Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (66 page)

A damp cloth pressed against her nose and mouth.

She inhaled the sickeningly sweet smell and nearly gagged, then the edges of her vision faded and her world went dark again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
he cold woke her, harsh and biting. Brigitte blinked and raised her head from the hard floor to look slowly about the bleak stone room.

Alone, with no sign of her children.

Her body shook with a bone-jarring shiver, and her head pounded as relentlessly as the nearby surf. But despite her brain's sluggish churnings, she knew she could only be one place.

Calais, and not in the warehouse, but in Alphonse's castle.

She pushed up until she sat against the wall, her head pounding fiercer with each movement, then she wrapped her arms about herself and rubbed. The warmth lasted naught more than a moment, and as soon as her hands stilled, the frigid dampness crept back.

She swallowed and her throat burned from dryness—which shouldn't be possible given how cold the rest of her body was. The small, high slat of a window near the ceiling let in the only light, and the corners of the room remained shrouded in shadow.

She should rise and bang on the thick wooden door, or at least call for someone. But the incessant throbbing in her head barely allowed her to sit, let alone stand, without throwing her stomach into turmoil, and her throat felt too swollen to speak. She narrowed her eyes at the open slit in the door. Alphonse would know she was awake, anyway. The guards had likely informed him the instant she began to stir.

So she waited. Head throbbing, throat aching, stomach churning. She huddled against the wall as a fresh bout of shivers racked her body. If only the guards had left a blanket, or a mug of water. A little straw tick on which she could lie. But even those bare comforts had been denied.

Alphonse must be angry indeed. He'd relish that he stood above her when he deigned to visit, as powerful and immortal as ever, while she huddled at his feet. What other tortures would she suffer at his hands? 'Twas only the beginning, this bare cell.

The door banged open, and she sucked in a breath.

But Alphonse's sharp voice didn't resonate through the room. A younger, softer one did.
“Mère.”

She jerked her head up. “Julien?”

“What have they done to you?” He surged across the room and sank to his knees beside her.

She shook her head—a mistake. It spun so badly she clamped down the urge to retch.

“Put your head between your knees, like this.” Julien cupped a hand to the back of her neck and guided it down. “Slow, deep breaths. That's it. 'Tis from the drugs, whatever they gave you.”

Tears blurred her eyes as she worked to steady her breathing and calm her sick head and stomach. Her son was here, beside her after over a year of absence. How she'd missed the familiar blue eyes, so similar to Henri's and Danielle's. How she'd longed for the quiet comfort of his presence, the quizzical looks he gave her when unsure of something, the silent responsibility he'd taken upon his shoulders whenever his father was gone.

“I'll have words with
Grand-père
over this.” His hand stroked through her matted hair. “He ought not treat you such.”

“He ought not treat many people as he does. Yet no one stops him.”

“Hush.” He bent his head close enough to whisper. “A guard stands just outside the door. He'll surely repeat such words to
Grand-père
should he overhear us.”

“Why are you here?” She stared into his young face, the proud nose and high cheekbones, the disheveled hair a few shades darker than her own auburn tresses. His skin was tan now, doubtless resulting from the year spent at sea, and his body was stronger, broader of shoulder and thicker of chest. Yet he still carried the air of youth about him, that fragile demeanor of hope that life slowly stole from the young. “I didn't want you in Calais.”

Because Julien's presence here could only mean one thing: Alphonse intended to train her son as his successor.

“
Grand-père
sent men for me when my frigate docked. I hadn't much choice in returning, only in how I went.”

“But I wanted... Julien, you have to promise...” A fresh bout of tears welled in her already swollen throat. She gripped his hand. “You must—”

“A family reunion. How lovely.” Alphonse stood in the doorway, as pale and gray as death itself, his body thin as a walking corpse. “Julien, I never gave you permission to be here. François will be punished for letting you in.”

“
Non.
François will not be punished.” Julien rose from his hunched position and met Alphonse's gaze. He was taller than his grandfather now, his new muscles painfully obvious beside Alphonse's weak body. “François well understands the precarious state of your health. He'll be working for me in a matter of months, and he wishes to retain his position after you leave us. You see,
Grand-père,
you can drag me from my post in the navy and name me as your heir, but not without consequences.”

Brigitte drew in a ragged breath. So Alphonse had indeed brought Julien back here to take his place.

“Leave us.” Alphonse barked at her son, his voice loud and thin.

“Non.”
Julien drew himself taller, a muscle working back and forth in his jaw. “She's my mother. I'll see her whenever I wish, and I'll not ask your permission. Anything you have to say to her can be said in front of me.”

Alphonse's eyes turned as cold as ice-encrusted iron, but he held his tongue, his gaze locked in a silent battle with Julien.

Hope unfurled in her belly. She'd always assumed that if Julien or Laurent took over the smuggling enterprise, they'd be like their father, sucked in by greed, hardened to cruelty and fully subservient to Alphonse's will. But what if Julien was strong enough to break the cycle? What if the ages-old lures of power and wealth didn't sway her son? Maybe, just maybe, she'd raised a child with principles enough to defy Alphonse.

“Do you need water,
Mère?
Or food?” Though Julien spoke to her, he didn't take his eyes from Alphonse. “It seems
Grand-père
has been remiss in offering hospitality.”

Alphonse darted a look her direction, and a cruel gleam flickered in his eyes. “
Non.
Traveling doesn't agree with you,
mon petit chou.
”

His little owl. If he called her that again, she might well retch on his shoes. “Because you drugged me.”

“If you cooperate better next time, I'll not have need to drug you.”

“There should have never been a first time, and there certainly won't be a next time.” Of that she was positive. She would never again use deceit to betray an honorable person like Jean Paul.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Alphonse snapped. “Where's your daughter?”

Her heart quickened inside her chest and she cast a glance about the bare stone room. “She's not here?”

“Don't play me for a fool.” Alphonse's boots echoed against the floor as he approached.

“I'm not. I'd assumed...” The flicker of a memory haunted the corners of her mind, her hands and feet bound as she inched along a wagon bed in the dark and searched for Danielle. She glanced down at her wrists, bruised and chafed from a rope. Had Alphonse's men bound her after they drugged her? They must have, and at some point she'd woken and realized Danielle was missing.

“If she's gone, I know naught of it.”

A foul word flew from Alphonse's mouth.

Brigitte swallowed despite her painfully dry throat. If Alphonse and his men didn't have Danielle, was she safe? Had she gone for help or done something to warn others about Alphonse?

But then, where could Danielle have gone except to Jean Paul? And he wanted naught to do with her now. Besides, Danielle's disappearance didn't mean she was unharmed. Some other ill could have easily befallen her, and Alphonse doubtless had men out combing the countryside for her even now.

“Enough questions.” Julien squatted down and wrapped a solid arm around Brigitte's shoulder. “
Mère
needs to go upstairs where she can sup and bathe and rest.”

“Your mother stays here.”

Julien's body tensed, muscles coiling tightly like a wolf about to pounce. “She'll not be treated like some criminal, locked in your prison and deprived of sustenance.”

Something dark and cruel flickered in Alphonse's eyes.

“Just go,” she whispered. “I'll fare fine.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders.
“Non.”

Alphonse cocked his head to the side, his thoughts obviously spinning, though she couldn't begin to guess what dastardly thing he'd settle on. “Very well. She can come upstairs, but only if she swears not to attempt escape.”

“I swear it.” She wasn't a fool. Escape would be futile with how well guarded Alphonse kept his lair. And no one in Calais would shelter her against his will.

But her father-in-law had something planned—the look in his eye gave him away. Though Julien had defended her for now, Alphonse was hardly finished. The next time they spoke, Julien wouldn't be interfering.

* * *

“I need men. Fast.” Jean Paul slammed the letter down.

Captain Archambault, the commanding officer at Guînes's gendarmerie post, uncrossed his legs and leaned over the desk, frowning as he surveyed the letter. “This is from the Convention in Paris.”

Jean Paul attempted not to grit his teeth. Did the man have to waste time with obvious statements? Brigitte had been gone four days. Four! 'Twas enough to drive a man crazy with grief and worry.

Hopefully Brigitte's journey from Abbeville had been slow. Hopefully the brutes who'd carried her and the children in the old fruit wagon Danielle had described had taken a wrong turn and ended up lost. Hopefully something, anything, had happened to keep Brigitte away from Alphonse Dubois for a few hours longer.

“Why, exactly, do you need my men?” The captain leaned back in his chair and tapped the ends of his fingers together. Slowly. Far too slowly.

“Convention business.” It wasn't a lie. Not that the Convention had envisioned his current situation when he'd agreed to write monthly reports last fall. The missive had merely been a precaution in case he ever needed assistance, though capturing a notorious smuggler was surely need enough to justify the use of soldiers.

“Last time the Convention sent men to our town, it ended in a bloody massacre at the guillotine.”

Jean Paul coughed and reached up to tug at his collar. Must the man speak of the Terror?

The captain furrowed his brow and studied him. “Paris is a long way off. If I refused to lend you men, 'twould be weeks before the Convention found out. Provided this letter isn't a forgery.”

Brigitte slipped farther into Dubois's clutches with each second he lingered in Captain Archambault's office, and the man wanted to thwart him? He could hardly face a smuggler as powerful as Alphonse Dubois with merely himself, a wayward gendarme and a thirteen-year-old girl.

Not unless he wanted to get them all killed in under a quarter hour. “The letter is as authentic as they come. Signed by Fouché himself.”

The captain peered down at the missive once more. “I see that, but you've yet to tell me what you plan to do with my men once you take them.”

Jean Paul worked his jaw back and forth. If Dubois had weaseled informants into the gendarmerie post in Abbeville, the smuggler would certainly have ears and eyes in a town that lay only a half day's journey from Calais. The captain himself might even be on Dubois's payroll.

Yet, if he kept silent, the man might well refuse the command issued in the letter. He hadn't the time to spend days convincing Captain Archambault to give him gendarmes. He needed to depart with enough men to fight Dubois, and he needed to leave now.

He reached down and rested his hand on the hilt of his knife. “There is a large smuggling ring in Calais run by a man named Alphonse Dubois. I mean to break that ring and bring in Dubois.”

The captain's face turned white, his lips pinched. “His men have wreaked havoc in Guînes.”

“I'm sorry.” And he was. No group of men should be allowed to operate above the law. The Terror had taught him that, if nothing else.

Captain Archambault gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles trembled. “They wanted my compliance in overlooking their activities.”

Jean Paul tightened his hold on his knife. “Did you give it?”

“Not at first, but Dubois can be rather persuasive.” The man's gaze dropped to the desk.

“What means of persuasion did he use?”

“His men raped my sister, then told me if I still refused to comply, it would happen again. And again. And again.” Captain Archambault swallowed, the muscles in his throat working tightly against each other. “I have another sister in town, as well as my mother.”

Jean Paul released his knife and came nearer the desk. “Look at me.”

The man raised bleak eyes to meet his.

“If we bring Dubois down, he won't be able to force others to his will ever again.”

The captain blew out a breath and slumped farther into his chair. “I can give you all the men under my command, but they won't be sufficient. Dubois is well protected. Few know where he lives or hides his wares, and those who have such knowledge refuse to talk.”

“Mayhap, but his granddaughter travels with me, and she's talking freely.”

“The girl in your party? That's Dubois's granddaughter?”

If only the other man knew. “Your family isn't the only one that man tries to manipulate.”

The captain jumped to his feet, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You may not only have my men, but my service, as well.”

“Then make haste.” Jean Paul turned and strode through the door. He was one step closer to rescuing Brigitte, and yet his stomach churned as he strode out into the sunshine. Surely she'd arrived in Calais by now, and he was still hours away. What if he was too late to save her?