The Tide Watchers (16 page)

Holding Lisbeth's cheek wound together with his fingers while the woman worked on the shoulder injury, Cal indicated a padded wing chair by the fireplace. “Take care, Burton, his back is likely scored all over.”

As Burton settled him in, the woman glanced at Duncan. “Your brother needs tincture, Monsieur Stewart, twenty drops in brandy. Mind the time,” she added as Cal moved over to a solid table away from the fire. “If I can't tend to him within an hour, dose him again.” She smiled at Duncan. “You must be hungry, m'sieur, but I can't take the risk you'll be sick.”

“I'll be fine, thank you, madame.” He took the glass from Cal and tossed it off.

“If you have any left in your mouth, roll it under your tongue.” Tolerant amusement laced her tone. She threw him a wry smile. “I'd offer you a bed, but I doubt you'll take it. Young man”—she indicated Burton—“fetch the footstool in the next room, and bring the pillows. His leg will do better lifted, and warm. Is the wound tied?”

As Burton left the room Duncan asked in hard anxiety, “Will she live?”

The woman frowned. “This wound is deep, and the glass has left dirt inside. But she is young and strong. I'll do what I can.”

He sighed and nodded. With his leg up, his body warm, and Lisbeth in honest, skilled, and sensible hands, Duncan's body dictated its need and he was helpless to fight it.

He woke with a start in deep night. The woman had peeled back the blanket covering his leg and was cutting his breeches. “This is the best way,” she said when he stiffened. “I'll sew up your leg once the
ball's been taken out. I can sew your breeches after I've finished your back, but your shirt's torn beyond repair.”

Something in that struck him as funny. He tried to laugh, but it was too much hard work. He closed his eyes and let the woman perform her tasks unhindered.

“He needs more tincture, Monsieur Stewart,” she said when he hissed in a breath.

Cal brought him the glass again. “Hold it under your tongue, lad. It works faster.”

Duncan obeyed, because his leg was afire again. The knife's point dug deep into his muscle. His head spun. Cal put a stick between his teeth, a seaman's trick to hold in screams.

“Did he complain of pain on the way here, or tell you how deep the ball went?” The woman's voice sounded weary.

“Nary a word.” That was Cal.

A final dig into his leg muscle; a harsh growling sound escaped him with the long pull that followed, and a dull metallic
clang
told him the worst was over. He sighed—but then he felt the warm gush of blood, and his head reeled anew.

A cold splash, a sharp sting, and dull, hard pain and the overwhelming smell of herbs and flowers filled his head. Wasn't lavender for headaches . . . ?

A cloth wiped his thigh. Then he felt the short, sharp stings of a needle, over and over. He gritted his teeth, but one groan escaped him, and sweat rolled down his face.

“More tincture,” the healer said tersely. “Just put the drops straight into his mouth, and then another full dose with the brandy so he will sleep. You won't have to endure the pain much longer, Monsieur Stewart.” The woman's singsong voice was soothing. “I'll work on your back once you're asleep.”

Cal removed the stick from his mouth. “Aylsham,” Duncan muttered though a clenched jaw.

“
Pardonnez-moi?
” the woman replied, sounding puzzled. “What does this word mean?”

He'd surely lapse into unconsciousness any moment. “My name . . . is Aylsham.”

“
Bonsoir,
Ill-shame . . . it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Clare. I have said something amusing?” she demanded as Cal chuckled, and Duncan seethed in silence.

“Not at all,” Cal said. “My brother's making little sense right now, I fear.”

Clare said, “He has had a hard evening and borne much pain with no complaint.”

“It's not his way,” Burton put in. “Last year he fought for an hour with a knife in his belly. It wasn't that deep, he said, but he left it for the ship's doctor to pull out.”

Soft probing at his belly. “Ah, I can see why,” she said moments later. “In that position, pulling it out without a doctor's skill might have killed him. Your brother is a sensible man.”

His world descended to the pinpricks behind his eyes. He wanted to say,
Stop calling me his brother. I just met him today.
He frowned, blinked, opened his mouth—

“Ah,
non,
he bleeds again. Cal, help me,” Clare said tersely. It was the last thing he heard.

The Road to Valery-sur-Somme, France

August 28, 1802 (Afternoon)

T
HE JOLTING OF THE
coach yanked Lisbeth from the black shroud enveloping her. Though she was cushioned on a pillow and wrapped in blankets, even her lips ached. Her skin had a hundred needles piercing it. The headache was like nothing she'd had—

Yes . . . it was like the first day she'd awoken in France. Alain had drugged her when she'd tried to leave him and run to Grand-mère.

She struggled to sit up. If—what if Alain—

“Rest, madame,” said a soothing feminine voice. “You are safe, with friends.”

Her mouth and throat felt rubbed by sand, but in her mind things clicked into place. The strange woman was shielding her from the worst jerking of the coach with her arms and—yes—her bosom; that was the pillow. “What . . . happened to me?”

“First you need this drink—no, don't try to sit up, it will make the pain worse.”

Lisbeth pushed herself away and learned the truth of the woman's words. Painful nausea; she almost threw up all over her. Aching to take it, she croaked, “No. I won't take your laudanum.”

A masculine voice came from the other side of the coach. “I know Andrew and Leo. I also know your friend, the man you call Gaston Borchonne, or perhaps you know him as Tidewater.”

The French was delivered in the lilting accent of the Scot. When she didn't open her mouth, the man kept speaking. “Lass, look at me. We've never met, but I can prove your friend trusts me.”

In the uncertain light of the curtained vehicle and another light
source—was it a lantern?—she saw only a blur. Blinking, she saw an outline that crystallized into a bulky—no, there were two men—two heads—

Two almost identical heads. Two men with harsh-featured faces, dark hair, full lips, and dimples in their chins. One face belonged to the speaker; one was the pale, scarred face of her stranger . . . Duncan, if that was really his name. He was sleeping, his head on the Scot's shoulder.

It seemed everyone was unfamiliar in this coach. But in the past year she'd learned strangers could be kinder than people she thought she knew.

The Scot watched her. Like her stranger, his smile didn't touch his wounded eyes. There were slight differences—the Scot had no scars on his face. He was darker, his cheekbones harder, and his nose more classic—but the resemblance was too strong to deny. “Aye, Duncan's my brother—my half brother, you English would say. My current assignment is to help him, but when Leo and Andrew discovered I was coming here, they asked me to watch out for you. I've been doing that for weeks now, but wasn't in any position to take you or the child out of Abbeville. I had to wait for Duncan.”

In those damaged eyes, she read truth. How odd. She'd supposed her stranger to be alone.

It seemed he read her other, unspoken question. “I became friendly with Leo in particular over a shared liking for euchre, when we were in Neuchâtel. He spoke of you often—they both did. Lizzy the little rebel, they called you. Said you even named your horse Rebel.”

That he knew her nickname, even the name of her horse, soothed her suspicions. Too exhausted to speak, she opened her mouth.

“Take care,” the woman said. Moments later, water dribbled down her tongue, and she reveled in the wetness in her mouth and throat. She tasted slight bitterness and closed her mouth.

“Tell her what is in it,” the woman said. “She has no reason to trust me.”

“It's not bad, lass, I promise you. The drops in the water are herbs
for pain, and to help you sleep,” the Scot said over the loud rumbling of the coach. “Duncan took it willingly when he woke up. Before long you'll be anxious to take it, but it will take longer to dim the pain.”

Duncan. Is it his real name, then?
But the drumming on her skull grew insistent; the sharp pains on her face, arm, and shoulder added to the jagged orchestra.

Duncan slept on the Scot's shoulder, indicating trust.

She opened her mouth again and took as much of the laced water as the woman would give her. Eventually her eyes closed again, returning to the welcoming blanket of oblivion.

WHEN DUNCAN AWOKE, HE
was resting against the squabs. The coach door stood open, showing a vista of rivulets and scummy ponds twining through marshy land to the sea. It was late afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, throwing a metallic light on the churning ocean. Thick leaden clouds flew on wings behind, a storm anxious to show its power.

Men rushed around his biggest rowboats. Cal was barking orders, which everyone obeyed without question. Duncan's men were setting up makeshift beds between the boats' benches with spare oars and blankets.

Too tired to take command, he turned his head. On the opposing squabs, Lisbeth's head lay on the healer's breast. What showed of her face around the bandages was porcelain white, her lips pale. Her half-unbound hair tumbled over her shoulder but didn't disguise the wad of padding beneath. Her arm was under the blankets.

The woman saw his glance. “We had to leave my house. A neighbor came around, one I do not trust. But your lady has made it so far. I think she will recover.”

He let out a breath of relief and smiled a little. “Thank you, madame.”

“You're in pain.” In the light of day, she was still beautiful, in the calm, ancient manner of a woman familiar with suffering. “Your brother has everything in hand. Makeshift beds are in place for your lady and yourself on the rowboats. Take this if you wish to make the night tide, Monsieur Stewart.”

Considering she'd been awake over a day treating himself and Lisbeth, the woman's serenity was remarkable. He took the medicine without argument, thanking her.

“I shall visit Valery-sur-Somme in the coach, procuring herbs. This is why I hired the coach. A broken coach wheel lies on the road to Valery to explain my late arrival and decision to stay the night.”

It was a good plan. Unable to think of anything to change he said, “The name Stewart . . .”

The woman seemed to understand. “The Bonnie Prince and his cousins left behind many children with his name who never returned to Scotland. It's safe to use the name here.”

Unsure how to answer, his gaze drifted back to Lisbeth.

Again the woman said, “Your lady will recover. She has survived the rowboat, the sewing I performed, and this coach ride, which says much for her constitution, and her courage.”

She's not my lady.
It was too much to explain. He was just glad she was alive.

“Your brother has the tinctures you'll need, including lavender to prevent infection in your wounds. I advise you to take everything as required, monsieur. The sooner you recover, the sooner you can take command of your ship.”

“My sincere thanks for all you've done,” he said, finding his voice at last.

“I'll have herbs to last the winter, and my cellar will be full of vegetables.” She grinned, and that mature loveliness sprang to life. “Your brother has been generous with your purse.”

“I'm certain he has been, madame . . . and you deserve it all and more.”

“I'd have done the same without payment, monsieur. I know of this poor girl—and her husband. I've treated some of his victims.” As Clare looked at the girl, Duncan saw Lisbeth through the older woman's eyes: delicate porcelain, ready to shatter with a touch. When had she last had a good meal or been able to just rest through the night without fear?

“Delacorte's father was loved in Abbeville. He would be distressed to see his son's fall.” A curious heaviness rested in her eyes: the ageless grief of the Madonna portraits. “Do not let him raise her child, monsieur. I've seen his descent since his father went to the guillotine.”

He didn't know what to say, what promises to make.

Suddenly he remembered his contempt when Alec told him the Stewarts had tried to rescue him from Annersley's clutches. For the first time he realized the sheer enormity of what he'd expected the Stewarts to do—to steal a little boy in a medieval stronghold filled with servants. His men had it tough enough retrieving Lisbeth's son from a much smaller place.

Clare peered out the door. “If she wakes on the journey to the ship, dose her with this tincture. Do you have a nailed-down bed in your quarters?”

Fighting an urge to apologize, he shook his head.

She frowned. “Ask your sailors to nail down some high-backed chairs either side of the hammock, wedging it tightly, and cover her with blankets tucked between for extra tightness and weight. You and she both must be as still as possible for at least a week.”

Cal stepped halfway into the coach and put his arms out for Lisbeth. “I've already given your orders. Don't worry so, Clare . . . uh, Madame Faîchot.”

There were definite undercurrents in that verbal fumble. Flicking a glance from one to the other, Duncan knew where Cal had spent his lonelier nights during the past few months.

After Lisbeth was in his arms Cal said, “Burton will help you to the launch, lad. I'll get the lass settled on the ship.” He stepped down to the ground, cradling Lisbeth in his arms like a newborn babe. “I'll join your men in Eaucourt while you take her home. Tell her the boy will be with her in England as soon as I can rescue him. I wouldn't leave a dog with Delacorte and his poor mother.”

Duncan nodded. There was no point in telling him Lisbeth wasn't going home yet. “My thanks, Cal—and from Lisbeth, if she knew.”

Lisbeth hasn't agreed,
the voice of his long-dormant conscience
nagged.
But she will,
the agent answered himself.
She'll have her child. Whether she hates me or not doesn't matter
.

“No need to thank me, lad,” Cal said crisply, as he bore his burden toward the launch. “It's the Black Stewart way. You'll learn in time.”

Duncan fought the urge to growl. What was the point? No doubt Cal was like his twin in the deafness that overtook Alec whenever Duncan said something he didn't want to hear.

With Clare's hands at his back, he hobbled down the stairs. Leaning heavily on Burton, he made it to the launch without breaking open his wound. He hoped to God Lisbeth made it, too, or the mission would end in disaster. Everything was in place except her.

He had to force the issue now.