Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  It was too much to ask of his family. He couldn’t wed Danielle, no matter how much Danielle meant to him. No matter how much he cared for...or loved the woman.

  But no, he couldn’t love her. Certainly his feelings hadn’t gone that far. Not yet. And he would have to keep them that way: firmly under control. Firmly removed. Anything else would lead to naught but heartache for both of them.

  She sacrificed herself for you, might well have ended up dead so that you could go on living.

  He worked the side of his jaw back and forth, a faint moisture creeping into his eyes. Perhaps Danielle had been willing to sacrifice her life for him, but her actions couldn’t change the world in which they lived. Taking a musket ball in her side wouldn’t make either France or England accept them were they to marry.

  His brother and Kessler had been right to pull him aside and remind him. Four more days until the coast. Certainly he could keep himself detached for so short a time.

  “Move, and I’ll kill you.”

  Gregory’s blood froze at the sound of the deep, unfamiliar voice, speaking in French-accented English.

  “Open your hands and put them where I can see them.”

  Heart thudding in his ears, he did as commanded, staring up at the tall, wide-shouldered man who towered naught but a yard away. Hair the color of midnight curled beneath the edges of his wide-brimmed hat, but from his stance it was clear that this man was no farmer. A gendarme, perchance? But he didn’t wear the blue coat of France’s military police, either.

  And he held not a pistol but a blade poised over his shoulder, ready to throw.

  “What’s your name?”

  Gregory kept his eyes riveted to the knife. Had he been too lost in thought to hear the other man approach? Or did the stranger move through the woods with the same quiet grace as Danielle? “Gregory Halston.”

  “Gregory Halston,” the man repeated, his dark eyes hard in the hazy light of the forest. “Take me to your camp.”

  He knew not who this man was, but one thing was certain, he would die in this forsaken part of the forest before he’d lead him back to an injured Danielle, recovering Westerfield, and a lad of six and ten.

  Gregory met the man’s gaze, his pulse thudding hard against his throat. “This way.” He nodded toward the patch of forest in the opposite direction of the camp.

  With one lithe movement the man was beside him, the cold blade of the knife pressed against his throat. There hadn’t even been time to struggle.

  “Don’t waste my time with your English lies.” The man spoke in a deathly quiet voice. “I’m going to your camp, not the opposite direction. You can go there with me, or I can kill you now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Why hadn’t he been more careful when tromping away from the camp?

  The man with a knife to Gregory’s throat looked through the woods in the exact direction Gregory had come, at the very path of fallen leaves his boots had trampled. Clearly he would find the camp with or without help.

  “I—I’ll take you,” he managed despite the blade biting into his skin. And he’d spend every second they walked praying God would protect the others.

  Gregory’s body trembled as he started back. Somehow the man kept the blade near enough his throat that he didn’t dare attempt to trip him or look for a tree branch or rock to slam into the man’s head. Yet the blade was loose enough he didn’t fear it slicing his skin as they moved through the woods.

  Dear God, protect the others. Somehow warn them of this man coming. Perhaps Serge could have his knife in hand when we enter the clearing. And perchance Danielle could be awake—something told him she’d still be able to throw a knife from her sickbed. Even if this man kills me, Father, let the others live and escape. Get Westerfield and—

  “Faster.” The man shoved him over the uneven forest floor.

  When leaving the camp, it seemed as though he walked quite a ways, but within mere moments he glimpsed the dull blue of Serge’s coat through the trees. The lad was crouched by the fire, his back to them, eating salt pork by the look of it. So much for Serge having his knife ready. The grays and browns of the other’s coats were also huddled near the fire. Gregory slanted a glance through the trees toward where Danielle lay, but the fir boughs were too dense to make out her form.

  Father, let her be awake...and holding her knife.

  “Not so quick,” the man whispered. Then the stranger hauled him back against his chest and pressed the blade snug against Gregory’s throat. “We’ll do this part together.”

  He moved forward, using Gregory as a shield between him and the others.

  God, get us out of this alive! But it didn’t seem possible, not with the way this stranger had everyone at an advantage.

  “Anyone moves, and he dies,” the man boomed in a voice that would commandeer the obedience of King George himself.

  Serge sprang to his feet and whirled around.

  Gregory closed his eyes. Did it hurt when one had his throat slit? Or was the death instant?

  “Papa!”

  “Serge,” the man blundered.

  Papa? Gregory’s eyes flew open. The burly man behind him was Danielle and Serge’s father?

  No, certainly not. Because if anything, the man pressed the blade harder against his neck rather than releasing him.

  Nevertheless, Serge scampered toward them with a giant grin plastered to his face.

  “Papa?” On her pallet, Danielle blinked sleep from her eyes.

  “The rest of you sit in a straight line in front of that blanket, hands placed open on the dirt in front of you.” The man must have made some gesture to indicate which pallet he talked about, because Farnsworth, Kessler and Westerfield instantly obeyed while Serge stopped just a few feet away.

  “Papa, non!” Danielle scrambled off her blankets far too hastily for a woman who had been shot just days before and raced toward them. “What are you doing? Take that knife away. Gregory’s done nothing.”

  “Dani?” The man’s voice turned quiet and the knife trembled slightly. “What have they done to you?”

  Gregory took in Danielle’s appearance. Dirty linen was wrapped over the gash in her head while her hair tumbled wild and matted to the middle of her back. Shadows smudged the fragile skin beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were drawn with worry. The bandage wrapped about her side peeked out from the large musket ball hole in her cloak, while dried blood no one had bothered to wash stained the left side of the wool.

  She bore little resemblance to the beautiful, vital woman he’d first met in the woods. Why had he not realized it before now?

  “They’ve done nothing, Papa.” She pressed her hand to her head wound. “Some farmers shot at me, and I hit my head against a rock. Serge put a blade in each of their necks, though. I’m told it was quite impressive throwing.”

  Serge’s narrow shoulders straightened and he nodded. “Oui. I heard the gunshots and found Dani in time to attack the farmers. You’d have been right proud, Papa, had you seen me throw.”

  “The man you’re holding there, Gregor—er, Halston...” Danielle gestured to him. “He’s done nothing to hurt us, and I’ve agreed to help him and his companions reach England.”

  “Help them?” the towering man shouted. He thrust Gregory forward and used his knife to point to the others. “Sit down at the end of the row. The slightest movement from any of you, and you’ll each find a knife in your throat.”

  The man likely had enough knives concealed on his person to make good on his threat. Gregory hastened to the group and plopped onto the dirt beside Westerfield. His neck burned where the blade had pressed against it, but he dared not cover the tender flesh with his hand. Instead, he splayed his hands on the dirt before him, then glanced up at the stranger with dark hair and an even darker look upon his f
ace. Strange how he’d thought little of taking on the three army deserters in the barn, but in the presence of this powerful man, he dared not move. He was the lord, not this common Frenchman.

  But the common Frenchman wore his power and influence more comfortably than a seventh-generation duke.

  * * *

  Her father was livid. He didn’t need to speak for Danielle to sense the fury coursing through his body. Serge took a subtle step away, placing himself between Papa and the others, but rather than follow Serge’s example, she straightened her shoulders, met her father’s gaze and took a step forward. “Two of them were wrongfully imprisoned, and—”

  “They’re British, are they not? Our enemies? The only thing wrongful about their imprisonment is that the other two weren’t included.”

  She cringed, partly because of the truth behind her father’s words, partly because of the force and loathing with which he spoke them, and partly because of the fresh pain tearing through her side. “Oui, but—”

  “But nothing!” Papa reached into the folds of his coat and tossed Serge several pieces of rope. “Bind their hands and feet. I’ll see them to the gendarmerie post in Abbeville while you two start for home. I only pray I won’t be interrogated about the ‘beautiful dark-haired woman and gangly youth’ seen traveling with them when I turn them over to Captain Montfort.”

  “Non! You can’t take them. I don’t...that is...why...” She sucked in a breath and forced her thoughts into a semblance of order. “How did you even come to search for us? How did you know we were with them?”

  Papa reached to the waist of his pants and sheathed his knife—not that he couldn’t have it in hand again in an instant. “When your aunt’s letter from Reims arrived and explained how sorry she was about the way thing had ended between you and Citizen Fauchet, I started to wonder why you hadn’t beaten the letter home. You aren’t known for traveling slowly, Danielle. In the meantime, I got word to be on the lookout for two escaped English spies from north of Reims. Three days ago I received news that some deserters had been found. These deserters talked about three Englishmen with a dark-haired Frenchwoman and a youth aiding them.”

  She bit the side of her lip. “Did you hear about the gunshots? About the farmers Serge killed?”

  His gaze grew hard. “We’ll say the Englishmen killed them.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, pushing down the pain that seared through her body with the action. “Non. I refuse to lie. I’ll march straight into Captain Montfort’s office and tell him every last thing that transpired.”

  “So your brother will end up beneath the guillotine’s blade while you’re taken to some forgotten dungeon?”

  Her throat turned dry. “I’ll claim I killed the farmers.”

  “I see. You’ll lie to protect your brother but not yourself.” Frustration tinged her father’s gruff voice. “Time with the English has clearly addled your brain.”

  “Don’t stand there and judge me. You know not how much I’ve risked, what we’ve endured these past two weeks.”

  “Oh, no. I understand very well.” He shifted angrily from one foot to the other. “You’ve risked my work as an informant. Our home. The lives of your mother and sisters, of myself. I’ll not risk any of that over English buffoons for another instant. Whatever possessed you to help them? Have you not spent the past decade living beneath my roof, eating at my table? Did you learn nothing when I taught you of the First Republic, the Consulate? The hope our country has of ridding itself of tyranny? And you want to help people who would see France under the reign of another Bourbon king?”

  She swallowed hard. He spoke truth, far too much truth. England’s king wanted nothing more than to see a Bourbon reinstated on the French throne and all the advances her country had made over the past fifteen years undone. If England won this war, France would go back to how it had been before the Révolution. No more liberty or equality for the masses. Peasants heavily taxed while aristocrats lived in excess. Commoners starved for bread and clamoring after only a handful of jobs while the queen ate cakes at Versailles.

  Papa’s first wife had taken ill and died, half from starving and half from illness, during those days. Many others would die of disease or starvation once more if King George had his way. ’Twas why England’s tyranny had to be stopped.

  ’Twas why she never should have agreed to aid Gregory.

  “We learned about the Révolution, Papa,” Serge’s soft voice wafted across the camp from where he stood with the ropes still dangling from his hands. “And we also learned when you taught us from the Bible. ‘For there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female in Christ.’ If there’s neither Jew nor Greek, why should God see a difference between French and English? He sent His Son to die for the English along with the French, did He not?”

  Papa crossed his arms, his face dark and stony, but at least he didn’t reach for his knife.

  “Westerfield was near death when we found them,” she added into the silence. “And both he and Kessler were so thin it looked as though they’d been starved. I fought them at first, was going to leave and turn them into the gendarmerie post, but then I remembered Laurent.”

  “Oui, Laurent,” her father croaked. “How do you think he would feel knowing you’re risking all you cherish to help men from the country that killed him?”

  She gripped her hands together in front of her stomach. “What if he didn’t die? What if he was injured but somehow made it to England? Would you want the first Englishman who happened upon him to drag him to the gaol? Or would you want someone to aid him so he could return home?”

  Papa rubbed the back of his neck, his forehead drawing down into a frown. “’Tis not as simple as the two of you make this to be. They are our enemies and would likely kill us if they found one of us on their soil.”

  “They didn’t kill Dani and me when we went over during the peace,” Serge piped up.

  “Yes, well, things change rather quickly when one nation declares war on the other,” Papa muttered.

  “These men know Tante Isabelle and Oncle Michel. Gregor—er, Halston is their man of business.”

  “And that’s a reason to let them live? Some mutual acquaintance in England?”

  “He’s not a mutual acquaintance, he’s your brother!” Danielle threw up her hands and whirled away from her father. A fresh stab of pain seared through her side. Her head was pounding now, so badly she could hardly form coherent words, and tears blurred her eyes. She needed to lie down, but she couldn’t let herself rest when her father was about to cart the man she loved off to prison. “Do you think Oncle Michel would take up relations with a dishonorable man? The Englishmen are people just like us. Two of them were wrongly imprisoned when the peace ended and then kept in a forsaken dungeon and nigh starved. We should...”

  She pressed a hand to her side, trying to stop the pain bursting through her, and sucked in a shallow breath.

  “Dani?” Her father and Gregory spoke her name in unison.

  But rather than look at them, she stared down at her hand, her fingers covered in a sticky red. “I—I think I need to...”

  They were the last words she formed as gray clouded her vision and blackness overtook her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Why isn’t she waking up?” Gregory repositioned the wet cloth he held against Danielle’s forehead and stared down at her pale cheeks. “Because she walked too far earlier? I told her not to walk.”

  “Mayhap. Or it could be the pain from her side, loss of blood.” Her father kept his gaze locked on Danielle’s side as he poured water on her wound. “How much did she bleed when she was shot?”

  The vision of his coat soaked with Danielle’s blood flashed across his mind, and he pressed his lips together.

  “Too much.” Serge came up behind Belanger wi
th a shallow bowl in hand. “Here’s the water you asked for.”

  Belanger set the bowl he was using aside and reached for the steaming liquid, dipping a rag in it before cleansing his daughter’s side once more. “Today was the first time you let her walk by herself?”

  “She insisted.” But the excuse felt paltry on Gregory’s tongue. He should have carried her from the moment they left camp that morn, even if he had to bind her hands and feet and toss her over his shoulder.

  Serge plopped down beside his father, the boy’s attention on the ugly wound in his sister’s side. “You know how she can be, Papa. She had it in her mind that she was well enough to walk, so she nigh fainted before she let Halston carry her.”

  Belanger’s eyes met his over Danielle’s body. “The lord carried my daughter, did he?”

  Gregory nearly cringed at the use of his title. How was it this French family could make what all of England honored into something that sounded reprehensible? “It seemed only fair. She was protecting me when she got shot. I’m the reason she...she’s...” He dropped his gaze back to Danielle’s colorless face.

  “She was protecting you? That’s a story I should probably hear,” Belanger growled.

  “Shouldn’t we try to rouse her first?” Serge reached for her hand lying motionless on her stomach and squeezed. “She’s been out an awfully long time.”

  “We need to stitch her.” Belanger’s jaw remained hard. “Which should have been done after the gunshot and is likely why the wound reopened.”

  “Oh.” Serge bit the side of his lip. “I probably should have known that.”

  Belanger raised an eyebrow at his son.

  “If you stitch it now, will she heal?” Gregory asked, perhaps a bit too quickly since Belanger stared at him in that odd manner again.

  “She should, though she’ll likely bear a scar.” Her father trailed a gentle finger around the wound. “Serge, go fetch my bag.”