by Regina Scott
Brigitte crossed her arms over her chest. Why did the siblings get to help unload while Jean Paul told her to stay in the wagon?
Not that the girl was helping him. Then again, she probably counted distracting Jean Paul a help.
“Are those raspberries for us?” The boy peeked in the back of the wagon.
“Oui.” Jean Paul handed him the small crate. “And the leaf lettuce, turnips and carrots. Some flour, too.”
He scrunched up his nose. “You should have brought more raspberries and left the turnips.”
Jean Paul laughed. “Then I’d not have enough for my other stops. Go on and run those inside. If you help me unload, I’ll pay you a livre.”
The boy bolted inside with the raspberries and a sack of flour.
“Raspberries are my favorite, as well.” The girl—because girl was precisely how Brigitte was going to think of her—edged closer to Jean Paul. “Perhaps we can share some with you if you’ve time to visit.”
“That’s a kind offer, Annalise, but I’ve got business to tend.” Jean Paul scooted two more crates to the edge of the wagon. Then he hefted one and started up the walk.
The girl hurried after him, threading her hand through his arm before disappearing inside.
Brigitte rubbed at her temple. How long would Jean Paul be? She still had to find the gendarme. News of her trip into town would hardly reach him if Jean Paul stayed in quiet places such as this. Plus she needed to hurry back to prepare the evening meal and check on her children. Knowing Danielle, she’d decided to leave her brothers in Jean Paul’s house and go rabbit hunting.
Brigitte shifted on the bench and looked up one end of the street and then down the other. Two children played in a yard farther down, but besides them, the road was deserted. And though the door to the house remained open, neither Jean Paul, nor the boy, nor that Annalise girl emerged. Yet one crate still sat apart from the others near the edge of the wagon.
Jean Paul was likely talking to the mother or father or whomever was inside, and it hardly seemed right to sit idle while there was work to be done. She was just as capable of helping as the others.
More capable than Annalise, surely.
She climbed down and grabbed the last crate, sliding the bulky box into her arms. My, but it was a bit heavy. Who knew turnips could weigh so much? She took a few wobbly steps toward the house. Perhaps Jean Paul was right and she’d yet to fully recover from her illness.
“Bonjour?” Voices emanated from inside the house, but no one greeted her at the door.
She moved inside and called louder. “Bonjour.”
Jean Paul appeared in the corridor, that perpetual scowl planted on his face. “I told you to stay in the wagon.”
He took the crate, and her arms screamed in relief. But she scowled right back at him. No reason to let him know he’d been right. The man was already arrogant enough. “I was trying to help, not earn a lecture.”
He turned and stalked back down the corridor, disappearing into the room at the end. Brigitte glanced outside then back toward the door Jean Paul had vanished behind. Should she go back to the wagon, follow Jean Paul or simply remain here? The man hadn’t told her what he wanted, yet if she did the wrong thing, she’d likely get another lecture.
She turned and took a step back toward the door. Best to wait in the wagon and hope he didn’t talk for too much longer. Though if Annalise had her way, she was probably sitting atop Jean Paul’s lap feeding him raspberries.
Brigitte clenched her teeth together. Had she ever been so young and foolish? So openly heartsick for a man?
Probably, when she’d first met Henri. She’d done many a silly thing that summer, including marrying the man and moving to Calais only to discover he was a smuggler. At least Jean Paul had character enough not to lie and take advantage of a girl the way Henri had with her.
“Please don’t leave.”
Brigitte looked up to find a woman moving down the corridor. The matriarch of the house, no doubt. Faint lines ringed her eyes, and she wore a faded gown and apron much like Brigitte’s own. Most of the woman’s graying hair had been tucked up beneath a mobcap, but stray strands fell about her face and neck.
A woman in threadbare clothes, aged beyond her years, with shoulders permanently slumped from the weight resting on them.
Brigitte touched a hand to her cheek. Was this what others saw when they looked at her?
No wonder Jean Paul plied her with food and rest and told her to purchase fabric for a new gown.
But Jean Paul saw her as more than a thin woman in worn clothes, didn’t he? He’d visited her when she was ill, had touched her softly after her fever had broken, stared at her lips yesterday’s eve… A flood of warmth raced through her at the memory.
“Bonjour, I’m Citizen Arnaud.” The woman dipped into a small courtesy. “And you are?”
“I’m—”
“Leaving.” Jean Paul stalked back into the room. “She ought not have left the wagon.”
The woman’s eyes darted to Jean Paul then back, and she smiled. “Oh, I see.”
Brigitte raised her chin at Jean Paul. Whatever it was Citizen Arnaud saw, maybe she’d share the information, because Brigitte was flummoxed. How could anyone understand Jean Paul ordering her about like a dog?
“Perhaps you can stop and visit again sometime?” Citizen Arnaud asked her. “Maybe next week when Jean Paul brings the vegetables?”
Brigitte opened her mouth to respond, but the boy from earlier bounded down the corridor.
“You forgot my livre.”
“A livre?” The smile left the woman’s face. “Jean Paul Belanger, you are not paying my son a livre for carrying in a box of raspberries.”
Jean Paul dug into his pocket and dropped the coin into the boy’s hand. “Good help is hard to come by these days, or have you not noticed how many of our men are off at war? Besides, I’ve a delivery for Gaston to make to Mayor Narcise.”
“Now wait a moment. Gaston can surely…”
But the woman’s words faded as Jean Paul nudged Brigitte out the door and Gaston raced ahead of them both.
“Get in the wagon and stay put this time,” he growled in her ear.
She climbed up onto the bench while he handed some raspberries and a missive to Gaston. The boy turned and took off down the street like a horse at full gallop.
“You should have stayed here.” The wagon shifted subtly as Jean Paul seated himself beside her.
“’Twas nothing for me to do, and that last crate needed to go inside, did it not?”
“You looked ready to faint when I took it from you.”
“I was nothing of the sort.” She glared at him, but he stared right back, his dark eyes watching her too carefully. “Well, perhaps I was a little wobbly, but I’ll not regain my strength if no one lets me work.”
“And what do you call fixing breakfast and making bread? Dusting my house a dozen times per day?”
“You know what I meant.”
“Stay put at our next stop. There’ll be men aplenty to unload the wagon.” He flicked the reins, and the mare tromped slowly forward.
“The woman back there, Madame Arnaud, she didn’t pay you for the vegetables.”
“Non.”
“So you…you gave her the food?”
“Oui.”
Just like he’d given her food then paid her an exorbitant amount for the bread she baked. She shifted and looked at the crates in the back of the wagon, filled with turnips, lettuce, flour and even a few green beans. “Will you give all of this away, too?”
“The next delivery is paid.”
“How…why…?” It didn’t make any sense. How did he earn money to live on if he gave away as much food as he sold?
He pulled back on the reins, letting the wagon roll to a stop as he stared at the street ahead. “My first wife, Corinne, starved to death and I could do nothing to stop it. Now I have food aplenty, so I attempt to keep others from that same fate.”
<
br /> His first wife had starved? Something hollow hit Brigitte in the chest. The overlarge man beside her might not be the most genteel person she’d ever met, but he’d loved his wife. Still loved her. She could see it in the soft sheen of his eyes whenever he spoke of Corinne, in the questions he asked about her and Henri and how she’d grieved her own husband’s death.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the muggy air between them, because really there was little else to say. She was sorry. So terribly sorry a strong man like Jean Paul had watched the woman he loved slowly die from lack of food.
“As am I.” He swallowed thickly. “But she’ll naught be hungry again eating at God’s table. It’s the people remaining in France that need the worrying.”
“Which is why you plied me with food when first we met.”
“Oui.” His voice sounded rough, like rock crushed together and then ground into gravel.
“Your generosity has mattered much to me and my family.” She leaned forward and touched her lips to his dark, stubble-roughened cheek. Not a romantic, passionate gesture, but a silent offer of comfort that lasted not a moment before she pulled back.
But the brevity of the touch didn’t stop warmth from traveling through her body, the humming feeling that shot from her lips to her head to her toes, or the desire to scoot a bit closer and lay her head on his shoulder.
*
Jean Paul stared at Brigitte, her lips entirely too close to his, while something soft and sweet spiraled through him. She’d kissed him. In the middle of the street. In broad daylight. And he must be going mad, because he wanted her to do it again. Or mayhap he could be the one to start the kiss, but this time he wouldn’t settle for a peck on the cheek. Oh, no, he wanted a taste of her lips.
He leaned forward, just a bit, only to have her jerk away.
“My, but it’s growing late.” She wrung her hands together and then fussed with something on her skirt. “I’ll have to hurry if I’m going to make my stops and be back in time to fix supper.”
“Sûrement.” He straightened and flicked the reins—a bit harder than he’d intended. Sylvie jerked her head up and lurched forward.
What was wrong with him? What kind of man spoke of his late wife one moment and then wanted to kiss a different woman the next? Shouldn’t he be dreaming of kissing Corinne?
Except Corinne wasn’t the one sitting beside him. She was dead, and had been for seven years.
But Brigitte Moreau? She was alive and well and utterly delightful. And at the moment, his thoughts had nothing to do with his late wife or hurrying on to his next delivery, and everything to do with stopping the wagon and pressing his lips to Brigitte’s.
Chapter Twelve
Brigitte stared at the set of four buildings ahead and the sign that clearly marked them. “The gendarmerie post? You deliver vegetables to the gendarmes?”
Jean Paul shifted beside her, his every muscle stiff. He’d not looked at her once since the kiss, though she knew not what she would have done if he had. Heat rushed her face anew. What had she been thinking to kiss him?
“Oui, this is the delivery that pays, remember? I’ve a need to make coin every now and then, so I can give livres to delivery boys and pay for my bread.”
She wiped her damp palms on her skirt and surveyed the buildings. ’Twas foolish to be nervous. She’d wanted to come here—or at least, she’d thought she had. But now that the post loomed closer, explaining why she’d missed two meetings to Alphonse’s gendarme hardly seemed an easy task.
But the man from the woods had already spotted her. He stood by the side of the road, his cold gray eyes riveted on the wagon.
The moisture leeched from her throat as they rolled to a stop, and she sucked in a deep breath. A little explanation was all she needed. Surely she could force the words out and stave off the man sending word to Alphonse.
Provided it wasn’t too late.
Jean Paul hopped down from the wagon and frowned at the guard. “Didn’t I tell you to make yourself scarce when next I came?”
The man smirked, his face defiant and arrogant. “Captain Monfort’s orders.”
“Then I’ll have a word with your captain.” Jean Paul started toward the largest of the four buildings.
“He got called into town. The chef wants to see you, though. Wasn’t too happy about the weevils he found in the flour you dropped off last week.”
Jean Paul stopped, the tips of his ears turning a dull red. “My flour doesn’t have weevils unless you put them there.”
The gendarme offered a lazy shrug. “Talk to the cook, then.”
Jean Paul changed directions and headed toward the smallest of the four buildings, his long strides quickly covering the ground.
Brigitte glanced from Jean Paul’s retreating body to the gendarme and back again. Well, she’d not have to worry about getting a word alone with the gendarme. Jean Paul seemed to think nothing of—
A strong hand wrapped around her ankle.
“Come down here.”
She licked her lips. “But Jean Paul told me to stay—”
“Jean Paul, is it? Not Citizen Belanger?” The grip around her ankle tightened. “Get down now, or I fear a terrible accident might happen and you’ll fall from the wagon. Wouldn’t it be distressing if you were to hit your head on a rock?”
“I’ll need you to release me, Citizen, if you expect me to move.”
The iron band surrounding her ankle dropped away, but she could hardly be thankful considering she’d be face to face with the henchman in another moment.
She slowly climbed down the side of the wagon. The second her feet touched the packed earth, both hands locked onto her shoulders.
“You skipped our meeting last night.”
She tried to shrink away, but his grip was like iron. She scanned the yard, but no other gendarmes appeared, and Jean Paul had yet to emerge from the kitchen.
“You think Citizen Belanger will save you?” the gendarme sneered. “He’ll be plenty occupied denying his flour had any weevils.”
The gendarme yanked her away from the wagon and toward the far side of the largest building, then thrust her against the wall. This side of the building edged a patch of dense woods and no one was likely to happen upon them.
“Where were you last night, and the week before that?” he demanded.
“I was ill the first week. I took a fever after our meeting. Ask Citizen Belanger if you don’t believe me.”
His eyes bored into hers, and he moved closer, placing his hands on the wall on either side of her. “And last night?”
She shrank back, but the action did little good. He’d trapped her against the hard stone. “I was detained.”
He lowered his head, his breath fanning hot against her cheek. “I ought to cart you and your whelps back to Dubois.”
She shoved at his chest, but he only leaned closer. So big. So large. So intimidating. “Jean Paul wanted to take the children fishing last night. If I’d have left to meet you instead of going to the creek, my absence would have caused questions. Do you want him to discover my mission?”
The gendarme shifted back a fraction. Not much, but enough for her to suck in a breath without sharing his air. He was listening, at least. And he hadn’t slapped her. Or dragged her into the woods to bind and gag her before carting her off to Alphonse.
“You need to move the meetings later,” she pressed. “After dark. It rushes the evening meal too much otherwise. Were I to run off immediately after we ate, Jean Paul would grow suspicious.”
“I care not for your excuses. Have you proof?”
“I was sick for—”
He grabbed her hair, wrenching her neck so hard to the side her muscles screamed in protest. “I asked not for excuses.”
“Jean Paul!” A frantic, feminine voice called from the yard. “Citizen Belanger?” Footsteps raced past the corner of the building. “Jean Paul!”
“Release me, or someone will notice I’m missing,” Brigi
tte gritted.
“Meet tomorrow night, a half hour after dark. And you’d better have proof. Because if you show up with nothing, I’ll return you to Calais.” And with that, the gendarme shoved her around the front of the building.
She pressed a hand to the throbbing ache on her skull and searched the yard. The girl from Citizen Arnaud’s house moved restlessly about, her cries for Jean Paul increasingly frantic.
“He went into the kitchen.” Brigitte pointed toward the smallest building. “Perhaps I can help. What troubles you?”
Annalise didn’t bother to answer, just ran toward the door.
She hastened over the uneven ground, still curiously absent of gendarmes. Perhaps they’d all been called into town or were out on patrol. She pulled open the kitchen door only to come up against Annalise dragging Jean Paul forward, her hand clasped tightly around his arm.
“It’s Gaston and that awful Widow Pagett. She’s saying he stole that livre you gave him and wants him thrown in jail.”
Jean Paul’s dark gaze landed on Brigitte. “Come quickly.” Tears glinted in Annalise’s eyes as Jean Paul ushered her to the wagon. The gendarme sauntered out from the door of the largest building while Jean Paul unloaded crates from the back of the wagon and stacked them in the yard.
“Gilles, you’ll have to carry these to the kitchen yourself. I must away.”
The gendarme scowled but didn’t argue, and within moments, Jean Paul was seated beside Annalise and turning the wagon toward the center of town.
“Merci, Jean Paul.” Annalise sagged against him.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“But you can help my brother, can you not?” Worry ignited in the girl’s eyes. “Gaston can’t go to prison. Maman has a hard enough time even with the money she makes from the mending and wash and Gaston working for Mr. Sveltner. If he were thrown—”
“I’m sure things can be set right.” He patted her hand absently, the way a father might his child’s.
Annalise blinked up at him then nudged closer. “I knew you’d be able to help.”
By the time the wagon turned down the main boulevard, people teemed on the hard-packed road, mothers with children and old men who probably spend their afternoons inside a tavern, merchants who had closed their shops due to the commotion and a handful of idle youth. All eyes riveted on the scene in front of a small store.