Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [56]
The ferry was beginning to pull away from the dock. The sunny day had turned dark and windy, from a storm coming in. It was late afternoon; they’d arrive in Plymouth in the middle of the next day. They were safe for now, and he could relax his guard. Marginally. There was no way anyone could have picked up on their change in direction.
He was a man used to all possibilities. There were any number of people wanting him dead, but he had no idea who had bribed Samuel and the pilot. Someone who had far too good an access to his plans.
Isobel might be setting him up, but he doubted it. If it was a simple termination she would have taken care of it long ago. Unfinished business, she’d call it.
Some of his enemies had resources that were limitless. They’d know he’d made it to Spain, thanks to the pilot, but there were any number of ways to get out of there, any number of airports, ferries or roads over the Pyrenees to France. It was unlikely they could check everything.
The Bilbao ferry office had been bombed; they would be expecting the three of them to show up in time for the departure and then be stranded. They, whoever they were, had no idea he’d forestalled them and made his own plans. They would only now be realizing he hadn’t come to Bilbao, and the Santander ferry had already set sail.
“I’m going to take a look around,” he said. “I think we’re safe, but I always like to be careful. Stay here with Mahmoud and I’ll be back soon.”
“How about you stay with Mahmoud and I’ll do recon?” Isobel asked.
“Because I don’t trust you?” he suggested. “Besides, Mahmoud isn’t looking well. He needs a maternal touch.”
“I’m not the motherly type,” she snapped, glancing at the boy. Mahmoud was curled up on the banquette, and beneath the layers of dirt he was turning a definite green.
“Just keep telling yourself that, princess. I think I’d better find some Dramamine before we’re both very sorry. Do you need some as well?”
“I have no problem with seasickness.”
“That’s right, this isn’t the first ferry we’ve been on together, is it?”
“Go to hell,” she growled, looking away from him.
He closed the door quietly behind him. She’d take good care of Mahmoud. She was trying very hard to be a major badass, but it was a lost cause. Even after all these years, and the changes she’d gone through, he knew her too well.
And as long as she hated him with such a fiery passion, all was well. She hadn’t gotten over him. She’d never get over him.
Not if he could help it.
Bastien Toussaint sank back on his heels, staring at the piece of wood in front of him. There was an American saying—measure twice, cut once. He’d measured seventeen times and cut twelve, and the damned piece was still just a hair too big. He opened his mouth to let out a long, colorful string of curses, and then closed it again. The baby was asleep, strapped into the perchlike contraption Chloe used for him, and he tended to sleep through everything, including saws, hammers and loud music. A blessing, since their first child, Sylvia, had chosen to disdain sleep for most of the first year of her life. And at age four months the baby was hardly likely to notice the difference between a “blast it” and the string of much more colorful invective Bastien had been toying with.
But he couldn’t bring himself to swear in front of his very young children. He was getting soft in his old age.
He rose, took the offending board back to the table saw and shaved one more sliver off it, then returned. It finally fit, needing just a few taps of the hammer to secure it into place.
Baby Swede was stirring, now that things were quiet. Ridiculous name for a Toussaint, but Bastien had gone along with it, because Chloe had wanted it. In honor of Stockholm Syndrome, she’d said. That unfortunate