by Lisa Chaplin
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 k
eep 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?”
He didn’t react to the subtle taunt in her tone. Every time he called her Miss Sunderland, he knew she remembered anew that he still hadn’t told her the meaning of his threats to Delacorte at the fort. He’d tell her, but right now he had more important things on his plate.
Fighting the anger that he felt put in the wrong by her again, Duncan spoke flatly. “You’re barely past serious injury. This mission will take days, not hours. We must go before sundown tomorrow. In your state, I’m not certain you’d be able to complete such a mission.”
“Perhaps, but you have more reason to take me than leave me behind. I’m the only one besides Mr. Fulton with enough knowledge of Papillon to undertake this mission, and teach my partner as we go.” He couldn’t refute it, and she had the grace to keep her triumph to herself. “You said there were two points?”
“The tunnel,” he said. “When it ran out of air, you panicked.”
Resting on the chair, she pulled herself up. “The panic lasted seconds only. While not sleeping in over a day, seeing a dead body, and being set up for murder might be everyday fare for you, it was a first for me. I was overwhelmed.”
“You’re in much the same state as then.” He didn’t dare acknowledge that he’d vomited the first time he’d seen a dead body; but he’d been only fifteen. “It may take a full day to reach our destination. The air gets so warm you can’t breathe . . .”
“I know that. I’ve spent entire nights in Papillon for the past four weeks, and as Mr. Fulton will tell you, I never panicked once. How many submersible boats have you been in for hours on end, to know whether or not you’ll panic?”
Alec sniggered again, and even Cal chuckled.
Duncan turned on them. “Stubble it, lads. Behave like grown men or leave my quarters.”
The Scots smirked before quieting down.
“I’ve had experience of a different kind—and in my opinion, experienced sailors are the most logical choice.”
“But the choosing is not yours. Papillon is mine—”
Duncan sat straighter in his commander’s chair. “I am the commander here.” Realizing his mistake when her mouth turned down and her nostrils flared, he softened his tone. “You’ve done a fine job, Miss Sunderland, done what none of us could have—”
“Don’t patronize me.” Her tone was frozen. “I fulfilled my mission to the letter, while keeping my principles. How many of you can say that about your first mission?”
“Not me, lass,” Alec admitted cheerfully. “I was acting as the lad here’s alibi, but after a night on the tiles, I met the sauciest little barque of frailty—”
“Stop right there, Stewart!” Duncan snapped. “A lady is present!”
“What’s a barque of frailty?” Lisbeth sounded bewildered. “Isn’t a barque a ship—?”
“That tale, or its explanation, is not for Miss Sunderland’s ears,” Fulton put in hastily.
Lisbeth sat up straight. “Who made either of you my legal guardian?” Light from the fire fell on her face, the bruises and scars making her seem even more fragile, but it didn’t show in her voice. “What renders you fit to judge what I can and cannot hear?”
“I’m treating you as the lady you are,” Fulton said, bewildered.
“It’s a little late in the day for that, sir! If we’re applying society’s hypocritical standards, you should turn your back on me, or make the same offer you did weeks ago.”
His color high, Fulton muttered, “How long must you make me pay for one lapse in judgment, my dear? Haven’t I since made up for that, even before I knew—”
“Before you knew who my father was?” she shot back.
Fulton had the grace to blush still more. “I thought I had changed the discomfort between us weeks before then,” he mumbled, shooting a glance at the other men.
Duncan felt Alec glance at him and shifted in his seat.
“You did, Mr. Fulton, but—” She hesitated, and Duncan saw the hurt in her eyes as she glanced at him. She went on in a different tone. “But . . .” She shrugged, an imperfect attempt to hide the wounds she carried inside.
Fulton crossed the room, crouched before her, and said, low, “Lisbeth, you earned my respect, and more. You surely know this. Please tell me you’ve forgiven me.”
Her gaze flicked to the others in the room, and she frowned and nodded. “Certainly, sir.” She tugged her hands from his, her color rosy.
Fulton could go on bended knee any other time he chose. Duncan was trying to stop an invasion. “Resume your seat, Fulton. We have to discuss which other man—”
He could have bitten his tongue when Lisbeth’s fury turned on him. “Oh, of course it must be a man that goes, mustn’t it? Despite all I know of Papillon, and that I own it, you won’t even contemplate my presence on the mission. Are you afraid I’ll faint, or get my courses and cry on you?”
With an enormous grin, Alec said, “That’s it, lass, discomfit us—we deserve it. Mad hypocrites we are, all of us men, and our rules.”
Lisbeth mock-glared at Alec, struggling to choke back a giggle. Alec winked at her while Duncan fumed in silence. Cal neither moved nor spoke, but the slightest smile was in his eyes. And Fulton looked proud of her defiance, damn him—
“Out!” Duncan roared. “All of you but Miss Sunderland.”
If he were in a better mood, it would be comical to see how the others turned to him, brows lifted as if they were at a raree-show seeing a freak. But whatever they saw must have convinced them to file out . . . even Fulton.
Lisbeth stood, her chin lifted. “If you only wish to yell at me, I think I’ll leave.”
With difficulty, Duncan reined in his temper. “I apologize for my lack of manners, Miss Sunderland. Will you please listen to what I have to say?”
Though the wary look remained in her eyes, she sat again. “I will listen, sir, but I make no promises.” She kept her gaze on him when he didn’t speak. “Oh, I see. You were going to make me rest while you went on the mission—or perhaps send me ahead to Jersey? What good would that do now, sir? You have your boat.”
In the half shadows of the fire, first the lump on her head came to light, and then the scar. And then those slanted eyes, sore from what she must see as his treachery. “It’s not that . . .” True, nobody had her qualifications—but in truth, he was damned scared to take her on Papillon. What the devil cou
ld he say to convince her? He knew she wouldn’t make it there and back, just by looking at her. The strain of the past few months had left the girl like blown glass, ready to shatter if the slightest pressure was put on her.
To buy time, Duncan crossed the room and sat opposite her. This wasn’t a conversation to shout across a room with sailors passing the door, or to be overheard by the double agent he hadn’t yet discovered. Alec and Cal, as trustworthy and capable signalers, had taken over the task in shifts until they reached Abbeville. At least he could breathe easy, knowing Boney couldn’t have the information on Papillon in time to thwart the mission. But Cal had to return to Abbeville to rescue Edmond, or he’d lose her. That gave Duncan perhaps three days to find the mole, because Alec couldn’t signal alone all day, every day. The commander trusted Flynn and Burton, but then he’d trusted all his men until he’d realized he had a double agent. Right now he couldn’t trust his own instincts.
He felt control of the mission crumbling in his fingers like old bread. In truth, he was damned scared because there was no one else he could take with him; but he couldn’t look at her without wishing to God he’d sent her home weeks ago. She’d fight like the devil to prove she was strong enough to complete the mission, and that would weaken her still further.
When he didn’t speak, Lisbeth lifted her chin, eyes flashing, like a kitten ready to spit. “You refuse me because I’m a woman? When I’ve never failed in anything you’ve asked of me? In fact, I remember saving you once.”
He might have known not to underestimate her. “You haven’t let me down, Miss Sunderland. I’m grateful for your assistance—”
“But my usefulness is limited to the kitchen and bedchamber, is that it?”
He felt his cheeks heating. “I’ve never said that.”
“What did I learn on your ship? How to cook and clean! You gave me pretty dresses and shoes, and nightwear that made me blush when I put it on at night. Would you have given such instruction or clothing to a man you’d sent to Fulton?”
“It wouldn’t have got me far if I did,” he retorted, and almost hit himself. She’d baited her trap to perfection.
