight rustling sounded.

  She lit the lantern on the wide, polished mantel and opened the wick for more light. Then she turned to look at the man standing behind the door. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Delacorte.”

  In reply he gave her a blinding smile. “Clare, ma chère, must we be so formal?”

  He must be desperate for information, if he was playing the angel with her. “Alain,” she conceded in a reluctant way, as if he had the power to hurt her. He liked that—and he never understood why he lost that power so easily with his lovers.

  Five years ago she’d thought herself in love. Then he’d lost patience with her canary’s twittering and broke its neck. Sickened, she’d ended it; but when he saw she’d lost her blinders about him, he’d beaten her until he’d taken their unborn daughter’s life.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said now.

  “Long enough.” Bright eyes touched with turbulent clouds. “May I sit?”

  Cal had told her that he’d shot Delacorte in the leg. “Of course.”

  “I have no desire to crick my neck looking up at you.” He waved a hand at a second chair as if it was his permission to give. He fell into the chair, slow and awkward.

&nb
sp; She’d better tread with caution. A poor loser with a propensity for hurting others made a formidable enemy.

  “You’ve been away overnight. So many purchases?”

  She smiled at the sacks she’d brought in. “I needed these things for women in travail.”

  His brows lifted. “Ma chère, whom did you treat to gain so much coin? Who accompanied you in the coach, and where did you take them?”

  Her gaze lifted to his. He wasn’t even taking the time to play with her, to make her afraid. He truly was desperate. “An injured Jacobin. There was some kind of confrontation with the gendarmes three days ago. It took so many medicines to save him, I needed to replenish. He was from Valery, so I accompanied him and stayed the night.”

  He smiled. “Madame Fournier told me she heard many voices in the coach—including a woman speaking in English. A woman who I hear has a strong resemblance to my wife.”

  Expecting something of this kind, she made no answer. Delacorte’s wife had cried out in English when the jolting of the coach hurt her—but her neighbors couldn’t possibly have heard it from the road. Nor could they have seen the girl, bundled up as she was in a blanket.

  One of Cal’s brother’s men was in Delacorte’s pay . . . or worse, a French patriot. That kind—like Alain—betrayed and killed their fellow man without the slightest twinge of conscience. They believed in whatever cause they had with the same fervor as the old Inquisitors.

  Alain was using her neighbors’ coveting of her land to protect the man.

  Clare knew from that moment. Alain couldn’t afford to let her live—but then, she’d known he’d kill her as soon as he found out she’d saved his wife and his enemy.

  “Did you see the Reynard trap passing you as you headed for Valery? Farmer Reynard saw you with two dark men and a blond young woman,” Delacorte said. “Who were they, ma chère? Did they give you their names, or did you not need to ask?”

  He wasn’t approaching the point slowly as he always had before, enjoying the cat-and-mouse chase. He’d betrayed Fouché; he must be frantic to clean the mess he’d made, to rid himself of everyone who could tell the truth. He’d have to start running, and soon.