The Soldier's Secrets

She yawned and moved her lagging feet along the edge of the field, wiping a strand of hair from her face. She shouldn’t be so tired, not when she’d woken a mere hour ago. Yet weariness clung to her, growing worse with each passing day. She sighed and pressed her eyelids open wider.

Perchance she’d have time for a nap before she met Alphonse’s man tonight. If she baked Citizen Belanger’s bread in a timely manner, and the children behaved, and she didn’t have to scrounge for food....

She was fooling herself. The nap wouldn’t happen; they never did.

She gave the house a wide berth as she circled around, careful lest Citizen Belanger was already working in his garden or the stable. But alas, the house sat quiet and peaceful, like a cottage in a painting with the sun’s warm fingers wrapped around it while fields dipped and swelled into the distance.

She raised her hand to the door, but it swung open before she knocked.

“Citizen Belanger.” She jerked backward, stumbling over an uneven patch of dirt.

He reached out and gripped her arm with his big, solid hand. “Are you unwell?”

Heat flooded her face. On their first meeting, she’d nearly fainted, yesterday she’d accused him of making worse bread than a slug and today she’d almost fallen. The man must think her a dunce.

But he didn’t look at her as though she were a dunce. No. His eyes were soft and dark, but more the color of the earth after a hard rain than midnight. And his hand still rested on her arm, warm and strong and...comforting?

How long since a man had touched her out of concern rather than force? Another wave of heat exploded onto her cheeks, and she ducked her head.

But he kept his grip on her, this gaze roving slowly over her as though looking for...

What? She peeked up at him. His face was a hard mixture of prominent bones and taut skin, firm planes and severe angles with that inexplicable scar twisting around his eyebrow. And he was far too big. His hair brushed the top of the doorjamb and his shoulders spanned wide enough to eclipse any view she might have of inside.

Yet his eyes were still soft, as was his touch. He couldn’t be all ominous terror, not when he provided her food and work. Not when he asked after her health.

He released her arm and took the bread from her hands. “You look ill.”

She swallowed. ’Twasn’t a very romantic thing to say after surveying her so closely—not that she wanted romance from the man she needed to spy on.

“I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m fine.” Except for the dull thudding at the back of her head, the subtle aching in her joints and the weariness that beset her. But those were hardly severe enough to hinder her from her duties.

“Are you with child?”

“Pardon?” The word burst from her lips on a gust of air. How dare he inquire after such a thing?

But he seemed not the least embarrassed by his question. Instead, he raised a dark eyebrow at her. “Are you?”

“Non. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

His dark eyes travelled her body once more, from the top of her mobcap down her overlarge dress, pausing a moment at her stomach before drawing his gaze down to her ill-fitting shoes. Why he should have the need to examine her yet again, when all he’d done was stare at her since she’d arrived, she hardly knew.

Whatever he saw must have convinced him she spoke the truth, because his eyes moved back up to her face. “Did you eat the soup and bread I sent yesterday?”

“Oui.” And that wasn’t a lie. He needn’t know the food was gone already, or how little of it she’d consumed herself. “Have you thought more about hiring me as a maid?”

“The bread will suffice.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out two coins. “Here are two livres for your labor.”

She took a step back. She needed money, yes, but not so much. Bread sold for perhaps one livre in town, maybe less, as most of that price was tied into the cost of wheat—something Citizen Belanger had much of. “Sixteen sous should suffice, since you provided the flour.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Look at you, woman. You’re nigh on starved, plus you’ve bruises beneath your eyes and tired lines at the edges of your mouth. I might not know who you are or from whence you came, but I can see you need two livres, not sixteen sous. Take the coins, or don’t bother returning with more bread on the morrow.”

The impossible man. Was he really going to make her argue about getting paid less? “One livre, four sous, but not two livres.”

His face remained hard. “’Tis not up for bargain.”

She stared at the two livres nestled in his palm, their value of twenty sous a piece easily worth twice the loaf of bread she’d brought him. But if she didn’t accept, where did that leave her tomorrow? Or the day after that? The two livres would allow her to purchase more pulse in town with several sous left over. Perhaps she could even buy fabric for Serge’s trousers and Danielle’s dress. “Fine, then. But tomorrow I take one livre and four sous.”

“Only if you don’t wish to return the next day. Wait here.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he was about, but he disappeared into the house before she could speak, the insufferable oaf.

She tapped her foot on the ground, peering through the doorway to catch glimpses of him rummaging by the table. But she wasn’t going in to see what he was doing, no. He probably expected that. He’d suck her into his house and then...then...then...

She blew a breath upward, the gust fluttering the wisps of hair hanging near her face. She didn’t know what the man would do if she went inside. Didn’t know much of anything about him. Things weren’t going according to plan. She had to meet Alphonse’s man this evening, and at this precise moment, she was further away from getting the job she needed to spy on Citizen Belanger than she’d been when first they’d met.

The time for being polite was past. She needed to convince him to hire her, and she needed to do so now.

She walked inside. The most obvious place to start cleaning was the table, but since Citizen Belanger hulked there throwing food into another bundle, she started with the bench beside the door. She took up the folds of her apron and wiped the smooth wood. Her worn apron was hardly white to begin with, but after cleaning the bench, dark streaks of dust stained the fabric.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped at the stern sound of his voice but straightened her shoulders. “It appears you do need a housekeeper. Look at the dust I wiped from this bench.”

She turned and held out her apron, then gulped. Citizen Belanger’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he stared down at her, while muscles corded in tight ropes along his neck and arms. He looked ready to stride over and strangle her.

She took a step backward. Perhaps she’d been a little too hasty in coming inside.

But no. She couldn’t let him frighten her. She had to protect her children first, and that meant gleaning information from the irate man before her—however unpleasant that prospect might be. “You stand rather straight, Citizen Belanger. Tell me. Have you ever been in the army?”

His hands tightened into fists around the bundle of food he held, and he stalked toward her.

She took another step back only to bump into the bench behind her.

“My past is hardly your concern.”

Oh, no. He was supposed to see her work and decide to hire her, not get angry. He was supposed to answer her questions, not corner her against the wall. She licked her lips. “I was simply making conversation. You know I’m from Calais. Why can I not know whether you’ve been in the army? You’ve the bearing of a well-trained soldier.”

“I have nothing of the sort. And I might know you’re from Calais, but I hardly know why you’re here, or where you’re staying, or why you’re suddenly so concerned with whether I was a soldier.”

She sucked in a painfully sharp breath. Did he see the way her hands trembled? Did her face look as cold as it felt?

And why could he not answer this one question? He turned every situation around until she was the one under interrogation. About where she lived. How much she’d eaten. Whether she was sick. If she carried a child.

“Why are you so concerned with my past?” His eyes narrowed, as though they could bore through her flesh and clothes and see straight into her heart.

She pushed down the urge to curl like a babe against the wall and raised her chin. “I told you. I was making conversation.”

“If you’ve such a penchant for conversation, you provide it. Where are you staying?”