The Soldier's Secrets

“Can I have another piece of cheese?” Serge asked.

Brigitte glanced at the little orange chunk of food remaining, then broke it in half and gave the pieces to her children. The taste of bread she’d had at Citizen Belanger’s and some pulse later this evening would suffice for herself. She hefted Victor higher onto her shoulder, then took up their single valise. “Come, children. We’d best be off.”

“Where are we going?” Serge gulped down the remainder of his bread, evidently not caring that the loaf was dense as a rock.

“Oui. You said we were done staying at the inn.” Danielle scrambled to pick up the remaining food.

Indeed they were done with the inn. Remaining there another night would take the last of their money. “We’ll sleep in the forest tonight, and I’ll go back to Citizen Belanger in the morn.”

“Why do you have to work for him?” Danielle stuffed the leftover bread in her pocket. “Isn’t there another job you can find?”

If only the child knew. “Non. There’s no other job.”

At least not one that would accomplish her purposes.

She lifted a tree branch out of her way and started back toward the road. Danielle didn’t follow but stood rooted to the ground, her forehead drawn together.

Brigitte raised her eyes to the sky. Hopefully her daughter wouldn’t figure out the true reason they were in Abbeville. Who could guess what trouble Danielle might attempt if she thought Citizen Belanger to be her father’s killer? Goodness, the impulsive girl might sneak into the man’s house at night and take a knife to his throat.

“Well, we don’t need to sleep outside,” Danielle declared. “I found a house.”

Brigitte stilled. “A house?”

Danielle lifted a shoulder. “More like a shack, really.”

“We can’t stay in somebody else’s house.”

“It doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s abandoned.”

“Someone still must own it.”

“Not if the owner was killed in the Terror,” Danielle shot back flippantly, as though the Terror was nothing more than a minor skirmish rather than ten blood-soaked months of the Révolution.

As though her own father hadn’t been killed during those horror-filled days. To be sure, smuggling was a crime that would have left Henri imprisoned were he caught under any other government—but only the Terror dragged men out of their beds for justice via the guillotine.

Brigitte blew out a hard breath to push away the bitter memories.

’Twas unthinkable to live somewhere without paying. But then a house, even a dilapidated one, would offer shelter and protection. And if Danielle had found it, it must be nearby. Perchance all they needed was one night’s stay. Hopefully with a little persistence on her part—plus a conversation where she managed not to faint—Citizen Belanger would hire her and offer shelter on his farm.

Not that she wanted to work for a suspected murderer.

But then, what other choice had she? “Show me the house, Danielle.”

Chapter Three

Jean Paul yawned as he surveyed his beans, the green plants leafy and tall as they wove their way up the trellis. Though it was only the beginning of July, within another week or two his first batch of the tender pods would be ready to harvest.

He paused to pluck a weed, then went on to his tomatoes, squash, carrots and potatoes. The leaf lettuce and kale needed to be cut yet again, radishes waited to be picked and the summer squash would be ready about the same time as the beans and cucumbers. More food than he’d ever be able to consume, and just in the vegetable garden. His fields stretched beyond, filled with a mixture of wheat, turnips, barely and clover that he rotated yearly.

He drew in a breath of fresh morning air and looked out over his work. His land. His fields. Today he needed to weed the lower field and check the—

“Bonjour?” A voice called from up near the house.

He glanced at the sun, barely risen above the trees in the east, and hastened through the rows of radishes and tomatoes. Was there an emergency in town? A task for which the mayor needed him? Someone must have good reason for calling before the sun had been up an hour.

“Bonjour?” The voice echoed again, its light, feminine cadence accompanied by a pounding sound.

Who could it be? He frowned as he trudged around the side of the house.

And there she was, standing beside his cottage door as though she’d appeared from the mist. She wore the same threadbare dress and apron as yesterday, and her hair was once again tucked sloppily under her mobcap with stray auburn tresses hanging down to frame her cheeks. Her skin was paler than milk from a cow, and the features of her thin face sunken with weariness.

And yet she seemed beautiful somehow, in the delicate way only a woman could be beautiful when tired and hungry. He took a step forward, the urge to aid her twining through him. He’d hustle her inside where he could give her food and let her sleep. Offer her—

His movement must have given himself away because she turned to face him, then bit her lip.

“Citizen, forgive me. I thought you were...” Her eyes slid back to the door.

“Inside, hiding from you?”

Her cheeks pinked, a truly lovely shade, and a much better color than the deathly white that had stolen over her when last they’d spoken.

“Non, Citizen. I don’t have a need to hide from women—or men. Farmers start their days early.” He surveyed her again, her thin, willowy body and slender shoulders, the hollowness in her cheeks and her bonelike fingers. “As do you.”

Her cheeks turned from soft pink to bright red, and she dipped her gaze to the ground. “I came to see about the post again. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and are willing to hire me?”

“You need food, not a post.”

“Non. I—”

“Wait here. I’ve soup you can take.” He headed toward the well along the side of the yard and reeled the bucket up, his leftover food from yesterday’s evening meal cool and fresh thanks to the water.

Footsteps padded on the earth behind him. “I didn’t come for food. I came for a post.”

He hefted the bucket out of the well and headed for the house. “And I told you yesterday, I’ve no need of a maid.”

“The deplorable taste of your bread convinced me otherwise.”

The side of his mouth twitched into that foreign feeling of a smile. The woman might be slight of body, but it took a speck of courage to tell him his food tasted horrid while he prepared yet another meal for her. “’Tis true, I’ve no knack for making bread. Though on days when I head to town, as I did yesterday, I purchase some.”

He opened the door to his cottage, and rather than try to force her inside as he had yesterday, he left the door open and set the soup on the table. He ladled the thickened liquid from his bucket into a second pail, then reached for the loaf of bread from the baker’s, tore it in half and wrapped it. The meal should suffice her for today, mayhap even tomorrow if she rationed it.

“I don’t need your charity.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her slender chest.

He moved to her and held out the food. “You look as though you’ve not eaten for a month.”

“I don’t claim to eat well, but that’s a situation I can remedy myself. If you hire me.”

Having a woman in his home would be like salt on memories that were far too raw. Corinne’s smile when he made her laugh, the shine of her hair in the lamplight, the taste of her lips beneath his and feel of her face in his hands. How many days had they toiled together, working side by side in the fields? How many nights had they spent in each others’ arms in the little house at the back of his property? How many times had he come through the door, tired and dirty, to find a fresh meal and smiling wife awaiting his return...