Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (67 page)

She backed up, but the two steps she took hardly seemed enough distance. Were the entire isle of Britain plunked down between them, it wouldn't seem enough distance to keep her emotions at bay. “You're a British lord. You can't go around kissing any woman you please.”

Which wasn't true. In England, aristocrats probably did kiss any woman they pleased without any fear of repercussions. And most women were likely happy to reciprocate.

Just not her. She turned and stalked toward the trees.

Though the rain had stopped, the muddy earth sucked at her boots and made her steps sluggish rather than defiant. She fisted a hand in her hair then wrapped her arms around herself. She was a fool! A wretch! A weak, loathsome woman.

Why had she allowed herself to kiss him again? To enjoy it? Had a bigger clod ever walked the soil of France? She'd thought she was a failure already, when she'd killed her chances of procuring a husband first at home and then in Reims. But if she'd believed that that was the worst that could happen, then she'd been wrong. She'd never failed so hugely before as she had just moments ago—as she had this entire trip—by allowing herself to fall in love with a British lord.

In love.

Non
. She couldn't be in love. Not with Gregory Halston, third son of the sixth Marquess of Westerfield.

She pressed a fist over her mouth to stem the sob building in her chest. She hadn't the time to stand there and cry. She was in these woods not to argue with Halston, or fall in love with him, but to find shelter for the rest of the party and then finish leading them to the coast.

She straightened and drew in a long, slow breath. Then she surveyed the woods, quiet but for the sound of...

No. There was no sound of chirping birds or scampering squirrels. The woods were dead silent.

She paused a moment more, waiting, surveying. A frisson of alarm swept through her, and she spun around.

“Get down.” She raced toward Halston, who still stood beside the tree where they'd kissed.

“I beg your pardon?”

She slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground the same instant the bang of a gunshot echoed through the woods. The thunderous noise barely registered before pain exploded in her back and head.

Then her world turned to blackness.

Chapter Fifteen

A
gunshot rang through the quiet morning. The weight of Danielle's body crashed into Gregory and sent him sprawling. He landed on his back, Danielle half on top of him and half on the ground.

“Danielle!” He scrambled upright only to find sticky moisture seeping from her body. Tearing off his coat, he pressed it to her bloody side. Another shot cracked through the woods. He reached for his pistol and scanned the direction from which the shots came, but only the trees' vague shadows stood in the dim light.

A third shot split the air, and a musket ball whistled past his head to imbed itself in the tree behind him.

Hands shaking, he pointed his gun at one of the darker shadows—hopefully a man rather than a tree—and pulled the trigger. A dull click echoed through the woods. Dampness beaded on his forehead. His powder was too wet to ignite, though evidently his assailant hadn't been walking through the rain all night and had perfectly dry powder.

A shadow moved from the direction the gunshots had come, and Gregory scrambled for the knife sheathed to Danielle's ankle. Not that he knew how to throw it, but having some sort of weapon was better than nothing.

“Halt, or we'll shoot you like we did the girl,” a rusted voice called in French.

“Aren't they supposed to be worth more money alive than dead?” a younger voice asked.

Two figures emerged from the murky gray morning. Not gendarmes. Even in the fog, their thick woolen coats, worn boots and wide-brimmed hats revealed them to be farmers.

“Put your hands up now and drop that knife.” The older man used the barrel of his musket to point at Gregory's head.

Gregory glanced into the man's hard, line-creased face and let the knife thud to the ground.

“Are you English? You got two seconds to prove it one way or another.”

His chest tightened until he could barely take a breath. He looked down at Danielle, her face pale. Was she alive, or had that musket shot already stolen the life from her? She lay still as death, no rise and fall of her chest discernible beneath her cloak.

“Answer us.”

“I'm English.”

“Whooo-eee,
Père
!” The younger man's pistol dropped toward the ground while a ridiculous smile claimed his face. “We done caught them. That's some luck, there! Do you know how rich this is going to make us? We'll have coin for—”

“I'll double it.” Gregory's heart thrummed against his ribs. “Whatever your government's price on our heads, I'll double it if you let us walk away without speaking a word of our presence.”

The younger man tilted his head. “You got that kind of money with you?”

“Not all of it, but I can pay you half now and send the other after I reach England.”

“No.” The old farmer trained his rifle directly at Gregory's heart. “I'm not some filthy traitor about to let enemies of France go free. You'll—”

Thunk!

Gregory blinked. A knife protruded from the farmer's neck. It seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and yet he hadn't imagined the blade. The man's eyes glazed over and he fell to the ground, blood seeping into the earth around him.

Gregory looked behind him just as Serge burst through the trees, another knife poised to throw.

The younger farmer dropped his pistol to the ground and his hands flew up. “
Non
, wait. I didn't do anything. I wasn't going to—”

But Serge's knife was already flying through the air. It hit the younger man in the exact same place the first blade had struck his father, and he crumpled lifelessly.

“Dani!” Tears choked Serge's voice as he fell to his knees beside his sister. “Where is she hurt? Is she...is she...?” He ran his hands frantically over her body.

“I don't know.” Gregory leaned down and placed his cheek near her mouth. The faint warmth of breath puffed onto his chilled skin. “She still breathes, but I don't know if the injury is fatal. They shot her in the side.” Or so he thought, he could hardly be certain, given the little time between Danielle falling and the men firing again.

He pulled back the coat still balled against her body, only to find her blood had drenched far too much of the fabric.

“Put it back.” Panic edged Serge's voice. “We've got to stop the bleeding.”

Gregory's hands trembled as he stared down at the bloody coat. “One moment we were talking, and the next, we...we...” He pressed his eyes shut, a thick lump lodged in his throat. “She saved me. She knew. Somehow she sensed the danger before the first shot, and she...she...” She'd sacrificed herself for him, had thrown her body in front of his own and sent them both crashing to the ground.

But not soon enough.

Serge grabbed the coat from him and put it back against his sister's side. “Don't sit there like a dunce. Hold the coat to her. Is she hurt anywhere else?”

“I...I know not.” He held the fabric against her bleeding wound while Serge searched for further injury. Perchance Serge knew something of medicine and healing traits. Gregory likely couldn't discern the difference between a broken bone and sprained ankle. Though he well understood that if Danielle had been shot in her gut, if there was damage inside her belly, her soft breaths wouldn't last much longer.

God, what have I done?

Had Danielle jumped in front of him because she thought he'd paid her to do such?
Get us safely to England
had been his words, but he'd never intended for her to sacrifice her own life for his.

“Is she dead?” Kessler's harsh voice resonated through the still morning.

Of course he would be the one to ask.

“Not if I can help it.” Serge pointed at Kessler. “Cut some strips from the farmers' clothes. I'll need them for bandages, and I need ale to clean her wound. See if they have any on them.”

“Is she...? Is the wound...?” Gregory clamped his teeth onto his confounded tongue, which was suddenly unable to utter a coherent sentence.

Serge met his gaze, his face drawn into worried lines. “I think the musket ball only grazed her side. If we clean and bandage it, mayhap she'll be all right.” He slanted a glance back at his sister's face. “But I can't say for certain. She's better at healing than me.”

“A side wound doesn't explain why she's unconscious.” Westerfield spoke quietly from behind them.

“Non.”
Serge sank his teeth into his bottom lip.

Westerfield's hand landed on Gregory's shoulder, firm but gentle. “What happened, Halston?”

“I...we...she...she jumped in front of a musket ball to knock me to the ground. She realized the danger and...” Gregory let his voice trail off as his eyes clouded. He raised his hand to wipe a stray tear from his cheek only to have the coat fall away from her body, once more revealing her bloody side.

“Halston, you've got to keep the fabric pressed tight.” Serge nearly shouted the words from where he sat examining Danielle's head.

“I'm sorry. I know. I simply...” His hands started trembling anew as he put the garment back into place and pressed it tighter against her motionless body. But his stomach churned with the memory of all the blood.
Her
blood.

“Move aside.” His brother nudged his shoulder. “I'll hold the cloth.”

“No.” He couldn't abandon her now, even if his stomach lurched and his hands shook. He had to get her well. This was all his fault. He'd followed her when she didn't wish it, then argued with her. Kissed her. Distracted her from her task of scouting a safe haven for them. Surely their raised voices had alerted the farmers to their whereabouts.

“Will these be enough?” Farnsworth approached with strips of torn linen in his hands.

“They should suffice.” Serge held out his hand for the linens.

“I found brandy.” Kessler walked over, sniffing a rather large leather flask.

Using one hand to keep the coat in place, Gregory reached for the container. Certainly he could manage such a simple task as pouring brandy on her wound.

Kessler set the flask in his hands, but the leather barely touched his sweat-slickened fingers before it slipped and plopped onto the ground, soaking the damp earth with precious liquid.

“Halston!” Westerfield swooped up the flask. “Move aside. You're in no condition to help.”

“But I need to.” And he did. More than anything he'd ever done in his life, he needed to save Danielle.

Except Serge had pulled the coat away from Danielle's side once again, leaving the mess of blood and cloth and skin open for all to see. Gregory's stomach cramped with nausea and he gagged.

Kessler hauled him up to his feet and shoved him to the side. “Move before you retch atop her, you fool.”

On legs hardly stable enough to hold himself upright, Gregory stumbled toward a thick tree. Leaning against the scratchy bark, he slid down to sit so he could see Danielle. If she died...

Had it really been just last night he'd told Danielle to let those soldiers go free? Perhaps they all would have been better off killing the original men who'd discovered them.

Serge and Westerfield poured brandy over Danielle's wound while Farnsworth and Kessler looked on. She didn't even move, let alone gasp in pain.

He'd prided himself on fighting for Suzanna, had thought standing for the honor of a common woman was somehow a noble and gracious sacrifice on his behalf.

How dull his own sacrifice shone when compared to Danielle's. He'd all but said she was beneath him when Kessler asked whether he held to Danielle's theory about people's value. Yet here she had nearly forfeited her life to save his.

And why should he be surprised? She'd put herself in harm's way since she first agreed to help. That was what real sacrifice looked like, not challenging Kessler to a field at dawn out of anger or coming to France to save the brother he'd inadvertently put there. She'd had no reason to save him and every cause to destroy him, and yet she'd taken a musket ball in his stead. Her actions made all he had done for Suzanna and Westerfield in the past two years, all his giving to the orphans and hospitals, everything about his very life, seem paltry.

“You must be cold, my lord.” Farnsworth approached, one of the thick woolen blankets from the cart in his hand. “Wrap this around yourself.”

Gregory looked down at his rough linen sleeves. Though he'd spent the past half hour without his coat, he felt no cold or damp or anything at all...

Besides the large, aching hole in his chest that Danielle Belanger had once filled.

Chapter Sixteen

P
ain tore through Danielle's head. It felt as though someone had taken her sharpest knife and sliced open her skull, then left the metal blade embedded in her head. She shifted and groaned, only to have a fresh slash of agony sear her.

“Dani?”

She turned her head toward the tender voice—a mistake considering the wave of nausea that followed.

“Dani, are you awake?”

She blinked and found herself staring up at unfamiliar trees, their branches bare against the dim sky. Halston hovered beside her, his face so close she could almost press her lips to his cheek—not that she intended to do such a thing again.

“You're calling me Dani now?” More pain, bright as lightning across a dark sky and hot as a fire on the coldest winter night.

“You took a musket ball and smashed your head against a rock because of me...”

A musket ball. That explained the burning in her side, which seemed to grow worse the longer she forced her eyes open.

“That should give me license to call you Dani and you liberty to call me Gregory.”

She rested her head back against the makeshift pallet and closed her eyes. Whatever he chose to call her wasn't worth the anguish of arguing at the moment.

A hand pressed against her cheek, the touch cool yet comforting, so perfect she nearly rolled closer to Halston...Gregory...whoever he was supposed to be.

Clearly her injuries had addled her mind if something as simple as a touch had her turning soft.

“Don't do that again, do you hear me? Taking a bullet for me is not your job.”

She forced her eyes open to find herself staring into the handsome—if aristocratic—lines of his face. Saving him hadn't been something she'd planned, just instinct. She'd sensed danger one second and moved to protect him in the next, that was all.

But if she'd had time to think? If she'd had enough seconds to warn him and take cover for herself...?

She'd have still stood between him and the gunmen.

Because she loved him, as pointless as it was. And so she'd throw herself in front of a musket ball time and again if it meant she could keep him safe.

But he wouldn't want to hear such things. He was some high-and-mighty British lord who saw value in her skills alone, not in her person.

She looked away from his somber blue gaze. “Where are we?” It certainly wasn't the same patch of woods where she'd been shot.

“I know not. We've walked through the forest for the past two days with Serge guiding us. You've been hot with fever and in and out of consciousness. Farnsworth and Serge took to giving you that garlic and onion potion you used on Westerfield to good effect—your fever seemed to abate.”

He moved a hand to her forehead, but she raised her own to pull his away. She didn't need him touching her, not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever again.

“We had to leave the cart and mule behind. They couldn't travel through the brush.”

Non
. She wouldn't have guessed they could. But then, how had the men moved her? She looked at Gregory again, at his strong shoulders and lean torso hidden behind a gray coat far different from the one she'd purchased him in Saint-Quentin. Had he carried her for two days while she remained unconscious? She would have been helpless. Completely at his mercy. Totally under his protection.

Her heart quickened against her ribs. She'd rather rest in Kessler's arms than his.

But Kessler was weak from his time in prison, and Gregory hovered beside her.

“Did you...?” The rest of the words clogged in her throat, so she shifted her gaze away instead. Some questions one was better off not having answers for. “My side is sore and I'm feeling tired. Mayhap you should let me rest.”

* * *

Danielle leaned against a tree and heaved in a breath, pressing her eyes shut for the briefest of moments. Her head pounded. Her side burned. Her throat felt as though it had been deprived of water for a fortnight. She only needed a moment or two of rest. And some water. She wouldn't complain about opiates to dull the pain in her side and head either. Or a nap.

Ahead of her, Serge continued to lead the men through the densest patches of trees and brambles, taking them through fallen, decaying leaves where they'd leave no footprints and getting them closer to Berck with every step. He was handling the task quite well, just like he'd done well cleaning her side and head and bandaging her wounds. Apparently he'd even done well throwing his knives—at least according to Gregory's account of the attack.

“Dani?” Gregory paused on the deer path ahead and surveyed the woods behind him until his gaze landed on her.

“Coming.” She pushed off the tree and took a shaky step forward. The throbbing in her head turned from dull to sharp, and her side wept in protest. What had possessed her to attempt so much walking three days after she'd been shot? She should have known her body was too weak. But then, what other choice had she?

Gregory stalked toward her, his gait strong and purposeful. “You're ill. Let me carry you.”

Definitely not something she would allow.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, refusing to look up into those foggy eyes sure to be filled with sympathy and concern. “I'm fine. I kept pace all morning. I can walk all afternoon, as well.”

“No. You cannot.” With a deft movement, he swept her up, bracing her back with one arm while slipping his other beneath her knees.

“Let me down!” She pounded her fists against his chest, never mind that pain ripped through her side at the movement.

“Dani, hush!” Serge appeared beside her, while Kessler, Farnsworth and Westerfield looked on from farther up the trail. “Gendarmes will still be searching for us.”

She clamped her lips shut. Her brother was right. What had she been thinking?

But then, she probably hadn't been thinking: her head hurt too much for that and her body felt too weary. Hot tears of mortification welled behind her eyes. She just needed sleep and something to dull the pain in her side and clear the ache in her head.

Both were luxuries that would cost them too much time. She looked at her brother. “Tell Gregory to put me down. I don't want to be carried.”

“You don't have a choice.” Gregory's voice rumbled from deep in his chest—a rumble she felt as much as heard given the way he cradled her against him.

“Forsooth, Dani. You can't walk all day, not after getting yourself shot.”

“I can.”

Gregory shifted her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a newborn chick. “Even if you can—which I doubt—I refuse to allow it. This is the third time you've fallen behind since our last meal.”

Serge reached out to grasp her hand, his eyes pleading. “If you push too hard, you'll hurt yourself again. Do you remember how sick Westerfield got after that day you made him walk too far?”

She shook her head, though that only sent more pain skittering through her. How ill she felt mattered not. She couldn't lie here cocooned in Gregory's arms. Couldn't spend her afternoon with her head pressed against his chest so that she heard every beat of his heart and draw of his breath, smelled his familiar scent mixed with the aroma of clean air and winter's dampness. Her heart would shatter.

“Then l-let someone else carry me.”

Gregory's arms stiffened around her.

Serge's eyebrows drew down into a frown. “Kessler and Westerfield are too weak from their prison stay, and Halston is stronger than Farnsworth. He's the best choice.”

But I can't manage it.
She turned her face into Gregory's thick coat. 'Twas useless to argue any longer, not with both Gregory and Serge set against her. Some part of her brain knew they were right, that she shouldn't be walking, that her head and side hurt much worse now than when they'd started that morn and that Gregory was the best person to carry her. But none of it made her current position in Gregory's arms any less humiliating.

Just like none of it would make forgetting his scent any easier, or the steadiness of his heartbeat, the feel of his arms, or her love for him.

* * *

“Spread the blanket for Danielle first.” Gregory's arms ached as he held Danielle against his chest while she slept, her breath puffing little clouds into the cool winter air. But he wouldn't complain, not now and not ever, if it meant he could hold her for a minute longer.

Beside him, Farnsworth scrambled to do his bidding. Dusk had yet to fall over the forest, though that was probably Serge's intent. They'd stop early and sleep as the sun when down, then wake after dark and continue their journey when blackness covered the earth.

“Did you want some salt fish, Halston? Kessler?” Westerfield dug into one of their sacks for food.

Gregory gave him a slight nod and turned back to find Danielle's blankets spread to form a makeshift bed amid some fallen pine needles. He laid her down, her rich black hair fanning against the pallet beneath her. She'd slept poorly in his arms, twisting and writhing, crying out and waking far too often. Hopefully now that she had a stationary bed, her sleep would be more peaceful.

Gregory pulled two thick, woolen blankets up to her chin, then swept a lock of tangled hair away from her forehead.
God, heal her. Keep her well and give her strength.
He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her forehead, then pushed to his feet and started toward Westerfield with the salt fish. 'Twould be no fire tonight, just as there had been no fire in the four days since they'd passed the checkpoint near Reims.

Four days? Had it really been only half a week ago? Four weeks seemed more appropriate given their near captures, Danielle's injury and the way they'd pushed tirelessly to the coast.

He approached Westerfield and Kessler and reached for the salt fish, but Westerfield didn't release it.

“Be careful with her, Halston.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward where Danielle slept. “I only stumbled that once.” The rough terrain and the way his arms grew fatigued after hours of holding her was sure to tire any man.

“That's not what he means.” Kessler's voice was quiet yet hard, a sharp blade sheathed in satin. “You're getting too close to her.”

Gregory's weary arms tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Kessler spit.

Westerfield rubbed his brow. “Calm down, the both of you. Halston, I understand Danielle has done much for us. She's special, certainly. But don't get attached. In a few more days, we'll depart for England, and she won't be coming with us.”

As though he needed Westerfield's reminder.

“She's French, Halston.” Kessler's voice held no understanding. “And not just French, but a peasant. Unless you plan on making her your mistress when you reach London, you ought not—”

“How dare you!” Before Gregory could stop himself, his fist swung toward Kessler's jaw. It connected with a crack, and Kessler's head jerked back.

“Stop it.” Westerfield attempted to step between them, but Kessler merely sidestepped and swung his own fist toward Gregory's nose.

Gregory barely managed to block the punch.

“I've been in your place.” Kessler pulled his fist back and readied it again despite the large red mark on his jaw. “Do you think you're the only one to fall for a woman beneath your station? Heed my warning and stay away from her.”

“I can't envision you caring for any person, let alone a woman beneath you.”

Kessler lunged, sending them both sprawling against the damp, muddy earth. The breath whooshed from Gregory's body, and he struggled to fill his lungs while Kessler's hand tightened around his collar.

“What do you think Suzanna was?” Kessler landed a punch square in the side of Gregory's cheekbone, sending a vicious spike of pain radiating through his skull. “Do you know how things started between her and me? The same way they're starting between you and Danielle. I know what you thought two years ago, but I'm not some ape who forced myself onto her. That night you found her in the stable after I left? That wasn't the first time—it was the last. That's why she was crying. Because I'd told her no more.”

“What?” Gregory's fingers turned cold, numb even, and a hollowness opened inside his chest.

Kessler still loomed above him, his fist poised to strike again and his other hand holding Gregory's collar.

But Gregory hadn't the strength to fight in light of what he'd just heard. He sought Westerfield's eyes from where he towered above the both of them. “Did you know this?”

Westerfield shoved a hand into his hair. “I suspected.”

“Why...why didn't you say anything?

Westerfield blew out a breath. “I pleaded with you to call off the duel, remember?”

“And I apologized,” Kessler reminded him none too kindly.

“But I thought...” That his brother was being an oaf. That Kessler and Westerfield cared not for the woman's honor because she was a mere serving girl. He'd never imagined the woman herself had voluntarily surrendered her honor to Kessler.

“Let me up,” Gregory muttered.

Kessler tilted his arrogant nose down at him. “Why, so you can send another fist into my face?”

Gregory reached up and grasped Kessler's bony wrist, squeezing until Kessler released him. He stood with the grace of an arthritic farmer who'd spent nearly a century working fields, then hobbled into the woods.

His cheek throbbed, and his head still ached with the impact of Kessler's fist. Traipsing alone through the woods with no lantern probably wasn't the most intelligent activity, but he needed space, a chance to breathe without people staring at him. A moment to think.

He kicked a stone with the tip of his boot. The heavy rock rolled only a few inches before coming to rest in the wet soil. Had he really been so blinded to Kessler and Suzanna's relationship? Had the truth been staring at him, and he'd failed to see it because...because...because...