Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  Gregory looked down at his rough linen sleeves. Though he’d spent the past half hour without his coat, he felt no cold or damp or anything at all...

  Besides the large, aching hole in his chest that Danielle Belanger had once filled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pain tore through Danielle’s head. It felt as though someone had taken her sharpest knife and sliced open her skull, then left the metal blade embedded in her head. She shifted and groaned, only to have a fresh slash of agony sear her.

  “Dani?”

  She turned her head toward the tender voice—a mistake considering the wave of nausea that followed.

  “Dani, are you awake?”

  She blinked and found herself staring up at unfamiliar trees, their branches bare against the dim sky. Halston hovered beside her, his face so close she could almost press her lips to his cheek—not that she intended to do such a thing again.

  “You’re calling me Dani now?” More pain, bright as lightning across a dark sky and hot as a fire on the coldest winter night.

  “You took a musket ball and smashed your head against a rock because of me...”

  A musket ball. That explained the burning in her side, which seemed to grow worse the longer she forced her eyes open.

  “That should give me license to call you Dani and you liberty to call me Gregory.”

  She rested her head back against the makeshift pallet and closed her eyes. Whatever he chose to call her wasn’t worth the anguish of arguing at the moment.

  A hand pressed against her cheek, the touch cool yet comforting, so perfect she nearly rolled closer to Halston...Gregory...whoever he was supposed to be.

  Clearly her injuries had addled her mind if something as simple as a touch had her turning soft.

  “Don’t do that again, do you hear me? Taking a bullet for me is not your job.”

  She forced her eyes open to find herself staring into the handsome—if aristocratic—lines of his face. Saving him hadn’t been something she’d planned, just instinct. She’d sensed danger one second and moved to protect him in the next, that was all.

  But if she’d had time to think? If she’d had enough seconds to warn him and take cover for herself...?

  She’d have still stood between him and the gunmen.

  Because she loved him, as pointless as it was. And so she’d throw herself in front of a musket ball time and again if it meant she could keep him safe.

  But he wouldn’t want to hear such things. He was some high-and-mighty British lord who saw value in her skills alone, not in her person.

  She looked away from his somber blue gaze. “Where are we?” It certainly wasn’t the same patch of woods where she’d been shot.

  “I know not. We’ve walked through the forest for the past two days with Serge guiding us. You’ve been hot with fever and in and out of consciousness. Farnsworth and Serge took to giving you that garlic and onion potion you used on Westerfield to good effect—your fever seemed to abate.”

  He moved a hand to her forehead, but she raised her own to pull his away. She didn’t need him touching her, not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever again.

  “We had to leave the cart and mule behind. They couldn’t travel through the brush.”

  Non. She wouldn’t have guessed they could. But then, how had the men moved her? She looked at Gregory again, at his strong shoulders and lean torso hidden behind a gray coat far different from the one she’d purchased him in Saint-Quentin. Had he carried her for two days while she remained unconscious? She would have been helpless. Completely at his mercy. Totally under his protection.

  Her heart quickened against her ribs. She’d rather rest in Kessler’s arms than his.

  But Kessler was weak from his time in prison, and Gregory hovered beside her.

  “Did you...?” The rest of the words clogged in her throat, so she shifted her gaze away instead. Some questions one was better off not having answers for. “My side is sore and I’m feeling tired. Mayhap you should let me rest.”

  * * *

  Danielle leaned against a tree and heaved in a breath, pressing her eyes shut for the briefest of moments. Her head pounded. Her side burned. Her throat felt as though it had been deprived of water for a fortnight. She only needed a moment or two of rest. And some water. She wouldn’t complain about opiates to dull the pain in her side and head either. Or a nap.

  Ahead of her, Serge continued to lead the men through the densest patches of trees and brambles, taking them through fallen, decaying leaves where they’d leave no footprints and getting them closer to Berck with every step. He was handling the task quite well, just like he’d done well cleaning her side and head and bandaging her wounds. Apparently he’d even done well throwing his knives—at least according to Gregory’s account of the attack.

  “Dani?” Gregory paused on the deer path ahead and surveyed the woods behind him until his gaze landed on her.

  “Coming.” She pushed off the tree and took a shaky step forward. The throbbing in her head turned from dull to sharp, and her side wept in protest. What had possessed her to attempt so much walking three days after she’d been shot? She should have known her body was too weak. But then, what other choice had she?

  Gregory stalked toward her, his gait strong and purposeful. “You’re ill. Let me carry you.”

  Definitely not something she would allow.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, refusing to look up into those foggy eyes sure to be filled with sympathy and concern. “I’m fine. I kept pace all morning. I can walk all afternoon, as well.”

  “No. You cannot.” With a deft movement, he swept her up, bracing her back with one arm while slipping his other beneath her knees.

  “Let me down!” She pounded her fists against his chest, never mind that pain ripped through her side at the movement.

  “Dani, hush!” Serge appeared beside her, while Kessler, Farnsworth and Westerfield looked on from farther up the trail. “Gendarmes will still be searching for us.”

  She clamped her lips shut. Her brother was right. What had she been thinking?

  But then, she probably hadn’t been thinking: her head hurt too much for that and her body felt too weary. Hot tears of mortification welled behind her eyes. She just needed sleep and something to dull the pain in her side and clear the ache in her head.

  Both were luxuries that would cost them too much time. She looked at her brother. “Tell Gregory to put me down. I don’t want to be carried.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” Gregory’s voice rumbled from deep in his chest—a rumble she felt as much as heard given the way he cradled her against him.

  “Forsooth, Dani. You can’t walk all day, not after getting yourself shot.”

  “I can.”

  Gregory shifted her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a newborn chick. “Even if you can—which I doubt—I refuse to allow it. This is the third time you’ve fallen behind since our last meal.”

  Serge reached out to grasp her hand, his eyes pleading. “If you push too hard, you’ll hurt yourself again. Do you remember how sick Westerfield got after that day you made him walk too far?”

  She shook her head, though that only sent more pain skittering through her. How ill she felt mattered not. She couldn’t lie here cocooned in Gregory’s arms. Couldn’t spend her afternoon with her head pressed against his chest so that she heard every beat of his heart and draw of his breath, smelled his familiar scent mixed with the aroma of clean air and winter’s dampness. Her heart would shatter.

  “Then l-let someone else carry me.”

  Gregory’s arms stiffened around her.

  Serge’s eyebrows drew down into a frown. “Kessler and Westerfield are too weak from their prison stay, and Halston is stronger than Farnswor
th. He’s the best choice.”

  But I can’t manage it. She turned her face into Gregory’s thick coat. ’Twas useless to argue any longer, not with both Gregory and Serge set against her. Some part of her brain knew they were right, that she shouldn’t be walking, that her head and side hurt much worse now than when they’d started that morn and that Gregory was the best person to carry her. But none of it made her current position in Gregory’s arms any less humiliating.

  Just like none of it would make forgetting his scent any easier, or the steadiness of his heartbeat, the feel of his arms, or her love for him.

  * * *

  “Spread the blanket for Danielle first.” Gregory’s arms ached as he held Danielle against his chest while she slept, her breath puffing little clouds into the cool winter air. But he wouldn’t complain, not now and not ever, if it meant he could hold her for a minute longer.

  Beside him, Farnsworth scrambled to do his bidding. Dusk had yet to fall over the forest, though that was probably Serge’s intent. They’d stop early and sleep as the sun when down, then wake after dark and continue their journey when blackness covered the earth.

  “Did you want some salt fish, Halston? Kessler?” Westerfield dug into one of their sacks for food.

  Gregory gave him a slight nod and turned back to find Danielle’s blankets spread to form a makeshift bed amid some fallen pine needles. He laid her down, her rich black hair fanning against the pallet beneath her. She’d slept poorly in his arms, twisting and writhing, crying out and waking far too often. Hopefully now that she had a stationary bed, her sleep would be more peaceful.

  Gregory pulled two thick, woolen blankets up to her chin, then swept a lock of tangled hair away from her forehead. God, heal her. Keep her well and give her strength. He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her forehead, then pushed to his feet and started toward Westerfield with the salt fish. ’Twould be no fire tonight, just as there had been no fire in the four days since they’d passed the checkpoint near Reims.

  Four days? Had it really been only half a week ago? Four weeks seemed more appropriate given their near captures, Danielle’s injury and the way they’d pushed tirelessly to the coast.

  He approached Westerfield and Kessler and reached for the salt fish, but Westerfield didn’t release it.

  “Be careful with her, Halston.”

  He glanced over his shoulder toward where Danielle slept. “I only stumbled that once.” The rough terrain and the way his arms grew fatigued after hours of holding her was sure to tire any man.

  “That’s not what he means.” Kessler’s voice was quiet yet hard, a sharp blade sheathed in satin. “You’re getting too close to her.”

  Gregory’s weary arms tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me,” Kessler spit.

  Westerfield rubbed his brow. “Calm down, the both of you. Halston, I understand Danielle has done much for us. She’s special, certainly. But don’t get attached. In a few more days, we’ll depart for England, and she won’t be coming with us.”

  As though he needed Westerfield’s reminder.

  “She’s French, Halston.” Kessler’s voice held no understanding. “And not just French, but a peasant. Unless you plan on making her your mistress when you reach London, you ought not—”

  “How dare you!” Before Gregory could stop himself, his fist swung toward Kessler’s jaw. It connected with a crack, and Kessler’s head jerked back.

  “Stop it.” Westerfield attempted to step between them, but Kessler merely sidestepped and swung his own fist toward Gregory’s nose.

  Gregory barely managed to block the punch.

  “I’ve been in your place.” Kessler pulled his fist back and readied it again despite the large red mark on his jaw. “Do you think you’re the only one to fall for a woman beneath your station? Heed my warning and stay away from her.”

  “I can’t envision you caring for any person, let alone a woman beneath you.”

  Kessler lunged, sending them both sprawling against the damp, muddy earth. The breath whooshed from Gregory’s body, and he struggled to fill his lungs while Kessler’s hand tightened around his collar.

  “What do you think Suzanna was?” Kessler landed a punch square in the side of Gregory’s cheekbone, sending a vicious spike of pain radiating through his skull. “Do you know how things started between her and me? The same way they’re starting between you and Danielle. I know what you thought two years ago, but I’m not some ape who forced myself onto her. That night you found her in the stable after I left? That wasn’t the first time—it was the last. That’s why she was crying. Because I’d told her no more.”

  “What?” Gregory’s fingers turned cold, numb even, and a hollowness opened inside his chest.

  Kessler still loomed above him, his fist poised to strike again and his other hand holding Gregory’s collar.

  But Gregory hadn’t the strength to fight in light of what he’d just heard. He sought Westerfield’s eyes from where he towered above the both of them. “Did you know this?”

  Westerfield shoved a hand into his hair. “I suspected.”

  “Why...why didn’t you say anything?

  Westerfield blew out a breath. “I pleaded with you to call off the duel, remember?”

  “And I apologized,” Kessler reminded him none too kindly.

  “But I thought...” That his brother was being an oaf. That Kessler and Westerfield cared not for the woman’s honor because she was a mere serving girl. He’d never imagined the woman herself had voluntarily surrendered her honor to Kessler.

  “Let me up,” Gregory muttered.

  Kessler tilted his arrogant nose down at him. “Why, so you can send another fist into my face?”

  Gregory reached up and grasped Kessler’s bony wrist, squeezing until Kessler released him. He stood with the grace of an arthritic farmer who’d spent nearly a century working fields, then hobbled into the woods.

  His cheek throbbed, and his head still ached with the impact of Kessler’s fist. Traipsing alone through the woods with no lantern probably wasn’t the most intelligent activity, but he needed space, a chance to breathe without people staring at him. A moment to think.

  He kicked a stone with the tip of his boot. The heavy rock rolled only a few inches before coming to rest in the wet soil. Had he really been so blinded to Kessler and Suzanna’s relationship? Had the truth been staring at him, and he’d failed to see it because...because...because...

  Why hadn’t he seen what was going on between Kessler and Suzanna? Why hadn’t someone from his family stopped the duel if his mistake had been so obvious? Though he supposed Westerfield had tried to stop things, and he’d been too stubborn to listen.

  Gregory trudged deeper into the woods, his stride quickening as the throbbing in his cheek settled. When he’d looked at the situation with Kessler and Suzanna, he’d seen only what he wanted to see. That Kessler had forced himself on a girl Gregory had once jumped off haymows with, taken fishing and sneaked sweet biscuits with from the kitchen. When he’d found Suzanna lying in the hay, her hair in disarray and her dress disheveled, he’d assumed the obvious.

  But he’d been wrong. And because he’d been wrong and too stubborn to consider otherwise, he’d taken a musket ball to the leg and Kessler had run off to France. The next two years of his, Kessler’s and Westerfield’s lives had been altered because he wouldn’t listen.

  Gregory paused beside a tree and heaved a ragged breath. And here he was, little better than Kessler with his own improper behavior making trouble for them all.

  But no, he was better than Kessler. He had to be. He gave donations to the Hastings Orphanage, the foundling hospitals and poorhouses littered across London. He saw that his clerks were well provided for and earned a better-than-average income. He made certain workers in the shipyards
and factories he invested in were treated fairly. He wasn’t some arrogant, self-obsessed man, no. He saw the needs of others every day and did what he could to provide for them. That made him better than Kessler, did it not?

  But do you behave any better with Danielle than Kessler did with Suzanna?

  He’d kissed her and held her close.

  And he was still planning to leave her.

  “Because I don’t have a choice!” he shouted into the trees.

  Perchance she was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met. Perchance she made him smile and entertain thoughts of children with her flashing eyes and dark locks, flying kites through Hyde Park, of evenings sitting by the parlor fire with his wife curled up beside him.

  Perchance.

  Yet he was going to leave it all behind because she was beneath him.

  Because he was like Kessler.

  “No,” he rasped, his throat raw.

  He wasn’t being like Kessler. He was being plain, sensible, honest. If he married a peasant—a French peasant who was at war with his country—his entire family would suffer. He would forever be a blight on the House of Westerfield. He would have to leave London and might well lose his clients despite how much money he made them on the Exchange.

  His younger sister Lilliana was set to debut next year. Would she be able to find a husband if her older brother tarnished the family’s reputation by marrying a French peasant? Perhaps. An aged and fat fourth son of a baronet or something of the like. No young, dashing member of the ton would touch her.

  And what about Westerfield? Once in England, he would have to search for another wife since his late wife had produced no heirs. But what society damsel would accept a French peasant as sister-in-law? And Mother, his dear mother. She’d already lost Father, had nearly lost her eldest son. Now was she to have her youngest live in exile from the life in which he’d been raised?

  Edmund, his middle brother who was comfortably married and settled—even if he hadn’t a mind for business or running a marquessate—would also suffer a certain loss of reputation, which his wife would find hard to forgive. Surely family harmony and the well-being of those he loved was more important than his own selfish desires.