Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  Sylvie reared, eyes wild. Isabelle’s gloved fingers slipped on the reins, but she grasped them before the horse could bolt.

  Her heart lurched into her throat. “Sylvie! No!” Her valise lay in the wagon; if the horse ran off, whatever would she do? Gripping the reins tightly, she blew out a calming breath and patted the horse’s neck. The beast whinnied but settled. “Stay. Good girl. Good.”

  Sylvie stomped her hooves, her nostrils flaring. Isabelle had thought to take Sylvie to Saint-Valery and stable her there. But the stubborn horse only slowed her now. She could walk just as fast as Sylvie and not have the trouble of dragging the frightened beast where she didn’t want to go.

  She walked the length of the horse, trailing her fingers against Sylvie’s wet hair. If she let Sylvie go, would the beast run back home? She bit her lip. She knew so little about horses. They’d had stable hands and coachmen before the Révolution. And she and Marie hadn’t kept a horse in Arras.

  “Steady now.” She patted Sylvie’s rump in what she hoped was a calming manner. The horse held still. Laying the reins atop the wagon, she climbed up, reached over the seat, grasped her valise and hurried down.

  A bolt of lightning slashed across the sky just over the river and a crash of thunder shook the ground. Sylvie whinnied and reared. Isabelle jumped away, letting go of the reins. The horse turned from the bridge, the wagon clattering behind her, and ran back down the road toward home. Isabelle watched her go until the last piece of her life with Michel disappeared into the night. Then she turned her back on Abbeville and started to walk.

  * * *

  “Where’s the girl?” Jean Paul’s enraged voice filled the house.

  Numb from spent rage and grief, Michel glanced up from where he sat by the fire.

  The door to the bedchamber burst open and crashed against the wall. Jean Paul appeared in the doorway wearing only the tan trousers he had slept in. His eyes grazed the room before searing Michel.

  Michel stood and drew a breath, his heart thudding slowly. Fury radiated from Jean Paul’s every pore. The blue veins in his arms and chest bulged against his taut muscles, his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw made more severe by his anger. He took a step forward, then stumbled. Looking more mad than sane, he scowled, held a hand to his forehead and waited a moment before he hulked toward Michel.

  Michel nearly took a step backward. He’d known this moment would come since Isabelle fled six hours earlier. But what to do? Did he even want to defend her?

  “I said, where’s the girl?” Jean Paul growled through his clenched jaw.

  Michel met his brother’s gaze evenly. “She’s gone.”

  Jean Paul sprang at him. Michel tried to sidestep, but even in his drugged state, Jean Paul moved quickly enough to slam Michel, back first, into the wall.

  Jean Paul’s hands shook as he pinned Michel against the hard surface. “Why didn’t I wake when she fled? And why are my hands trembling? Why can’t I walk straight?”

  Michel pressed his lips together, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Jean Paul shoved him harder into the wall. “What did you do, drug that tea you gave me last night and help her escape?”

  Dear Father! Did so much depend on this moment of truth? “You would have killed her.”

  “Traitor!” Jean Paul moved a hand to the waistband of his trousers. The moment Jean Paul’s arm left Michel’s shoulder, he thrust his brother backward. A blade flashed, and an instant later Jean Paul held a knife to Michel’s throat.

  Hard, lifeless eyes bored into Michel, shooting terror through his body until his heart pumped fear rather than blood. He’d thought himself safe, thought Jean Paul wouldn’t truly harm a member of his family.

  He’d been wrong.

  “Do you know who I work for? Who I came to town with?” Jean Paul leaned so close his breath warmed Michel’s face. The furious scar atop Jean Paul’s eyebrow seemed to spasm and fist with rage. “Joseph Le Bon. His portable guillotine and military tribunal are in town even now. They began hearing accusations and making arrests last night. I’ll take you there and throw you on Le Bon’s mercy if you don’t speak! Now tell me, where did the girl go?”

  Michel’s throat felt dry and swollen. He opened his mouth. Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. But the words wouldn’t come. Isabelle was hurt, traveling in this storm by herself. Had she crossed the Somme River safely? Had she reached the Channel? After all he’d done to save her, from the woods to last night, how could he now give her destination away? Aye, she’d deserted him. But curse it all, he still loved the woman.

  He raised his chin.

  Jean Paul’s Adam’s apple worked back and forth and his long, black hair fell wildly about his face. He grabbed Michel’s collar, yanked it forward and then slammed Michel’s head against the wall.

  Pain surged through Michel’s skull, mingling with the hurt in his heart.

  “Tell me where she went, or I’ll slit your throat. I swear it!”

  Michel held his tongue.

  Jean Paul glared at him as though warring with himself: drop his threat or kill his only brother.

  The house door opened, bringing in a torrent of wind and rain. Mère stepped inside, her wool cape dripping rainwater onto the floor and a basket of eggs in her hand. “Michel, why is Sylvie out of the…” She glanced at her sons and froze. The basket of eggs dropped to the floor with a muted thwack.

  “Leave!” Jean Paul shouted at Mère, his knife scraping Michel’s neck.

  Michel held his breath against the slicing blade. A trickle of warmth slid down his skin into his collar. He stretched his neck back, further exposing the sensitive skin but shifting away from the knife enough to speak. “We’re just having a discussion, Ma Mère. ’Tis best you head to the stable for a time.”

  Mère’s hand clenched the door frame. A gust of wind sent an explosion of rain inside, but she kept her eyes riveted on Jean Paul. “Jean Paul, whatever are you doing?”

  Jean Paul met Michel’s eyes. “No less than Michel deserves.”

  Michel’s mind raced. If he didn’t speak against this senseless bloodshed now, then when? “I’ll not do anything that results in killing. Either you or Isabelle.”

  “Then your own blood will be spilled in place of hers.”

  “Boys, please!” Hands clasped to her heart, Mère took a step closer and stopped. Confusion etched her features as she tried to grasp what transpired before her.

  “Hasn’t this Révolution taken enough blood already?” The once-cool knife blade had warmed against Michel’s skin until he could barely feel it. Any moment could be his last. Just one flick of Jean Paul’s wrist…

  “There is never enough blood when it’s the blood of aristocrats and traitors.” Jean Paul’s eyes were wild with hatred. “Did you know your precious Father Albert sits in the jail awaiting trial even now?”

  The air left Michel’s lungs. Father Albert? Had a more righteous man ever walked the ground of France? “Non.” Tears blurred his vision. Isabelle. Father Albert. Would anyone escape the Révolution’s Terror? “Not Father Albert. How could you? You loved him. He taught you at his knee!”

  “Stop!” Mère cried, tears evident in her voice. “Stop this right now. Arresting your teacher? Putting a knife to your brother’s throat? There’s no cause for such behavior.” She rushed to Jean Paul and wrung her hands.

  “I didn’t turn Father Albert in.” Jean Paul’s hold wavered, guilt flickering across his face. “Others did. No one is safe, Michel. Tell me where the girl went before others come for your blood.”

  If the price of living involved turning his back on vulnerable women and generous old men, the Terror could have him. “Why wait for others to come? Just take my life now. Or haven’t you the courage to kill me yourself? You’ll turn me over to the military tribuna
l as long as you don’t pull the lever on the guillotine? Or hold the blade that slits my throat?”

  “It’s not like that.” The fire left Jean Paul’s eyes, and his grip loosened until Michel could have easily pushed his brother off. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Please, Jean Paul.” Mère, her hair coming out of its knot, placed her hand on Jean Paul’s elbow. “Whatever Michel’s done, he’ll make it right. Sit at the table a spell and talk this out, like I taught you when you were little.” Mère shook her head. “I never taught you this.”

  Jean Paul stepped back and dropped the knife. It thunked against the dirt floor, a redeeming sound of safety. “I didn’t want them to take Father Albert. I don’t want them to take you. But if you don’t watch yourself, Michel, Le Bon will kill you, and I won’t be able to stop him. Now, please, tell me where the girl went. At least protect yourself and Notre Mère.”

  Their mother stood beside them, as though waiting for the hug she’d always demanded when he and Jean Paul were young and fought. Her vacant eyes told Michel she understood nothing of what they discussed, only the danger he’d been in when Jean Paul held the knife.

  Michel closed his eyes, his brother’s sincere entreaty and Mère’s expectant gaze harder to resist than the demands Jean Paul had made with the knife to his throat. He’d already taken Isabelle in, nursed her, cared for her, loved her. He’d drugged his own brother and given her a six-hour start. What more could he do to protect her? If she couldn’t reach a ship with so much on her side, she’d never survive.

  “I can’t.”

  Jean Paul stiffened. “Then you’re a fool. Her father was a duc. She deserves to die, regardless of your feelings for her. And if I don’t search for her, others will. She was walking west when first I found her. Was she headed to the Channel?”

  Michel’s blood chilled.

  Jean Paul smirked. “I see she was.” He bent to pick up his knife.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabelle bent her head against the storm. She could smell the tangy mixture of salt and fish and water that indicated the sea. Saint-Valery-sur-Somme couldn’t be much farther. Rainwater had seeped into her boots, soaking her stockings and numbing her toes. Her injured arm ached. Her good arm screamed from the weight of her drenched bag, yet she put one foot in front of the other.

  Just a little farther. Not more than a kilometer or two. Her eyes, heavy with fatigue, threatened to drift shut. After five years of trying to escape France, she was almost free. So why did her heart sink with every step she took? Why did she feel as though she walked away from her dream rather than toward it?

  A fresh gust of wind battered her, working its icy fingers down her back. She shivered against the chill and caught sight of a cottage surrounded by fields. Smoke swirled from the chimney, and light trickled from beneath the covered windows. How pleasant to be curled up by a fire, dry, warm and safe. She took a step toward the little dwelling and then stopped. She didn’t want some strange peasant’s hospitality, she wanted Michel’s. And Michel wouldn’t be the one who opened the door if she knocked.

  She swiped at a tear with her bandaged arm and hurried past the cottage, pressing closer to the sea. A fine mess she’d made of things. How had she let her heart become so intertwined with a man she knew she’d leave? She stared at the dreary road stretching endlessly ahead.

  I’m going with you. I’ll marry you. I’ll protect you.

  She sniffled. Michel would have been content enough at first, but he’d have grown to despise her. Leaving him was for the best. He would find another to love and marry and carry his children.

  Yes, Michel would go on, but could she?

  A sudden clomping sound.

  She whirled, fear stealing her breath. The thud of horses’ hooves through the rain? She looked up the road, then down it. Perchance the wind had played a trick on her. Surely no one would ride in this weather. Unless Jean Paul…

  No. He hadn’t had horses last time. Why would he have them now? Perhaps she didn’t move fast with her broken arm, but surely she’d gotten enough of a start to beat the soldiers to the Channel. She glanced toward the sickly gray sky. How long since the sun had risen? She felt as though she’d been walking for hours, but maybe she’d only been traveling for minutes. Had Jean Paul discovered she was gone already?

  She shuddered, a reaction having nothing to do with the cold. Her eyes watered from the wind and stinging rain. A large, dark shadow loomed ahead through the veil of rain. Could it be a building? Could the sound have come from there? She hastened toward it, hope surging through her as the ramparts took shape.

  Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Her breathing stopped as she gazed up. Five years of dreams embodied before her as she finally reached the port town. The ancient gate towered before her, its crumbling, moss-covered stone as beautiful as freshly polished gold. She passed under it and into the old walled town built nearly a thousand years earlier. Her boots squished mud against the uneven cobblestone as she rushed through the town square, past houses of stone and mortar strung together to form defensive walls. The wind whisked away smoke from chimneys and lights burned dimly behind shutters, but no one loitered about the square. And she’d little time for admiration. Her heart beat with a singular purpose: water. She had to reach the sea.

  She nearly bumped a woman who rushed into the road before her, then disappeared into a house across the way. Isabelle slowed when she saw the far northern gate. Down the gentle slope lay the sea, the infamous Baie de Somme where William the Conqueror once assembled his grand fleet of ships before attacking England. A thrill shot through her at the remembered lesson taught from her father’s knee in their apartment at Versailles. Who knew she would one day see this bay? That she would dream of it for five long years after her father’s death? That when she stood beside it, she would be stripped of everything once held dear? That the watery den would be her only hope of refuge?

  But today, the water held no hints of grandeur or promises of safety. Covered with white-crested waves, the angry harbor foamed before her. She strained her eyes but couldn’t discern the shadow of a sailing vessel. Surely one was there, harboring in northern France’s largest port. Numerous vessels would be there, British blockade or not.

  Her unease rose with the wild swell of waves. What if no vessels were leaving due to the storm? Her stomach clenched. Certainly something was leaving today. She didn’t care what type of vessel she traveled on as long as it carried her to Stockholm and from Stockholm to England.

  Hastening toward the shore, she left the walled section of town, then scanned the street and frowned. Where was the shipping office? She walked along the water, eyeing the shops shut against the storm. An occasional light flickered from the second-story apartments, but nothing on street level seemed open. How early was it? Surely it was late enough for businesses to be open. She hadn’t been walking that long.

  She struggled forward, shoving a snarl of hair up under her cap that the wind had blown free. It would do little good to dress as a boy if her hair hung in curls down her back.

  Laughter wafted from somewhere nearby. She passed a man with his hat pulled low against the rain, searched the street for the origin of the laughter and followed the sound. Light streamed from beneath the building’s shuttered windows, and two horses stood near the entrance. Taking a nervous breath, she jammed all escaping hair into her hat. A boy. I’m a boy, not a lady.

  She pulled open the door. With one step inside, she left a world of cold, wet misery and entered a bastion of lightness and joviality. To her left, two large fires snapped and popped, filling the tavern with heat. Isabelle stepped around rough-hewn tables crammed with people wearing work-worn clothes. They lifted spoonfuls of porridge into their mouths while their strong voices and laughter rang through the establishment.

  Though the room was built of weathered
timber, the dimly lit wood tones didn’t dull the atmosphere. The place should have been painted red for all the mirth within its walls.

  The smell of eggs and porridge wrapped itself around her and set her stomach to growling. She trudged toward the bar, sloshing dirty puddles on the plank floor with her boots, letting the warmth from the fires seep through her damp clothes. What she wouldn’t give to curl up beside the inviting flames and sleep for a day.

  The publican, a large man with red cheeks half-hidden by a beard, glanced up from filling two mugs. “You’re a wet one there, boy.”

  “Oui, it’s a terrible storm.”

  He handed the mugs to a barmaid dressed in a cheerful red skirt and eyed Isabelle.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. She cleared her throat and tried for a deeper voice. “Uh, aye.”

  The man slid her a glass of ale. She stared into the amber liquid, the stench stinging her nose. She’d had wine numerous times before the Révolution started, but this lower-class drink? Her stomach revolted. How did the patrons swallow this stuff, and so early in the morning?

  “I’m just, ah, looking for the shipping office.”

  The man ran his eyes down her. She could feel him staring at the discolored patches on her hat and trousers. She shifted, her heart beating heavily in her chest. She clamped down her desire to press her eyes shut under his scrutiny. Why hadn’t she brought her old brown cloak instead of this new one? It would have fit better with her disguise.

  The publican laughed, a loud, rolling sound that quieted the nearby tables. “Leaving to try your luck somewhere else, are you? I wouldn’t count on it.” The man laughed again and pointed over his shoulder. “It’s down the road. The little shack attached to the second warehouse. Nothing’ll be leaving port in this weather, but you can get a ticket and settle up in the inn.”

  Nothing leaving? Hope left her in one violent rush, her stomach plummeting along with it. The cursed storm. Why now, of all times, when she was so close to leaving? “Merci,” she mumbled.