The Tide Watchers Read Online Free Page B

remained beneath. All she could manage was jagged breathing, and staring at that faceless space inside the hood.
    â€œYou’re shivering.” Gloved hands divided from his voluminous cloak, reaching to her.
    She jerked up and pointed a shaking finger at him. “Don’t touch me.” She hardly expected obedience. Men never allowed women control: not fathers, brothers, husbands, or even chivalrous, hooded strangers.
    Yet without a word he stood, pulled off his cloak, and laid it over her, shrouding her in its warmth. He laid his pistols by her and returned to sit at her feet.
    He’d handed her his pistols? Why? She blinked and waited for him to speak, but he seemed content on the ground, waiting for her word to move. With the thin moon fallen behind the Channel, his face was a black silhouette in the dearth of light. Was he the phantom imagining of a desperate girl, an uncertain resemblance of what a gentleman ought to be?
    The minutes ticked past while she shivered and he remained silent, waiting.
    At last she whispered, “Help me.”
    He got to his feet. “I’m coming behind you. Now I’ll put my hands under your arms, so. Are you ready?”
    Overwhelmed, she could only nod. It hurt her throat, made it hard to breathe.
    Touching only her underarms, he lifted her to her feet. When her legs trembled, he murmured, “May I carry you to the bench?”
    After a long moment, tossing up whether speaking would hurt less, she nodded.
    He set her on the bench in the belfry’s shadow and wrapped his cloak around her once more. He retrieved his pistols and left them beside her. “Are you feeling warmer? If you take a chill, you won’t be able to work tomorrow.”
    Lisbeth started. He’d been at the tavern? The man in the corner who’d turned from her whenever she approached him?
    Why was he treating her as a lady when he’d seen her at work, and had just seen more of her than any stranger ought? How could he expect her trust when he wouldn’t show her his face? Unwanted intimacy, respect, and concern coming from blackness. She wanted to pull her own hood over her face, run away. If she could make her legs obey her.
    If only she could be sure LeClerc and Tolbert weren’t waiting for the opportunity.
    The stranger sat still, lost in the night. It seemed deliberate. He’d put her in the light while he remained in darkness and silence. She refused to speak first, or play the helpless damsel to this odd Galahad . . . but the silence grew and her curiosity hurt.
    â€œWho are you? Do you know me?” she whispered at last.
    She felt rather than saw his smile: a tiny hummingbird of satisfaction fluttering in the air. “You may call me Gaston.”
    Her mouth turned down as a cold sliver touched her bone. “No, I may not, monsieur. Not without ruining what reputation I have.”
    After a moment, a slow nod came. “Then you may call me Monsieur Borchonne.”
    She frowned at him, doubting. Somehow, despite his perfect accent, he didn’t look French. Or maybe it was the lost Spanish accent? “It’s not your real name, is it?”
    He didn’t answer. Knowing herself to be in the right, she didn’t lower her gaze, but lifted her chin and waited.
    Eventually he spoke. “You’re still shivering. This may help.” He held something out. Squinting, she caught the dull glint of a flask. “Brandy’s good for shock.”
    â€œSo is tea,” she replied, feeling foolish.
    Again she heard the smile in his voice. “I know tea is preferable to ladies, but I’m afraid this is all I have.”
    There was something in his voice, an expectation of obedience. Almost resenting it, she lifted the flask to her mouth. In seconds she spluttered and choked.
    A low chuckle. “It always happens the first time. Sip slowly, and count to ten.”
    Saying that—understanding that she hadn’t drunk brandy