“I—it was just a mistake. That’s all. I saw something move in the woods, and then I thought…I know it’s foolish, but it was like men were there. All over again. They were laughing and kicking and—”
“Shhh.” He pressed a finger over her mouth. How many recollections did she have to endure? Wasn’t surviving the beating enough? Did the soldiers need to haunt her, as well? “Say no more. I’m here. Everything shall be well.”
She stilled, her body going rigid. “I hope he dies.”
Something inside his heart turned cold at the dark look in her eyes. “Who?”
She swallowed. “The leader. The man who ordered me dead.”
“You mustn’t say such things. You have to forgive him. Just as God forgave you.” Guilt struck him as the words fell from his mouth. Hadn’t he been slow to forgive Isabelle for the way her class had oppressed him? Didn’t he even now harbor bitterness toward the seigneur who had taken so much of his profits in “tax”?
Seeing that bitterness grip the woman he loved revealed the danger of harboring such feelings.
Father, forgive my bitterness.
“Forgive him? Never. Do you know what he did? Would have done?” She didn’t even look at him, just stared off toward the woods. “I was defenseless, alone. He didn’t have proof I was an aristocrat. And he ordered his men to beat me. What kind of man does that?”
“The kind that needs forgiveness.” His throat ached, but didn’t she understand holding such bitterness inside would destroy her, much as her guilt over Marie nearly had? “God forgave you for your role in Marie’s death.” Just as God would forgive the aristocrats for their oppression of peasants. “Now you must return that forgiveness.”
“It’s different.” She sat up and pushed away from him, still looking at some distant object rather than him. “No one deserves forgiveness.” She met Michel’s eyes. “Not even God Himself would forgive this man. He looked into my eyes. My eyes! And ordered my life taken without flinching.”
How was he to argue with the soldier’s cruelty? How was he to make her understand the forgiveness was for her sake more than the soldier’s? He said simply, “‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”
“I can’t,” she whispered, fresh tears pricking her eyes. “I simply can’t. Maybe one day, but not yet.”
Michel reached out and squeezed her hand. “Then I’ll pray God changes your heart.”
* * *
By the time they reached the house, Jeanette had dinner ready. They’d no sooner sat down and said grace when Michel cleared his throat. “Ma Mère, Isabelle might stay with us awhile longer, rather than leaving as soon as her arm’s healed.”
“Leave?” Jeanette looked up from her plate. “Why would she leave?”
Isabelle curved her lips and reached for Jeanette’s hand. “I doubt Michel will let me leave when it’s time. He’ll probably keep me in a splint until I’m ninety, saying all the while my arm isn’t healed.”
Michel sent her a cocky grin and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, you’ve no need to return to Paris, since your fiancé left you.”
“Oh, and a fine story that was! Now the entire town thinks I’ve been jilted.”
Michel smiled, slow and warm, and his foot brushed hers beneath the table. “That’s all right. I’ll keep you, anyway.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she averted her gaze.
Isabelle floated through supper and took twice the normal time to finish her chores. Outside, rain pounded, and wind whipped against the house. Lightning cracked and thunder rumbled—the sounds combining in a terrifying symphony.
Her heart beat cozily in her chest when she sat by the fire and read aloud the tale of “Little Red Riding Hood.” Even on this wild night, she couldn’t have felt safer with a legion of troops guarding the cottage. Jeanette mended in her rocker, and Michel sculpted something at the table as she read. She could do this every night as Michel’s wife, sit by the fire and read to her husband and mother-in-law. Then she’d help Jeanette and perhaps one or two of her own little ones into bed before climbing into bed with…
She shook her head. Where had her thoughts been headed? She hastily stood and took a candle from the mantel. “I’m for bed, though I’ll probably read a bit more in the chamber.”
“Goodness, but it’s grown late. I’ll be in as soon as I finish these trousers.” Jeanette gave her rocker a subtle push.
Michel left the table and met her at the bedchamber’s open door. Since her hands were full of candle and book, she stood helplessly as he ran a finger from her cheek to her jaw and laid a soft kiss on her forehead.
“Good night, love. I’ll see you in the morn.”
Love. “Michel, I…” Could she say it aloud? How foolish was she to keep her feelings bottled inside? Standing with him, in his house, with the fire casting shadows on his face and causing his tanned skin to glow, everything seemed so easy.
But it wasn’t. Another world existed outside Michel’s farm, and that world wanted her dead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She turned, stepped into the chamber and pushed the door shut with her elbow. Her knees loose and liquid, she leaned against the door. She had to leave this place. Either leave or succumb to Michel’s feelings. She’d not be able to resist him much longer.
Her fingers trembled as she busied herself with the familiar actions of getting undressed. She had no sooner changed into her nightdress, then the house door banged open. She frowned and moved toward the chamber door to listen.
“Jean Paul!” Michel’s voice filtered through the wood. “Welcome home, brother.”
Isabelle paused. Michel’s brother?
“My son!” Tears choked Jeanette’s words.
A frenzied scraping of feet against packed dirt echoed through the room.
“Come, warm yourself by the fire,” Michel invited. “What are you doing traveling on a night such as this?”
“We reached town just ahead of the storm.” The low voice sent a chill through Isabelle. “I came as soon as I could get away.”
“Just a moment. I’ve someone you must meet.”
The door to the bedchamber burst open. Before Isabelle could explain she needed to change back into her dress, Michel grabbed her arm and dragged her into the main chamber. “Brother, this is Isabelle. She’s come to stay with us.”
A large man stood before the fire. She swallowed, her heart stuttering in fear as she stared into his eyes. Eyes forever embedded in her memory. Eyes that had haunted her for the past two months.
This man, Michel’s brother, had ordered her beaten. He had leered at her while pain screamed in her ribs and exploded in her arm. And his cold gaze had been the last thing she saw before her world turned to blackness.
Chapter Fifteen
“You!” Jean Paul jabbed a finger toward Isabelle as though he wielded a sword. His eyes shifted from her to Michel, resting momentarily on Michel’s arm around her shoulder. “What is she doing here?”
Isabelle shrank back against Michel, the air wrenched from her lungs. Jean Paul wore the same too-small National Guard coat he had in the woods, still frayed and torn. He stood taller than Michel and thicker of chest. His forearms were large as legs of lamb and bulged with blue veins. A mean scar twisted around the far side of his right eyebrow. No, she hadn’t mistaken him. This was the man who had wanted her dead. And he didn’t even know she was the Duc de La Rouchecauld’s daughter.
Michel’s arm tightened protectively around her. “Do you know Isabelle?”
“Know her? I left her for dead in the woods. I see you found her, though.”
Michel’s arm turned heavy as stone around her shoulders. “She was on our property.” His voice sounded madder and hotter than Isabelle had ever heard
it. “You attempted to kill a woman. Now you’re upset because I found her breathing rather than a corpse?”
Jeanette reached for Jean Paul’s hand and patted it. “There, now, son. Never mind all that. You’re home now. Don’t be so angry.”
Jean Paul ripped his hand away. “Don’t be angry? She killed Corinne, Mother. I’m having my revenge.”
“Vengeance belongs to God.” Michel’s quiet words cut the air. “Not you.”
“Corinne?” Jeanette’s whisper struck a harder blow to Isabelle’s heart than Jean Paul’s words. She turned pleading eyes to Isabelle. “You killed Corinne?”
“I…” Isabelle’s jaw quivered. She hadn’t even known Corinne. How could she have killed the woman?
“Deny it.” Jean Paul moved a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Deny you sat in your château and took our food and money, so when Corinne fell ill, we couldn’t treat her.”
“Jean Paul, what lies have you been feeding yourself?” Michel’s hand gripped Isabelle’s shoulder so hard his nails dug through her nightdress and into her skin. “You can’t blame Isabelle for Corinne. Isabelle was just a girl.”
“Just a girl.” Jean Paul stalked back and forth in front of the fire. “Families like hers took our money, did they not? They ate our grain and meat while we worked and sweated and starved. I can blame her for Corinne, and I will. I’ll blame every cursed aristocrat until their blood has drenched the soil of France. I’ll cut down every one of her entire class.” He pulled his sword from its sheath. “Including her.”
Isabelle screamed. Escape. She had to get out.
Michel gripped her arm and yanked her behind him. “You’ll not touch her.”
But weaponless, what could he do against Jean Paul? Standing in front of the table, Jean Paul blocked the front door, but perchance she could reach the window in the bedchamber. She slipped out of Michel’s grip and ran through the doorway, slamming the door behind her. She clambered toward the tiny window high above her bed. Was she small enough to even fit?
Only the meager light from the single candle she’d lit earlier guided her as she heaved the shutters open. Rain spilled in, the wind tearing at her face and hair.
Behind her, the chamber door banged open.
“Stop, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs; her breaths came rapid and shallow. She pressed her hands to the windowsill in an effort to heave herself into the fierce elements, but her broken arm screamed in pain at the sudden pressure.
An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her down. Two massive hands shoved her toward the floor. She sprawled, face-first, onto the dirt beside her bed.
Michel raced into the room as she curled into a ball, hot tears flooding her eyes. Had this been what God intended? That Michel love her and show her forgiveness so his brother could kill her? She muffled a sob. She deserved to die. She just didn’t want to anymore. Michel had changed everything.
“Put that away, brother. You’ll not harm her in this house.” Michel’s voice broke through her agony.
She caught her breath and waited for the life-ending blow to come despite Michel’s words. But silence, thick and heavy, filled the room. Something prodded her shoulder. She opened her eyes.
The tip of Jean Paul’s sword poked at her. “Get up, wench!”
She scrambled back against the wall.
Jean Paul laughed, a cruel cackle that chilled her blood. “Why, she’s nothing more than a frightened kitten now. What did you do to her, Michel? She was rather fierce in the woods.”
“I said, leave her be.”
Isabelle’s eyes rested on Michel’s familiar form. She’d never seen him look so threatening. Fists clenched and face hard, he stood in the dimness, just beyond Jean Paul. Wind shook the tiny house. A terrifying rumble of thunder resonated inside the walls.
Jean Paul scoffed at his brother. “Do you know the reward I could have reaped had I dragged her to the military tribunal in Paris rather than left her in the woods? I scorned myself for days after I found out. No, I don’t intend to harm her here. We’ll do that in Paris.”
Jean Paul knew who she was. An iron band tightened around her chest, and she glanced at Michel. How many times had she almost told him of her heritage? Dread crawled into her stomach.
Again, Jean Paul prodded her nightdress with the tip of his sword. “Get up, then. We’ll go to the jail this night, and I’ll see you reach Paris myself.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Michel rocked up to the balls of his feet as though ready to pounce if Jean Paul made one wrong move.
Jean Paul whirled on Michel, putting the sword between them. “You dare give me orders?”
Lightning split the sky with a crack, as though God Himself added His opinion to the spectacle before her. The room briefly illuminated with the light of day, and Isabelle watched Michel, his knuckles white with strain and his eyes glistening darker than Jean Paul’s.
“Put that away.” Michel didn’t flinch as he stared at Jean Paul. “You’ll not use it on me or anyone else in this house.”
The silence that filled the room sparked with deadly tension.
Jean Paul stepped closer to Michel, leaving Isabelle forgotten against the wall. She should flee, try again to lift herself out the window, something. But she was too filled with terror for Michel’s sake to breathe. Had he intentionally turned Jean Paul’s wrath from her to himself? Her body sank into the floor, fear crawling through her as Jean Paul walked nearer the man she loved.
Michel lunged for the sword, but Jean Paul evaded, stepping back at the exact moment Michel’s palm would have found the handle.
“You’ve feelings for her in that muddled brain of yours.” Jean Paul sneered.
“Mayhap you didn’t hear me. I said, sheath your sword.” Michel’s low growl sent a chill through Isabelle’s racing blood.
“Are you protecting her?” Jean Paul’s voice mocked. “You should be killed for trying it, but I can beat you without my sword.” Jean Paul dropped his sword back into its scabbard. His fist flew at Michel’s face so quickly Isabelle barely had time to scream before the sickening crack of bone meeting bone echoed through the room.
Fright for Michel and rage toward Jean Paul surged through her veins. Intending to help Michel, she started to lift herself from the floor, but Michel drove a fist into his brother’s gut.
“Ugh.” Jean Paul stumbled backward, and the two men tore at each other in a frenzy of fists and grunts.
Isabelle slumped back to the ground and saw Jeanette standing in the doorway, a look of sorrow on her face as she silently held a candle and stared at her sons. The fighting brothers used every open centimeter of the room while they blocked punches and hurled others. They may have fought for a minute or an hour, she didn’t know. Though Jean Paul was bigger, Michel evaded the burly man’s moves. Michel’s work-toned muscles bulged beneath his shirt as he threw his shoulder into Jean Paul’s middle. They landed on the floor near her feet, the ground vibrating with the impact. Heaving and struggling, Michel pinned his brother beneath him.
“You’ll leave Isabelle alone.” Michel gasped air, his eyes ferocious as they bored into his brother’s. “You can leave tomorrow if you wish. But you will tell no one who she is. The entire town knows her as Corinne’s cousin from Paris. Do you understand? Think now, Jean Paul. For if you turn her in, you’ll be turning in your mother and brother, as well.”
Jean Paul spit in Michel’s face. “You don’t know who she is, do you? Who her father was?”
“No!” Isabelle’s heart beat frantically while confusion clouded Michel’s eyes. “I meant to tell you. Truly I did.”
Michel flashed her a glance, then glared at Jean Paul. “She’s not royalty, so it matters little.”
; “No, she’s not royalty.” Jean Paul struggled for breath against his brother’s hold. “She’s the next family over. A La Rouchecauld. A daughter of the Duc de La Rouchecauld. Not just any duc, Michel, a duc descended from a man who once ruled France. The House of La Rouchecauld is over a thousand years old. Her family’s been stealing from peasants since the time of the Romans!”
Jean Paul spoke truth. All of it. Her family was no longer royal, but they held one of the highest positions in France.
Michel stilled, staring into his brother’s eyes. With the slow movements of an old man, he shifted off his brother. Jean Paul sprang to his feet while Michel stayed on the floor, every emotion fleeing his face until he turned flat eyes on her. “Is it true? Is this who you are?”
“Michel—”
“Answer,” he snapped in a voice so rough she pressed herself against the wall.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His shoulders slumped. His face drained of color, and she could almost see his love for her draining away, as well.
Michel rose to his feet, while Isabelle hung her head and her eyes welled with fresh tears.
“And you, little girl, do you know what we’ll do to you?” Jean Paul’s sneering voice filtered through her haze of sobs, but she didn’t look up from her place on the floor. How could she now that she’d lost Michel?
“We’ll take you to Paris and put you on trial. The crowd will be wild for the blood of a La Rouchecauld.” Jean Paul nudged her with his boot. “How do you think it will feel to stand before a raving crowd, huh? Maybe we won’t guillotine you at all. Maybe we’ll just fling you into the crowd and let them tear you apart.”
She trembled. Everything she’d feared, everything Marie had suffered, would now come to her. Is this Your way of forgiving me, Father? I was better off without Your love and forgiveness. I was better off left in the woods to die. She closed her eyes and mewled quietly into her hands.
“I was there when your sister was killed.”
Sanctuary for a Lady Page 17