him. Through the open door, out of the house and down the road until she reached Saint-Valery.
Her next step brought her almost to the door. Shadows speckled the edges of her vision. She moved forward, wobbled, then a knee gave out. Blackness seeped into her view, and she cringed. Her chest and arm would explode with pain when she hit the packed dirt floor.
Except she didn’t hit the floor. A solid arm braced her back, and another stretched beneath her knees. The man lifted her, cramming her against a chest as hard as the brick walls of the Château de La Rouchecauld.
“Of all the mule-headed things…” he muttered.
Her sight clearing, she looked up into frustrated, swirling eyes.
“Do you think I’ve spent more than a fortnight nursing you so you can undo your healing in an hour’s time?” He deposited her on the tick, and threw the quilt over her. “Now sleep. The sooner you get your strength, the sooner you can away.” He turned and stalked toward the exit.
“Wait. Please, don’t leave me here.”
She couldn’t be sure if he didn’t hear her, or simply chose to ignore her. Either way, he slammed the door behind him, leaving her alone in a strange room, with a strange bed inside a cottage full of strange noises. Loneliness filled the space the man vacated, an oppressive weight that settled across her chest. Her body ached, and her mind moved sluggishly. She needed a moment’s rest. Then she’d up and begin her journey anew.
Sliding deeper into the bed, she stifled a yawn and looked about her prison. No tapestries or paintings graced the dingy walls, and no mirror hung near the chest of drawers. A pitcher and basin of delicate pink sat atop the polished dresser, their beauty out of place against the bare cottage walls.
The bed frames, too, were masterful. Three ticks—two double and one single—rested on elaborately carved frames. But how could a peasant afford such grand furniture? Such an exquisite pitcher and basin?
Closing her eyes, she sank down, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw tick, but her nightdress made her throat itch. Strange, for the fabric of her chemise had never irritated her before. She reached up to scratch her neck, her fingers skimming the material. It felt stiffer than usual. Opening her eyes, she examined the foreign gown. Her heart began to pound against her chest.
She’d not brought this on her journey. Where were her clothes?
She must have her raiment. Not that she missed the miserably rough garments, but she needed her chemise. Her attackers had stolen the funds in her valise, but they hadn’t found the forged citizenship papers and money inside the hidden pocket of her chemise—at least not while she’d been conscious. She’d kept her papers and the exact amount of money needed for fare to England on her person.
Had the farmer discovered them?
She tried to calm her breathing even as a tear trickled down her cheek. Swallowing, she reached up to finger the cross about her neck, but that, too, was gone. Like everything else in her life. She curled into a ball and clutched her hand over her neck—where the cross once hung, where the guillotine had sliced her sister. She pressed her eyes tight against the burning tears until sleep overtook her.
But instead of finding respite in her dreams, the dark face of the soldier who ordered her death in the woods loomed before her.
Chapter Four
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! Thank you.” Michel practiced the words. First rolling them over his tongue, then speaking briskly, then whispering.
Petty, mayhap, to get his hackles up over two small words, but how hard could it be for the girl to voice them?
He thrust his pitchfork into some sour straw and tossed another clump of muck into the pile of dirty swine bedding. He’d cleaned this stall every Monday since he could remember, but today the pregnant sow eyed him distrustfully, like he would accost her rather than care for her home.
“Come on, now. Up with you.” He tapped the pig with his boot. She snorted, then closed her eyes.
Two stubborn females. Just his luck. “I’ve no mind to put up with you today. Out with you.” He poked her with the handle end of his fork. The swine squealed and rolled over.
Michel sighed and rubbed his temple. First the girl, then the sow, what would come next? Maybe the roof on the stable would collapse, or the dam on the lower field would break. A perfect ending to his day.
Images of the girl flooded his mind anew. The tears that glistened in her eyes, the raise of her chin and set of her shoulders when she told him she had to leave, the pain that lanced her features when she strained her arm. The look of triumph on her face when she left the bed.
She was determined, if nothing else. But only a featherbrained child would expect to walk after lying incoherent for over a fortnight.
Michel raked his hand through his hair, knocking his hat into the straw.
Hopefully she’d settle in a bit, because she’d be in that bed awhile before she could visit her aunt.
In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.
His grip on the pitchfork tightened. He wasn’t a half-wit. She was headed to England, sure as the sun would set. Not that it was any concern of his.
With nothing left to clean but where the sow lay, he shoved the fork into the straw beside the beast’s belly. Squalling and grunting, she rolled to her feet, baring her teeth and stomping the straw as though she would charge.
He growled in frustration. How much could a man endure of a day? Not intending to get bitten, he pushed his pitchfork into the ground near the gate and trudged away from the stable. He should finish mucking the stalls and fix the plow wheel. The stable roof needed patching as well as the roof over the bedchamber. He must get to town and buy that ox. And he had to check the sandbags on the lower field before the rains came and flooded the tiresome parcel of land.
He huffed a breath. The responsibilities of the farm pressed down upon him as they did every spring since his father died and his brother, Jean Paul, left. At any given moment, he had two weeks of work to finish and days to do it.
Yet he stormed past all the places needing his attention and opened the door to his workshop, the small familiar building the same as he had left it yesterday. The scent of lumber, instantly calming, wrapped around him. He inhaled deeply and moved to the center of his workspace, his eyes seeing nothing but the chest of drawers he’d spent the past six months making.
He wiped his hand on a rag and trailed his finger up the side of the piece. The elaborate sculpting on the posts contrasted with the straight lines and gentle curves of the wood, and the design of acorns and oak leaves he’d carved twisted and curled daintily against the deep hue of the walnut. This chest of drawers would match the design on his mother’s bed. A bedroom set, of sorts. He need only sculpt along the top edge of the dresser. Another week and it would be finished.
Sooner, if that impatient girl drove him to the shop every day.
He reached for his chisel, squeezed the familiar wooden handle, then rolled his shoulders. Too tense. He let the chisel fall to his workbench. He’d gouge through the middle of an acorn if he carved now.
Two strips of walnut lay on the floor beyond the dresser, a reminder of the wood he’d used to set the girl’s arm. A walnut splint. Who had that?
She’d uttered nary a comment about how smooth he’d sanded the wood so no sliver would pierce her porcelain skin.
Maybe he should have left her arm broken.
Guilt swamped him at the thought. He raised his eyes to heaven. “Oui, Father, mayhap she doesn’t deserve a broken arm. But she could still say thank-you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to create, to saw, to build. Something—anything. Drying wood rested at the back of his shop, an odd assortment of anything he could collect. He blew