The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  He didn’t answer. An apology for asking after her health would be absurd and would only vex her more. But the intimacy of the things he’d done for her from the first night had created some kind of abyss inside her.

  Annoyed for taking her confusion out on him, and more upset that he allowed her to do it, she watched foamy waves racing over the rocks, mussel shells clinging to them. Crabs scuttled in and out of the foam as she struggled to gain control. “The bruises are gone. Fulton says my arm can come out of the sling in another day or two. I’ve been taking it off to perform light tasks, such as cooking something besides his one cooking talent, toasted cheese sandwiches.”

  As she’d hoped, he chuckled. “So Fulton is concerned for your health?”

  She nodded, stiffening in anticipation.

  “He’s good to you?”

  “I’m not sharing his bed.” Sharper words than she’d intended.

  “Of course not, madame.” He glanced at her sling, the slow-healing scar on her face. “He’s a gentleman.”

  The ill-hidden pity felt like a whip lashing at her. “Fulton’s brilliance and his vocation make him lonely. Few people can understand him. He needs an audience, a sounding board for his new ideas. My injuries gave him the excuse he needed to let me into his world.” He made a small movement, but she went on as if she hadn’t seen it. “I’m learning about spring propulsion and the shape of the bombs. I’m asking ingénue questions and making notes when I retire.” She handed him a small oilskin pouch. “I pretended not to understand spring propulsion after a few lectures, so he gave me a practical demonstration of it, taking me to see Nautilus. The shell’s still damaged, but he’s repaired most of the inner workings. He was delighted in my interest and allowed me to sit inside and test things. I’ve made drawings of it all, as you see.”

  He opened the packet and scanned the notes. “This is excellent, madame, precisely what we need from you. Has he shown you the craft tethered in Audresselles harbor?”

  She shook her head, the feeling of failure returning. “Has Bonaparte arrived yet?”

  “He’s not due for five weeks,” he replied, voice hard. “But they can’t hide the increased security, both on land and at sea.”

  She had five weeks to charm Fulton into giving her the boat hiding off Audresselles Beach. Splashback from a wave hitting another rock half drenched her. She sighed; more tussling with the hated washboard tomorrow. “Here is a letter for my mother.”

  He pocketed it without comment.

  She began to wonder why she’d come. “Are we . . . um, are we still being sought over LeClerc’s murder?”

  “I’ve heard nothing about you, which probably means Delacorte’s still laid up, or on another mission.”

  She relaxed for a moment, then realized what he hadn’t said. “What of you?”

  He shrugged. “When we were still on the ship, I learned the French want to question Gaston Borchonne regarding LeClerc’s murder, and the murder of several gendarmes.”

  The curtness in his tone sounded almost like shame. “Did you kill them?”

  A tight glance. “I would have if it hadn’t been done by Delacorte first.”

  She didn’t know why he sounded reproachful. “Should you be here? What about your brother?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t fear for Cal. He was in Abbeville for months before I arrived, infiltrating the Jacobins. He knows how to hide.”

  There’s something else he’s not saying. Again. She repressed a sigh.

  “I suppose Cal’s as good a target for Alain as any, seeing as I escaped with a man who resembles him,” she remarked, to see if it would rile him.

  He nodded, tension running deep, and she felt small and mean. “Take care, monsieur. Would Bonaparte’s spies ask for your name before killing you?”

  His eyes glinted. “I’m safe enough, but the hunt for Borchonne means I’m limited in what I can do in public. So I send my men on the dangerous missions and remain in hiding here.”

  The slight smile was different from any he’d shown her before. His eyes were warm as they rested on her—but it made her want to run. “I . . . I see. I will let you know when I have more to tell.” With difficulty, she rose to her feet, but she swayed.

  He took her hands in his, drawing her against him. “You’re still unwell.”

  “Stop it,” she tried to snap, but she sounded weak, feminine. “You’re injured, but you’re here. If I was a man, you wouldn’t say it.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right.” After a moment, he said, “If the situation with Fulton becomes uncomfortable, I’ll see that you return to your family with full honors.”

  Suddenly he felt too close. She liked to breathe without feeling as if she’d just run a race. “I’m not a soldier.” Still too sharp. She struggled against another apology.

  “No, you’re something far more difficult,” he said with respect in his voice she couldn’t doubt. “War is ugly, but soldiers see their battlefield and their enemy. They receive public honor and often a fair fight. In this game we play to prevent war, and women endure the same dangers as men, and many others harder to bear.”

  She turned her head, her frowning gaze staring out to sea. “Wars have never been fair on women.” Last night, she’d come to a realization. No matter what happened now, she’d lived with Fulton. In the eyes of the world, she was ruined by inference. She could save Edmond, but he couldn’t live with her if she wanted him to be a gentleman.

  He lifted her hands and pressed them to his lips, shocking her. “My men await the right opportunity to take your son without risk either to him or his grandmother.” He too looked out to sea. “Your mission is harsh and murky with blurred lines, yet you fulfill your duty with more honor and less complaint than any woman I’ve ever known.”

  The earnestness in his voice shook her; his touch, meant as reassurance, left her unsettled, almost fearful. She jerked her hands from his. “I must go. The mist is thinning.” She turned to head back toward the estuary, knowing he was waiting to catch her should she fall again; but she refused to look back as she started off. She’d never allow a man to carry her again, if she could help it—

  Then she slipped on a bit of moss and began wobbling, falling back—and then she was cradled against his chest, his arms holding her with tender care. “You foolish girl,” he chided, in a tone she’d never heard from him. “Why did you come when you’re still not well enough?”

  It was foolish to struggle. “Why do you wait for me every day in the cold and wet, when your leg must still be in pain?” She felt the give in his leg with each step he took. “Why do you carry me when your wounds might reopen? I’m no lightweight.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt you’ve looked in the mirror lately. You’re a bundle of feathers.”

  Typical of the man that he didn’t answer anything about himself. “Ten days of cheese sandwiches and stewed tea. I must visit the store soon. The cheese has become musty, but Fulton doesn’t even notice. If I eat another cheese sandwich in my lifetime, it’ll be too soon.”

  He laughed again. He didn’t speak until they were around the point and on sandy ground. “We’re a pair, unwell and carrying on, denying what’s obvious to everyone else.”

  This gentle banter was just what she needed to recover from feeling so off-kilter. She didn’t stop to wonder why her serious stranger could make her smile even in the worst situations, or why she felt so safe whenever she was with him. “You can put me down. I can walk now.”

  He shook his head. “You’re too pale.”

  “I’m tired of men carrying me hither and yon. I’m not a weakling,” she complained, but without real rancor. She felt secure, even knowing the world around her was disintegrating.

  “You wouldn’t know how to be weak,” he murmured in a fierce undertone, heading up the river path back to the house. “If I’ve carried you before, if I carry you now, I’m attempting to make up for other men’s failures to be men.”

  Lisbeth shiver
ed, but didn’t answer. Wrong, it was wrong to feel safe with him. Wrong to trust him, but she couldn’t stop it.

  At the final bend before the house, while they were still out of sight, he let her down. “If you come out again before you’re truly ready, I’ll do something dire next time.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure most other underlings obey your commands without question when you threaten them with these unknown dire consequences.”

  “Yes—but you have no intention of following their excellent example, have you? You’ve gone your own way from the night we met.” He mock-sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to think of something drastic enough to enforce your instant obedience from now on.”

  The gentle teasing made the quick laughter wither on her tongue unborn. She stared at him, her breathing uneven, feeling as if she’d just woken from a deep sleep. They stood in a gray mist curling around them like a cat, an illusion of privacy.

  “Go in now,” he said in a cool tone, turning aside. “Take care in this mist, you might slip. When I saw you leave the house, I left a bag of fresh food and a jug of milk at the kitchen door as your alibi. No cheese in sight, I promise you.”

  Crushed, she turned away, slow and careful in case she began to feel weak again.

  “Elise? Is that you?” Fulton’s anxious voice came as soon as she entered the house.

  “Yes, m’sieur. I have supplies. I’ll be up soon with fresh tea,” she called.

  But even when she was installed on her chair in the attic, drinking tea with Fulton, and eating the seedcake that tasted like ambrosia, her breaths still came in fits, like a wind changing direction. Her body was warm, and her fingers trembled.

  Must she always go by reverses? Her husband couldn’t arouse her, and the man she was supposed to seduce felt like her best friend; but Duncan, a man she still didn’t know, had stolen something precious from her with a touch. But she doubted he even realized he had it, and probably wouldn’t want it if he knew.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ambleteuse

  September 24, 1802

  HOLD IT HIGH AND steady, Elise. How can I slot the spring in if you wobble the chamber?”

  For almost half an hour Lisbeth had been squatting beside the rough working table that wasn’t long enough to hold the propulsion chamber steady. Her arms had been raised for ten minutes. “M’sieur, are you aware how much this chamber weighs?”

  “Of course, I couldn’t make the calculations if I—you’re wobbling the chamber again—” He pulled at the other end of the chamber, and off balance, she wobbled on her bent legs. Smothering a cry, she grabbed at the table.

  “The propulsion chamber is one of a kind! We cannot afford to damage it . . .” He finally looked at her, an expression of comical guilt crossing his mobile features. “My dear, I beg your pardon. When I’m working, I forget you’re injured. Is your shoulder hurting very much?”

  Though the swelling had disappeared a week ago, her shoulder ached beneath the weight of the propulsion chamber she held aloft for him while he inspected its cavity. “A little,” she admitted, holding the laughter in. Brilliant and distracted, a complete gentleman yet so demanding in his work, Fulton could make her laugh when he wasn’t trying—and though the work was exacting on her injured body, it was so stimulating she often forgot the time herself. After a lifetime of running away from her life, she felt as if she’d become a true part of something important, her intellect valued, her assistance needed.

  He grinned with a sheepish air. “You’re so useful to me, you see. At these times I forget your arm only came out of the sling last week.”

  And that it’s after 3 A.M. also? She tried to smile, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate; her eyes watered and she yawned again. “M’sieur, my leg has a cramp.”

  Fulton checked his fob and clicked his tongue. “I’m used to working at night with men who are as strong as I am and used to little sleep.” He gently took the propulsion chamber from her and laid it on the floor before he helped her to her feet.

  Reveling in being upright again, she stretched her legs, arms, and back, which were all aching. She pressed her hands into the small of her back and twisted, with a luxuriant sigh.

  “Go and find your bed,” he said in a muffled tone. “We can continue after breakfast.”

  “Yes . . . um.” She yawned again. “Thank you, m’sieur.” Tripping over twine he’d left on the floor, she avoided his helping hands, ready to save her.

  “Elise . . . I . . .”

  He’d slipped into calling her by her French name. Usually he said the name with gentle concern, or with absorbed abstraction. But now he sounded husky, with intent—

  She closed her eyes. Had she roused him just by stretching? Or had he felt it all along while dressing or undressing her and had hidden it until she was close to complete recovery?

  Think of the mission. Think of Edmond. She kept the shudder inside and forced herself to turn back. Smile at him. Encourage him. Do it for Edmond.

  Unfortunately, even her love for her child couldn’t force the lie from her. She looked out the window, watching the swirling snowflakes landing on the glass. “Oui, m’sieur, may I assist you?” She cringed on hearing the cold submissiveness in her tone.

  Forgive me, Edmond, her heart whispered.

  “How . . . how o-old are you?” Yes, by his stammer, she’d put him off.

  She frowned. How old was she? She blinked, but no amount of reasoning could make her see why he’d asked. Tell the truth whenever you can, the commander had said. “I’m nineteen.”

  She saw the dawning horror in his eyes. She could almost see his thought, I am twice her age. “Almost twenty?” he asked, sounding chastened yet hopeful.

  Edmond’s safety relies on this mission. Fulton’s a good man, attractive and kind. But unfortunately for all her self-talk, even the image of Edmond’s face in her mind didn’t help. She liked Fulton very much, respected him, adored working with him—but she didn’t know how to feel anything but horror at the prospect of sharing a bed with him. “I turned nineteen in August.”

  “I . . .” He pulled his hands through his hair, leaving it in spikes. With his spectacles off-kilter at the end of his nose, he looked almost demented. How could she want to giggle at this awful time? “And you really have been married?”

  Still holding laughter in, she shrugged, her big toe shuffling the rug’s edge. “I still am married, m’sieur.”

  Another hesitation. “Where are you from—originally, I mean?”

  “Why would you wish to know, m’sieur? Am I not giving satisfaction? Do you want to inform my—my husband . . .” She let her voice break and she wheeled away, back to the window and the night. “I will be gone by sunrise. Just please don’t find him, or tell him about me.”

  “My dear girl . . .” He strode forward, but she stepped back until she was against the door, the trembling visible. “It was he that hurt you, wasn’t it?”

  Slowly she nodded. “More than once.”

  “I’d never try to reunite you with him,” he faltered, but with sincerity. “I abhor a man who hurts the woman he’s promised to love and protect, or his defenseless children.”

  She jerked as if he’d slapped her.

  “Elise!”

  She blinked, looked at Fulton. His eyes were wide, face pale. “What did I say? Elise, my dear, I promise you are safe here . . . please don’t cry.”

  She hadn’t realized hot tears were streaking down her cheeks. “Mon pardon, m’sieur.” What was wrong with her? She’d become a regular wet goose since her injury.

  “I’ll get some water.” Fulton ran for the door.

  She shook her head. “I’m going for a walk.” Both sentences were punctuated with hiccups but said with determination.

  Turning, he blocked her way out. He looked uncertain, almost afraid. “Elise, it’s so late . . . the weather—your health—I cannot countenance . . .”

  “You countenance nothing.” Still hiccupping, she glared at h
im. “Outside of the work for which you pay me, my life and choices are my own.”

  After a brief hesitation, he lowered his gaze. “Again, I beg your pardon.” When she moved, he stepped aside to let her pass.

  She snatched up her cloak on the way out of the house; but, still encased in slippers, her feet soon became wet with the falling sleet that at this time of year came at night. Soon they were numb with cold. She reached the bush at the end of the path where the commander set the red rag, pulled it out, and wrote with the pencil she kept in her cloak.

  Fulton made advances tonight. I refuse to ruin myself based on empty promises. Tell me how the rescue of my son is progressing, or I will return to Abbeville. I will not leave my son there, no matter what the consequences. I trust I am making myself clear.

  DUNCAN WATCHED HER HOOD fall back as she walked away. A slanted touch of moonlight through the heavy cloud illuminated her half-loose braid. Even in falling sleet, shrouded by her cloak and the clouded moon, she glowed like the embers of a blacksmith’s forge, soft and golden.

  By day she remained in hiding behind a wall no man could penetrate. But when night fell and she was alone, her inhibitions sloughed off like an unwanted skin, and she became the woman he’d seen only in snatches.

  If she knew he was watching her, she’d revert to the marionette of the tavern.

  Or would she? his mind whispered, remembering the way she’d looked at him three days ago.

  He shut the thought down as if it was the lid on Pandora’s box. She’s not a woman, she’s a valued team member. Think like the King’s Man you are.

  He grabbed the note and read it, nodding. Fulton saw her by day, worked with her by night. No wonder he was already ensnared. Would the bird with the broken wing by day and the unconscious siren by night fascinate the American enough to offer marriage?

  Fulton’s no fool. She gives herself away with every word and movement. He must already know she’s a lady. He’d marry her if he knew of her family. Eddie would fund his work for life. The property near Bath her grandmother left her would make an ideal place for his work—