Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband CampaignThe Preacher's Bride ClaimThe Soldier's SecretsWyoming Promises

by Regina Scott

  A half hour later, he and five soldiers entered the packed-dirt corridor. Dark and damp, the pulsating earth swallowed his thin lantern beam and coiled dank, heavy air around them. He wiped a skin of feathery cobweb from his face and crept silently through the long-forgotten passageway. Sconces on the walls held torches ready to be lit, but he left them untouched lest the faint scent of flame filter into the fortress and alert the smugglers.

  The castle had seemed near as they watched from the marsh, but the tunnel stretched endlessly before him, the trail of hard dirt seeming to lead him deeper and deeper into the earth instead of toward Dubois. Surely they’d passed the city of Calais and would soon reach—

  “Oofff!” He bit back the curse that sprang to his lips as he stumbled over a crumbling stone step. Supportive hands reached out to steady him. He righted himself and glanced at the men. The dim lantern revealed little of their faces, yet a quiet enthusiasm emanated from their tense forms, even that of the gendarme Gilles. Sour toward Jean Paul he might be, but even he couldn’t hide his pleasure at ending Dubois’s reign.

  “Not a sound once we ascend these steps.” He whispered the final warning then started upward.

  The wooden door loomed ahead, small and unassuming as Danielle had described. He hurried up the last of the stairs and reached out to clasp the rusted handle. The shuffles behind him stilled, and he sucked in a breath of foul air. ’Twould be no turning back once he lifted the handle. Whatever lay beyond this door, he’d have little chance to prepare. If he interrupted a meeting of Dubois’s men, he and the others were dead. If he found the hardened smuggler taking an afternoon nap, their job was easy.

  He turned back toward Captain Archambault, who stood between him and Gilles, then handed the lantern down the line of men.

  Somewhere inside these ancient walls was the woman he loved.

  Loved, but couldn’t have.

  Dear God, please let me be in time.

  With one quick dip of his head toward the captain and Gilles, he took his pistol in hand and raised the latch.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Empty.

  Jean Paul surveyed the massive stone bedchamber, devoid of any living body besides his and the captain’s. He slowly rose from his crouched position next to the tapestry, then nodded to Archambault on the other side of the wall hanging. The man swept back the thick fabric, signaling the other gendarmes to spill quietly into the castle.

  The room was large enough to hold a small army. A bed and various pieces of furniture were positioned near where they stood while a set of three steps led down to an open space below with table and chairs.

  Where would Bridgette be in this monstrosity of a fortress? Tucked neatly near Dubois’s chamber? Or locked away somewhere she’d never be able to escape?

  His chest rose and fell with quick, heavy breaths, and he narrowed his eyes, senses open to any subtle sign that might reveal her whereabouts. But ’twas only one way to find her: search.

  Calling up the image of the map Danielle had shown him outside, he pointed Captain Archambault and two of his men toward the large double doors along the far wall, the quickest way to get access to the front gates, according to Danielle.

  “Gilles, Hugues, this way.” He jerked his chin toward the smaller door near the bed. If Brigitte and the children were being kept in one of the bedchambers, then they should be down the corridor through this doorway.

  He gripped his pistol tighter and used his free hand to feel for the knife tucked in his waistband. He had another blade at the small of his back, and another still in his boot. A man never knew when a knife would prove useful, and he aimed to be prepared.

  “Make haste.” He led the men through the door into a dimly lit corridor. Crumbling rock littered the dust-strewn floor, and the only light came from a window at the far end of the tunnel-like walls.

  He eyed the ceiling, which looked to be flaking apart one stone chip at a time. Not the safest place in the castle to be standing.

  A child cried from somewhere down the corridor. He knew that cry, could recognize Victor’s ruckus anywhere. But from which room did the sound emanate?

  “How many times must I tell you?” A loud female voice answered the babe, bearing no resemblance to Brigitte’s soft cadence. “Stop crying. Now.”

  “He wants Maman. Not you.” Serge’s whine mixed with the ever-growing wails.

  Jean Paul stared at the wooden door two rooms down. No guard stood in the corridor, but then, a guard might well be stationed just inside the door. He motioned to his men and crept silently through the shadows. Fifteen steps, then ten and five until he stood at the door. Was it locked? He glanced down at his pistol. One shot would break the bolt…

  And alert the rest of the castle to his presence.

  He reached for the latch and pushed. The door swung easily inward, and he rushed inside—only to have a sword prick the tender skin just beneath his jaw.

  “Who are you?” a bearded man with aging skin and a weathered face barked.

  He’d chosen the right room. Victor hollered in the corner, where a woman frantically bounced him on a plump hip, and Serge had grown still, his eyes wide as he stared at him and Dubois’s guard. But Brigitte wasn’t here.

  A pistol cocked, and the smuggler’s dark eyes travelled over his shoulder.

  “Drop your sword, man,” Gilles growled from behind him. “Unless you’re wanting that pretty face blown off.”

  The gruff man’s lips thinned, but he stepped back, his sword clattering to the floor. “Ain’t no brats worth getting killed for.”

  Jean Paul picked up the sword. “He’ll have at least one pistol and a knife, possibly more. Search him well before you tie and gag him.”

  “We should kill him and be done with it,” Hugues said, his voice barely audible over the still-screaming Victor.

  ’Twas a time when he’d have killed the aging smuggler. But no more.

  “We’ll turn him over to the authorities.” Which were likely corrupt, or this man would have been imprisoned long ago. “Better yet, you can transport him back to Guînes and deal with him there.”

  “Jean Paul?” Serge whispered.

  He turned, and the boy ran forward to latch onto his legs. “I knew you’d come.”

  Victor seemed to disagree, as he wailed even louder.

  He grunted but reached down to tousle the older boy’s hair. “I could hardly leave you trapped here, now could I?”

  “Hush now.” The nurse hefted Victor over her shoulder and patted his back. “Help is here. Don’t make such a commotion.”

  “Give him to Jean Paul.” The boy beamed at him. “He can make Victor quiet.”

  A snicker sounded from where Hugues tied the smuggler’s arms.

  “Can you really calm a babe, Belanger?” Gilles sneered from his watch post at the door.

  “I think he ought to give us a little demonstration.”

  “Aye, Belanger, take up the babe.”

  The back of his neck burned hot, and he scowled before looking down at Serge. “Where’s your mother, boy? That’s who the babe needs to stop crying. Not me.”

  Though he could likely calm the child, he wouldn’t dare attempt it when he knew not what danger Brigitte faced.

  Serge’s smile plunged into a frown, and his eyes shot little daggers. “Grand-père won’t let us see her. He took her away when we got here, then brought her back, then took her again last night.”

  Jean Paul rounded on the smuggler lying trussed on the floor. “Where does he keep her?”

  The man spit.

  Jean Paul stalked forward. “I said, where’s the mother?”

  Hugues nudged the smuggler with his boot. “Speak up, man.”

  The smuggler’s eyes shifted around the room. He opened his mouth, closed, then opened it again. “Don’t know who you’re talking about. Got no woman here, save for the nurse.”

  “He’s lying!” Serge shouted, loud enough to alert half the castle of their presence.<
br />
  A commotion sounded from below and echoed up the stone walls, shouts of panic and the metallic clang of swords.

  Gilles stuck his head out the door and surveyed the corridor. “The others must be here.”

  Jean Paul squatted beside the gnarled man. “You hear that ruckus? That’s the sound of our men opening the gates and letting the rest of the gendarmes in. That’s the sound of Alphonse Dubois losing.”

  Or so he hoped, because he really had no way of knowing if the gate had been opened yet, or who was trouncing whom.

  He jerked the smuggler up by his shirt, their gazes colliding in a silent battle. “I’ll give you this one last chance. Tell us where she is.”

  Something in his eyes must have warned the smuggler to comply, because the other man swallowed then blurted, “She’s in the dungeon, she is.”

  “Dungeon?” Jean Paul dropped his hold, barely noticing the other man’s head falling hard against the ancient stone floor. How dare Dubois put Brigitte in such a place? “Where is it?”

  The smuggler gazed at him through pain-clouded eyes. “Follow the stairway at the end of the corridor down to the great hall. The entrance to the dungeon is in the south corner with a big iron door in front of it. Keeps the prisoners from escaping.”

  Alphonse Dubois was going to regret putting Brigitte in such a place.

  “Oui. Hasten to the mother, if you would.” The nurse bounced Victor on her hip, causing the babe’s wails to subside into a more sedate mewling. “Dubois brought me here to tend the babe this morn, but he won’t take no food from me nor from a spoon.”

  “I want Maman, too,” Serge added, his chin trembling.

  “And we’ll get her. I promise. You wait here with Citizen…?” Jean Paul looked toward the woman.

  “Renault,” she supplied.

  “Let me come, please!” Serge tugged on his shirt while shouts and clanging rang even louder from downstairs. “I can help find her.”

  “No, son.” He cupped the boy’s soft cheek. “You hear that noise from below? I can’t take you into that.”

  Tears glinted in the young child’s eyes. “You promise you’ll find Maman and bring her back?”

  “I promise on my life.”

  “Well, look at that, he can calm babes,” Gilles mocked.

  The tips of his ears heated anew. “Hugues, you stay and guard the children. Gilles, go make certain that front gate got opened. I’m heading to the dungeon. We’ve a fight to finish.”

  His boots clattered against the floor as he darted out the doorway, through the corridor and down the wide stone stairs. He hoped the voices and crashes were good sounds, hoped the other men had managed to open the front gates, hoped he ran toward his future rather than his death.

  Because he hadn’t told Serge the whole of it.

  If he failed, then those precious boys weren’t leaving this fortress, and neither was their mother.

  *

  Brigitte stared up at the cracked stone ceiling. Shouts and crashes echoed down the staircase and seeped in from beneath her door.

  Something was amiss, but amiss in a good way? Had the law finally decided to capture Alphonse? Or dare she hope Jean Paul had learned what had happened and followed her here from Abbeville? That maybe she had a second chance to tell him the truth behind her actions and beg for his forgiveness?

  Then again, maybe the ruckus wasn’t due to the law or Jean Paul but another band of smugglers, ones who felt Alphonse had wronged them in some way and now sought revenge—a revenge that would surely be shared by Alphonse’s closest kin.

  She swallowed tightly, a shiver working up her body. Meeting such a fate might well be worse than leaving for England tonight.

  The sounds outside her door grew louder, closer. Perhaps someone fought on the stairs. She pushed herself up and moved to the entrance. The guard stationed on the other side had likely gone up to join the fighting by now. She tugged on the thick wood separating her from the rest of the castle, but the door didn’t budge. Not that she expected it to be unlocked, but trying to escape hardly hurt anything.

  She glanced around the chamber. It remained empty save for the single blanket Alphonse had allowed her and the one cup of stale water. Nothing she could use to break the…

  Wait. There, in the farthest corner of the cell lay a little pile of rubble, likely crumbled from the wall above. She rushed forward and picked up the largest, most jagged piece of rock, then brought it back to the door. What better time to attempt escape than now?

  She pounded the stone into the wood. A scratch marred the heavy door, but the lock didn’t spring open. She set her jaw and gripped the rock tighter. Breaking the lock might take her half the day, but she had nothing better to occupy—

  “Brigitte, are you in there?”

  “Jean Paul?” Her heart thudded against her ribcage. Was it really him? Had he come? It seemed more a dream than a surety.

  “Stand back. ’Twill take a musket ball to break this lock.” His familiar, gruff voice rang through the door.

  It could be no other. She shifted farther down the wall and stared at the door, waiting, waiting…

  Boom! The unmistakable report of gunpowder and musket ball echoed inside the room, leaving a splintered hole in its wake. Then the massive wooden planks swung open, and Jean Paul’s broad, unmistakable form filled the doorway.

  He’d come. For her. All the way from Abbeville despite her betrayal. She threw herself into his embrace.

  Strong arms wrapped about her back, and she buried her face against his solid chest. The scents of hay and sun and Jean Paul wound around her, while tears streamed down her cheeks and sobs wracked her body. She shouldn’t feel his arms around her, shouldn’t be standing against him at this moment. He should be far away from here, readying himself for whatever attack Alphonse had planned against his home. And yet he’d come, anyway, this strong, brave man that had stolen into her heart and captured it.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his shirt. “How can you ever forgive me? I came to Abbeville only so that I could…so that I could…”

  “Hush now.” He coaxed her chin up with his large, gentle hand, then laid a finger across her lips. “I’m sorry, too, for not giving you a chance to explain when I followed you to that meeting. If I’d only been willing to listen—”

  “I love you.” She pushed his finger from her mouth and reached up to lay her hand on his cheek.

  His throat worked tightly up and down, and he searched her face through eyes that seemed almost moist. “I killed your husband, Brigitte. Your husband, and many others. I don’t deserve your love.”

  But he did. Didn’t the man understand? She’d made the same mistake as he, choosing to do wrong for reasons that seemed right at the time, and if he could forgive her, why could she not do the same for him? But rather than tarry and reason with him, she simply rose to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

  For one brief moment, an insanely wonderful instant, he drew her nearer. Ran his hand up her back to tangle in her hair, matched the fast pace of her frantic lips to his. She hadn’t time for a slow sweet kiss, nor had she interest in giving him one. Instead, she put every word she’d left unspoken, every thought of her love for him into that one frenzied meeting of mouths and breaths.

  Of hopes and dreams.

  And then he jerked her away, chest heaving as he set her back from him. “Brigitte, we can’t. Not now. Danielle is waiting, and the others—”

  “Danielle?” Her fingers fisted in his shirtsleeves. “She’s with you?”

  “Hiding in the marsh outside the castle walls. Now are you hurt, or can you run?”

  She couldn’t help the tremble that raced through her body. Hurt? She’d come frighteningly close to being killed. Gerard had stood in this very spot just hours earlier, a thick club in his hand and a sneer of anticipation on his face.

  “He hurt you.” Jean Paul’s jaw hardened into stone.

  “Non.”

  “Tell me, an
d I’ll make him pay.”

  “You came in time. He didn’t hurt me, not yet.”

  Jean Paul touched his hand to her cheek one final time, then turned toward the door. “Come. We must make haste.”

  He poked his head into the corridor, then reached for her hand. The steps from the dungeon were narrow and uneven, crumbling like the rest of the castle. He drew her close and led her up before stopping at the top of the stairs. Shouts and footsteps resonated from the other side of the door as he looked through the small window slatted with iron bars.

  “How did you ever find enough men to take on Alphonse?” she whispered.

  He didn’t bother to look at her but kept his eyes riveted on the events beyond the door. “I still have a bit of sway with the Convention in Paris, enough that I can rally men if needed. Now come, the men look to have things in hand.”

  He tugged on her arm and they stepped out into a massive room, likely a meeting place from centuries before, with its towering ceiling and arched windows. Men in gendarmerie uniforms grouped at the other end of the room, some conferring while others darted up staircases and into any number of the passageways leading from the great hall. But each carried a determined set to his jaw and an aura of importance and authority as he went about his business.

  “André, have we caught him?” Jean Paul barked at one of the men racing past.

  “Not yet. Archambault’s convinced he’s still inside, though.”

  Jean Paul merely grunted as he led her across the imposing room.

  In the far corner beyond where the gendarmes stood sat a group of men trussed hand and foot, some familiar and some she’d never seen, but each glaring violently at their captors.

  A pair of dark gray eyes met hers. She shivered and stared back at Gerard, his beefy muscles bound by such small ropes. What if he broke free?

  Jean Paul wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Give them no heed, love.”

  But she couldn’t help one more backward glance. They were missing the most notorious prisoner. “Are you keeping Alphonse somewhere else?”