Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (7 page)

“Good morning, mademoiselle!” The stableman called out, the jaunty red scarf around his neck bobbing. “Your brother’s horse is ready whenever you are. I go to enjoy Madame Vachon’s excellent breakfast now.” He bowed slightly, and then headed for the back entrance of the chateau.

How she’d love to take Fury all the way to the colonies with her.
Impossible.

Hooves tramped the dirt.

Suzanne stepped behind the edge of the barn and peeked out.

A dappled-gray gelding trotted up the road to the estate, his rider seated straight and high in the polished saddle, a gilded
L
glistening prominently near the pommel.

She gasped.
Etienne’s favorite horse, a gift from his parents for his last birthday.
But the rider was too broad, sat too low in the saddle, to be her beau.

Pierre LeFort rode the gift horse. So, he’d taken Etienne’s gelding, too, as he did everything else.

Suzanne shuddered. She ran to the back of the stable to Fury’s stall, and willed her heart to stop hammering in her chest. She bent and took a slow breath.
Think
. After ensuring her hair all remained covered by her cap, she grabbed a pitchfork and began to muck out the stall, the black stallion nuzzling her pockets, searching for food. Suzanne Richelieu would never have cleaned a stable.

Snuffling, stamping of hooves, and tails flicking sounded through the barn.

From the corner of her eye, she sensed Pierre by the stall. “You there—come help me!”

Feigning being startled, she hurled a forkful of manure in his direction. Suzanne choked back a laugh.

Pierre jumped about, wiping at the horse dung that landed on his green brocade jacket and tan breeches. He waved his hat in the air as though to rid it of the filth. “How dare you, you insolent fool!”

“Pardon, I didn’t know you were there.” Her peasant boy’s accent sounded believable to her ears and she hoped to his, also. If only she would stop shaking.

“You imbecile, do you see any other stable boys within earshot?”

“Non, monsieur.” She pulled the cap over her eyes and bent her head obsequiously as she went about helping her tormenter.

“I’m here to retrieve Suzanne Richelieu from this estate. She’s my brother’s fiancée and I will bring her back to him.” His deceitful tone grated.

Suzanne stiffened. Her mind, clear after a good night’s sleep, recognized the lie. “Monsieur?” she feigned ignorance.

“Mademoiselle
Richelieu? Where is she?” Pierre shouted, entered the stall, and cuffed Suzanne to the ground.

Stunned and in pain, she still held her cap to her head. No one had ever struck her. Ever.

Fury snorted and sidestepped toward Pierre, nostrils flaring.

Pierre backed out of the stall as Fury lowered his head and moved between him and Suzanne.

How she wanted to stare into Pierre’s face and read what she suspected was true–that this man betrayed her father, and thus, her now dead mother. And he would’ve done so with her brother had Rochambeau not called him. She needed Guy—him and his sharpest sword. For now, though, Fury performed an excellent job of keeping the monster at bay.

“Monsieur
LeFort!” The stableman ran in through the back of the stables. “I’ll have the groom take care of your horse, but there are soldiers here who wish to talk with you.”

Oh, no, those two from yesterday—they’d come back. It sounded as if an entire regiment marched into the stable behind them. Did it include the two men from yesterday, and would they demand to see the phantom nephew?

She had to get out.
Now.

“What happened to you, LeFort?” a cheerful voice called out.

“Looks like you took a tumble?” a different soldier taunted.

“And do you need help getting away from that stallion?”

Snickers, insults, and profane jeers continued until Suzanne took hold of Fury’s reins.

Pierre exited, cursing under his breath.

These soldiers were different men than the day before. Their uniforms were impeccable; boots spotless, whereas Monsieur Kull indicated the others were slovenly.

“What are you doing here, anyway, LeFort? We’ve been looking for you.”

“I could ask you the same question. What brings you so far from your camp?” These last two words were spoken like an epithet. Pierre was well known for being one of the few men to have successfully avoided service to his king.

Guillame, however, had been chomping at the bit to go for as long as she could remember.

“We, monsieur, were tasked to bring home the body of Madame Richelieu, for burial—something we had to strongly persuade your friend, Monsieur DeMint, to allow.”

How she wished to see her mother interred, there next to Grand-mère and Grand-père. But she couldn’t risk arrest. She mounted up and urged the horse into a trot, away from the stables. Suzanne gritted her teeth, awaiting a call from one of the soldiers or a shot overhead to warn her.
Nothing.
What would keep them so preoccupied with Pierre?

On she rode for what seemed like hours to her next destination. Chilled through by the damp forest air, Suzanne inhaled the blessed scent of wood smoke. She sighted the woodsman’s cottage as she exited the forest into the clearing. Suzanne patted the stallion’s neck.

Fury displayed his temperamental nature at every opportunity, and her arms and thighs ached from the constant effort she had to exert to control him.

Dread, her old companion, kept her mood in a dark place. Had Rochambeau betrayed their family, also? Had he sent Guy out to his death?

The arched doorway to the house swung out, a young man filling its frame, shaking his shaggy head of gold-brown hair. His dirt-colored clothing appeared shabbier than her own and much too small for his stomach and chest. But he had a presence.

“Welcome, stranger!” He was far too cheerful-looking to suit her foul mood this day.

Suzanne peered back at the big oaf, who seemed delighted with her arrival. The woodsman’s relation had no idea who she was, yet he welcomed her with joy. She frowned. Why couldn’t she be like that? Betrayal; that was why—its offspring devoured her trust in others. Her heart ached; she missed her family. Suzanne slid off the horse and choked back the urge to retch as she tied the stallion to a hitching rail.

“You all right?” The young man stepped toward her.

His huge hand radiated warmth down her back. She turned and bumped into his broad chest. Good heavens, he wasn’t a Frenchman at all. He reminded her of those German warriors she’d studied about, who hid in the forests and attacked the Romans during the time of the Holy Roman Empire. She half-expected his countenance to be painted blue, but when he took a step backward and Suzanne looked up, his cheeks were ruddy, with a grin still affixed on his bearded face.

“Pardon!” That feminine voice wasn’t what she planned to use.

The smile vanished and his golden eyebrows rose, eyes wide, his hands now raised as though in surrender. “You’re a girl?” Gruff German words accused.

Suzanne chose to ignore his question and would have walked around him if her legs hadn’t buckled. “Oh!”

Arms, even hotter than the hand that had stroked her back, captured her. “A long ride?” His halting French was tender. “So young, why alone here?” The young man lifted her and headed toward the cottage. He shifted her and she rolled forward, toward his chest. His face, though covered with a short beard, looked young.

Suzanne couldn’t help but examine him, she was so close. His eyes were the same shape and color as the youth she’d painted.
Could it be?

“One of the Huguenots?” A white-haired lady leaned against the doorway.

“I don’t know, but you need to feed her.” He lifted her to demonstrate. “Near to starving, so tiny she is.” Back in his native tongue, his voice was more melodic.

Suzanne didn’t want to let him know she understood his words. Stiffening at the insult, she recalled eating bread and cheese at each stop, other than at Grand-mère’s, but not much else. And this overfed giant certainly didn’t need to eat.

A dry hand, like an autumn leaf, pressed against Suzanne’s cheek. Filmy eyes blinked, but the woman’s face registered recognition. “The marquise’s granddaughter?” she whispered in French, into Suzanne’s ear.

“Oui,” she whispered back. “But please, can you help me?”

The young man peered into her face, his sea-blue eyes curious. “What’s that you say?”

“Dear God, the child has traveled safely here. I wished she would, even though I didn’t think it safe.” The elder woman’s hands fluttered around her face. “I’m so glad your uncle got the message.” She closed her eyes and prayed in a whisper. “You may call me Louisa,” the elderly woman said to Suzanne. “And Johan has come from Aachen to help me.” She set her cane aside and rubbed her hands together in agitation. “Johan, get some wood and come build the fire.”

Suzanne sniffed. The place reeked of strong wood smoke. Anymore and she might be unable to breathe in the small cottage.

“Let’s see. Clothes that fit but conceal. Something more German-looking. You are to be Johan’s younger brother, if stopped. Dear Lord, why me? I’m an old lady. Why not me, though, Lord?
Yes.” The woodcutter’s wife continued to mumble to herself even as she began opening a small trunk filled with clothing and set about gathering items necessary for the trip.

“The brown gelding Johan brought is rested. My cart horse could make the journey to Aachen. Father Vincent can send the sturdy mare back. My, we didn’t have much notice, did we?” Louisa’s white head trembled.

“No, I cannot leave my horse. My brother’s horse. Not yet.” Suzanne blinked back tears. “The stallion will be fine once he’s rested. He’s strong.”

“Water and feed the horses, Johan. I’ll get your suppers ready. Suzanne, go wash up by the well in back of the cottage. Here’s a cloth, there’s soap Johan left down there.”

“Oui, merci.” She followed Johan out. She’d never seen such a broad back. He looked capable of lifting an ox. She stifled a giggle.

Johan turned around and grinned at her. “Good to hear you laugh. Very musical. I like it.”

He acted as if he knew her. And that gave her comfort. Was this the youth she’d painted?

~*~

What had happened to the girl—a young woman now? Johan hadn’t recognized her when she rode up alone. He’d been expecting at least two, perhaps three family members, according to Uncle Vincent. But an emaciated boy riding alone? He’d been taken off guard. And then to discover the rider was the girl he’d dreamed of for so long. Only she hadn’t seemed to have matured. At least, not physically.

Was it true that the Huguenots in France starved in the countryside? She seemed to be proof of that. Or had there been something more? Her narrow shoulders seemed weighted down by the cares of the world. And where was her brother?

When he’d met her before, she was vibrant, full of herself. That was one reason he’d teased her then. She was a young woman who seemed well aware of her charms. A blossoming flower. And he’d been the bee. Now the rose had succumbed to blight and struggled to overcome the disease.

Johan set about caring for the girl’s horse, his mind running faster than a hare escaping a chase. What could he do? He could pray. And come alongside her and help her on her way. Bring her back into the sunshine, find nourishment for her body and soul, and help her find her way back to who she was supposed to become.
Not much.
He laughed at himself. But with God, all things were possible.

Once he’d finished caring for the magnificent animal, he washed and returned to the cottage.

Aunt Louisa ladled a savory meal into three bowls. “Sit down, Johan.”

He scooted in next to the girl whose dark eyelashes fanned out against her ivory skin.

Louisa passed a bowl of rabbit stew to Suzanne. Her hands shook as she accepted it. “Merci.”

“Here’s yours, Johan.”

Twice as many thick mounds of dumplings covered the meat and new spring vegetables in his large bowl. “Danke.”

Aunt Louisa lowered her aged form into her chair. He wished he’d helped her into her seat, but he’d been too distracted by the newcomer.

“Please ask the blessing, nephew.” Louisa bowed her head, as did Johan.

The presence of God stole over him, bringing comfort. He prayed in German and when he peeked, the girl’s facial muscles twitched as though she was straining to understand him. “Amen.” He lifted his head. “Johan, this young woman needs to get to Aachen Cathedral to Father Vincent as quickly as you can take her.”

“How far behind, do you think? The soldiers?”

“If they follow, they could be here even tonight.” She kept her head low over her food.

“Good thing my aunt has many grandchildren who like to visit.” Though none as pretty as the girl who’d ridden up with her brother years earlier—he on the same magnificent horse. Something about that didn’t make sense, but he was too tired from his own travels to think about it. “Your brother—where is he?”

Where there were to have been three or four, now only one sat.

Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I’m alone.”

The savory broth turned bitter in his mouth. “Ja, I’ll do it.”

“If they catch us, they may kill us.” Suzanne let that drop like dough into the stew.

He’d experienced such a chase before. And survived. Had God sent him ahead for this purpose—to carry this Huguenot girl to safety in the Palatinate?

~*~

Johan fixed his inquisitive gaze on her.

Suzanne’s heart thumped. She awaited his response and refusal. His even features were undisturbed, his blue-green eyes covered with the reflection of firelight, small flames flickering in them. Why did she want to touch this stranger, to draw from his strength? Would he be afraid to take this risk?

Johan stared at the small stone hearth.

Burning wood crackled and hissed as she anticipated what careful words would partner his denial.

“God will see us to safety.” His mouth formed the words. His lips were sweet looking, almost too soft for such a large man.

Suzanne snorted in the most unbecoming way. “You know this how?”

“He told me.”

She hadn’t realized her body had leaned in toward his torso and she jerked away. Anticipating what? Those arms around her again. She shook the thoughts from her head. This young man heard voices. Would a lunatic accompany her? She should go on her own. Yet, Suzanne desired his companionship so much she could almost feel him riding at her side, his strong profile painted on the canvas of her imagination with dark, firm lines.