The blonde appeared with a single wooden bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. She blinked absently at Isabelle, as though she hadn’t even noticed Isabelle before when greeting Michel. And perhaps she hadn’t. The room teemed with wet, dirty people who looked the same as Isabelle. Why notice one muddy girl out of the crowd?
“Thank you, Jocelyne,” Michel said as he took the bowl from her. “Would you mind bringing me another?”
Jocelyne’s amorous blue eyes smiled. “Not at all.”
Michel held his bowl out for Isabelle. She looked at the steam rising from the thick stew and then into Michel’s face. His eyes held hers just a touch longer than appropriate in a public place. The stew’s aroma drifted to her, and her stomach twisted into a knot of hunger. She reached for the bowl, but the moment the heavy dish rested in her hands, pain shot through her healing arm.
“Ah!” She pulled her arm away.
Michel grabbed the tilting bowl before it spilled into her lap, his eyes shooting sparks.
Balancing the bowl between his legs, he reached for her arm. “You’ve been working too hard. You’ve hurt yourself.” His voice was a low growl. “I told you to rest.”
She held her throbbing limb away from him and cradled it to her chest. To her mortification, tears filled her eyes. The people surrounding them grew silent and riveted their gazes on Michel and her.
She whispered frantically, “I just want the town to be safe, and my arm didn’t hurt overmuch until I held that bowl. The weight of the dish must have caused the pain. That’s all it is—I promise.”
She must have said something right. Because the hard lines around Michel’s mouth and eyes softened.
“You’ve no need to work yourself to an early grave. The fate of the town doesn’t rest solely in your hands.”
No. It seemed to rest in his. And he didn’t even look tired.
“Here, is the bowl too hot for your lap?” Michel set the bowl on her legs, and Isabelle shook her head. “Then eat, and relax. I don’t want you working again today. At all.”
Her throat too thick with pain and humiliation to speak, she nodded and took a little bite. The blonde brought two more bowls of victuals for Michel, who wolfed down his food, while Isabelle’s eyes drifted closed before she ate half her stew. She leaned against the wall to rest her back and head, and let the warmth from the room seep in. She felt cozy. Wet, but cozy. And safe with Michel next to her. No one had asked a single prying question.
The hum of the townsfolk’s chatter lulled her further into her peaceful world. Michel’s voice rumbled beside her as he answered someone’s question, a deep, comforting sound… .
Her pillow shifted, and she jolted upright. Her eyes sprang open and she stared at Michel’s shoulder, then up into his amused eyes. She’d fallen asleep on him. Heat flooded her face in one mad rush. The conversation around them quieted and snooping gazes prickled her skin yet again.
“I need to get back outside,” he told her as though everyone wasn’t listening.
She nodded dumbly.
“Rest.” He ran a hand over her muddy, tangled hair, then stood.
A man who had been sprawled on the floor jumped into Michel’s spot, and she shivered, the calm of Michel’s presence replaced by the cold curiosity of the townsfolk.
Someone called to Michel as he stepped away. He moved from person to person, answering questions, giving commands, comforting the worried. Everyone looked to him. Even the mayor sauntered up, a beaming smile on his face as he slapped Michel on the back. The townspeople put the security of Abbeville into Michel’s hands. And having stood cocooned in the refuge of his arms as he kissed her yesterday, she didn’t wonder why.
“So, you’re Corinne’s cousin from Paris?”
Isabelle turned to look at the man with yellow teeth and a stick-thin body, who eyed her suspiciously.
“What’s Paris like?”
* * *
Kissing Isabelle had changed everything.
Michel made himself walk through the cold rain, lugging what was surely his seven thousandth, four hundred and third sandbag. He should be resting by the warmth of the woodstove and eating a third and fourth bowl of stew. But how was he to rest when Isabelle snuggled up to him in sleep? He’d wanted to wrap his arm around her and pull her close, lean down and see if her lips were as irresistible this morning as they had been yesterday.
With half the town watching them.
He shook his head and blew out a breath. Unfortunately, the problem didn’t stop with her lips. She sat there beside him, completely exhausted from helping a town full of people who would kill her if they knew her true identity. She had worked alone most the night, doing the work of two women. She was dirty and soaked and mud-caked…
And admirable. She had no obligation to help save the town, yet she worked harder than those who had lived their entire lives in Abbeville.
He heaved his sandbag atop the wall, now almost as tall as he. He’d set the barrier in the midst of the lowest ground by the river and extended it until the ground sloped higher. Still, if the river rose high enough to lap around the dam, they were in trouble. Michel raised his head toward the heavens. The rain appeared to be slowing, but that was probably more hope on his part than reality.
Father, please stop this rain. And give us the strength to work until You do.
Michel turned back toward the village. By now, the sky would have fully lightened behind the clouds, but shadows and rain still shrouded the village.
He trudged to another sandbag, his thoughts swinging back to Isabelle. Like any unmarried man twenty-seven years of age, he’d done his share of stealing kisses. But he’d never stolen one so passionate before. The woman had knocked every sane thought from his head.
At least trying to circumvent a flood made avoiding her easy. Or should have… .
He groaned when he caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye. He looked back toward the cathedral. She stood there, all right, in that brown cloak tattered beyond even what Mère could repair, wearing his huge gray hat that did little to keep her riot of hair dry.
He dropped his sandbag where he stood and stalked toward her. How many tongue-lashings did that woman need before she realized he wasn’t going to let her work anymore? She’d more than likely rebroken her arm at some point during the night. Was she trying to reinjure her ribs, as well?
He expected her to move toward a pile of open sandbags, but she walked around the side of the building, leaned her back against the wall and tilted her head down so the wide hat she wore nearly disguised her. He didn’t need to be any closer to see the weary slump of her shoulders or the slow way she dragged her head up when a man stopped beside her.
Michel recognized the man immediately, Gerard Bertrand, his pig-stealing neighbor. The musty scent of stale clothing mingled with the rain and filled Michel’s senses when he was yet several steps away. The man owned more land than anyone else in Abbeville, and yet he didn’t bother to wear clean raiment. Granted, Michel didn’t smell too fresh after working all night, but Bertrand hadn’t been working as much as sitting inside eating. And whether in town on business or supervising his workers in the fields, the man always seemed to stink of unwashed clothes and old sweat.
“I never heard anything from Michel about Corinne’s cousin coming for a visit. Seems he would have mentioned something around town sometime back.” Bertrand leered at Isabelle as Michel, jaw clenched, walked up behind him.
Isabelle didn’t notice his presence. Her lips formed a round O, and she shrugged. “Hadn’t Michel said anything? How odd. My visit’s been planned for quite some time.”
She sounded as though she’d recited the answer so many times she could give it in her sleep. “Jeanette and I’ve been corresponding about my coming for the better part of a year no
w. Although Michel’s so busy with the farm, I doubt he’d be overly concerned with my presence. He does the work of three men around that place.” Her voice sounded as sluggish as her actions looked.
Michel opened his mouth to speak, but Bertrand beat him to it. “Oh, don’t I know it. I’ve been trying to take some of that land off his hands since his père died. He’s got too much land for one man to work.”
Aye, Bertrand had been trying to swindle land out from under his family for as long as Michel remembered. The man had land, all right, half of it cheated from others, and half purchased—probably with forged bills—when the National Assembly had stripped the nobility of their land and sold it. Didn’t matter to the Convention that Bertrand paid his farmers less and treated them worse than any seigneur in the north of France would have.
Bertrand ran his eyes slowly over Isabelle in a way that made Michel’s blood turn to ice. “How much longer you here for, then?”
“Just a few days. It’s hard to travel with this rain, or I’d be back in Paris even now.”
“You can imagine my surprise when Isabelle showed up at my door,” Michel piped up. Both sets of eyes turned to him. Isabelle’s slumped posture straightened immediately, most likely in anticipation of an argument. “Ma Mère never said a word about Isabelle coming, but I unearthed a whole stack of Isabelle’s letters under Ma Mère’s mattress. Well, it seems everyone’s anxious to know our Isabelle, but I’m afraid we must away. Just a few sandbags left for others to fill, and Ma Mère needs to go home.”
Bertrand tipped his hat, his yellow eyes still studying Isabelle. “We’ll watch for you around town, then.” The man sauntered off.
Michel shifted closer to Isabelle, his eyes scanning the purple bruises that filled the space beneath her eyes. Fire smoldered in his veins. “Have the townsfolk been like this all night, badgering you with questions?” No one had questioned him about Isabelle. Not once. But people were skittish as a day-old colt around anyone new with talk of the Terror coming. A stranger could easily be spying for the radicals in Paris.
Her chin lifted. “I’m sorry I came outside, but—”
“We’re going home. You can barely stay awake standing up. Another couple hours and everything will be finished, anyway.”
“I’m not tired.”
“No, you’ve the energy of a court jester.” He took hold of her upper arm.
She planted her feet in the muck. “You’ve worked too hard on the dam to leave before it’s finished. I’m fine.”
“Stubborn woman.” He swooped her up, trying to ignore the lithe feel of her body in his arms as he made long strides toward the wagon.
She fought his hold, a laughable struggle to pit her weary, injured slightness against his strength. “I’m not going anywhere. There’re more bags left to sew.”
“I’ve told you you’re finished. You’ve done the work of five women. It’s time we’re done.”
“You’ve done the work of ten men.”
“Aye.” He plopped her down on the wagon seat. She sucked in a breath the moment her bottom hit the bench, and he looked down. Cold rainwater pooled on the wood. How daft could he be? He should have thought to wipe the seat with something. He glanced in the back of the wagon, but it lay empty, no old blanket or heavy tarpaulin to soak up the puddled water. “Stay here while I get Ma Mère. I’ll bring back a blanket for the seat.”
She nodded, her quivering lips turning blue.
His mother barely stirred as he lifted her from where she slept inside and carried her outside. He rested her head against Isabelle and tried to sweep the water out of the wagon bed with a broom as best he could. After laying Mère in the back, Michel climbed into the bench. He’d come back later today and check the dam—after he got Isabelle away from the townsfolk.
Sylvie moved slower than her usual plod as she waded through puddles and muck. He shoved his hat down harder on his head to keep the biting rain from his face. Isabelle huddled beside him, suddenly hatless.
The girl had used her hat to cover Mère’s face. His heart gave a long, slow lurch. Isabelle might be a spitfire with him, but she sure was sweet on Mère. He’d have never guessed a fancy aristocrat would care so much for a peasant farmer’s mother, but Isabelle treated Mère with the same love she’d likely show her own mother.
Michel took his hat and plunked it down over her hair. Then he immediately squinted to keep the rain from his eyes.
She shifted, and the hat returned to his head. “You keep it to drive. I don’t need to see.”
She hunkered down, all but curling up like a baby and slanting her head away from him. She’d be frozen by the time they reached the cottage. He opened his mouth to speak but had nothing to say. So he turned his eyes to the road, and forced them to stay off Isabelle until they were halfway home. She slept by then. The ball she’d been curved into had loosened, and her head lolled at an angle that made him wince.
He ran his eyes over her torn cloak and soaked hair. It wouldn’t hurt to wrap his arm around her, hold her, warm her awhile. Heaven knew she needed coddling, though the woman would probably punch him if he told her so.
Giving in, he opened his cloak, pulled her against him and wound his arm around her. She still slept, delicate and soft against his chest. His Sleeping Beauty, who argued with him for sport, and paced the house when told to rest, and kissed him until his heart erupted. The woman could send his blood boiling with a word and melt his bones with a look.
Memories flooded back. The way she appeared while sulking in bed, her expression pouty and her hair splayed over her shoulders and pillow. The gratitude in her face when he’d returned her money and pendant. The tenderness in her tone when she spoke to Mère. The determination in her eyes when she mentioned England. The openness in her voice when she asked about his furniture-making.
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. Maybe Father Albert had been right about Isabelle being an opportunity rather than a burden.
Last night she’d worked so hard she’d hurt herself and hadn’t noticed, sewing sandbags until she could no longer stand upright. And all for a town that distrusted her and would kill her without a thought. She had tenacity, for sure and for certain, and no one could call her a coward.
He froze as a thought struck with the force of a hammer blow to his head.
He was falling in love with her.
Chapter Eleven
The warm memories of Isabelle turned to icicles in Michel’s head.
Still a kilometer from home, he steered the wagon around a giant, water-filled rut. Mud sucked at the wheels, nearly pulling the wagon into the crevice. His hat offered little protection from the rain pelting his cheeks and chin. He shifted on the wet seat and rolled his aching neck. A stream of water poured down his back from the hat brim, jolting him with the sudden cold.
He blew out a misty breath. Even the weather seemed to conspire against him, showing him what a fine mess he wallowed in, falling in love with someone feisty and full of trouble—the daughter of a seigneur. Her people had caused his kinsmen pain and suffering, starvation and death for centuries. How could he love someone whose family had committed such atrocities?
He scrubbed a hand over his chin. He’d no business incriminating Isabelle. She’d been little more than a girl when the Révolution started. France’s condition had been no fault of hers. Who was he to judge her? He knew her heart—and it held nothing like the calloused indifference of the nobility that had trampled him all his life.
He scowled and flicked the reins, though Sylvie trotted no faster. And what of himself? What if he’d been born into nobility? Would he want to be judged by his father’s actions? Surely not. Isabelle hadn’t invented the system that took such advantage of the third estate; she’d simply been born into the other side of it.
He dragged his eyes away from the road and watched her sleep, still curled against him. Mayhap he made excuses for her? Trying to justify her situation so he could give into his heart’s desires without any guilt.
Maybe he wasn’t in love at all. He had feelings, yes. But what man wouldn’t have feelings for a woman who looked like Isabelle? And attraction differed from love. Attraction sparked and smoldered for a moment, then left cold ash in its wake. How many times had he watched it happen to his childhood friends?
But love…well, love drove a man to sacrifice, to put others before himself. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
He slapped the back of his neck. He’d been risking his life since he picked her up in the woods. Surely he hadn’t loved her from the first moment he saw her?
No. She’d been a duty then, and his love for God had constrained him to nurse the beautiful, unnamed woman.
But she’d become much more than a burden the Lord had placed in his path. For one thing, the woman could work the backside off a plow horse. Even confined to her bed, she had worked. She sewed an army of hankies for him and Mère to sell, helped Mère with clothes for the orphans and read through The Tales of Mother Goose at least thrice. And look at how hard she’d labored through the night and early morning. Any farmer would want a wife like her.
And why was he thinking about a wife? Since when did he even want one?
Well, mayhap he wanted a wife. But Isabelle? Michel rubbed the back of his neck. The woman loved fiercely and had endless patience with Mère. She was courageous and determined and loyal.
Hang it all. He’d been half-lost since the moment she fixed her fiery brown eyes on him and demanded he call a doctor for her arm.
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