Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (52 page)

Could she do such a thing? Break into another person's house while the owner was gone?

The moisture leached from her mouth. But if she wanted evidence of Citizen Belanger's past before she met with Alphonse's man, then she'd have one chance to get it. Later this morning, after he left for town.

* * *

Jean Paul watched her stomp from the stable, back straight and head high. Women, they were naught but a sore trial, and this one more so than most. How many times must he refuse her before she understood he wouldn't hire her?

A dozen? Two dozen? A hundred?

He scowled, and Sylvie—a mare too old for the army to bother confiscating—snorted back at him.

The confounding woman would likely keep asking for as long as she brought him bread. What made her so set on working for him? Had she heard stories of the others he'd helped?

But the others lived elsewhere and didn't come to his house each day. He saw some once a week and others once a month, a few only when rent was due on the property he let. He didn't have to open his home to them.

His heart gave a solid, painful beat inside his chest. The woman with the bread would get the same answer each time she asked about a post.

He couldn't have someone else about the place when he harbored such terrible secrets from his past. When he still longed for his wife.

And he doubted he'd ever be ready to open his home, or his heart, to another.

Chapter Five

S
he was a miscreant. A traitor. An utter and complete hypocrite.

Showing up on Citizen Belanger's doorstep to ask for a job two days ago had seemed like a sound plan. So how had she ended up here, sneaking through his front door, about to become a criminal?

And all so she could do Alphonse's bidding. She'd hated Henri's illegal activities, but once she stepped inside Jean Paul's house, how was she any different than Henri?

Because she was trying to save her family? That answer felt hollow. A wisp of truth cloaked in a lie. She was breaking into a person's house because she feared her father-in-law, and that fear was pushing her into the dark world she'd despised for so long. Wasn't there some verse in the Bible about such things? Not the one about her sin finding her out that her governess had been so fond of, but another. One that the priest used to quote at mass. Something about...about...about...

Reaping what you sowed. Yes, that was it. From Galatians chapter 6. “
Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting.”

She grimaced at the door in front of her. Well, she certainly wouldn't reap life everlasting by sneaking about. But she needed information.

She tucked her perpetually errant strand of hair back up under her mobcap and gave a final look about the yard.

Empty. Not so much as a bird overhead to watch her.

Though the wagon was gone from the stable, she knocked and waited one moment, then another, to be certain no one tarried within.

Everything lay still and quiet.

She slowly lifted the latch and let herself inside, heading straight toward the shelves lining the far wall. But she stopped when her gaze fell to his table. It was beautiful, a masterpiece fit only for a king or some royal relative. She'd been too far away to notice the details earlier that morn, but cornucopias had been carefully carved along the edge of the table, the generous cones overflowing with grapes and squash and apples. The fruit spilled down the side of the table, etched onto the legs with what must have been painfully accurate carving skills.

When Citizen Belanger had left Abbeville before the
Révolution,
he'd supposedly gone to Paris to make furniture. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in the tale, after all. Citizen Belanger must have made the table and matching chairs himself, for a farmer could hardly afford to purchase something so exquisite.

She trailed a finger over a cornucopia carved on the top of a chair, then forced her gaze away from the furniture and toward the shelves beside the hearth. She had an entire house to search and hadn't time to tarry, regardless of how beautiful the furniture.

* * *

“You're late.”

Jean Paul barely glanced at the gendarme as he pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the gendarmerie post. He hopped down and scanned the yard for Captain Monfort, but the gendarme glowering from beneath his black bicorn hat was the only one out of doors.

“I've been waiting for over a quarter hour.”

“My previous stop took longer than I planned.” As had the talk with his mysterious bread maker that morn. He hefted a crate of lettuce and carried it toward the entrance to the kitchen. “My apologies.”

Gravel crunched behind him, then came the gendarme's morose voice. “A contract to supply the gendarmerie with food is hardly a trivial matter. I daresay if you continue to be late, we'll have to look elsewhere for our food.”

Jean Paul rolled his eyes. Who was this whelp of a soldier? If the man wanted to be intimidating, he needed to stand straighter and give a hard gaze rather than shift away from one. But either way, his dourness had naught to do with Jean Paul's late arrival. The man had helped unload deliveries for the past three weeks and had been ill tempered each time.

Jean Paul nudged open the door to the empty kitchen and set his crate down with a thud before heading back to the wagon. “I'll try to be more punctual next week.”

He set the flour and remaining crates of vegetables by the side of the road and hopped back atop his wagon. If the gendarme was going to be so friendly, he could carry the rest of the food back to the kitchen himself.

“Where are you going?” the other man barked.

Jean Paul took up Sylvie's reigns as the gendarme hastened toward him. “Away. You have your food. Two sacks of flour, four crates of produce. 'Tis settled.”

And he had little tolerance for ill-mannered men in uniform.

“'Tis hardly settled. You've more turnips left, and raspberries.” The gendarme stalked to the back of the wagon and reached in for the final crate of berries.

Jean Paul jumped down, clamping his hand about the other man's arm. “You've raspberries aplenty. What remains is for Widow Arnaud.”

“You hardly gave us enough raspberries to keep the gendarmerie two days, let alone a week,” the other man sputtered, his cheeks dark with red.

“'Twill have to suffice. My contract is for four crates of produce. I decide what that produce entails.”

“The widow won't know they were coming, and thus won't miss them.”

Jean Paul crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “The widow has three boys and a daughter who delight in berries. Furthermore, she's a widow because her husband died in the Batavian campaign. I should think a soldier like yourself would be respectful of such sacrifice.”

“Are you implying I've a lack of respect?” The gendarme moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Jean Paul drew in a small breath. He must tread carefully. 'Twas a reason he sold food to the gendarmerie. Doing so kept him in their good graces, and they therefore asked no questions about his staying in Abbeville—though with his shoulder injury mostly recovered, he could manage as a soldier in one of the military campaigns. They also didn't question why he'd suddenly returned to Abbeville a year ago, nor did they wonder where he'd gotten the money to purchase the land surrounding his farm.

They simply bought his food.

True, his contacts in Paris could quash any resistance the gendarmerie post gave him, but he'd rather not go that route. Too many townsfolk would raise their brows if Paris got involved.

Yet he wasn't about to let widows starve while the waists of the gendarmes expanded, either. One person, one gift, one act of generosity when Corinne was ill, and she might be alive today. “The raspberries go to the Widow Arnaud, and if that's a problem, I can start taking my raspberries to market instead of here. I'll get a better price than you give me.”

The gendarme curled his lips until his teeth showed, but his mouth held nothing of a smile. “You wouldn't dare.”

“'Tis my food until you put money in my hand. I can sell it wherever I wish.”

“We might visit your farm in the night and raid your food stores.”

“Try it, and see how long Abbeville retains a gendarmerie post.”

A murderous look flitted across the soldier's face.

“Does your captain know the threats you make?” Jean Paul growled.

The man just glared.

“Perhaps you should make yourself scarce next week when I deliver the foodstuffs, or I might find an urge to speak with your superior.”

“Jean Paul!” a voice bellowed. “I didn't know you were here.”

He recognized the speaker before he turned.

Mayor Narcise waddled down the steps of the post, a smile wreathing his flabby face. “I've been meaning to talk to you, my boy.”

“
Bonjour,
Jean Paul.” Captain Monfort followed the mayor down the steps, his eyes surveying the near-empty wagon. “Our chef was saying to me earlier this week how much he appreciates your deliveries. Did he tell you such?”

“The kitchen was empty when I arrived.”

“Ah, I forgot he ran to the market. I trust Gilles here helped you unload?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Jean Paul slanted a glance at the gendarme, who was steadily backing away from the group with two of the crates.

The captain gave a curt nod and straightened the lapels on his coat. “Good. You're dismissed, Gilles.”

The scrap of a soldier headed toward the kitchen at a brisk clip.

“Well, then.” The mayor gave Jean Paul a hearty slap on the back. “My sister's been wanting you over to sup. Nagging me about it for nigh on a week now, but I haven't seen hide nor hair of you.”

Supper again. Jean Paul stuck a finger into the collar of his shirt and tugged. He'd been to four meals in town during the past year, each painfully awkward. Everyone sat around the table staring at him, praising him for the day he stumbled upon Citizen Benoit and her daughter being set upon by three army deserters. He'd done nothing special, only what any man of character would have when he chased off two of the scoundrels and dragged the other one before the magistrate.

He hadn't realized Citizen Benoit was the mayor's sister.

Or that he would be hailed as a hero for his deed.

“Well, what say you to supper on the morrow?” The mayor slapped him on the back again, then gave Captain Monfort a wink. “We'll even invite the captain here.”

Jean Paul shook off the mayor's flaccid arm. “'Tis a busy week with the first vegetables coming on.”

“Make time, boy. You've tasted the food my sister serves. The finest in all of Picardy.”

“
Oui.
'Tis so,” Captain Monfort agreed.

Jean Paul glanced between the two men, Captain Monfort with his pristine uniform and the glimmer of respect twinkling in his eyes, and the mayor with his protruding stomach and hopeful expression.

He swallowed hard. He was the last person to deserve such respect and reverence. But then, the mayor and captain didn't understand the innocent blood that lay on his hands from the six years he'd spent away from Abbeville. He'd thought he'd been serving his country, but countless other men served France without ever spilling blood the way he had.

“I accept.” His throat tightened on the words, but he forced them out. He could manage one more night of hero worship.

If only he didn't feel like a fraud.

* * *

Nothing. There was nothing here. Brigitte peeked under the bed one last time, just to be certain. What had she missed? No hidden journal of Citizen Belanger's military days sat stuffed beneath his pillow. No tattered and stained National Guard coat was secreted away in his chest of drawers. And no mysterious trunk lay under this bed, nor under any of the three others inside the chamber.

Oh, the beds themselves were beautiful, just as breathtaking as the table and chairs had been. One had leaves and acorns carved on it while another had the same cornucopias as the dining set. But after an hour spent scouring every centimeter of the two-room house, she still had no information about where he'd been in April of 1794, when Henri was killed.

What was she going to tell Alphonse's man? That Citizen Belanger had beautiful furniture? She bit her lip and stared at the empty space under the bed, willing a trunk or secret crate to suddenly appear. Then all she need do was look inside and find proof of Citizen Belanger's...

Innocence? Guilt? What did she hope to find?

Citizen Belanger was big, like the man who had stolen Henri from their bed. And by his own admission, he'd been to Calais before. Yet Alphonse had said Citizen Belanger disappeared to Paris at the beginning of the
Révolution,
and she'd found nothing indicative of Paris in his house. Nothing indicative he'd been gone any length of time at all.

Perhaps he was innocent. The man had given her family three meals now and paid her two
livres
for a loaf of bread. Murderers didn't care for the poor or search for excuses to give away money.

Did they?

She sighed and wiped a strand of hair from her face. She'd best go search the stable before she left. Perchance he'd something hidden away there.

“Ho, Sylvie.” A masculine voice resonated through the house, followed by the telltale creak of a wagon.

She stilled, blood rushing in her ears and her palms suddenly damp. Citizen Belanger couldn't be back so quickly. She'd barely been here an hour.

Or had it been two?

She glanced out the bedroom window, its shutters thrown open to let in the warm summer air. The sun was high against the blue tapestry of sky, much higher than it should be had she only been working an hour.

The outer door to the house squeaked open and then thudded shut. She looked frantically about the room, then dove beneath the bed.