Marie. Her head snapped up, and her nails dug violently into the dirt beneath her fingers.
“Ah, that got your attention, now, didn’t it? Do you know what we did after we guillotined her? We—”
“No! I’ll kill you!” She launched off the floor and flew at him.
He caught her before she even reached him, his grip wrenching her bandaged arm. “Ahhh!” More tears sprang to her eyes.
“Let her go. You’re hurting her,” Michel growled from the side of the room.
“What? Is it broken from our first meeting?” Jean Paul’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he kept his hold steady.
Pain shot up her arm as his fingers dug in to the very spot still tender and swollen from the break. “Please, let go,” she whimpered.
But before Jean Paul could release her, Michel lunged from the side and punched Jean Paul in the jaw. Jean Paul’s head snapped back, and he flew backward before crashing onto her bed. The frame broke beneath his weight, and the beam that braced the bottom of her tick fell to the ground.
“That’s enough from both of you.” Michel stood there like an archangel, though he handled no sword, set apart from the two of them by something otherworldly. Isabelle held her breath. He’d just protected her from his brother. Maybe he still loved her. She waited for him to speak the words that would banish Jean Paul from the house and fix this mess. But the words didn’t come, and an unbearable silence drenched the room.
“It’s late, Jean Paul, and I’m weary.” Michel pressed his thumb and forefinger between his eyebrows. “Isabelle shall remain here tonight. You can take her in the morn.”
Take her? “Michel?” Isabelle clutched his forearm, but he refused to meet her eyes. He may as well drop the guillotine’s blade himself.
“In the morning? Hah! She’ll flee this very night. I’ll take her now.” Jean Paul clambered from the bed.
“I said tomorrow.” Michel jerked his arm away from Isabelle’s grip.
How could Michel betray her like this? He’d said he loved her. He’d asked her to stay. Did everything change because her father had been a duc? Or because she had deceived him? Staring blankly at the wall, she wrapped her arms around her chest and sank to the floor, too empty for even tears.
“Then I’ll tie her hands and feet so she can’t run.” Jean Paul’s voice echoed from somewhere above her, but she hardly made sense of the words through the hollowness filling her.
* * *
Without coat or hat, Michel stalked out of the house and into the storm. He barely felt the rain slice his skin or the water soak his hair. This very moment, his brother stood in the bedchamber with a rope, binding the hands and feet of the woman he loved. A thick, rough rope that Jean Paul would surely tie too tight, and that Isabelle would just as surely struggle against until the rope cut into her porcelain skin and drew blood.
Michel strode through the waterlogged earth and banged into his workshop. Standing in the darkness, he buried his face in his hands. “Father, what have I done? I love her. Don’t take her from me. I beg You.”
Since the moment he realized she was an aristocrat, he’d known she could be ripped away from him and killed. But how to stop it? He couldn’t send her to the guillotine. He clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to marry the woman, to spend his life with her.
It would have been better to be discovered by unnamed faces in the dark than his own brother. How did he choose between them? Brother or love?
He should have taken Isabelle to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme the moment she’d become coherent. Then she’d have been safe. But how could he have turned over a beautiful, injured woman like her to a crew of vile sailors? Instead, he’d woven a terrible web of deceit, saying Isabelle was Corinne’s cousin from Paris. Now he was trapped.
Oh, why must two of the people he loved most in the world be pitted against each other?
He closed his eyes, but the look on Isabelle’s face when he’d turned away from her flooded his mind. So devastated. So bleak. He’d pledged his love. She had trusted him.
The daughter of a duc.
Isabelle spoke of her family longingly enough. The Duc de La Rouchecauld had probably been a kind father. As a seigneur, he’d have taxed his peasants to oblivion, denied them use of his land and given them no say in the county’s governing. But the whole lot of aristocrats had behaved this way. The lifestyle had been learned from their fathers and their fathers before that. Until the Révolution, no peasants had stood up to them, or even asked them to change. Now the mobs of Paris and the guillotine’s blade had changed everything, leaving innocents like Isabelle in the path of terror.
Michel fell to his knees in the darkness.
With so much sin and death and hatred to sort through, how could he determine what was right? He hadn’t known about Jean Paul. Had he any inkling of Jean Paul’s actions these past years, Michel would have headed across the countryside to find his brother. His brother, who had heard the same Bible truths as he in Father Albert’s classroom. His brother, who had sat at the table and listened every night while Père read from the Good Book. His brother, who had been achingly in love with his wife and sick over her death.
Jean Paul seemed to have distorted Corinne’s death into some personal attack on him from the aristocracy. But how could the man go about the countryside thinking Corinne’s death justified taking another life? Corinne would sob if she knew. Hopefully she couldn’t look down from heaven and see her husband’s actions.
“Father.” He held back the weeping that burned in his chest. “You gave Isabelle to me, did You not? You showed her to me in the woods, You encouraged me to keep her when I thought to get rid of her, You taught me to love her when I wanted to loathe her. And for what? To have her ripped away from me? I love her too much to let her go. Don’t You understand? I love her too much.
“You promise to work everything out for good to those who love You. Well, I love You. Where’s the good in this? What do I do? How do I save her? Guide me, Father.”
The words of Psalm 82 seared through his fog of impending tears. How long will ye judge unjustly, and accept the persons of the wicked? Defend the poor and fatherless: do justice to the afflicted and needy. Deliver the poor and needy: rid them out of the hand of the wicked.
God was the ultimate judge. Not him, not Jean Paul, not anyone else in France.
He sucked in a breath so deep his lungs nearly burst.
He couldn’t allow his love to die at his brother’s hands. But how to stop his brother?
Michel stood. He knew what he must do. He would leave the farm. He would take Isabelle to England. Oui, she would be safe there.
And what about the farm? Mère? The promise he made to Père?
None of it mattered anymore. It couldn’t. Isabelle would die if he didn’t take care of her. And Jean Paul, who loved farming, could stay and see to Mère and the homestead. Surely God would understand why he left.
Snippets from his conversation with Father Albert rushed back to him.
You must think, examine. You question your need to help the girl, but don’t question why you tie yourself to a piece of land you hate. You’re wasting your life.
That farm will kill you if you let it.
God has placed great talent for woodworking in these hands, my son. That in itself is a responsibility you cannot ignore forever.
A heavenly comfort flooded him, and peace filled his spirit. He raised his face to heaven. “You’re taking the farm away from me. You’re giving me Isabelle instead.”
He knew it now, saw Father Albert’s prediction so clearly. God had given him the farm for a time, yes. But God had given him Isabelle now, and his hands—his woodworking tools. God had brought Jean Paul, who loved farming, home at the very time Isabelle needed to leave. He would take Isabelle t
o England. He would marry her, protect her, honor her.
But first, he had to deal with Jean Paul.
Chapter Sixteen
Isabelle woke in the dark, a suffocating fear in her throat. She tried to scream, but the gag Jean Paul had tied about her mouth muffled the sound. The silhouette of a large man loomed over the bed.
He tore the covers off her. She tried to flail, but her hands were tied so tightly, she only wrenched her arm. A hand slid beneath her knees, another behind her back. Her heart raced at his touch, and she sucked in a breath so quickly she choked.
So he wouldn’t wait until morning. He would take her now, against his word to Michel. He lifted her from the bed, moved silently through the room and carried her into the main chamber despite her struggles and moans.
His hot breath touched her ear, and a shiver raced down her spine. What would he do to her? He had leered at her in the woods. Trailed his black eyes up and down her body until she’d looked away in shame. He hadn’t let his soldiers use her then, but now he was in the privacy of his childhood home. Isabelle jerked her head away from his chest and let tears fill her eyes.
“Isabelle, calm yourself. I’ll not hurt you.”
Michel’s voice. Her unwanted tears crested. Michel. Jean Paul. It made little difference. One had claimed to love her and then abandoned her. The other would imprison her.
Michel carried her toward the dying fire and set her in Jeanette’s rocker. He took a knife from his pocket. With the haste of an executioner freeing a corpse from the restraints on a guillotine, he cut the ropes at her feet and arms but stopped before removing her gag.
“Be silent now. I gave Jean Paul something to make him sleep. But such brews aren’t precise in their effects, and he could still wake. Put on your cloak, boots and hat, and we’ll go out to my workshop.”
Her heart thudded warily against her chest. Go to his workshop for what? So he could cart her to the jail first and reap whatever reward was being offered?
He slid the knife against her cheek, the coolness from the blade seeping through her skin and chilling her heart. He cut the cloth that dug into her mouth. She obeyed his orders and covered herself silently while Michel put on his outer raiment.
Despite her warm new hat, cloak and boots, the intensity of the storm seized her. Thunder rumbled with such strength the earth shook beneath her feet. The rain that caused the flood several weeks ago looked like a spring shower compared to the storm that railed around her this night. The roaring wind tore at her hair with such ferocity she couldn’t keep her dark tresses from her face and needed to hold her hat, lest it blow away. Small raindrops pelted her, stinging her hands and face. And lightning slashed the sky, illuminating familiar landmarks in its eerie glow.
She put her head down against the wind and pressed close to Michel’s back. He held open the door to the workshop. She stepped into the dim lantern light and shivered, her eyes traveling around the room. No fire had been lit in the stove, but a boy’s hat, shirt and trousers—clearly patched by Jeanette for the orphanage—were draped over the chest of drawers. Two traveling bags and a sack sat on the floor beside it.
Michel lifted her hat and unfastened her cloak. “Come, we haven’t much time. You must dress.”
Eyes hot with anger, she whirled on him. “Why? So you can take me to the jail before Jean Paul wakes?”
Michel took her upper arms and looked at her with calm determination. “No, so I can help you escape.”
She tried to jerk away, but his grip only grew firmer.
“Help me escape?” She laughed bitterly. “You said Jean Paul could—”
“Shhh.” He touched his finger to her lips. “I care not who your father was. I love you, Isabelle.”
He still loved her? She froze, too afraid to believe his words. She looked into Michel’s eyes, into the warm, tender green she knew so well.
“I’ll never stop loving you.” Michel’s thick, low voice slid like balm over her soul.
Her heart softened, even as she clenched her hands in reluctance. He’d said Jean Paul could have her.
“I can’t stop loving you any more than I can stop the rain or the wind or the seasons,” Michel continued.
Her anger evaporating with each word he spoke, she pressed her eyes shut.
“God gave you to me to love. I forgot that for a moment tonight, when I learned about your father. But God showed me my folly.” He wiped a strand of hair away from her face. “Forgive me?” Moisture welled in his eyes.
His tears undid her. For all the tears she’d shed over the past two months, she’d never seen him near crying. “Oh, Michel.” She cupped his cheek with her hand. Was God working everything out despite what she’d done to Marie? Despite what she’d hidden from Michel? “I wanted to tell you about my parents. I meant to. I just…the words never came. It wasn’t you. It was me.”
His grip on her arms loosened, and his hands slid up to her shoulders. He pulled her forward and kissed her brow. “I love you.”
She swallowed. “I don’t deserve it.”
He hushed her with a brush of his lips against hers, then pointed to the dresser. “We haven’t the time now. We can discuss this later, after we’ve gone. Sylvie’s in the stable, already hitched to the wagon.” His gaze traveled to the clothing lying across the dresser. He spun her toward the raiment. “Change out of that nightdress.”
“Into boy’s clothes?”
“I’ll not have to worry about the sailors if you’re dressed like an urchin.” He turned to face the wall.
She looked at his back and then at the clothes. Her hands trembled as she took the garments. Surely there was nothing romantic about changing clothes in a fireless room while a man faced the wall. Yet her skin warmed against the chill as she quickly put on the garments.
“Are all these sacks for me?” She looked down at them. “I haven’t that many possessions, nor a way to carry so much.”
Michel came up behind her. “I’ll carry yours and the supplies. The last sack is mine.”
She stilled, too afraid to turn and look at him. Too afraid to hope for what he said. “You’re going? To Saint-Valery?”
“To England, love.”
Her heart quickened in her chest. Did he truly intend to come? To protect her? “Oh, Michel!” Grinning, she whirled toward him.
“I’ll marry you there.”
Her breath clogged in her throat, shock searing through her joy. “Marry me?” The words felt heavy in her mouth. “I must stay in England. I won’t be able to return here.” She’d dreamed of marrying him, yes, but every dream about their future had included his farm.
“It’s you I want, not this land.” He spoke heavily, not with the hope of a newly betrothed man. He didn’t reach to take her in his arms or even step nearer her. No embrace or kiss sealed their betrothal. Instead, he walked to the bags on the floor and ran his hand along the smooth top of the dresser, trailing a finger over the completed acorn and leaf carvings.
And she knew. He didn’t want to leave. Perchance he would come with her, but his heart would still be here.
Michel abruptly pulled away from his masterpiece, his eyes scanning the various pieces of wood at the back of his shed.
She could hardly breathe for the tightening in her chest. His farm. His furniture. His mother. Michel’s entire existence revolved around being here. He would leave this land that he loved for her. Not for himself. Not because he wanted to go with her, but because he gave himself no choice. He needed to leave everything behind in order to protect her.
She licked her dry lips. And what if the Terror caught her before she reached England? He’d be killed with her. Jean Paul already knew everything. If Michel left this way, would he ever be able to come back? The townsfolk would surely figure something
out if he up and disappeared with the girl from Paris.
“Non.” The word sounded foreign, as though someone else had uttered it. But Michel couldn’t leave. How could she ask him to? It was too great a risk. Too great a sacrifice. Her body went rigid with determination. “You love your mother, this land and this workshop every bit as much as you love me. You don’t belong in England. You must stay here.” The painful words singed her mouth.
He came toward her then. “Isabelle, you’re speaking foolishness. I’m going with you. I’ll marry you. I’ll protect you.”
The statement should have brought her comfort. Instead, she began to tremble. He hadn’t denied what she said. And she wouldn’t ask him to leave everything he loved except for her.
He touched her shoulder. “Quickly, now. We must away, posthaste.”
She shook her head. Too much worked against them. He would give up everything for her, and to what end? The guillotine’s blade? “I won’t let you come with me.” She could barely push the quiet words past her raw throat. The noise from the storm swallowed them the moment they reached the air.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t be frightened, love. We need each other. We’ll be fine in England.” He pulled her gently against him and slowly lowered his lips.
She should pull away. What would kissing accomplish now that she must leave him? But his lips on hers dissolved all other thoughts. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sank into the soft layers of the kiss. For a moment, they were suspended in eternity. There was no rain or wind or chill. No Révolution, no Terror. No peasant and aristocrat. Just the kiss and embrace of two people who loved each other. She could stay like this forever, wrapped in Michel’s arms, cocooned in his strength and protection, locked in his passion.
But as quickly as the moment came, it went. His arms couldn’t shut out the inevitable forever. His lips couldn’t make her forget their situation for more than an instant.
She pushed away, tears filling her eyes. “Michel, no. Don’t do this to yourself.” To me. The words ripped her open, left her empty and shaking. Had she known things would come to this, she never would have kissed him from the start, or reveled in his touch. She wouldn’t have smiled at him, made that wretched tray or packed a lunch to share that midday. If only she could undo everything, travel back in time two months and never speak a polite word to the man. Leave his house as soon as she could limp.
Sanctuary for a Lady Page 18
