It was almost as though he knew about Marie. Her chin quivered. He was going to make her cry. Right here. In front of him. She pressed her eyes shut.
Then his lips were on hers, hushing her words.
She should pull back, but his arms slid around her, drawing her against the solidness of his chest. She’d been kissed once, but she’d never before felt so swept away by the patient caress of a man’s lips against a woman’s, the delightful way his tongue snuck inside her mouth, ran over her teeth, her tongue.
His arms tightened around her. How strong they were, those arms forged into muscle by days spent working under the hot sun. His hands crept up her back, the same hands that could turn a scrap of wood into a masterpiece.
She melted into him and sighed against his mouth, still warm and strong on her own. In his arms she had no worries of being discovered, no fear of being dragged to the guillotine. In his arms, she felt something she hadn’t felt in more than five years.
She felt safe.
* * *
Kissing her was like drinking the woman’s personality. Explosive. Passionate. Enchanting. As Michel covered Isabelle’s mouth with his own, the sensations nearly knocked him backward. Aye, he’d kissed women before, but never like this.
He’d feared it would be this way, not a simple kiss stolen out of flirtation, but a deep, passionate meeting of lips and hearts and minds. Isabelle had been so helpless, so vulnerable, comforting him when he hadn’t endured near the trials she had. And then she nearly cried. How could he do anything except kiss her?
Oh, but he could stay like this, steeped in the whirlwind of Isabelle, all afternoon.
And she’d probably slap him for doing so.
He slowed the kiss until he could manage enough self-control to pull back. Then he looked into her face, prepared to be backhanded. But her eyes were closed as though locked in a dream, her face tilted up like she expected, almost wished, for more. Her tiny hand was curled into the front of his shirt like a kitten curved into its mother’s belly. A fresh flood of warmth swamped his body.
“Isabelle,” he whispered. Her eyes half opened, and for the first time since he met her, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sorry for the kiss, and he could do little but stare into her heavily lidded eyes, begging for another.
It wasn’t wise to kiss her again. Ever. She was an aristocrat—sentenced to death. She was leaving the country—gone as soon as her arm healed. And she’d not even been awake a fortnight—not long enough for him to know whether he could trust her. But drawn by a force he’d no desire to resist, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers again.
The door to his workshop flew open, bringing with it a burst of rain and frigid wind. Michel spun around to find the mayor stomping his feet in the doorway. His gaze darted to Isabelle’s flushed face and heated lips. Hopefully Narcise wouldn’t notice the evidence of a freshly kissed woman.
“Michel.”
Michel cleared his throat and took several steps away from Isabelle. “Good day, Mayor. Uh, this is Isabelle Chenoir. Corinne’s cousin visiting from Paris. Isabelle, this is Victor Narcise, Abbeville’s mayor.”
Michel braced for questions about when she had arrived, how long she would stay, why her arm was bandaged, why he hadn’t informed any townsfolk a guest was coming.
Wheezing almost as loud as the rain hammered, Narcise took his hat off, letting the water slosh into a muddy puddle in front of the door. “Michel, I’ve need of you, boy. The river’s going to flood… .”
Michel stilled, the sawdust beneath his feet grinding into the floor. The river? The Somme? Flood? The river was huge. Once it crested its banks, it could easily submerge everything in its wake in several feet of water.
“It’ll take the town if we don’t stop it.” Narcise sucked in a heavy breath. “But you know what to do. You deal with that low field every year.”
“The river can’t flood.” His mind whirled. “We’ve not had that much rain. Only four days.”
“Yes, but it’s come down hard and fast. The water’s nowhere to go.”
Michel hunched his shoulders and paced the open space in front of the dresser. “What’s being done?”
“I’ve got riders out getting the men. I was hoping you could direct me from here.”
“Sandbags. How many sandbags do you have?”
Narcise shrugged. “I believe there’s a few being stored in the cathedral.”
“A few?” The man must be daft to try plugging a river the size of the Somme with a few sandbags. Michel strode to the back of the workshop and flung open the doors of a cabinet. It was stacked top to bottom with empty burlap sacks waiting to be filled with dirt and sewn into sandbags. “Don’t just gather the men, gather women and older children, too.”
“Now just a minute, Michel. We don’t need any women or—”
“They can’t lug the sandbags, but they can fill the bags with dirt and sew the tops. Find all the extra burlap and fabric you can manage. We can have a group sewing new sacks inside the church. And food.” Michel rubbed the back of his neck. “Divide people into shifts to make sandbags. Some fill, some sew and others dam the river with them. Rotate them to rest, warm up and eat, then return them to work. We can’t have half the town coming down sick. Anyone starts coughing, they’re done outside. And Doc Gobbins best be volunteering his services.
“We can use the sandbags I’ve got here, and there’s more in the stable. If we need more, we can send a wagon and take apart the dam on my property.” Michel sighed. He’d put hours of work into that field, but what was one man’s field compared to a town? With all this rain, the lower field wouldn’t drain enough to plant this year, anyway.
He turned back around, his mind humming with the details of damming up the Somme. Isabelle stood where he’d left her against the wall, her face still flushed and lips swollen. He eyed the bandage on her left arm. “You can sew with your right hand?”
She nodded.
If he dragged her into town, the people would ask ceaseless questions. He could leave her here, where only the mayor knew of her.
But the woman could sew. Fast. The stack of embroidered handkerchiefs by her bed attested to her abilities. “Then get Ma Mère and her sewing bag ready while we load up these sacks.”
Isabelle with all the townsfolk. He pushed down the swirl of fear in his gut and hoped he was making the right choice.
Chapter Ten
Rain streamed off the brim of the overlarge hat Isabelle wore, while her fingers trembled from fatigue and cold. She ignored the growing ache in her arm and fought to sew the rough burlap of the sandbag closed. Frigid water and mud had long ago seeped into her skirt and boots, soaking her knees and legs as she kneeled on the ground. She tried imagining her wool cloak kept her dry, but rain sneaked through the tears and holes worn through the old material and ran in rivulets down her arms whenever she lifted them to sew.
In the predawn light, she looked out over the muddy road and toward the river. Tall stone houses, three and four stories high, lined the street before giving way to the makeshift dam. Beyond the dam, the river churned and swelled. She had glimpsed it once, when they had first arrived last night.
Working people, veiled in shadows, filled the scene before her. With the energy and enthusiasm of the young, children tirelessly filled bags. Nervous women chattered above the noise of wind and rain as they sewed in pairs, and weary men lugged new sandbags onto their shoulders and trudged to the river. All fought to save their town.
Isabelle hunched her back against the relentless downpour and tied off her thread before moving to the next sack. Flexing her weary shoulders, she shivered. She should head to the cathedral for some warmth and food, but once inside, the strange looks and questions from townsfolk didn’t cease.
�
�You’re Corinne’s cousin?”
“How long have you lived in Paris?”
“Do you like the province better than the city?”
“What happened to your arm?”
“Michel never mentioned Corinne’s cousin coming to visit.”
Being inside the cathedral left her tired of talking, miserable from lying and weary of wondering who this Corinne was—besides the former owner of the pitcher and basin she had shattered.
“Got another sandbag,” Philippe, the boy she’d been working with, called. He winked and blew her a kiss before scampering over to fill a fresh sack.
He was done already? She was getting further behind—another sign she should go inside and rest. Still, she sent Philippe a weak smile and winked in return. Her years working as a seamstress had taught her to sew quickly, and she could almost keep pace with little Philippe, if only her sore arm would cooperate. Most of the other women worked in pairs to keep up with one child filling the bags.
Not far from her, a familiar silhouette bent down to heave a sack. She paused and watched the strength and confidence in Michel’s gait as he headed to the dam. He’d worked straight through the night, organizing the making of sandbags, choosing the best spot for the dam, putting people on shifts to work and rest, and lugging finished sacks. The mayor and other men practically bowed in gratefulness over any direction Michel gave. But in spite of all the shift breaks Michel insisted everyone else take, he’d only rested once during the night.
Not that she’d noticed. She’d barely paid him heed…well, maybe she’d paid a little attention.
She shook her head as she thought back over the hours since they’d left the cottage.
She’d been watching him all night. How ridiculous of her! He was nothing more than a farmer…a farmer who had opened his home and cared for her when he could have left her for dead. A farmer whose very act of kindness could cause his own death. A farmer who exuded strength the way most men wore hats, and had muscles a Greek god would envy.
She stopped her sewing and pressed a hand to her forehead. What was she thinking? Michel was irritating, ruled his home like a tyrant and didn’t heed a thing she said.
But then he had such a gentle way with his mother, and an immeasurable skill with wood. And he kissed her with such smoldering intensity her bones turned to melting butter. Her pulse sped at the memory, and she scowled at her sandbag. That was certainly her dilemma—she liked kissing him. And sometimes, in spite of herself, she simply liked him, the protection he offered, the sense of safety she felt in his embrace. When had the thorns of irritation she felt toward him turned into tingles of admiration and attraction? Well, she’d not encourage such overtures from him. She’d be leaving as soon as the rain abated.
“This one’s done, too.” Philippe sent her a saucy grin before running to a new sack.
Shaking her head, Isabelle looked at the newly filled bag. Two behind. She was almost as slow as the townswomen. Though her bandaged arm protested, she pursed her lips and sewed with intensity, finishing her sack before the boy completed another.
Muddy boots appeared before her.
“I told you I didn’t want you outside. You’ll become ill.”
“I’m fine.” Isabelle looked up into Michel’s face and bit the side of her lip. He should look tired after working all night, but his green eyes were wide and clear, his wet hair curling wildly beneath his hat, his face ruggedly handsome rather than haggard. She pushed out a breath and wiped a strand of sopping hair from her face. She wasn’t supposed to care if he was tired.
He squatted beside her, his eyes roving her face and body. A cozy ball of warmth formed in her stomach and spread to her limbs. “You’re shivering. If you want to work, sew fresh sacks inside with Ma Mère.”
She tried to still her cold, trembling body. “There’re a hundred women inside willing to sew. No one wants to come out here. Besides, I’m one of the few that can keep up with a child.” She’d not tell him she’d been outside for two straight shifts.
“You are the most stubborn woman.” He grabbed her hand and tugged. “Either you get up and walk to the cathedral, or I’ll carry you there.”
She tried to jerk her hand free as he pulled her to her feet. “Let go of me, you arrogant oaf. You’ve no authority to—”
“Close that mouth of yours, or I’ll think of a more pleasant activity for it.”
Her cheeks burned at his reference to their kiss. “No, thank you.” She attempted to pull her hand away again, but he still held it, covering her frigid fingers with his warm, calloused hand. Her heart quickened. Touching him was a bad idea. She cast him a glance. His strong jaw remained set, his long, stately nose prominent in the shadows of early morning and his gaze focused on the cathedral ahead. He didn’t seem at all affected by the feel of her skin against his.
The tall, stone cathedral loomed over the town. With Michel still clutching her hand, Isabelle walked silently toward the massive structure. Built in Gothic style, the cathedral’s twin square towers jutted so high the clouds and rain swallowed them before they ended. The twelve apostles, carved into towering stone pillars, looked down as they walked across the cobblestones leading to the entrance. Three sets of ancient wooden doors lined the front. He tugged her toward the middle and largest doors, placed beneath a stone archway and an ornate, star-patterned stained-glass window. He held the door for two women who scurried in front of them, then drew her inside without ceremony.
“Oh, Michel, is that you? Thank you for your hard work.”
“Aye, the town wouldn’t know what to do, if not for you.”
“You’re a smart boy, you are. You’d make your father right proud.”
“Thank you, ladies. Best get down the hall and sit a spell by the fire.” Michel removed Isabelle’s cloak and hat as he spoke to the other women. He had hung her garments on hooks before she could think to take them off herself. Then he stripped off his wet outer raiment and steered her down the corridor.
The drafty building did little to warm her. The damp, heavy air, holding the scent of grain, barely stirred as they moved.
“Excuse me.” A barrel-chested man brushed Isabelle’s shoulder as he lumbered toward the exit.
People of all heights, ages and occupations filled the corridor, some sleeping on the floor, others eating and more sewing. Michel pushed her past a group of young, giggling girls, and they entered a warm, crowded room. The aroma of stew and bread replaced the smell of grain. A huge fire roared at the far end of the room, the space in front of it packed with men sitting on benches and on the floor, clambering to thrust off the chill from outside. Cold and tired, Isabelle could imagine herself lying down by the fire and sleeping for a day. But Michel stood between her and the heat source, as did a hundred or so others.
Two young women hastened to them—or rather to Michel. Both had perfectly coiffed hair and looked as though they hadn’t spent a minute working. Isabelle inwardly cringed and reached up to finger the uneven tresses on her own head. The brunette wearing a green skirt took Michel’s arm, while the blonde stood back and sent Michel a brilliant smile. No mud splattered the blonde’s kidskin boots or her dry dress of delicate pink. Pink during a flood.
Isabelle swallowed. Had she ever been that vain? Probably. In another lifetime. She shoved at her tangled hair. If only she’d brought some pins to put it up.
“Michel. Just look at you, working so hard to save our town,” the brunette all but purred. She didn’t have a speck of mud on her clothing or boots, either.
The little minxes. As though Michel worked alone to save the town.
“Oui, the town would be lost without your guidance.” The blonde moved forward, her pink, plump lips moving delicately as she spoke.
Had Michel ever kissed them? Isabelle’s heart gave a single, violent b
eat.
“Why, you must be exhausted.” The blonde slipped her hand into Michel’s free one. “Come, we’ve a spot here by the fire for you.”
The two women turned and escorted Michel through the crowd with graceful sways of their hips.
Standing by the doorway, Isabelle glanced around for Jeanette. But Jeanette slept, sandwiched between two other older ladies, with her back propped against the wall and the sack she’d been sewing resting in her lap. Isabelle could find another seat, but that meant ceaseless questions from strangers. She pursed her lips. Maybe she should go back outside, or at least to the corridor.
Throughout the room, a dozen or so fresh women stood out from the muddy, rain-soaked crowd. They carried food and drink to the weary workers and offered hopeful smiles that matched their bright, clean clothing. Oui, the group of women must have come to help this morning, since she didn’t remember them from last night.
At least they helped in their own dainty ways. Six years ago, she would have assisted in the same way, being too refined and mannered to get wet or dirty but still wanting to do her part. Vain she may have been, but she’d never been indolent.
Michel reappeared before her, the beautiful women no longer trailing him.
He took her elbow and bent his mouth to her ear, his breath causing her skin to tingle. “I thought you were going to rest.”
“I was searching for a place to sit.” She didn’t meet his eyes or tell him how inferior the other women made her feel.
“You’ll sit with me.”
People crammed into the area by the stove, sitting on both benches and the floor. But they parted for Michel as willingly as the Red Sea for Moses, calling out to him as he passed.
“Appreciate it, Michel.”
“What do we do next?”
“You think that dam’ll hold?”
Four men jumped off a bench along the wall, each offering his coveted seat to Michel. Isabelle tried to tug her elbow out of his hand as he ushered her to the bench, but lacked the energy to free herself from his sturdy grip. Pulling her down, he settled so closely beside her their shoulders touched. She shifted away, until a wiry, rancid-smelling man sat down on her other side.
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