The Soldier's Secrets

Divided Loyalties

Brigitte Dubois will do anything to keep her family safe. When she is blackmailed by her father-in-law, his quest for revenge leaves her no choice. To protect her children, she must spy on the man who may have killed her husband. But Jean Paul Belanger is nothing like she expected. The dark, imposing farmer offers food to all who need it, and insists on helping Brigitte and her children.

Everything Jean Paul did was in the name of liberty. Even so, he can never forgive himself for his actions during France’s revolution. Now a proud auburn-haired woman has come to his home seeking work and has found her way into his reclusive heart. But when she uncovers the truth, his past could drive them apart.…

She needed to convince him to hire her, and she needed to do so now. So she walked inside.

The most obvious place to start cleaning was the table, but since Citizen Belanger was there, she started with the bench beside the door.

“What are you doing?”

Brigitte 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 to face him, then gulped. He clenched and unclenched his jaw as he stared down at her. 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. “You stand rather straight, Citizen Belanger. Tell me—have you ever been in the army?”

“My past is hardly your concern.”

She sucked in a 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?

NAOMI RAWLINGS

A mother of two young boys, Naomi Rawlings spends her days picking up, cleaning, playing and, of course, writing. Her husband pastors a small church in Michigan’s rugged Upper Peninsula, where her family shares its ten wooded acres with black bears, wolves, coyotes, deer and bald eagles. Naomi and her family live only three miles from Lake Superior, and while the scenery is beautiful, the area averages two hundred inches of snow per winter. Naomi writes bold, dramatic stories containing passionate words and powerful journeys. If you enjoyed the novel, she would love to hear from you. You can write Naomi at P.O. Box 134, Ontonagon, MI 49953, or contact her via her website and blog, at www.naomirawlings.com.

The Soldier’s Secrets

Naomi Rawlings

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The integrity of the upright shall guide them: but the perverseness of transgressors shall destroy them.

—Proverbs 11:3

Pure religion and undefiled before God

and the Father is this,

To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, [and] to keep himself unspotted from the world.

—James 1:27

To my parents, Marvin and Carolyn Montpetit.

Thank you for your love, guidance, and wisdom.

And thank you for the sacrifices you made to raise me in a manner that honored God.

Acknowledgements

No book could ever make its way from my head to the story in front of you without help from some amazing people.

First and foremost, I’d like to thank my husband, Brian. What would I do without someone to cook dinner, watch the kids, and love and encourage me through each and every book I write? Second, I’d like to thank my critique partner, Melissa Jagears. The longer I work with you, the more I come to value your support for my stories as well as for everyday life. My writing would suffer greatly without your brilliant mind, and my heart would suffer greatly without your friendship. Thank you for all the hours of critiquing you poured into this story.

I’d also want to thank my agent, Natasha Kern, for teaching me about writing and supporting me both professionally and personally. Your love for writers and good stories shines through all the hours you pour into Natasha Kern Literary Agency. I deeply value your guidance and advice, as well as your friendship. Thank you to my editor, Elizabeth Mazer, for your helpful suggestions and enthusiasm about my stories—and especially for your love of all things French.

Special thanks to Scott and Andrea Corpolongo Smith, owners of Ontonagon, Michigan’s Wintergreen Farms. Andrea read over the farming portions of my novel to make sure I had all the nettlesome details about blights, pests, and vegetables correct. For more information about Wintergreen Farms, community supported agriculture, organic vegetables, and yummy recipes, visit their fabulous blog, wintergreen-farm.blogspot.com.

Beyond these people, numerous others have given me support in one way or another—Sally Chambers, Glenn Haggerty, Roseanna White, and Laurie Alice Eakes, to name a few. Thank you all for your time and effort and helping me to write the best books I possibly can.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Prologue

Calais, France, June 1795

Brigitte Dubois wrapped her arms about herself and trudged down the deserted street, darkness swallowing her every step. Night air toyed with the strands of hair hanging from beneath her mobcap, while mist from the sea nipped relentlessly at her ankles and a chill slithered up her spine.

It mattered not that it was summer, warm enough to sleep without a fire in the hearth, warm enough to draw beads of perspiration on her forehead, warm enough to attend her rendezvous with a shawl rather than a cloak. The cold came from inside, deep and frigid, a fear so terrifying she could hardly stay ahead of it. So her feet stumbled forward, over the cracked and chipping cobblestones, past the rows of houses shuttered tight against the darkness.

One night. One meeting. Then she could go home, gather her children and leave this wretched city.

Or so she hoped.

The breeze from the Channel swirled around her, ripe with the salty tang of sea and fish, while the clack of her wooden shoes against the street created the only sound in the deserted city besides the rhythmic lap of waves against the shore. The warehouse loomed before her at the end of the road, dark and menacing and ominously larger with each step she took toward its rusty iron doors.

Another shudder raced through her. Would this place become her tomb on this muggy summer night?

No, she’d not think such things. She had a house to return to, children to feed and a babe to tend. Alphonse wasn’t going to kill her, not tonight. Her children were too important.

Which was why she had to get them away.

She slowed as she neared the warehouse, raising her hand to knock upon the small side door. But just as her knuckles would have met the cold iron, it swung inward.

“You’re here.” A guard hulked in the doorway, his voice loud against the empty street and tall stone houses.

“As I was told to be.” She straightened her back, but not because she wanted to. No. Her shoulders ached to slump and her feet longed to slink into the shadows hovering beside the building, to creep back to her children and her house and the safety those four square walls offered.

But safety was a mere illusion. No one was ever truly safe from Alphonse Dubois.

“Come in.” The planes and edges of the guard’s face glinted hard in the dim light radiating from inside. He was huge, taller than her by nearly half a mètre and powerful enough to fell her with the club hanging at his side. Her eyes drifted down to the massive hand gripping the door, and she took a step back.

“That’s the wrong direction, wench. And Alphonse doesn’t like to wait.” The guard’s knuckles bulged around his club.

“Of course.” She spoke easily, as though her body wasn’t trembling. As though her lungs didn’t refuse to draw breath at the idea of stepping over the threshold.

“I said move.” The man yanked her inside.

The door slammed behind her, its bang resonating through the packed warehouse. Gone was the grimy smell of coal smoke and familiar taste of the sea that permeated the streets of Calais. Aromas sweet like chocolate, tangy like salt and smooth like tobacco wrapped themselves around her.

Crates towered high, leaving only a narrow pathway through which to walk. Labels marked the sides of each and every box: silk from Lyons, and lace from Alençon and Arras, Dieppe and Le Puy. Tea from India, cocoa and cigars from the Caribbean. Sea salt from the Île de Ré, and more barrels of brandy than one could imagine. All sat stacked one atop the other in endless columns.

The contents of the single warehouse were worth a fortune in any land. But with France and England at war, Alphonse would reap even greater sums for his illegal French goods once his men smuggled them onto the English market. The trade materials like tea and chocolate and cigars would arrive on British shores under cover of darkness and away from the greedy eyes of the king’s excise agents, bringing yet more profit to the smuggler.

And Alphonse had warehouses like this scattered through half of northern France.

“This way.” A hot hand clamped around the back of her neck and shoved her forward, weaving her in an interminable maze toward the center of the warehouse.

When the crates finally stopped, she stood in a small open area in the middle of the warehouse.

With Alphonse Dubois looking on, seated dead in the center of his smuggling empire.

Heir to a seigneury by birth, he wielded more power now than an inheritance ever would have given him. All of Calais knew his story, though she knew it better than most. He was a firstborn son who hadn’t been content to accept the lands handed down for centuries, nor had he wanted to make do with his family’s dwindling coffers. So rather than sitting in his chateau and watching as it crumbled about him while he ran through his precious few ancestral funds, he’d gone off and gotten himself rich.

Illegally.

Now Alphonse had as much money as England’s king himself—and just as much power in a town such as Calais.

“Brigitte.” The thin blade of his voice sliced through the air. “How pleasant to see you.”

As though he’d given her a choice, as though earlier this afternoon he hadn’t sent two of his henchmen to her house and summoned her while her children watched.

He studied her through eyes yellow with age, that putrid amber and the pale pink tint to his lips the only colors in a face otherwise gray as stone. “Sit.”

It had come to this then, time for him to issue orders and her to defy him. Did he see the way her hands trembled? The fear that threatened to burst from her chest in a sob?

“I prefer to stand, mer—”

The guard shoved her forward, and she nearly toppled into the table. “A defiant one, she is. You can see it in her eyes.” He planted both hands on her shoulders, forcing her down until she crumpled into the chair.

Alphonse’s pink-tinged lips curved into a cruel smile. “You’re dismissed, Gerard.”

The guard moved back against the crates to stand beside another man, equally as muscular and thick of chest, and carrying another large club.

Alphonse took a sip of steaming liquid from a mug beside his hand, then reached for a sweet biscuit sitting on the table. He wore gray as always, the color matching his silver-tinted hair and aging skin. The monotonous color palate created an image more akin to a corpse then a living, breathing man.

“I hear you plan to leave Calais.”

He’d found out.

She clutched her shawl against the base of her throat.

“Foolish woman.” His eyes hardened into two frigid stones. “Did you think I’d let you steal my grandchildren away in the night?”

She hadn’t a choice. He’d suck her children into the smuggling business if she didn’t leave. Julien and Laurent were safe in the navy for now, but what of Danielle and Serge at home? How young did boys start running messages for Alphonse? Seven? Eight? Could Alphonse take Serge even now? And as for Danielle...

Brigitte swallowed, the type of work available to a girl in this industry too unbearable to imagine.

“No one leaves my employ without permission,” he snapped.

“I’m not in your employ and never have been.”

Something calculating and methodical moved behind his eyes. “No, you’re family.”

She cringed at the word. “My husband’s dead. That eliminates any connection between you and I.”

“It would, had I not five grandchildren whom you keep from me.”

“With Henri dead, the children belong to me, and I’ll not allow you to employ them in your wretched schemes. I’m not my husband.”

“No, you most certainly are not.” Alphonse ran his eyes slowly down her, his gazing lingering until revulsion flooded her body. “You claim you want to leave Calais, and let’s say, just for the moment, that you have the money and means to do so. What do you intend to do? Where do you intend to go?”

To Reims. To my family.

She’d never be free of him if she said such things. He’d track her down and find her, taking her two oldest sons when they came home from the navy. Or he’d tell her she’d need to house his men and store his goods when one of his minions was in the area.

“Did you know, Brigitte, I have a rather marvelous memory?” He watched her through those hard, death-colored eyes. “It helps when one runs a business such as this.”

A business? He spoke as though his smuggling success was some legitimate form of trade.

“For example, I seem to recall when you and my son first met. You were living in Reims, were you not? Acting as a governess?”

“I...” He couldn’t remember where she came from and who her family was. Wouldn’t use them as threats.

“I remember well, but every so often my mind fails me.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward, a sheaf of papers in hand. “I’ve learned to take excellent notes, you understand.” He took the papers from the guard and flipped through them. “Ah, yes, everything is here. You’re the niece of a seigneur, and your elder sister married a seigneur’s third son. Your father has passed on, but your mother apparently maintains good health and resides in your childhood home. I wonder how your mother and sister have fared, what with the Révolution and all.”

She gripped the edge of the table, her nails digging into the aged wood. “How dare you.”

“When my informants tell me you plan to leave Calais, that you hide away money and slowly pack your things, I ask myself, where might my dear daughter-in-law go? And why might she go there? And then it comes to me, where you hailed from, who your people are. Then just as I feel a spark of compassion and think that perhaps it’s time for you to return to Reims, I remember my sweet grandchildren. Grandchildren who are useful to me.”

“I won’t let you touch them.”

“I’d always intended for Henri to run my enterprise after I passed on.” He continued on as though her words meant nothing. “’Twas a natural decision, you see, with him being my only son. But now that he’s dead, one of your boys shall have to take over.”

The breath whooshed out of her, and the air surrounding her grew thick and heavy. He couldn’t get to the older boys. They were safe in the navy.

Weren’t they?

“So which shall it be? Julien or Laurent? Julien would be advantageous in that—”

“What do you want?” She spit the words between them.

He winged an eyebrow up.

“That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?” She toyed with the ends of the shawl lying in her lap. “To ask something in exchange for letting me move to Reims?”

He laughed, a soft, cruel sound. “Very astute, Brigitte. You always have been, you know. ’Twas why I was so in favor of Henri’s marrying you from the first.”

“I’d not have married him had I known he was a smuggler.”

That cruel smile curved his lips yet again. “Which was why you made him such a perfect wife. You faithfully stayed home and bore his seed, not luring him away from his duties with words of love and flattery. Oui, you were perfect. Too dutiful to leave, yet too angry with his work to distract him.”

“You’re evil.”

“It serves me well, does it not?” He took a sip of tea. “But let’s begin negotiations. I have a certain task in mind, one that would perfectly suit a widow with three children to tend. You fulfill your assignment, and I let you and the children return to Reims. I’ll even give you money to buy a house there. A nice little cottage near your sister, perhaps?”

She drew in a long, slow breath. Only one job, and then she and the children would be free. The proposition seemed almost too good to be believable. But then, he hadn’t yet said what he wanted in exchange. “If I do your bidding, Julien and Laurent return to me in Reims when they reach port. They don’t come to you.”

“Of course.”

“And I won’t kill for you.”

Alphonse’s smile turned from cruel to dangerous. “Don’t worry, ma chère. I seek only a spy. And justice. For the man who killed your husband.”

Justice from a man like Alphonse? The very thought made her shiver. But what other choice had she?

Chapter One

Near Abbeville, France, July 1795

The children. She was doing this for the children.

Brigitte Dubois surveyed the countryside. The brilliant blue sky where two birds twittered and flirted with each other, the lush green forest to her right filled with a host of insect sounds, and the rolling fields stretching beyond the farmstead ahead and into the golden horizon.

Serene. Peaceful. A pleasant change from the grimy streets of Calais.

She must have the wrong house.

She’d never before given much thought to the soldier who had dragged her husband away in the night to execute him for his crimes. Had never wondered where he lived, what he did, if he had a family. But farming?

She forced her feet up the curving lane, climbing the little knoll to the cottage. A man stood near the stable, stuffing vegetables into an old wagon.

Her husband’s alleged killer?

Surely killers didn’t farm the pristine countryside or load vegetable wagons on sunny afternoons. They skulked about in the dead of night, meting out death and destruction.

“Bonjour, Citizen.” She neared the stable where the vegetables waited, stacked neatly in crates and sacks.

The man’s forearms bulged as he hefted another crate, his shirt straining against wide shoulders and a torso thick as a tree trunk. He would tower over Alphonse’s guards, and he was so thick of chest her hands wouldn’t touch if she wrapped her arms around him.

Powerful enough to drag a man like Henri from his bed. Strong enough to beat her dead if he learned what she was about.

“If you’re wishing to buy food, I sell it at the market, not here.” The man didn’t stop his work but reached for another sack.

“I’m not in want of food, but a post.” Not that she wanted to work for a possible murderer, but truly, Alphonse had left her little choice.

He turned to her and paused, his hands gripping a crate filled with turnips. Harshness radiated from his being, with eyes so dark and ominous they were nearly black, and hair the color of the sky at midnight. His chin jutted hard and strong beneath a chiseled face, and an angry scar curled and bunched around his right eyebrow.

She wet her suddenly parched lips.

“I haven’t a job to offer you. I only employ tenant farmers, and I’ve three men waiting for plots next year already.” He slid the crate onto the wagon bed, then turned and hefted another. “Have you tried in town? The butcher might be hiring, and we can always use another laundress or seamstress.”

Brigitte glanced down at her lye-scarred hands, unlikely to recover after sixteen months of taking in laundry and mending. Besides, Abbeville was a small town, not like the bustling port of Calais. The people here probably had a favorite widow they took their mending to. “What about working as laundress here? You said you have tenants.”

“Aye, and several of them have wives. There’re women aplenty for doing women’s work and older men to laze about. It’s young men we’ve naught of.”

Yes, she knew. Perhaps the war with the Netherlands had been settled, but France still warred with the Austrians in the east, the Italians in the south, and the English on the sea. Which meant the country sorely lacked young men...

Or rather, young, upstanding men. Her husband and the rest of Alphonse’s smugglers had evaded enlistment.

As had the man before her.

That bore looking into. Why would a strong, healthy man be farming rather than serving his country?

Perhaps he’d gotten leave for some reason, or had already joined the army only to be injured and sent home.

But that still didn’t explain how he had all his tenant positions filled and a waiting list of three farmers for next year.

And wondering these things would do little good unless she procured employment here and could seek answers. She forced her eyes back to the big brute of a man still loading the wagon. “What of you? Have you a wife to do your laundry and housework and cooking? I can bake bread and apple pies, cherry tarts and—”

“Non.” The harsh word resonated through the air between them. “I’ve no wife, and no need of one.”

Heat flooded her cheeks and she took a step back, even though the wagon already sat between them. “I wasn’t asking for your hand, I was offering to hire my labor out.”

She’d already tried to dig into his secrets from afar. She’d moved to Abbeville half a week ago, but talking to the townsfolk had gotten her nowhere. She had a meeting with Alphonse’s man in three days’ time, and nothing to report but the information Alphonse had already given her: officially, after Jean Paul Belanger’s wife had died seven years ago, he’d gone to Paris and spent six years away from Abbeville, supposedly making furniture.

Furniture. In the middle of a revolution.

Did no one else think that odd?

Alphonse did. And Alphonse also thought Citizen Belanger the lead soldier that had found Henri and broken up a smuggling endeavor over a year ago, while going by a different surname. Now she was here to find proof and present it to Alphonse’s man.

“Where did you say you were from?” The large man shoved another sack of grain onto the wagon and turned, his eyes studying her.

“Calais.”

He frowned. “The port on the sea?”

“Oui. Have you been there? You can see England and its white cliffs from the shore. It’s a beautiful city.” Or it was if you lived in the proud stone houses set back from the sea and not in a shack near the harbor.