The Tide Watchers (40 page)

“What's wrong?” he asked in quick concern. She shook her head, but by the light of the lantern, she seemed more delicate and pale than she'd been yesterday, or even an hour ago. “Are you well?”

At last he saw what she'd been hiding: she was shivering. He touched her, and while her clothes were still damp from the last drenching hours ago, her skin was hot. Her body jerked again with that strange choking; then a cough erupted from her, hard and barking. She coughed half a dozen times before she could stop. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he growled, pulling his cloak off and over her. But he knew. He'd told her he expected her to be as tough as a man on this voyage. He'd forced her to prove herself, to endure travails that would have broken most men he knew, and all without complaint. “I ought to beg your pardon.” Loathing filled him for what he'd done to her. She'd been the only one small enough with the necessary qualifications for the mission, yet he'd punished her for being right. “I relied on you too heavily.”

A slow blink, and then she frowned at him. “It's what I came for, what I was trained to do. I'm proud to have served with you on this mission. Don't take that away from me.” And then she broke into another coughing fit.

He frowned in turn. “It's too cold for you with the air coming in. I'll close the hatch.”

Quivering fingers, too hot, touched his arm as he began to stand. “You have to leave the sail up. I don't think I can help you now.”

He lifted the lantern to look more closely. Good God, her skin was hot and dry, her eyes red and burning. “You should have told me.”

“We couldn't stay in Boulogne,” she whispered. The damned little heroine that she was, she'd done it to save him, kept going until she could no longer move.

Even around the pole splitting
Papillon
in half, he leaned back and drew her close until the next coughing fit subsided. He checked the compass every few moments with his free hand, using the tiller by instinct. All he could think of was getting her to the ship's surgeon, as
fast as he could. “No one else could have done as well as you. The past two days have overwhelmed me, and I'm used to the rigors of a mission. Spending the day getting wet and dry again, hours in the rain—I should have thought to bring a blanket—”

“Not much use if it ended up as wet as we were,” she whispered with a weak chuckle.

“Naughty chit,” he murmured. Even now she could make him smile—at least until another hacking cough erupted from her. He patted her back and turned so she could lean her head on him. “Rest now. I'll get us safely back.”

“Mmmm.” Her head touched his shoulder, rested there as she sighed. “Nice . . .”

Something inside him shifted as he felt her snuggle into him. A lifetime of fears as uneven as the welts across his skin softened, as if a balm covered them. Checking the compass, he adjusted the rudder and tiller as he said, “You like me, Lizzy. You wouldn't have wanted to kiss me if you didn't.”

“Not now,” she complained, but she'd tensed. She was still awake, still thinking. Wishing she wasn't.

He brushed his hand over her cheek—too hot—and down the back of her neck. Feverish and aching to the touch, by the way she winced. “You like me.” It was no longer a question.

She sighed again, lifting her face. Her eyes held fever and illness and a world of fear and hurt, and he cursed himself for pushing her so hard. “I do. I love you, Duncan. I want to be your wife.”

The words he'd dreamed of hearing from the only girl he'd ever wanted to make his wife, but the fact that she'd spoken in a voice shaking with illness and terror took the brunt of the joy from him. “Then why won't you marry me?” he asked, because he couldn't stop himself. Because she wanted to tell him.

She put a hand to her forehead and shivered again. Another racking cough burst from her.

Cold fear gripped him. He'd seen the symptoms before—this was either influenza or, worse, inflammation of the lungs. Either could
kill her. She needed the hatch closed—but he couldn't work
Papillon
's machinery alone, and she didn't have the strength to work the levers. By the look of her, unless he got her back quickly, he could lose her.

He pulled her head back onto his shoulder, his arm around her to warm her. Everything was set; he could sail via the compass almost right to the ship, so long as no French patrols passed nearby. “Rest, love,” he said gruffly. “We can work everything else out when you're better.” He only felt a smidgeon better when she snuggled in again.

“Did you really think I'd encourage Fulton?” she rasped after a while.

He drew in a breath and made an admission he'd never have thought to speak before she'd said she loved him. “My experiences with women haven't led me to believe the best. I was angry and jealous, and punishing you for rejecting me. Trying to prove I could take better care of you than Fulton would. Look how true that turned out to be,” he muttered in self-disgust. “I should have noticed you were sick.”

“I do like Fulton, very much,” she whispered. “He's gentle and kind, interesting, brilliant and . . . safe. If—if I hadn't met you, I might have . . .”

“But you did meet me.” He kissed the top of her head, happy and wretched and flat-out terrified.
Please, God, just let her get through this,
he prayed again, realizing how often he'd prayed since meeting her. She had that effect on him. Making him see his illusions of control were exactly that. Right now he'd never felt so helpless.

Despite the fact that she was fevered and shivering, the silence felt companionable as he held her, kissing her forehead.

After a while she spoke again, but her voice was cracking, her breaths quick and uneven. “Duncan, I wasn't rejecting you.” She lifted a shaking hand when he would have stopped her, urged her to rest. “Edmond's birth . . . took too long. I'd worked all day, all week. I was so tired . . . lost blood . . . kept falling asleep. Alain went for a midwife, and then the doctor. Edmond came out blue. By the time they had him breathing . . .” He felt her tremble and tense against him, her
skin heating even more as she mumbled, barely audible, “If—if you want . . .” She shook her head and pushed out a few words, racked with coughing. “There won't be any more children.”

Since word came out that there was a suspected French agent aboard ship, the ship's mole had accepted he'd be found and killed here. What he couldn't tolerate was failing his assignment, letting down his master, or his country. He'd let Mark run off with Camelford, thinking it spelled disaster for Britain; knowing the Mad Baron, the boy would end up dead for certain. Now the cunning little bastard was hiding in Boulogne-sur-Mer, finding secrets his lord couldn't afford the English to know.

He had to warn his lord of the infiltration—but with the commander's brothers manning the semaphore paddles in the forecastle, he couldn't do it. Neither could he escape, with Flynn watching the rowboats like a hawk.

Wanting to kill Camelford for the disasters he created wherever he went was useless. He had to get a message to France.

He began making new plans.

St. Aubin's Harbor, Jersey, Channel Islands (British)

November 6, 1802

L
AD, I THINK WE'VE
narrowed the search to two, maybe three.”

Having carried a semiconscious Lisbeth into a warm coach waiting at the land end of the gangplank, covering her with blankets, Duncan started at the soft voice near his ear. He whirled around. Alec was right behind him. “What? Who?” He hoped to God it was neither Carlsberg nor Flynn.

Alec put a finger to his mouth. “Come back on ship.”

Without meaning to, Duncan turned to where he'd just left her. Fulton had climbed in the coach and had her lying across his lap to keep her warm. As he leaned out to shut the door he gave Duncan an odd look. It wasn't competitive, or triumphant, but—reassuring. Fulton had told him last night that he'd once nursed his mother through influenza. “I know the herbs to give, the teas to make her drink. West and I will see her well, Commander,” he'd murmured, laying a warm cloth over Lisbeth's forehead. “Warm is better than cold, ice baths will make her shiver, and get hotter inside,” he said when Duncan tried to protest.

Damned if he knew what Fulton was talking about—but to leave her now, after their unfinished exchange inside
Papillon,
felt like he was courting a rejection. Damn it, why couldn't he remember what he'd said in answer to her revealing her secret?

There won't be any more children.

He thought he'd said something, but whenever he thought of it, he drew a blank. Lisbeth had become so sick after her last words he'd had to concentrate on getting them to the ship as fast as possible. Would
she even remember what he'd said? If he'd said anything of what he'd been thinking, he hoped to God she never remembered.

“Carlsberg's the best engineer I've worked with. Flynn's not only a man I'd trust with my life; he's also a shipwright's son. I need them for the work on
Papillon
's modifications.” Especially since he doubted Fulton would leave Lisbeth until she was well.

Uncharacteristically serious, Alec nodded. “I think Carlsberg's cleared of suspicion, but Flynn has to stay on board, lad. He's a highly competent messenger, and he's the only one I'm anywhere near certain of right now, apart from West, and the lass needs him.”

He gave Alec a sharp look. “You
think
Carlsberg's clear?”

“We have to be sure.” He put a hand on Duncan's shoulder. “Thank God O'Keefe found us. I can use him, and I'm going to hunt up a few good agents left kicking their heels here since the peace. I heard they've been forced to highway robbery to survive. They'll be glad of honest work, and the promise of work later. Best of all, the rat won't know them. You have enough on your plate. Leave flushing out your rat to me.”

Duncan wished to God Cal could have stayed as well. Leaving only two on board was a hell of a risk, even half a mile out to sea. “Excellent plan. Buy or hire every possible rowboat the rat could take out to a ship, including this one,” he said quietly, handing Alec a full pouch. “Recruit every man you can to the cause.”

Uncharacteristically serious, Stewart nodded. “I've been here a few times on assignment. The Jerseymen trust me. I'll organize for food and beer to be sent to the ship daily. West can bring it when your lass is asleep.”

The coach took off at a steady pace, West walking grimly beside it. It was Duncan's only comfort. West wouldn't allow Fulton to do anything stupid.

He turned back to the ship. Flynn was already organizing the transporting of
Papillon
to the smithy. He'd left the ship at first light to negotiate a price for commandeering the smithy for the three to four
weeks Fulton said they'd need for Lisbeth's suggested modifications to the craft, and to make enough drills. Now Flynn was back, his invaluable lieutenant. Duncan hoped to heaven he wasn't the rat, because if Alec was wrong, God help them all. Flynn knew the ship and the mission inside and out.

Once
Papillon
was on its way to the smithy he'd dismiss the men for well-earned leave. Then he had to stay on board, watching the damned semaphore like a hawk. “First, you need to speak to the councilmen of Jersey and arrange to have the Martello towers fully manned.”

Alec nodded. “I'll do it while you're on semaphore duty. I'll message the agents while I'm there. I'll take one of my main suspects with me. The other I heard making arrangements for drinking and dicing with the men, so he can wait until the agents arrive.”

“It's a good plan, but I want both followed, all the time.” Duncan wished to God it wasn't necessary with Lisbeth so ill, but he couldn't break squares on this. “Ask O'Keefe to follow the other suspect until tomorrow. If your friends come on board with the mission, you and O'Keefe retire and handle matters from the inn.” He almost asked the suspects' names, but until it was confirmed, it was best he didn't know.

“Aye, an excellent plan.” Alec's eyes softened. “I'll check in every few hours with your lass and send word.”

Duncan's smile was touched with the gratitude he felt. “I'll want you to pass a daily note to her, asking after her health.” He put out a hand: a sign of trust.

The bridge was crossed. He could trust his brother to be at his back, armed and ready to defend him and those he cared for. After years of denial, he'd chosen to become a Stewart.

He wished it could be so simple with Lisbeth.

As if reading his mind, Alec said gruffly, “Don't lose her now, or you'll always regret it. Black Stewarts rarely love more than once, lad,” he went on quietly. “I'll give her any message you like.” His half brother turned away, his eyes black with ancient grief.

He looked like a statue Duncan had seen of Romeo on waking
and seeing Juliet dead . . . but whoever Alec's Juliet had been, she was long gone.

Why did he only see the reality of people when they were in pain? Fumbling, he touched Alec's shoulder. “My thanks again.” He strode off to oversee the transport of
Papillon,
and to get the would-be assassins off ship.

“Monsieur
le Capitaine,
welcome to France, to Paris, and to my home.” With one of the little flourishes he was said to love, Boney bowed.

The tall, dark, and handsome blue-eyed sailor known to friend and enemy alike as “Guinea-Run” Johnstone smiled and bowed in return, imitating the flourish to a tee.
Neatly done,
he flattered himself. “Very glad I am to be here, m'lord. A signal honor and all that.”

Once they were seated and Boney had poured him some of the finest French brandy that ever passed his tongue, the first consul said softly, “You must be wondering why I requested your presence,
Capitaine
.”

Dragged from the bathtub was more like it, me lord, by four soldiers, à la Bathsheba to King David,
he thought, more intrigued than sour. He nodded but said nothing. In a long and varied career, he'd learned how to wait with a smile.

“I hear it is—shall we say, dangerous for you to return to your homeland currently,” Boney said, smooth as water on glass, mellow as the brandy he was drinking.

Johnstone laughed outright. “Because I escaped from the Fleet Prison, you mean, m'lord? Aye, returning might have its drawbacks until I can pay me debts, but it'll work out right in the end.” He swirled the brandy in its glass before taking another swallow.
One left. Make it last.

“I can make your debts disappear, make certain you are not only pardoned for all outstanding charges in Britain, but also given a place of honor, with a title and wealth beyond any you could ever make by smuggling.”

Johnstone laughed again, turning it to an unconvincing cough when Boney frowned. “An' how would ye be doin' that, m'lord, seeing as how you're leader of France?”

Boney's slow smile filled with promise. “Of course it would be impossible—unless I became the leader, as you quaintly call it, of Britain also.”

Every sense went on screaming alert: a silent blasting of the ship's horn.
Enemy approaching!
Johnstone leaned forward, trying to appear eager. Part of him
feeling
eager. Why shouldn't he listen? It wasn't as if anyone in England cared if he lived or died. “An' what would ye be wantin' from the likes of me?”

Boney, too, leaned forward. Smiling. Gentle. A friend or foe depending on Johnstone's answer. “As a smuggler of both contraband goods and information, you know the ways in and out of Britain that are not, shall we say, heavily watched by those—what do you call them?”

“Damned nosy tide watchers, that's what we call 'em,” Johnstone muttered. “Excisemen, if you're of the official kind.”

“The tide watchers,
oui,
that is it. Excisemen,” Boney said slowly, drawing out the syllables. Johnstone tilted his head, watching more closely. Checking the room without seeming to do so. “You know where to land a ship—one, or even several—without being seen,
oui
?”

Damn, damn, damn.
Aye, whatever the first consul wanted now, Johnstone knew it was something perilous, not to say traitorous, and he was in the heart of the beast, in the bloody lion's den. And he felt more than ever like Bathsheba, dragged to a palace to face a king with the power of life and death over her soldier husband. “That I might,” he said, feeling his way.

“It is clear that the day of serfdom and lords nears its end. The power of the ordinary man, the man extraordinary in every way but birth, has dawned. It is so in America, in France—and it must be so for all the oppressed in Britain and all her enforced territories. Those in servitude to the class who will not even work to earn what they have should be set free!”

What did he say to that? Hear, hear? Vive la France?
“Um, right, just so,” he blurted, when it seemed Boney had noted his lack of enthusiasm. “I'm a little confused as to where I come in, m'lord.”

“Citizen Bonaparte will do,” Boney said gently. “We are all brothers here.”

And I'd be believin' that more readily if you weren't livin' it up in a palace while yer “brothers” are beggars on the streets not too far off, and your soldiers bivouackin' in tents.
But Johnstone smiled and murmured, “Citizen . . . where do I come in?”

“You come in as the second in command, the pilot to the man who will lead the
flottille nationale,
a pilot of capability and brilliance, helping us to free the common man and woman from their bondage.”

Johnstone coughed. “Um, not meaning to upset the applecart here, m'lo— . . . um, Citizen Bonaparte . . . but we British were freed from serfdom centuries ago.”

“Oh? And can a man born into the lower classes become a lord through his brilliance, or must he be fated to clean the excrement of a drunken lout with a title he did nothing to earn, but simply inherited?” As if seeing the little dagger cut he'd made in Johnstone's confidence, Bonaparte went on, softly, “Are you destined to remain nothing but a despised half spy with the degrading nickname of
Guinea-Run Johnstone,
from whom your so-called superiors will take information and help, but will never reward you in the manner your intelligence and ability deserve, simply because you are the son of a fisherman and smuggler?”

The questions burned into Johnstone's brain like hot wax poured into his ear. He felt his cheeks grow hot. He couldn't answer. Now he knew how he felt to be his poor friend Brownlow, who'd believed in his adored wife's fidelity only to see her legs spread for his brother.

Was that how outsiders saw him? A lifetime of adventure on the seas since he was nine years old, charming women and gathering information, became small and stupid, defined and defiled by the birth he could never escape, no matter what he did. At least in England . . .

“In France, a man is rewarded according to his deeds, not his birth,” Napoleon said softly, walking into the room of his thoughts and
snuggling in for a long rest. “Why should a man who already has too much be given a position of honor when he has no talent and will not fulfill the role to anyone's satisfaction? Why should a man of ability and strength be forever held back simply because of a heritage that exists in no one's mind but that of his oppressors? Why can he go no further in life while the glory and riches go to a man who did nothing to earn it?”

Damme, he'd hear the questions in his head until Gabriel blew his trumpet, so he would.

Johnstone drew himself up. “I might be just a smuggler, sir, and never go any higher; but I am a true lover of my country. The one thing they will never call me is a traitor.”

Expecting a violent outburst, Napoleon took Johnstone aback with his smile and nod. “Somehow I had expected such an answer. You're a good man, Johnstone. Such a shame all they will ever do is exploit your loyalty for their gain.”

“Still,” Johnstone said, a dog hanging on to its bone, “if I betrayed my country, what would stop me betraying you later? It would always be in your mind, and in mine. That way lies corruption of a man's soul, and we both know it.”

A tiny sigh. “I am sorry,
Capitaine
. You don't know how sorry.”

He snapped his fingers, and those four soldiers returned, bearing cuffs and leg irons.

From a hill to the town's north the ship's mole could see everything right out to Elizabeth Castle, sitting splendid and armed against invasion in the harbor. It was the first time in weeks he'd been able to get away alone, even for a short time. Alec Stewart knew, or suspected the truth; O'Keefe had suddenly become his barnacle, keeping nearly constantly in his company. In desperation, the mole had set up his scapegoat in a suspicious situation, and Stewart needed temporary help chasing that down. He'd easily lost the inn's boot boy. He was too
young to understand that buying a whore didn't always mean spending the hour with her.