Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  “You can’t truly think the girl will keep quiet,” Kessler protested, but he’d turned to face Westerfield, the rigidness leaving his shoulders like it did whenever the man was around his brother.

  “Just watch.” Gregory crouched down, meeting the woman’s eyes. Eyes that were too blue in a face that was smooth and perfect as porcelain. She looked like some Celtic warrior sitting atop Farnsworth, the knife still gripped in her hand. She wasn’t the typical English rose, but if a woman of her beauty entered a ballroom in London, she would have half-a-dozen suitors come morning.

  Except first she needed the wealth and position that would place her in a London ballroom. Her presence in the woods, coupled with her rough brown coat, indicated she had neither.

  He held up the two coins in his hand. “I’ll give you two napoleons. One if you put that knife away, and another if you don’t tell anyone we were here. We’ll be gone in the morning and won’t be back. Agreed?”

  The woman’s chin came up. “I don’t want your filthy coin.”

  He slipped the French coins back into his pocket, took out two guineas and extended his hand. “Guineas, then.”

  She spit into the dirt at his feet. “As if filthy, English money will do more to change my mind.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. His “filthy English money” was gold, like the napoleons, but the British currency was far more stable than the French, which was why he carried both with him.

  “Are there any others in your traveling party?” Kessler snapped in a French accent not nearly as horrid as Gregory’s. The liar.

  The defiant look left the woman’s face, and her eyes skittered wildly to the left then right. She drew her knife away from Farnsworth a fraction of an inch and sucked in a deep breath.

  He sensed her plan an instant before she moved. She loosed a bloodcurdling scream and heaved herself off Farnsworth, bolting into the brush and vanishing even quicker than she’d first appeared.

  Gregory instantly moved toward the creek. He lengthened his gait, one stride then two, nearly close enough to catch her. “Stop.”

  She sprang lithely through the brambles, then darted around a dead log and between two saplings, quick as a pickpocket running through London alleys. If not for his guessing her escape, she’d have been gone.

  “Stop!” he tried again.

  She didn’t even look back, just kept running.

  He pumped his legs harder. A thick stand of fir trees loomed ahead, its shadows black in the growing darkness. If she made it into the dense branches, he’d never find her. Yet she was only a few steps ahead of him. He couldn’t reach her with his arms, but would likely fell her if he lunged.

  He grimaced at the thought of crashing to the ground, as she’d just held a knife to his valet’s throat. What else was he to do? He drew in a breath, readied his legs, braced himself for the pain of landing on the forest floor...

  And dove.

  His hands felt only the fabric of her skirts as he fell. He stretched farther as he collided with the dirt, finally gripping a limb beneath the layers of cloth. One hard yank, and the woman squealed. Then she crashed in front of him, landing in earth still soft from yesterday’s rain.

  She rolled quickly onto her back, but he kept hold of her ankle—which she attempted to kick furiously at his head.

  “Be still,” he gritted in English.

  She only fought harder, as though his words, which she couldn’t understand, had somehow incensed her.

  He climbed closer, resting his weight on her legs until she was forced to stop kicking. Only then did he see why she struggled so hard. Her knife lay on the ground an arm’s length in front of her.

  “Farnsworth, Kessler,” he called, then frowned. Was he really about to ask the man who’d shot him in the leg for help?

  One way or another, this trip was going to be the death of him.

  “Over here,” he shouted a bit louder. “I need some...help.”

  It was galling to admit, both because Kessler would be involved in the helping, and because his opponent was a woman. Yet he couldn’t keep her still enough to—

  A sharp slice of pain seared his cheek, followed by a screeching, “Non!”

  Teach him to not watch her wolfishly quick hands. He reached up to grasp the woman’s wrist before she could withdraw it and stared down at her bloody nails while his cheek throbbed wildly. Blast, but that was going to leave a nice wound.

  “Let me go. I know nothing,” she spit out in French.

  But she did know something. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be struggling so hard to free herself. Otherwise, she would have taken his guineas.

  Footfalls sounded, and a moment later Kessler’s and Farnsworth’s boots appeared on the ground beside him. “Someone get the knife.”

  Kessler headed toward the blade while Farnsworth hunkered down and grasped the woman’s free arm.

  “You’re bleeding, Lord Gregory.”

  As though he hadn’t noticed. He would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so busy stilling the woman’s legs as she tried to knee him in the stomach yet again. Instead, he wiped his bleeding cheek against the shoulder of his shirt.

  Farnsworth clucked his tongue “And you’re rather a mess.”

  That he was, covered in mud from ankles to shoulders. Even now cold dampness seeped through his clothing around his knees.

  “Perhaps, but I have the girl.” Which ought to count for something.

  Kessler returned, knife in hand.

  “Hold her other arm while I get up.”

  Kessler shoved the knife into a pocket of his greatcoat and came near enough to take the woman’s shoulder opposite Farnsworth. Gregory rolled away from her legs quickly enough so as not to get himself kicked—though she tried, the hoyden.

  He stood while Kessler and Farnsworth hauled her up. Two men to hold one woman, and still she looked around as though planning another escape attempt. Then her gaze landed on the hilt of her knife peeking from Kessler’s pocket.

  Gregory sprang forward and wrenched the blade away an instant before the woman’s hand touched the spot where the hilt had rested.

  Her lips curled into a snarl.

  He took a step back lest she attempt to swipe the blade from his hold. Instead she jerked hard on the shoulder Kessler held, forcing his hand to slip an inch.

  “Hold still, wench, or we’ll use that knife on you,” Kessler snapped in French.

  The woman stilled, panic flashing through her eyes for the briefest of instants before she masked it.

  What was he going to do with her? Her hair had come completely free of her cap and hung wildly about her shoulders with thick clumps of mud matted in the riotous mess. More mud splattered her dress, starting at the hem and working up her body. And from how she’d lain on the ground earlier, the back of her dress was probably soaked through and caked with mud as well.

  Yet somehow, despite her filth and bedraggled state, she was magnificent.

  And here he’d thought Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake several centuries past. Surely the woman before him could lead an army into battle just as well as the legendary heroine.

  “Before you ran, I asked who you traveled with.” He spoke slowly in French, so she wouldn’t mistake a single word of his statement

  Her nose came up and her jaw hardened, yet she met his gaze with her icy, sky-blue eyes. Once again, she resembled the ancient woman warrior who had defied the English even when facing death.

  “Answer me. Who else is with you?”

  Silence permeated the forest, the faint trickle of the creek and the occasional tapping of tree branches in the breeze the only sounds surrounding them.

  “Perhaps she travels alone, sir.” Farnsworth shifted his weight beside the woman. “Or perhaps she doesn’t understand your
question.”

  Oh, she knew what he asked, all right. Knew more than she was willing to admit.

  “Hold the knife to her throat,” Kessler commanded. “She’ll talk then.”

  Gregory ground his teeth together. The man had shot him in the leg, fled the country and then found himself in a French prison for sixteen months...and still failed to learn that violence seldom solved one’s problems. “I promised not to harm her.”

  Though that had been before she’d fled into the woods, rolled around in the mud with him and scratched his cheek.

  Kessler arched an eyebrow. “How else do you plan to force answers? She’s not volunteering any.”

  He glanced at the woman’s throat, slim and creamy beneath the mud that splattered it. Unfortunately, Kessler had a point.

  And what kind of barbarian had this journey turned him into that he considered holding a knife on a woman?

  “No. There’s another way.” He gestured in her direction, though she’d remained curiously still ever since Kessler had threatened to use the knife on her. “This is no fool lass. When she reached the creek, she headed upstream, which means her traveling party must be downstream. We only need to find them.”

  The woman jerked against Kessler’s and Farnsworth’s holds, forcing the two men to grapple for a better grip on her shoulders. Slight though she was, restraining a woman wasn’t exactly an everyday task valets and future earls performed in England.

  France, on the other hand, was proving to be quite different.

  A torrent of French words poured from her mouth. Most of them came too fast for him to understand, though he caught something about how she’d sit down and talk with them now.

  Finally.

  “Do you remember those napoleons I showed you earlier?” He spoke haltingly as he approached her. “I have more, but you need to be silent first.”

  Her body grew still though her chest heaved from spent exertion. She tossed her head backward, likely trying to dislodge the mess of hair that had fallen over her face to hide her eyes.

  Kessler and Farnsworth hardened their holds on her shoulders, but Gregory stepped forward and reached out a hand, smoothing the tangled hair away from her cheek and back over her shoulder. Frightened blue eyes came up to meet his, and he paused, his hand resting on her shoulder. He’d thought her beautiful before, but he’d underestimated. Her skin wasn’t just creamy, but as soft as a daffodil’s petals during spring. Her hair not merely long and wavy, but as rich as velvet. And those eyes...they appeared a light, icy-blue at first, but when standing this close, darker streaks flared through the lighter blue like little starbursts before they rimmed her irises. Irises that still held a muted look of fear.

  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?<
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  “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.