“There’s more.”
His eyes seemed burn her, searing through her flesh and into her heart. Her breathing grew quicker, shallower. “There’s a promise, a promise I made, and a dream I cherish. I have to reach England.”
“Or die trying.” He came closer, took her hand.
Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Did he understand the power of a promise such as the one she’d sworn to Marie? The strength of a dream such as the one of finding safety in England? She nodded. “Oui.”
“I hope you get there, then. English husband or not.”
She smiled and blinked back the threatening tears. “Merci.”
“With your strong determination, you deserve to reach your goal.” His soft eyes roved her face as he dropped her hand and touched a lock of her hair, twining it around his finger and brushing it with his thumb.
Something flashed in her mind, an impression, a shadow that sent fear shuddering through her. She jerked back. “Don’t. Don’t touch my hair.”
He dropped it. “Are you well? Your face is suddenly pale.”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine,” she gasped. Though she wasn’t. The breath had rushed from her lungs and she couldn’t manage to get it back.
“Here.” He took away two of her pillows, easing her flat onto the bed. “You mustn’t be feeling well. ’Tis as I said when I first came in and your face was flushed. You’re not resting enough. I know you’ve been out of your bed.”
Warmth stole across her face as she gulped air.
“And what have you eaten today? You must eat more if you’re to regain your strength. I’ll fetch you some stew and bread.”
He took long strides into the common chamber, his shirt stretching taut against his wide shoulders. She placed a hand on her cheek. What was wrong with her? He’d done nothing more than touch her hair, and she’d gone half-mad. Even now the feeling of terror lingered.
He returned a moment later, carrying a tray filled with food. “’Tis nearly dusk. Eat an early dinner, then read, or mayhap sleep? Some rest will clear your mind.”
* * *
Darkness shrouded her. She was cold. So very cold from the night air—and from the terror inside her. She tried to hide her fear as the soldiers surrounded her, but her heart pounded against her chest, sweat slicked her brow and her breathing came in short, uneven gasps.
The leader loomed before her, his strong meaty hands gripped her hair and yanked her head back. Then he sneered, his hand stroking a lock of hair, his fingers twirling it back and forth.
No! Let go of it. Don’t touch me, you swine.
Isabelle’s own screams woke her from the dream.
Her chest heaved for want of air and her heart pounded hard enough to burst through her rib cage. In the darkness, she tried to scramble from her bed, only to find herself tangled in ropes of quilt. She fought free and clambered to the floor. Panic clutching her chest and throat, she stumbled toward the kitchen.
Her hair must come off. She would rip it from her head if she so needed.
Of a sudden, strong hands gripped her upper arms. She fought against them, straining to see who held her in the blackness yet afraid she would look into the eyes of the soldier.
“Let me go. Let me go. I demand it of you!”
“Get back into bed.”
Michel’s aggravated voice growled in her ear. She took a shaky breath. At least he wouldn’t hurt her.
“A knife. I need a knife.” She struggled against him, but his grasp remained firm.
“I’m not giving you a knife.” He shook her slightly.
“Now. I have to have one.”
“Take hold of yourself. I’ll find you one in the morning. If I get you one now, you’d carve me up.”
“Not you. Me.”
“All right, you’d carve yourself up. I’m not giving you a knife.”
“My hair.” She raked a hand down a lock, as though it were alive and evil. “I have to get it off.”
He huffed and muttered something she cared not to hear. “You want to cut your hair? In the middle of the night? No.”
She clawed at him. “He touched it. Oh, goodness, he touched it. It’s tainted. I have to cut it.”
“It’ll wait till morning.”
“Who needs you?” She jerked away and stumbled into the common chamber, banging her knee against the doorway. Pain shot through her leg but she kept going. She headed toward the light emanating from the embers in the hearth. Where did Jeanette keep her knife?
The kitchen utensils hung on pegs near the fire. She sent a spoon clattering onto the stones as she grappled for the knife.
She could see the soldier in her mind, stroking his rank hand over her hair. Toying with it as he leered at her. As he gave the order to beat her. How could she live knowing his fingers had been there?
Her good hand clasped the handle of the knife, and she gritted her teeth against the terror lapping at the edges of her mind. Michel’s form stood in the doorway to the bedchamber. Let him watch if he so desired. Her bandaged arm trembled as she took a lock of her waist-length hair, held it out and hacked.
She offed the part the soldier had touched. Was it enough? Or had his fingers stroked more? She grabbed another handful and sawed until it fell into a pile on the floor. Then she took another lock. Had he handled more without her realizing it? She had to get it off. All off.
* * *
Fear ripped through Michel as Isabelle took the knife from the wall. He rushed forward. “Isabelle…”
But she took no notice of him as she grabbed a tress of hair and held it out, raising the knife. The breath he didn’t know he’d been holding vented through his taut lips. Just her hair. She’d told him as much in the bedchamber, hadn’t she? He drew a calming breath. She could cut her hair, as long as she didn’t bring that blade near her porcelain skin.
Or so he told himself. But as he stood there, watching her war with knife and hair, her curtain of black silk falling lock by lock to the floor, his heart grew ill. All that lush, dark hair severed from her head. Didn’t the Good Book call a woman’s hair her glory? And here she hacked it as though it were the sole cause of all evil in the world.
The whimpers and cries in her sleep were normal, even the occasional thrashing no longer surprised him. But she’d never before awakened in such a panic. Never attempted to harm herself or mar her beauty.
His chest ached as she brought the knife down on yet another lock. The girl had endured much. Her fitful sleeping testified of it, then Father Albert had voiced it. He should have better heeded the warnings.
Rain beat heavily against the thatched roof, and the chamber smelled of bread rising for tomorrow’s breakfast. The dying fire silhouetted Isabelle’s form, her rounded cheek, her smooth neck, her subtle curves. Michel’s eyes drifted down her shadowed body. Her ankles were slim beneath the hem of her nightdress, her bare toes peeking delicately out. How far had those tiny feet walked? What horrors had those feet carried her away from?
And what was wrong with him when the sight of a woman’s feet made him want to run his fingers over her toes, massage her feet until he’d rubbed away the pain in her heart?
A small sob escaped Isabelle’s throat. Having sawed off a good quarter meter of hair the entire way around her head, she grasped the lock she’d started with, moved her hand another quarter meter higher, and brought up the knife.
His heart slowed. “Isabelle.” He went to her, closed his hand over hers on the knife. “That’s enough. No more.”
Her hand tightened beneath his on the handle.
“You’ll be sorry for this come morning.”
She raised wild eyes to meet his. The dim light didn’t hide the fear haunting them, nor the shadows beneath.
“Whoever hurt you, he can’t do so now. You’re safe.”
She looked down, stared at the heaps of hair littering the floor as though seeing for the first time what she’d done, and released the knife.
He laid it on the table, then fingered the newly blunted edges of her hair. “Your hair’s too beautiful to cut like this.”
Her lips quivered, and a single tear crested. He wiped the tear from her cheek, and unable to resist, he pulled her against his chest and kissed the top of her head. She felt soft in his arms, as limp as a child’s doll. “Isabelle…” If she would only let go of her control. Grieve or rage or cry. Release some of what must be locked inside. But she sniffled and simply stayed huddled against him.
He knew not how long he held her, her head buried in the crook of his shoulder, her freshly cut hair falling in waves over his hands. He tangled his fingers in the irresistibly thick tresses, tugging and tipping her face up to his. Her eyes glowed large and luminous with unshed tears, and her lips stood moist and supple, as though waiting for his to meet them.
He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. It trembled under his touch. What would it feel like to lower his mouth a few centimeters to hers? He swallowed.
She pressed those soft lips together and pushed away from him. “I’m sorry. I meant not to…” She held out her hands and looked down, drawing his gaze to the heaps of hair on the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek. But instead of wiping it, Michel backed slowly away. His body shook as he groped for some semblance of restraint. Another moment with her in this quiet, dark room and he’d kiss her. And once their lips met, well, he’d not likely be able to pull away.
His heart kicked madly against his chest as she stood before him, watching him with haunted eyes. He cleared the lump from his throat. “It’d be best if you went to bed now.” He dragged his gaze away from her, stared at the piles of hair cluttering the floor and shifted uncomfortably. “You might not, ah, be so upset after more rest.”
She moved back to the bedchamber with a grace that belied her ancient nightdress, held her head with a regal air that bespoke her aristocratic birth.
Michel walked to the opposite corner of the house for a broom and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d nearly kissed her. For the second time. What had he been thinking? She was the daughter of a seigneur. It mattered little if she had less to her name than he. Families like hers had abused him and his ancestors for centuries. No aristocrat could be trusted—they only cared for themselves.
He grabbed the broom and returned to the piles of hair. Hair he knew felt soft and rich as velvet. He ran the broom through the mess so quickly his action sent stray wisps floating into the darkness. Muttering, he forced himself to move slower.
Space. He needed to put more space between himself and the girl.
But he daily left the house early and went to bed only after Isabelle was settled for the night. He barely looked at her, didn’t take meals with her, and the few times he’d entered the bedchamber during the day, he ignored nearly anything she said. How was he to give her more distance?
* * *
Isabelle couldn’t get the soldier’s face out of her mind as she stood alone in the bedchamber the following morning. She pressed a hand to her stomach and shut her eyelids, trying to clear her head of the attack, but the dark, malicious eyes stared back at her from the gloom of the woods.
She cast her gaze to the window, though it was covered tightly and she couldn’t see the woods beyond. Still, was her attacker out there? Stalking her? She could almost feel his presence surrounding her. As though the longer she stayed on Michel’s farm, the closer the soldier came to finding her.
And she was being childish.
She clenched her hands. The man from the woods had surely run off the very night he had called for her death, and here she’d hacked off half her hair because of a nightmare.
Michel had said she’d regret it come morning. The very thought he’d been right made her cheeks heat.
She laced the bodice of her dress loosely over her healing ribs. Her hair, now ending just beneath her shoulder blades, felt rough and uneven as it tumbled down her back.
How could she have been frightened enough to cut her hair?
Well, she’d no way of reattaching the lost locks. Best to forget what she’d done. Her hair would grow back, and perhaps she’d have Jeanette trim off the ends today to even out the length.
But that would involve explaining why she cut it in the first place.
She could always ask Michel to trim it.
She stilled, recalling the way his hands twined through her hair last night, how he tipped her face up and looked at her with his quiet, green eyes as though he could read every thought in her head. As though he wanted to make the nightmare she lived better. As though he cared what she had gone through… .
But he didn’t care about her, did he? Bien sûr que non—of course not. She was an aristocrat, and he a peasant. She’d probably imagined the look in his eyes last night.
She tied her bodice, wrapped her fichu around her neck and tucked it into her chemise, then decided to leave her hair be. Things would be simpler that way.
She glanced down at the dull blue dress she wore the night she’d been attacked. The only dress she owned now. After spending more than four weeks wearing nothing but borrowed nightdresses, the familiar fabric flowed like spun gold over her skin.
Isabelle moved toward the closed door that separated the bedchamber from the common chamber. No sense eating in bed after last night.
She entered the room and glimpsed Michel pulling on his boots in the corner. Warmth rushed through her, and her heart quickened. She nearly backed out. By heavens, facing the man would be more difficult than she’d suspected. Would he look at her this morning the way he had last night? A breath away from placing his lips over hers and never letting them go? Did she want him to? She pressed a hand to her heart. Perhaps she should breakfast in bed.
And wouldn’t that make a fine coward of her? She lifted her chin. Isabelle Cerise de La Rouchecauld was not a coward. A fool, perhaps. But never a coward.
“Oh, hello, dear. Are you well enough to eat with us?” Jeanette set a pot of porridge on the table, then turned toward an open shelf and retrieved a third bowl.
Isabelle headed to the table and sat, careful to keep her eyes on Jeanette and not let her gaze stray to Michel. “Yes, thank you. I’m feeling considerably better. I thought, perchance, I could help with chores around the house today.”
Jeanette beamed. “Oh, now, there’s no need to strain yourself. Glad to see you up and about, is all.”
She straightened her spine. She’d have been up and about sooner had Michel not ordered her to bed and ignored her for more than a week.
Michel’s footsteps thudded toward them. Isabelle stared at the elegant tabletop, feeling his presence at the table rather than watching him sit. He gave an awkward blessing, then Jeanette took the porridge and served it.
Her eyes on Jeanette, she reached for the bread, but instead of finding the cool plate on which the loaf sat, her hand bumped warm, solid flesh. She and Michel jerked their hands away as though the simple touch stung.
“Serve yourself,” Michel said, looking everywhere but at her.
Isabelle glanced at her hand. “Non, you.”
Michel raked his hand through his hair. “How difficult must you make things, woman? Take the bread.”
“Michel,” Jeanette admonished. “If you can’t find your manners, go eat with the pigs.”
But Michel only stared at her, bringing heat to Isabelle’s neck as she reached a trembling hand to the dish, took a piece of bread and replaced the plate.
Neither she nor Michel uttered a word for the rest of the meal.
Although the rain streamed heavy outside, Michel headed out of doors immediately after breakfast. Though what work needed doing in this weather, Isabelle couldn’t imagine.
“Oh, but I’ve a surprise for you,” Jeanette said the moment Michel left. She scurried to her rocking chair by the fire and returned with a faded black mourning bonnet.
At least, Isabelle thought it was a mourning bonnet—or had been, about a century ago. The ties looked as though a mouse had nibbled on them, and the front brim was bent beyond hope. But the top and side had been mended with brown and gray patches, the brown thread used for the repairs clear against the fabrics.
“Fixed it up, I did. Figured it’d look right pretty on you.” Jeanette puffed her chest, a look of unadulterated joy on her face.
“For me? Oh, why…how generous.”
“I can see you in it now, with that lovely hair of yours tucked up underneath.”
Evidently Jeanette hadn’t taken too close a look at her hair. Or the bonnet.
“Why, you’ll be the envy of every woman in town.”
Or the laughingstock. Isabelle bit the side of her lip. “Thank you, Jeanette, but I’ve no need for a mourning bonnet, benevolent as you are—”
“Don’t be foolish, child. I want you to have it.” Pride filled Jeanette’s eyes. “My Charles, he was always so proud of my mending. Sauntering about town in this or that which I’d fixed up for him.” A faraway look spread across Jeanette’s face, as though she’d just been transported back to the days when her husband still lived.
“You miss him.”
“Aye. Every day. Seems I’m forgetful of most things now. Never had trouble remembering anything while my Charles was alive. Life fit into place back then.” The lines of kindness and care etched across the woman’s face contorted into a mask of pain. “We were married nigh on twenty-six years before he passed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sanctuary for a Lady Page 9