Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (58 page)

Chapter Five

“W
here are your ropes?”

Danielle propped an eye open and stared up into the gray light of dawn, partially covered by the silhouette of a rather irritated blond man towering over her.

“We left you tied,” Kessler added when she failed to reply.

She yawned. “Halston untied us.”

“Halston?”

She nodded and snuggled back into the blankets. Usually she'd little trouble getting up of a morn, but then, usually she didn't stay awake into the wee hours of the night, either. And she had a long day ahead of her if she was going to lead this party of useless aristocrats through the countryside without any of them getting caught.

Kessler crouched down and hauled her up by her shoulders until she sat, then he leaned in, his mouth mere inches from her nose. “That's
Lord Gregory
to you.”

She rolled her eyes. Of course he'd expect her to use their ridiculous English titles. Lord Kessler and Lord Westerfield and Lord Gregory could leave off the “lord” part of their own names and call her and Serge by their Christian names, but was she good enough to call Halston “Halston” or Kessler “Kessler”?

Not to their way of thinking. Arrogant, stubborn, insensitive oafs. This was precisely why France had gotten rid of its aristocracy.

“You forget yourself,
Kessler
.” She spit his name from her mouth while she twisted out of his hold. “You're in France now, not England. We don't have lords and ladies, just citizens.”

“Of all the ridiculous notions. Of course you have lords and ladies. Who do you think runs this wretched country of yours?”

“Citizens, as I said.” She stood, shaking out her wrinkled skirts and shoving her matted hair over her shoulder. “That's why we voted for Napoleon—because citizens are in charge. Which is more than a country with a tyrannical king like yours will ever understand.”

“King George is not tyrannical.” Kessler shoved to his feet, his bony, emaciated arms doing little to add to the authority of his stance as he crossed them over his chest.

“No? Did your people vote to elect him king?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then it's tyranny.”

“It's sound monarchial leadership. A much better way to run a country than putting a bunch of half-wits that know nothing about governing a nation in charge simply because people voted for them. One half-wit voting for another doesn't mean either should be in charge of the masses.”

Her skin turned hot despite the cool winter air and her lack of cloak. There weren't lords and ladies, aristocrats and peasants before God. There were just people. All equal, all of value.

Just like there's not a difference between Jew and Greek, English and French.

She shoved the uncomfortable thought aside and glared at Kessler.

People were people, all the same and all equally important. And those people should have a say in who governed them.

“What about your servant Farnsworth there?” She gestured toward the stiff man rolling up the blankets where Halston and Kessler had slept. “Have you ever asked him whether he likes your King George?”

“Me?” Farnsworth squeaked. “I like King George well enough. Um, long live the king?”

Kessler cleared his throat, a smirk playing on his lips.

So perhaps attacking England's monarch wasn't the best way to make her point. “Fine then, Farnsworth. You like your king. Do you also like spending every moment of the day serving Kessler here?”

“He serves Halston,” Kessler gritted.

She kept her eyes on Farnsworth, who'd stopped rolling blankets and was now looking at her. “Perhaps you'd like to be a duke from here on out and let Kessler and Halston serve you.”

“I...uh...”

“After all, what makes Kessler and Halston worthy of being served? Because they were born into the right families and you weren't? Wouldn't you much rather be part of a country that values all people equally? That will allow you to stand on your own merits rather than condemn you to a life of servitude because of who your parents are?”

“That's enough,” Halston's brother rasped from the sickbed.

She looked around, her cheeks turning suddenly hot. Had she woken Westerfield? That had not been her intent. Mayhap she'd spoken a little too much—or perhaps a shade too loudly—if she interrupted a dying man's sleep. But at least her words had achieved something. Farnsworth still stared at her, as though no one had ever bothered to tell him he was valuable.

Kessler stalked away, his back rigid and shoulders tight, not stopping to help Farnsworth with the blankets. No. His precious blue-blooded heritage had put him too far above such menial tasks.

She'd visited
Tante
Isabelle and
Oncle
Michel in England enough to understand the divisions of social classes.

At least her country's own
Révolution
had stripped the nobility of their titles. Was it bloody and violent? Yes. Had innocent people lost their lives? Far too many. But now France had freedom from the tyranny of aristocracy. Now its citizens were equals. Now her country acknowledged the value of all people rather than placing some above the rest.

She pressed her lips together. According to the stories she'd heard,
Tante
Isabelle had once viewed life in much the same way as Kessler. She had been born the daughter of a duke and raised with every luxury, yet her aunt had lost everything—and everyone—that mattered to her when the
Révolution
started. But she'd come to understand what truly mattered most in life. Love for God and family, respect for others.
Tante
Isabelle was a good lady, aristocratic birth or not.

Which was certainly more than she could say of
Lord
Kessler.

She turned her nose up at the man, now taking a sip of water while Farnsworth scrambled to clean up camp, then looked around the rest of the clearing. “Where are Serge and Halston?”

Kessler's jaw worked back and forth. “That's
Lord
Gregory
to you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“They went hunting.” Farnsworth shoved some folded blankets into a sack lying by the fire. “First thing this morn. They wanted to bring back breakfast, I believe.”

Hunting? Serge? She rolled her eyes again.

Almost predictably, a rustling sounded from the bushes and a moment later Halston stepped into the clearing, his hands empty of any game. “Actually, we returned in time to hear the argument. Or at least the end of it.”

“What are you trying to do, Dani?” Serge followed Halston into the campsite, his hands also empty. What a surprise. “Alert all of France to where we are? You shouldn't shout so.”

She cringed even as her cheeks grew warm. Mayhap she could have expressed her opinion more quietly.

And docilely.

And why was she thinking about being quiet or docile? A man like Kessler deserved to be yelled at.

“It was a rather interesting opinion.” A bone-rattling cough emanated from Westerfield's chest.

“Indeed.” Halston quirked an eyebrow at her, his eyes alight as though he was almost tempted to smile at her.

Smile!

“It was a rather amusing argument, to be sure.” His bright eyes dared her to challenge him. “I assume you plan to call me Halston rather than Lord Gregory as we travel?”

“You're in France now, not England. I'll call you the same as your brother does and nothing else.” She turned her back to him and bent to roll up her blankets. Maybe she should leave the lot of them in the woods after all. They'd probably learn more about humanity and people in a French prison than they ever would back in their precious England.

* * *

Gregory tried not to smile. Truly, he did. Something told him the warrior woman wouldn't take too kindly to the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. But goodness, was she magnificent. All that glorious black hair cascading freely down her head and over her shoulders, those crisp blue eyes practically burning holes in anyone who dared look at her, and the proud, regal way she held herself despite being nothing more than a peasant.

What he wouldn't give to meet a woman like her back in London. Instead, the ton was filled with simpering little dolls who hadn't the courage to voice whatever thoughts passed through their brains—if any thoughts were there in the first place. He was rather doubtful of that with some of the debutantes.

“You're staring,” Serge growled from beside him. “At my sister. With an asinine grin on your face.”

Right. Gregory cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from Danielle only to find a none-too-happy Serge glaring at him. “Um...sorry about that.”

“Since when did she agree to travel with us?” Westerfield somehow managed to speak a full sentence without coughing.

“Last night, evidently, while the rest of us were abed,” Kessler snapped. “Which makes me wonder...”

Kessler turned accusatory eyes on him, and Gregory stiffened. The man had no place making such crass insinuations after what Kessler had done to Suzanna.

“I offered her an extra thousand pounds,” he proclaimed.

Danielle's gaze flew to his. Would she declare the money wasn't anything close to the reason she'd agreed to help?

Danielle pressed her lips together and then swung her gaze away. “Actually, I believe Halston is mistaken. He offered to pay me an extra
two
thousand pounds, totaling four thousand altogether.”

His jaw fell open. “I did—”

“Just pay it.” Westerfield propped himself up on his side and coughed. “You can afford it.”

Danielle quirked the side of her mouth up in an uneven grin, but kept quiet—likely for only the second or third time in her life. “All right, then, let's eat some salt pork and pack up camp. The day's already wasting.”

Gregory looked back to Serge, still standing beside him. “She's going to push us mercilessly, isn't she?”

The boy scratched behind his ear. “That was the reason you wanted her to guide you, right?”

Chapter Six

“D
ani, slow down,” Serge called.

Danielle rolled her eyes but paused at the top of the little knoll she'd just climbed, scanning the road that led down the incline before starting up another, larger hill.

“Oof!”

“Westerfield, can you walk?” Halston's voice echoed up the hill.

“I don't think he's awake, my lord.”

“Kessler, come back here and help us.”

More scuffles sounded behind her, as they had for most of the day. She dared not turn around and look. She carried her own sack plus a bundle of blankets and had no trouble keeping a good pace. Why couldn't the Englishmen manage the same?

Not that she begrudged an ill man for traveling slowly, but they had a channel to reach, did they not? With four others to aid him, certainly Westerfield could move faster.

She surveyed the valley and next hill lying before them—one that they should have crested hours ago—and tapped her foot on the ground. Every extra moment the Englishmen lingered in the country increased their chances of getting caught. But she hadn't considered how badly an ailing man would slow them down. They'd be fortunate to make it to the top of the next hill by nightfall, when she'd wanted to be halfway to Saint-Quentin.

Footsteps sounded behind her, their gait slow and weary. She turned to find Halston, his breathing hard and his dark hair disheveled and damp despite the cool air.

A faint odor of sweat mixed with the chilled breeze. “How long until we make camp?”

“Tired,
my lord
?”

“I can continue if you can.”

It was an empty boast. He might stand there before her with arms crossed and back straight, but his shoulders sagged and dark shadows haunted the skin beneath his eyes.

“We'll stop at the top of the next hill.”

His eyes traced the road down the little incline and up the larger one. “We have to rest before then. Westerfield won't be able to—”

“Then you should have brought a cart to carry him.” She snapped the words quicker than intended, given that Westerfield struggled for breath when merely lying on his back. But she could hardly lead a band of four Englishmen to safety if the group traveled slower than an arthritic turtle.

Halston rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn't anticipate him being ill when I made plans for this escape.”

“Just like you didn't anticipate the possibility of your guide deserting you? It seems you didn't make plans for much of anything,
my lord
.”

“Don't mock my choices.” He stepped closer, the shoulders that had been lifeless now rigid as granite. His tall, lanky body loomed over hers until she could see naught but the coarse brown fabric of his peasant's coat, feel little but the heat radiating from him despite the dank, cold air. “You have no idea what I've sacrificed to find Westerfield.”

“I have some idea.” Because she would have sacrificed the same for Laurent—as would Serge and Julien—had she news her brother was alive somewhere in England.

But his guide's desertion made little sense. Halston was hardly the first person to rescue people from Verdun, and the consulate couldn't afford to put a price of two thousand pounds sterling on every escapee's head. So why would the guide turn down such a sum from Halston and attempt to foil an escape?

“Whether you understand matters little.” He shoved a finger at her chest. “My brother needs rest now, or at least at the top of this hill.”

She glanced back at the others, only halfway up the small incline, all hoisting their own sacks and helping Westerfield as he staggered drunkenly up the road that had taken her only a minute to walk.

Halston was being impossible. “You hired me to get you to England, yet you travel so slowly someone is bound to discover us. What do you expect from me? Shall I stand atop this hill and command the land between here and the coast to fall into the sea so we can sail safely to England? Or better yet, I'll blink my eyes and we'll instantly be transported to the coast.”

“I refuse to let my brother get sicker. I refuse to let him die.” Halston voice rumbled low and deep in his chest. “If anyone's life is risked, it should be mine.” He was crowding her again, his eyes hot and intense.

“Pneumonia won't just hop from your brother's body to yours because you wish it. And it hardly matters which of you—”

“He has pneumonia?” Halston reached out and wrapped a hand in the fabric of her cloak. Smoky, hope-filled eyes stared down at her, while the stubble on his chin cast a faint shadow over a jaw clenched hard with determination. “You know what's wrong with him?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Mayhap I spoke too hastily. I am hardly a physician. It might not be pneumonia. He could have pleurisy or some other foul lung disease.”

Halston's hand fisted tighter in her coat, dragging her so close his lean body eclipsed any view of the others. “Surely, if you know what's wrong with him, you're familiar with some type of treatment.”

“You're not listening.” She wrapped her hands around his wrist and jerked his hands away from her coat, then took a step back. “I said I don't know what's wrong with him, and I don't. The only thing I know is that he shouldn't be walking in his condition. But then, we hardly have any choice since you haven't a cart to carry him. If you want answers beyond that, you'll have to find a physician.”

“If finding a physician is my only chance to save Westerfield, you should have stated so this morning. We could have spent the day looking for one instead of traveling.”

“And what do you suppose would have happened when this physician came to camp and learned his patient was English?”

“I can afford to buy his silence.”

“Like you bought your last guide's silence?”

Halston's eyes flashed.

She stared right back at him, her chest heaving as she glowered into his ominous, aristocratic face.

“Dani! There's horses!”

She swiveled her head, first toward Serge, who was nearly at the top of the knoll with Westerfield, and then toward the larger hill in the distance. A quickly moving party of shadowed horses thundered down the opposite incline, the faint vibrations of their hoofbeats rattling the ground now that she was quiet enough to sense the motion.

“To the woods. Posthaste!” She turned and raced into the woods, running ahead of the group to find a patch of brambles thick enough to conceal them. Why hadn't she been paying better attention? She'd been standing atop a little hill, visible to all the world, as she argued with the infuriating man.

He deserved a comeuppance for distracting her—except she hadn't time for such things if she wanted everyone to be safe. Finding a hollow behind a tangle of spindly shrubs, she dropped her sack and blanket and rushed back out of the woods. The others had already helped Westerfield onto the dead winter grass lining the road.

“Follow the deer trail into the forest and then crouch down behind the brambles.” She pointed toward the narrow path of trampled grass, then reached up to take Halston's sack from him. “Here. I can carry this while you help.”

“Make haste.” Serge glanced back toward the road, where the horses had disappeared in the valley between the hills. “A few more moments, and they'll be upon us.”

“This is taking too long,” Halston muttered, aiding his brother from behind while Kessler and Farnsworth dragged Westerfield from each side. “Stand back. I'll carry him.”

“But my lord, you cannot—” Farnsworth's words dropped away as Halston did exactly as he'd proclaimed. He bent to swoop his brother up, supporting the limp man's back and legs with his arms. He didn't even look back as he barreled into the woods, Kessler and Farnsworth following close behind.

Danielle stared after him. So mayhap he wasn't that insufferable, caring for his ill brother with such unwavering purpose.

“Dani, are you coming?” Serge called from the opening in the brambles.

“Oui.”
She forced her feet forward, pausing at the start of the woods to move some tangled branches in front of the now-trampled path. Hopefully the soldiers wouldn't notice the newly beaten down grass.

Then again, if the soldiers had seen her and Halston standing atop the hill but passed no one on the road, they might stop and search. Should she and Serge go back to the road as though they'd been the only ones traveling?

There wasn't time. The beasts' hooves pounded loud and close, and Serge had already disappeared into the thicket. She'd little choice but to heft Halston's sack and creep carefully back to the others.

“Who are they?” Kessler whispered.

Serge shifted to peer through the brush, the road barely visible between the shrubs' snarled limbs. “Military.”

“Military?” Kessler looked through the brambles, as well. “Between Saint-Quentin and Reims? Did you see their uniforms?”

Serge scowled. “This is France, not England. Only the military have horses here.”

“Only the military?”

“You forget we've been at war with most of Europe for over a decade.” Danielle, too, peered over her brother's shoulder, then turned back to face the men. “The military confiscated any horses of value long ago. Now hush. No more speaking until they've passed.”

She watched the horses as they raced past, not slowing enough for any of the riders to notice the trampled grass leading off into the woods. The gendarmes' unmistakable uniforms stood out against the muted grays and browns of winter. Dark blue coats trimmed with white, tan breeches, black boots and bicorne hats. Her heartbeat rivaled the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the horses' hooves. The sight of those familiar uniforms had never struck fear in her before, but how close had they been to discovering her and the Englishmen? Another half minute, or Serge failing to call out a warning, and...

Westerfield loosed a chest-rattling cough, and his eyes flickered opened for the barest of moments. “What's happening?”

She glared in his direction while reaching down and gripping the knife strapped to her ankle. Beside her, Serge reached for the blade settled into the waist of his trousers.

Halston bent and whispered something to his brother, but noise from the trampling beasts obliterated his words. The same noise must have prevented the gendarmes from hearing Westerfield's cough as well, because not a single gendarme glanced at the woods that concealed them.

Thank You, Father.

Wherever the men were headed, they certainly made haste, passing quickly until the clomp of hooves gradually faded. She stared warily through the brush, knife clenched in her hand and eyes alert until the last of them disappeared down the hill.

“I'm sorry,” Westerfield rasped, his voice haggard and gravelly. “I—I didn't...” Another bout of coughing overtook him, the sound ringing through the forest while his body convulsed and his lungs wheezed for breath.

Danielle ran her eyes over the ill man and rubbed the tender space where a headache was building at the sides of her forehead. Was this how Laurent had died? In a foreign land at the mercy of some stranger?

Non
. She couldn't think of such things now, not with a group of Englishmen to protect. Besides, Laurent's death at the hands of the British navy would have been swift and ruthless. A jab of a bayonet or firing of a musket. No mercy from the English. No one scrambling to save his life. “We need to get to Saint-Quentin, posthaste. We're traveling much too slowly.”

“No. We need to travel slowly for Westerfield,” Kessler retorted, his eyes still on the road as though he expected one of the gendarmes to return.

“That's not much of an option.” At least not if he wanted his friend to live.

Halston's brows drew down. “Why is Saint-Quentin so important? You didn't mention it this morn. And don't tell me it's because of a gendarmerie post you're planning to visit.”

She squeezed her knife extra hard as she shoved it back in its sheath. She'd promised the man she would help, had she not? “I didn't realize how sick your brother was. We need medicine and a cart to carry him.”

“You can get medicine?” Halston's eyes rested on hers, that expectant expression back on his face.

Best not to give the man too much hope, not when his brother looked so sickly he might not live through the night. “I can try, but I promise you nothing beyond that.”

She drew in a deep breath and looked away.

“How far is Saint-Quentin?” Kessler demanded.

“From where we left this morn, it should have taken us two full days, but at the rate we're traveling, we've got nearly two days left.” If Westerfield even lived two days.

Perhaps she should have paid closer attention when they stopped for midday meal. Perhaps she should have walked slower from the beginning, offered to help with the ill man herself and not have pushed the group so hard.

The man's skin was no longer merely pale but held the gray hue of death, and a faint trace of blue tinged his lips. Saint-Quentin, medicine and a cart might only be a day and a half away, but it would do them little good if Westerfield couldn't live long enough to get supplies.

She looked away from the man, whose labored breathing filled the little thicket. He was the reason she'd agreed to help, but she hadn't realized the journey to the channel would kill him faster than any gendarme who discovered their whereabouts.

* * *

Danielle rose from her crouched position, as gracefully and naturally as a deer moving through a field—save for the tight set of her back. “Since we've stopped, we may as well settle farther back in the woods and make camp.”

Gregory rolled his weary shoulders, careful not to disturb where Westerfield leaned against his chest. The woman might wish to be nearer Saint-Quentin, but she and Serge were the only ones not exhausted from their travels. Plus, the group had barely made the woods in time to escape the gendarmes. If someone had tripped or Westerfield fallen, they'd all be staring down musket barrels about now.