Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (55 page)

Fear he'd put there.

“A comely thing, isn't she?” Kessler smirked.

Gregory dropped his hand, took an abrupt step back and blew out a breath. What was he thinking touching a woman's hair in such an intimate manner, letting his hand linger on her shoulder? He'd never behaved so forwardly in his life. Then again, save for his mother and sister, he'd never seen a grown woman's hair down, either.

“You're not to touch her, Kessler.”

The man stared pointedly at where his hands gripped her shoulder and upper arm. “No?”

A sudden bout of memories flashed through his mind. Suzanna's hunched shoulders and tearstained face on that dark night. The quiet field outside their country estate at dawn. The searing pain in his leg as a bullet lodged itself beside the bone. As a simple serving girl on his family's estate, Suzanna had never shown this woman's fiery determination, nor was she as beautiful, but the situation was far too similar. He cleared his throat. “You know to what I refer.”

All color had fled the lord's face, leaving it pale and drawn. Kessler's memories must have traveled to the same place as his own.

Good. Perchance those memories would help Kessler behave around the Frenchwoman.

“Then what do you propose we do with the wench? We certainly can't free her.”

“The first thing we're going to do is check on Westerfield.” Who'd been left untended for far too long. “Then we're going to find her traveling party.”

Which would hopefully provide him with some answers. Because night was falling, and he still hadn't a clue what to do with her.

* * *

Danielle stumbled down onto the makeshift pallet where Farnsworth and Kessler thrust her. As if the English capturing the frigate where Laurent served and killing him hadn't been enough, now some English had captured her and were about to take Serge, as well.

Kessler knelt down to hold her in place then growled something unintelligible at Farnsworth. The servant walked stiffly away, back straight and posture perfect as he found a sack and rummaged through it. He started back for them, a length of thick rope in his hands.

“Non!”
She attempted to pull away from Kessler, but the arrogant blond only clenched her arms harder.

“Quickly,” he boomed at the servant.

“Please don't tie me. I promise I won't run.” And she wouldn't, not when the men were planning to find Serge and bring him here. It would be easier to meet him in the English camp and then plan their escape. If she managed to free herself now, she'd not have time to find her brother and pack before the Englishmen were upon them. Better to wait and then run while everyone else slept.

But she wouldn't be able to escape if they tied her.

The servant knelt beside her and held the rope out to Kessler.

“You should have considered how we might deal with you before you held a knife to Farnsworth's neck.” Kessler's cruel words bored into the back of her head.

“
Non
. Please...” She swallowed against the panic creeping into her voice, but that didn't stop the hot burn of tears from rising in her eyes.

“Stop.” Halston's stern voice carried from the other side of the fire, where he sat watching her from beside the sick man's pallet. “Don't tie her.”

“We haven't a choice.” Kessler took the rope from Farnsworth, his grip leaving her for the barest of moments.

She used that instant to roll away. “I won't run. You have to believe me.”

She sought Halston's eyes over the orange flicker of flames. He might be the one who had thwarted her escape, but he also seemed the most inclined to be merciful.

“You held a knife to my valet's throat, then ran through the woods like a madwoman.” His gray-blue eyes locked with hers. “Why should I trust you?”

She bowed her head, letting the fight drain from her body. Why indeed? “I promise.”

Halston stood and came around the fire, the small muscle along the side of his jaw working back and forth. “Fine. But run again and you
will
be tied.”

Kessler stood. “You're a fool, Halston,” he muttered in English, obviously still not comprehending that she could understand their conversation. “A pretty woman does naught but bat her eyes, and you believe anything she says.”

“Just look at her. She's so frightened she's trembling.”

Danielle glanced down at her hands, which unfortunately were shaking, and tucked them under her arms.

“Maybe leaving her unrestrained makes me a fool, but at least I'm not an ogre,” Halston retorted.

The air between the two men sparked again, an angry exchange that she didn't begin to understand.

“Watch her closely.” Kessler jutted his chin toward her. “If she flees, it's on you.”

“Seeing how you're free at this moment because I rescued you, I don't think asking you to trust me is too big a request.”

Free? Danielle looked between the two men. Free from what? The most obvious answer was prison. Had one of them been imprisoned for spying? Were they prison escapees as well as spies?

“How easily you forget.” Kessler's eyes shot tiny sparks at Halston. “You started this entire mess nearly two years ago.”

Halston looked away, rubbing a hand through his already tousled hair. “Farnsworth, go scout downstream and invite whoever's in charge of the woman's party back here. There's no need for threats or violence. We can likely pay them for their silence, and they should be able to convince the woman to cooperate.”

“Yes, my lord.” The servant started toward the creek, this time heading downstream rather than upstream.

Danielle stared at her hands, unbound—at least for now. A helplessly sick feeling rose in her chest. What if she was making the wrong choice? What if Halston let Kessler tie her and her brother tonight so they couldn't escape? What if the Englishmen were crueler to her younger brother than they had been to her?

She should have thought her actions through better from the beginning. Should have pretended she didn't care whether they searched the banks of the stream instead of panicking when they first asked who she traveled with.

But she'd always been a poor liar. She could fight to defend herself,
oui
, but she gave herself away the moment she so much as thought about uttering a falsehood.

She glanced around the woods, surveying the brambles and saplings immediately surrounding them, the more stately trees rooted to the forest beyond. Better to not attempt any lies and stay quiet for the next few hours. Once darkness fell, she could lead her brother into the dense woods.

The sick man lying on the bedroll on the far side of the camp coughed—hadn't the servant called him Lord Westerfield? Not that she would utter the title “lord” to any man. Her captors might be English by birth, but they were in France now, and in France, everyone was a citizen. All of equal value and standing.

Halston gave her a hard look, then turned back toward the sick man. Kessler had moved to the opposite side of the fire where he rummaged through a sack, not nearly so trusting as Halston. His eyes didn't leave her for an instant.

Not that she could blame him.

So she tucked her knees up into her chest and waited.

And waited.

And waited. Soon the two hale Englishmen started arguing about which one of them would make tea for the sick one. Evidently neither knew the first thing about boiling water. And the British wondered why the French had overthrown their own aristocracy.

Halston sorted through a sack until he found some salt pork and offered it to Kessler, who wrinkled his nose but took of the offering.

Halston turned to her, the dried meat extended in his hand. She raised her chin and looked away. She'd rather starve than take food from those who shared the same nationality as the men who'd killed her brother.

The brambles near the creek rustled, and she tensed, watching, waiting. If any harm had come to Serge, she'd find some way to punish them all. These insidious English knew not how deadly she was with a knife—even if they had taken hers for the moment.

But Serge stepped into the clearing of his own volition, spotted her and headed straight over, plopping himself down onto her blanket.

“Dani, what did you go and get yourself into?”

“A nest of English spies.”

Halston dropped his cup of tea to the ground. “What did you say?”

She swallowed, her tongue freezing against the roof of her mouth. What
had
she done?

Or rather, what had Serge done?

Repercussions of her simple mistake echoed through her body. Serge had spoken to her in English—had probably been speaking to the servant in English since the man first found him by the river.

And she'd answered him back.

In English.

“You speak our tongue.” Halston narrowed his eyes at her. “You've understood every word we've said.”

“I knew she was hiding something.” Kessler spit into the ground by the fire.

She was going to kill her brother. Slowly. Torturously. She turned so her back faced Halston, though that didn't stop the growing vibrations from his footsteps as he approached.

“What were you thinking?” she whispered to her brother furiously. “How dare you let them know we speak their language? We're their prisoners, and you just gave away one of our advantages.”

“Calm down, Dani.” Serge reached over to pat her back. “They're nice. Besides, it's not like they've got us tied up or anything.”

If he only knew.

“Why didn't you tell us you spoke English?” Halston's irate voice boomed from above her, all traces of mercy and consideration vanished in the storm of his anger. “Well?”

She didn't need to turn around to know where he stood. She could
feel
his nearness, the heat of his legs boring into her back, the fury of his rage rolling off him. The hair on the back of her neck prickled in instinctive dread, and she bit the side of her lip. But really, there was only one thing to say. In English, unfortunately. “I demand you let us go.”

“You're not going anywhere.”

She jumped at the underlying bite to his words, then glanced at Serge, who stared up at the Englishman with wide eyes.

“What exactly did you overhear earlier, before Farnsworth found you in the shrubs?”

Before Farnsworth had found her? Something about traveling at night and being lost and a sarcastic comment that involved asking the gendarmes for directions—which was about the time she'd decided to go find a gendarmerie post herself and turn the men in.

And also happened to be about the time she'd made too much noise backing through the shrubs.

She licked her lips. “Nothing terribly significant.”

“Turn around.”

She startled again, the edge in his voice warning her not to disobey.

He crouched before her, his large, looming body so close all moisture leached from her mouth. “I don't believe you.”

“I didn't...that is...I don't...I mean...um...”

“Tell me—Dani, is it?” His gray-blue eyes flashed at her.

“Danielle,” Serge piped up. “Just the family calls her Dani.”

“Danielle.” The name sounded long and cool on his tongue, an oddity considering the way the rest of his words smoldered. “What is it you think we're going to do to you?”

She squeezed her eye shut. Take her and Serge to England, throw them in a dungeon and leave them to starve. Or maybe he wouldn't take them to England but kill them here in the woods and bury...

“Danielle, look at me.”

She forced her eyes open. “I know not.”

“I'm not going to harm you, merely offer you a few napoleons—a business proposition, if you will. Are you familiar with business?”

She nodded, afraid to speak an answer lest he somehow trap her with her own words. She was already quite trapped enough with the way his intense eyes refused to let hers go and the way his strong body hovered so near her own.

“Our
papa
lets land and farms.” Serge, evidently, didn't feel quite so trapped. The dunce. “And he owns a share in a clothing manufactory. We know all about business.”

The man's eyes left her gaze, only to run slowly down the rest of her hunched form. “And you're good with a blade...know English rather well.”

“Our
maman
taught us the English,” Serge spoke up again, and Danielle clamped her jaw so tightly her teeth ground together. Would the boy never learn to hold his tongue? “She used to be a governess, she did, and insisted we learn it. Then there's our aunt and uncle across the channel, so we've got to know English for when we go over there to visit.”

Halston's eyebrows rose. “You have relatives on the other side of the channel?”

“Hush, Serge,” she gritted.

“And you visit them despite the war?”

Serge finally closed his mouth, but it was too late. Gregory's calculating eyes gleamed in triumph.

The kind of triumph that could only mean her own defeat.

“You're perfect, then. I'm in need of a guide to the channel, and you have the ability to take us there.”

Every muscle in her body turned hard as stone as she stared at the abhorrent man. Help men from the country that had killed her brother? The man had to be mad. “Do you think me a traitor? I care not how much coin you can offer. I will not aid English spies. Not now and not ever.”

Chapter Three

“S
pies?” Gregory sputtered. “You think we're spies?”

The accusation was laughable, really, if it didn't carry such deadly implications should they be caught and imprisoned as such. “Last I checked, English spies don't get themselves lost or need maps. English spies speak flawless French, and if you met an English spy on the street, you'd never know.”

The color that had suffused the woman's cheeks just moments before drained away, and her jaw fell open for the slightest of instants before she hardened it again. “You're still Englishmen. In my country. In the middle of a war. You can have no honest reason for being here, or you would not dread being spotted by the gendarmes. Do you expect me to take your guineas or napoleons or whatever other coins you offer and let you continue on your way to the channel with no objection?”

He sent a gaze toward the heavens. “No. I want you to
help
us get to the channel.”

She turned her back to him.

“I'll pay you well. I've only a few guineas now, but I can promise two thousand pounds sterling if you see us safely to the coast.”

The woman still didn't deign to face him. “I told you once. I don't want your filthy English money.”

Heat surged up the back of his neck. “My money is far from filthy.”

“Dani, don't be a fool.” The youth nudged his sister. At least one of them had a fraction of sense. “Just think of it. Two thousand pounds is enough to buy up more of the clothing manufactory. Why, you could start your own factory for that sum.”

She swiped a strand of hair from her face. “I don't want to start my own factory. I just want to go home.”

A large, uncomfortable lump settled inside Gregory's stomach. Yet another thing he'd never learned at Eton or Cambridge: How to hold people hostage and drag them across half a country against their will. But the woman knew too much for him to allow a different course of action. “You and your brother are coming with us to the coast. You can either aid us with our journey and be paid in turn, or you can fight us—in which case you'll be restrained and towed along. But either way, if you're caught with our party, your fate will be the same as ours.”

Danielle looked out over the tangle of shrubs that circled them, then to the larger trees in the forest beyond. Planning her escape, most likely. She could handle a blade well, but she would make a poor spy. Every thought and plan flitted across her expressive blue eyes a half instant before she acted.

She sighed. “If you're in northern France headed toward the coast, I suppose you escaped from Verdun.”

He watched her with the same hard gaze he would use on anyone he distrusted. And in the selfsame manner, he held his tongue. Let her think they'd come from Verdun, where Napoleon had interred all the English he'd rounded up after the peace treaty failed. Yes, that was the most reasonable assumption, and if Westerfield and Kessler
had
been interred there instead of imprisoned in a forgotten fortress, they'd likely be following this very path back to the channel.

But then, had Westerfield and Kessler been in Verdun, he'd have known their whereabouts long ago and been able to send Westerfield money to procure apartments and buy wares, set Westerfield up with a household and purchase new clothes. From the reports Gregory had heard, Verdun functioned as any normal British city would, with people attending the theater as well as gaming halls, making calls and going about everyday business. The only difference was the English weren't allowed outside the city's impenetrable walls.

But Westerfield and Kessler hadn't been imprisoned in a place where they could get sunshine and a decent meal, much less the other trappings of ordinary life, not with the crimes they'd been accused of committing. Oh, no. They'd been held in one of Napoleon's secret prisons, instead, deprived of the most basic comforts, and Westerfield had fallen deathly ill because of it.

Danielle already suspected them of being spies. If she knew the whole of it, she'd never agree to help. “Think about whether you'll aid or hinder us. But know this, I won't let you escape again as easily as last time.”

Gregory stood and moved to the other side of the fire, keeping one eye on her. She'd promised she wouldn't run.

If only he believed her.

Kessler wrinkled his nose as he ate a bite of salt pork, watching Danielle and her brother the way a hawk did a field mouse while Farnsworth tried coaxing tea down Westerfield's throat. His brother only coughed in response, and a thin stream of liquid trailed down his chin to dampen the blankets beneath his head. Gregory turned away, his jaw working back and forth. Could nothing go as planned?

He was a man of business. He made his living off predictions and plans. He predicted the Exchange, rates on interest, returns on investments and likelihood of growth for various industries. He also predicted people. His father would never invest in a shipyard—too risky given that ships would be lost during the war. Yet shipping could offer a great return on investments, and a man like Kessler would have no trouble putting money toward such a venture.

When he'd come to France, it hadn't been on a whim. He'd had a plan, which was why he'd hired a guide, purchased coarse French clothing and carried both guineas and napoleons on his person. Yet he'd still ended up here, dependent on two French strangers for the safety of himself, his servant, his brother and Kessler.

Father God, am I doing something wrong? Please save my brother and get us safely to England.

“Can I have some?” Serge came around the side of the small fire, his eyes locked on the salt pork sitting beside Kessler. “I didn't get supper.”

At least the young man wouldn't choose to starve—unlike his stubborn sister.

Kessler thrust a piece at him. “What's your name, boy?”

“Serge.” The youth settled beside Kessler, scarfed down his pork in three bites and reached for another piece.

Gregory sat on the soft earth between his brother and Kessler and took some meat for himself. Danielle merely glowered at them from across the fire, arms crossed and back rigid. Good. For some unfathomable reason, he preferred that rigid silhouette to the sight of her hunched over, arms wrapped around herself and eyes blinking as she pleaded for him not to tie her.

“Serge what?” Kessler took another piece of salt pork. “Have you a surname?”

“Serge Belanger.”

“Belanger?” Gregory set his salt pork aside. “And you say you have relatives in England?”

The boy's brow furrowed. “
Oui
, an aunt and an uncle that moved there during the Terror.”

“Are you by chance related to Michel and Isabelle Belanger? They live near Hastings and have a furniture factory.”

The boy stopped chewing. “How do you know
Oncle
Michel and
Tante
Isabelle?”

Gregory ran his eyes over the lad. He didn't look at all similar to Michel Belanger, but why would he lie about such a thing? “I'm Belanger's man of business.”

Much to his mother's dismay. She'd wanted him to join the church, but his brother and the other noblemen whose accounts he handled certainly didn't complain about the money he made them. And if he happened to take on a client or two from the merchant class in exchange for a certain percentage of the money made on their investments, then so be it.

The boy's nose scrunched. “What's that?”

“I manage his investments.” He glanced at Danielle across the fire. Was she surprised he knew her aunt and uncle?

The stubborn woman's jaw was still set and her body angled away from him.

“Man of business.” Serge rolled the words over his tongue. “Sounds like some fancy English farce of a position that no one needs.”

Kessler smirked. “Halston probably makes more money in one day than your father does in a year.”

Gregory rolled his shoulders. He was a bit adept at making money, yes. So much of it, at least, that whatever he spent on clothes or conveyances or housing, he easily made up and then some within the month. Which was why he allotted a large chunk to the Hastings Orphanage and a series of foundling hospitals and poorhouses in other areas of England.

“You don't look all that rich.” Serge eyed Gregory.

Kessler laughed, the first time the man had likely smiled in two years. “Yes, Halston, why don't you look rich?”

Gregory rubbed the back of his neck. “I usually don't traipse about the French countryside disguised as a peasant and trying to evade the law.”

“You're disguised as a peasant?” The boy's nose wrinkled again. “With boots as fine as that but unmended holes in your trousers? Being rich sure don't give you much sense, does it?”

“What, precisely, is wrong with my garments?”

“No peasant would let those holes in their trousers without sewing them up right quick—they need their clothes to last, not fall apart. No peasant would spend the money for boots like that, and no peasant would stand as straight as you do.”

Gregory stared down at his boots. Did they truly give him away? He'd wanted sturdy leather ones that wouldn't pain his feet while walking. Who could fault him for that? His first guide certainly hadn't objected when he'd chosen his disguise.

Then again, his first guide had probably intended to betray him all along.

“From where do you hail?” Kessler asked Serge.

Gregory blinked and looked back at the boy. He probably should have asked that before demanding that Danielle and Serge take them to the coast. If this was their first time traveling inland, would they make competent enough guides? Knowing English and having family across the channel didn't exactly mean the woman and her brother could effectively lead them.

Though the woman's skill with a knife would certainly be useful.

“Abbeville,” the boy stated.

Kessler merely stared.

“It's near the coast. Just inland a bit from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Do you know Saint-Valery?”

“I do,” Gregory answered. “It's somewhat across the channel from Hastings.” Which made the boy and his sister perfect guides for his purposes. They were likely familiar with the roads and terrain between here and the channel and could guide them with far less risk of getting caught than Gregory and the others could ever manage on their own. And he needed that, since the prison guards would have already notified cities, towns and gendarmerie posts of their escape.

Serge reached for more salt pork—what had to be his fifth or sixth piece of the leathery meat—but Kessler clamped down on his hand. “If you're from the coast, what are you doing so far inland?”

“We were in Reims visiting our
tante
and
oncle
and trying to find a husband for Dani.” The boy scowled at his sister. “No one wants her, though.”

Gregory had been taking a sip of water and choked at the boy's words. No Frenchman wanted her? He glanced at Serge's silent sister through the smoke of the small flames. What was wrong with the men of this country? Could they not see the crystalline color of her eyes or the smooth, pale skin of her face? The riotous black waves that fell about her shoulders?

No, her hair would have been up. The men wouldn't have known how magnificent it looked free. But even so, the rest of her was enough to bend any man's mind toward marriage, wasn't it?

Well, maybe not if she decided to hold a knife to her suitors' necks.

“Stow it, Serge.” Warning dripped from Danielle's voice.

The boy shrugged. “What? They asked. I'm just being honest.”

“Then stop talking all together. Why are you volunteering information to these strangers? Your mouth is what got us into trouble in the first place, Mr. I'm-going-to-forget-I-have-a-brain-and-speak-English-when-I-should-be-speaking-French.”

“On the contrary,” Westerfield's weak voice filled the air behind them. “I believe his excellent English quite proves his possession of said brain.”

The youth laughed at that, his face alight with pride. “See that, Dani? He thinks my brain is just fine.”

“Though I question the intelligence of any Frenchman who doesn't want your sister.” Kessler watched Danielle with a predatory glint to his eyes.

“Don't even think about it,” Gregory muttered.

“I wouldn't dare,” Kessler answered airily.

But Kessler had already had thought of it—and done it—in England, and his gaze said he'd thought of such with Danielle just now.

She glanced between the two of them, as though sensing the tension. Then again, a deaf, blind mute could likely sense the tension between him and Kessler.

Serge, however, stuffed another piece of salt pork in his mouth and spoke around it. “Well, some of the men might want Dani if she tried being nice. She stomped on one landowner's toe and then slapped him, and he was the richest of the lot of them.”

Danielle threw up her hands. “He tried to...” But she suddenly clamped her mouth shut, color flooding her cheeks. “Never mind. Just keep quiet, Serge.”

“On the contrary, I'm rather curious now that you've brought it up.” Kessler's harsh voice floated over the campsite. “What precisely did this Frenchman attempt, Danielle?”

She hardened her jaw.

“Enough.” Gregory stood. So Danielle was beautiful, any man could see that. But she didn't deserve to be taken advantage of—especially by someone like Kessler. “Kessler, go to the stream and get more water. Westerfield might need some in the night.”

Kessler's eyebrows shot up. “You expect me to haul water? Have Farnsworth do it.”

Gregory glanced at Farnsworth, sitting near the fire and stuffing salt pork into his mouth as greedily as Serge. “Farnsworth is about to unroll the bedding.”

His valet shot up and rushed to the pile of blankets, still chewing awkwardly.