Sacré bleu. He nearly uttered the oath aloud. “I told hernon.”
Brielle seemed relieved. Was that her concern? That he would leave the Rivanna? For a trice he feared she would confide some concern or tell him she was leaving, instead.
“I’m glad if only for selfish reasons.” All the tension left him as she continued as calmly as Sabine had been riled. “I can’t imagine being here without you. For the first time in a long time the future holds hope.”
Hope. He felt it, too, a flicker rather than a flame but there nonetheless.
She continued, eyes on the altar, her lovely features pensive. “Some in the settlement have asked me my plans, if I’ll stay or move on.”
“You’ve only been here briefly. Perhaps it is too soon to decide.”
She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. “What did you have in mind when you freed us from the tavern?”
“All I knew is that I couldn’t leave you there.” He looked down at the plank floor, feeling he was half drowning in the depth of her gaze. “And now that we’re here I haven’t once thought of leaving.”
“Meaning you never stay long.”
“Not long enough for my sister.” Or Sabine.
“If you left and I couldn’t go with you I couldn’t stay here either.”
He mulled her words, so forthright and riven with feeling. “You have Titus.”
She hesitated. “But Titus isn’t you.”
“What are you saying,ma chère?” His quiet question unnerved even him.
She turned toward him slightly on the pew. “I feel I owe you an enormous debt I can’t possibly repay.”
“I want no repayment, understand. Your happiness is enough.”
“Do you have any coin left after freeing two indentures and buying so fine a horse?”
“Pearl?” He chuckled at the impromptu name. “Money well spent. I have plenty left,oui.”
“Promise me that if you do go you’ll give me plenty of notice.”
“I promise.” Yet the longer he stayed the moreenchantéhe grew with each passing day.
“I hope that I am of help—of service—here.” She looked to her lap and her worn hands that bespoke a life she wasn’t meant for. “Though I am a good gardener I am a clumsy seamstress when compared to your dear sister.”
“When you doubt yourself remember who you are. A woman of many talents. Related to French royalty. Never forget it. I cannot.” Her obvious puzzlement pushed him to explain. “When I first met you, even before I knew your background, I sensed something different about you. Something that defied your indenture.”
She looked dismayed. “I am not one to put on airs.”
“Not in the least. I’m speaking of a rare grace and refinement that is simply a part of who and what you are, the very fabric of your being.”
Her half-smile was sad. “Little good it’s done me.”
“Perhaps you don’t belong here. Have you any desire to return to France? To learn if your grandfather still lives?”
She looked to the altar as if it held answers. “Even if I wished to, he might no longer be living. If he is he might not want to see me since my mother broke his heart leaving long ago.”
“But if he does?”
Her silence left him weighing his own motives. He wanted, with all that was in him, to hear she wanted to be nowhere but beside him. That France held no allure. That she’d found her home in him. But could he live with the knowledge that he’d kept her from her true family? Her beginnings? What if that other, distant life was what she was truly meant for?
He searched for a shred of wistfulness in her voice when she said, “I was born in America, remember. I’ve never set foot in France.”
