Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (65 page)

Could it be? Had God more in mind than Danielle guiding them to the coast?

No, it wasn't possible. Otherwise Danielle would have been born to gentry in England, not to peasants in France.

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.
Why, of all the church services he'd attended throughout his life, had he never heard that verse before? And as strange as the concept might seem, ‘no bond nor free, no Jew nor Greek'—
no French nor British, no peasant nor aristocrat
—God certainly hadn't created peasant and lord in the Garden of Eden.

Were Danielle's notions of equality and individual value right? Did “lady” and “lord” matter to God? What if the world of class structures and aristocracy in which he'd been brought up was wrong? Could he take a chance on love with Danielle despite her low birth?

But then, he'd tried fighting for a commoner before, and where had defending Suzanna gotten him?

Nearly killed, with a father so angry at Kessler that Kessler had run to the continent. And when Westerfield went to bring Kessler back, they ended up imprisoned for over a year.

If God truly saw no difference between lord and peasant, then surely his attempt to fight for Suzanna would have ended better.

“Halston?” Danielle settled her hands atop where his own rested on her arms and turned to face him in the dim lantern light. “Is something wrong? You're squeezing me rather hard.”

“Sorry.” He loosened his hold and brushed his hands lightly up and down her arms. “I got lost in my thoughts.”

She reached up to smooth a patch of hair away from his face, then pulled his head down until it rested against hers. “Bad thoughts, by the look of how your brow is drawn together.”

He blew out a breath. “Not bad, merely...necessary.”

She smiled up at him, her lips so close her breath fanned his mouth. “Perhaps it's best you stop thinking them. They've turned you sullen.”

If she only knew.

But then, she didn't know, and she didn't understand. She likely never would, because in her mind, there truly was no difference between lord and peasant, maybe not even a difference between British and French.

If only the rest of the world saw things as she did.

She trailed a thumb over his lips. “Did you hear me about leaving a few minutes ago? I don't want the others to come searching.”

“Just a few minutes longer,” he spoke against her thumb.

Because as soon as the sun rose in the eastern sky, this kiss, this conversation, this night and anything they'd shared within it would be over. So he pressed his lips softly to hers and then turned her around and pulled her against him one more time, savoring the feel of her.

He wasn't ready to go back quite yet.

He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to go back.

Chapter Thirteen

D
anielle gave the mule's rope a tug and glanced behind her at Halston. They'd been walking for the better part of the day despite the cold, incessant drizzle, and Halston hadn't so much as looked at her. Not even once.

How could he kiss her and hold her in his arms last night, then rise this morning and pretend nothing had happened? She'd felt his lips on hers, not imagined them. Heard the understanding in his voice. Savored the sensation of resting in his embrace.

And now he ignored her while he walked behind the wagon, chatting with Kessler as though the two of them were suddenly bosom friends. She glared over her shoulder once more, but he didn't raise his eyes to meet hers.

Didn't act as though she existed at all, let alone mattered.

“Dani, what's wrong? Are soldiers coming?” Serge peered through the softly falling drizzle at the flat road behind them.

“Non.”
She yanked Clyde's rope again, urging the beast faster, and squashed her wide-brimmed hat down farther on her head. The road unfurled endlessly before them, though this stretch of it had never seemed so long before. Were it not for needing to take the English to the coast, she and Serge would be only four days from home. Instead, in four days' time, they'd pass by her hometown of Abbeville and head north for another half week until they reached the port town of Berck.

Would the smugglers Halston had made arrangements with decide the price on Westerfield and Kessler's heads was worth more than taking the Englishmen across the channel? She rubbed her forehead. That question led to another host of problems she'd yet to consider.

“Then what's wrong?” Serge's eyebrows furrowed as he studied her face. “Why have you been looking behind us all day?”

Her cheeks turned hot. “I've done nothing of the sort.”

Serge glanced over his shoulder again, his gaze pausing on Halston before swinging back to her. Well, her brother could look between them all day if he so pleased, but he'd have to guess what had transpired between her and the esteemed Lord Gregory Halston. She wasn't about to volunteer the information.

“Did Halston upset you last night?”

Last night? Oh, no. He hadn't done anything to upset her then.

Today was a different matter entirely.

She growled deep in her throat and tugged Clyde's rope. Why had she let Halston bother her in the first place? She cared far too much for an English lord whom she couldn't have any future with and should probably hate. Their countries were at war, were they not? And she wasn't even supposed to be here. She should be living in Reims with a new French husband.

She gave the mule's rope another vigorous yank.

Clyde brayed loudly enough for all of Amiens and Abbeville to hear, then buckled his knees and dug his hooves into the ground.

“Dani, don't hold his rope so tight. Here, let me.” Serge took the rope from her hand, but the mule kept his legs locked into place and only snorted at Serge.

“Is something wrong?” Westerfield propped himself up in the wagon bed.

“Can I be of assistance?” Farnsworth left his spot walking beside Westerfield and came toward them.

“Why isn't the beast moving?” That from Kessler.

Danielle rolled her eyes. Somehow she didn't think three British lords and a valet knew the first thing about getting a mule to move.

“Here, boy.” Serge offered Clyde a small carrot.

The mule only snorted.

“What happened to make him stop?” Halston's eyes didn't even meet hers as he spoke.

The wretch.

“He tired of Dani constantly prodding him,” Serge called back.

She huffed out a breath and stared at the ground beneath her feet. Unfortunately, refusing to meet everyone's eyes didn't prevent her from feeling the weight of all their gazes.

“How long until he'll move?”

“Make him move now. He's your animal. His purpose is to work for you, is it not?” Kessler's demanding voice rang through the chilling drizzle.

“Can we camp here for the night?” This from Farnsworth. “Perchance it's a bit early, but there's a little patch of woods.”

“Right, I'm tired of being wet. Let's make camp.” Of course Halston had to add his opinion as well.

“And leave the mule on the road for anyone to take?” At least Serge provided some reason.

“No one will take him if he refuses to move.”

She didn't even bother to figure out who had added that gem of wisdom to the conversation.

“Make Danielle stay with him. She's the one who did this.”

Danielle rolled her eyes.
Thank you, Kessler.
The man was abounding in gratitude.

Besides she wasn't the one who'd done this—well, mayhap she'd personally tugged Clyde's rope too hard and too often—but Halston should be blamed. He'd put her in a foul mood.

A faint tremor shook the earth beneath her feet. If she hadn't already been stopped and staring at the ground, she'd likely not have noticed. She jerked her head up, looking first in the direction they'd come and then the way they were headed. Against the endless expanse of gray sky and brown, muddy road, shadows moved too quickly for travelers on foot.

“Horsemen.” Her single word quieted the others. “Into the woods, everyone but Serge and I. Posthaste.”

The men scrambled to help Westerfield, though the marquess was now hale enough to need little aid.

“Do you want me to collect the blankets and supplies?” Farnsworth asked from the back of the wagon.

“
Non
. Better to let the cart look full, so it will seem as though Serge and I have need of it.”

A moment later the men disappeared into the brush, with Halston pausing for a moment to place some twigs and shrubs over the path they'd taken. The man might not deign to look at her, but at least he'd learned something during their week of evading the law.

She headed to the back of the cart and rummaged through the supplies, repositioning blankets and a sack of food to cover the spot where Westerfield had lain.

“What do you want us to do when they come?” Serge offered Clyde some oats, which he refused to take.

“What we're doing now. Try to get the beast moving. The horsemen might not even stop.”

But the three horsemen slowed long before they reached the cart. Of course they did. Having them continue on their way without so much as a glance in her direction would be too much to ask on a day such as this.

The men rode with soldiers' straight posture and possessed horses, something only the military would have. Yet the edges of their uniform coats were frayed, their boots worn and muddy, and their jaws unshaven. They weren't military—at least not anymore.

“Well, well. Looks as though your beast is giving you trouble.” The first rider, an average-sized man with dirty blond hair, grinned widely as he swung off his horse.

The back of her neck prickled. She'd rather meet a band of soldiers—in spite of the danger they represented to the Englishmen—than deserters who answered to no one but themselves. But she merely crossed her arms in the soggy drizzle and raised her chin. The slightest show of weakness, and men like this would take advantage. “He's merely being a stubborn mule.”

“We've been traveling for over a week.” Serge ruffled the tuft of hair atop Clyde's head. “He's weary.”

“I'm sure he is.” But the deserter didn't bother to inspect Clyde, just her, running lazy blue eyes down her body and then slowly back up again.

She could hardly say what he found so appealing, given the way her old brown cloak covered all but her face, and he didn't seem very interested in that. “Is there something we can help you with? You must be in a hurry to make it back to your regiment before nightfall.”

“Actually, there is.” A short, stocky man with a girth he certainly didn't gain by eating army rations lit from his horse. “Have you seen these men about?”

He shoved a handbill in front of her nose, but she didn't need to look at the sketches to know the man showed her likenesses of Westerfield and Kessler—the exact same handbill that had been plastered all over Saint-Quentin.

“We've a need to find them before we return to our regiment.” The third man, tall, painfully thin and with hair and eyes the color of muddy water, spoke from atop his horse.

Her hands began to shake. One lie. That was all. Now if only she could tell it convincingly. “
Non
. I've not seen any such men.”

“Sure you don't want to take a better look?” The stocky man held the handbill to her face once more. “You barely glanced at the paper.”

Her cheeks grew cold. Had her hasty actions just given Westerfield and Kessler away? Oh, curse her wretched inability to lie! She slanted a glance toward the woods, but the trees and shrubs remained still as death, without any indication it harbored escapees.

“We've seen the papers before.” Serge attempted to offer Clyde the carrot again. “They've been scattered everywhere from here to Saint-Quentin.”

How did her brother look so calm with four Englishmen hiding not fifty meters away?

“He's right,” Danielle managed over her thick, sluggish tongue. “We've been asked about them several times on our journey from Reims.” At least that part wasn't a lie.

As though mad at her for telling a half-truth, the rain turned suddenly heavy, pounding the muddy earth and smearing the ink on handbill. The stocky man shoved the paper inside his coat, but his eyes trailed down her body much as the first man's eyes had. She waited for what would certainly come next—for him to lean over and whisper something about how beautiful she was or an invitation for her to meet him tonight.

Instead, the stocky man looked at the first deserter, now standing near the rear of the cart, and gave a faint nod of his head.

Her breathing turned shallow. Did these deserters have some sort of plan? How could she thwart it if she knew not their intentions?

“It's getting awfully wet out here. Maurice, what say you we head to that barn back yonder?” The first deserter jerked his head in the direction of a shadowed structure in the field ahead.

“Don't want to get wetter than we need to,” the thin man atop the horse proclaimed.

“Looks like you've got some fresh rabbit back here, just waiting to be cooked.” The blond pulled the rabbit she'd snared that morning up by his legs. “It's been a while since I had a fresh-cooked meal. You got the makings for stew back here?”

Danielle left the foul-breathed fat man and rushed to the side of the cart. If the first deserter kept rummaging, he'd discover not only some carrots and potatoes, but clothes enough for four other men. “Yes, of course. Did you want me to make some stew?”

The man pulled away, his lips curving slyly. “Well now, that sounds like a fine idea. You can cook while the rest of us dry out in the barn.”

She glanced towards the woods. Once she and Serge went into that barn, they'd be out of sight of the others, and anything could happen. She might be able to take on a single unsuspecting man, but not three with military training.

“Sorry, but our mule refuses to move. I'm afraid we won't be able to join you.” Serge's voice cut through the driving rain. “We can offer you some salt pork, though.”

“Salt pork.” The blond spit at the ground. “I don't want no foul, salted meat, not when I can have fresh. Just see if I can't get your beast to move.” He pulled a riding crop from the folds of his coat and brought it down on Clyde's back quarters.

Danielle flinched at the resonating slap of leather against beast, and Clyde let out a frightened bray.

“Get on with you.” The soldier whipped the crop again, and the mule started forward, a thin line of blood appearing on his flank.

“See? One only needs to take a strong hand to a beast and obedience follows.” The stocky deserter—Maurice, evidently—laughed in response and waddled toward his horse.

The man with the crop approached his horse as well, his gait strong and purposeful. But rather than mount, he grabbed the reins and turned back to her. “I find my legs in need of a stretch. Mayhap I'll walk beside you.”

Danielle blew out a breath and glanced toward the woods one last time. Would Halston know something was wrong? The last place she and Serge should go was into some forsaken barn with a trio of army deserters.

But Halston and the others couldn't aid them without giving themselves away, and they'd come too far, were too close to the shore, to risk capture.

The stranger's shoulder bumped hers as they walked. “Your journey has been long,
oui
?”

Hadn't Serge said as much earlier?
“Oui.”

“It looks as though the rain might last through the night.”

“Oui.”
She spoke more curtly that time—if it was possible to be curt with a one-word answer. She needed to get herself and Serge away from the deserters before they entered the barn. But how?

Their party left the road and began trekking across the mucky field. Serge still led the mule, but if she and Serge left the cart and sprinted toward the trees at the same time...

They had no chance of making shelter before the deserter beside her pulled out the pistol he most certainly carried. Then again, if they could manage—

Her foot hit a patch of uneven ground, and she lurched forward, causing a cold stream of water to sluice from her hat to beneath her cloak and then down her back.

“Easy there.” The deserter reached out and gripped her elbow. Not the polite hold of a man attempting to help a woman, but the hard grip a criminal kept on a victim. “I'm sure you're weary. A nice, long night should revive you.”

A nice, long night of rest, perhaps. But the gleam in his eye promised nothing nice in store for her. “I—I'm afraid my brother and I must hasten on our way to Abbeville as soon as I've prepared your stew.”