Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  Oh, why had she stayed? Why hadn’t she stopped her feelings? His?

  Michel released her only to snake his hands through her hair and bring her forehead to his chest. “What mean you? Isabelle, you want to be with me. You can’t kiss me that way and deny your feelings.”

  She jerked back so quickly his arms fell to his sides. The distance between them, not even a meter, ran cold and deep as a castle moat. Their social standings, their purposes, their goals, their dreams. Everything inside them warred with each other. Everything outside them ripped them apart. He said he loved her, maybe he did. But for how long? How long would he love her once he was away from his family, his land?

  He’d chafe in London without his wood or the subtle hills of the countryside. And what if something happened to him? What if he were caught helping her flee? What if their ship was attacked? What if—even worse—they reached England only to have some accident tear her away? Once he fled with her, Michel would never be able to return home, and if she was lost, he wouldn’t even have her love to comfort him. She pressed a hand to her temple. If she pulled him from his family now, she could never forgive herself.

  “Let me help you.” Michel reached out.

  She stepped farther back. Did he not see it? The distance, the space, the insurmountable odds? Did he think he could cover the gulf between them without being sucked down into the dark waters?

  “No. You can’t come with me.” Her chest rose and fell with the pressure building in her heart.

  Michel clenched his fists at his sides. His jaw hardened, and anger flashed in his eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Of all times to be stubborn, Isabelle. We haven’t time for it tonight. Do you think I want to leave? That I don’t have responsibilities here? I’m doing this for you.”

  “Yes. You are doing this for me. Not for yourself. You can’t leave. It’s too great a sacrifice.” Her voice rose and frustration swam in her blood. “You’d hate me for taking you away from it. Don’t you see? It’s like a different world here on your beloved little farm. But once we’re in England, do you think our differences will vanish? They will pull us apart. They will keep us apart. I’m French aristocracy. Aristocracy, Michel. Any hope we had of staying together shattered tonight when Jean Paul walked through that door.”

  He stretched his fingers and then reclenched them into hard, tight fists. She almost willed his anger to grow stronger. She could handle his fury, but she had no defense against his tenderness.

  “I love you.” He growled the words like a threat.

  “Then stop. I never asked you to love me.” The words came more forcefully than she intended, and with them the old wounds that separated her and Michel when she’d first come reopened.

  Pain etched his face.

  She longed to reach out, soothe him, apologize. But if she did, would he ever let her go?

  “You needed me to love you.” He spat the words, raked a hand through his hair and paced the ground before her.

  Isabelle forced her hands to stop shaking. Perchance she had needed him. But she couldn’t let herself need him now. If she broke the bond between them this night, he and his mother would be safe. She’d watched Jean Paul struggle with Michel earlier, and had seen the soldier’s efforts to incapacitate Michel without harming him. Jean Paul would never turn his brother in. And with a head start and the wagon, she could escape the cruel man.

  She looked at Michel with flat, emotionless eyes. “You deceived yourself, Michel. I didn’t need you. I never needed you.” Her heart cried out at the words, but she held his gaze.

  He whirled toward her and jabbed a finger at her chest. “You lie! You’d be dead in the woods were it not for me. You want to go by yourself? You have to be so independent?” He threw his hands up in the air. “I should let you go and refuse you when you come crawling back after your little adventure ends in chaos.”

  He stepped closer, and the angry lines in his face softened. “But I can’t.” He raised his face to the roof. “Father, help me. I’ll not let her go, not like this.”

  He lowered his gaze back to her, his face strangely calm as though he’d received some soundless answer from heaven. He brushed his knuckles down her cheek.

  The simple touch sent waves of longing through her. She swallowed noisily, as though it were her only defense against the love he offered. Why couldn’t the man stay angry? How was she to resist him when he treated her thus?

  “I love you too much to let you go this way.” His voice sounded like crushed gravel. “I won’t watch you run to your own death.” He released her, headed for the bags and lifted them. “I’ll at least take you to Saint-Valery and see you board the ship. Mayhap you’ll see the daftness of your decision by then.”

  “No!” The word came out too forcefully. Her mind scrambled for some way to convince him he must stay.

  “Isabelle. Love.” He dropped the packs at her feet, pulled her into his arms, lowered his head as if to kiss her again and paused when his lips were just a breath away from hers. “You needn’t fret. All shall be well.”

  She yanked away. “Don’t, you’ll only make this harder on yourself.”

  She backed up, picked up the ragged valise that held her belongings and headed to the wall where Michel had hung her cloak and hat. She had to get away. Now. For his own good.

  Despite the howling wind and raging thunder, a deathly silence descended in the little room. Keeping her back to him, she put on her outer raiment.

  Michel shifted between her and the door. “What are you doing?”

  “You wanted to leave, did you not?” She fumbled with the latch on the valise. Opening it, she first checked the pocket. Finding her money and citizenship papers there, she sifted through her clothes. Her fingers touched the coarse fabric of the bonnet Jeanette had remade for her.

  And the idea formed.

  She looked at him, standing tall and proud between her and the means to escape, watching her as his breath puffed little clouds into the air. I’m doing this for him. I have to protect him. Even if it means lying.

  “My bonnet, the one your mother gave me, I’m missing it. May I go back inside and fetch it before we away?”

  His brow wrinkled, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I cleaned everything out of your drawer. It must be in the valise.”

  She averted her eyes. “No, it’s not here. I’m certain of it. Perchance it fell out somewhere? I’ll be but a moment.” She slid by him and pulled on the latch to the door.

  A large hand closed over hers on the handle, another settled on her shoulder. “No. You’ll not go back inside. I won’t risk my brother waking. I’ll fetch your bonnet.”

  “Merci.” She raised her valise. “I’ll take this to the stable and wait for you in the wagon.”

  “Aye.” He threw on his cloak and hat, then held the door for her.

  She hastened into the storm and toward the stable. Throwing open the wide doors, she turned and searched the yard for Michel. A slash of lightning exploded across the sky, illuminating his silhouette at the door to the house. She rushed inside, hefted her bag and then herself into the wagon and flicked Sylvie’s reins. The aging beast whinnied and stomped her front hoof.

  Isabelle glanced through the doors at the raging gale and couldn’t blame Sylvie’s hesitation. “Come on, Sylvie. Posthaste.” She slapped the reins against the stubborn animal’s haunches. The horse sauntered to the entrance, then stopped.

  Panic clawed at Isabelle’s throat. Michel would return any moment. How to get Sylvie out and quick? She climbed out of the wagon and scurried to the sack of oats in the corner. Grabbing two handfuls, she ran back and offered them to Sylvie. The horse inhaled them.

  “Come on, girl. Just obey me, and I’ll be good to you. I promise.”

  She smoothed her hands over
the horse’s nose, then climbed into the wagon and flicked the reins hard. The bit of attention worked. Sylvie lurched out into the storm, automatically heading down the path to the road. Isabelle snapped the reins again, urging the beast forward. The cold rain soaked her, Sylvie and the wagon before they reached the road.

  As Sylvie turned onto the route, Isabelle glanced back at the cottage that had enfolded her in its love and safety, but in the darkness, she couldn’t make out its form.

  She bit her lip. A feeling of emptiness opened like a cavern inside her. She held back a sob and blinked, trying to staunch the tears, but another slipped down her cheek, then another and another. Helpless, she succumbed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Empty-handed, Michel stepped back into the rain. He pulled the brim of his hat down and trudged toward his workshop. Of all the frustrating things! The bonnet must be in Isabelle’s valise. It couldn’t be anywhere else. Her dresser drawer had been empty, and he’d checked the hooks by the door for the bonnet twice. She must have missed it when she looked through her belongings. Though he could hardly blame the frightened woman for wanting to take the bonnet with her. No harm done by looking for it, really. What were a few moments of time compared to Isabelle’s peace of mind?

  He opened the door to his workshop, picked up his bag and the sack of supplies and looked around one last time. He’d no intention of coming back. Once he and Isabelle were in Saint-Valery, she couldn’t prevent him from buying a ticket on the same vessel as she. Still…

  Though they needed to hurry, he inhaled the tangy scent of mixed woods, glanced at the workbench and walked over to run his hands over the scarred, aged wood. How much he’d learned at Père’s hand standing in this very spot.

  He went to the chest of drawers then, spread his fingers over the walnut and waited until the cool wood warmed under his touch. He’d never become the renowned furniture-maker he’d longed to be, but he enjoyed the hobby. France was changing. Mayhap the future of furniture-making would change with it. Until then, maybe Jean Paul could find a buyer for this piece.

  He’d look for work in a furniture-making shop in England. Though he’d no guarantee the English furniture-makers would be any friendlier toward his skills than the Parisians had been, he wouldn’t ignore this new chance to pursue his dream.

  A clap of thunder snapped him from his reverie. Here he was dawdling in his woodshed while Isabelle waited in the stable and Jean Paul slept just meters away. He strode to the lantern by the door, then paused. He couldn’t blow it out, as though canceling the flame would extinguish part of his soul. How could he cast his peaceful world of wood in darkness? Aye, he’d blown out the lantern thousands of times before. But he’d always been coming back to light it again. Not so this time. He sighed, letting his fingers slip from the lantern. It would burn out on its own.

  He opened the door and plunged back into the elements. In the wind, the open stable doors banged against the walls like a fierce drummer calling troops to battle. He stepped inside, his eyes straining in the darkness. “Isabelle?” He stopped cold.

  Gone. No lightning needed to illuminate the sky to reveal what he knew. A chill that had little to do with the temperature or weather crept up his back and wrapped around his heart.

  “No.” He whispered the word into the hushed building, willing Isabelle to appear from a dark corner of the stable with some excuse for why Sylvie had run off with the wagon. But nothing changed. The smells of straw and manure and rain mingled around him. The animals stayed bedded down in their stalls. The air surrounding him remained empty and stale.

  He trudged back outside and looked down the path that led to the road. No sign of Isabelle or the wagon. He ripped his hat from his head and clenched the brim.

  It couldn’t be.

  She wouldn’t have left.

  She loved him.

  Rain soaked his hair, but he hardly noticed. He dropped his head and stared at the mud beneath his feet, where the rain battered away Sylvie’s tracks and the wagon ruts, washing away the last traces of the woman he loved.

  The storm howled around him, but he heard nothing as loss grew inside him. His chest began to ache, an unbearable pressure building. He ran toward his beloved woodshed and burst inside.

  The lantern still burned brightly. The wood still rested along the back. His finished dresser sat in the middle of his workspace, awaiting whatever would become of it. And the table he’d started stood near the workbench, anticipating when his hands would again shape it. His soul had been stripped, but nothing had changed inside his haven.

  He gulped air, vainly trying to slow his breathing. He could go after Isabelle. She still couldn’t prevent him from following her to Saint-Valery. To England.

  But why chase a woman who didn’t want him?

  He let the bags drop to the floor and yanked off his cloak, throwing it over the unneeded packs. She could have left without deceiving him. Without lying and running away as if he was the enemy rather than Jean Paul.

  England. The word seared his mind. He nearly hoped she didn’t reach her destination. That insidious country had stood like a chasm between them since first they spoke. And now it ripped her away from him. What did England offer that he couldn’t?

  He hung his head and rubbed his hand across his brow. Her aunt. Rich men to make her a suitable husband. Her father’s money. Freedom to be herself, use her family name.

  Well, she could have her freedom. She obviously wouldn’t be free enough shackled to him.

  You deceived yourself, Michel. I didn’t need you. I never needed you. Her voice played back in his mind, taunting him. Had he misread the signs? The flush of her cheek when he touched her. The sigh in her breath when he kissed her. The time and effort she’d devoted to piecing back together Corinne’s pitcher and basin.

  She wouldn’t have gone through so much trouble unless she cared for him. Loved him. He stalked across the woodshed to the dresser, grappling for a fragment of rationality through the shards of bitterness pricking his mind.

  But as quickly as Isabelle appeared in his life, she walked out of it. That wasn’t love. He slammed his hand into the top of the dresser. Mayhap she’d never loved him. If she loved him even a fraction of the way he loved her, she wouldn’t have been able to leave.

  Didn’t she understand all he was willing to give up for her? Didn’t she realize he loved her enough to break his promise to his father? To leave the only source of income he had to keep her safe? Didn’t she care about the sacrifices he would have made for her?

  “What’s the point, God?” he shouted at the ceiling. “I trusted You. I loved her for You. And she left me.”

  He covered his face with his hands. And what was he going to do about Jean Paul? He’d drugged Jean Paul and set Isabelle free. His brother would likely never speak to him again, let alone trust him.

  For the first time in his life, Michel wanted to walk away. As Isabelle had. As Jean Paul had six years earlier. To walk out the door of his woodshed and into the storm and never, ever return.

  A familiar voice whispered in Michel’s head. Trust God. He works all out for good.

  He crushed the thought. God had gotten him into this mess and stranded him. He raised his fist toward the sky. “If it all works out for good, then give her back. How am I supposed to forget her? Am I to live the rest of my life knowing the woman I love is in the arms of some wealthy Englishman?”

  Chest heaving, he took a step back. The dresser he’d taken seven months to complete stood before him. Perfect. Refined. Beautiful.

  Like Isabelle.

  He rammed his fist into the side of his masterpiece. His knuckles screamed with the impact, but he didn’t dent the tough wood.

  He was done begging, both God and her. Why should he seek a woman who spurned him? He’d thought his love
for her would be enough to hold them together. It wasn’t.

  Sorrow filled his chest, but he ignored it. Riding his fury, he grabbed an ax from beside his workbench and heaved it into the top of the dresser. His arms sang with the reverberation, and a gash gaped large and deep in the once-perfect top. Red tinged his vision as he stared at the hole, and one swing suddenly wasn’t enough. He needed to ruin it all. Hadn’t Isabelle done as much to his heart?

  He swung the ax into the top again and then into the sides, hacking and hacking until his eyes blurred with tears and his arms ached. Until not a single finished section of wood remained and his masterpiece lay in splinters at his feet.

  His heart felt cold and hard in his chest when he turned and walked to toward the door. Broken fragments of wood cracked under his feet, the sound desolate to his ears. He stooped to pick up his cloak, and a single, carved acorn rested at his feet. Something inside shouted that he stomp on it, but he bent and picked it up, his fingers running over the smooth wood. Perfect. Without a scratch.

  He glanced back at the ruined dresser. How had the acorn survived the brutal attack? His fingers tightened into a fist around it as he slipped it into his pocket.

  A perfect remnant of what had once been.

  * * *

  “Come on, Sylvie. Come!” Isabelle pulled the reins until her boots slipped on the slick cobblestone of the bridge, but the stubborn beast wouldn’t move.

  The slow horse had taken her faithfully into Abbeville, but the moment they reached the ancient bridge spanning the Somme River, Sylvie had planted her hooves.

  The wind whined an eerie song, and the water rushed and foamed beneath them as though angry with the sky for daring to storm.