Naomi Rawlings - Sanctuary for a Lady

She screamed, shrinking into the bed and clutching the quilt. Her bandaged arm shook with pain, but she cared not.

Why had he brought her here? Surely he wouldn’t make her endure another beating. She shut her eyes and heard the jeers, saw the men standing over her, felt their blunt boots connect with her lower back, her rib cage, her abdomen.

She should be dead. Oh, why wasn’t she dead? He was making sport of her.

“Calm yourself. I’ll not hurt you.”

At the sound of his indifferent voice, her breath caught. That certainly wasn’t familiar—his voice had been full of loathing in the woods. She opened her eyes and gulped, pulling the quilt up with her good hand until she could barely peek over it. The stranger shifted his weight and paced the small confines of the room.

“I don’t believe you.” She stared at him, measuring his movements, comparing him to the man who haunted her memory.

He tunneled a hand through his hair and set his wide-brimmed hat on his head. “It would better serve you to believe the man who brought you home, kept you warm and fed you.”

This man walked differently than the soldier, and his hair…was lighter, shorter. His stature smaller. She let out a relieved sigh. Oui, this man resembled the soldier from the woods, but was not the same person.

Hard lines and planes formed a face weathered by the elements, but not altogether uncomely. His straight nose and strong jaw made him appear rugged rather than harsh. The leader of the soldiers had a hardened look that this stranger did not possess.

“Had you no part in the attack?”

Annoyance flashed, but no malice. “I don’t rape women and beat them nearly to death, if that’s what you ask.”

“They didn’t rape me.” The words rushed out before she could check them. The man turned to face her fully. No scar curled around his eyebrow. Oui, he was innocent.

And he had nursed her for two weeks. ’Twas a long time to care for a stranger, although he couldn’t know she was of the House of La Rouchecauld.

She bit the side of her lip. He’d shown her kindness, and she blamed him for attacking her. Furthermore, she brought the threat of soldiers, arrest and the guillotine to his door. She’d naught have helped him were the situation reversed. “I’m sorry to accuse you falsely.”

His crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “You’re forgiven.”

His simple words washed over her, offering comfort and security. “Merci.”

Though he watched her intently, her eyes drifted shut. Oh, to go back to that place she found while sleeping, where she was home, her family still lived, food filled the table and death didn’t stalk her. But she wasn’t in Burgundy, where a mob killed her parents and little brother outside the gates of their home. She and Marie escaped only because they took a different route to England, parting ways with her parents at Versailles and heading north via their aunt’s estate near Arras. News of their parents’ deaths had taken months to reach them.

Then Marie died anyway.

Her fault. Isabelle clutched her throat. All her fault.

“Are you having another spell?”

She opened her eyes.

The man stood close now.

“Just leave me be.” The words fell quickly from her lips. He didn’t understand who she was, that his kindness would sentence him to death if soldiers discovered her. She snugged the quilt tighter around her and rolled away from him. Pain seared her ribs, and her breath caught. But she didn’t roll to her back or shift to ease the discomfort. Instead, she stared at the bare, uneven texture of the daub wall. Her family was gone now, even her sister. When she was running, she hadn’t time to think about Marie or the way she’d betrayed her sister.

But now she had time. Too much time. Why had she been the one to live and Marie the one to die? A tear slid down her cheek. Marie should still be alive, not her.

The peasant’s feet crunched against the floor, telling her he lingered in the room, likely watching her. She inhaled deeply as her eyes drifted shut. She hadn’t strength left to face him.

* * *

Michel stared at the beautiful woman lying in his brother’s bed and rubbed his hand over his chin. She hadn’t awakened long enough to get some broth or water in her. And now she lay still, drawn into a little ball as though defending herself against something he couldn’t see. He took a step closer, ran his eyes over her.

The quilt rose and fell ever so slightly along her side.

At least she breathed. At least she hadn’t curled up and died on him.

What’s your name? Where are you headed? Is someone expecting you? Questions warred inside him, but she wasn’t awake to ask.

He walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Her silver-and-emerald pendant lay atop her neatly folded clothes. He reached in and held the precious metal against his palm until the necklace heated with his touch.

If only the thieves had found and taken the pendant. If only he didn’t know about her heritage.

The woman sighed, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He dropped the necklace and waited for the words that were sure to come. Mumblings and shouts about someone named Marie and soldiers, a mob and parents.

And then the tears of delirium.

He turned toward the girl, but she didn’t move. Only sighed again. Mayhap the dreams were done haunting her now that she’d awoken for a bit. God, please keep the dreams from her. She may be an aristocrat, but she’d suffered through enough dreams during the past weeks to last the remainder of her life.

Leaving the girl, he went into the main chamber and found it empty. Mère must still be in the yard. He ladled some broth from the soup simmering over the fire and poured some water before going back to the girl and setting the tray on the bedside table.

The sturdy bed frame didn’t so much as creak as he sat beside her. She groaned but didn’t wake when he rolled her toward him and propped her head and shoulders against his arm.

Her body felt slight in his embrace, as though her bones would shatter if he squeezed too tight. Her eyelids rested peacefully, and she breathed deep and evenly, not with the erratic, shallow breaths that plagued her when he first brought her home.

Unable to resist, he wiped a tendril of silky black hair from her brow, then jerked backwards.

What was he doing holding her, smoothing away her hair? He laid the girl back on her pillow and raked a hand over his hair. He had managed to bring her back from death, and nurse her to health. But that was no reason to grow soft over the girl. It mattered not whether she was beautiful or helpless. She deserved a taste of the misery her kind had caused him and his family.

Didn’t she?

Oui, of course she did. Her ilk had been taxing and oppressing people like him for centuries.

The girl writhed on her bed. “Marie! Non, don’t take her. Take me instead. It’s my fault. My fault.”

The familiar words washed over him, then dissipated into silence. How many times had she cried something similar over the past weeks?

He stood and tightened his jaw. Whatever she dreamed, whatever she remembered, he had to get her well and on her way before anyone found her. But he couldn’t send her forth before she healed.

Not after how he found her in his woods. Not when God told him to take her.

But his obligation to restore her health didn’t explain his urge to run his fingers down the slender column of her bruised neck. To smooth away the fading green-and-black splotch on her cheek.

He stalked from the room, leaving her broth and water on the bedside table.

Better to let Mère feed her. He’d get himself into trouble if he stayed any longer.

Chapter Three