“Oui, in the town square. I’d been searching for a soldier who could tell me what became of my brother. And when I looked out the window of the inn, there he was.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you even be in Saint-Valery?”
“To search for you, my love.”
Despair clouded her eyes. “But I left you.”
“I couldn’t sit home while my brother chased the woman I love.” He swallowed, the grief over believing her lost still churning in his gut. He rested his forehead against hers and slid his hands around the back of her neck. “I came, and I searched. I watched ship passengers, spoke to innkeepers and talked with the shipping clerk. No one had seen a single woman who matched your description.”
“You didn’t give up…merci.”
He closed his eyes against the face that shimmered with longing for him. “Non. I did.” He forced his eyes open. “I had to go back to Ma Mère, and after four days of searching, I assumed you were…”
“You returned.” Her whisper barely carried above the rain. “For me.”
“I had to. I couldn’t think of you here, alone and scared, hunted by soldiers.”
She ran her hands up his arms and cradled his cheeks. “You’ve grown thin.”
“With you gone, I didn’t have much desire to eat.”
She ran her thumb beneath his eyes, where he knew purple smudges lingered on his skin. “Or sleep.”
“I only wanted to find you.”
Her hands slid across his back, then pulled him into a fierce embrace.
He nuzzled his face in her hair, sinking into the feeling of those slender arms wrapped around him, of the woman he loved burrowed into his chest. “Marry me, Isabelle. Be my wife, spend your life with me.”
Tears glistened in her deep brown eyes, despite the smile that curved her lips. “Yes.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. He’d missed the taste of her lips, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin beneath his palms. So he kissed her again, slow and long this time as the sweetness of his beloved filled his senses.
* * *
Isabelle had doubted he’d ever hold her again, yet here she stood, cocooned in his arms, swamped once more by the sensation of his lips against her own. She clutched his forearms and slid deeper into the kiss.
“I see you’ve made amends with your woman, brother.”
Warmth stealing across her face, she jerked away, turned to face Jean Paul and Jeanette, and curled her hands in her skirt.
“Isabelle.” Jeanette rushed forward and held her in a tight hug.
Michel glared at his brother. “Mayhap you and Notre Mère should walk down to the beach. I wasn’t quite finished with my lady.”
“Ha. You best marry her first. Shall I fetch the magistrate?”
Nerves swept through her. Surely Michel didn’t mean to marry her so quickly, did he? Her entire body heated at the thought.
“Michel said you were in Spain, Isabelle…no, Austria. No…” Jeanette scratched her head.
“England,” she whispered. “I would have been in England. But I won’t be going now. We’ll all return to Abbeville come morning.”
Michel scowled. “Non. I’m still taking you to England.”
He spoke with such authority she nearly believed him.
“You can’t, Michel. I’ve hardly any money left. Your brother…” Passing Jean Paul, she moved toward the rickety dresser where she stored her money. “The doctor’s fees were rather high, and then I paid for this room and…” She handed him the small fistful of coins. “It’s not enough for even one fare, much less two.”
Tenderness filled his eyes. “You sacrificed your trip to save my brother?”
Something welled in her throat until she couldn’t answer.
He pulled her against him. “We’ll still away to England.” His voice was low and rusty. “I’ve money enough to get the both of us there, though we won’t have extra once we arrive.”
“You’ve the farm to run. I won’t ask you to leave. I could never do that. I’m coming home with you. Back to Abbeville. Jean Paul and I were headed there in a few days as it was. Just ask him.”
He ran his knuckles down the side of her cheek. The look in his eyes caused her breath to stop and her blood to hum. “You were coming back. To me? On your own?”
“Bien sûr. Of course I was. I told you, Michel. I love you. Je t’aime. I want to be with you, on the farm you promised your père to care for.”
“Non.”
“Non? How can you refuse me this? You asked me to stay.”
“Before I truly realized the danger to you, as your father’s daughter. I won’t have you tarry in France when doing so could result in your death. What if a townsman learns of your heritage?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Michel had already moved toward his brother.
“Jean Paul, I promised Notre Père I would manage the farm and care for Notre Mère. But God has given me another responsibility now, to my future wife. Will you see to Notre Mère and tend the farm in my stead? Notre Mère’s missed you greatly.”
Jeanette offered a shaky smile and a quick bob of her head.
Jean Paul’s black eyes lightened. “I would be honored.”
Michel placed a hand on his shoulder. “The land should have been yours to begin with. You’re the farmer, not I.”
“Aye.”
“Mayhap if Notre Père had given you the farm, you wouldn’t have left after Corinne’s death.”
Jean Paul hung his head. “I needed to go. Doesn’t mean I should have fallen in with the mobs, but I had to leave. Here.” He sat on the bed and tugged off his boot. He spent a moment fumbling with something inside, then pulled out a small bag and dumped the contents into his hand.
Isabelle gasped. The man held probably fifteen gold Louis d’or coins.
“You take this.” Jean Paul handed the money to Michel. “It’s more than enough to get you and your woman to England. It’s—” he glanced at Isabelle “—the least I can do.”
“There, now, that’s the way brothers should treat each other,” Jeanette piped up.
“But I searched your pockets, even your boots.” Isabelle rushed to Jean Paul’s side. “You didn’t have any money.”
His smiled thinly. “I always keep money hidden in the sole. Never know what can happen when you’re a soldat.”
Michel turned to her. “So, we away to England.”
She stilled, sudden doubts rushing up to cloud her mind. Would their ship out of France be safe, or would a British warship find it? Once in London, how would she ever find Tante Cordele? And without the farm, how would Michel earn a living?
“Isabelle?” Michel pressed his hand to her cheek. “You’ll be safer there.”
She covered his hand with her own and slid her eyes closed. The warmth of his hand, the brush of his hardened calluses against her soft cheek, the gentleness of his touch, the silent sanctuary he offered. She belonged with this man, wherever he led her.
She trailed the tip of her thumb up his own able fingers.
And she knew how Michel would provide for them. He would make furniture.
England wasn’t only her dream, it was his.
He bent, his lips hovering over her ear and his breath fluttering her hair. “Come live with me in England, mon amour.”
She nuzzled her head against Michel’s shoulder. The fibers of his rough linen shirt grated against her cheek, and she inhaled the familiar, rain-tinged scents of straw and earth and Michel. The pain of the past weeks fell away as she stood in the arms of this man who loved her despite her faults, as she stood in the shadow of a God who forgave her despite her wrongdoings.
“Yes,” she whispered
in response.
She looked up into green eyes bright with dreams and realized she didn’t need England to feel safe.
She only needed Michel.
Epilogue
Isabelle stood on the deck of the timber-laden vessel they had boarded in Stockholm and peered through the drizzling mist.
Waves lapped gently at the ship’s hull, the wind off the ocean barely strong enough to tangle her hair, let alone move a ship. Her eyes strained to see through the dense clouds hovering over the sea. A chill slithered down her spine. She hadn’t brought her cloak to the deck, so she wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze riveted in the direction the sailor had pointed some time ago.
Why was it taking so long?
“I wondered where you escaped to.”
She smiled at the sound of her husband’s voice but didn’t turn. He came up behind her and stroked his hands down her arms. A shutter traveled through her, the type that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with this man’s touch.
“You’re chilled. Come, let’s go belowdecks where you’ll be warmer.”
She shook her head. “Not until I see it.”
“There’s nothing to see yet. We’re not scheduled to arrive in London until this evening.”
“But the sailor said we could see England soon.”
She felt more than heard Michel’s sigh. Nevertheless his arms wrapped around her, and his chin rested atop her head.
“Merci,” she whispered as she leaned back into his warmth and let his body heat surround her.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers over the smooth, wooden acorn. Michel had told her the story of destroying the dresser and had given her this one remaining piece when they married before leaving France.
Rising up from the mist before them, a shadow loomed. Small at first, the blob of dark gray grew on the horizon.
“England,” she whispered.
The ship edged closer to the land, and the mist lightened, turning from a leaden gray to nearly white as the sun infiltrated the gloom. The ocean breeze caressed her hair, the salty sea stung her nose and her husband’s arms tightened around her. She turned her face to the sky, letting the light’s hazy rays touch her cheeks and streak her hair. And knew the sun would break through the clouds.
Soon. So very soon.
* * * * *
Dear Reader,
I’m told that every author holds certain books closer to her heart than others. Please know that this book will always be special to me, partly because it is my first published book, but even more so because the story is so powerful. While I’m excited to see my book sent to press and then delivered to you, the reader, I’m also sad to be finished working on Michel and Isabelle’s story. The tale seemed to grow into a living, breathing entity, and became more special with each minute I worked on it. I found myself loving the characters of Isabelle and Michel, entranced by their hopes and dreams and suffering through their pain.
Writers often have people ask them why they write. I recently had a very powerful, influential person in the publishing industry ask me, “What kind of stories do you write?” I answered him simply and said, “I write the kind of stories that matter.”
And so I trust that this story matters to you readers as much as it did to me. My prayer is that God uses this story in your life to illustrate the depth and boundlessness of the forgiveness He offers, as well as the great price that forgiveness sometimes costs.
Thank you so very much for taking the time to read my book. I know that many of you lead busy lives with little spare time. Please understand that the time and energy you put into reading my novel blesses me.
If you enjoyed my book, I would love to hear from you. You can contact me through my website, www.naomirawlings.com. Or you can write to me at P.O. Box 134, Ontonagon, MI 49953.
Naomi Rawlings
Questions for Discussion
Michel struggles with his obligation to the farm, even though God clearly gave him that responsibility. Have you ever struggled with a responsibility God has given you? If so, did you eventually come to accept that responsibility? What led to your change in attitude?
Michel is prejudiced against the aristocratic class. How does his prejudice affect his initial dealings with Isabelle? Have you ever needed to overcome prejudice in your own life?
Isabelle initially struggles with accepting Michel’s authority in his home. In what ways does Isabelle’s stubbornness hurt her relationship with Michel? Have you ever struggled with accepting authority? Did that struggle have negative consequences in your life?
In what ways does Jeanette serve Isabelle? Can you think of someone in your life who readily serves others the way Jeanette does? What are some ways you can serve others?
Isabelle blames herself for her sister’s death. Do you think her guilt is justified? Can you think of a time in your life when you needed to seek forgiveness for a wrong you committed?
Michel sees Father Albert as a role model for Christian behavior. Do you have someone in your life who sets the standard for you on how people should treat one another? If so, how have they influenced your choices?
Isabelle starts to truly admire Michel during the flood. Outside of Michel’s looks, what are some of the attributes that draw Isabelle to Michel?
Michel also realizes he’s falling in love with Isabelle after the flood. Outside of Isabelle’s looks, what are some attributes that draw Michel to Isabelle?
How does Isabelle change after she finally accepts God’s forgiveness? Do you think accepting God’s forgiveness will produce similar results in real life?
What is Michel’s reaction to Isabelle’s deception when she leaves him? How does Michel overcome his anger toward Isabelle?
Even though Isabelle changes after accepting God’s forgiveness, she changes again after forgiving Jean Paul herself. Has there ever been a time in your life where you’ve needed to forgive someone for a terrible wrong? Did you find forgiving them difficult?
At the end of the story, both Michel and Isabelle are willing to give up their own desires in order to have each other. Have you ever sacrificed your own desires for someone you loved? How so? Was the final result worth the sacrifice?
ISBN: 9781459226586
Copyright © 2012 by Naomi Mason
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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