So why did her heart feel as though it would burst into a thousand jagged pieces?
Because she wasn’t the serving girl he’d fought for? He’d started a duel at some point in his past, yet he didn’t see her as his equal and even admitted such to Kessler.
Halston was no different than any other aristocrat—than any other man. He’d taken what he wanted from their kiss last night and then left her once he was finished.
The difference this time was her. She’d been willing to give him what he desired. A kiss in the night, an hour spent burrowed in his arms.
And now he was finished with her.
It shouldn’t matter. None of this should matter. She’d known better than to get involved with Halston from the first.
But then she’d spent the next week and a half traveling with him, watching as he tirelessly fought for his brother’s life, as he did everything in his power to move a band of four men across a country filled with people who wished them dead.
As he watched her when she sat by the fire skinning a rabbit or roasting a squirrel.
As he kissed her as if she was valuable to him.
Lies, the lot of them. She broke into the trees and kept striding forward. Gray was already lightening the sky, providing a dim illumination by which she picked out the path with the fewest brambles and greatest gaps between trees. If gendarmes combed these woods, they’d be found in an instant, but what other choice had she unless she abandoned the mule? Though Westerfield had improved, he was hardly hale enough to walk the distances she required of the others every day, and he’d likely suffer a setback after being exposed to today’s rain.
“Danielle.”
A hand rested on her shoulder, and she jumped, then furiously swiped another tear off her face. It seemed as though the rain had finally stopped, so she hadn’t even the respite of blaming the weather for the moisture on her cheek.
She turned to find Halston staring down at her. “What are you doing sneaking up on me in such a manner? You’re going to get us all caught.”
“I don’t want you walking alone.”
“I’m scouting. That’s the point of a scout, one person goes ahead. Alone.”
A lopsided smile tilted Halston’s mouth. “You didn’t look as though you were scouting, just crashing through the forest.”
She glanced toward the field, but trees obscured the rest of their party from view. “Go back and leave me be.”
“I won’t leave you on your own.”
“You will.”
“Danielle, look at me.”
“No. I’m not looking at you, I’m not talking to you, and I’m certainly not kissing you again.” She clamped her mouth shut the instant the words left her mouth. What was she saying? Did her wretchedly honest tongue insist on giving away her every thought?
Gregory gripped her shoulders with one hand and raised her chin with the other so she had no choice but to look into his misty blue-gray eyes. “Kissing me? Is that what this is about?”
“Of course not.” She attempted to jerk away, but she was too weary to fight in earnest and his grip proved strong enough to hold her.
“Danielle.”
“Don’t say my name like that, all soft and compassionate. Like you...like you...care.”
“I do care.”
She fisted a hand in his coat. “People who care about each other don’t steal kisses one night and then ignore the person they kissed the next day. They don’t evade questions about each other, and they certainly don’t—”
His mouth covered hers, the pressure of his lips cutting off her words while their breaths tangled hot and fast. She stilled beneath the onslaught. She had something important to tell him, had been right on the verge of explaining...
What?
And why had it mattered in the first place? Did anything matter except the feel of his arms around her and the pressure of his mouth on hers? Her hand that had been fisted in his coat loosened into a soft hold. He pulled her closer, the scents of damp wool and musky man surrounding her, the strength of Gregory Halston wrapping around her to form a protective barrier between this moment and the rest of forever.
But the rest of forever would come eventually. Most likely in the shape of a dungeon cell. The tasks of both caring for Westerfield and keeping these men out of prison now that they’d been discovered seemed impossible.
Almost as impossible as a future between her and Halston.
Which had been what she had been about to tell him before he’d kissed her. That he couldn’t care about her. That there could never be anything more than friendship between them. No, not even friendship. They had a business arrangement. She got his party to the coast, and he paid her handsomely. Nothing but cold, hard business.
She wrenched herself away from his warmth, his lips still seeking hers for a fraction of a moment. “I just told you not to kiss me. Don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t do anything other than leave me alone.”
His eyes blazed. “Why? Was my kiss not good enough for your passionate French blood? Because unless I misread something, you enjoyed that.”
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 rea
ched 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.”
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