The Tide Watchers (32 page)

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 could 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.

Her mouth turned down. “I believed you had greater discernment than the average male. It seems I was wrong.”

His ire boiled up, but he threw water on his temper. What she'd revealed was far too important.
Nightgowns that made me blush when I put them on—
and he understood the wounded look in her eyes. If Fulton had fallen into the usual male trap of judging a woman by a man's needs, so had he. “I beg your pardon.” He leaned forward, taking her hand in his. “You've more than proven your worth. This mission would have failed without you—and, as you say, you accomplished it without losing your principles.”

She pulled her hand away. “Don't pat me on the head, Commander. You wouldn't have spoken so to any other team member.”

He found himself chuckling, even as he shook his head. “Forgive me once more, Miss Sunderland. My only excuse is that no other gently reared girl—or man—your age could have endured your life the past year. I hardly know how to treat you.”

“Woman,” she said quietly.

She was right; she was no longer a girl, had none of a girl's tricks or traits, and she knew her mind. “Yes,” he conceded, “but to return to the point, you can't deny you don't have the equivalent of my physical strength, and what physical strength you have is depleted.”

“True, sir, but
you
don't have my knowledge of submersibles. None of your crew could learn everything I have in a day or two—and as you've said, it's best to go now. Given our time frame, I am not merely the logical choice. I am the only choice.”

She had him there. “If you're called the weaker sex in the Bible, it's certainly not in the ability to argue,” he muttered, feeling outgunned on every score.

Her eyes twinkled. “I believe St. Paul was also, as St. Peter put it, just a man,” she said, with a soft gurgle of laughter. “One with no knowledge of the strength a woman faces monthly, and in enduring the travails of childbirth. But be assured I will never take off my hat in church.”

She'd deliberately repeated her assertion about monthly cycles to discompose him. The girl's impish sense of humor caught him out every time. He grinned. “I now understand what your father said about needing to take to you with a birch switch.”

She laughed. “He couldn't have caught me, even on the rare occasions he
was
at home.”

Something in her riposte disturbed him. “You'll have to prove your ability, the same as any crew member, Miss Sunderland. We'll take a few trial runs.”

Her brows lifted again. “Certainly, sir. I have no desire to be trapped inside my locked boat with a panicking male . . . and since this is my boat, I ought to choose the crew.”

And here it was—the time for truth. “The property of a woman crosses to her husband on her marriage.”

“Are you saying you're going to hand the boat to my husband to pass on to Fouché or Bonaparte as he sees fit?” Her face and voice stopped halfway between incredulity and derision.

He wondered if she could see how much he hated this, knowing how it would hurt her. “Of course not—if Delacorte was your husband. But he's not.”

After all the emotional bombs he'd thrown at her since they'd met, he expected something physical from her, perhaps anger. All she did was withdraw into the shadows. Her voice came softly from the dark. “Explain that, if you please.”

“Your father sent me to Scotland after you left with Delacorte.” His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “There was no record of the marriage at any cathedral or kirk in the region.”

“We married at the kirk in Creasy Village by Jedburgh. It's small and out of the way.”

He nodded. “I was there. The rector had no memory of you. I arrived two weeks after you. It seems Delacorte had a sham ceremony performed and papers filled by his cohorts after poisoning the real rector's poached pears with syrup of ipecac the night before. He was sick for days. It means your marriage is invalid.” He waited for the anger, the tears—

The last thing he expected from her was a burst of wild laughter. He stared at her as she threw her head back, thudding her fists against the wing chair's arms. “Oh, that's beyond price. He never married me—of course he didn't. Of course he didn't!” Tears rolled down her scarred and bruised face as she laughed like a Bedlamite.

Unsure of his ground, he waited for her to compose herself.

“That's why he burned my identity papers as Lisbeth Delacorte,” she gasped. “Should anyone check their validity, Alain would have been arrested for forgery—oh . . .” Her eyes widened. “That's what you meant by your threats at the fort! By drugging me when I refused to go to France, he abducted a nobleman's daughter. Since he wasn't my husband, he had no right. It would have caused an international incident. He kept me watched because I was his ransom so my father wouldn't expose him, either about the forgeries or about abducting me. It's also why he took Edmond. He knew I wouldn't leave my baby.”

His respect for her intelligence grew tenfold. If she'd been a man, she'd be running the bloody Alien Office before she turned thirty. “I believe you're right on all counts.”