Sanctuary for a Lady

And stilled.

A fairy-tale princess. She must be. Dark curls of hair fanned beneath her head and rippled like waves on a pond. Her creamy skin looked as though it had never seen a day under the sun. A curtain of dark eyelashes fell against her high cheekbones. But no deep red hue stained her lips. Instead, a deathlike white clung to their shapely form.

Still, her features seemed too perfect, too delicate, to be from his world. As if, like Sleeping Beauty or another tale from his school days, a kiss could breathe life back into her.

Michel smoothed a strand of hair away from her cheek. If only the world would be so simple that a kiss could save a woman’s life.

Instead of pressing his lips to hers, he covered her nose and mouth with his hand. A faint exhale of air tickled his skin.

Alive!

He touched her forehead and cheek, then ran his hands down her torso and legs as he searched for injuries. When he touched the left side of her rib cage, she inhaled sharply and groaned.

Michel sat back. The girl would require care: a place to rest, a doctor, medicine. He could bring her home, but he couldn’t provide her with much. Would it be enough?

Leaning forward, he bent his ear to her chest in search of a heartbeat. His ear bumped something hard beneath her dress. Frowning, he placed his fingers over the spot, and finding a chain, he fished the necklace out from beneath her fichu and chemise.

A heavy cross emerged from her neckline and fell into his palm. Silver vines curled around a gold cross and at its center sat a large square emerald. It was beautiful, a relic from times past, not like the jewelry sold every day in the market. And it was authentic. If the weight didn’t give its genuineness away, the mesmerizing gleam in the center stone did.

He dropped the cross irreverently.

The woman was no beggar. No traveler.

Perhaps she was a member of the bourgeoisie. The wife of a Parisian accountant or lawyer. That would explain the expensive adornment.

Michel stood. Then she wouldn’t be traveling alone, dressed in coarse wool and linen. She’d have a finer dress. Non. She could only be one thing: an aristocrat disguised as a peasant and seeking escape. She’d made a good attempt by getting within twenty kilometers of the shoreline. Most aristocrats had already fled the country or met the guillotine, but she apparently survived—until now.

He gritted his teeth. To think he’d felt sorry for the wench. It mattered not whence she came or how hard her journey. Her class had grown rich off his sweat and deprivation. Perhaps the fools in Paris set the price of his grain, but they hadn’t stolen from him the way the aristocrats had. They took half his crop in taxes and then taxed the money his crops brought in. They played games while he worked, frolicked while he plowed both his fields and their land. Then they banned him from hunting and fishing the woods for food while they did so for sport and left animal carcasses to rot in the sun.

Michel stepped back. He wouldn’t help her. He couldn’t.

He surveyed the trees for movement yet again. Was she a trap? Had roaming soldiers attacked her rather than thieves? Did they watch to see if anyone helped?

He took another step away. Judging by her skin’s temperature, she would die soon, and being unconscious, she would feel no pain. There would be no cruelty leaving her where she lay. He grabbed his fishing pole and turned toward the pond.

I was naked, and ye clothed me.

Michel halted as Father Albert’s words from a Sunday long past scalded his mind.

But the girl wasn’t naked. And he couldn’t help her, not even if he wanted to—which he didn’t. He’d be guillotined if he took her in and got caught.

He strode toward the pond. Besides, Father Albert had been talking about clothing the orphans in Paris, not the rich who had dressed in silks at his expense.

I was hungry, and you gave me meat.

Oui, and he wouldn’t have any sustenance for himself if he didn’t get to the pond and catch something. He quickened his pace.

I was thirsty, and you gave me drink.

Michel sighed and cursed himself for memorizing so much scripture. “She’s not asking for water,” he mumbled.

I was sick, and you visited me.

This counted as a visit, didn’t it? He’d bent down, touched her, contemplated helping her. And turned his back the second he realized she was an aristocrat.

Michel straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t feel guilty. She’d have done the same to him under the Ancien Régime.

If you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.

He stopped walking. “She’s not the least of these, Father. She’s the greatest. She’s lived her entire life off the backs of me and my kin.”

In prison, and you visited me.

“And prison’s exactly where she deserves to be.” He turned to take a final look at the girl. “Waiting for the guillotine.”

I was a stranger, and ye took me in.

He huffed a breath. He threw down his fishing pole and stormed back to the girl. Assuming he took her in, what would he do with her? Nurse her? She’d probably die regardless.

But what if she lived?

He couldn’t nurse her and hope she’d die. Cross-purposes, to be sure. He ran a hand through his hair and paced beside the body.

He wouldn’t be able to eat tonight if he left her. Or look at a church. Or wave at Father Albert in the market. Or pray tomorrow when he went fishing.

Sighing, he set his fishing pole down, bent and hefted the burden into his arms.

She weighed no more than a bale of hay, but he felt as though he carried his own cross to Golgotha.

* * *

Light, voices, shadows, whispers swirled around her, eluded her, like a dream she chased but couldn’t catch.

Grass, matted and thick, tickled her fingers, back and legs. Tall strands of it waved in the wind while dandelions turned their golden heads toward the sunlight. Overhead, two birds chased each other.

Isabelle looked up from the field she lay in and raised herself onto her elbows.

The Château de La Rouchecauld towered before her, its triangle of red brick walls kissing the brilliant sky as it had for seven centuries. No garish chars from a fire marred the windows. No broken furniture littered the ground. No grass and flowers lay trampled by the mob. No gate demolished by angry peasants.

She was home.

Someone touched her forehead. Mother?

“Oh, Ma Mère! It’s been so terrible. You should have seen…”

The hand pressed harder. Too large. Too rough. Not Mother.

Father, then.

“Mon Père, how did you escape the mob? I thought they…” The hand left her forehead. Cold! A frigid cloth replaced the warm touch.

She reached up to move the rag. Pain whipped through her hand and down her arm. She groaned and shifted her limb.

“Well, well,” said a deep voice. “She lives.” The cloth left her forehead.

Isabelle cracked one eye, but the blistering brightness of the room forced it shut again.

“Wake up, woman. I’ve a farm to run.”

Temples throbbing, she turned her head toward the impatient voice. “Who are you?” Her vocal cords, gritty from disuse, ground against each other.

“The man whose hospitality you’ve enjoyed while lying delirious with fever for these two weeks.”

Two weeks? She opened her eyes again, slowly fluttering her eyelids until the burning sensation stopped. The only light in the room spilled from two open slits in the bare wattle-and-daub wall. A man, dreadfully familiar, hulked over her.

His broad chest strained against the two buttons at the top of his undyed linen shirt. While the material gathered at the neck, shoulders and wrists would accompany much breadth of movement, it ill hid his wide shoulders and thick forearms. Light brown hair in desperate need of a trim fell against his forehead and curled around his neck. His chest tapered down into a lithe waist, with his lower body encased in brown woolen trousers. In one hand, he held a worn, uncocked hat by its brim.

It’s him. The soldier. The leader of the band that attacked me. The shoulders, the height, the massive arms were all painfully familiar.

She screamed, shrinking into the bed and clutching the quilt. Her bandaged arm shook with pain, but she cared not.

Why had he brought her here? Surely he wouldn’t make her endure another beating. She shut her eyes and heard the jeers, saw the men standing over her, felt their blunt boots connect with her lower back, her rib cage, her abdomen.

She should be dead. Oh, why wasn’t she dead? He was making sport of her.

“Calm yourself. I’ll not hurt you.”

At the sound of his indifferent voice, her breath caught. That certainly wasn’t familiar—his voice had been full of loathing in the woods. She opened her eyes and gulped, pulling the quilt up with her good hand until she could barely peek over it. The stranger shifted his weight and paced the small confines of the room.

“I don’t believe you.” She stared at him, measuring his movements, comparing him to the man who haunted her memory.

He tunneled a hand through his hair and set his wide-brimmed hat on his head. “It would better serve you to believe the man who brought you home, kept you warm and fed you.”

This man walked differently than the soldier, and his hair…was lighter, shorter. His stature smaller. She let out a relieved sigh. Oui, this man resembled the soldier from the woods, but was not the same person.

Hard lines and planes formed a face weathered by the elements, but not altogether uncomely. His straight nose and strong jaw made him appear rugged rather than harsh. The leader of the soldiers had a hardened look that this stranger did not possess.

“Had you no part in the attack?”

Annoyance flashed, but no malice. “I don’t rape women and beat them nearly to death, if that’s what you ask.”

“They didn’t rape me.” The words rushed out before she could check them. The man turned to face her fully. No scar curled around his eyebrow. Oui, he was innocent.

And he had nursed her for two weeks. ’Twas a long time to care for a stranger, although he couldn’t know she was of the House of La Rouchecauld.

She bit the side of her lip. He’d shown her kindness, and she blamed him for attacking her. Furthermore, she brought the threat of soldiers, arrest and the guillotine to his door. She’d naught have helped him were the situation reversed. “I’m sorry to accuse you falsely.”

His crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “You’re forgiven.”

His simple words washed over her, offering comfort and security. “Merci.”

Though he watched her intently, her eyes drifted shut. Oh, to go back to that place she found while sleeping, where she was home, her family still lived, food filled the table and death didn’t stalk her. But she wasn’t in Burgundy, where a mob killed her parents and little brother outside the gates of their home. She and Marie escaped only because they took a different route to England, parting ways with her parents at Versailles and heading north via their aunt’s estate near Arras. News of their parents’ deaths had taken months to reach them.

Then Marie died anyway.

Her fault. Isabelle clutched her throat. All her fault.

“Are you having another spell?”

She opened her eyes.

The man stood close now.

“Just leave me be.” The words fell quickly from her lips. He didn’t understand who she was, that his kindness would sentence him to death if soldiers discovered her. She snugged the quilt tighter around her and rolled away from him. Pain seared her ribs, and her breath caught. But she didn’t roll to her back or shift to ease the discomfort. Instead, she stared at the bare, uneven texture of the daub wall. Her family was gone now, even her sister. When she was running, she hadn’t time to think about Marie or the way she’d betrayed her sister.

But now she had time. Too much time. Why had she been the one to live and Marie the one to die? A tear slid down her cheek. Marie should still be alive, not her.

The peasant’s feet crunched against the floor, telling her he lingered in the room, likely watching her. She inhaled deeply as her eyes drifted shut. She hadn’t strength left to face him.

* * *

Michel stared at the beautiful woman lying in his brother’s bed and rubbed his hand over his chin. She hadn’t awakened long enough to get some broth or water in her. And now she lay still, drawn into a little ball as though defending herself against something he couldn’t see. He took a step closer, ran his eyes over her.

The quilt rose and fell ever so slightly along her side.

At least she breathed. At least she hadn’t curled up and died on him.

What’s your name? Where are you headed? Is someone expecting you? Questions warred inside him, but she wasn’t awake to ask.

He walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Her silver-and-emerald pendant lay atop her neatly folded clothes. He reached in and held the precious metal against his palm until the necklace heated with his touch.

If only the thieves had found and taken the pendant. If only he didn’t know about her heritage.

The woman sighed, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He dropped the necklace and waited for the words that were sure to come. Mumblings and shouts about someone named Marie and soldiers, a mob and parents.

And then the tears of delirium.

He turned toward the girl, but she didn’t move. Only sighed again. Mayhap the dreams were done haunting her now that she’d awoken for a bit. God, please keep the dreams from her. She may be an aristocrat, but she’d suffered through enough dreams during the past weeks to last the remainder of her life.

Leaving the girl, he went into the main chamber and found it empty. Mère must still be in the yard. He ladled some broth from the soup simmering over the fire and poured some water before going back to the girl and setting the tray on the bedside table.

The sturdy bed frame didn’t so much as creak as he sat beside her. She groaned but didn’t wake when he rolled her toward him and propped her head and shoulders against his arm.

Her body felt slight in his embrace, as though her bones would shatter if he squeezed too tight. Her eyelids rested peacefully, and she breathed deep and evenly, not with the erratic, shallow breaths that plagued her when he first brought her home.

Unable to resist, he wiped a tendril of silky black hair from her brow, then jerked backwards.

What was he doing holding her, smoothing away her hair? He laid the girl back on her pillow and raked a hand over his hair. He had managed to bring her back from death, and nurse her to health. But that was no reason to grow soft over the girl. It mattered not whether she was beautiful or helpless. She deserved a taste of the misery her kind had caused him and his family.

Didn’t she?

Oui, of course she did. Her ilk had been taxing and oppressing people like him for centuries.

The girl writhed on her bed. “Marie! Non, don’t take her. Take me instead. It’s my fault. My fault.”

The familiar words washed over him, then dissipated into silence. How many times had she cried something similar over the past weeks?

He stood and tightened his jaw. Whatever she dreamed, whatever she remembered, he had to get her well and on her way before anyone found her. But he couldn’t send her forth before she healed.

Not after how he found her in his woods. Not when God told him to take her.

But his obligation to restore her health didn’t explain his urge to run his fingers down the slender column of her bruised neck. To smooth away the fading green-and-black splotch on her cheek.

He stalked from the room, leaving her broth and water on the bedside table.

Better to let Mère feed her. He’d get himself into trouble if he stayed any longer.

Chapter Three

Isabelle’s life spun before her in traces and glimpses, impressions and feelings. Faster and faster the scenes swirled. She tried to latch on to the pleasant memories from before the Révolution arrived—to catch that last view of Christmas with her family, to relive the day Père gave her the pendant, to remember the walks she and Mère once took in the dandelion field.

Instead, she stood in the shade on a warm summer day, lush with the scent of wildflowers and earth. Sunlight filtered through the rustling oak leaves and bathed the world in its warmth.

“This is for the best, Isabelle.” Marie didn’t look up as she plunged the shovel into the earth beneath the tree. “If someone discovers us, the money will be hidden far from the cottage, and we can still escape to England.”

Isabelle bit her lip. England. Reaching that land seemed little more than a wish. Even as Tante Cordele awaited them in London, they lived in the broken, leaking groundskeeper’s cottage on their aunt’s ruined estate.

“Here, let me dig.” Isabelle reached for the shovel, clasping a palm over Marie’s dry, lye-scarred hands. “I wish you’d found different work.”

Marie shrugged off Isabelle’s hold. “I haven’t your hand for needlework. Besides, my job as a washerwoman is only for a time. Once we reach Tante Cordele, I’ll soak my hands in scented water for a month. They’ll be soft as new.”

Marie was right. They needed money. Now. After they’d earned enough for two passages to England, they could stop their backbreaking work.

Marie rested the shovel against the tree and reached for the box Isabelle held, but Isabelle clutched it to her chest. The simple wooden square held no resemblance to the elaborate ivory jewelry box she’d left at Versailles, but inside rested the few earnings they’d scraped together and the coins she had hidden on her person before they’d been stranded.

Laying their treasure in the cold ground seemed almost cruel, but she knelt and placed the box in its new home.

Marie crouched on the opposite side of the hole and grasped Isabelle’s hand. “Swear that if I am caught, you will take this money and flee.”

She jerked her hand away and shook her head. The idea didn’t bear thinking of. “Non. You won’t be caught. We will get to England together. We must. I won’t let the Révolution take you from me.”

“Anything could happen to me, to us. We’ve no guarantee of reaching England.”

“We’ve been hiding for nearly a year, and no one has discovered us. ’Tis guarantee enough.”

“We’ve no certainty of earning money for a second ship fare, no promise that we can evade the soldiers and mobs forever. If I am caught, I will be killed.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. They’d not spoken of this before—one of them dying. Her chest felt as though she were being held underwater, and no matter how hard she fought to draw breath, the substance that invaded her airways grew thick and deadly.

“Izzy, look at me.”

She brought her shaky gaze back to Marie’s.

“If I’m caught, you take the money and map, and you go. Without looking back, without thinking of me. You flee to England. One of us will survive. We must. Whatever happens, we won’t let the mobs destroy the last La Rouchecauld.”

She longed to tell Marie not to be daft, yearned to promise they’d both see England’s shores. But Marie’s eyes, dark and serious, kept her from speaking such things. “And if I am captured, you do the same.”

And there, beneath the shade of the oak, they sliced their thumbs and pressed them together in that ancient ritual of binding a promise.

“Can you hear me, girl? Are you awake?”

The deep voice filtered through Isabelle’s haze of dreams, reaching, clutching, tugging, until it pulled her up, into the bare room lit with day. She blinked at the farmer who towered over her.

Isabelle licked her lips, dry and parched as sunbaked dirt. “What…what do you want?” She barely recognized the rusted sound of her voice.

“To see if you would awaken.” Concern shimmered from his eyes—green eyes, the color of dandelion stems. “You’ve slept another three days. And when you started thrashing…”

Her eyes drifted closed. The farmer should have let her sleep. At least Marie still lived in her dreams.

Isabelle jerked her eyes back open. Marie. England. The promise. She had to get up. Had to find her way to the shore. She could die once she reached England, so long as she kept her oath to Marie. So long as the La Rouchecauld name didn’t die in the clutches of the Révolution.

The man bent low over her, the smells of earth and sun and animals radiating from him. “Can I do something to ease your pain?”

Isabelle propped herself up. Pain seared her ribs, but she nudged her pillow against the headboard until she reclined in a semisitting position. “You have been most kind to me, citoyen. Please, tell me where I am?”

“About a kilometer east of Abbeville.” The man measured his words, speaking slowly.

Abbeville. The name settled into her memory. Oui, the town she’d been approaching the night of her attack. She was just east of it—so close to the sea. “How far, then, to Saint-Valery?”

He shifted closer and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you ask?”

She swallowed. Was heading to a city on the sea too obvious? Did he know that, once there, she would board a ship? Since the British and French warred over the sea, she couldn’t go straight to London, but she could sail there via Sweden or Denmark, the only two neutral countries on the continent. “I’ve an aunt waiting to receive me.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. Tante Cordele still awaited her in London.

His gaze held hers. “An aunt. In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Convenient.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t believe me?” He knew everything. He must. Otherwise, he wouldn’t look at her thus.

“Why should I believe a stranger?”

“Because I… Why…it’s…” Her throat burned. Certainly, it had more to do with being thirsty than telling an untruth. But what else had she to say? He’d saved her life. He deserved the truth, if only the truth wouldn’t get her killed—and him as well. Surely she was protecting him by concealing the truth.

She forced a smile. “I beg you, sir. Simply give me the distance to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”

“Twenty kilometers.”

Hope surged through her. Only a day’s walk from Abbeville to the Channel. By this time tomorrow, she would be at the port. She gripped the quilt and looked at the man before her. “I am most grateful for your kindness, but I must away.”

“Aye, you must away. But you’ll not leave afore you’ve healed.”

Isabelle frowned. True, her head throbbed and her ribs pulsed with pain, but still… “I’m well enough to walk to Saint-Valery, thank you.”

“You’ve not tried standing, yet you can walk to Saint-Valery?”

“Of course.” She flung the bedcovers back with her bandaged hand. Pain sparked in her fingers and flashed up her arm. Jerking back, she gasped and stared at her wrapped forearm. She trailed her other hand up the wood of the splint that ran along her injured arm beneath the cloth. Surely something was amiss for her injury to smart like this after two weeks’ recovery. “This…it’s not healing properly. You must call the physician back. Who tended it?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m rather handy with setting bones.”

“You jest. You could no more set my arm than stitch the queen’s drapes.”

He leaned close, placing his hands against the bed frame on either side of her so she couldn’t move. His eyes bored into her, hard and controlled. “I remind you the queen’s been executed.”

Isabelle closed her eyes. The queen’s drapes? What was she saying? The blood in her head thrummed against her temples, but a headache didn’t excuse her carelessness. She’d kept her appearance as a peasant for five years, but if she didn’t mind her tongue, she’d give herself away before she left this wretched bed.