Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (62 page)

“I can't.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't more honest from the beginning.” And he was. “I simply...I'd do anything to save my brother, and I feared you'd leave if you knew he'd been accused of spying.”

She shoved another tress of falling hair behind her ear and sniffled. “Like I'm leaving now?”

“A bit like that, yes.”

“You rescued your brother and Kessler from a secret prison.” She opened another sack in the back of the cart and collected a handful of supplies. “You only need to reach the coast now. You'll be fine without me.”

He'd be fine without her? The trip to Saint-Quentin must have somehow addled her mind. “We won't last a week, which I knew when I first came to France. That's why I hired a guide. It's not my fault he deserted us.”

“It is if you offered to pay him a measly two-thousand guineas. The consulate has a bounty of double that on Westerfield and Kessler's heads.”

It did? Gregory's tongue turned dry as sawdust. “How do you know such a thing?”

“Handbills are posted all over Saint-Quentin. When you offered your guide that two thousand pounds, you failed to consider how valuable British spies are to our government. A couple of escapees from Verdun? Not worth so much. But men who might impart war secrets to our enemies? And especially men of the peerage? They're valuable indeed. If Napoleon had a mind to trade Kessler and Westerfield back to England for money, King George would probably pay ten thousand pounds apiece for their safe return. When your guide betrayed you, he was likely thinking that your party was worth more money were he to catch you when you were free, especially if you already gave him part of the money promised.”

He pressed his forefinger and thumb to the shallow indentations in his eyebrows. He had indeed paid his guide a handy sum once the man had located Westerfield and Kessler's prison. But then, why hadn't his guide laid a better trap? Had gendarmes meet them at the rendezvous spot once Kessler and Westerfield had been freed?

Because there wouldn't have been a large reward placed on their heads yet? “He probably still searches for us, then.”

Danielle looked over her shoulder and surveyed the trees, as though scanning them for sudden danger. “
Oui
. And he would know the roads you planned to take, as well as where you've booked a boat along the channel.”

“Berck. I have passage back to England arranged with some...er, fishermen in Berck. That's how I first found my guide, through the fishermen's recommendation.”

Her eyes took on a knowing gleam. “You need not lie to me about the fishermen, Halston. I can discern the difference between a fisherman and smuggler.”

Were his dealings that obvious? “The truth is, much of this business of getting Westerfield back to England has been unsavory. But he's not a spy, nor does he pose any threat to your country, and since I'm to blame for his capture, I need to see him freed and returned home. But I can't do any of that without you. None of us can hunt like you or scout out where to set camp. We don't know the back roads to the coast or the narrow paths to follow through the woods. And if anyone spots us, if we have to talk for any reason...”

She turned back to the wagon and picked up the bundle of clothing. “Here, take these back to the camp and make use of them. They should make your disguise more believable, provided you don't need to say anything in French.”

He accepted the sack and dug through a few of the items. “These are finer than what we're wearing, and more colorful.” Blue breeches instead of the drab gray or brown. A dark red waistcoat.

“That's because you don't pass for peasants, even in your rags. Your posture is too straight and your mannerisms too refined. Better to dress like members of the bourgeoisie.”

She continued packing, taking things from various sacks in the back of the cart and transferring them all to the single one she held.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind about leaving us?”

“I should have never helped in the first place.” She took a bundle of salt pork from his sack and placed it in her own.

“Then why did you?”

“Because I wanted Westerfield to live. Because if it were my brother stranded in England, I'd hope and pray someone, anyone...” She blew out a breath and gave her head a subtle shake. “
Non
. I was wrong to ever help. I knew not what I risked until I entered Saint-Quentin yesterday.”

What
she
risked? “Your danger is little compared to ours.”

She dropped her sack, her hand flying through the air so quickly he hadn't time to halt it before her palm struck his cheek. “How dare you. You think you're the only one who risks something on this journey? You know nothing. Nothing! Of who my family is, of how we could be hurt, of the dangers that await everyone I love were Serge and I to be caught.”

His skin smarted from the slap, and he raised his hand to cover it. “No, I rather suppose I don't.”

“My father's name might not be recognizable to you, but he's a member of Fouché's police force. He's been secretly reporting to the Minister of Police since the middle of the
Révolution
, long before Napoleon rose to power and gave Fouché his official role.”

Gregory sank back against the cart. Her father was a member of some secret network? The same secret network that ran the prisons where Westerfield and Kessler had been? The same secret network that would have reported his brother and Kessler as spies in the first place?

“I failed to think about the consequences of helping you at first. Perhaps I believed in the back of my mind that if Serge and I were found and accused as traitors,
Papa
could use his connections to free us. But then when I went into Saint-Quentin and saw the gendarmes searching the crowds and handbills advertising your disappearance, I realized the truth. If Serge and I are found out,
Papa
won't be able to free us, and he'll likely be arrested and thrown into prison. And not just him, but the rest of my family. My
maman
, my four little sisters, one of whom has not yet reached her first year. How do you think a babe would fare inside the prison cell that held Kessler and your brother?”

A babe. Gregory's stomach churned. She was right. He hadn't considered what she was risking. Hadn't asked. Hadn't assumed she risked much at all. She seemed so sure and confident, so invincible. Able to conquer anyone or anything that stood in her way.

“I'm sorry.” He'd spoken the words more times in this single conversation than he likely had in his past twenty-eight years. But they no longer seemed enough. “I should have been more honest from the start. I should have considered the threat to your family.”

“I deserved to be told the truth. Just because I'm French and can't claim a marquess or earl as my father doesn't mean you can belittle me.”

“I never thought it did.”

Her throat worked back and forth. “You're lying again.”

“I'm not lying. I'm only...I was so concerned about Westerfield that I...” He sighed, because truly, what more was there to say? He hadn't thought about the sacrifices this quest would require of her or her brother.

She stood beside the mule, her cheeks overly pink, her dark tresses slipping from their pins to fall in little waves about her shoulders and hurt rolling off her like waves from the sea. Both of them concerned for their families, both trying protect their kin. How could he fault her for wanting to shield those she loved?

Curse this senseless war that pitted them against each other. That took a good man like his brother and threw him in a dungeon to rot. That threatened a kind person like Danielle for helping others in need.

“Dani?” a voice called from the woods.

Danielle swallowed and swung her gaze toward the stand of firs behind him. “Over here.”

“Oh, there you are.” Serge appeared from behind a thick tree. “I must have gotten turned around a bit in the woods.”

She raised an eyebrow at her brother. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”

Serge's eyes moved between them, honest and perceptive as always. “Is everything all right?”

She sighed wearily. “It's fine. I just...we were...discussing some things.”

Serge glared his way. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not in the way you mean,
non
.”

“Well, there's rabbit back at camp. I set it to roasting a bit ago. Thought we could eat before we head out.”

She rubbed her temple, another tired gesture.

“Don't act as though eating rabbit is such a hardship. If we don't sup now, we'll be stuck having more salt pork for dinner.” Serge grimaced. “That is, assuming you still want to head out tonight.”

The breath clogged in Gregory's throat. Perchance she'd changed her mind. Maybe something in their conversation had made her understand—

“Oui.”
She lifted her sack. “I still want to leave.”

“But can we eat first?” Serge offered her a big, sloppy grin.

“If we hasten.”

She started through the trees with Serge following closely behind, neither bothering to wait for Gregory nor even looking back.

Just like they wouldn't look back when they left for good in another half hour.

Chapter Ten

D
anielle didn't wait for Halston as she threaded her way back to camp, nor did she look at Kessler once she and Serge entered the little clearing. Instead, she headed straight for Westerfield. She'd do a quick check of him, eat some food and then they would be on their way. The sooner she was gone, the better.

But leaving didn't feel better. It felt...

Uncomfortable. Awkward. Wrong.

Which was ridiculous. Of course it wasn't wrong for her to leave. Halston and Kessler didn't trust her; nor did they treat her as an equal.

Except for back in the woods. Halston apologized, nearly kissed you and understood why you wanted to leave.
She shoved down the little voice whispering at the back of her mind and knelt beside Westerfield.

She laid a hand across his brow, still hot with fever and damp with sweat. “Westerfield? Can you hear me?”

His eyelids didn't even flicker.

All the more reason for her to go. She was starting to care too much for the ailing Englishman and his determined brother. For the servant with a soft heart and...well, she couldn't think of anything to commend Kessler. But the rest of them were almost tolerable.

“Danielle?”

She turned abruptly. That she recognized the voice and the soft way her name rolled over Halston's lips was yet another thing that didn't bear thinking of. “Did you want something?”

“The food is ready.” Halston held out a hand to help her up, his eyes flickering to his brother. “Is he any better?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Will he...?”

“I can't say for certain one way or the other.” She headed toward the fire where everyone else had gathered and plopped onto the ground. The conversation was quiet—a word from Serge, a question from Farnsworth, but mostly silence without even Westerfield's cough to interrupt them. Perhaps the mustard plaster had been a mistake. At least the man had been making sounds that indicated he still lived before. Now he lay motionless as a corpse.

“Not hungry?” Halston asked from beside her.

She shook her head and stared down at her food, but that didn't stop the warmth of Halston's gaze from touching her face and washing through the rest of her body. Why was he sitting beside her, anyway? And why did he keep staring?

Because of the kiss? Her face heated.
Non
. It wasn't a kiss. It was an...an...an almost kiss.

Almost kiss?
Did such a thing even exist?

It must. Otherwise the memory of his eyes gazing into hers, of his body shifting subtly forward, wouldn't keep running through her mind.

Why had she pulled away?

Why had she let him get so near in the first place?

And why did she now have the irresistible urge to jump up and seat herself on the other side of the fire? His presence had never bothered her before.

Well, mayhap once or twice, like the night he'd caught her trying to escape with Serge, or the argument she and Halston had gotten into while standing atop the—

“Dani!” Serge shouted from across the fire.

She jerked her gaze up to meet her brother's. “Is something wrong?”

He scrunched his forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Um, mayhap because I had to call your name three times to get your attention.”

Three times? Heat started somewhere in her chest and worked its way up over her throat and onto her face. Then Halston cleared his throat beside her, and her cheeks burned even hotter.

She scowled at her brother. “What did you want?”

“Are you ready to go?”

She glanced down at her still-full plate.
“Oui.”

After setting her dish on the ground, she pushed it nearer the fire and stood.

“Wait.” Halston scrambled to his feet, his hand reaching out to grip her wrist. “I'm sorry for not telling you the truth about Verdun. I'm sorry for not considering all you risked by helping us. Please forgive me, and please stay.”

She tried to tug her wrist away, but he only held tighter, the heat from his palm searing through the sleeve of her dress to her skin. “If anyone finds out how I've already aided you, my family will be imprisoned, possibly even killed.”

“Then we'll pray for God's protection.” The flickering firelight danced across his imploring eyes. “We've already seen God's hand on Westerfield, haven't we? Shouldn't my brother be dead by now?”

She slanted her gaze toward Westerfield's ominously silent figure. “Yes, he should have died. But either way—”

“I want to stay.” Serge appeared at her side.

“How can you say that? With half of France searching for these men, you know what could happen if we're caught, what might happen to
Papa
and
Maman
and the children.”

“And I know the verses
Papa
reads at the dinner table.
‘For there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.'
If there's no difference between Jew or Greek to God, then why's there a difference between French and English? If we don't help them, they'll likely be imprisoned or killed. Isn't saving a life more important than taking sides?”

Suddenly cold, she rubbed her free hand over the arm Halston still held. Serge had turned those verses around. That wasn't how
Papa
meant them, surely it wasn't. It wasn't a question of taking sides. The Englishmen were her enemies, their countries had been at war for over a decade, and Laurent was dead as a result. Maybe there wasn't any difference between Jew and Greek, but there was certainly a difference between English and French.

Wasn't there?

“The verse also says there's no difference between servant and master,” she croaked, eyeing Farnsworth from where he watched her across the fire.

“Then maybe Kessler and Halston will learn that themselves on our journey,” Serge answered easily, as though the decision to stay was simple. As though they didn't risk both their own lives as well as the rest of the Belanger family's.

“But if we're caught—”

“Do you remember when
Papa
helped
Maman
? He could have been killed, but he helped her anyway.”

The memories flooded her mind in a giant rush. She'd been a mere girl of three and ten when
Papa
had entered their lives.
Grandpère,
with all his power and devious intentions, had given
Maman
a cruel task, and
Maman
had fought rather than comply. “
Grandpère
would have killed her.”

Serge rubbed his throat, the memory probably more terrifying for him than for her. After all, it hadn't been her neck beneath
Grandpère
's blade. “He would have killed us all.”

She drew in a breath and looked down, only to find that Halston no longer gripped her wrist. Instead he held her hand, slowly massaging the weary, calloused flesh while she spoke with Serge.

“
Papa
made the difference between
Maman
's life and death.” Serge flopped a patch of auburn hair out of his eyes. “The difference in our lives, too. Now we have a chance to do the same for someone else. I think we should stay.”

Papa
wasn't their
Papa
back then, of course, and he hadn't had to help them. After what
Maman
had been forced to do to him, he'd had every reason to leave the lot of them to
Grandpère
's machinations. But he'd helped anyway. Because it was right. Because he could. Because God had given him the ability to correct a terrible wrong—and bring down the most prominent smuggling ring in northern France in the process.

“Will you stay?” Halston's words were soft, his touch gentle and tender. Though probably not able to understand most of their French words, he seemed to grasp the meaning of their conversation.

It's treason,
a voice rang inside her head.
You can't help these men without being a threat to your own country. The very kind of threat your father watches for and reports to the police
.

But God hadn't created countries; He'd created Adam and Eve. That was it. And so her family had oft sneaked across the channel to visit Uncle Michel and Aunt Isabelle in England, and Uncle Michel and Aunt Isabelle had visited them on more than one occasion, even while the wars between their countries raged on. Because English or French, it should make no difference.

What if Halston was right? What if God had caused the two of them to meet in the woods and helping them was indeed God's plan?

She inhaled deeply, drawing the cold winter air into her lungs. “All right. We can stay.”

* * *

Danielle opened her eyes and stared up at the rough wooden planks linking the underside of the cart she'd purchased in Saint-Quentin. The mule snorted from where it lay tethered to a nearby tree, and two squirrels nattered close at hand. She stretched her arms, rolling out from beneath the small shelter where she'd slept last night. It seemed only right she stay with the beast. The Englishmen would have no idea how to care for the animal, and she wasn't about to send Serge to the cart and camp with four men by herself.

She yawned and looked up at the ever-gray sky above. Mayhap one day the sun would deign to shine on this forsaken road in northern France, but until then, nothing but bleak skies, bare trees and brown earth surrounded her.

She buttoned the top of her coat and shook out her tangled mass of hair. She should take time to put it to rights, but only after she checked on Westerfield.

He'd been so weak last night, his skin burning to the touch and body drenched with sweat, fluid rattling in his lungs with each shallow breath he took.

She bent to gather her blankets, bundling them in the back of the wagon before fishing out some oats for the mule. What would Halston do if Westerfield died? If ever love and determination had the power to save a person from death, then Westerfield deserved to live a thousand times over because of Halston's dedication.

The man wouldn't even entertain the possibility that his brother might die. He would make a perfect husband one day, considering how earnestly he cared for his family and how determined he was to do right by them.

Why couldn't there be some Frenchman like Halston in Abbeville? Marrying him wouldn't seem so terrible.

Or rather, someone
like
Halston. Certainly not the man himself. She'd never marry an Englishman who thought his country right for declaring war on hers, much less an aristocrat who believed himself above people like her and Serge and Farnsworth because of his parentage. Mayhap he cared about his family. Mayhap he would make some prim English girl a good husband. But his future had nothing to do with hers.

Which left her just as alone as before she'd journeyed to Reims three months ago. No decent man in Abbeville wanted her, nor did any in Reims. Probably because she couldn't manage to do a womanly thing to save her life. She could kill, skin and roast a rabbit, sure. But most men wanted bread to go with that rabbit and a wife who could mend their shirts rather than accidently put bigger holes in them.

She huffed, feeding the mule another handful of oats before tromping off toward camp. She was too wrapped up in this entire tortuous journey, trying to save an Englishman she shouldn't care about, nearly kissing another Englishman she shouldn't allow herself to look at.

But last night by the fire, with Halston massaging her hand—yet another thing she shouldn't have allowed—and Serge looking at her with those pleading eyes, the decision to stay had seemed so simple. So right.

This morning, that decision had turned into a giant mess.

One that put her family at risk.

One she'd not be able to easily get herself and her brother out of.

What had she agreed to? And why? Just because a rich, dashing man with imploring eyes had told her he needed her?

She was a fool to believe him, and not just once over but twice or thrice.

She growled and kicked at a tree root protruding from the forest floor. Not that the root bothered to move for her. Instead she jarred her toes against the front of her boot, causing them to protest in pain.

Then a cough echoed through the trees, and she stilled as more coughing filled the air. Westerfield had lived another night.

Mayhap all was not as hopeless as it seemed.