The Lady's Refuge by Naomi Rawlings

Author:Naomi Rawlings
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cedar Lake Press
Published: 2021-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Michel took his first bite of chicken and nearly spit it out. His eyes watered from the strong salt taste. Mère must have forgotten how much she added. Again. He glanced at the hunk of chicken on his plate. How long since he’d eaten plain meat rather than soup or stew?

The repugnant taste of his first bite still clung to his mouth. He lifted his mug to his lips and drained half the water. Mère looked his way. He tried to smile at her and slowly forked up another bite. “The rain let up a bit ago. I’ll head back to town after dinner. Want to make sure the dam looks as it should.”

He cut toward the inside of the chicken—maybe that wouldn’t be so salty—then ate another forkful.

Mère reached for his hand. “Wonderful. You can take Isabelle, then.”

The only palatable piece of meat he’d eaten turned dry on his tongue. Isabelle sat, chin raised, lips stiff as she watched Mère with flat eyes. She hadn’t said a word to him since their argument an hour earlier. Michel scowled. Try warning a woman she flirted with danger by boarding a ship alone, and she got her hackles up.

“Ma Mère, I’m not taking Isabelle.”

Mère looked perplexed. “Why, you must. You’d never be able to pick out good fabric for a dress on your own.”

“A dress?”

Isabelle set down her fork. “Really, Jeanette, I don’t need—”

“Nonsense! Aren’t you headed to England, dear?”

“I, um…” Isabelle sent him a pleading look.

He wanted to close his eyes and disappear. Of all the things for Mère to hone in on, why did it have to be Isabelle’s journey to England? If Mère said something to the wrong person, they could all be standing before a military tribunal. “She has family in London, Ma Mère, but the trip’s a bit of a surprise for her aunt. So it’s best not to mention anything, if one of the townsfolk asks.”

“The poor thing needs a dress. No. Two dresses. That dress by the fire is ruined. Just look at it.”

Michel looked at the ragged dress, then at Isabelle. Her dark hair curled gently against her creamy skin. Her delicate hand clutched her fork until her knuckles whitened. Her eyes remained downcast, but their color and shape had long ago engraved themselves in his mind. And her lips were redder than any woman’s had a right to be. If only he didn’t know how soft they would feel pressed against his. He swallowed and forced himself to focus on her clothes rather than her face.

It didn’t take long to see that his mother was right. Heaven knew the woman needed to wear something other than that confounded nightdress of his mother’s. He’d tolerated it while she stayed abed, but she was moving about the house too much to ignore the thin white material now.

“And what better time to make up some clothes than while it’s raining,” Mère prattled on.

He nearly sighed. How Mère could think of sewing after spending an entire night fighting with burlap eluded him.

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