Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (55 page)

Chapter Nine

J
ean Paul sucked in a deep breath as he stared at the cottage sitting innocently in the morning light.

He could go in.

The roof wouldn't fall down on him, the sky wouldn't crash around him and the world wouldn't end if he simply stepped through that door. He'd done it last night when he was too angry with Danielle to think about where he went. And he'd done it a second time when he'd carried Brigitte to her bed after she'd collapsed. Nothing unspeakable had happened either time.

So why did the thought of going in this morn make his skin crawl and sweat bead on the back of his neck?

The situation was too familiar. The last woman who'd lain sick in that cottage had died. Now another woman lay in the very spot where Corinne had—only this woman had three younglings and no husband.

What would he do with the children should she die?

He took one step toward the cottage, then another. It rested peacefully amid the trees and brambles, no screams or signs of distress emanating from within. Surely the children didn't need him. Danielle seemed competent enough to care for her mother—provided the girl didn't dart off to steal his chickens, that was.

He should turn around. He had fields to tend and tenants to see to, more food to deliver and a stop to make in town. No need to go inside. He'd come to check, and the children didn't require his help. In fact, Brigitte was probably up and around, her fever gone as she busily tended her family.

A shriek rang from inside. “Victor,
non!
”

Then a crash followed, accompanied by a babe's wail and more shouts.

Jean Paul covered the five remaining strides to the door and thrust it open. Chaos filled the little space before him. The dishes from the bottom shelf had all come crashing to the floor, and the babe sat in the middle of the mess, moisture quickly collecting in his eyes.

“I told you to watch him,” Danielle shouted at Serge, her hair a wild tangle of ebony-colored waves.

Serge sank down onto the floor beside his brother and slung his hands over his knees. “I thought he just wanted to stand up. How was I to know he would pull the dishes down?”

A groan sounded from the bed. Jean Paul turned toward the dim corner of the room and the very spot his wife had once occupied.

Ice, rather than blood, filtered through his veins.

“Look at that, Serge. You went and woke
Maman
up because you weren't watching Victor.” Danielle left off yelling and turned to Brigitte, plopping down on the mattress and stroking damp hair back from her mother's face.

“What's wrong with her?” Jean Paul croaked, then cursed the fear that saturated his voice.

All three sets of eyes turned to him.

“She has a fever.” Danielle laid her wrist against her mother's forehead.

“Does she need a physician?”

“Just rest. Which she doesn't seem to be getting with Serge and Victor around.”

Damp hair clung to Brigitte's porcelain face, and her brown eyes were closed and sunken into her head. She slept restlessly, her arm occasionally twitching and head jerking from side to side. He took a step forward, would have reached out and felt the hot skin of her face, but Danielle scowled at him.

“I said she's fine.”

His throat felt as though a liter of sand had been poured down it. “She hardly looks fine.”

He growled at himself. Of course she wasn't “fine.” The sick woman had nothing. Literally nothing. She slept with his horse blanket and the only food was a bit of pulse and the bread from last night—half a loaf of which had already been eaten. He was supposed to stop people from dying due to want of food, not watch it happen on his very property. “I'm going for the physician.”

“I said she'll be all right. Don't trouble yourself.”

“Is she oft ill?”

The girl's gaze fell to the floor. “Never.”

Something tugged on the bottom of his shirt, and he looked down to find the little boy, his eyes wide.

“Is she going to die like
Papa?
”

“Non.”
At least he hoped not. “I'll return with the physician.”

Danielle sprang to her feet. “But we can't afford—”

“Don't worry about what you can afford.” His words came out rough and hard, and Serge skittered back to his place beside the babe. “The important thing is that your mother grows well.”

He turned toward the door and yanked it open.

“Jean Paul! There you are.” Pierre wiped perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve as he headed up the path with Samuel. “When you weren't in the south field, I grew worried.”

Indeed, the man must have searched half the land before finding him tucked away back here.

Pierre stopped and craned his neck, trying to see into the house. “I didn't realize you were letting this place out.”

Neither had he, but until he figured out precisely what he was going to do with Brigitte Moreau and her children, he didn't want people nosing about. He took a step forward, which forced the other two men back, then closed the door behind him. “Well, what is it you want?”

“I've a question about the dam on the lower field. Then I found Samuel here stomping through the fields hollering for you.” Pierre nudged the small, wiry clerk from the mayor's office.

Samuel cleared his throat. “Mayor Narcise would like to see you this morn. Something about adding another widow to the food distribution. And then there's this letter.”

Jean Paul reached out and took the missive sealed with the mayor's insignia, likely about that wretched dinner he was supposed to attend tonight. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. Why did the entire town seem to need him when he could hardly manage affairs on his own farm?

* * *

A crash, a shout, a flash of color followed by the timbre of a whisper. Brigitte struggled through her hazy, dreamlike state. Her children were here and well, that much she could discern through the commotion. But she was far from well herself. Her body ached, and her mind moved sluggishly over the chaotic sounds. She struggled to open an eyelid, but her head throbbed with the sudden light.

“
Maman?
Are you awake?”

Slender hands, likely Danielle's, eased her up until she was half sitting. Then a mug touched her lips. She attempted to swallow, but her throat rebelled against the reflex and the cool stream of water slid down the side of her face and neck.

“Oh,
Maman,
please swallow. You'll never get better otherwise.”

She reached a hand out to touch her daughter, to soothe away the worry in the girl's voice. But her arm weighed like lead, and she could barely lift it off the tick before it thudded down.

“Fine,” she mumbled. She was fine. Danielle need not worry.

But her word must not have come out as she'd intended, because Danielle's hands were on her again, moving frantically over her body. “Don't fret. Everything's all settled. Citizen Belanger has gone for the physician, and Serge and Victor are playing in the corner. You fed Victor earlier. Do you remember? He wanted to eat and...”

No. She didn't remember, but if her little son could find nourishment from her body despite its sickened state, then so be it.

“We're going to have you up and about in no time. Please don't get any sicker. We need you here, with us.
Maman?
Can you hear me? We need you.”

Brigitte tried to move her hand again, but as before, her limb weighed too heavily. She moaned something in response, yet her attempt at comfort hardly placated Danielle. Instead, a soft, warm lump rested on her stomach and quiet sobs filtered to her ears.

She slid her hand slowly along the blanket, forcing her wretched arm to move though doing so drained her last bit of strength. Finally her fingers touched the dense tangles that could only be Danielle's hair. She stroked gently while her daughter cried.

This was wrong. All wrong. Danielle shouldn't be crying on her stomach. She was the one who should worry, not her daughter. She was the one who only had a week to please Alphonse and had now fallen sick.

God, please heal me,
she prayed against Danielle's sobs.
Please make me...
But her thoughts drifted into darkness before she finished the prayer.

* * *

For the second time that day, Jean Paul hastened through the twisting path that led to the cottage. He'd sent the physician on nearly an hour ago then stayed and listened to the mayor natter about everything from the cost of bread to another widow to supper later that night. The more he attempted to excuse himself from conversation, the more the mayor babbled.

He let himself into the somber cottage to find the physician bent over his patient while Danielle looked over the man's shoulder. The two boys played quietly in front of the cold hearth, the oldest using an array of spoons and forks as toy soldiers, and the youngest chewing on one such spoon—er, soldier.

“What's wrong with her?” He stepped nearer Brigitte, her skin so pale a part of him longed to lean down and hold his cheek over her nose and mouth to make certain she still breathed.

The physician pushed his spectacles higher on his face and scratched the balding spot at the back of his head. “Nothing that can't be fixed, Citizen, though I'm glad you sent for me. A fever this severe shouldn't be left untended.”

“You can save her?”

The physician nodded, and Jean Paul blew out a long, slow breath.

A faint smile whispered across Danielle's mouth, and she turned grateful eyes to Physician Trudeau.
“Merci.”

“I merely need a few instruments from my bag.” The older man pushed to his feet and moved his heavy girth to the table. “Citizen Belanger, would you please position the chair by the pallet, next to Citizen Moreau's arm.”

Position the...? Ah, he meant to bleed her. Jean Paul glanced at the deathly pale woman, then hefted the chair. Bleeding had done nothing to cure Corinne, but she'd been far gone by the time he'd found money to summon the physician. Perhaps letting a person's blood earlier in the illness would be of more aid. He set the chair down with a thud.

“Yes, very good.” Physician Trudeau closed his bag and lumbered back toward his patient.

“What are you doing with that knife and rope?” Danielle stared at the instruments in the physician's hand, her face as pale as her mother's.

Physician Trudeau furrowed scruffy gray eyebrows at her. “Move away from the patient, child. I need to treat her.”

“Treat her? With a knife and rope? How will those help her?” She threw herself onto the bed, positioning her body between the physician and her mother. Red stained the cheeks that had been pale just moments ago, and she turned her glare on him. “Is this how you mean to help my mother, Citizen Belanger? By letting some stranger tie her to a post and take a knife to her arm?”

Jean Paul opened his mouth, but no words came.

“Now see here, Jean Paul.” Anger mottled Physician Trudeau's face. “Remove this child, or I'll refuse to practice here and this woman's death will be on your hands.”

Another death on his hands? He swallowed. “Step aside, Danielle. The physician only means to help.”

“He means to use that knife on my mother.” Her voice grew high-pitched and panicked.

Serge dropped one of his fork-soldiers and came to his sister's side. “You're going to cut my
maman?
I thought you were a physician.”

Physician Trudeau drew up his flaccid chest. “It's called bloodletting, and it's an established medical practice. Now I'll not let a bunch of younglings tell me how best to treat my patients. Jean Paul, what's it to be? My services or the whims of these children?”

Serge flung himself forward, his fists clenching the front of Jean Paul's shirt so tight they'd likely never let go. “
Non!
Tell him
non.
Don't let him hurt
Maman!
”

Jean Paul glanced at the tick where Brigitte lay. He couldn't let the woman die. What would happen to her children? They'd already suffered enough loss with their father.

But if the physician let her blood and Brigitte passed, anyway, how would he explain that to her children? What children wouldn't be upset by the idea of cutting their sick mother? Danielle might be just a child, but in some ways, she was a woman already. This was a choice for Brigitte's family, not some stranger who had met them only yesterday.

“Thank you for your service, Physician Trudeau, but we're not going to let Brigitte's blood.”

The physician turned as quickly as his heavy form would allow and stalked to his bag. “Then don't come asking for my services on the morrow, or any day after that. When this woman lies dead in a cold grave, remember you were the one that killed her, not me.” He thrust the knife, rope and bowl back into his bag, clasped it shut and hastened to the door. The entire house shook as the solid wood slammed behind him.

“And good riddance. As though I would let some stranger cut my mother while she sleeps.” Danielle crossed her arms, her gaze still riveted on the shut door.

Serge tugged on Jean Paul's shirt again, his chin trembling. “B-but what if the man's right? What if we just killed
Maman?
”

“We didn't.” Danielle sounded so confident. So sure.

But what if she was wrong? What if the boy and physician were right and Brigitte lay in the earth a week hence? Jean Paul stared down at his hands, large and scarred and capable of so much harm. It seemed no matter what he did, how hard he tried to help, he could do naught but hurt people.

Chapter Ten

J
ean Paul trudged through the wooded path, no longer overgrown with weeds as it had been after half a week of use, but trampled and defined. His shoulders ached, his lower back throbbed, dirt caked his hands and sweat streaked the side of his face. What he wouldn't give for a quick dip in the stream, a hearty meal and a long night's rest.

Yet he couldn't force himself to go home without first checking on her.

The delirious fever had clung to Brigitte Moreau for the past three days. If it wasn't gone on the morrow, he'd start making arrangements for the children. Corinne's illness had tarried a month, but after the first week, she'd been gone from him in every way but body. He couldn't allow Brigitte's children to watch death slowly claim her. Bad enough that he'd have to see it, himself. The last time had robbed the very life from his soul.

Not that watching the woman currently in his little hut die would rob his life. He didn't know her, and hardly cared what happened.

Or rather, he shouldn't care.

So why did he tromp to the forgotten house every night to see if she improved? Because of the children? Because she had that same quiet determination that Corinne had once possessed? Because she'd come to him tired and hungry, and he hadn't met her needs?

Sickness plagued the countryside constantly, and with the Terror last year plus the wars France fought against Britain and Austria, Prussia, Italy and Spain, the loss of one more life should hardly matter.

At least that's what he told himself. Now if only he could get his heart to believe it.

He stopped in front of the cottage and knocked on the door. A child wailed from inside, followed by the sound of Danielle's sharp tongue.

He let himself in and surveyed the commotion with a single glance. The raspberries and salt pork he'd brought the children yesterday's eve were scattered across the floor, the babe happily sticking the dirt-laden berries into his mouth. Meanwhile Serge cowered in a corner and Danielle stood above him, hands on hips, and a torrent of words pouring from her mouth.

“Why can you never do as I request? Don't you want
Maman
to get better? If she's ever to improve, we need—”

“Halt,” Jean Paul barked.

“Merci.”
A quiet voice whispered from the corner.

A fragile hope kindled in his chest, like warm embers buried under layers of ash. He turned to find Brigitte sitting propped against the bed's headboard, her hair a drenched mess of dark auburn and her brown eyes a touch too bright with fever.

But she was awake.

“I'm sorry you got woken,
Maman.
” Danielle hurried to her mother's side. “It's Serge's fault. I told him to watch Victor...”

Brigitte held up a slim hand to stop the rush of words, but her daughter paid no heed.

“Serge was playing instead and...”

“Stop talking, Danielle.” Could the girl not see how her mother moved her hand to her temple and rubbed under the endless chatter?

Danielle's words ceased for a moment, then started up again. “Am I upsetting you? Because it should be Serge who—”

“I said enough.” He stopped his teeth from grinding together. Barely. Brigitte's eyes fluttered closed, and a faint wince appeared across her forehead. The woman needed calm and quiet if she was going to regain her strength—not something she was likely to have with three younglings about. “Danielle, take the children out of doors.”

“But supper—”

“Listen to Citizen Belanger,” Brigitte rasped, her voice far too quiet for the way her chest heaved as she spoke.

Jean Paul scooped the babe off the floor and plopped him into Danielle's arms. “I'll see to supper later.”

Danielle's eyes darted between him and Brigitte. “Why do you want us to leave? So you can interrogate her?”

Jean Paul ran his eyes over Brigitte's slender frame, her white skin, tangled hair and moist forehead. Interrogate her? He wanted merely to touch her. To make certain with his own hands that her condition had improved, that she wouldn't be buried in a grave beside Corinne a week hence.

“Obey,” Brigitte commanded before sinking back onto the tick, her eyes closed.

Danielle sent him a dark look, then propped the babe on her hip and stalked through the door in a swish of skirts while Serge scrambled after her.

He closed the door and moved to the bed. “You're better.”

She peeked a weary eyelid open. “The fever broke this morn, or so Danielle tells me.”

He crouched beside her and pressed a hand to her cheek. Still warm, but the raging heat that had emanated from her skin when he'd brushed her face last night was gone.
Thank You, Father.
He'd been so certain Physician Trudeau had been right, that he'd have yet another death on his hands.

But it seemed as though Brigitte would recover.

* * *

Brigitte smiled at the man hunched beside her, or tried to. Her face felt too tired to work properly. Citizen Belanger still looked a touch terrifying, with his black hair and dark eyes and the odd scar that bunched around his eyebrow. But there was nothing terrifying in his bent position, or in the way his eyes brimmed with concern as they ran over her.

Hadn't Danielle told her as much? Her daughter had said something about Citizen Belanger acting more concerned than angry. Or at least she thought that's what Danielle had said, but she could hardly be certain of anything after enduring such a fever.

“I see you found where the children and I were staying.” Her vocal cords, stiff from disuse, grated against each other as she spoke. “I thought it might be your property. I'd hoped not, but still I wondered.”

He scowled. “You should have told me about the children, about where you were living.”

She shrugged slightly and attempted to shift farther up on the pallet before falling back again, exhausted. Her fever may have broken, but her strength had yet to return. And the tiredness that had plagued her before her illness still clung to every pore of her body.

“Let me help.” Strong arms braced her back, and Citizen Belanger's powerful body lifted her higher in the bed. Then he eased the two flimsy pillows behind her back.

“Merci.”

His face hovered a mere breath away from hers. This close, his eyes were no longer hard and dark, but that deep, warm shade of soil after a good rain.

He stayed in his position a moment longer than he ought, one arm still wrapped about her shoulders, his body leaning over hers. His gaze flitted across her face, settling on her lips for the briefest of instants.

Something inside her turned warm and soft, and then a wave of ice swept through her. What was she doing, lying here so close to the man she should be spying on? Staring into his eyes instead of wheedling some information about his past? She shifted away and cleared her throat. “I asked you for a post. Have you changed your mind?”

He leaned back, his gaze no longer resting on her dry, cracked lips. “I would have changed my mind long ago, had I known you had three children with whom you shared my food, or that you hadn't money for the inn.”

She looked away. “My children were hardly your concern.”

And she hadn't known whether she could trust him.

Yet he'd found where they lived and hadn't kicked them out. From the mess of salt pork and raspberries on the floor, she could surmise he continued to feed them. And he was here with her now, was he not? Touching her face and asking how she fared, concern radiating from his gargantuan form. She might know little of his past, but he'd cared for her and her children rather than cast them out.

“A family living on my land is my concern. A family starving when I have food aplenty is my concern. A family—”

She held up her hand. “We were hardly starving. I have three children in my care, Citizen. I'm careful with whom I trust.”

He lurched back as if slapped, though she'd hardly the energy to lift her hand and attempt such a thing.

“'Tis nothing against you.” Though having Alphonse suspect him of killing Henri surely didn't help matters. “I'm careful of everyone.”

“I understand,” he growled, his face an unreadable mask of dark features and angry lines.

“Do you? Have you any children of your own?”

“I had a wife once...we shared this very cottage. 'Twas why my family built it, for Corinne and I, but she died before she bore any babes.” His chest rose and fell with suddenly heavy breathing, and his eyes shifted away from her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. And she was. “I meant not to upset you.”

“I'm not upset.” Iron crusted his words.

She merely reached out and rested her hand atop his. A muscle in his jaw methodically twitched back and forth, but after another moment, he sighed and turned his own work-roughened hand over to squeeze hers.

“I lost my husband a year past. 'Tis a hardship I'd never wish on another.”

“Do you still love him? Even though he's dead, do you still think of him as though he's here...? Wish for him at odd times, like when you're working in the fields or lying down at night?”

Brigitte swallowed and glanced down at her hands. 'Twould almost be easier to spout a falsehood and bring the man a bit of comfort by sharing the sorrow he still obviously felt. But she couldn't lie, not about something as sacred as the love between a husband and wife. “I don't think it's wrong if you still love your wife. But Henri and I...we weren't like that. I stopped loving him years ago, if I ever loved him at all. The man had a golden tongue, but after we married, he didn't treat me well.”

“You have three children to care for by yourself. Do you not miss him for that?”

She raised one side of her lips up into a half smile. “Five children. I've two twin boys in the navy.”

He sank back onto his knees, his gaze traveling slowly over her face. “I'd not have guessed you old enough to have sons in the navy.”

“I was young when I married Henri, and the twins followed soon after.” Heat stained her cheeks and she cleared her throat. “Quite soon after.”

“You're blessed to have the children. You can't understand how many times I've wished that Corinne, before she died...” His voice trailed off and he swallowed tightly.

“I'm sorry she died so young.”

He gave a slight nod but his eyes turned dark and distant, as though imagining another time, a happier time. A time when dreams still existed.

She nestled farther back against the pillows and yawned. The weariness was creeping back. Another few minutes, and she'd not have the strength to remember his words. “Speaking of children, you seem to have done an admirable job caring for mine. Thank you. I trust they are well?”

“As well as can be expected, if you don't mind shouting voices and broken dishes and...” He glanced at the mess of food in front of the hearth. “Spilled food. I've put Danielle to work baking bread in your stead.”

“Danielle? Housework?”

“She gave me that very look.” He reached down and trailed a thumb over the wrinkles in her forehead.

She found herself moving toward him, the heat of his skin, the silent strength of his body. “She hates housework.”

Was she a fool for taking pleasure in the moment? Here she was, lying abed, her hair and clothing damp with sweat, her body reeking of sickness, and all she wanted was to roll closer to the man. To take comfort in the feel of strong arms around her and another heart beating beside hers.

“Danielle's, ah, growing more accustomed to the work,” he whispered. “She tends the children well enough, if you don't mind the shouting. Her bread might not taste like yours, but it's better than mine. And she doesn't argue when I pay her two
livres.
”

Her eyes drifted half closed. “Two
livres
for a loaf of bread in which you supply the ingredients. Foolish child.”

“I think her rather smart.”

Brigitte would have smiled, but a bout of shivers overtook her, and she burrowed deeper beneath the blanket.

“Are you cold? 'Tis summer and the air hot.”

“The fever still hasn't left, though it fades. Perchance I'll awake well on the morrow.”

“Let me help.” He leaned over and tucked the blanket around her, so tightly she had little hope of freeing her hands.

“Warmer?” Softness laced his usually gruff voice.

She nodded and huddled into a ball beneath the covers.

“Have you another blanket?” He looked around the bare cottage.

“Non.”
She yawned, her eyelids drifting farther closed. “Danielle found this one somewhere. We brought none with us.”

“It's my mare's.”

She forced her eyes open at that. “Your what?”

He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, a wry twist to his lips. “Hush now. You need sleep.”

“But Danielle said she found this blanket.”

“Ah, yes, I think your eldest daughter uses the word
found
a bit loosely. But 'tis a matter for another time. Sleep first.”

She blinked, so tired and yet with so many duties left to tend. “The children are still outside. They've yet to eat and—”

A calloused hand clamped over her mouth. “Do you always fret so? I wonder not why you took fever.”

He was right, she'd probably brought the fever on herself with her business and worrying and lack of food.

He kept his hand firmly over his mouth. He was too close again, his body leaning over hers and his large, rough hands touching her face. But she'd hardly the strength to protest, so she closed her eyes as commanded.

The pallet beneath her faded away, along with the walls of the cottage and mess on the floor. Instead, she travelled to a soft place, a place where there was comfort and love, support and caring. A place where she didn't have to work for Alphonse or fear he would come for her children. A place where she found solace in the arms of a good man.