Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  “I agree with the lord. Danielle shouldn’t cross the channel.” Julien’s voice was a low growl over Gregory’s shoulder.

  Belanger kept his gaze pinned on Gregory, as though Danielle’s stubbornness was somehow his fault. “Then you try to tell her non.”

  “I will.”

  Serge snickered beside his father. “Have you learned nothing after spending all this time with Dani? Once she’s made up her mind, no one can convince her of anything.”

  “Who said anything about convincing? I’ll tie her up inside that cottage if necessary.” Gregory jutted his chin toward the ramshackle structure, then headed back to the vessel, where Danielle now stood adjusting the sails. He jumped easily aboard, pushed past Farnsworth and stepped over a sack.

  “Move, Gregory, I’ve yet to see to the aft sail.”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Danielle...”

  She met his gaze, but not in her usual, defiant manner, no. He could have ordered her off the boat had she glared at him with thunderous eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Instead, she stood with shoulders slumped and eyes wary—even a touch sad. As though she knew what he was about to say. As though she understood he was going to order her out of the boat...

  And out of his life.

  “What do you want?”

  What did he want? He wanted to think a coherent thought, which was rather impossible when she stared at him with such sad eyes. “I, uh...”

  “Just say it.”

  But he couldn’t, because his thoughts no longer made sense. He should be thinking about getting her off the sailing vessel and keeping her safe, but she looked so lost and vulnerable, this strong woman hurt and weakened because she’d defended him from attackers. His arms ached to reach out and hold her, to offer the strength that the musket-ball wound seemed to have drained from her body.

  But what good would taking her in his arms do? He’d still have to say goodbye.

  Danielle shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, her gaze refusing to let him look anywhere but her somber eyes. “Did you want something from me?”

  Yes. No. Perhaps. He knew not what he wanted anymore—except to kiss her one last time. Kiss her and whisper sweet words of...of what?

  He had no promises of a future, no words of love to give. Could he wish her well with her life? Hope she found herself a kind French husband?

  Danielle didn’t need a kind man. She’d plow over a kind man like a farmer furrowing a field at springtime. She needed someone strong. Sturdy. Stubborn. Someone who would argue with her when she got fool notions in her head. Someone who would tell her to put down her knife and hold her when she needed to be held. Kiss her when she needed to be kissed. Tell her she was beautiful and perfect as she was. Someone like him.

  Except it couldn’t be him. He could offer her no life of happiness in England, just as she could offer him no life of happiness in France. Were they to wed and settle in France, he’d spend every day fearing being hunted down, just as he had for the past two weeks. And if they married in England, society would have no place for a commoner married to a British lord. Danielle would be shunned and his family would be disgraced.

  When Danielle spoke of equality, she made it sound so easy. Everyone was equal in God’s eyes, and that was that. But living that way in a world filled with hate was much more complicated than simply spouting words. He hardly had the ability to change society’s strictures; nor was he willing to sacrifice his family’s happiness so that he and Danielle could be together.

  But even so, he hadn’t the courage to wish her well in her quest for a fitting husband. He didn’t want her to be successful in finding love with anyone but him.

  Which meant he was likely one of the greatest cowards to ever walk the earth.

  “N-no,” he finally choked out. “I have nothing more to ask of you.”

  And he didn’t. He had little business making demands on Danielle when he would no longer be part of her life.

  “Nothing?” Her eyes flickered with a fragile hope, likely because he wasn’t objecting to her trip to England.

  “Not anymore.” He turned and stepped over a fishing net, stowing his sack beneath the bench at the prow of the boat.

  Danielle stood by the mast, a strand of rigging dangling absently in her hand as she stared out to sea. Part of him wanted to go to her again. A very bad part. Because, in truth, he had no right to her. He never had, and he never would.

  But he’d cobble together the words to tell her goodbye after they crossed the channel.

  And then he’d walk away without looking back.

  Because he was a British lord. And British lords didn’t allow themselves to look back at peasant girls.

  * * *

  Danielle stood at the prow of the boat, her eyes scanning the dark waters for England’s rocky shore. Any moment now, and they should be upon the little alcove where they hid the boat whenever they visited their aunt and uncle.

  Behind her, Julien manned the sails while Gregory and the others huddled beneath blankets. Sleeping? Maybe the others, but not Gregory. The warmth of his gaze blanketed her back.

  “There.” She pointed toward the shadowy outcropping on the bank.

  “Not yet.” Julien’s rusty but quiet voice carried over the boat. “Look to port.”

  She stilled at the sight of two thin lantern beams piercing the darkness. Excise agents? Please, God, no. Not after we’ve come so close.

  “Who are they?” Gregory whispered.

  She surveyed the shore, her eyes narrowing on the pattern of a flickering lantern: three long bursts of light followed by one short one. “Smugglers.”

  Her grandfather—the unlamented father of her natural father—had used signals such as that when he’d run his vast operation during the Révolution. The only question was whether the lantern signals from shore meant it was safe for the smuggling vessel to approach or whether there were excise agents in the area and the vessel needed to wait.

  Julien shifted the sails, and the boat surged forward over the water, closer to shore. Did he know the signals? Was it safe to land? Or did he merely want to get Gregory and the others off his boat?

  Likely the latter. The gray tinge in the eastern sky indicated dawn would be upon them shortly, and unlike smugglers, they had no second plans for where to make shore, nor did they have the food and water needed to stay afloat “fishing” all day and land the following night.

  The hilly shore loomed imminently in the darkness, then sand crunched softly beneath the prow. Danielle jumped over the gunwale without thought.

  ’Twas a mistake. Pain lanced her side, though not as sharp as it had been a few days earlier. Then a small splash sounded and Gregory appeared beside her, gripping the gunwale.

  “I can manage,” she retorted as she grabbed the boat to haul it farther onto the sand.

  He stayed quiet but didn’t leave his position, helping to pull the boat into the shallow alcove.

  It would only take moments to conceal the small craft behind the grassy outcropping. A cave lay farther back and once the sails were down, they would push the boat inside, where previous experience told her they could leave it for weeks if need be.

  “Do you always land here?” Gregory asked.

  “Aye,” she answered, careful to rid her voice of any French accent lest someone happen upon them. “Though we haven’t come to visit Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Michel often since the peace ended.”

  “I still find it rather hard to believe you’re related to them.”

  She shrugged and looked out over the water growing light in the dim illumination of dawn. Behind her, Julien and the others piled out of the boat and started dragging the craft across the sand toward the cave, leaving her and Gregory alone on the beach.

  She should go help. Julien w
as the only other person who knew how to take down the sails, and yet, this was goodbye, was it not? She’d have no other chance to stand with Gregory again, to wish him goodbye. She drew in a breath. “Do you live far from here?”

  “The marquessate is about a half hour on horseback. Longer by foot, but we’ll rent horses in Hastings.”

  She dug the tip of her boot into the sand, the easy bond they’d shared as they traveled through France now as distant as the country itself. And it was just as well. She’d known they’d have to part. Though somehow, she’d envisioned their farewell being more passionate than this, with sincere words spoken between them rather than dull ones, possibly even a kiss they would both remember in the months and years to come.

  She swallowed the lump building in her throat. “Your mother and sister will be thrilled to see Westerfield.”

  “Very much so, and I have you to thank for his safe return.” Gregory seemed more interested in staring at the hill behind them than at her.

  Then again, she was hardly any better with the way the sea kept drawing her attention. What did one tell the man she loved but would never see again? Did she wish him well for the rest of his life—without her? Did she wish him married to some perfect English debutante who would bear him a passel of dark-haired, smoky-eyed children with perfect English pedigrees?

  It had all seemed so clear before. She would come to England, see Gregory safe and say goodbye. Knowing he and his party had arrived unscathed should eclipse any sorrow at leaving him, shouldn’t it?

  Except maybe she’d been hoping she wouldn’t need to say goodbye. Maybe she’d been praying they’d get to this moment and Gregory would realize he loved her and confess his feelings. He’d say her station as a “peasant” didn’t bother him any longer and promise they’d find a way to marry regardless of the war between their two countries. Then she could be the mother of those dark-haired children.

  Foolish, immature dreams, the lot of them. “Gregory, I—”

  “Will you spend a few days with your aunt?”

  Her aunt. Something shattered inside her, that fragile band of hope that had clung relentlessly to the last shreds of her dreams. Gregory wanted to speak of her relatives. Not of her. Not of saying goodbye or professing his love.

  She cleared her throat and spoke over the roughness that coated the inside of her mouth. “No. Julien says we’ll sail on the evening tide.”

  “Halston, are you coming?” Kessler called over his shoulder as he and the others began the steep ascent up the hill bordering the coast.

  Gregory reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve business to attend—namely retrieving your money—but I’ll return this afternoon to say goodbye.”

  “Don’t.” The word shot from her lips before she could think to stop it.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She took a step back, her eyes suspiciously hot and wet. Oh, why had she not heeded her father’s advice and made her farewells in France? “Send Farnsworth or another of your servants with the money later and say goodbye now. There’s no use in prolonging this.”

  “But...”

  She held up a hand. “We’ve been coming to this moment since the time we first met, no matter how many kisses or looks we’ve shared along the way. So let’s be done. Farewell, Lord Halston.”

  She gave him a little curtsy. Polite, proper and a completely appropriate gesture for a peasant to make before a lord.

  “You got yourself shot for me.”

  Her hands quivered, and she fisted them at her sides.

  “Oui, and I’d do so again...because...because...” The words clogged in her throat. But if she didn’t tell him now, when would she? It wasn’t as though he’d be around for her to feel embarrassed once she spoke.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I’d take another ten musket balls for you, Gregory Halston, because I love you.”

  * * *

  Something hard slammed into Gregory’s chest. “You can’t love me.”

  Of all the insensible things for her to do, did she not know better than to—

  “I know.” She flung her hands wide as though angry. With him? Why would she be angry with him? He wasn’t the fool who’d gone and...and...

  No, the words didn’t bear thinking. He reached out and took her shoulders. “You’re French. And a peasant. There can be no future for us.”

  She jerked away from his hold. “You think I don’t understand such things? This is why I refuse to see you later. Go back to your family and marry—” she waved her hand absently in the air, her movements tight and jerky “—whoever it is you’re supposed to marry. Some gentlewoman who dresses in silks and has one of those pretty little parasols to shield her complexion from the sun.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it? Your mother probably has an entire list of perfect little wives already picked out. Women who don’t know how to throw knives or sneak Englishmen past French soldiers. Women who don’t know the ways of smugglers let alone have them in their family lineage. Go marry one of them.”

  He fully intended to.

  Except he didn’t want to marry anyone from his mother’s confounded list. He wanted to marry the woman in front of him.

  No. Why was he thinking such thoughts again? He couldn’t entertain them, not now and not ever. Too much was at stake.

  “Go now, Lord Halston, and don’t come back. Send a servant with my money later.” Danielle’s shoulders slumped, and she stared down at her feet, her eyelashes fluttering furiously. Where was her defiance? The bite underlying her words, or the stubborn set to her chin? Where was the flash in her eyes and icy stiffness in her spine?

  He was destroying her, his presence slowly leaching her energy. She was right, he had to walk away. Now. Before he made an even bigger mess of everything.

  And he would, except...

  He pulled her into his arms. “I don’t want to lose you, either.” He needed this one last embrace, the feel of her body close to his, the scent of sunshine and woods and Danielle Belanger winding about him, the tender look in those wide blue eyes.

  He lowered his lips to hers, tangy with the taste of the sea. She stilled but didn’t jerk away as he’d half expected. So he pulled her closer, as though if he held on to her tightly enough, he might not lose her. If only kissing her could melt away their struggles and hardships. Could somehow abolish the difference between peasant and aristocrat, English and French. Could eradicate the war that raged between their countries and the prejudice that divided their countrymen.

  “Ahem.”

  Gregory raised his head, breaking his lips from Danielle’s.

  “We’re waiting.” Kessler gestured to Westerfield and Farnsworth, standing partway up the hill as they watched him and Danielle. Gregory’s gaze skittered over the beach, where Julien also stood watching, arms crossed and face dark.

  Yet, even with everyone looking on, his arms refused to release Danielle.

  She pressed her face into the curve of his neck. “Adieu, Gregory. I shall remember you forever.” Then she took his forearms gently in her hands and unwrapped them from about her.

  All he could do was stand and watch as she headed to her brother, her back straight and stride long.

  A bony hand landed on his shoulder, its grip far stronger than when he’d first rescued Kessler nearly three weeks prior. “She’s an admirable woman, Halston. Even I can see that. But you’re doing the right thing by leaving.”

  “Yes, quite,” he muttered.

  Except, as he turned to tread up the slope, his actions didn’t feel right.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Easy on the sails, Danielle. I don’t want to have to mend them before we return tonight.”

  Danielle scowled at her brother but stepped back from
the mast, leaving him to deal with the aft sail. So perhaps her movements were a little jerky as she handled the thick fabric, but at least she was busying herself rather than standing on the beach watching Gregory walk up the hill like some lovesick dunce.

  He was leaving her. Fine. Best to get on with her duties.

  “You should have never fallen in love with him,” Julien spoke from the other side of the boat.

  She slammed her hand down on the gunwale and glared. “I didn’t do it a’purpose!”

  He snorted.

  “Just you wait. One day love will strike you, and you’ll be just as heartsick as I.”

  “Love doesn’t strike a cripple,” he spit.

  Her gaze drifted down to his left leg, the injury from the war invisible beneath his trousers. “You’re not crippled, you merely have a limp.”

  He didn’t even bother to look at her.

  “Besides it’s not as though you can pick when you fall in love.”

  Julien leaned over the gunwale and glared. “There’s where you’re wrong. Because if I happened upon some rich, beautiful heiress along the British coast, I’d have no trouble returning her to safety rather than falling in love with her.”

  The arrogant lout. His words came easily, but in truth, he hadn’t any idea what he would do in her situation. “What if you had to care for her for three weeks before you could return her home? What if she looked at you with eyes the color of the foggy sea and admired you despite your limp and kissed you as though...”

  She looked up at the top of the hill where the break in the brown winter grass indicated the path Gregory had trod.

  He wasn’t standing there looking back at her. Of course he wasn’t. He had to take Westerfield home and assure his family of everyone’s safety, collect her money and find a servant to deliver it. He didn’t have time or reason to stand atop the hill watching her, especially not when they’d already said their goodbyes.

  A sob welled in her chest. She wrapped one arm about her middle and pressed her fist to her mouth.