He might not love her completely yet. But a few more weeks of being around her, and he’d be as sunk as Père had been for Mère, as Jean Paul for Corinne.
And Isabelle even wanted to be a wife.
In England. To another man.
Every muscle of his being stiffened. Coldness filled his body, spreading outward until the tips of his fingers and toes were icy, not from the wind and rain, but from his heart. England. How could he forget? Reaching England had been her single goal for as long as he’d known her.
He tried to shift away from Isabelle and lean her against the back of the seat instead of his body, but she only whimpered and burrowed closer. Could he ask her to stay in Abbeville? To marry him? True, no one in town knew who she was, but she risked her life simply by remaining in the country. And Michel had little to offer her but a two-chamber house and hours of ceaseless farm work. Once she reached her aunt’s home in England, she’d be surrounded by all the comfort and luxury he could never give her.
And what were her feelings for him? He hadn’t romanced her, and he fought with her more than anything else. Sure, she responded when he kissed her—and had gotten a little jealous of the women inside the church this morn, if he judged correctly—but more than any other female would have? Whatever her feelings, he doubted they ran as deep as his. The woman had enough emotional troubles already. She didn’t need to add love to the mix.
Best to keep his distance before he got her more tangled in his life. She would risk too much by remaining in France. And he couldn’t leave Mère and the farm for England, even if she wanted him to.
He rested his gaze on her again and gripped the reins. He wouldn’t be the first man left with a broken heart in the wake of a woman.
The wagon bumped and jostled.
He jerked his gaze from Isabelle, and he steered Sylvie out of another gaping rut. He deserved as much for staring at a woman instead of the road.
Isabelle moaned slightly and shifted against him, then sat up straight. “What’s wrong? Is everything all right? Why’d the wagon buck?”
Sylvie turned off the road and started up the hill to the house. Michel poked his tongue in his cheek and tried not to smile. Her reflexes were only running a full minute behind.
She watched him through bleary eyes. “You didn’t doze off, did you? I knew you were too tired to drive.”
“Non. I didn’t doze off.”
“Oui, you did.” Softness edged her voice. “Why, look at you. You can barely hold your head up.”
She sounded concerned for him. The edges of his lips curved in a bitter half smile. He pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the house. Concerned or not, she would still leave him for England. “You’re not any more alert than I.”
He climbed out of the wagon, rounded it and gathered Mère in his arms. He expected Isabelle to follow him inside, help remove Mère’s wet clothing and get her into a dry nightdress, but she never came. He glanced at his dry bed as he pulled covers over Mère.
He headed out the door to find Isabelle standing by the wagon watching him. He sighed. Couldn’t she see he wanted to sleep? Needed some space from her?
Shoulders slumped, she shifted uneasily on her feet. His eyes roved over her, rumpled and sluggish and muddy from the long night. Had he ever seen anyone more beautiful?
“Do you need help putting Sylvie away?” Her voice sounded sincere, despite her weary posture and tired eyes.
He raised his eyebrows as he neared.
“I just…I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” she stammered. “That you’re not ill or anything. You…you had a long night. Worked so hard, and I…”
She cared. The emotion haunted her face.
She’ll walk away from me. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. He fisted his hands at his sides, suddenly more willing to lug another seven thousand sandbags than confront their feelings for each other.
What would she do if he told her he loved her? Laugh? Impossible. She’d never been cruel. Accept it? Maybe. Stay? Non. England meant too much to her.
“Go to bed,” he growled.
Hurt flickered in her eyes and held. His throat closed. Didn’t she understand his dismissing her now would save her from more pain when she left? He swallowed pathetically and stepped so close she shifted her head backward so she didn’t bump his chest, so close he need only lift a hand to tangle it in her hair.
“Isabelle—”
“You arrogant oaf! I’m trying to help.” She spoke sharply but moisture glistened in her eyes. She shoved her palm against his chest. “You spent all night traipsing around in the cold and rain. You refused rest, barely ate and now you disdain my politeness. Why! You deserve to catch pneumonia for a month.” She all but sobbed the last words.
Being this close to her was a mistake. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe. A longing spread through him until his arms ached to hold her and his chest craved the feel of her slender form pressed against him. He clasped her wrist instead. “You don’t mean any of that. You’re just tired.”
She blinked, banishing the unshed tears from her eyes. “Unhand me.”
He would, but she was too near. Her cheeks too flushed, her mouth too soft, her eyes too defenseless.
She stopped tugging on her arm, and like a drowning sailor locking his gaze on shore, his eyes fixed on hers. Rain pounded the ground. Wind whipped through trees and tore at their cloaks. Coldness circled them. But neither moved.
His gaze dipped to her mouth, the taste awaiting him there both explosive and sweet. She shifted subtly forward until her breath tickled his lips.
Father, help me! He dropped her wrist as though her skin singed him and took two steps back.
She shivered. “Why?” she asked, looking up at him through innocent, longing-filled eyes. “Why do you keep trying to kiss me?”
“I’m not trying to kiss you. I’m…” What? Trying not to kiss her? He looked at her gnarled and filthy hair. Her slender form hidden beneath the ratty brown cloak. Her luminous eyes and mud-smeared face. She should seem filthy and loathsome in her current state. So why did he find her heart-wrenching and irresistible?
I love you. The words rested on his tongue. But speaking them wouldn’t change her leaving.
Distance. He took another step back. He needed to put space between them.
Suddenly preferring to sleep with the animals rather than under the same roof as her, he spun away, took Sylvie’s reins and tugged the beast and wagon toward shelter, leaving the woman he loved alone in the rain.
* * *
Isabelle’s arm throbbed in rhythm with her pounding heart as Michel turned his back. Why was he leaving her? Deserting her? Tears swelled in her throat. She needed to tell him about her father. He’d be safer not knowing who she was, but with the entire town suspicious of her, he at least deserved to know the risk he took in harboring her. Oui, she’d expected him to turn away from her, but had assumed it would come after he knew she was the daughter of the Duc de La Rouchecauld.
“Michel!” She called above the rain.
He didn’t answer.
She drew a shuddering breath. He had feelings for her. Why else kiss her? Why else turn away?
And she was being featherbrained. They hadn’t even kissed a moment ago. He could walk away from her if he so pleased, for he owned the house and land whereon she stood. And what was a little attraction between them when she was leaving and he had a town full of women happy to serve him?
She headed inside and checked on Jeanette, who slept peacefully. Then she changed into Jeanette’s spare gown, sponged the mud from her boots and hung her filthy dress and cloak by the fire to dry. Still, Michel didn’t enter.
Wetness saturated the bandage on her arm. The crate under Michel’s bed held a fresh wrap, but he’
d always changed them. So she climbed into bed, took up Perrault’s book and fell asleep before she finished the second sentence.
Isabelle woke to the scent of coffee brewing and meat roasting. Jeanette had left her bed, but Michel’s tick lay untouched. She arched her back and stretched, but pain shot down her arm, making her eyes water.
In the main chamber, Jeanette sat at the table, chopping potatoes in her nightclothes. Michel stood by the fire, a chicken roasting over it. He wore dry raiment and held a mug in his hand. His back stretched strong and broad beneath his shirt, and he stood on legs sturdy as pillars while he stared into the flames.
As if sensing her gaze, he turned, and their eyes locked over the rim of his mug.
“I trust you slept well, Isabelle. Would you like some buttermilk?”
She shook her head. “No, I…” What did she say to the man who kissed her until she dissolved in his arms one day, turned his back on her the next and now pretended nothing transpired?
“It pains me, and the cloths are wet.” She dumbly held out her arm. “Perchance you could look at it and wrap it fresh.”
He set his buttermilk aside and strode toward her. “I’m sorry. I had forgotten.” He took her chin and lifted it. “Why did you not ask earlier?”
Because they’d been too busy not kissing or fighting or whatever happened outside.
Her jaw trembled as he searched her face. Oh, heavens! One almost-kiss and she forgot how to act around him.
His thumb and forefinger still held her chin, forcing her to answer. “I—I called to you, and…you must not have heard me,” she whispered weakly.
His face hardened, and his eyes grew distant. “Come. Sit by the fire.”
He led her to the hearth and brought an elegantly carved chair from the table. Kneeling, he touched his fingertips to the most sensitive spot on her arm and watched her face.
She tried not to wince. Tried.
Tenderly, with the care of a mother for her ill babe, he untied the thongs that held the cloth and unwrapped it.
Six strips of wood, spaced evenly around her arm, ran from the base of her hand to below her elbow. The long sticks had caused her little discomfort over the past weeks, but then, they appeared as smooth and polished as any of Michel’s furniture.
He removed them, and her skin beneath appeared sallow and translucent, as though she could see through to the bone. It clung to her muscles, which were shriveled compared to those of her right arm. A thumb length from her wrist, the skin had swollen and turned unhealthy shades of purple and black and green.
Michel slipped both hands beneath her injury. “Move your fingers.”
She obeyed despite the searing pain.
He laid her arm in her lap. “This may hurt a moment.”
He worked his fingers upward in tiny strokes, causing her nerves to scream from the gentle pressure. She wanted to pull her arm away, cradle it and tell him to stop. But he moved past the sore area and farther up, his head bent and shoulders slumped over the limb.
Had he been this attentive when he treated her injuries after finding her in the woods? She wished she’d been awake to remember. Wished she could take snippets of his tenderness at this moment and carry them with her to England.
A warm, cozy feeling settled in her stomach. Was this what having a husband would be like? The attention, the comfort, the concern?
She cupped his cheek with her right hand and tilted his face up. His fingers stilled, and his eyes, unguarded and soft, found hers.
She sucked in a breath. Why hadn’t he told her how he felt when she tried to ask? And why did his feelings matter so much to her?
She’d be going to England in a few days. Surely she didn’t care for him. Did she?
She dropped her hand from his face, the air in her lungs growing so thick she could hardly breathe.
“Tell me of this Corinne.” She searched for a distraction. “Was she your wife?”
He resumed work on her arm. “No…non, she was Jean Paul’s wife. She died of pneumonia six years back. That’s when Jean Paul left. Said he couldn’t abide staying here without her. There’s a one-room cabin where they lived back in the woods a piece. Jean Paul writes once or twice a year, though I know not where he is. I tell Ma Mère he’s making furniture, which keeps her happy. And Corinne had kin in Paris, which suits your story.”
He set her arm in her lap. “I cannot feel a break. Nothing that needs to be set, anyway. But the pain and swelling make me think you’ve a slight break where the old crack was. Your bone was healing, but not yet strong. You did too much last night, Isabelle. I’m sorry.”
Her mind raced to keep up with his words. “Break? But it can’t be broken. It’s healing.”
He shook his head. “You must have reinjured it. I wish I could do more.”
His eyes held so much compassion she turned away, even as tears clogged her throat and filled her eyes. “How long?” she whispered.
“Normally one month plus half or more for a broken forearm. But with yours already being injured, I can’t say.”
She straightened her back and nodded.
“The doctor might be able to say better. Do you want me to send for him? I’ve money for one.”
The sob she’d squelched burst forth. Covering her mouth, she shook her head.
He clasped her good hand in both of his. “Come, now, Isabelle. It’ll heal fine, just bring you a little fresh pain. You’ll need to mind it better this time around.”
Her head pounded as one tear and then another slipped down her face. Mortified, she struggled for control, but Michel rested a hand on her cheek, used his thumb to wipe the moisture away then feathered a hand through her hair.
“I’m sorry.” He brought her head to his chest and cradled it against him. She pressed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now, not in Michel’s arms. What was a little break in her arm? She was being infantile.
“Michel, what have you done to the girl?” Jeanette left the table and hunched down before her.
She tried to speak, but found her throat thick with unreleased tears.
“Nothing, Ma Mère. Her arm’s suffered a bit of a break, is all, and just when it was getting better.”
“Her arm, you say? Well, the dear girl. Is there anything I can do?” Jeanette absently took Isabelle’s injured hand and patted.
Burning pain surged through her arm. She gasped and jerked her arm away.
“Oh, dear, forgive me. I didn’t mean to…” Jeanette looked near tears, as well.
“It’s fine… I just…” Isabelle hiccuped.
“I’ll hold her a moment longer till she feels a bit better.” Michel smiled at his mother. “You get those potatoes on. The chicken smells delicious.”
She didn’t know how long he held her, how long it took for her breathing to calm and the tears to clear from her eyes and throat. “England.” The word grated against her vocal cords. “I can still travel with a broken arm, right?”
Michel’s hold turned rigid. He took her shoulders and pushed her back. “Is that what this is about, your need to find a husband?” Had he spewed ice crystals from his mouth, the words couldn’t have been any colder.
“Non… I…” Why was he mad? Did he think stealing a kiss and comforting her meant she no longer needed to go to England? “I only want…” She sniffled as a new tear trickled down her cheek. “The Terror’s coming, and I—I promised Marie and—”
“Could you walk with a broken arm?” Michel crossed his arms. “You’re a foolish and determined one, so I suppose you could if you’d nothing to carry. But a vessel full of sailors is no place for a single woman. Not even one who’s healthy and hale. How is it you plan to protect yourself from the men?”
“Protect myself
?”
“Do you know what kind of men sail the seas? The rough, unmarried kind that can’t get respectable jobs on land. You think they’ll leave a fair woman like yourself untouched?”
“You think… Surely no one would… Why, there’ll be other passengers. The sailors can’t possibly ravage every woman who steps aboard.”
“No, just the beautiful, young ones who travel alone, too innocent to conceive of what might happen.”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I? How dare I?” He sprang to his feet and stalked back and forth. “Yes, how dare I care that you walk out from under my protection onto a ship full of men who would use you. How dare I warn you your decision’s foolish. You’re right. How dare I!” His chest heaved from yelling, and he raked a hand through his hair, causing the front to spike.
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, that’s right. You didn’t. What are you thinking even attempting a journey to England by yourself?”
Her body trembled with indignation. He accused her so easily. But he hadn’t lost everything he loved. He hadn’t been hunted for four and a half years. He hadn’t sworn an oath to a dying sister.
She stood, despite her shaking legs and painful arm, and met his gaze with eyes as cold as his were hot. “Has it occurred to you that I hadn’t planned to travel alone?” The image of Marie lying in the dirt sprang to her mind. She shoved it away. “That I’m traveling this way so I can stay alive?”
Her voice quieted even as her resolve strengthened. “Either I’ll reach England, or I will die trying to get there.”
Chapter Twelve
Michel took his first bite of chicken and nearly spit it out. His eyes watered from the strong salt taste. Mère must have forgotten how much she added. Again. He glanced at the hunk of chicken on his plate. How long since he’d eaten plain meat rather than soup or stew?
The repugnant taste of his first bite still clung to his mouth. He lifted his mug to his lips and drained half the water. Mère looked his way. He tried to smile at her and slowly forked up another bite. “The rain let up a bit ago. I’ll head back to town after dinner. Want to make sure the dam looks as it should.”
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