Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  “Don’t be looking so down, there, boy. The storm’ll pass. They always do.”

  Isabelle nodded and fled back into the rain. She fought her way down the street, past two more shops until the quaint buildings of town fell away and she stood before the massive structures undoubtedly used to store imports and exports.

  Lantern light flickered through a window on a little addition at the front of the second warehouse. She stepped away from a shop. A gust of wind buffeted her exhausted body, sending her sideways. She bent her head and raced forward, rain pelting the back of her neck.

  She shoved through the door and into the quiet warmth. A wiry man with graying hair sat behind a counter. He looked up at her, then gazed back down at the pamphlet he read. Ledgers lined the wall behind him, each meticulously labeled. Imports and exports of various goods: salt fish, timber, textiles, wine.

  “I need a ticket to Stockholm.” She opened her valise and reached into the inside pocket for her money.

  The man raised his dull blue eyes to her. “Nothing leaving for Stockholm till next week.”

  “But I need to go now.”

  “Have to be Copenhagen, then.”

  She slammed some money onto the counter. Did France always have to be warring with England? It was bad enough she had to sail to a neutral county before going to England, now she couldn’t even get to the country she wanted.

  “Very well, Copenhagen.” She couldn’t stay here for a week. Perchance she could catch a ship to England from Copenhagen. If not, she could go to Stockholm, then England. Provided she had money enough.

  The man blew out a breath, ruffling the tuft of hair hanging over his wide forehead. “Got two of ’em headed for Copenhagen as soon as the storm blows out. You want the one laden with wine or the one carrying textiles? Both got room for passengers.”

  “I care not, I just want a ticket.”

  “Aye. Come back after the storm, then.”

  “After the storm? What good will that do me? I want a ticket now.”

  The man sighed. “Nothing’s coming or going in this weather. The office is closed.”

  Her hand fisted around her money. “If the office is closed, why are you here?”

  The man shifted idly and turned back to his pamphlet. She raised her chin. She knew why he was here, so he could log his hours and get his pay from the government for sitting on a stool reading. She put her hand over the page.

  The man nudged the pamphlet away. “Get on with you now. Out.”

  “As soon as you give me a ticket and have someone row me to the vessel.”

  “Row you? In this weather?” The man smirked. “You’d be swept out to sea. And I’m not carting down the ledger and getting out the ink and quill to write you a ticket when I can do the same for you and a dozen others once the storm’s past. The boat won’t leave without you. Got a couple other passengers waiting for the textile vessel. And the crew’s not even aboard. Just a few sailors out there to keep the cargo during the storm.”

  The man’s eyes went back to the pamphlet, curse his lazy bones. She opened her mouth, a tongue-lashing waiting to pour out, but a sob caught in her throat instead. She could press the man further, but Jean Paul would come here and inquire at some point. Causing trouble for the clerk would only make her stand out, and might lead to Jean Paul figuring out her disguise.

  She took the money off the counter and stepped back. So close to freedom, and still it eluded her like a mirage. She hastened outside before tears came and then stood hopelessly in the rain. Where to go now? She gripped her money. How much would a ticket on a cargo ship even cost? And why hadn’t she asked? Had she money for an inn? She swiped a tear with the back of her hand. She didn’t even know where an inn was.

  The blur of a brown horse barreled down the street toward her. Her heart stopped as she caught a flash of red atop the rider’s head. She paused only long enough to see more shadowed horses and riders follow the first, then she ducked around the far side of the building.

  Not here. Not now. Please, Lord, don’t let it be Jean Paul. She peeked around the corner. The horses had slowed. One soldier had tied his horse and was pulling open the door to a building. The tavern she had entered? Please, no. But she couldn’t know for certain from so far away. Two more dismounted and walked along the street, pounding on doors, but the first rider in the blue coat headed straight for the warehouse.

  Her heart started an erratic, racing beat. Run. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  She searched the nearby warehouses and shore for somewhere to hide, but the flat walls of the buildings wouldn’t conceal her.

  Neigh.

  Isabelle jumped. The horse sounded nearly on top of her.

  Thump. The shipping office door slamming shut?

  She crept to the window and peered in, squinting to see through the murky, rain-smeared glass. Jean Paul strode straight to the clerk and spoke. The clerk said something and pointed to the door. Jean Paul said something more, and the clerk shook his head. Jean Paul whipped his hat off and smacked it against the counter. The clerk scowled and jabbed his finger toward the door. Jean Paul put his hat back on and hastened out.

  Sweat beaded along her forehead. Jean Paul hadn’t spent more than a minute inside. Surely he couldn’t figure out her disguise so quickly, could he? Hopefully he assumed she hadn’t made town. Gripping her valise, she hurried around the back of the building and plastered her back against the wall.

  Sealed barrels of salt fish sat outside, lining the shore several rows deep, probably waiting to be loaded once the sea calmed. A perfect hiding place. She scooted left, toward the opposite end of the building and closer to the barrels. When she reached the northwest corner, she stepped away from the wall.

  “Jean Paul!”

  Isabelle dropped her bag and froze, blood pumping in her ears.

  “Aye, Christophé.”

  Picking up her bag, she stepped back to the wall. She didn’t know how long she stood there, listening to the male voices grow more heated.

  “The other soldiers and I want our money.”

  “You have your share.”

  “Nay, man, we want more.”

  Isabelle looked left and then right. Nothing but the storm surrounded her. Should she move back to the other side of the building? She’d be farther from Jean Paul and whoever he spoke with, but also farther from the barrels. And someone could see her from the road.

  “There is no more. Everything’s been divided evenly.”

  “You lie.”

  “Get back to your horse. Have you found the girl yet? She’s probably escaping as we stand here!”

  A string of curses filtered through the rain. “I’ll not. Leader or no, you’ll not cheat us.”

  “I’ve not cheated you. I order you to your horse.”

  Pressure built in Isabelle’s chest. Why could she not already have boarded a vessel in peaceful water and sailed away? If Jean Paul and his men didn’t find her now, where would she hide to wait out the storm? And would he stay and search the passengers of ships departing after the storm?

  “I don’t accept orders from a cheat. I’ll give you one last chance to redeem yourself.”

  “There is nothing to redeem save your greed.”

  “Aye, we’ll see about that.”

  “I’m reporting your insolence to Le Bon. Go to your horse, straightway.”

  A gunshot pierced the air.

  Fear rippled through Isabelle, an icelike cold. She shrank back against the wall, her heart beating so hard someone could surely hear it through the din of the storm.

  She expected a shout, a scream. The sound of feet sloshing through mud and voices demanding an account of what transpired. Surely the clerk inside the office would have heard the gunfire.

/>   The wind howled. The thunder rumbled. The sea roared. But no human sounds rang out. Did she dare look? She swallowed. Of course she wouldn’t look. If anyone was still there, it would be someone who wanted her dead.

  But she could well imagine the murderer running for his horse, and no one discovering the dead body until the storm let up.

  Her throat tightened. What if Jean Paul had been shot? She had to know. She’d see whoever it was when she ran to the barrels, anyway.

  She inched toward the edge of the building. She could do this. Just a peek. It wouldn’t be Jean Paul. Surely not. Jean Paul was such a hothead he’d pull his own pistol first. Besides, wasn’t he in charge of the men he traveled with?

  And why did she even care whether it was Jean Paul? The man had ordered her beaten to death. But her mind conjured a heartbreaking image of Michel being told his only brother had been murdered.

  She took a deep breath and glanced around the side of the building.

  A soldier lay on the ground, the blood on his chest matching the shade of his liberty cap, his already pale skin a stark contrast against his blue National Guard coat. She swallowed and stepped closer, but she needn’t see his face. Just the size gave him away.

  Someone had shot Jean Paul, and no one but her was around to help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As though drawn by a force she couldn’t repel, Isabelle crept closer to Jean Paul, the mud squishing beneath her feet as she stepped. The blood staining his chest mixed with the rain and trickled to the ground beneath him.

  She covered her mouth and stared. Her stomach knotted and uncurled in a sickening sensation, and gooseflesh broke out over her arms.

  Should she call for help? Run somewhere and find a doctor? Or was it too late? What if he’d been shot in the heart? She moved to the body, her eyes roving his form for any sign as to where he might be injured, but through the blood, she couldn’t tell where the bullet had hit.

  A low groan resonated from Jean Paul’s throat. Isabelle jumped back, but not before his eyes lolled open. His gaze drifted to hers, as though he knew she was there, watching him die. She waited for the word help to roll from his mouth.

  Yet he didn’t speak. His mouth hardened into the same set line he’d displayed when he told Michel he’d tie her up and take her to Paris in the morning. Hatred still burned in his eyes, even through the sheen of pain.

  She hadn’t understood the vehemence in his stare when he first attacked her in the woods, but she understood the accusation now. You killed my wife. Now I’ll kill you.

  Her heart pumping, she pressed her hands to her ribs and took a step back, bumping into the wall of the warehouse behind her. Fresh fear burst like a devouring fire into her chest. She scanned the narrow, deserted alley between the two warehouses. Were the other soldiers near, waiting to carry her off to Paris and the guillotine?

  Jean Paul’s eyes drifted shut, and his chest barely rose and fell, his breathing growing shallower.

  A shout. A yell.

  Somewhere in the distance.

  Had she imagined it?

  Cold sweat beaded on her skin, and her breathing came in short gasps. She had to hide. Hopefully the murderer and other soldiers had left town, but if not… Grasping her valise, she ran to the barrels of salt fish.

  She tried to slip behind a barrel, but the containers were grouped so close together she couldn’t squeeze in. Setting her bag on the ground, she gripped one of the barrels in front with both hands and tried to pull it forward. The barrel lurched a bit, digging deeper into the wet sand as it moved.

  She looked back at Jean Paul, still lying in the mud. Surely someone would discover him soon. She had to hurry before the person also spotted her. Grunting, she heaved the barrel a hand-span or so away from the others. Just enough to squeeze her slender body and her bag between the aged wooden drums.

  She sank to the ground, rain slashing at her. She squished her hat farther onto her head and pulled the hood of her woolen cloak up over her hat. Through the blur of biting rain, she watched tiny drops bead and roll off the untreated wool of her cloak. Her hands felt like icicles. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her cloak around them, tucked her hands inside the thick folds and huddled into the warmth of the heavy fabric.

  Safe at last. Who would look for her here? Jean Paul’s men could search all the inns in town, and she was hiding in the middle of the storm. As long as no one came close enough to notice the slightly displaced container, she was safe.

  She peeked through the space between the tops of two barrels. Jean Paul still lay sprawled in the mud. Isabelle swallowed and ducked her head. Just because the man wanted her dead didn’t mean she needed to watch him bleed to death.

  She’d dwell on something else entirely. What would Jeanette be doing today? Mending, probably. Trousers? A hat? And Michel, he’d be in his workshop, likely sanding the table he’d started. She pressed her eyes shut and tried to conjure up an image of Michel smoothing the tabletop, but what if he wasn’t sanding? What if he was out searching for her or so upset with her he couldn’t bear to work? She shoved that thought away only to have the image of Jean Paul lying in the rain cling to her mind instead.

  Did God think she had a heart made of marble that she could watch the brother of the man she loved die? She took a deep breath. Jean Paul had probably killed dozens, maybe hundreds, of others. God was just giving him what he deserved. Besides, someone would surely discover him soon.

  She peeked back at Jean Paul, hoping to see a man standing over him, calling for help. But for the lone body on the wet earth, the alley between the warehouses lay deserted. She swallowed.

  God, please, I can’t watch him die. Send someone to aid him. Quickly. Even if he can’t be helped, at least send someone to find the body.

  She waited expectantly but no one came. She looked around as best she could through the little space between the barrels while seconds languished into minutes, and still, nobody appeared.

  It was just her and Jean Paul. No one came for her—and no one came for him. Though meters stretched between them, she felt as though she stood over him, watching the pool of blood slowly expand on his chest.

  * * *

  “You’re not hungry?”

  Michel stirred the squash soup in his wooden bowl and didn’t bother to look at Mère across the table. “Non.” How could he eat with Isabelle out there, alone in the storm while Jean Paul searched for her?

  “It’s your favorite. Just take a bite.”

  It had been Père’s favorite, never his. But Michel took a bite, anyway.

  “See, I knew you’d like it.”

  He sent her a halfhearted smile.

  Her brow wrinkled as she looked at the chair Isabelle usually occupied. “Wherever is Isabelle, I wonder? It’s not like her to miss a meal. Did you tell her supper was ready?”

  “She’s gone.” He could hardly get the words over his tongue. “She’s not coming back.”

  Mère’s eyes rounded in alarm, and he nearly sank his head. How many times must he tell his mother Isabelle wasn’t here and wouldn’t be returning? For just once, he wanted the old Mère back. The Mère who looked at him with understanding rather than confusion, who remembered he liked venison stew, not squash soup, who let him sit in the rocker and stare at the fire without interrupting his reverie with a hundred questions about Isabelle and Jean Paul. The Mère who—

  “We should pray for the dear girl, then.” Mère glanced toward the window. “How terrible to be out in this storm.”

  He felt it then, a sudden heaviness descending upon the room, pressing against his heart. His own heartache seemed to evaporate under the ominous weight.

  Isabelle. No. She’d been captured. How else to explain the darkness in his soul? He had to go to her. It m
attered not that she’d left him. Lied to him. He couldn’t sit back and eat and wait. Even if she wanted nothing to do with him, even if he was too late to help, even if she escaped and left for Stockholm without him, he needed to make sure she was safe, if not fight for her.

  He reached out and grasped both of Mère’s hands. “Yes, let’s pray. And when we’re done praying, I’ll take you to Narcise’s house. You’ll pass a night or two there. I’ve business to attend on the coast.”

  * * *

  Isabelle shrank back against the wet barrel but still couldn’t take her eyes from Jean Paul. What if God already sent someone to save him? What if God sent her?

  No, God. You can’t mean for me to save this man. Have someone else help him.

  Her body trembled with revulsion. But hadn’t God done the same for her, hadn’t God sent Michel to save her despite her role in Marie’s death?

  And how hard could it be to call for a doctor? That’s all she need do, just find a doctor and then hide until she could leave for Copenhagen. No one need ever know she helped.

  She gulped in a breath and stood on shaky legs. She clasped her valise and shimmied her way between the barrels. Once out, she moved swiftly toward Jean Paul.

  From a distance, Jean Paul’s face and hands appeared paler than before, though that hardly seemed possible. What if he was already dead? What if he had died while she waited for someone else to come? Her stomach churned as she broke into a run and sailed several steps past Jean Paul. Fisting her hands, she banged against the small window on the side of the shipping office. “Help! Help!”

  She dropped her valise, moved back to Jean Paul and hunkered down. His chest rose and fell slowly, but what had once been a little puddle of blood now drenched the entire side of his National Guard coat.

  “Jean Paul. Are you still awake?” She ran her hands over his face. “Open your eyes if you can hear me. Jean Paul.”

  No response.

  Wearing a thick, hooded cloak, the clerk appeared from around the front of the building and sauntered toward them.