A single tear slid down her cheek. Horrors! She brushed it away with her bandaged hand, ignoring the pain her movement caused.
He sat down beside her on the bed. “Isabelle.” He whispered her name.
The word sounded beautiful on his tongue, and the intimacy of it had another tear cresting. She furiously swiped at it. She’d rather swallow a toad than cry in his presence.
His hand clasped over the fisted one resting on her chest. A bolt of heat raced up her arm. Did he feel it?
His thumb stroked her knuckles. “Don’t cry. Forgive me for not giving them back sooner. I didn’t intend to keep anything. But you vexed me so yesterday that I forgot and stormed off.”
Tears still brimming, she met his eyes, so warm compared to their coolness yesterday. She couldn’t help sinking into the comfort they offered, letting the heat from his touch travel straight to her heart. “I thank you.”
A smile twisted the corners of his mouth and crinkled the edges of his eyes. He shifted closer, surveying her features. “Ah, the very words I wished to hear yesterday. Come now…”
He shifted, bringing their lips within centimeters of each other. The breath rushed out of her. He would kiss her in another moment, and she should turn away from it, slap him. But his eyes held her, trapping her in their green depths.
She knew not how long they sat, an instant away from kissing, both afraid to make the contact, both afraid to break it. He lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and his fingertip grazed the tender spot behind her earlobe.
She lurched back. The bond that held them shattered.
Michel sprang from the bed, shifted his weight awkwardly and looked about the room. “I, uh…”
She kept her face down, staring at the pattern on the old quilt. Why must she be so childish and lurch away? He’d meant nothing by the touch. He was just…what?
Her heart felt ready to hammer through her chest, and heat flooded her cheeks. Surely she did not desire his kiss.
He cleared his throat. “I, um, came to speak with you about your attackers. Was it a gang of thieves, or soldiers? And what do they know of you?”
Isabelle stiffened, her hand tightening around her money and pendant. Had he been kind to her only because he wanted information? She couldn’t tell him, not anything. If he knew her father had been a duc, he might yet turn her over to the soldiers. And if he allowed her to stay, he’d knowingly put himself and his mother in greater danger. Non. Information about her family would only put more people at risk. “You need know nothing of me.”
“Joseph Le Bon, the représentative en mission from the Convention, will be coming to Abbeville shortly. Now, whence come you?”
The représentative en mission? An icy finger of fear wrapped around the base of her spine and worked upward. Though the main guillotine for executions resided in Paris, représentatives en mission brought other guillotines with them and their soldiers when they traveled, carrying their own little Terror to other sections of the country. She and Marie had barely maintained their disguise when the Terror came to Arras last fall, but to have it come to Abbeville? Now? “Surely you jest.”
“I do not. And ’tis reasonable that I know who’s sleeping under my roof and eating my food. So I’ll ask again. Whence come you?”
She swallowed. The soldiers in the woods hadn’t believed her story, but perchance the farmer would. The tale had fooled people for five years. “From Arras, my father was a cobbler, but when my aunt in Saint-Valery suffered apoplexy, I—”
He gripped her wrist with frightening force, angling himself over her until she’d no choice but to look him in the eye. “You lie. And so easily at that. If your hair were not so obviously black and your eyes brown, you’d state they were red, both of them. Tell me, does it upset your constitution to lie so freely? I thought mademoiselles were especially sensitive to such falsehoods.”
She pressed her eyes shut, unable to meet his prying gaze. Non. She hadn’t always lied. She’d been nearly sick the first time she was untruthful about her heritage. But the seamstress, Madame Laurent, would have sent her to the guillotine had she gone to the shop claiming she was the daughter of the Duc de La Rouchecauld.
Had lying become so natural over the past five years she now thought nothing of it?
“I’m risking my neck and my mother’s by having you here. I’ll not hear any more falsehoods. I’d rather you refuse to answer than tell me an untruth.”
Isabelle opened her eyes and bit the side of her lip. She still couldn’t tell him who her father was, not even with the représentative en mission en route. Perchance Michel was willing to help some unnamed aristocratic girl, but in the eyes of most Frenchmen, helping the daughter of the Duc de La Rouchecauld would test even God’s mercies. She blew out a shaky breath. “I promise to speak honestly, but I’ll not give you my name nor tell you whence I come. Then if I am discovered, you can deny any knowledge of my heritage.”
“We both know that will make little difference.”
The truth of Michel’s words sliced her. They would all be killed if anyone learned her identity.
Chapter Six
“…They appeared of a sudden, coming out of the forest. I didn’t stop to look or count. I simply fled. I knew not whether they were thieves or soldiers, but when they started calling me, telling me stop in the authority of France, I knew who they were and what they would do to me.”
Michel scrubbed a hand over his face as Isabelle’s words swirled around him. He should have never asked to hear it. Her face shone deathly pale, but her words sounded hard, objective. Like a soldier who recounted someone else’s experience, rather than her own. ’Twould be better if she cried, raged, anything to get out what must be burning inside her.
“I should have been more prepared for a chase. I see that now. The handful of other times I happened upon someone in the road, I’d time enough to hide in the forest. But the soldiers, they emerged from the trees, not the road. What could I do but run? The shadows weren’t enough to conceal me. And I had my valise. I should have dropped it, left it for them. But…I couldn’t.”
Her voice hitched, followed by a tremble of the lips and the slightest sheen of anguish in her eyes. “I’d already lost so much.”
Her determination nearly broke him. How terrible to be forced from your home, constrained to travel at night with wild animals and thieves abounding, impelled to carry all possessions in a valise.
Michel hunched his shoulders and turned away from her. He wouldn’t feel sorry for her. He couldn’t.
Fire and damnation. Her kin had starved him, taxed his land, house, harvest and made him pay for use of the mill. Seigneurs refused him rights to hunt and fish. Now he sat beside a seigneur’s daughter, and he was supposed to pity her?
Michel stiffened, only half listening as she continued.
“Despite my advanced start, I could feel them gaining. Then my valise caught. I turned to jerk it free, but a soldier had hold of it. When I pulled, the bag ripped, but I continued forward. There was a copse of pine ahead, and if I could get there, I thought to lose myself in their dense branches. But I never…that is to say, I didn’t…”
She cleared her throat.
How had the woman courage to continue her story?
“One wore an old National Guard coat, and they all had on those hideous tricolor cockades. They wanted to know my name, where I was from and so forth. I told them the same story I told you, but they didn’t believe me, either. And when the leader demanded the truth, I refused. They were going to kill me regardless. Why give them the pleasure of knowing whom they’d taken?”
He’d not look at the girl. He couldn’t or he’d lose every drop of the hatred he harbored for the aristocracy. Tunneling a hand through his hair, he paced, but the room was hardly l
arge enough. Four steps across from the chest of drawers to Mère’s bed and back again.
He wished he’d never found her. Then there’d be no dilemma, no danger to him and his mother by harboring her. No choice between whether to further aid her escape or kick her out once she regained her strength.
He’d not sneak into the woods again to fish for the rest of his days if he could send her on her way. Rid himself of the burden she’d become.
“The leader, a large man not unlike yourself, had at least enough decency to refuse the others the opportunity to violate me. I suppose I wasn’t worth dragging to the nearest guillotine, so they’d kill me there, in the woods. Then I felt a blow to my lower back and…”
He stopped pacing. Isabelle worked her jaw to and fro. Why didn’t she let her pain out? She should be in tears after reliving such an ordeal. Her hands trembled in what was surely a bitter fight for control, but her eyes stayed flat.
“…I can’t recall anything more.”
He raised his eyes to the thatched roof. Through the deaths of his father and Corinne, he’d clung to the fact that God didn’t make mistakes. Every morning when he rose to milk the cow and feed the animals, every midday when he planted or weeded or harvested rather than build furniture, he reminded himself God’s ways were best.
But the arrival of this…this… He knew not what to call her. He could hardly term her “wench” or “vixen” when she faced the memories of her attack with such strength. He could hardly call her “girl” when she had lived through such pain.
The arrival of this mademoiselle had him questioning God’s ways. Why would God want him to find her? To care for her? In God’s great plan of things, this situation was most illogical. Someone else should have discovered her. Father Albert or…
And therein lay the problem. She’d been lying in his woods. So God must have given this responsibility to him, must intend for him to aid the girl.
But why? Michel’s temples pounded. He needed the feel of wood beneath his hands, the relaxing motion of the saw or planer to clear his thoughts, roll away the stress.
“Michel?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then reluctantly looked at the girl. No—the woman. Her lips moved. They were red, the color of apples in September, not the dull pink they’d been when he found her. And her hair, by heavens, he should have hidden Mère’s brush. It had been comely enough when dirty and matted in the woods, but brushed and falling freely over her shoulders and the pillows, it looked like a cascade of dark silk. He rubbed his forefinger over the pad of his thumb. Surely her hair wouldn’t feel so soft.
And this was not happening! He’d not feel attraction for the girl, or sorrow or pity or anything else. She was his duty, his burden before God. Nothing more.
Isabelle watched him as though she expected an answer of some sort.
He scratched the back of his neck. “Did you ask me something?”
“My injuries. How severe are they? My ribs hurt oftentimes, even when I’m sitting.”
“Cracked ribs. At least, I think they’re cracked. Either way, there isn’t much that can be done for them other than to wrap them and let them heal. I sent not for a doctor because I had no way to explain your wounds without compromising my safety. I set your arm the best I could. I’ve set bones before, although I’ve never seen a break as severe as yours. And you had considerable bruising on your back and torso.”
Her face bloomed bright red at the inference he’d seen her body, and his ears and neck heated in response.
“But I’ve not, er, that is… Ma Mère would know more about those injuries. I merely helped wrap your ribs and arm. She’s tended you since.”
“Think you that I can journey to Saint-Valery soon?”
“Doubtful, since you couldn’t stand yesterday. And, much as you threaten our safety by being here, I’ll not have any part in aiding your escape to England. You can walk to Saint-Valery on your own.”
She inhaled sharply. “You knew.”
“Aye, I’m not daft. The pendant gave your heritage away when first I found you. What need has an aristocrat to journey to the coast of France other than to board a ship bound for Stockholm or Copenhagen, and then probably to England?”
She cast her eyes about the room as though she had some sudden need to look everywhere but at him. Her gaze settled on the window. “Might I sit outside this afternoon? This room is wearisome. Perchance the fresh air will strengthen me.”
He recognized the obvious attempt to divert his attention, but answered her, anyway. “You’re too weak. You’ve naught been awake two days.”
Her eyes held mirth. “I’ve never been one to sit still long.”
“I thought that art required of ladies.”
“Yes, well, that vice caused my mother and nurse much displeasure at times.”
“You? Displeasing?” He tried suppressing a smile, but the corner of his mouth tipped up, anyway. “I can’t imagine.”
“I’m sure not. Perchance if you help me out of doors, we won’t repeat yesterday’s heated words.”
The hope in her eyes nearly forced his consent, but he’d not risk having her about his lands until he had reasonable explanation for her stay. Although saying she was Corinne’s cousin would fool most, he had no reason for her injuries as such. “I think not.”
Her gaze fell to the quilt, and she toyed with the handkerchief on her lap. He moved closer. She’d clearly been embroidering the worn hanky. A delicate brown flower stem twisted in the far right corner, waiting for a flower or two to be added. “It’s exquisite.”
“Thank you. I worked for a seamstress, not sewing so much as embroidering. Custom pieces mainly. Handkerchiefs and pillows and the like.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I told you not to lie. I’m risking my life and Ma Mère’s by having you here, and I expect the truth in return. If you choose to share not your name or whence you come or whither you go, then so be it. But I’ll not have you sit in my brother’s bed and tell me an untruth.”
Her eyes lit, and she fisted her uninjured hand in the quilt.
“How think you that I’ve survived five years of Révolution in this accursed country?” The words exploded from her and left her chest heaving. “Do you think that I merely smile and introduce myself and have money to buy goods? Do you think I snap my fingers and have the world fall at my feet? We were on our way to England five years ago. Five! You desire to know what happened? How I got here? Our servants, who had served my family since before my birth, to whom my father had entrusted the safety of me and my sister, stole our money and deserted us near Arras. We would have died had I not hidden spare funds in my boot and found us shelter. I worked for the money you found on my person. My sister and I spent four and a half years earning the rest of the funds needed to get us to England.”
He should believe her. Told himself to believe her. But like Thomas with the wounds in Christ’s hands, he couldn’t help grabbing the pointer finger of her right hand. She tried to jerk away, but he held fast and felt along the pad, paused when he came to the slim, telltale callus formed from hours of holding a needle. He’d missed the small mark the first time he’d looked at her hands.
She yanked her hand again, and he let it go.
He didn’t have the heart to ask what had happened to this sister of hers. “Forgive me.”
“That seems to be your favorite saying of late.”
“Indeed it does.”
* * *
Isabelle awoke from her nap to stare at bleak, brown walls. She sighed and rolled to her side, gasping with discomfort. Since she’d awakened yesterday, she’d shifted, lain and sat in every position imaginable and found not a single pose to ease her constant pain.
Her gaze traveled to the window, following the sunlight that spilled in and dan
ced across the bedcovers and floor. Outside, two birds chirped and a cricket sang. A faint moo reached her ears, accompanied by the sound of chickens squabbling. She inhaled and, through the stale air of the room, caught the slightest whiff of spring.
Isabelle propped herself into a sitting position. How could a person be expected to heal while trapped in the confines of such a dark and unsightly room?
She closed her eyes and imagined strolling through the woods. The trees would leaf soon, and the dirty patches of snow would have melted by now. Unbidden, memories of a similar walk flooded her. A twig cracked beneath her foot as she stepped, and the four walls of the cottage no longer surrounded her. In her mind, she walked through the forest on a day she remembered far too well. It was Sunday, her day off. Yet no church bells rang from the nearby town of Arras, for France now worshiped the Cult of Reason rather than God.
She grasped the cross hanging about her neck, more from reflex than from a desire to cling to her faith. She wouldn’t have gone to church even if she could. She’d given up that empty ritual four and a half years earlier, when she’d learned of her parents and brother being slaughtered. What would she say to God if she entered the doors of a cathedral? Thank You for killing my family and sending my beloved country into upheaval?
Two squirrels scurried over a patch of melting snow and a rabbit rustled the brush nearby. Isabelle drew a cleansing breath. She’d not think of her family on such a fine day.
She rubbed a finger over her bottom lip. Léon had kissed her the day before last, and it had been…well…she should say wonderful. Every woman’s first kiss should be wonderful. And she was one and twenty now, already more a spinster than a maiden.
Brotherly, though, was a better way to describe the kiss. She’d hoped for a spark. Or a tingle. Yes, a tingle that spread all the way from her fingertips to her toes. Instead, all she felt was patience for Léon.
She hadn’t told Marie of the kiss, but she could hear Marie’s reprimands even now. Listen to me, Isabelle. You mustn’t encourage that boy so. What if he follows you here? What if he learns who we are?
Sanctuary for a Lady Page 6