Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (64 page)

“And I want to see the evidence you've brought me.”

She extended the journal in her quivering hands. “Fine. You can have it, but understand that Citizen Belanger is—”

Innocent.
A crashing sounded from the forest behind her, and the word froze on her tongue. She whirled toward the noise, glimpsed a towering body and broad, unmistakable shoulders beneath a faint beam of moonlight trickling though the trees.

“Jean Paul.” Dread curdled her stomach. Had he learned of her meeting somehow? Did he know everything?

He paid her no heed but rushed past and leaped into the shadows on the other side of the clearing. Two bodies crashed to the forest floor and rolled into the light until they collided with the trunk of a centuries-old tree. Then one form raised himself up over the other, and a grotesque crack echoed through the forest.

“I should kill you.” Jean Paul's voice rang out over a moan of pain.

Another crack rent the air, followed by thumps and scuffles and groans.

She tucked the journal back under her arm and stepped closer to the tangled men, only to jump back when they rolled her direction. The thin slices of moonlight slanting through the trees cast a trail of light on the two men, but not enough to tell who was besting the other. Then again, she hardly needed light to know who would win. Jean Paul was too large and strong for another man to pose him much threat.

A third crack sounded, and the form with the overlarge shoulders slowly rose to his feet, leaving another shadow prostrate and still beside the tree trunk.

“I trusted you.” Jean Paul turned toward her, wiping the side of his face with his sleeve.

She ran her eyes up his familiar body etched against the moonlight, then looked away.

She was never supposed to fall in love with him, but she had. She was never supposed to care whether her actions hurt him, but she did. If only she'd come to care a little sooner, had understood the feelings coursing through her body before this morning. Instead, she'd spent the entire day trying to protect him, trying to keep this moment from happening.

And she'd failed.

What was there to say—besides the bald, horrid truth. “Jean Paul, I—”

“I was a fool.” He spat the bitter words. “Do you know how I felt about you, Brigitte? I thought I could love you. For six years, I've not been able to look upon a woman and see a future. Women were no different from children and old men, just more bodies needing bread, likely to starve at the hands of the aristocrats if no one fought for them. No woman has made me smile or laugh or cry. Not since Corinne have I bothered to imagine the way a woman would feel in my arms...

“Until you.” His voice turned quiet, a gravelly rasp against the warm night air. “But it was all a lie, wasn't it? Every kiss, every subtle glance and worried look was one giant falsehood so you could get—get—” He threw up his hand in a frustrated gesture. “What did you come here for? Money? Revenge?”

She licked her painfully dry lips. “'Tis not how it appears.”

“Not how it appears? Let me tell you how it
appears.
It
appears
you had suspicions about me before you came to Abbeville. It
appears
you traveled here for the sole purpose of getting close to me. Is that why you were so determined to work as my housekeeper?” His jaw moved back and forth in furious little jerks. “Fool that I was, I believed it. Believed you. Who are you truly? Are those children even yours? Or did you find them and—”

“Yes, they're mine!”

“And you expect me to trust you?”

“Non.”
Hot, searing moisture flooded her eyes, and the journal weighed heavy as a bushel of wheat as she extended it toward him. “But at least take this. It shows—”

“I know what it shows.” He yanked the book out of her hand and sent it crashing into the nearest tree. It slid to the ground, the pages fluttering and tearing on the rough bark before it landed in a mangled heap. “The question is, why were you giving it to this man?”

“I was trying to show you innocent.”

He scoffed. “Me? Innocent? Even now, after I caught you trying to destroy me, you offer more lies?”

“It's not a lie! Look at—”

“Not a lie? Then tell me, Brigitte, why did you first approach me? Why did you weasel your way into my house? Because you believed me innocent? I think not.”

She closed her eyes and ducked her head at the mercilessly raw tone to his voice.

“Those days I went to the field and left you about the house, did you spend them snooping? Scouring every centimeter of my home until you found what you were looking for?”

“Jean Paul, please, you have to believe me. I wasn't turning you in.”

“Save your words for someone who wants to listen.” He stalked away, putting a good four or five paces between them before he whirled back. “So what happens now? Is someone going to come for my head? Is this man here going to shoot me in the heart one night while I lay abed?”

“
Non!
Nothing's going to happen. It's what I've been trying to tell you.”

But he wasn't listening. She could spend all night pleading with him, and nothing would change. He stood before her too furious to hear what she said, too furious to care that she was sorry, too furious to understand she'd changed her mind about working for Alphonse. The man before her held no semblance to the gruff but kind farmer she'd first met, possessed no patience to listen to whatever explanation she might have.

“Return to the cottage and pack your things.” His words shattered the silence. “I'll visit at dawn, and if you're still there, I'll...I'll...”

His voice broke, and he turned his back to her yet again.

“Just look at the journal. Please. It's—”

“It's private. Not something you should have ever touched. Something you'd not have found were you not snooping around my property.”

“It's not what you think. I changed it.” The words wrenched from her mouth. She stared at his back, willing him to listen, to care, to understand that though she may have been working against him for the past two weeks, today she'd been working
for
him.

He held up his hand. “Enough. You have until dawn to leave. I suggest you make haste if you don't wish to be dragged before the magistrate.”

She glanced at the journal laying mangled on the forest floor and pressed her lips together. Perhaps he would take it with him and look at it come morning, then he might understand.

But she'd be gone by morning. He'd given her no other choice.

Or rather, she'd given herself no other choice from the moment she'd first agreed to work for Alphonse.

Chapter Twenty

B
rigitte wiped the tears from her face as she moved through the tall trees toward home. Or more accurately, toward the place that
had been
her home.

If only Jean Paul had let her explain, or if, even now, he would just open the journal and realize she'd been trying to protect him, that she'd fallen in love with him despite what she'd done. Then he could come to the house and claim her before she left for Reims.

And she was dreaming the dreams of an errant schoolgirl. She'd spent the past two weeks working against the one man who had been kind and generous to her family. Why would he now come claim her?

She rubbed more tears from her cheeks and sniffled to stem the ceaseless stream. She would leave and go to some other city. It couldn't be Reims now, for Alphonse would surely search for her there. But she could start a new life with the money she'd earned from Jean Paul. It would be hard at first, but she could make do. And when memories of Jean Paul and his kindness visited her in the night, she'd push them away much like she did her longing to see her twin boys.

She gulped in a breath and moved swiftly over the uneven ground toward the cottage ahead, the familiar shadow of trees looming above despite the already dark night. Not even the flicker of a faint candle shown through the windows. Her children were all abed and now she'd have to wake them.

She opened the door and stepped inside. “Danielle, Serge, I'm sorry to wake you, but we must—”

An arm curled around her throat, yanking her back against a hard chest. She screamed, but another hand clamped over her mouth.

“Don't waste your breath screaming. There's no one around to hear.”

Her heart pounded against her rib cage, and she sucked in a panicked gulp of air before shaking her head wildly. Her struggle did little good. The massive hand tightened its grip over her mouth, and the man yanked back on her neck, her chin jerking upward toward the roof of the cottage.

“The children,” she rasped. She moved her eyes frantically toward the bed, trying to discern their small bodies beneath the covers.

“The children, you ask?” Scalding breath feathered over her ear. “They're already in the wagon, waiting.”

Waiting for what? To go where? Why was this strange man here, in her house during the darkest hours of the night?

But she knew why. Indeed there could only be one answer to all of this: Alphonse. His men hadn't just interrupted her meeting with the gendarme, they'd also come to her home.

A burst of terror ignited in her stomach, tearing across her chest, her mind.

Her heart.

She'd been close. So very close to...

To what? A lump that had nothing to do with the forearm across her neck rose in her throat. What did she even want anymore? She wanted her children safe and away from Alphonse. But she didn't want to leave the man she loved.

He'd killed her husband. Some part of her should want to run to Alphonse with the news. But Jean Paul had been so sick and stricken with grief at the beginning of the
Révolution.
He was a different man now, one who filled needs rather than created them.

But it mattered not whether she longed to stay with Jean Paul, to throw herself on his mercy and beg to be his housekeeper for the rest of her life so that she might glimpse his face every morn. She'd be forced to go with this guard back to Calais and face Alphonse instead.

Though she had little choice in seeing her father-in-law, she didn't have to share her findings with him. If nothing else, she would see that he never learned the truth about Citizen Belanger.

“If you scream, I'll hit you,” the gruff voice snarled against the back of her head, then the hand left her mouth.

“Are the children well? Tell me you didn't hurt them.” She couldn't stop the tremble in her voice. Danielle was strong, but how must Serge and Victor have felt to awake at the hands of this man?

“Well indeed. They sleep like babes.”

“They sleep?”

“
Oui.
As will you.”

He yanked back on her hair, thrusting her chin up again. Before she could sputter a response, a clay mug pressed to her lips and bitter liquid poured down her throat until she was forced to either swallow or choke.

* * *

Betrayed. Utterly, thoroughly, completely.

Jean Paul rubbed a hand over his chin as he sat against the base of the tree. The first gray fingers of dawn tinged the early morning sky, visible only through breaks in the leafy canopy above.

But he didn't move.

Hadn't moved for hours.

How was it he had strength enough to flatten a brute of a man and scare the man away a second time when he'd finally regained consciousness? How was it he had the strength to send away the woman he loved, but hadn't the strength to move from this tree for hours hence?

He raised his head and surveyed the little patch of forest floor once again. 'Twas obvious from the flattened earth and foliage this area had been used before last night. How many times had Brigitte met with that man and his comrades? How much information had she passed along before he discovered what she was about?

Did she know of his agreement with the Convention and the letters he wrote every month? Of the men he sometimes sheltered in his stable?

Or did she snoop because of his role in the Terror? Because he'd killed her husband?

He should have asked who she'd been working for before sending her off. Not that he expected her to tell him the truth. It could be some Girondist or Federalist. Any powerful person he'd happened to wrong while he was in the National Guard or working for Joseph Le Bon.

He'd likely discover her spymaster soon enough. Now that she had the information she sought, it wouldn't be long before his opponents showed themselves. Then again, mayhap they wouldn't show themselves at all. They could always sneak into his house while he slept and slit his throat.

He tilted his head up toward the heavens, the rough tree bark snagging the back of his hair. “Did You do it a'purpose, God? Did You know who she was and make me fall in love with her, anyway?”

Some sort of vengeance for his past sins?

Oui.
Vengeance indeed. He'd been worried about that very thing when he'd looked upon Brigitte lying in her sick bed. Had figured God would give her to him for a time and then yank her away as He'd done with Corinne. But God had different plans in store this time.

He raked a hand through his hair. 'Twould almost have been easier to lose Brigitte in death rather than have her betray him in life. But betray him she had, and for some addled reason, he couldn't force himself up from the spot on the ground where he'd sunk after he sent her away.

“Citizen Belanger!” A familiar voice carried through the still morning air. “Jean Paul!”

He straightened against the tree and glared warily in the direction of the ruckus. What was Danielle doing here? She should be well on her way to Reims with the rest of her family—if they were truly her family.

He sighed and glanced around. It was too much to hope the girl wouldn't find him. He'd taught her to track, after all, and the path to this little clearing had been trodden enough that it hardly remained secret.

He raised himself up off the ground as Danielle's form bounded through the trees.

“You're supposed to be headed to Reims,” he bit out.

She slid to a halt and scrunched her brow. “Reims?
Non.
'Tis Calais.”

“Reims, Calais. I care not, so long as the woman you call a mother goes away. Now why are you here?”

“You know, then.” The girl's eyes turned dark and flat.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “
Oui,
I know. As you did yesterday morn, but you didn't tell me.”

Her gaze dipped to her boots. “'Tis why I ran off. I couldn't bear the sight of her once I learned her reasons for working here.”

Well, at least they were agreed in wanting nothing to do with Brigitte—or they had been. How had he ever convinced Danielle to return home with him yesterday? “Your mother betrayed me. I never want to see her again.”

She jerked her head up. “You can't say that, not after she sacrificed everything for you.”

He gave a hard, bitter laugh. Brigitte hadn't sacrificed a flea for him. But Danielle's eyes locked with his, fierce honesty burning in her gaze.

Almost as though she spoke the truth.

He clamped his jaw together. She couldn't speak the truth. 'Twas impossible.

Yet the look in her eyes couldn't be falsified.

A memory of their first meeting flashed through his mind, Danielle standing proud over his stolen chicken, knowing she'd done wrong but refusing to cower or lie. Danielle Moreau might be strong and determined, but she'd tell him the truth and then throw punches to defend herself rather than spout falsehoods.

“Stop staring at me as though you think me dishonest.
Maman
needs your help, and we haven't time to lose.” She turned and started down the little path.

Jean Paul dug the heels of his boots into the ground. “I don't help traitors.”

Danielle whirled back and stalked toward him until the tips of her shoes met his. Then she tilted her proud little nose in the air and glared up at him. “She wasn't betraying you. She was trying to save you.”

“Trying to save me? 'Tis laughable, child.”

She jutted her chin toward the journal laying in the moist dirt. “Have you looked at it?”

Jean Paul glowered at the leatherbound book. “Why would I? I wrote the words. I well know what's in it.”

Blood. Pain. Memories he tried to forget every night when he closed his eyes.

Danielle curled her bottom lip. “That's where you're wrong. It was written yesterday—and not by you.”

The girl was befuddled, which wasn't terribly surprising given her conniving and manipulative mother. 'Twould be hard for any person to stay sane when forced to live with Brigitte Moreau.

“'Tis enough. I've work to do and haven't time to dally longer.” He moved to retrieve the book then started down the path. First he needed to find a new hiding place for his journal—hopefully one that wouldn't be discovered so easily this time. Then he needed to stop by the second cottage and finish this business of forcing Brigitte off his land. After that he had breakfast to see to, since the woman no longer worked for him. Turnips lay waiting to be dug in the far field, and he needed to inspect Pierre's clovers. Then—

“Wait!” A small, hard body hit him from behind, causing his knees to buckle as he lurched forward.

“What are you doing?” He took the girl by her shoulders and held her out from him. “Go help your mother pack and leave me be, or I'll drag the lot of you before the magistrate.”

“I know not what happened between you and
Maman
last night, though I can guess you found her meeting with one of
Grand-père'
s men.” Danielle swiped a tangle of dark hair out of her face. “But I speak truth when I say she needs your help. Now. They've captured her and Serge and Victor. Every moment you tarry, they get farther away.”

So someone had betrayed the traitor. 'Twas a fitting end. Mayhap now Brigitte would think harder before agreeing to carry out such dastardly tasks. “Who is this ‘they' you speak of? Your mother's employer? I know not for whom she works.”

“'Tis my father's father, and he doesn't give people choices about working for him. He forces it. Though I think he promised
Maman
we could leave Calais and move to Reims if she spied on you.”

If nothing else, the girl was tenacious in defending her mother, though her reasoning made little sense. “Your mother could have left Calais on her own. She hardly needs to take on some ill-intended assignment from your grandfather.”

“You don't understand who my
grand-père
is, or the power he wields.” Danielle shook free of his hold. With her dress torn and dirt smudged on her cheeks, she should look like nothing more than a filthy urchin, yet somehow she was magnificent in her disarray. “His name is Alphonse Dubois, and he's both a
seigneur
and a smuggler.”

Dubois.

Dubois.

Dubois.

The name rang like a bell through his head. He remembered it well, one of the few that stuck out from the Terror. There had been a Dubois in Calais, yes, a
seigneur—
not that the
Révolution
acknowledged such positions these days—who'd used his power to build a massive smuggling ring before the
Révolution
started. Though the Dubois family lands would have been lost with the rise of the
Révolution,
the man's smuggling power extended far.

Le Bon, the representative-on-mission from the Convention, had been set on bringing the smuggler down, but Calais closed up around them whenever they made inquiries. Jean Paul had only arrested one group of smugglers for an illegal import of wool, and the captured men had refused to speak one word of their leader, even though the arrest had landed them the smuggler's son. Henri Dubois.

Henri, the name of Brigitte's first husband. And not Moreau, but Dubois.

Jean Paul stilled, his pulse thrumming hard against his wrists and neck while silence descended over the forest. A man like Alphonse Dubois would want revenge for his son's death. A man like Alphonse Dubois, ruthless enough to strike fear into an entire town, would use his son's widow to get it. A man like Alphonse Dubois didn't care whom he hurt or why he hurt them, just as long as he got his way. And he was very used to getting his way.

His gaze slid to Danielle. Had Dubois threatened Brigitte's children? Is that why she'd come to spy on him?

“Well?” Danielle pinched her lips together. “Do you know my
grand-père?
”