Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (53 page)

Chapter Six

J
ean Paul scratched the back of his neck as he surveyed the main chamber of his house. Strange. He could have sworn he'd put Sylvie's blanket in the stable yesterday's eve, but the stable held no sign of it. The only other place it might be was inside the house. Yet no blanket lay in a haphazard pile on the table or hastily thrown over the rocking chair.

What had happened to it? A blanket didn't simply up and disappear.

Or did it?

Mayhap he was losing his mind. There'd been a missing chicken yesterday, an absent mug this morn at breakfast and now his mare's...

He looked around his cottage one more time. 'Twas more than a misplaced blanket or cup gone afoot. The entire house seemed wrong. The Bible lay at an odd angle on the mantle, the bench by the table was absent of dust, and the quilt on the rocker was folded a bit too neatly.

His heart quickened in his chest. Someone had been here. In his house. In his things.

He stood still, forcing his heart to slow and his blood to cease racing. Forcing the return of his old, familiar calm that had stayed him through all manner of horrors and deeds during the Terror.

He looked around a third time, assessing every centimeter of his house. Who had been here, and why?

Someone who knew of his past? Someone searching for him? Someone who wanted vengeance?

It couldn't be. He'd moved back home over a year ago, and no one had since found him. Why would a person come looking now?

Or perhaps someone had learned of his letters to the Convention every month, of the men he sometimes sheltered in his stable. A hiding royalist that had escaped the terror, or a spy for the English that had sniffed him out. Then again, the man he'd harbored last night could well have been a spy selling information to the English while only pretending to work for the French.

No, no, no. It couldn't be. His imagination was running amuck with strange and alarming possibilities while he missed the likeliest culprits: thieves. Or maybe a pair of deserters who had happened upon an empty house.

But while many things were slightly disturbed, nothing of worth was missing. A thief would have taken...

What? He kept little of value in the house, had learned long ago to hide the things he cherished. His gaze landed on the mantle above the hearth. His knife. That was gone.

He moved stealthily toward the bedchamber, footsteps soft, ears open for the slightest of sounds.

If an attacker had tarried, he'd likely be hidden in the bedchamber and would strike the moment Jean Paul opened the door. He glanced again at the empty spot where his knife usually rested, and his gut twisted. He reached for the kitchen knife hanging on a hook against the wall and held it at the ready.

He drew in a breath, then flung the bedchamber door open. It flew backward to bang against the wall.

Empty. The room held no one. But a person had been there. The dusty dirt floor bore fresh marks by all three of the unused beds, and the drawers of his dresser all fit perfectly into place. When was the last time he'd bothered to close the drawers properly?

A person had been here, and not some army deserter or thief looking for easy loot. A person had searched his house, and there could only be one reason for such actions:

Someone knew of his past.

* * *

Brigitte curled herself tighter against the wall and stared at the booted feet visible from beneath the bed. Did he know someone had been in his house, or was he merely retrieving something from the bedchamber?

She swallowed past a throat tight with fear. What if he sensed something amiss?

Would he hurt her if he found her? Take her to the magistrate for snooping about?

No, no. Surely not. This man had been kind to her, given her food and work, asked after her health. He wouldn't hurt her.

Unless the kindness was all a farce, some odd sort of disguise for his past deeds. If he was indeed the man who had killed Henri and he found her hiding here, perhaps he would kill her, too. Kill her and bury her on the farm, where no one would ever discover—

The dusty boots turned suddenly and strode out of the chamber. A moment later the outside door banged shut.

Brigitte clasped a hand over her heart and willed its frantic pace to slow, willed the roaring in her ears to stop and the dampness to leave her hands and forehead. She was safe.

Well, mostly safe. She still had to climb out the bedchamber window and escape through the garden without being noticed. And then she needed to meet Alphonse's man tonight and explain why she had no new evidence regarding Jean Paul Belanger.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the cool dirt floor. 'Twould be astonishing if her heart survived this assignment.

* * *

Brigitte turned her back against the setting sun and moved her leaden feet along the clover field, skirting the trees that lined the edge. Had she really argued with Citizen Belanger over the price of her bread and snuck into his house earlier that day? The events seemed so distant, they might have occurred a week ago.

Her weariness was growing worse. Her joints ached as she trudged through the green countryside. Sweat slicked her hands and beaded on her forehead, and her head pounded with each step she took.

Surely she felt ill because of the meeting and what lay ahead at the rendezvous location, not because she was getting sick. She couldn't get sick right now.

“
Bonjour,
Citizen,” a voice called from the field.

She stilled, her pulse thudding sluggishly against her throat. Had Alphonse's man already found her? No one was supposed to know she was here besides the person she needed to meet—whomever that was.

“Bonjour?”
she answered tentatively.

A man emerged from the midst of the cows grazing in the field, his clothing smeared with mud and hands crusted with dirt.

Or rather, his
hand
was crusted with dirt. He only had one. His other arm stopped somewhere beneath his elbow, leaving the remainder of his sleeve to hang free.

“Oh.” She took a step back. This couldn't be the man Alphonse had sent.

“I've yet to meet you, Citizen.” The man dipped his head at her, his young face tanned beneath the uncocked hat he wore. “I'm Pierre Dufort, one of Jean Paul Belanger's tenants.”

Well, that certainly explained his presence in the field. Her eyes slid to the gaping hole at the end of his shirtsleeve. How did a farmer work with only one hand?

“I lost it in the Batavian campaign.”

She jerked her eyes up to meet his and found herself staring once again into that terribly young face, a face not much older than Julien's or Laurent's.

'Twas almost worse than looking at the amputated arm.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stared. My name is Brigitte Moreau and I'm—” She licked her lips. How to describe why she was here near Abbeville, let alone cutting through a field? “Living in the area for a bit. I trust Citizen Belanger won't mind my travelling through his land?”

“Jean Paul's hardly the type to bother with a person crossing his field now and then.”

She only hoped he was right, but then, he hadn't been cowering under a bed in fear of Jean Paul Belanger eight hours earlier.

“And no need to apologize about staring. 'Tis hardly a secret.” He raised his arm, drawing attention to the incomplete limb. “I lost my hand. Everyone can see as much.”

But he was so young to face the rest of his days maimed. Had he a mother who sent him off to fight? A wife? Did he blame whoever had sent him into the army for the injury he'd suffered? She swallowed hard, then glanced away.

“
Adieu,
then. I must be...”

“I have two sons...”

The both spoke at the same time then fell silent.

“You were saying?” The subtle lines around Pierre's eyes creased with curiosity.

“In the navy.” She cleared her throat. “I have two sons in the navy.” She wasn't sure why she told him, save that he might understand something she couldn't. Might be able to name the aching sorrow that filled her chest every night as she lay down to sleep and longed for her oldest children. And if he couldn't name it, he'd assuredly felt it before. One would have to after losing an arm on the battlefield.

“Good seamen, are they? That's noble of you, now, sending your boys off to serve their country.”

But it didn't feel very noble, not at moments like this when she simply wanted them home. “I hope...” Her eyes drifted down to his empty sleeve again. “That is, I want...”

“Don't worry yourself.” Pierre smiled softly. “Your boys'll fare fine. Battle at sea's a mite different then battle on land. I've nary met a sailor who lost his arm.”

Yes. Battle at sea certainly was different, because if either Laurent's or Julien's frigate was captured, her boys wouldn't face the mere loss of a hand—they would be killed, thrown into a gaol or impressed onto a British warship. Was she mad for thinking the loss of an arm seemed the better consequence? What kind of mother sent her children into the navy at all?

The kind who wanted to help her country fight against its tyrannical neighbor.

The kind who wanted to keep them away from Alphonse Dubois.

“They're only fifteen.”

Pierre put his hand on her shoulder, a gentle touch like one Laurent or Julien might use to comfort her were they here in Abbeville. “Citizen Moreau, Brigitte, why don't you come home and sup with me and my wife tonight? Looks like you need a little cheer to lift your spirits.”

She looked up into Pierre's face, kindness and hospitality emanating from a young man who had every reason to be angry at life.

“That's a kind offer, but I must make haste. I've three younger children back at the house.” And she was already late for her rendezvous.

“Some other time, then. I've got a wee babe I like to show off, and my wife will be pleased to meet another woman. She and Citizen Fortier are the only two women on Jean Paul's land, you know.”

No. She didn't know and hadn't given much thought to who Citizen Belanger's tenants were, whether they were married or widowed, whether they had all their hands or feet or ears. Though Jean Paul had told her there were women around to work as laundresses, and most farmers had wives and children to help bear the work.

“
Au revoir,
for I hope we meet again, Citizen Moreau.” He gave her a little wave.

“Au revoir.”
She turned and took two steps away, then looked back. Pierre made his way along the edge of the field, his gaping sleeve hanging comfortably at his side.

“Did Citizen Belanger hire you after he learned of your arm?” The question exploded from her lips.

Pierre turned, a slow smile spreading across his face. “
Oui.
And I'd not have found work save for him. My father is the butcher, you see. There's little one can do around a butcher shop when missing a hand. But I'm not the only one he saved from such dire straits. Citizen Courtemanche limps, and Citizen Fortier lost her farm after her husband's death. Then there's Citizen...”

She held up a hand to stem his words. “I understand.”

And she did. Pierre could likely go on for a quarter hour listing Citizen Belanger's tenants and why each of them needed an extra bit of help. It certainly explained how he had three men waiting to become tenants in a country where all able-bodied men were off at war.

What murderer hired one-armed men, cripples and widows?

What murderer helped needy people with food?

She turned back toward the path that ran along the edge of the field. Maybe now she had evidence enough to give Alphonse's man.

Chapter Seven

J
ean Paul bent over the green-and-amber-tinted field and fingered the stalks of wheat. No orange or yellow stripes on the leaves, no powdery mildew coating the plant, no holes where aphids, worms or flies had chewed through the leaves. It was completely, utterly healthy.

Or it should be. But the stalks were only half the size of those in the field behind it. And the hulls growing on each plant considerably fewer than the number on the stalks in the neighboring field.

He shouldn't have planted wheat here again, not after he'd grown it last year. He'd known as much when he'd tilled the soil and plowed this spring. The field was due for barley, then turnips and clover. His father had started using that crop rotation a decade back, and it had served the little farm well. The soil seemed attached to growing plants in that order, though he could hardly explain why.

But France needed wheat, and squeezing an extra year of grain out of this field had seemed like a good idea. But now it looked as though the plot of land would yield only half as much as his two other wheat fields.

He raised his eyes to the heavens. Was it too much to ask for two straight seasons of wheat?

Mayhap if he spread manure on the field this wheat might begin to thrive. That certainly worked for his vegetable patch, and this parcel was nearly the same size. On the morrow, he'd scrounge up some manure from his tenants who kept animals. 'Twas worth the attempt, though he probably should have tried the manure before now if he expected to see much difference come harvest.

And as for this field, next year it would get barley. Then turnips. Then clover. At least until he could figure out why his crops insisted on growing only in that order. Maybe if he understood why, he'd then be able to coax two straight years of wheat from the ground.

He straightened and surveyed his land beneath the setting sun. Farming might be frustrating at times, when his crops refused to grow or developed blights, when weather harmed them or pests descended. But nothing else on earth could replace the joy of seeing a field planted in spring and harvested in fall. Of taking a parcel of dark soil and cultivating life from it. Of watching the day and night, sun and rain, move in an endless cycle that drew his crops from the ground.

He'd been daft for ever turning his back on the land and going to Paris.

Something bright flashed along the edge of the field, followed by a sudden flurry of movement. The unease from earlier that afternoon flooded back. First his house, now his field. Something was definitely amiss.

Crouching low, he moved stealthily toward the disturbance. Had the silvery flash been the sun glinting off a knife? His own blade he'd kept above the hearth? He reached down to grip the hilt of his garden knife. 'Twas too rusted and dull to do much damage, but he was taller and broader of chest than most. If he surprised his enemy, he might well win the match.

He slowed as he neared the edge of the field and peered through the gilded stalks. Something moved again, a glimpse of black and green and white. He paused and sucked in a breath to still his thudding heart.

Not a man. Not an enemy at all, but a girl.

Or at least he assumed the creature was a girl since the frame was too small to belong to a woman fully grown, and she wore a faded green dress and apron. But with her hair falling in wild tangles about her shoulders, and dirt streaking her face, one could hardly be certain.

She paused for a moment, standing with hands on her hips as she stared at the ground, then she raised a knife above her head and—

“Halt!” He sprang from the field.

The girl whirled, took one look at him then loosed a scream fit to warn all the province of her whereabouts.

“Don't come any closer,” she rasped, clutching the knife—his missing knife from above the hearth—to her chest in an awkward grip.

'Twas one thing to have the imp sneak into his cottage and steal his blade. 'Twas another entirely to see she knew not how to use it. “Has no one shown you how to wield a knife, child?”

Her gaze skittered down his body, stopping at his hand, which clutched his oversize garden knife.
Fool!
He'd forgotten about the thing. He slipped it back into the loop on his belt and raised his hands innocently. “I mean you no harm.”

Her knuckles remained white as chalk around the hilt of his blade. “Then turn yourself around and go back from where you came.”

“'Tis my property. Mayhap you should be the one hastening away.” Not that he intended to let her go without first accounting for herself.

“Fine, then. You stay, and I'll make haste.” She took a small step backward, then another, her movements revealing what her skirt had hidden when he'd first happened upon her.

One of his chickens lay half strangled at her feet. “Not so fast. I've a question or two first. Like how you got hold of my knife, and what you're doing on my land? Why you've taken one of my chickens, and how you intend to compensate for it?”

She glanced wildly around the woods then took another step back.

She was scared now. 'Twould be but a moment before—

She turned and ran.

He glanced at the twitching chicken still on the ground, then at the girl tearing through the woods. She must have realized the knife would do little to thwart a man three times her size—especially when she knew not how to hold the thing.

But she deserved credit enough for being brave. It took courage to spar with a man such as him, knife or no knife.

He hastened after her. She ran fast for one so small. At first, he'd have guessed her ten years of age, but she dashed around saplings and leaped over fallen branches too agilely for a child. She was likely a budding woman, one short of stature, but mature enough of body to run smartly through the brush and brambles.

He squinted into the gloom as he raced forward, darkness snaking its shadowy fingers through the woods. Were it not for the white apron strings trailing behind her, he'd have lost her when she darted into a thick stand of trees.

Then she turned to look back at him. A fatal mistake, that. Her foot caught on a gnarled root, and she sprawled forward, landing face down on the forest floor. She scrambled furiously to heave herself up. But not fast enough. He reached down and hauled her up by her shoulders.

“You're a quick one,” he rasped through the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

She crossed her arms over her slender chest and glared at him.

He nearly laughed—would have, had she not stolen two chickens, a blanket, a mug and his favorite knife over the past several days. “Who is your father, child? I've need to speak with him.”

“He's dead,” she spewed flatly.

Of course he was. What father would let his child traipse about the countryside stealing blankets and chickens and the like? “Your mother, then?”

“You should know. She brought you bread this morn.”

Jean Paul narrowed his eyes.
That
was her mother? The woman who had shown up at his doorstep for the past three days?

With hair so black it gleamed and eyes as blue and clear as ice, the girl didn't appear to be related. But there was something about her face, about the subtle curve of her cheek as it sloped into her jaw, the gentle cheekbones and straight little nose. She hadn't her mother's hair and eyes, but they shared the same face.

Why had the woman never mentioned she had a child? He'd have provided more soup and salt fish and...

The realization crashed through his head. 'Twas why the woman still seemed so thin and weak after the three meals he'd supplied. She was likely giving her food to the child and going without herself.

“Does your mother know you've been snooping about my house? That you've stolen my knife and chicken?”

The girl stared evenly back at him, her blue eyes firm with determination.

“I'm missing a horse blanket, as well. And I had another chicken disappear yesterday.” It was all starting to make sense now, the eerie feeling he'd had in his house earlier, the things that had disappeared from his property.

She remained sullenly silent, her chin jutting into the air.

“
Non.
I suppose if your mother knew what you were about, you'd not be here. Stand, child.” He jerked her up by her shoulder. “We're going to visit your home.”

* * *

“You're late,” a man's dark voice snarled.

Brigitte stepped around a tree and peered into the thickening shadows of the forest. Her blood pounded against her temples, and the trees blurred into a solid, hazy mass for a moment before righting themselves. “A tenant saw me headed here. I was detained.”

“I didn't ask for excuses.”

A chill trickled down her spine at the harsh edge to his voice, but she took another step forward.

“Have you proof?”

She whirled around, causing her head to spin. The voice that had seemed in front of her now came from behind, but shadows still shrouded the man, whomever he was. Sweat beaded on her forehead and slicked her palms, yet she straightened her shoulders. Strong, she was going to act strong, not like some frightened child. “Proof of what? Citizen Belanger is innocent.”

The man laughed, a cruel, taunting sound. “Citizen Belanger is innocent of nothing, and it's your job to prove thus.”

“
Non.
It's my job to prove the truth, and the man you speak of is innocent.”

A form emerged from the shadows, not as tall or thick of chest as Citizen Belanger, but then, few men were. The fading light filtered through the leafy trees above, barely illuminating his bicorn hat and...

She gasped as her eyes fell on his uniform, the crisp blue coat edged in red trim, the tan breeches and black boots. “You're a gendarme.”

His gray eyes gleamed hard in the darkness. “That I am.”

“But...” Her mouth opened and closed, then opened again. Alphonse had said she'd meet one of his men near Abbeville, but he'd not mentioned that the man worked for the military police. That the man would possess the power to throw her into prison with a single word.

“You didn't think your father-in-law employed merely seamen, did you?”

Her mouth stayed open, her jaw seemingly frozen in the undignified position. She'd never given much thought to who Alphonse employed or why. She'd only known he was too powerful for her to thwart.

The gendarme raised an eyebrow at her, sand-colored hair curling out from beneath his hat. “Service in the gendarmerie pays very little. I find your father-in-law to be a rather generous employer.”

“And Alphonse benefits from having a man in the gendarmerie,” she whispered. Yes, the benefits to both parties were far too clear. A man in the gendarmerie could see that certain shipments of wool, brandy and the like were overlooked while the smuggled goods traveled to and from the coast.

The gendarme smiled at her, a chilling half curve of lips. “
Oui,
you understand perfectly.”

She raised her chin—hopefully he didn't notice the way it trembled—and glared at the gendarme. “Jean Paul Belanger is innocent. I've done what I came to do. I demand I be compensated for my work and released. So if you'd kindly pay me, Citizen, I shall be on my way come morning.”

“Not before you offer proof of his innocence.”

Brigitte thrust her hand in the direction of the farm. “Look at his land. Need you proof beyond that? He feeds the hungry and lets land to widows and one-armed tenants. Since when do murderers feed babes?”

“Feeding babes isn't proof.” The gendarme gripped her upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh beneath her sleeve. “He was gone from Abbeville for six years, and no one knows what he did in his absence.”

“All the town knows that. He went to Paris and made furniture. I've been inside his house, and the furniture is beautiful, exquisite even. He could easily have made furniture in Paris.”

With one hand still holding her arm, the gendarme rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword. “Have you learned nothing in the days you've been here?”

Of course she'd learned something. That she was on some ridiculous fool's errand. That the man she'd been sent to spy on was kind and generous and not a murderer, regardless of when or why he'd been in Paris—if he'd even gone there in the first place and hadn't spent his years away from Abbeville in some other city.

“If you're so certain he's the man, why not...” She couldn't force the words past her tongue. The person they discussed had offered her food and work, after all. But why was Alphonse so hesitant to murder the man he suspected of killing his son? She swallowed and attempted the words again. “Why is Alphonse being so careful with Citizen Belanger when he's killed men before for simply being in his way?”

The gendarme's breath puffed hot against her cheek and the silver of his eyes seared into her. “If you've not yet determined that, then you're worse at this job than I suspected.”

Heat crept through her, whether from embarrassment over the gendarme's words or her own sick body, she couldn't tell. Her muscles ached, and her feet smarted inside her shoes. What she wouldn't give to be back at the cottage, lying on the old pallet and resting her tired body. “I am not ‘worse' at this job. I've gotten into his house. I've scoured every box and crate and corner, and I found nothing to suggest the man was ever in the military. Do you not think that proof of his innocence?”

“He was in Paris for the start of the
Révolution.
Then last year he returns with unfathomable money, buys up land surrounding his farm, hires tenants who can barely manage half a day's work, distributes food to the needy and goes about the countryside rescuing women.”

Rescuing women? She nodded her head as though she knew of what the gendarme spoke.

“Where did the money come from?” he pressed. “And why return to Abbeville just as the Terror leaves?”