Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (63 page)

He touched his palm to his left shoulder as though the spot still pained him.

“I wasn't a kind superior to my men. I understand now why they wanted rid of me. And what better time to eliminate me than in a driving storm when no one was about? I deserved to die that day, and I would have, if not for Isabelle.” He smiled then, just a small upturning of lips, but it was genuine rather than bitter. “She found me, and used the money she had kept for her passage to England to pay for a physician and a room in an inn where she could nurse me.”

The air rushed out of Brigitte's lungs, and for a long moment, she could do naught but stare at him. “She saved your life? This woman you'd tried to kill?”

“'Tis what changed my heart, what forced me to see how much of a monster I'd become. I would have killed Isabelle without guilt. But even after I'd tried first to kill her and then later to drag her to prison, she wouldn't do the same to me. She
forgave
me. She reminded me of the God I'd worshiped as a little boy, and she forgave me the way Christ had forgiven her for a past crime. What choice had I but to accept her forgiveness? She sacrificed everything to save me.

“But with that forgiveness, came all the responsibility of my former life. I could hardly go on killing. Before, I'd assumed all aristocrats wicked and selfish, like
Seigneur
Montrose. I felt no guilt in leading such people to the guillotine. But how would I know whether the person I now took was innocent or guilty? Noble birth was no proof of a wicked heart. Isabelle herself posed quite a problem. She was a duc's daughter and very much in love with my brother. 'Twas too dangerous for her to stay in France, and I had money...that which I'd gotten as pay, from looting those I arrested and from storming chateaux and hôtels in Paris. So I gave her and Michel money for their journey, and I took over the farm.”

“It's a beautiful story,” she spoke softly. And it was, not because of the things he'd done during the Terror, but because of the person God had changed him into. How could she do anything but forgive him for the role he'd had in Henri's death? “I had no idea.”

She reached for his hand, but he stood before she could slip her fingers between his.

“You must have missed the portion where I mentioned taking part in your husband's death.”

“But you overcame that. You turned—”

“No more, Brigitte.” He stalked to the door and yanked it open. Bright sunlight flooded inside, sorely out of place as it poured over the dark man with an even darker past.

She followed him outside. “Where are you going?”

“To the fields. Where else?”

“Wait.” He couldn't go. Not after the way she'd betrayed him last night. She needed to tell him the truth about why she was here; then maybe they could find some way through this. Jean Paul had committed some terrible crimes, yes, but she was hardly any better after last night.

He looked at her with a dark, haunted gaze.

What she wouldn't do to erase the tortured look from his eyes. Or to feel his arms around her, press her lips to his again. “Why don't you sit? I can make up a meal and we'll—”

“Not now.” He turned toward the fields then paused and looked back. “Wait for the younglings to rise, and go back to your cottage. I'm not in need of your services today.”

Something painful thudded in her chest. “And tomorrow?”

“I've yet to decide that.” With those words, he stalked across the yard and toward the turnip-laden field nearest the house.

But I love you!
The voice inside her heart cried after him.

She couldn't simply command the ache in her heart to disappear, not when he meant so much to her.
Father, what have I done?
She'd found the man that had killed her husband, and yet she hadn't found him at all. Because the man who had sat beside her and bared his agonizing story wasn't the same person who had stormed into her house and taken Henri. Oh, he might go by the same Christian name, might have the same large, powerful body.

But his heart was different.

'Twas almost as though he'd died and then come back to life, a new man.

If only Jean Paul's changed heart would appease Alphonse. Why, oh, why could she not have realized how much Jean Paul meant to her yesterday, before her meeting with the gendarme?

But then, what good would that have done? The gendarme had threatened her children, and the only way she could put off that threat was to turn traitor on the man she loved.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he summer air hung thick and heavy about her, but Brigitte wrapped her arms tightly around herself nonetheless, warding off an inner, bone-deep chill as she hurried across the yard to the stable. She glanced quickly back toward the house, where her children still slept, and then let herself inside. The scents of hay and animal swirled around her, tangy and comforting despite the way her heart pounded against her ribs.

She headed straight to the back of the building where the trunk lay buried. In a matter of moments, she had the rectangular box uncovered and the lid raised. If only she knew what to do with the items inside.

The uniform coat lay on top, warn and tattered with its unmistakable shade of blue. She ran her hand over the rough fabric. She couldn't turn this coat in and claim money from Alphonse, couldn't turn traitor on the man she loved—a man the entire town loved.

But if she didn't give the coat to Alphonse's henchman, what else was she to do?
Father God, how can I right this mess?

She waited, eyes closed, face pressed up toward the heavens, but no resounding answer thundered from above, nor did any new thought appear in her mind. Not even a whisper of an idea flitted through her spirit. She reached farther inside the trunk, hoping, praying, willing some brilliant solution to spring into her head. Instead, she ended up with dark, leatherbound book full of blank pages.

She frowned. Why would Jean Paul keep an empty journal here? She buried her hands deeper in the chest and pulled out a bicorn hat, boots and breeches, all part of the National Guard uniform. A pouch full of money and gold buttons—evidently he hadn't spent all his money on the land. And another book, the leather cover soft with use and its sides dented and scarred. Dark, brash handwriting filling every last page.

She turned to the first page and smoothed it flat.

April 3, 1789.

Before the
Révolution
started.

I miss you, Corinne. People tell me I shouldn't. That it's been three months. That many others died during the winter considering how the crops failed. But I can't stop myself. Sometimes my pain is so real my stomach cramps as I fall asleep, or I'll find my eyes wet when shoveling coal. I tell my friends it's the smell of the coal, but they suspect the tears nonetheless. So I'm going to try journaling for a spell. Mayhap if I write things down, it might help me remember you when I should, and think about other things when I need my mind elsewhere.

I'm in Paris now. Couldn't abide to stay home after...well, after. I got a job hauling coal about a month back, and people call me Charron. I can't say why, but I don't want them to know me by Belanger. I thought mayhap if I changed my name and became a different man on the outside, I might be able to let go on the inside, as well. But you still visit my dreams every night, and some mornings when I wake, the memories of you are so real I struggle to get out of bed. I'd much rather fall back asleep, where I can see you and hear your voice. If only I could stay in that dream for days and weeks and months, never waking up again.

The entry ended just as abruptly as that. No mention of whether Jean Paul got out of bed the next morn. Though surely he must have dragged himself off his tick eventually, as he was still around today.

She flipped farther into the book, a single word glaring back at her numerous times from each and every entry.
Corinne, Corinne, Corinne, Corinne.

When she came to the page marked 14 July 1789, she stopped and ran her fingers down it. She'd taught her children of the events of this day, but Jean Paul had evidently lived them.

We stormed the
Hôtel des Invalides
last night to gather guns and cannons, but found no ammunition. So we moved on to the Bastille for the gunpowder. Its stone walls hulked before us, solid and strong and unbreakable. But we used the cannons on the gates and demanded entry. Now we are armed, the king's soldiers won't be able to slaughter us, the prisoners are liberated, and that bastion of tyranny will no longer tower over Paris.

The journalists and pamphleteers are beside themselves with cheer. All of Paris lauds us, and I had part in it. Everyone is saying this is the beginning. Now that we have broken the Bastille, perhaps we can break the monarchy and aristocracy. Perhaps we can create for ourselves a New France. One where liberty rules rather than tyranny. One where everyone has bread on their tables and meat in their larders.

For the first time since your death, Corinne, I feel that I am doing something important. Something that matters. Just think of it. What if we can forge a France that has no more
Seigneur
Montroses?

Had our country been this way a year ago, you might still be alive.

Brigitte's stomach clenched as she pored over the words. Such dreams, such anger, such grief. 'Twas little wonder he'd ended up storming through the countryside, bent on forcing the French people to accept the National Convention's “liberty.” Liberty and force had no place together, but it had taken a Terror before the country understood that. And the man from this journal, the image of Jean Paul Belanger that these words created, seemed sick and heartbroken, willing to do anything to right the grievances against his wife.

Just like the rest of the French people had been willing to kill the king and aristocrats in the belief that doing so would mean that they could have bread.

She flipped forward, her heart leaden as she searched for yet another memorable date.

21 January 1793.

The king is dead. I went to the execution and cheered. But will his death be enough? Robespierre says no, that all who stand in the way of liberty must die. I can't help but think of
Seigneur
Montrose and what he did to you, Corinne, and I want him dead. I want them all dead.

Tears slid from her face to land on the worn page. What had happened to the man from the first page of the journal? The one who looked forward to dreams of his wife every night while he slept? How had four years changed him into someone who lusted for death instead?

She turned haphazardly through the pages, searching for something she couldn't quite name.

20 July 1793.

I shall be leaving Paris soon. The Committee of Public Safety is sending out representatives to carry liberty to the provinces. Rumors abound of citizens unwilling to bend their knees to liberty's law. I volunteered to go. I shall miss Paris, but how can I ignore the call of liberty?

And she had her answer, what had prodded him to leave Paris and return to northern France with a guillotine. There was more writing, pages and pages of the harsh, uneven words. But she couldn't keep reading, didn't want to see or know the cruel things he'd done during the Terror.

She shifted back, moving the heavy book from her lap onto the hay. The journal certainly hadn't given her any ideas about how to free Jean Paul. If anything, it incriminated him far more than the National Guard coat ever could. What was she to do?

Her eyes fell to the other items she'd pulled from the chest. And suddenly, the idea came. She had a way, one faint sliver of a chance, to protect both her children and Jean Paul.

If only she could manage it before her meeting tonight.

* * *

Jean Paul reached into the dirt and yanked up another weed, tossing it into a pail. The turnip field spread before him, wide and large, nearly amber in the setting sun, and full of weeds he should have dug last week. Except he'd been too distracted by Brigitte and her illness to remember his turnip field.

Brigitte. He closed his eyes. He had no business even thinking her name, let alone conjuring her image in his mind. Not after what he'd done to her husband.

He bent over, resting his arms on his knees. His back ached from twelve hours spent digging and pulling, and the knees of his trousers were so stained and damp they'd never come completely clean. He needed a quick dip in the stream, a hearty meal and a full night's rest.

He expected to have naught but nightmares.

He just hoped Brigitte had left his house when he'd told her to. The knowledge that he'd killed her husband should push her away, but he wouldn't approach the farmstead until well after dark. Better to not chance seeing her again. If she was smart, she'd gone back to the hut, packed her belongings and left Abbeville. She should have enough money to reach Reims now.

But how would he manage with her gone? Every moment he spent in her presence, he fell a little more in love with the brave woman that fought so hard for her children. That had approached a complete stranger in order to procure work. That didn't let raging fever or past heartache hinder the future she had planned for herself and her younglings.

None of which even included the feelings he had for the children who had wiggled their way into his heart.

He'd known his past would come back to haunt him. But to learn to love all over again only to discover his sins would forever keep him from making the family he cared for his own? 'Twas a cruel penance.

Forgiveness had seemed easy last year in Saint-Valery after Isabelle de La Rouchecauld forgave him for trying to kill her. A simple prayer and all was well. But if God had forgiven him, why did he still carry the shame of his past, memories of the Terror, and guilt that bound his chest so tightly he could hardly breathe at times?

He'd merely sought justice for his wife. Or at least, that's what he'd told himself. But it hadn't been justice, at all. He'd wanted retribution, and he'd gotten it...

More than he wished.

Father forgive me,
he whispered to the sky, but to no avail. Just as last time, the wretched words fell back to litter the ground surrounding him, never making their way to God.

God probably had little desire to listen to prayers from a man like him, anyway.

The shadows at the edge of the field shifted, and a flash of white glinted in the dying sun. Jean Paul blinked then furrowed his brow. Sure enough, a figure walked along the edge of his field. Just a glance at the auburn tresses hanging down beneath her mobcap and the creamy hue of her skin, and he knew her.

What was Brigitte doing in his fields as darkness descended? He dropped the hoe where he stood and opened his mouth to call out, then stopped. Perhaps it was the fierceness in Danielle's gaze earlier when she'd warned him to send Brigitte away. Or maybe it was the ice in the girl's voice when she'd proclaimed he would end up dead. But either way, Brigitte heading away from both the farmstead and the hidden cottage hardly made sense.

So he followed.

She left his property and moved on to his neighbor's, her footsteps quick and sure. A white bundle lay wedged beneath her arm, and she held her back rigidly straight. Again he nearly called out but some unnamable hunch made him stop. Instead, he moved into the forest where trees shrouded him and continued across the springy ground with quiet steps. Her white cap and apron stood out as the sun's final rays left the sky, but not until darkness had nearly swallowed her did she veer into the woods.

A sickening awareness twined through him. He scanned the forest, quiet and still at this time of night. But someone else was there, an unknown presence lurking just out of sight. He hunkered down and squinted at the bed of soft soil beneath his feet. Sure enough, a second set of footprints lay indented in the dirt, and too large to be a woman's shoe. Brigitte was meeting someone. A man. Alone. At night. In a secluded place.

His stomach twisted as he inched forward.

* * *

“
Bonne.
You're here.”

Brigitte frowned at the unfamiliar voice and blinked into the darkness, but as usual only shadows greeted her. Did her nerves make her hear things that weren't so? Or perhaps the gendarme had taken on a cold, making his voice unrecognizable. She was at the designated rendezvous place at the appointed time, and the guard stayed hidden in the trees. Everything was normal.

But the air held a thick, foreboding sensation. A chill skittered up her spine, and she glanced around. Maybe if she could determine where the gendarme hid...

But no human shadow hunkered among the dark, towering trees—at least none that she could discern.

She smoothed her damp hands against the folds of her skirt. The voice likely seemed strange because her nerves were overtaking her. She clutched the journal tighter beneath her arm and swallowed. She could do this. All she needed was to hand over the book and claim she'd found it with Jean Paul's coat. He had no reason to accuse her of lying.

Unless he could see the sweat beading on her forehead or hear the rapid thump of her pulse.

But no. He couldn't sense those things, especially in the dark. And she had to appear strong. In control. Aloof.

“Have you my money?” She managed to form the words without her voice trembling. “I brought Citizen Belanger's journal, but I want the money first.”

A sneering chuckle echoed from the woods. “You're not in control. I am.”

She turned to look behind her, her heart quickening yet again. 'Twas definitely not the gendarme's voice that time. “Who are you? Show yourself.”

“Show me the evidence first.”

“Where's the gendarme I met last night?”

A louder laugh this time, cruel and unfettered. “Detained. Alphonse expects efficiency from his men. Neither you nor Gilles have been efficient.”

Her hand tightened on the journal despite the moisture saturating her grip. What was she going to do? Would he be harder to fool than the gendarme? More cruel? What if he took one look at the journal and knew what she'd done?

But the man behind the trees was right. She had no control. If she did, she wouldn't be in Abbeville at all, spying on the man she loved. Tempted to betray him in order to save her children.

She straightened her spine and raised her chin. She only had to be strong one more time, only had to pass along this one falsehood, and she would be done forever. “I want the money first.”