The Tide Watchers (30 page)

“We'll get her back,” Duncan vowed, just as quietly. She wouldn't be another Símon, another Peebles. “Take only what can't be replaced—and keep on the watch. They'll come for you, Fulton. If you see them coming, leave everything and go.”

The protest on Fulton's face vanished. “Just save Elizabeth. Nothing else matters.”

“We will,” Alec and Cal said together, both looking at Duncan, the knowledge and the determination there. Damn it, they were doing it for
him
. Playing at big brothers. Trying to force him into the family—but he had no time to think about it.

“When my men come, use only those you absolutely need. Send the others to the fort with all possible firearms.”

Fulton nodded. “Go.”

As one, Duncan, Alec, and Cal turned and ran.

Fort Vauban

C
OLONEL LEBRUN LEANED BACK
in his chair, looking warm and comfortable by the fire. “It's said LeClerc followed you home, expecting certain favors you gave him on regular occasions.”

No longer knowing if she could trust the commander's lessons, Lisbeth shivered. But cold, vulnerable, and tired, a young girl was more likely to blurt out stupid things: Leo had taught her that the day Papa dragged her from his carp pond and left her wet and miserable until Leo whispered,
Just admit your fault
—and when Papa sent her to bed without supper, Leo smuggled bread, butter, and milk upstairs for her.
Fooling the captors is what Papa calls the first lesson of capture, but it works just as well at home. Admit to the lesser sin of fishing, making sure you look sad and wretched, and Papa won't think to blame you for riding his stallion.

Thinking of that long-ago day she said, trembling, “He followed me on several occasions, but on the night in question . . .”

“We have a witness who states that the man who called himself Gaston Borchonne shot LeClerc,” the colonel interrupted smoothly.

She almost gaped. She'd forgotten Tolbert . . . silly, forgettable Tolbert, LeClerc's acolyte. “Yes, he did, in the foot. From that time M. Borchonne was constantly in my sight. He had no time to return and shoot M. LeClerc—”

“So now you admit to knowing Borchonne. Why should I believe anything you say?”

Think, just keep thinking.
The violent headache and shivering were the only things keeping her from falling into exhausted slumber. She felt as if she'd been running from the day she'd arrived in France,
unable to take a breath without Alain's control. He was the demon she couldn't exorcise.

“Madame, why should you lie, if you've done nothing wrong?”

She held his gaze. “I was taken in my kitchen by a ruse, hit on the head, and brought here without a cloak, sitting far from the fire. I'm cold and I'm scared. I-I thought my husband might have come for me . . .”

“I assure you he is not here, madame.”

From her time with Alain, she knew how this worked. The colonel had reassured her; now she must give something back. “Not everything I said was a lie. I am nineteen. I was raised in the country, and my father would die before training me in espionage. My husband uses violence on me, and he stole my baby. The last time he was near me, he gave me this.” She pointed at the scar on her face. Looking in Lebrun's eyes, she said, “The owners of Le Boeuf tavern, Messieurs Mathieu and Luc Marron, will confirm that in the year I worked there I never went upstairs with any man, never allowed M. LeClerc any intimacy. M. Luc Marron even gave me a knife to defend myself.”

There was a look in the back of the colonel's eyes, some trace of doubt or pity. “So LeClerc tried to rape you, and you fought him off?”

“Not that last night, though I assume it was what he wanted.” She looked in his eyes. “I met the man I knew as Gaston Borchonne a week before. If your witness was M. Jacques Tolbert, he was the one holding me down as LeClerc tried to rape me. M. Borchonne arrived and threatened to shoot them, but let them run away. Why would he do that, only to kill him a week later? Would he shoot him in the foot and warn him off, and then kill him?”

“Madame, how can I believe you?”

Her hands twisted around each other in her lap. “Would you want your sister to lie to strangers if she thought her violent husband was after her again?” To add emphasis, she touched her scar. “Ask Luc Marron. I am no whore. My husband made it up to set the town against me. I don't know why. I can only assume it's to gain public sympathy over his abduction of my son.”

“Luc Marron is dead,” the colonel said, still in that conversational tone. “He died the night you escaped from Abbeville.”

She gasped, couldn't catch her breath, and hiccuped. The colonel handed her a glass of water and, after a few moments, a clean handkerchief: another kindness for which, by the invisible rules of interrogation, she'd have to give something in return.

After she'd composed herself, she said, with tears in her eyes, “Pardon, Colonel. Luc was my friend. You can see this scar is new. My husband shot the window next to where I was sitting, breaking glass all over me. I believe he tried to kill me when his plot to have me guillotined for LeClerc's murder failed. I don't know why he hates me so much. I never understood it.”

Lebrun frowned. “Can you prove any of these accusations?”

The quiet, unmoved tone left her with no choice but to take the offensive against Alain. “The man who gave you the information on me—was he in his early thirties with blond curly hair, bright blue eyes, and a large mole on his right hand? Did he dress with the air of a gentleman and speak with the accent of the
ancien régime
?”

At the colonel's startled look, she drew a hard breath and began muttering to herself. “He's allowing you to conduct this investigation, but he's in the next room, listening and sending notes, telling you what will hurt, upset, or weaken me. He wants to force me to admit to being part of the assassination attempt today. That's why he didn't take Monsieur Monteaux. He can't afford to have any reputable witnesses to prove my innocence in the assassination. He can't be involved because I'm a nobleman's daughter, and Napoleon can't afford yet to have the European Tribunal investigate my death. He wants me dead, but he wants you to do it for him.”

The colonel opened his mouth, and it hung open. “Who is he?” It came out a whisper.

Lisbeth threw him a bleak smile. “My husband.”

Breathing too fast, feeling sick, all she knew was that she was trapped in this locked fortress, and Alain would walk in at any moment.

“There are only two men on the ramparts, probably only two by the gate. That means there are probably no more than a dozen men in the fort in total.” Alec shook his head. “This is a sloppy operation.”

“The lass can take advantage of it. She seems a clever girl,” Cal said.

“Nothing Boney or Fouché does is this disorganized.” Duncan nodded. “This whole plot has echoes of Abbeville. This is Delacorte's work on limited funds. He's running on fury.”

“Unless it affects Lisbeth's rescue, lad, let's stop talking and start doing.”

Duncan snapped, “You've been out of the game too long if you think it doesn't affect it.”

Alec grinned. “That I have. You're in charge, lad.”

At last it stopped snowing. Duncan drew in a breath and expelled it, seeing its thin white fog in the dark. “Lisbeth will be helping us already, if she's able to think beyond her fear.”

“She has no reason to trust anyone,” Cal agreed.

“Apart from you . . . and Fulton, it seems,” Alec added.

Duncan growled, “Let's get on with it.”

“Aye, right.” Cal pulled a sticky bomb from the sack.

When Cal was going to put the sack down, Duncan grabbed it from him. “We need to use two bombs.”

There was a brief silence. “These soldiers didn't do it to her, Duncan.”

Duncan sighed. “Look at the gates, Cal. They're old and thick. We need to make sure the gates blow apart the first time and disable the guards.”

Nodding, Alec reached in and handed Duncan a second bomb.

Using their cloaks as covers, the three men moved over the wet pebbles of Ambleteuse Beach toward the fort. Three feet from the gate, Alec fanned his cloak wide as a cover while Duncan pushed the spikes into each gate at its base, near the inner edge. Then he lit the
fuses and set the timer, and they bolted back down the ramp and across the beach, leaping into the scrub at the top of the old seawall.

“You say the blond man has an interest in seeing you dead?” the colonel rapped out.

At last they were getting somewhere. Lisbeth's gaze flittered around the room as if it held monsters. “My husband will kill me to keep my mouth closed about his murdering LeClerc. I—”

Her open mouth froze when Alain stepped into the room. He leaned heavily on a cane; beneath his curly hair his face was as scarred as hers. He had the same damaged warrior look as the commander now, except his beautiful eyes glittered with hate. “
Ma chère,
how loyal you are to a man you claim to be a stranger, yet so disloyal to me, the man you vowed to be loyal and obedient to for life . . . until death us do part. Perhaps that time has arrived, before you feed the poor colonel any more lies—”

BOOM!
A massive explosion shook the fort; a halo of fire and wood splinters filled the window on the side of the fort facing the town. Startled shouts came over the sound. Thin lines of smoke drifted in through the cracks in the walls.

Alain's face whitened. “What have you done, you stupid bitch?” he snarled in English.

Before she could begin to think of an answer, a second boom made the windows rattle. Another series of shouts came, and masculine screams filled with pain.

The colonel ran from the room. Lisbeth faced Alain alone.

S
CREAMS FILLED THE NIGHT,
howls of pain and terror.

Flames leaped above the smoke, and Fort Vauban's gate blasted in the center. Duncan ran up the ramp to the fort, pulled out two loaded pistols, aiming at the gates. Alec and Cal were beside him in moments, weapons primed. “Let's give the fire something to chew.”

The ball shot exploded in the wood, weakening it. Gunpowder sent the flames higher. Fire filled the gate, and pieces of it flew in all directions, but not enough to get through.

The three men threw down the spent pistols, and as one picked up the loaded Brown Bess rifles. With a quick double boom, the ball shots hit the burning wood; the gunpowder exploded. With a massive creak and a thud, the center of the burning gates burst open in a hole big enough to run through.

They threw off their cloaks in case they caught fire and raced through the gates past a small crowd of panicking men scrambling over the living and dead littering the small courtyard.

The vision would haunt Duncan's dreams later. For now, he had to find Lisbeth.

Alec pointed. “Stairs past the inner courtyard.” Pulling their pistols, they ran into the fortress and up the narrow stone stairs, worn and slippery with age. As they reached the second story Duncan felt a presence and snarled, “If you want to live, come out now.”

From a recess a one-armed man stepped out, a man barely Duncan's age, looking sad and resigned. “You've come for the girl?”

Narrow-eyed, Duncan nodded.

“I'll take you to her. Please don't kill what remains of the men. I
am—was—the lieutenant here before we were taken over. The men will listen to me when I misdirect them.”

Outnumbered and almost out of weapons, Duncan didn't dare ignore this particular miracle. “Why would you help us?”

The man stared at each of them in turn, seeming bemused.

“The girl,” Duncan growled. “Where is she?”

The man shook himself. “Bonaparte's man has my wife and children. He forced me to take part in a plot to bring her here, but she . . . was kind.” He led the way up worn stone stairs to the top story. “Be gone from France before sunrise.” It seemed he couldn't stop staring at them, one face to the other. “She has—you, also, or one of you—has been accused of murder.”

Duncan snarled, “What did he do to her?”

The man hesitated. “The colonel questioned her for hours. She's due to be transferred to the first consul at Villa Pont-de-Briques before sunrise. When the gates exploded, the colonel ran out, but the other man—”

“The man that took over the fort—is he Bonaparte's man?” Duncan asked sharply. The man nodded. “Describe him.”

“He has blond hair and dresses well, but his face has recent scarring, and he walks with a cane. He'd just entered the room to question the lady when the explosions happened.”

“It's Delacorte,” Cal muttered. “I shot him two months ago.”

With a small cry Lisbeth stumbled down the stairs. Alain Delacorte was right behind her, holding a pistol to her head.

AS LISBETH STOPPED, SHE
saw the commander rock back on his heels and take in the situation. She also saw the two men behind him. One of them subtly tipped his head at the one-armed man, but the one-armed man looked to Alain with a servile expression. “Monsieur, what shall I do?”

“Get half a dozen men and bring them here. These people are English spies, to be taken to Lord Bonaparte at Pont-de-Briques before sunrise.”

“
Oui,
monsieur, it shall be done.” The one-armed man turned and vanished.

“So which of you recently played the part of Gaston Borchonne in Abbeville, and which of you played the Jacobin and shot me?” Alain purred. When none of the men answered, the smile in his voice only grew. “I saw two of you in the rowboat. Information about two look-alike British spies has gone to all the relevant places. Now it will be three. Come, you might as well speak, gentlemen—you are surrounded, you know. It was a brave but misguided attempt to rescue my beloved wife. You ought to have left her, really. Now you'll all be tried for the murder of several gendarmes. The murder of police is a very serious matter.”

“So is forgery, the poisoning of a clergyman, and the abduction of a baronet's daughter.” The commander's face was hard. “These are international crimes the king would interest himself in. M. Fouché would likely disavow knowledge of you, and the first consul would frown upon your acts in these delicate times. Do you dare to risk taking us to him?”

“Perhaps not alive,” Alain replied, still smiling.

“I left proof of your misadventures with Lord Grenville a few weeks ago. The papers are to be sent to M. Fouché and the first consul should any of us be taken or killed, even by seeming accident,” the commander's other brother added. He had old scars, which proved he wasn't the brother she'd met before. “I have the receipt of the standing order, if you're interested in taking a glance. It includes the lass there.” From his pocket, he brought out an oilskin packet.

Alain didn't reach for the packet. “Go,” he snarled, and all but threw Lisbeth at them. As the commander leaped forward to catch her, she heard the banging of Alain's cane heading back up the stairs.

The commander's hood fell back with the force of catching her. His hair was matted, his face unshaven, eyes hollow. “Did he hurt you?”

Overwhelmed, Lisbeth shook her head. She could hardly believe he was here. “I am well.”

He frowned, peering at her. “They hit you. There's blood there.” His finger trailed over the lump at the side of her head with a tenderness she'd never known.

“It will heal,” she whispered. She saw the one-armed man stride out from a side door on the landing, and she froze.

“The path is clear. The blond man has left the fort. I thank the Lord I did not have to hit him,” he whispered. “Go, and fast. He sent information to Lord Bonaparte about the lady's capture some time ago. Soldiers are coming to take her to Pont-de-Briques. I cannot stop that.”

The commander put her down. “Can you run?” He didn't wait for her answer but led her downstairs, holding her hand. They reached the base of the fort, and she turned her gaze from the dead and dying. Still wondering how the commander knew M. Mareschal. And for how long.

They ran out and up the beach, over the hill and around the curve to the wilder places. Every moment she expected to hear the explosion of pistols or rifles. The thought of ball shot in her back, or Alain capturing her, gave her the impetus to run harder.

“How long will it take you to pack your things?” the commander panted, running beside her. “We have to be gone by dawn.”

“I knew my mission would end soon. I packed days ago.” Lisbeth felt unexpected sadness at the thought of leaving her life of the past seven weeks, being treated as an intelligent equal; Fulton quietly changing the world on the fringe of war, and because he valued her as a team member, helping with the mundane chores.

Then she remembered his proposal; she'd promised to answer him within the week. “Where's Fulton? They knew who he was. I think they want his inventions.”

“He's well, and packing. We all leave France tonight, inventions included.”

She stopped so suddenly the commander, still holding her hand, stumbled. The others paused. “I won't leave France without my son.”

The brother she'd met in the coach weeks ago spoke. “When I commit to a mission, lass, I don't give up. When I see you safe, I'll return to Eaucourt. Delacorte has the house surrounded—I think the ship's mole informed him of my presence—but I have a plan.”

The scarred brother she hadn't met said, “I swear we will bring your son to you.”

Half a dozen men came down the hill. “Sir, is Miss Sunderland well?” Lieutenant Flynn sounded anxious.

“She is. Return to the house,” he called back. “Go with them, Alec. Fulton will need help.” The scarred brother nodded and ran with his men for the house. It was only when they were gone that the commander spoke again, far quieter. “Cal, you need to return to Eaucourt. We'll take you by sea. It's too dangerous by land, with the posters. I'll need you to send semaphores on what we discussed tonight.”

“Aye, lad, consider it done. And, lass, your son will be with you soon.” Cal turned and ran past the house to the stable.

Holding her by the arm, the commander moved in his brothers' wake.

Stumbling along beside him, she said, “I will not leave my son.”

“You can't stay in France any longer,” he said, through heaving breaths.

She glared at him. “I will
not
leave my son.”

“If you stay here, Edmond will be motherless. Delacorte will see you beheaded.”

Lisbeth stepped back and stumbled on a tussock. “Put me down,” she protested as he picked her up. “The colonel threatened Edmond with death if I didn't betray you all!”

He turned on her. “Did you betray us?” he asked fiercely.

“Did you betray me?” she snapped back. “Will you sacrifice my son to save England?”

“No.”

Strange, how she believed the brief, furious answer. Weak or stupid to always want to believe him—but then, who else did she have? Lisbeth frowned. “Don't you see? If I leave France, Alain can say I deserted Edmond. No court in the land would give him to me!”

“None will anyway with your reputation,” he snarled, running uphill so hard she bounced in his arms. She pummeled his chest to get him to put her down. “Think like the operative I've trained you to be! Delacorte would have done that the day we left Abbeville. The only way to rescue Edmond now is to steal him—and everyone in the town knows
you. Why do you think Delacorte ruined you and came after you now? If he can't kill you, it's obvious we have to make him think he's chased you out of France for good before his vigilance will relax. Then Cal can put his plan into action.”

Startled, she stopped punching him. “That's sensible,” she conceded. “But—”

“I understand,” he said through gasps. “He's your son. It feels as if you're deserting him.”

She nodded, closer to real tears now than she'd been through any part of the colonel's inquisition. “What if it's the only way to save Edmond, as well as saving your life?” He looked behind for a moment before running even faster, but one leg dragged a little.

He must be in pain again.
She couldn't answer him; but how could she doubt him after all he'd done tonight? “All right,” she said slowly. “I will trust you with my baby's life.”

“Delicately put,” he returned with some wryness, and she flushed. “I'm not offended, Lisbeth. But you have to leave France tonight. Trust Cal and Alec to save the boy—they've saved us both, more than once.”

He was telling the truth; she knew it, but she couldn't relent. “I want to know what you meant by what you said to Alain before, about the forgeries and other things.”

“I'll tell you when we're safe on board ship. And you'll tell me everything you said in interrogation.” He was limping now, but ran harder, outrunning her inquisition more than the soldiers chasing them.

BY THE TIME THEY
arrived at the house, carts and sailors were everywhere, having come from Duncan's ship with half a dozen of the biggest lifeboats it had. The half-repaired
Nautilus
was heading to Audresselles with a dozen men to row it to sea on a boat they called a launch.
Papillon
had already been taken from its mooring north of Audresselles Beach to the ship on the second-largest boat. Alec and Cal hopped on the attic cart, joining Fulton and another man.

It seemed Duncan was from a family of Scots. It felt surreal. He was so quintessentially English. So alone.

“My dear.” Fulton grasped Lisbeth's hands in his, eyes worried. “They hurt you! I am so sorry my inattention led to this. I thought we were safe here.”

“No time,” the commander said briefly, forcing their hands apart. “Go, make certain my men left nothing behind you need.”

She ran inside and up the stairs.

Within ten minutes, Lisbeth's bags had gone, holding her clothes and intimate necessities. She stepped over the back threshold and climbed on the last wagon. No point in locking the door when they'd only break it down.

Duncan—it seemed it
was
his name, his brothers used it freely—clucked his tongue. The horses began pulling the cart, but before they'd gone a mile, lights flared in the distance. Bobbing torches were coming up the hill from Ambleteuse. “Grab a sack and mount a horse.”

Leaving the load behind, she grabbed a sack and ran to the horse. Duncan was already unhitching them from the wagon. He passed her a knife. “Cut line.”

She sawed through the rope, pocketed the knife, and mounted as fast as she could.

“Gallop,” he said tersely.

They turned off onto the uninhabitable land, cutting straight across the scrubby sand hills heading northwest. Her beast was a carthorse; a slow clop was its normal pace—but she saw light touching the eastern hills, panicked, and smacked the horse's rump to force it into a gallop.

Gradually—too slow, the lights and sounds were gaining—the broken sand cliffs of Audresselles came into view, the terrain hardening to ancient flat rock and sand. The whining horses' breaths steamed, streaming back in the Channel wind. Daylight stood defiant on the eastern hills, on the edge of the clouds, surly iron gray. The wind whipped her hair around her face and into her eyes, dragging icy tears down her cheeks. Even her gloved fingers were numb. Her nose felt likely to fall off.

The last rowboat was a deeper shadow on the churning water,
moving northwest to sea. Duncan halted the trembling horse and gave two short, piercing whistles.

The boat came about, heading for shore.