Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (51 page)

Serge was already off his chair and scrambling toward the shelves that held naught but two bowls, a motley collection of eating utensils and three plates—all seemingly left behind by the house's last inhabitants. “I'm hungry.”

“Patience, son. I must heat it first.” She crossed the small room to the aging pot on the hearth.

“I don't mind it cold.” Serge set the bowls on the table.

“Me, neither,” Danielle piped up.

She ran her eyes over her children's slender forms. Serge, with his too-short trousers and too-thin hips. And Danielle, with her gaunt face, bony shoulders and dress that would fit a girl who weighed half again as much as Danielle. Was she doing such a poor job of providing for her children that they clambered after cold, day-old soup?

Evidently.

She dished the hearty broth and vegetables out, and Danielle sank down onto the dirt floor with her bowl while Serge climbed back onto the single chair and gulped his food.

“Slow down, child. It won't run off on you.”

But he finished his bowl in less than a dozen bites and pushed it toward her. “Can I have more?”

The bucket had seemed like so much food but it now stood half empty without enough sustenance to see herself and the children through the evening meal. Though she could hardly blame Citizen Belanger for shortage when the man assumed he fed one person rather than four.

“
Oui.
Serge, you can have a second helping, but we'll be eating pulse later tonight.”

The boy nodded eagerly, and Danielle's dish appeared on the table beside his.

“May I have more, too?”

Her own stomach twisted with hunger, but she nodded at Danielle and divided her portion into two extra servings. Then she tore a piece of bread off the half loaf and chewed. At least the bread from the baker tasted palatable.

One mission for Alphonse, that's all she needed to complete. Then she wouldn't have to depend on the charity of a farmer for her children's food. She could purchase her own cottage much like this one and surround herself with friends and loved ones rather than hide in the woods.

If only she could manage to finish her mission without being discovered.

* * *

Jean Paul hunched over the table in his cottage, quill gripped tightly between his fingers as he thought back over the previous weeks while he prepared his monthly report. No strangers had passed through town—well, besides the woman baking him bread. But she was hardly worth reporting. Frail, thin women with lips the color of autumn apples and skin pale as the moon weren't a threat to the government.

And here he was, thinking of the woman again when he had business to tend. All day she had flitted through his mind, whether he be working the fields or meeting with Pierre or stocking food in the stable. Mayhap he should send her away for good on the morrow so he'd not be so distracted.

Either that, or he could hire her.

Something hard fisted around his chest. No. It mattered not how grateful he'd be for a meal he didn't cook for himself or how much dust collected inside his cottage walls.

He let out a low growl. He had a report to write, and here he was, completely distracted by that fool woman yet again.

He bent his head over the paper and forced his thoughts away from soft brown eyes and onto more important matters, like whether any suspiciously large wagons of smuggled English wool had made their way inland from the coast over the past month.

But he came up with nothing. Nor had he heard of any large shipments of French brandy, lace or the like headed toward the coast.

The tallow candle flickered shadows across the walls and table as he scratched his message onto the foolscap. The words seemed unimportant. Insignificant. But a certain representative in the National Convention named Joseph Fouché wrote him back every month, always thanking him for the information. Twice now, the local gendarmes had found army deserters due to his reports. And once a rather large shipment of brandy was discovered on the coast, only minutes away from being loaded onto a vessel bound for England.

The spies were a little harder to track. He wasn't certain he'd ever found one but he reported anyone with the slightest accent or less-than-fluent French.

A knock sounded on his door, soft and unhurried. He rose and glanced out the window. Darkness had long fallen, and only one type of person would knock so softly this far into the night. He took an extra blanket from the chest in the bedchamber, then made his way to the door.

He'd never met the man standing outside, would probably forget his unmemorable face if ever they chanced to meet again. But then, spies weren't supposed to be remembered.

The man silently held out a piece of paper. “Citizen Belanger?”

He barely glanced at the missive, the signature at the bottom standing out like a flame. He had a similar letter tucked away in his bedroom, all of Fouché's men did.

“Come. I've a bed for you in the stable, but I need you gone before the sun rises.”

He asked not of the man's business as he led him to the pallet tucked into the stall beside his mare's. He had no desire to know the secret workings of his government, but if providing shelter for a night would aid his country's cause, then he'd house a hundred men. Because France was now a republic, a place where all people were citizens of equal value, where power and wealth were based upon one's actions rather than right of birth.

To keep the French First Republic alive, the Convention fought not only revolution from within, but enemies from without. He might not be able to dart off into battle with the farm and an old wound in his shoulder, but he could supply food to the gendarmerie post for a fair price, ship some of his extra to the soldiers, watch his hometown for any sign of upset, and give rest and sustenance to government agents when so needed.

As terrible as the actions in his past had been, his country's cause was just. He refused to shed more innocent blood in the name of liberty, but he'd found a way to keep serving France without the pain and horror.

Because France needed a government of the people rather than the tyranny of a king. And he would do whatever necessary to keep the Republic alive.

Including pushing all thoughts of his lovely bread baker to the side and getting back to work on his report.

Chapter Four

M
orning sun slanted down over the fields, turning the earth a dark gold as Brigitte emerged from the woods. She drew in a breath and inhaled the soft scents of soil and dew and foliage, so different from the hard, tangy scent of the sea that saturated Calais.

The thatched roof of Citizen Belanger's house arose before her, a mere speck amid the rows of crops sprouting from the earth. Tomorrow she'd find a different way through the woods, one that led to the road so she approached the house from the drive rather than the fields. Citizen Belanger was already asking questions about where she lived. The man didn't need to know about their stay in the little cottage in the woods.

She yawned and moved her lagging feet along the edge of the field, wiping a strand of hair from her face. She shouldn't be so tired, not when she'd woken a mere hour ago. Yet weariness clung to her, growing worse with each passing day. She sighed and pressed her eyelids open wider.

Perchance she'd have time for a nap before she met Alphonse's man tonight. If she baked Citizen Belanger's bread in a timely manner, and the children behaved, and she didn't have to scrounge for food....

She was fooling herself. The nap wouldn't happen; they never did.

She gave the house a wide berth as she circled around, careful lest Citizen Belanger was already working in his garden or the stable. But alas, the house sat quiet and peaceful, like a cottage in a painting with the sun's warm fingers wrapped around it while fields dipped and swelled into the distance.

She raised her hand to the door, but it swung open before she knocked.

“Citizen Belanger.” She jerked backward, stumbling over an uneven patch of dirt.

He reached out and gripped her arm with his big, solid hand. “Are you unwell?”

Heat flooded her face. On their first meeting, she'd nearly fainted, yesterday she'd accused him of making worse bread than a slug and today she'd almost fallen. The man must think her a dunce.

But he didn't look at her as though she were a dunce. No. His eyes were soft and dark, but more the color of the earth after a hard rain than midnight. And his hand still rested on her arm, warm and strong and...comforting?

How long since a man had touched her out of concern rather than force? Another wave of heat exploded onto her cheeks, and she ducked her head.

But he kept his grip on her, this gaze roving slowly over her as though looking for...

What? She peeked up at him. His face was a hard mixture of prominent bones and taut skin, firm planes and severe angles with that inexplicable scar twisting around his eyebrow. And he was far too big. His hair brushed the top of the doorjamb and his shoulders spanned wide enough to eclipse any view she might have of inside.

Yet his eyes were still soft, as was his touch. He couldn't be all ominous terror, not when he provided her food and work. Not when he asked after her health.

He released her arm and took the bread from her hands. “You look ill.”

She swallowed. 'Twasn't a very romantic thing to say after surveying her so closely—not that she wanted romance from the man she needed to spy on.

“I'm grateful for your concern, but I'm fine.” Except for the dull thudding at the back of her head, the subtle aching in her joints and the weariness that beset her. But those were hardly severe enough to hinder her from her duties.

“Are you with child?”

“Pardon?” The word burst from her lips on a gust of air. How dare he inquire after such a thing?

But he seemed not the least embarrassed by his question. Instead, he raised a dark eyebrow at her. “Are you?”

“
Non.
Not that it's any of your concern.”

His dark eyes travelled her body once more, from the top of her mobcap down her overlarge dress, pausing a moment at her stomach before drawing his gaze down to her ill-fitting shoes. Why he should have the need to examine her yet again, when all he'd done was stare at her since she'd arrived, she hardly knew.

Whatever he saw must have convinced him she spoke the truth, because his eyes moved back up to her face. “Did you eat the soup and bread I sent yesterday?”

“Oui.”
And that wasn't a lie. He needn't know the food was gone already, or how little of it she'd consumed herself. “Have you thought more about hiring me as a maid?”

“The bread will suffice.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out two coins. “Here are two
livres
for your labor.”

She took a step back. She needed money, yes, but not so much. Bread sold for perhaps one
livre
in town, maybe less, as most of that price was tied into the cost of wheat—something Citizen Belanger had much of. “Sixteen
sous
should suffice, since you provided the flour.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Look at you, woman. You're nigh on starved, plus you've bruises beneath your eyes and tired lines at the edges of your mouth. I might not know who you are or from whence you came, but I can see you need two
livres,
not sixteen
sous.
Take the coins, or don't bother returning with more bread on the morrow.”

The impossible man. Was he really going to make her argue about getting paid
less?
“One
livre,
four
sous,
but not two
livres.
”

His face remained hard. “'Tis not up for bargain.”

She stared at the two
livres
nestled in his palm, their value of twenty
sous
a piece easily worth twice the loaf of bread she'd brought him. But if she didn't accept, where did that leave her tomorrow? Or the day after that? The two
livres
would allow her to purchase more pulse in town with several
sous
left over. Perhaps she could even buy fabric for Serge's trousers and Danielle's dress. “Fine, then. But tomorrow I take one
livre
and four
sous.
”

“Only if you don't wish to return the next day. Wait here.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he was about, but he disappeared into the house before she could speak, the insufferable oaf.

She tapped her foot on the ground, peering through the doorway to catch glimpses of him rummaging by the table. But she wasn't going in to see what he was doing, no. He probably expected that. He'd suck her into his house and then...then...then...

She blew a breath upward, the gust fluttering the wisps of hair hanging near her face. She didn't know what the man would do if she went inside. Didn't know much of anything about him. Things weren't going according to plan. She had to meet Alphonse's man this evening, and at this precise moment, she was further away from getting the job she needed to spy on Citizen Belanger than she'd been when first they'd met.

The time for being polite was past. She needed to convince him to hire her, and she needed to do so now.

She walked inside. The most obvious place to start cleaning was the table, but since Citizen Belanger hulked there throwing food into another bundle, she started with the bench beside the door. She took up the folds of her apron and wiped the smooth wood. Her worn apron was hardly white to begin with, but after cleaning the bench, dark streaks of dust stained the fabric.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped at the stern sound of his voice but straightened her shoulders. “It appears you do need a housekeeper. Look at the dust I wiped from this bench.”

She turned and held out her apron, then gulped. Citizen Belanger's jaw clenched and unclenched as he stared down at her, while muscles corded in tight ropes along his neck and arms. He looked ready to stride over and strangle her.

She took a step backward. Perhaps she'd been a little too hasty in coming inside.

But no. She couldn't let him frighten her. She had to protect her children first, and that meant gleaning information from the irate man before her—however unpleasant that prospect might be. “You stand rather straight, Citizen Belanger. Tell me. Have you ever been in the army?”

His hands tightened into fists around the bundle of food he held, and he stalked toward her.

She took another step back only to bump into the bench behind her.

“My past is hardly your concern.”

Oh, no. He was supposed to see her work and decide to hire her, not get angry. He was supposed to answer her questions, not corner her against the wall. She licked her lips. “I was simply making conversation. You know I'm from Calais. Why can I not know whether you've been in the army? You've the bearing of a well-trained soldier.”

“I have nothing of the sort. And I might know you're from Calais, but I hardly know why you're here, or where you're staying, or why you're suddenly so concerned with whether I was a soldier.”

She sucked in a painfully sharp breath. Did he see the way her hands trembled? Did her face look as cold as it felt?

And why could he not answer this one question? He turned every situation around until she was the one under interrogation. About where she lived. How much she'd eaten. Whether she was sick. If she carried a child.

“Why are you so concerned with my past?” His eyes narrowed, as though they could bore through her flesh and clothes and see straight into her heart.

She pushed down the urge to curl like a babe against the wall and raised her chin. “I told you. I was making conversation.”

“If you've such a penchant for conversation, you provide it. Where are you staying?”

She stared back at him. She couldn't tell this stranger, this possible murderer, where she and the children hid, no.

“I see you like being interrogated as little as I do.” He thrust the bundle of food toward her stomach with such force she had little choice but to take it. “Here's more flour, yeast and oil.”

She opened and closed her mouth before finally finding some words. “I've plenty yet left over from yesterday.”

He frowned, which did nothing to soften his already austere face. “You should be nearly out of flour. I've been making bread for nigh on a year now. I know how much is needed.”

“
Oui,
but you gave me two days' worth.”

“
Non.
I gave you one day's...” His voice trailed off, and the furrows across his brow deepened along with his frown. “Made you no bread for yourself?”

“'Twas your ingredients I used. I'm no thief to take them for myself.” Or she wasn't yet. She only prayed her task for Alphonse wouldn't turn her into one.

“Mayhap I gave you that amount so you could take a portion,” he growled.

“Well, you neglected to inform me.”

“I assumed it understood. You're thin as a corpse and pale as fresh snow.”

“And you're large as a mountain and meaner than a bull, but I don't think such traits make you a thief.”

She clamped her teeth into her tongue the instant the words flew out. Why, oh, why, must she blurt such things when she argued with him? First the comment about a slug and now this. She'd never had such trouble when she argued with Henri—though that might have been due to the fact she'd never really argued with her husband, just obeyed.

Yet no emotion flitted across Citizen Belanger's face as the words settled between them, not even a registering of the insult. If anything, his demeanor grew harder, more like stone and less like flesh and blood. “Sustenance is nothing about which to jest. People die from lack thereof. Have you any soup remaining from yesterday?”

“I'm not starving.” And she wasn't. She managed to eat every day, even if it was less than the little Serge consumed. “If you would simply hire me as your maid, you'd see the ridiculousness of your concerns.”

“I asked if you have any soup left. Answer me, woman.”

She pressed her lips firmly together. Let him take that as her answer.

“Wait here.” He tromped back to the shelves beside the table, mad at her for some inexplicable reason. She was taking his food and eating it, was she not? Why should he grow angry?

When he returned, he clutched a bundle of salt fish. “Take this. And I've raspberries in the stable. Follow me.”

He shoved past her and strode outside.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything kept growing worse rather than better. Here he was plying her with food when she needed a chance to search his property.

She headed to the stable to find a wagon already laden with produce waiting just inside the doors. “As I've told you before, I don't need your charity. I need a post.”

“And as
I've
told
you
before, I've no post for you.” He walked around the wagon and plucked a crate of raspberries from the back.

“And then you hired me to make bread, which only proves you could use my labor but are too stubborn to admit thus.”

A shadow crossed his face, dark and brooding, transforming him from the oversize person that had given her food into the dangerous menace that had stared at her inside when she'd asked whether he'd been in the military. The man before her now could hurt her without a flicker of emotion crossing his granite face.

The man before her now might well have killed Henri.

He came forward and held out a small crate of raspberries. “Things aren't as simple as they appear. Now be off with you. I've a trip to make to town and fields to tend thereafter. I'll expect my bread the same time tomorrow. And make two loaves for yourself this day.”

He turned and went farther into the stable, leading an aging gray horse out of its stall and guiding the beast toward the front of the wagon.

Brigitte tightened her grip on the food and watched him, his face still hard and void of expression as he hooked the horse to the cart.

He was likely going to town to sell his vegetables, and he'd be gone at least two hours, if not half the day. She'd already tried asking about his past and cleaning his house. So if she couldn't ask questions and she couldn't snoop under the guise of being his housekeeper, that left sneaking.