by Lisa Chaplin
Her head was jerked back by her hair. “You’ve been thinking too long.”
When had he risen from the chair? How had he moved so fast?
Alain was smiling down at her, almost fondly. “Oui, I fooled you with an exaggerated show of my injury. Your friend didn’t hurt me as much as he’d hoped.” He sighed. “It’s a shame. I quite liked you, if not your stupid canary.” The touch of cold on her neck was too rounded to be a knife. A pistol. “Tell me where they went, the people who traveled with you, if you don’t want your head left in pieces around the room.”
Two Hours Later
Delacorte was too intent on torturing Clare to notice the shadow at the kitchen window.
A glance told Cal it was too late to save her. She had dozens of cuts to her face and body, two black eyes and a broken nose. Her hair was hacked off on one side, her dress in shreds. God alone knew what else he’d done to her before making the cuts—and there was a deep puncture wound in her belly. Unlike Fouché, who was devoted to his ugly wife, Delacorte enjoyed inflicting pain on women who’d once loved him.
Clare lifted her head. Cal drew back before Delacorte’s gaze followed hers, but she mouthed one word. Please.
He’d seen the same look in Rose’s eyes when he’d begged her to live. Sweat trickled down his face; his muscles ached and his stomach cramped.
She screamed, and Cal’s eyes snapped open. Delacorte had sliced her stomach. He asked another question. Cut her belly farther open until her innards spilled out. Though her eyes were shut, her mouth moved. Please.
Forgive me for making you wait, Clare. Forgive me for leaving you in the first place. He lifted his pistol, pressed it against the glass, took careful aim, and shot her in the heart.
Clare died before the glass shards cut into her face—and Delacorte turned in time for shattered glass to rain over his face and arms. As the dirty bastard screamed, Cal fired another shot, this time at his other leg, in the knee. Delacorte fell to the ground, clutching his leg and holding his face, which had several deep cuts. From now on, he wouldn’t be so pretty. Nor would he be chasing Duncan’s lass for weeks to come . . . if he lived.
By God, Cal wanted nothing more than to kill him—but his orders had been reinforced by both Zephyr and Pitt himself. We’ve learned he’s a go-between in the war between Bonaparte and Fouché—and he has vital knowledge. He doesn’t die until we know what it is.
He could do it now, get the information through the same kind of pain the bastard had just inflicted on Clare—but that could put Duncan’s mission in jeopardy through their resemblance. Both he and Duncan had been seen with Clare. Remaining hidden for now meant the finger of blame for the shooting would likely fall on the Jacobins, or the gendarmes—but the days of the Stewart brothers giving each other an alibi were over.
Cal hoped the knee injury turned septic and poisoned Delacorte, except that dying of wound fever wasn’t enough. If ever a man deserved to be hanged, shot, beheaded—all three would be better, with his head left on a bloody pike—but Delacorte didn’t deserve such a quick death.
Shaking, Cal turned away. “One day, I’ll kill you.”
Norfolk, England
September 2, 1802
In the light of the blazing fire, Sir Edward Sunderland held his wife’s hand. “You look lovely today, Caroline.”
Caroline’s face lit with a ghost of her crooked half smile. “Thank you, Edward.”
Was it a lie, when she looked as lovely as a memory lost in a pale winter morning, a flower wilting in unending frost? The wasting disease was inexorable, stealing piece by piece the crooked beauty he’d loved for thirty-five years. The profusion of hothouse flowers in the room and the lavender water sprinkled over the cushions and bedding didn’t stifle the faint scent of decay.
He’d taken her to the best doctors in Harley Street, but nothing any of them tried had reversed it. “It’s in the bones, Sir Edward. It’s just a matter of months.”
Caroline saw him thinking again. Her smile faded, and with her fair skin and white hair, she was almost lost in the pillows. “You didn’t write to her, did you, or tell Duncan.” It wasn’t a question. She knew.
He couldn’t look into his wife’s face and lie as he always had before, not when every word they spoke could be the last. “No,” he said hoarsely.
Her hand trembled in his before she tried to squeeze his fingers. Tried and failed, just bent them over his. “Please, Edward. Please.”
For nearly forty years the King’s Man had put king and country before life, love, and family. When Delacorte outwitted him, he’d even sacrificed his only daughter to keep the country safe. But looking into Caroline’s eyes, he knew that Lizzy hadn’t been the only one to pay the price. Lizzy’s ghost was killing Caroline with her loss.
“Leo and Andrew are coming tomorrow with Marian and Rachel,” he said in a bright voice—but though Leo and Andrew visited regularly with their new wives, they could hardly bear looking at the ruin their mother had become.
Her eyes closed. Tears trickled from the outer corners. Her hand went limp in his. “I’m tired now.”
Caroline’s dying, and I refuse her the only thing she’s asked of me in years. What sort of husband am I? What kind of father, to leave my child in France unprotected?
Again the temptation ate at him to bring Lizzy back. Again he saw thousands of innocent faces, and his wife’s dear face struggled to be seen in the crowd of soldiers and sailors who’d die. Wives and children left destitute by war. How could he choose a few days of happiness for his wife, balanced against the wives, mothers, and children who’d lose much more? Lizzy had made her choice. It was too much to ask tens of soldiers to go and retrieve her, to allow their wives and children to suffer. At least Duncan had no one to mourn his loss—
Good God, what sort of man have I become, to sacrifice the lad who’s like a son to me?
All he knew was that he couldn’t go to France. If Lizzy’s loss was killing Caroline, his wife’s loss was killing him in turn. Why had he never realized how much he loved Caroline until he knew he was going to lose her? Why was it only now he sacrificed everything to be with her?
It was glorious retribution, looking at the wraith his wife had become. He no longer knew if Caroline accepted his higher calling, or believed he too had made sacrifices. He didn’t even know if Caroline still loved him. For years, all Caroline wanted was for him to be home; but since Lizzy had gone, all she’d wanted was for him to go. Since Caroline became sick, all she’d wanted was for him to take himself, his love, and his guilt off to perdition elsewhere.
Damn it, Lizzy, if you hadn’t scarpered off with that piece of French trash—
When he reached the door, Caroline said in a weary voice, “Stop it, Edward. Alain Delacorte is as well born as you or I, and I knew I was ill before Lizzy left.”
A knife twisted in his guts. Another fact the brilliant King’s Man hadn’t known about his own family. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t want to know,” she whispered. “You never wanted to know.”
The old brass doorknob was suddenly fascinating. He couldn’t look away from it.
“You’ll need her when I’m gone. If you don’t tell her now, she won’t forgive you.”
He didn’t know how to answer. The daughter he barely knew had become the invisible barrier between them. Lizzy the charming rebel, daring and self-willed, always refusing to become a lady; a fearless, honest girl, too damned clever for her own good. But Caroline adored her, and his wife had no one else. The boys overindulged and petted Lizzy when they were home, so it was up to him to punish her in some half-cocked manner on the rare occasions he was home, seeing she was becoming spoiled.
Well, Lizzy had turned out to be her father’s daughter, and no mistake. Despite numerous beatings, she’d refused Delacorte’s demands to return home to spy on her family. No matter how Delacorte abused her, her loyalty held true.
But Duncan’s letter of yester eve had trul
y shocked him.
Her baby taken from her, working as a damned tavern wench, attacked and set up for murder, and still she’d found an escape tunnel and outwitted the notoriously paranoid Jacobins. Leo and Andrew were loyal and solid operatives—but it had to be Lizzy who’d inherited his talent for espionage, coupled with her own reckless courage and unpredictable brilliance; and because she was a woman, she was suffering for it.
Why couldn’t she have stayed home, married well, and remained safe, like her mother? All the pain and trouble she’d caused . . .
He sprawled on his favored chair in his library, mouth-breathing in the first sip of his fine brandy purloined from France during his last mission. A scratch at the door; his butler Conway came in, bearing the customary silver salver. “A note has come from France, Sir Edward.”
He stood, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”
The note was short.
For God’s sake, Eddie, tell me if Lady Sunderland is seriously ill. I’m currently anchored by Portsmouth but must return to France. I can put Lisbeth to port for you to collect her. I need a young, pretty woman of her strength and intelligence for my mission, but she’s badly injured, as yesterday’s missive informed you. I’m waiting on your order. If I don’t hear by return post within three days, I’ll take it as permission to make use of her.
His stomach clamped. He hurt from his eyeballs to his toenails. Little Lizzy . . .
When had he moved? He felt his face heat to burning point, watching the letter curl and shrivel in the heart of the fire before he realized he was leaning on the mantel.
CHAPTER 19
The English Channel
September 3, 1802
LISBETH WOKE IN THE middle of a dry retch.
The cabin was warm and airless. She longed to get up, run outside, and just breathe; but every time she tried to get out of the hammock the ship rolled, pain ripped through her body, and she fell back, defeated. Every so often in the past few hours—or days, she didn’t know—someone had dribbled a small amount of fluid down her throat, fed her soup, or helped her to the water closet before she fell asleep again.
But now it was air she needed, craved, and—
“Ah, you’re awake.”
She frowned with the sense of the unfamiliar, until she realized it was because he’d spoken English. It had been so long since she’d heard her native tongue. After a moment she murmured, “Scottish man . . . said he was your brother.”
“Yes, he did.” Three stark words, no confirmation, no denial.
Ah, the keeping of secrets, that at least was familiar. He’d become the stranger once more, obviously for some purpose.
She turned her head. He was lying in a hammock beside her—but clad in the stark, neat clothing of the naval officer, his hair pulled back in a riband, he’d taken on yet another persona. Who was he now? Did he have yet another name to give her?
She swallowed. “I need, um . . .”
“Of course, but we have only a chamber pot in a rigged water closet. I’m sorry for the discomfort.” As he swung out of the hammock the ship rolled. He staggered, gripping the chair.
To her surprise, it didn’t tip over, or even move. She tried to peer over the edge of her hammock, but pain tore through her, and she fell back with a gasp.
“Move very carefully at all times, madame. Your left arm’s strapped to your body. Your shoulder must remain immobile until the wound heals. You’re recovering from wound fever.”
Refusing defeat, she turned her head until the discomfort bordered on pain. She saw two chairs on either side of his hammock, still even with the ship’s rolling. “Why are the chairs nailed to the floor?”
“We need to be still until our wounds heal, and the ship’s surgeon can cut the stitches.” As he stepped toward her, he picked up a cane from the nailed-down chair.
She frowned, trying to think. “What happened? I remember the tunnel . . . the Jacobins . . .”
“Delacorte shot the window in a boathouse where you were being held. You were injured by broken glass. You’ve been very sick the past week.” He put the cane down on one of the chairs. “Stay on my left side.”
Absently she lifted her good arm as she absorbed what he’d said. “Is he still chasing us?”
“Thanks to Cal—the Scot—he’ll also be abed a few days yet, I suspect.” He swung her from the hammock, but he winced.
The ship pitched again, and he leaned hard against the nailed-in chair, his legs splayed. His brow broke into a sweat as he held her still. “Don’t move, madame. If we fall, we could both return to where we were the other day.”
She stilled against him. Through her pain, she became aware of other things . . . his heart pounding against her undamaged arm, the warmth of his skin against her shoulder. Uncomfortable with it, she moved away a little. “How did we get onto this ship? Who owns it?”
The motion of the ship steadied. He settled her on his arm and turned her, leaning on his cane. “Do you think you can walk to the corner of the room?”
He’d called her madame. It seemed they were back to the beginning. “I’d better. I doubt you could carry me.”
He chuckled in reply to her little joke. “True, but I have stout sailors at my command.”
Even through a throbbing head, her brows lifted. “So it’s your ship? Are you a captain?”
A bell sounded, deep like an echo off a cliff. “It’s the ship’s bell,” he said with a smile when she started. “It chimes on the hour and half hour. I can call for food, if you’re hungry?”
“Yes, I am—for food, and some truth at last,” she snapped, too overcome to think of tact.
With a glimmering smile, he kicked the door with his undamaged foot. “Food for the lady to be brought here, West,” he told the burly sailor. “Return as soon as possible.”
“Aye, Commander.” The man strode down the small passage.
He shut the door with his cane. “The Royal Navy owns the ship, but it’s unlisted. It’s a captured French frigate, commandeered for the use of the British Alien Office. I command it, but you won’t find my name on the commanders’ lists.” He grinned. “And all of that was true.”
He didn’t offer her his name to begin a search, but he’d answered the question nonetheless. “How did we get on board?”
When he answered, it was with a struggle. “I thought your middle name was Patricia. Persistence would be more appropriate.”
“So I’ve heard.” She kept her brows lifted, waiting.
At last he said, “Cal found my rowboat with my men waiting for me. He took us to a midwife, and then in a coach to the ship.”
He wasn’t telling the whole truth, but she wasn’t up to arguing. “The Scot is a resourceful man. Is he here? I would thank him.”
“No.” He stopped at a corner of the cabin, before a curtained space. “The chamber pot is in there. I’ll wait here.”
It was stupid to be anxious about his proximity, when his first sight of her had been far more intimate. No doubt he’d been the one to help her to the privy the past few days in any case. He must have held her as she’d . . .
God help her, humiliation was her lot where this man was concerned.
She was behind the curtain with a couple of shuffling steps. Her feet were warm. She lifted a foot. Woolen slippers were on her feet, a thin woolen dress covering her. Realizing where they must have come from, she hoped the midwife had been paid well.
She used the facility as fast as possible, praying no wave would knock her flying while her skirts were up. She’d had quite enough of that.
When she emerged from behind the curtain she was shaking, but she’d fulfilled her needs alone and drew fierce pride from that. She’d gain the strength to fend for herself, or die trying.
As he took her arm again, a knock came at the door. “Enter, West!”
The burly sailor set a simple meal of bread, beef broth, butter, and cold-boiled potatoes on the table. Then he stepped over to her and lifted her in h
is arms. When she gasped, he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but the commander ain’t fit for liftin’, an’ this is the fastest way to get you comfortable. I’ve been seein’ to your needs for days. I have four daughters, miss. One’s just about your age, by my reckonin’. Seirian, her name is—me little shinin’ star.”
The big man was about fifty and spoke in a Welsh accent. “Thank you,” she murmured, exhausted and relieved that the commander hadn’t been seeing to her more intimate needs.
The sailor smiled, settled her back in the hammock, and saw to cleaning the privy. When he was done, he brought the tray over to her, saluted his commander, and left.
“You need rest.”
Her head was slow-spinning again. Her poor brain was probably exhausted from trying to work out who and what this chameleon of a man was. “What should I call you?”
He turned back to her, brows lifted, his expression unreadable. “I told you before.”
Somewhere during the past few days she must have lost her final shreds of propriety. “Which one do you mean? In the week or two since we’ve met, you’ve been monsieur and Gaston Borchonne, Duncan, and Commander No Name, and that leaves out the endearments. Which would be your current name of choice?”
To her surprise he laughed, lighting up the shadows in his face. “My duty forces me to wear many hats. Choose whichever name suits your mood.”
She forced down a most unladylike desire to punch him. How dare he laugh? “The Scot called you Tidewatcher.”
“Best you forget you ever heard that.” It seemed he’d sensed her exasperation. “In this game we play, anonymity saves not just my own life, but those of many others. I can either indulge your curiosity or protect some of our best agents—including your family. You should be glad of that. Your knowing so little about me protected you with the Jacobins, I dare say.”
He was right. Feeling the heat steal across her face, a hated thief of her dignity, she nodded.
