Sanctuary for a Lady

Marie rested the shovel against the tree and reached for the box Isabelle held, but Isabelle clutched it to her chest. The simple wooden square held no resemblance to the elaborate ivory jewelry box she’d left at Versailles, but inside rested the few earnings they’d scraped together and the coins she had hidden on her person before they’d been stranded.

Laying their treasure in the cold ground seemed almost cruel, but she knelt and placed the box in its new home.

Marie crouched on the opposite side of the hole and grasped Isabelle’s hand. “Swear that if I am caught, you will take this money and flee.”

She jerked her hand away and shook her head. The idea didn’t bear thinking of. “Non. You won’t be caught. We will get to England together. We must. I won’t let the Révolution take you from me.”

“Anything could happen to me, to us. We’ve no guarantee of reaching England.”

“We’ve been hiding for nearly a year, and no one has discovered us. ’Tis guarantee enough.”

“We’ve no certainty of earning money for a second ship fare, no promise that we can evade the soldiers and mobs forever. If I am caught, I will be killed.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. They’d not spoken of this before—one of them dying. Her chest felt as though she were being held underwater, and no matter how hard she fought to draw breath, the substance that invaded her airways grew thick and deadly.

“Izzy, look at me.”

She brought her shaky gaze back to Marie’s.

“If I’m caught, you take the money and map, and you go. Without looking back, without thinking of me. You flee to England. One of us will survive. We must. Whatever happens, we won’t let the mobs destroy the last La Rouchecauld.”

She longed to tell Marie not to be daft, yearned to promise they’d both see England’s shores. But Marie’s eyes, dark and serious, kept her from speaking such things. “And if I am captured, you do the same.”

And there, beneath the shade of the oak, they sliced their thumbs and pressed them together in that ancient ritual of binding a promise.

“Can you hear me, girl? Are you awake?”

The deep voice filtered through Isabelle’s haze of dreams, reaching, clutching, tugging, until it pulled her up, into the bare room lit with day. She blinked at the farmer who towered over her.

Isabelle licked her lips, dry and parched as sunbaked dirt. “What…what do you want?” She barely recognized the rusted sound of her voice.

“To see if you would awaken.” Concern shimmered from his eyes—green eyes, the color of dandelion stems. “You’ve slept another three days. And when you started thrashing…”

Her eyes drifted closed. The farmer should have let her sleep. At least Marie still lived in her dreams.

Isabelle jerked her eyes back open. Marie. England. The promise. She had to get up. Had to find her way to the shore. She could die once she reached England, so long as she kept her oath to Marie. So long as the La Rouchecauld name didn’t die in the clutches of the Révolution.

The man bent low over her, the smells of earth and sun and animals radiating from him. “Can I do something to ease your pain?”

Isabelle propped herself up. Pain seared her ribs, but she nudged her pillow against the headboard until she reclined in a semisitting position. “You have been most kind to me, citoyen. Please, tell me where I am?”

“About a kilometer east of Abbeville.” The man measured his words, speaking slowly.

Abbeville. The name settled into her memory. Oui, the town she’d been approaching the night of her attack. She was just east of it—so close to the sea. “How far, then, to Saint-Valery?”

He shifted closer and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you ask?”

She swallowed. Was heading to a city on the sea too obvious? Did he know that, once there, she would board a ship? Since the British and French warred over the sea, she couldn’t go straight to London, but she could sail there via Sweden or Denmark, the only two neutral countries on the continent. “I’ve an aunt waiting to receive me.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. Tante Cordele still awaited her in London.

His gaze held hers. “An aunt. In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Convenient.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t believe me?” He knew everything. He must. Otherwise, he wouldn’t look at her thus.

“Why should I believe a stranger?”

“Because I… Why…it’s…” Her throat burned. Certainly, it had more to do with being thirsty than telling an untruth. But what else had she to say? He’d saved her life. He deserved the truth, if only the truth wouldn’t get her killed—and him as well. Surely she was protecting him by concealing the truth.

She forced a smile. “I beg you, sir. Simply give me the distance to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”

“Twenty kilometers.”

Hope surged through her. Only a day’s walk from Abbeville to the Channel. By this time tomorrow, she would be at the port. She gripped the quilt and looked at the man before her. “I am most grateful for your kindness, but I must away.”

“Aye, you must away. But you’ll not leave afore you’ve healed.”

Isabelle frowned. True, her head throbbed and her ribs pulsed with pain, but still… “I’m well enough to walk to Saint-Valery, thank you.”

“You’ve not tried standing, yet you can walk to Saint-Valery?”

“Of course.” She flung the bedcovers back with her bandaged hand. Pain sparked in her fingers and flashed up her arm. Jerking back, she gasped and stared at her wrapped forearm. She trailed her other hand up the wood of the splint that ran along her injured arm beneath the cloth. Surely something was amiss for her injury to smart like this after two weeks’ recovery. “This…it’s not healing properly. You must call the physician back. Who tended it?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m rather handy with setting bones.”

“You jest. You could no more set my arm than stitch the queen’s drapes.”

He leaned close, placing his hands against the bed frame on either side of her so she couldn’t move. His eyes bored into her, hard and controlled. “I remind you the queen’s been executed.”

Isabelle closed her eyes. The queen’s drapes? What was she saying? The blood in her head thrummed against her temples, but a headache didn’t excuse her carelessness. She’d kept her appearance as a peasant for five years, but if she didn’t mind her tongue, she’d give herself away before she left this wretched bed.

“Repeat after me.” The farmer’s breath warmed her cheek. “Thank you.”

She opened her eyes and swallowed. “Your pardon?”

“Thank you for setting my arm.” He held her there, locked between his arms as he studied her. “Put voice to it, woman.”

“If you’ll give me some space, citoyen. I can hardly think.”

He straightened and crossed his arms, but she felt just as smothered as she had when he loomed only inches away.

“I’m waiting.”

“I…” She looked at her throbbing arm. She should tell him thank-you. Physician or not, he had saved her, thereby putting himself in more danger than he understood. And at least she didn’t have to answer a physician’s prying questions about where she’d come from and why she’d been traveling alone. Oui, she owed the man before her much more than a thank-you. So why wouldn’t the words come? She should be thankful to be alive, to have a second opportunity to reach England and fulfill her promise to Marie.

“Is the word so hard? I’m sure a crooked bone is much worse than dying in the woods.” His eyes flashed, a green fire that looked nothing like dandelion stems. “Or do you expect me to apologize for saving your arm?”

Warmth rushed to her cheeks. “Non, I’ve no need of an apology. I just…well, I…” She cradled her throbbing arm against her chest and searched for words.