Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (74 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I
love her.” Gregory sat in the drawing room with Westerfield, staring down at his hands as though they could somehow give him the answers he sought. “I want to marry her.”

“She'd make you a good wife. She'd make any man a good wife, for that matter.”

Gregory's head shot up, and he eyed his brother reclining across the settee. “This is quite a different tune from what you were singing back in France. You discouraged me from getting close to her—and don't pretend you don't see the obstacles to the union. A marriage to her would ruin Lilliana's hope for a husband and your search for a new wife. Mother would be devastated and—”

“Yes, I most certainly would be devastated.”

Gregory glanced toward the door, where his mother had suddenly appeared, and stood. “But I love her,” he stated firmly.

“That he does.” Westerfield smiled, his eyes dancing with merriment. He seemed to be enjoying this conversation a little too much.

“Don't start spouting notions of love.” Mother's perfectly coiffed hair trembled as she stomped a dainty little foot into the Turkish rug beneath their feet. “A good marriage involves more than love.”

“Love seems like a solid place to start. As does respect. Commitment.”

“Commitment! She's French, doubtless tempestuous and full of passion. Her commitment to you will not last more than a fortnight.”

“Her commitment to me has already exceeded a fortnight.” Gregory drew in a breath and reached out to settle his hands on his mother's shoulders. “She saved us. Your eldest son is home and well, not because of me, but because of her. I should think you'd be upstairs thanking her, not denying us a future together.”

Mother slanted her gaze around him toward Westerfield, her blue eyes brimming with moisture when they swung back up to Gregory's face. “You'll be mocked out of London for marrying a French peasant. Never invited to another ball, never—”

“I'll not be mocked out of London, because no one will know I've wed at all, let alone who my new bride is. Danielle and I will marry one evening and leave for America the next morn.”

“America?” The stern lines around Mother's eyes drooped. “Certainly you don't mean to...to... Why, I've just gotten your brother back, and now you intend to sail across the ocean?”

“It's the only way to protect our family. I can wed Danielle, and it won't hurt Lilliana's chances with a husband or Westerfield's with a new wife. My marriage won't bring shame on the family, not if it's done clandestinely, and in the end, I can still build a life with the woman I love.”

“That's a noble sacrifice to make for Danielle, Halston, but it's not necessary.” Westerfield raised himself to a sitting position. “Not if we spread the story of how Danielle aided Kessler and me in our escape, or the news of who her grandfather was.”

“Her grandfather?” Mother's eyes narrowed on Westerfield the way a hawk's would when spotting a mouse in a field. “Who was her grandfather?”

Gregory sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “A farmer.”

“A
seigneur
.” Westerfield answered at the same time. “Or perhaps he was even a baron. ‘The Gentleman Smuggler,' he used to be called, though I understand there was little gentlemanly about him. He ran a smuggling ring out of Calais for the first part of the French Revolution.”

Gregory turned to face his brother. “A seigneur? How do you know this?”

Westerfield raised an eyebrow. “I asked.”

“You...but...how? When?”

Westerfield chuckled low in his chest—which soon turned into a cough, but not even the hacking wiped the devious smile from his face. “‘Who?' would be the better question, and the answer is Serge, not Danielle. That woman is too tight-lipped to reveal such a thing. The boy, on the other hand, doesn't have a reserved bone in his body.”

Gregory's body felt suddenly light, as though his feet stood on clouds rather than the solid floor of the drawing room. She was a
seigneur
's granddaughter? All this time, he'd assumed her descended solely from peasants—an assumption that she'd never once bothered to correct.

“That solves everything,” he muttered to himself.

“What was that, brother?”

He beamed at Westerfield. “I can marry her and stay in England. Ha! I can marry her tomorrow if I wish it. And I think I will. Yes, yes. I'll do just that!”

“Ah, you might want to ask the lady first.” The teasing smile was still plastered across Westerfield's face.

Ask the lady. That was precisely what he needed to do. He bolted for the door.

“What about dinner?” Mother called after him.

But he cared not. He was already taking the steps two at a time up to Danielle's room.

* * *

Propped against pillows, Danielle stared at the darkness outside the window. She lay on the most comfortable mattress she'd ever felt in her twenty-two years. The feathers beneath her cocooned her in a world of warmth, the bedclothes were so soft they could be cut up and used for undergarments, and one of the maids had heated a brick and tucked it down by her toes so her feet stayed warm.

A special brick solely for the purpose of warming a bed. Of all the frivolous things. Why could the English simply not wear a pair of stockings when they went to sleep?

She sighed and settled back into the pillows, pressing her eyes shut against the candlelight flickering over the opulent bedchamber.

Sleep. The mistress of the house, doctor and a maid had all commanded her to do that very thing. But her side hurt, having reopened itself during her struggle earlier; her wrists were bloody and wrapped in bandages, and her throat ached from the hours she'd shouted in the jail.

And Julien was still missing. How could she sleep when her brother was, in all likelihood, imprisoned in the galleys of a British man-of-war?

The latch on her bedchamber door clicked, and Danielle opened her eyes to find Gregory barreling into the room.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Did you find—?”

“You're not descended from a peasant.”

She collapsed back into the pillows. So he didn't have news of Julien.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It didn't seem...significant enough to mention.” She absently traced the patterned quilt atop her bedclothes. “My country doesn't recognize barons, or lords, or any of that foolishness under the consulate.”

“Empire.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gregory approached the bed. “Evidently sometime while we were winding our way through northern France, your Napoleon was crowned emperor—or rather, crowned himself emperor, if the papers are to be believed.

“Oh.” She bit the side of her lip. That did sound a bit like something their leader would do. She could hardly imagine Napoleon letting someone else crown him, least of all the pope. “I suppose I was a bit too occupied to be reading the news.”

He smiled, a large, ridiculously silly smile. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“About Napoleon?”

“Danielle.” He drew her name out until it dripped with unspoken warning, though it wasn't too convincing given the grin still covering his face. He plopped himself onto the bed beside and took her chin in his hand. “You knew your family line would matter to me.”

“
Oui
, I knew,” she whispered into the space between them then dropped her gaze. “That's why I didn't tell you. Because it would have mattered too much. It would have mattered more than...than...than me.”

Tears beaded behind her eyelids, and she blinked furiously. One brief stay in a British house of corrections and she was suddenly tearing up at the most ludicrous things.

“Oh, Danielle. I was such a fool. You matter to me. You, all by yourself. More than anything else. I love you.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, I love you.” He wrapped an arm around her back and brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms despite the door being open for any passerby to see. “I'm only sorry it took me so long to realize it. Forgive me for being so mule headed and proud.”

She sniffled, pressing her face into the crook of his neck so that her hot, wet tears slid between them. “Of course I forgive you. I love you too much to do anything but.”

“Marry me.” He whispered the words, tender and soft, into the hair beside her ear. “Love me. Stay with me here in England. I'll be a good husband to you, I swear it. I'll not leave you again as I did this morning.”

More tears rushed to the fore.

“Don't cry, love.” He lifted her head from his neck and feathered soft kisses across her face to wipe away the moisture. “Just promise to marry me. I can send to the archbishop for a special license this very evening. We'll be married tomorrow if you wish it.”

“I'll make you a terrible wife,” she sniffled. “Your mother despises me, and I'll not be satisfied to sit home and embroider or host dinners or...”

“You'll make me an interesting wife. And my mother will learn to love you in time. She's not a cruel woman—she just had a rather long list of eligible debutantes for me to consider, and you weren't one of them.”

“And what about everyone else? Your entire country will hate me because I'm French.” Not that she could cast much blame on that attitude given the way she'd hated him for being English when they'd first met.

But Gregory merely shook his head at her, that silly grin back on his face. “People will love you when they learn of how you boldly brought the Marquess of Westerfield back from France, though I think we shall have to change your surname so your parents don't get in trouble with the French law.”

She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. He made staying together sound so believable. Because of their nationalities, no union between them would be without hardships, but... “I'll still throw knives. That's a skill I intend not to lose.”

He squeezed her waist. “Danielle Belanger, I fell in love with you just how you are, and I want you to stay that way.”

She swallowed thickly. “Yes. I'll marry you. And tomorrow sounds like a perfect day for our wedding.”

“Ah, so this is where the lovebirds are.”

Danielle jolted away from Gregory to find Westerfield standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the molding and a wicked smile on his lips.

“Leave us be.” Gregory looped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her back to his side. “I was just about to kiss my lady.”

He lowered his head until his lips hovered a hairbreadth away, but she shoved against his chest. Fiancée or not, she wasn't about to kiss him in front of an audience.

Westerfield's laughter echoed across the room. “Looks like you've got a little wooing to do yet before you can call her ‘your lady.'”

“Dani,” Gregory huffed, “you spent the past fortnight baring Westerfield to the waist and slathering plaster over his chest. Certainly you're not embarrassed to kiss your betrothed in front of him.”

She peeked at Westerfield, who started laughing at her all over again. “You'd best watch yourself, Lord Westerfield. The governor gave my knives back before I left the house of corrections.”

Unfortunately her words only caused him to cough and then laugh harder. And Gregory, taking advantage of the distraction, turned her face back and planted his lips atop hers before she could do naught to stop the kiss.

Not that she really wanted to stop it.

If anything, she wanted to burrow closer to Gregory, surrounding herself with the calm strength that had fortified her through the past weeks, resting in the peace that invaded her heart whenever his arms surrounded her. She settled closer against his chest and let his mouth play over hers. Not because she loved him—which she did—but because he loved her back. All of her. Even the parts of her that threw knives and blurted things best left unsaid. Even the parts that had scared off every other suitor. Even the parts of her that no sane person ought to love.

For some reason she'd never fully understand, Gregory Halston loved her despite her myriad faults. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew in the familiar scent of him.

Tomorrow's wedding seemed far away indeed.

Epilogue

London,
England
September 1806

“W
hen you grip the knife, you need to hold the blade just so. Not too tight around the hilt, but not so loosely you can't point it accurately. Then when you throw, you—”

“Darling, don't you think Laurence is a little young to take up knife throwing?”

Danielle glanced up from little Laurence, softly nursing on her lap while his tiny eyelids fluttered with coming sleep.

Her husband stood in the door of the nursery, watching her closely.

She proudly produced the toy wooden knife she'd made for their son. “There's no such thing as too young, not with a matter so serious as this. Besides, have you felt how tightly he grips your finger? Best to start teaching him now. A grip such as that will never do.”

Gregory stepped into the room, all dark hair and intense eyes and strong shoulders. She sighed just looking at him.

He plucked the toy from her hand, and her sigh turned to a scowl.

“That's what you call too loose a grip.”

“Not if you intend to throw it.” Which she clearly should have done, straight at her husband's mouth to wipe that ridiculously arrogant smirk off his face.

He only grinned wider, as though reading her thoughts—something he'd grown rather adept at in the twenty months they'd been married. “I believe your little charge has fallen asleep.”

She looked down to find Laurence still, his eyes closed in slumber, and his cheek pressed softly against her. “I'd have noticed if I wasn't so distracted.”

She lifted the ten-week-old babe up to her shoulder and patted his back.

“You do know that if you ever tire of feeding him, I'll find you a nursemaid.”

She nuzzled her son's downy head. “I know that's what's done in England, but I love nursing him too much to give the task to another.”

“Our neighbors must think you insane for taking the burden upon yourself.”

“'Tis fitting then. Our neighbors think you insane for marrying a Frenchwoman.”

“Touché.” He smiled faintly and reached out to stroke some hair back from her face. “You left your hair down today.”

“Not all day.” The staff would have been scandalized, though she'd yet to figure out what England found quite so scandalous about a woman having hair. “I let it down when I came in here.”

“Because?”

She shrugged. “I like feeding Laurence with my hair down.”

“I like looking at you with your hair down.” His eyes turned from their usual soft blue-gray to a dark smoke color. He bent to place a kiss on her forehead, but as he did so, his frock coat fell open to reveal a rolled-up newspaper.

“You brought me news.”

He straightened. “You weren't supposed to see that quite yet.”

“What's happened?”

“Our navy invaded the port at Copenhagen and destroyed the Danish fleet two weeks ago.”

“The British navy, you mean.” She would have teased him further about precisely whose navy it was—his—and whose navy it wasn't—hers. But the somber glint to his eyes stopped her.

“Yes. The British navy.”

“That's a foolish move. Now Denmark will surely fight alongside France rather than remain neutral.”

He handed her the paper, and she unrolled it to reveal a headline that stated precisely such: the once-neutral Denmark had officially allied itself with France and was joining the war. Beneath the main article, smaller pieces about France's likely invasion of Prussia sometime before the year's end filled the page.

She crumpled the paper into a ball. “Is it ever going to end between our countries?”

“It doesn't seem as though things will conclude anytime soon, no.”

“I want...” What? To be free to visit her parents and siblings without being called a spy? To have Laurent back, to erase the six months Julien had been imprisoned on a British man-of-war before Westerfield and Gregory had found and freed him. To have no more fighting between their countries, hear no more insults hurled at “Frogs” when she spent a day shopping.

“Don't be sad, darling.” Gregory cupped her chin, drawing it up. “I might not be able to stop the war, but we have little Laurence. We have God. We'll muddle our way through the rest of it.”

She sniffled back a tear and smiled tentatively at her husband. “I know.” And she did. Somewhere deep inside, she knew. The world around them might clamor for one another's blood, but she and Gregory had found a way to make peace between themselves and forge a life together despite two hostile countries.

'Twas a lesson she prayed the rest of the world would learn sometime soon.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from ACCIDENTAL FAINCÉE by Mary Moore.