Naomi Rawlings - Sanctuary for a Lady

Michel scrubbed a hand over his face as Isabelle’s words swirled around him. He should have never asked to hear it. Her face shone deathly pale, but her words sounded hard, objective. Like a soldier who recounted someone else’s experience, rather than her own. ’Twould be better if she cried, raged, anything to get out what must be burning inside her.

“I should have been more prepared for a chase. I see that now. The handful of other times I happened upon someone in the road, I’d time enough to hide in the forest. But the soldiers, they emerged from the trees, not the road. What could I do but run? The shadows weren’t enough to conceal me. And I had my valise. I should have dropped it, left it for them. But…I couldn’t.”

Her voice hitched, followed by a tremble of the lips and the slightest sheen of anguish in her eyes. “I’d already lost so much.”

Her determination nearly broke him. How terrible to be forced from your home, constrained to travel at night with wild animals and thieves abounding, impelled to carry all possessions in a valise.

Michel hunched his shoulders and turned away from her. He wouldn’t feel sorry for her. He couldn’t.

Fire and damnation. Her kin had starved him, taxed his land, house, harvest and made him pay for use of the mill. Seigneurs refused him rights to hunt and fish. Now he sat beside a seigneur’s daughter, and he was supposed to pity her?

Michel stiffened, only half listening as she continued.

“Despite my advanced start, I could feel them gaining. Then my valise caught. I turned to jerk it free, but a soldier had hold of it. When I pulled, the bag ripped, but I continued forward. There was a copse of pine ahead, and if I could get there, I thought to lose myself in their dense branches. But I never…that is to say, I didn’t…”

She cleared her throat.

How had the woman courage to continue her story?

“One wore an old National Guard coat, and they all had on those hideous tricolor cockades. They wanted to know my name, where I was from and so forth. I told them the same story I told you, but they didn’t believe me, either. And when the leader demanded the truth, I refused. They were going to kill me regardless. Why give them the pleasure of knowing whom they’d taken?”

He’d not look at the girl. He couldn’t or he’d lose every drop of the hatred he harbored for the aristocracy. Tunneling a hand through his hair, he paced, but the room was hardly large enough. Four steps across from the chest of drawers to Mère’s bed and back again.

He wished he’d never found her. Then there’d be no dilemma, no danger to him and his mother by harboring her. No choice between whether to further aid her escape or kick her out once she regained her strength.

He’d not sneak into the woods again to fish for the rest of his days if he could send her on her way. Rid himself of the burden she’d become.

“The leader, a large man not unlike yourself, had at least enough decency to refuse the others the opportunity to violate me. I suppose I wasn’t worth dragging to the nearest guillotine, so they’d kill me there, in the woods. Then I felt a blow to my lower back and…”

He stopped pacing. Isabelle worked her jaw to and fro. Why didn’t she let her pain out? She should be in tears after reliving such an ordeal. Her hands trembled in what was surely a bitter fight for control, but her eyes stayed flat.

“…I can’t recall anything more.”

He raised his eyes to the thatched roof. Through the deaths of his father and Corinne, he’d clung to the fact that God didn’t make mistakes. Every morning when he rose to milk the cow and feed the animals, every midday when he planted or weeded or harvested rather than build furniture, he reminded himself God’s ways were best.

But the arrival of this…this… He knew not what to call her. He could hardly term her “wench” or “vixen” when she faced the memories of her attack with such strength. He could hardly call her “girl” when she had lived through such pain.

The arrival of this mademoiselle had him questioning God’s ways. Why would God want him to find her? To care for her? In God’s great plan of things, this situation was most illogical. Someone else should have discovered her. Father Albert or…

And therein lay the problem. She’d been lying in his woods. So God must have given this responsibility to him, must intend for him to aid the girl.

But why? Michel’s temples pounded. He needed the feel of wood beneath his hands, the relaxing motion of the saw or planer to clear his thoughts, roll away the stress.

“Michel?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, then reluctantly looked at the girl. No—the woman. Her lips moved. They were red, the color of apples in September, not the dull pink they’d been when he found her. And her hair, by heavens, he should have hidden Mère’s brush. It had been comely enough when dirty and matted in the woods, but brushed and falling freely over her shoulders and the pillows, it looked like a cascade of dark silk. He rubbed his forefinger over the pad of his thumb. Surely her hair wouldn’t feel so soft.

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