Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  The clank of dishes in the wooden washtub sounded from where Mère bent over the tub. Isabelle’s soft footsteps patted the earth as she cleared and wiped the table.

  A feeling of contentment swept over him. He could happily settle his aching body in this rocker every day if surrounded by the two women he loved… .

  The familiar scent of soap and wildflowers roused him.

  “You’re tired.”

  Michel opened his eyes. The table was clean and Mère had nearly finished the dishes.

  “Did you want to skip studying tonight?” Isabelle moved to the arm of the rocker.

  Skip spending time with her? Had she gone daft? “Non. I’m a little sore, is all.” He eased his body out of the chair and headed toward the family Bible sitting on the mantel.

  “A long day plowing?”

  She knew what he’d been doing out in the field? Since when did she pay attention to his farmwork? “I’ve never heard of a short day plowing.”

  She smiled and bit the side of her lip. Unable to resist touching her, he ran a hand down the side of her arm. Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of red.

  He brushed the heated skin with his knuckles. She averted her eyes and flushed even more. Interesting. “I thought mayhap we’d study outside. The evening’s a bit cool, but it’s nothing our cloaks won’t ward off.”

  Isabelle swallowed noisily and looked away. “I have something to…that is…I thought perchance…well, come in here first.”

  Her hand trembled slightly as she pulled him toward the bedchamber. She stopped inside the door and released his sleeve. Her throat worked back and forth, and her eyes looked as though they would fill with tears.

  He frowned. “Did I do something to upset you?”

  She chewed on the side of her thumb and stared at him with tortured eyes “No, I just…” She headed toward her bed, then bent and retrieved something from beneath it.

  He stepped closer, bumping her as she stood.

  “Here.” She shoved a small wooden tray into his hands.

  Swirls of white and pink and tiny flowers lay before him. Corinne’s pitcher and basin. Isabelle had expertly glued dozens of small porcelain pieces to the top of the tray. A lump rose in his throat, and he ran his rough finger over the glossy surface.

  He’d been nothing but angry when she broke it. Had gone storming to Father Albert and tried to offload her. And she’d been home, picking up the broken pieces, trying to make things right.

  “I—I hope you’re not mad. I made it last week but couldn’t bring myself to give it to you.”

  Mad? How could he be?

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I know you told me to stay abed but—”

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Love for the woman before him speared his heart and spread through his body until his blood ached with it. He set the tray on her bed, freeing his fingers to touch her, to run over the features of her face and lose themselves in her hair. He reached out, but she looked up at him with such uncertainty he let his hand drop.

  She wasn’t ready for his overtures yet. She still needed to heal.

  And she still intended to leave him for England.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He’d tell her he loved her tonight. He had to. He could hardly wait another moment, let alone another day or week. Saying the words couldn’t be that hard. He’d said them hundreds of times before—to Mère.

  Never to another woman.

  Walking behind his ox, Michel pressed the plow blade deeper into the earth. Beneath his feet, the plow cleaved into the soil, turning up dirt that had lain dormant through the winter. His calloused hands stung from gripping the handles of the plow off and on for more than a week. The blister on his left hand had reopened, and blood seeped through the cloth wrapped around it. But he had two fields already plowed and planted. Two more hours, maybe three, and he’d be done with the spring plowing.

  Michel tightened his hold, his fingers gripping the wooden handles. What if Isabelle didn’t love him? Would he look like a fool to throw his heart at the woman’s feet?

  He was being addlepated. She had to love him. He read it in the way she watched him when they studied together. The way she rushed to serve him supper or offer him a second serving of soup before she took one herself. The way she got tongue-tied when he asked a question, and the manner in which her cheeks flushed when he brushed a tendril of hair from her face or planted a kiss on her forehead.

  But loving him back didn’t mean she would say it. The woman was a stubborn mule—a lovely one, but a mule nonetheless.

  Michel ripped his hat from his head and threw it into the dirt. He needed to tell her how he felt. He’d kept it bottled inside since the flood three weeks now. He’d have spilled everything the night she’d given him the tray, but she had looked so frightened. So uncertain.

  How much more torture could he put himself through?

  A figure carrying a basket emerged over the little rise of earth at the top of the field. His tension drained at the sight of her. He grinned, having no desire to hide his enthusiasm as Isabelle drew closer. Her new red skirt swayed in rhythm with her hips, and the breeze caught her tangle of hair. Had it been seven weeks since he found her in the woods? His Sleeping Beauty. With hair so rich he lost himself in it and skin so soft it felt like silk.

  With a snort, the ox reached the edge of the field near the woods. Instead of turning the beast to begin a new furrow, Michel pulled back on the plow and halted him. “Whoa, there.”

  Isabelle’s brown eyes danced in the spring sunlight as she neared.

  “And what brings a lovely lady like you to the field today?”

  “I thought to catch you for the midday meal so we could eat out here.”

  “Ah. Any excuse to get yourself out of doors.” He ran his eyes down her.

  She poked her tongue between her full lips and then smiled shyly. “Well, that, too, but if you don’t wish to join me, keep plowing. I’ll sit here and watch while I eat the strawberries I brought.”

  Strawberries. He nearly drooled. “Is Ma Mère’s strawberry patch yielding already?”

  With a toss of her hair, she turned her back to him and walked away, calling over her shoulder, “You’ll have to join me to see.” She strolled to the ancient oak trees lining the field and bent to unfold a blanket.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face. Did she think he’d rather plow than share a meal with her? He walked toward her while she sat and pulled food out of the basket.

  “You chose to eat, I see.”

  “Oui, I’ll eat with you, but you must do something first.” He reached for her hand and tugged her up, drawing her so close their bodies nearly touched.

  “A picnic isn’t enough? What else…?”

  He brushed his lips over hers.

  “Oh…” She sighed, her muscles going lax under his hands, and rested her cheek against his chest. “That was pleasant.”

  “Pleasant?” After hardly touching her for three weeks, it was wonderful.

  He slid his hands across her slender waist, and took her lips again. Softly, slowly, while sunlight flittered through the leaves overhead and the ox lowed. He left her lips and trailed kisses up her jaw, whispering of promises and dreams and tender love, the kind of love that could last a lifetime. He went back and rubbed his lips over hers until her inhibitions faded and her body melted against him, until her heart lay open, nothing held back, nothing hidden.

  Finally, he stepped away.

  Color flamed her cheeks, and she stared at the ground. “I, uh…”

  He smiled and tilted her chin up. Her eyes, glazed pools of soft brown, stared back at him.

  “I love you, Isabelle.” The words slipped from his mouth. />
  Her breath caught, and she went so still he wondered if her heart stopped beating. “But I’m… You’re…” She tried halfheartedly to pull away.

  He tightened his grip. “Don’t tell me I can’t love you. I already do. I have for the better part of a month, since you hurt your arm helping with the flood.”

  “A month?” She shook her head, her eyes rounding and her brow wrinkling in a look of confusion. “No, Michel, we can’t—”

  “Don’t.” But it was too late. Something shattered inside him at her protest. He let her go. He hadn’t expected her to blurt “I love you, too,” but the idea of him loving her didn’t need to mortify her. He stalked toward a tree. He’d known this could happen, that she might not want his love. Might not want him. Turning, he watched her.

  She stood staring at the ground, her arms wrapped about herself in a lonely hug. Even with her face down, he saw the traces of worry in the lines on her face and the way she chewed her bottom lip.

  He sighed. Mayhap she wasn’t mortified, but worried. A peasant and an aristocrat? He blew out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. He was probably daft for thinking they could have a life together.

  * * *

  I love you. The words flashed in Isabelle’s mind as she stared at the ground, digging the toe of her shoe into the earth.

  He couldn’t love her. Didn’t he know that? Every day she lingered in Abbeville the danger of being discovered increased. She glanced into the woods. Somewhere out there, men lurked. Maybe not the same men who tried to kill her, but others like them. All of France crawled with men who would guillotine her and feel no remorse for dragging Michel and Jeanette beneath the triangular blade, as well.

  She absently rubbed her bandaged arm. It grew stronger with each passing day. How much longer until she would be well enough to leave for England? Two weeks? Three?

  She wished not to think of it. She didn’t want to go. Michel offered safety here on his farm, in his arms.

  But the safety wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t.

  She shifted her eyes to him, arms crossed, standing by a tree. So strong. So confident. So handsome. And he loved her. She didn’t deserve his love, not for a second. Just like she didn’t deserve God’s love. But God loved her, anyway. Forgave her, despite what she’d done to Marie.

  Isabelle sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Her heart beat wildly inside her chest, calling her the name she deserved. Trai-tor, trai-tor, trai-tor, trai-tor. She loved the man.

  What a disaster. She didn’t know when she’d fallen in love. Probably during one of those quiet moments when he studied with her and answered her endless questions. Perhaps she hadn’t so much fallen in love as grown into it.

  But if she surrendered to her feelings, if she let them push her to stay in France, she’d continue to put Michel and Jeanette at risk.

  Michel pushed off the tree trunk and walked toward her. She swallowed and raised her chin. He already risked too much by loving her. She could see herself so happy with him, a year from now, a decade, a lifetime. If only she’d been born a peasant. If only there weren’t soldiers even now searching for the missing daughter of the Duc de La Rouchecauld.

  “I’m sorry for storming off.” He squatted down, so close the heat emanating from his body warmed her skin.

  She traced her finger idly over the design on the quilt and shook her head. “Non, je suis désolée.” And she was—so very, very sorry. “You wanted me to say the words back, and I…couldn’t say them. Anyone would get mad.”

  “You didn’t need to act so mortified by the idea of me loving you.”

  Mortified? He was kind and sweet and gentle. How could she be mortified by his love?

  “I know you’re frightened, mon amour, but I want you to be honest with me.” He cupped the side of her face. “If you’re scared, tell me. Don’t hide. If you’re ready to say ‘I love you’ back to me, don’t hold off.”

  “Oh, Michel.” All the reasons she had for holding back dissolved inside her. He trapped her in a web of love and care, and she didn’t know how to escape. Wasn’t sure she wanted to. “What if I’m never ready?”

  He slid his hand down to her shoulder and rested his thumb in the delicate spot at the base of her neck. Her heart raced in quick, shallow beats.

  “You’ll be ready. You just need time.”

  He was too close. With a few words and a touch, he shattered every defense she’d erected. “Michel, stop.” Air backed up in her chest. She started to push away, but Michel ran his other hand up her back and fisted it in her hair.

  “Stay.”

  “What?” she asked, half-dazed by his touch.

  “In Abbeville. Stay with me.”

  The air that blocked her chest whooshed from her lungs. A flame of panic started at the base of her spine and licked its way upward.

  “Michel, I… You could be killed. I could be killed. The Terror—”

  “May never come. It was supposed to be here weeks ago. Everyone in town thinks you’re Corinne’s cousin, and the townsfolk are now more interested in the butcher’s nephew moving here from Nevers than in you.”

  She tugged her hand away and clutched the fabric of the quilt. How to answer him? With a lie? The truth? “Some days,” she whispered, “most days…I want to stay.”

  “Then do.” He took her hand and tangled their fingers together.

  “Oh, Michel.” He didn’t understand the danger she brought him. He couldn’t, or he’d never have asked her to stay. And he still didn’t know about her family. Her father. She looked into his eyes, so full of love. Would that love be there once he learned who she was? “There’s something I should tell you—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Just say yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “About staying.”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to talk about.” She looked away, her eyes focusing on the field, the ox, a tree, on anything besides the hopefulness in his eyes.

  Her distraction did little good. He waited, rubbing her back and toying with the ends of her hair. “We can talk about you staying all you want. Right after you say yes.”

  “But you don’t understand. I can’t stay.”

  “You can stay tomorrow. Promise me that. We’ll take things one day at a time.”

  “I wasn’t going to leave tomorrow.”

  “Then it will be an easy promise to make.”

  It should be easy. It meant she gave up nothing. So why did she have such trouble forming the word? She closed her eyes again.

  Warm lips touched her forehead, then her temple. “Yes,” he whispered, his breath tingling her ear.

  “Yes.”

  “For a week. Stay another week.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek. She wanted this life so much, this man so much. “Yes.”

  If only she could hold on to him forever.

  * * *

  From the edge of the forest, Isabelle paused and studied Michel’s homestead. The well-tended house, stable and workshop sat charmingly amid the provincial landscape.

  This home, his home, could be hers.

  She had watched Michel finish plowing that afternoon. All muscle and grit and sweat. She shouldn’t have stayed in the field so long. She’d a hundred things to do back at the house. But foolish as it was, she hadn’t wanted to leave his presence.

  Now the sky held dark clouds, and the breeze kicked into a wind that brutalized her hair and stung her cheeks. But the weather didn’t dull the quaintness of the homestead. To the contrary—the house looked even brighter and more welcoming, a shelter against the rest of the world. If only she could believe that was true, that the house would protect its inhabitants from all harm.

 
Tears swelled in her throat. Why had God brought her here, to a place and man she had fallen in love with? She lifted her chin and walked toward the house. If she gave in to the slightest tear, she’d likely end up on the ground weeping for all she could never have.

  Did going to England even matter anymore? What if Michel was right and she could stay here without being discovered?

  A wild gust of wind pushed her sideways, and something in the woods shifted. She peered into the forest, a chill traveling across her shoulders. What had moved? A tree branch? An animal? A person? She’d seen something.

  Her palms grew sweaty, and panic clawed at her chest.

  Suddenly it was night, and she stood in the little clearing, surrounded by trees. Men laughed at her, but she didn’t look at them. She stared at the large man before her, saw the cruel look in his eyes. Kill her, boys.

  “No.” She shook her head and drew back, the word little more than a gasp. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. Let me go. Stop!”

  They didn’t listen. A blow to her stomach. A kick in the back of her knee. She closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. And she went down, curled on the ground, and braced for the life-taking beating.

  * * *

  Michel had just stabled the ox when he heard the scream. His heart galloping, he raced out of the stable, following screams and whimpers over the field and to the edge of the woods. Relief swept through him when he saw her curled on the ground. Alone.

  “Isabelle? Isabelle? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  He fell to his knees and streaked his hands over her. Searching for where she might be injured and finding nothing, he pressed his palm against her cheek. “Isabelle? Are you all right? Look at me. Talk to me.”

  She slowly opened her eyes, her face pale. She sucked air like a drowning man taking his final breath and looked around.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She drew her eyes back to him and shook her head. “No, no. I just…” She shuddered, and a sob overtook her.

  He gathered her close and cradled her against his chest. Still she trembled. “I was taking the ox and plow back to the stable when I heard you scream.”