Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (60 page)

But none of that explained the presence of this trunk, so oddly hidden beneath mounds of hay. And locked.

Who locked a trunk already hidden?

She fingered the clasp and glanced back toward the door of the stable. Surely a lantern hung just inside. She only needed to light it and find a tool of some sort to open the lock. 'Twould be easy enough to break the iron bands.

To be sure, it wasn't her trunk, and whatever Jean Paul had hidden here certainly wasn't her business. But then, she'd been snooping all along, hadn't she? 'Twas the very reason she worked for him. And even though Jean Paul had told her to up and leave, she couldn't. Not without putting her children at risk and chancing that Alphonse would come for her.

She shuddered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She had only one course of action: prove Jean Paul's innocence.

Because once she proved it, she could leave.

And if she was so certain of his innocence, why did she hesitate opening his trunk? After she had proof, she could visit the gendarme and then wash her hands of both the guard and Alphonse.

Yes. By this time tomorrow, she'd be free.

She scrambled to her feet and found the lantern, lighting it and searching around before her eyes landed on an ax leaning against the side of the stable. She took it up and hastened back to the trunk. One brisk swing, and the bands on the lock split open. She dropped to her knees and shoved the lid up.

No. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't.

Her breath clogged in her throat and blood roared in her ears as she stared down at the items laid meticulously inside.

Chapter Sixteen

J
ean Paul sank into the familiar rocker by the fire, the family Bible spread across his lap. Before her death, his mother had always taken this spot in the evenings. Now he filled it, reading the same book, page after page, night after night. He flipped through the crinkled pages, but the image of Brigitte and the soft, hazy look in her eyes right before they'd kissed tugged at his mind.

As did her hurt and disappointment afterward.

He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. He hadn't been thinking. One look into her compassionate eyes, one touch of her lips to his, and he'd been lost. He couldn't afford to lose himself like that again with her. 'Twould bring only pain in the future.

No, not even in the future. She'd had tears in her eyes when he'd sent her away. His chest had ached as he'd wrenched the bitter command from his mouth, but what else was he to do? He couldn't keep her here, hadn't the slightest inkling how he could face her on the morrow, so he'd told her not to return.

Would she come back, anyway? 'Twould be easier, much easier, if she simply walked out of his life and never returned.

A man like him had no business having feelings for a woman like Brigitte. He should have put a stop to them sooner...except he hadn't any idea when they'd started. When she'd first approached him about a post? No, not that early. He'd merely felt sorry for her. But then she'd appeared the next day and again the following morn, until somehow, someway, she'd niggled into the place in his heart that had been hard and cold as stone since Corinne's death.

Into the place he'd intended to keep frozen for the rest of his life.

How dare he let himself become so attracted to her when her husband's blood might well be on his hands?

He shoved a hand through his hair and glanced down at the familiar verse of Scripture glaring back at him.
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

If only forgiveness was as simple as the Bible claimed. Then mayhap he could set his past behind him and move forward. But the verse didn't work. He knew. He'd read it, then prayed it every night since he'd returned to Abbeville.

Yet he closed his eyes and whispered the prayer again. “Father God, forgive me. For the Terror. For Brigitte. For everything.”

But as usual, his words rose only to the ceiling before they fell back to taunt him, never reaching the ears of God.

* * *

Fresh tears blurred her vision as Brigitte stumbled up the little path leading to the hut. Her throat ached from keeping them pushed down for so long, and her head throbbed as the items of the trunk branded themselves repeatedly across her mind.

Jean Paul couldn't have killed Henri. He simply couldn't. The things in the trunk didn't mean Alphonse was right. Surely they only proved...

But what if Alphonse was right? What if Jean Paul really had killed Henri?

It seemed impossible. How could such a kind, generous man like Jean Paul have a dark and murderous past?

Either way, she needed to learn the truth. Alphonse wanted information, and proving Jean Paul innocent now seemed nigh impossible. She'd no choice but to go to Jean Paul in the morning and ask him about the hidden things she'd found...

If he would talk to her after he'd already sent her away.

She wrapped her arms around her middle. Oh, goodness, she felt sick.

She should never have come here. She'd known it from the first, but as she'd sat across from Alphonse in that dimly lit warehouse, it seemed she hadn't a choice.
Be sure your sin will find you out.
The verse echoed back at her, a haunting memory in the darkness.

She'd had a choice all along. She could have chosen right. She could have chosen not to spy. She could have chosen to walk away from Alphonse and whatever twisted justice he'd devised for the man who'd killed Henri.

But she hadn't, and she was a vile, wretched person. Because now that she'd started down this dark road, how did she get out? This path of deceit hadn't freed her. If anything, she was more trapped now than she'd ever been in Calais.

Up ahead, a dim lantern cast its faint glow through the window of her little hut. She dragged her feet forward, the throbbing in her head pounding harder and the ache in her heart deepening with each step she took toward the little house Jean Paul had so generously lent her.

Her children should all be abed by now, hopefully sleeping soundly enough to not notice her swollen eyes or tear-streaked face. But she didn't have to dress for bed and lie down to know slumber and peace would elude her. She reached the door and groped for its handle in the darkness, but the rough wooden planks swung suddenly inward.

“You're late.”

She jerked at the sound of the voice, irate and quiet, then trailed her eyes up the familiar blue and tan uniform filling the doorway. What was the gendarme doing here? In her home? With the children?

“You missed the meeting.”

She pushed against him, hoping for the barest glimpse of Danielle or Serge or Victor. But he grabbed her arm and used his wide body to block her view of the bed where her children should be lying.

“Unhand me, or I'll...I'll...”

“You'll what?” he growled. “Tell Citizen Belanger I was here?”

A cold edge of fear skittered up her back. She tried to shove past him again, but only ended up trapped against his chest. “I said let me go.”

“You're in no position to make demands. Not after you missed tonight's rendezvous.” His fingers dug hard into her arm. “Where were you?”

“I'll tell you nothing until I know my children are safe.”

“And what if they're not?”

The moisture leached from her mouth. She growled low in her throat and barreled into him. The gendarme's sturdy form stumbled back, just a step or two, but enough for her to reach the inside of the cottage and glimpse her children, all sleeping in the bed.

“They're fine,” she stated, more to herself than him.

“They won't be if you continue dallying. I received word from Alphonse Dubois today. He feels the two of us have taken too long to complete our duties here. He's sending men.”

“Men?”

Panic reignited in her belly. The arrival of more of Alphonse's men could only mean one thing: her father-in-law intended to drag her and the children back to Calais.

The gendarme frowned at her. “You didn't know.”

“
Non.
How would I know?”

He took hold of her shoulders, his hands strong and tight. “I assumed that's why you skipped our meeting. That you'd found out about Alphonse's men and had left town.”

She merely shook her head.

“Whether you knew or not changes nothing. I came for my proof. Where is it?”

In the trunk.
A cold dread settled over her heart. “I told you before, I have no proof.”

Because maybe there was a perfectly logical explanation for the items hidden in the stable. Maybe Jean Paul hadn't killed Henri but instead had—

“You're hiding something.”

The breath froze in her lungs. Why, oh, why was she cursed with the inability to tell a lie?

His fingers dug harder into her shoulders. “What do you know?”

“N-nothing.”

“You're lying again.” He jerked her nearer, so close his breath fanned against her cheek and the stubble from his evening beard stood out against his skin despite the faint light from the lantern. “Alphonse's men are not a light threat. Tell me what you know, or you'll get both of us killed.”

She raised her chin and clenched her jaw tightly.

“Do I have to hold a knife to the babe's throat to get you to speak?”

“Non!”
She fought against his grip and reached out to rake her nails down his cheek.

He spun her around and clamped her hard against his chest, using one arm across the middle of her body to anchor both her body and her arms against him.

“Look at your younglings.” He fisted a hand in her hair and jerked her head until she viewed the pallet where her three beautiful children lay. “Do you want them dead?”

She pressed her eyes shut.
“Non.”

“Then tell me what you know.”

Father, forgive me,
she cried silently to the heavens. How had she gotten here, to this place where she must choose between an honorable man or her own sweet children? She didn't want to choose one over the other. She wanted to protect both.

But she'd lost the chance to protect everyone the moment she agreed to Alphonse's plan.

“Well, what's it to be?” the gendarme growled in her ear.

Moisture blurred her vision as she stared at her children. “Citizen Belanger...”

She couldn't do it. Her shoulders slumped, and the air rushed from her lungs.

“Speak, wench.”

“He...He...” Her tongue fumbled thick and clumsily in her mouth.

The gendarme's grip tightened around her middle, digging into her stomach until she could hardly draw breath. “I'll not give you another chance.”

She swallowed and forced the words out. “He has a National Guard uniform hidden away.”

“Ha! So he is the man!” The gendarme released her at once, leaving her gasping for air as she spun to face him. “I'll tell Alphonse to move forward.”

“Move forward? You can't!”

A catlike smile twisted his face. “Can't what? We finally have the evidence we need.”

“But...but...you have no proof Jean Paul is the man Alphonse seeks,” she blurted.

“Don't be a fool. You saw the soldiers who travelled with the representatives-on-mission during the Terror. You know they wore the blue of the National Guard.”

“Yes, but there are thousands of men who have worn such coats for one reason or another since the
Révolution
started. It only means that he was once in the National Guard, perhaps even while he was in Paris. It doesn't mean...doesn't mean...”

He killed Henri.

For once, there was no sneer upon the guard's lips, no cruel glint in his eyes. “Don't allow yourself to feel guilt. 'Tis easier that way. Meet me tomorrow in the woods after dark. All you need do is bring me his uniform's coat, and I'll give you your money. You've done your job, now let Alphonse do his.”

“But you're going to kill Jean Paul!” Her throat felt as though a liter of sand had been forced down it.

“Oui.”

“He doesn't deserve to die.”

The gendarme took up a sack leaning against the wall by the door and swung it over his shoulder. “If Citizen Belanger had any part in the Terror, he deserves to die. You can hardly argue the point.”

“But you don't know that he did. All I found was a uniform. Do your coat and breeches mean you were involved in the Terror?”

The gendarme's jaw hardened. “'Tis evidence enough that you found the uniform hidden when you add it to Citizen Belanger's disappearance from Abbeville, plus the exorbitant amounts of money he brought with him from Paris and used to buy up land. He probably got that money looting the dead.”

“
Non.
It's not enough evidence. Not at all. I need more time.”

“For what? The coat buys your family its freedom to move to Reims.”

“I don't want your filthy money, and I don't want...”
To move to Reims.

The thought struck her, hard and cold and perhaps a bit life-altering. She hardly knew when that had changed, but as she stood here this night, facing a man who might well kill her children if it benefited himself, she wanted nothing more to do with him or Alphonse—regardless of the gold-tinged promises they made.

“Don't want what?” the gendarme prodded, one eyebrow cocked arrogantly high.

“Anything from you or Alphonse. Stop toying with my life. I'm a person, real flesh and blood. Not some puppet to be manipulated.”

“That's where you're wrong. We're all puppets. Bring me the uniform at our usual location tomorrow night, and it might appease Alphonse enough so that his men won't come for you. Either that, or tell me where the uniform is hidden and I'll retrieve it myself.”

She'd never betray Jean Paul in such a manner. “You can't make me do either.”

“You haven't much choice. If I have to seek you out again, I won't leave your children to sleep so peacefully.” He turned and stormed outside, the door slamming behind him with such force the entire house shook. Serge sighed and squirmed a bit at the noise before settling into stillness, Victor moaned, but Danielle sprang up from the bed far too quickly for a child who'd been sleeping.

“Citizen Belanger,
Maman?
You've been spying on him all this time? How could you?”

Brigitte sank to the floor, icy tremors racking her body. She'd just agreed to sacrifice the man she was falling in love with to keep Alphonse happy.

How could she indeed?