Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  “Aw, Dani. I didn’t mean it like that.” Julien came around the boat and settled an arm about her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Some French garçon will take a fancy to you here soon, and you—”

  “There’s no French garçon for me.” She smeared a tear across her cheek. “I’ve spent five years looking for one. None of them ever understood me or valued me. None of them ever cared for me like Gregory.”

  “He doesn’t care for you, Dani, not truly. If he did, he’d not have let you go today.”

  “He does.” He had to care for her, had to love her. Had to feel something inside his heart for her. “But he can’t marry me.”

  Julien’s grip tightened about her shoulder. “He’s a lord. He can do whatever he wants. He just doesn’t care for you enough to make the sacrifices marrying you would require.”

  The sob came then, loud and unhindered. Julien spoke truth. She’d known it since she first realized she loved Gregory. Since before then. Since he’d followed her that night and held her on the rock while they’d listened to the river rushing past. If Gregory wanted to marry her badly enough, he could find a way. He simply didn’t want to.

  Tears streamed down her face while another sob racked her body. Julien pressed her face into his shoulder, similar to how she’d stood with Gregory not a quarter hour ago. Except Julien smelled of the sea rather than the land, and he didn’t hold himself so rigidly proper. And his comfort couldn’t begin to fill the gaping hole inside her.

  “’Twas right strong of you to tell Halston to leave as you did. Not many a woman could manage that.” Julien smoothed her hair down her back. “You wouldn’t be happy with a man such as him, not for long. You deserve someone who will fight for you, not run when things get difficult.” He patted her back and pushed her gently away. “There now, go on into the cave and lay down. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

  She nodded numbly and stumbled off toward the cave. Pulling the blankets into a tangle around her, she lay down, but sleep didn’t help. She couldn’t even close her eyes without her mind filling with memories of Gregory sitting atop the rock, coaxing Clyde into moving or learning to impale a rabbit on a spit for roasting. And when sleep finally claimed her, the dreams only worsened. She woke to find Julien lying beside her asleep, the boat pulled up into the opening of the cave so no one would find it.

  She stood, and her stomach twisted with hunger while her eyes blurred with another bout of tears. She felt in her pocket for some of the English coin Julien had given her and then left the cave to start up the hill. A quick trip into town should yield not only meat pies but also a distraction.

  Because she desperately needed something to take her mind off Gregory Halston.

  * * *

  She loved him. Gregory dug his heels into his mount, urging the beast faster over the road as if doing so would leave his troubled thoughts behind. He had other things to be doing, like getting money for Danielle and Julien, visiting with his mother and sister to rehash the events of the past two months in France, seeing to the myriad matters of business that had surely piled up in his absence and making arrangements to leave for London on the morrow.

  Yet here he was, having been home for less than a quarter hour before calling for a mount and racing across the countryside to the home of Michel and Isabelle Belanger.

  He had to see Lady Isabelle for himself. Because if a duke’s daughter could be happy married to a peasant, then why not a marquess’s son?

  No. It was too much to hope for, too much to think of. There would be no happiness for him if he married Danielle and stayed in England.

  But how could he find happiness and contentment in his life without Danielle?

  There’s no difference between servant and master, peasant and lord, at least not to God. Danielle’s voice came back to him, proud and defiant as she’d flung the words at Kessler.

  He had to see Isabelle Belanger. Had to hear from her own lips whether she minded the sacrifices she’d made so that she could marry the man she loved.

  It seemed half of England had known Lady Isabelle’s parents, the Duc and Duchesse de La Rouchecauld. When she’d arrived from England a decade ago, having been the only member of her immediate family to escape the peasant revolts and the Terror of the French Revolution, the entire ton had been shocked to learn she’d married a peasant. Even destitute and just off the boat from France, Isabelle de La Rouchecauld could have chosen from any number of suitors looking to marry into one of the most powerful and ancient families of France.

  He’d been at Cambridge at the time but remembered coming home on holiday to hear his mother fuming about the way the horrid revolution in France had destroyed the House of La Rouchecauld and convinced their only living daughter to wed a peasant. Even worse, the Belangers had decided to settle near Hastings. “Practically on our doorstep,” as Mother had put it, her tone full of disgust.

  In those days, no one in England had known of Michel Belanger’s talent for furniture making or his mind for business. A decade later, the man’s wooden masterpieces were the most coveted in the country, but he was still in trade—a vulgar thing as far as his mother and the rest of the ton were concerned.

  Gregory turned his horse up the twisting drive that led to the Belanger estate. It wasn’t nearly as large as his own family’s lands, but just as impressive given the wealth had been earned rather than inherited. He swung off his horse in front of the modest country home and charged up the stairs.

  When the door opened, he presented his card.

  The footman raised an eyebrow but showed him to the parlor before slipping silently from the room.

  Midmorning sun poured through east-facing windows that overlooked brown winter grass, bare trees and a small pond. The landscape was simple and yet elegant, just as the room he stood in was decorated with stylish but not ornate furniture and drapes. Gregory paced the room from one side to the other. Belanger could well afford a more expensively appointed room and lavish grounds, but then, perhaps his conservativeness with his funds was part of the reason he had so many.

  The door opened and a woman entered inside. She needed no introduction. The perfectly straight way she held her back, the relaxed yet regal slant to her shoulders, the slight tilt to her chin—she’d undoubtedly been raised as the daughter of a duke.

  Her beauty was the stuff of legends, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, a complexion like the finest porcelain, and hair so dark it reflected the light from the window. He’d thought Danielle was beautiful, and she was, but compared to this woman, Danielle’s beauty looked like a wild-grown iris while Isabelle Belanger was the finest, most cultured rose. Her gown might not be made of the most expensive fabric money could buy, but with looks such as hers, she hardly needed yards of exquisite silk.

  Which was likely why the ton had been so aghast when she’d escaped from France married to a commoner. Had she been fat and sour faced, no one of consequence would have cared a whit.

  “Hello.” She offered a formal curtsy. “I’m Mrs. Isabelle Belanger. I believe you’re an acquaintance of my husband?”

  “I am his man of business, yes.”

  “I have sent James to notify him of your arrival. He should be with us shortly.”

  “I came to see you.”

  She tilted her head slightly, the gesture both polished and stately. “So I was informed. Whatever for?”

  Indeed. He rubbed the back of his neck. Here he’d raced all the way across Hastings to meet with this woman, and suddenly his brain couldn’t seem to unscramble his tangle of thoughts. So he started with the most basic words he could manage. “I met your niece Danielle in France.”

  * * *

  Stray pebbles skittered beneath Danielle’s feet as she wound her way down the hillside to the beach. She blinked into the overly bright winter sun and tucked the extra meat pies she’d
purchased under her arm. The English might not make soupe à l’oignon, saumon fumé, or moules à la crème, but their meat pies were among the best.

  “Julien,” she called, stepping into the alcove. She’d dallied rather long in town, looking into storefronts and stopping by the confectionary. Her brother should have long been awake, but he didn’t appear in the entrance to the cave.

  “Julien,” she called again, then stilled. Where was the boat? Had her brother pulled it farther inside? By himself?

  Her pulse thrumming against her neck, she bent to place her meat pies on the ground and retrieve her knife from her ankle. Her fingers touched the cool leather of the hilt as the cock of a pistol resonated through the air.

  “Move and I’ll kill you.”

  She looked up into the austere faces of two men. Two unmistakably British men.

  The man with the gun moved forward. “I told you there’d be more than one.”

  More than one? Did that mean they’d already found Julien? Please, God, let him have escaped.

  But the prayer seemed futile. Her heart knew the answer before her mind formed the words. They must have captured Julien and the boat.

  Her fingers hovered only a hand’s span away from her knife. Unfortunately the dark-eyed man with the pistol kept his gaze riveted to her hand. If she attempted to grab the knife and throw it at his neck, he’d have a musket ball lodged in her head before the knife ever left her hand—and that would still leave the second man to contend with.

  “Stand, wench. And slowly.”

  She carefully rose to her feet. “I didn’t do anything.”

  The man smirked. “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s enough.”

  She met his gaze. “I’m here on behalf of the Marquess of Westerfield.”

  “Lord Westerfield? That’s a nice tale there.” He laughed and then gestured to the man in the blue coat standing weaponless. “Take her knife, then search her to make sure she’s not hiding more.”

  “I only have the one. I swear it.”

  “Sorry, wench, you’ll forgive me if I don’t accept the word of a smuggler.”

  “I’m not a smuggler!” Panic rose in her chest, and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

  “A spy, then. Perhaps we’ll see a hanging before the week is out.”

  “I’m neither. I told you I’m here on behalf of the Marquess of Westerfield.” She took a step forward, imploring him to believe her.

  He kept his gun steady while his gaze raked over her. “And what, exactly, would the Marquess of Westerfield want with the likes of you?”

  “He employed me to...to...” She clamped her mouth shut as the horror of her situation swept through. How was she to answer? By claiming she’d just come from France? The mention of her country would condemn her to be hung for spying before sunset.

  “Your story fails you rather quickly. Hal, search her.”

  “My pleasure.” The other man strode forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes and a tight smile on his lips.

  She started to back away, but ’twas futile when the first man still held his gun on her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You met Danielle?” Lady Isabelle’s dark eyes widened, and she gestured to a chair. “Perhaps you’d better sit down, Lord Gregory. I’ll ring for tea. It seems you’ve quite the story.”

  “I can’t stay. I just...” Gregory ran a hand through his hair and stalked to the window before turning back to face her. “Why’d you do it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His hands slicked with sweat and itched inside his gloves. “Why’d you marry your husband? French or not, you could have come to England and chosen any of two dozen men from the ton. Men of wealth and position—part of the society you were raised in. Yet you married a commoner.”

  She straightened, a defiant gesture that would have caused him to blubber some apology at offending her had he not become accustomed to such actions with Danielle. “You probably think me weak or half-mad for marrying a peasant. But look me in the eyes, Lord Gregory Halston, and tell me, have you ever had anything that mattered ripped away from you? I’m not talking about the natural death of your father or lamenting some childhood friend who’s fallen on hard times. I’m speaking of everything. Your house. Your servants. Your wealth. Your lands. Your parents, siblings, friends. Your very position in the world and your trust in your countrymen. All of it torn away in a night.”

  Her voice shook, and a sickening sensation crept through Gregory’s gut. Perhaps he ought not have asked. The French Revolution would have been terrible for someone of her station, and he’d never intended to dredge up painful memories.

  “Lady Isabelle, there’s no need to continue. I meant not—”

  “Imagine, if you will, what might happen if all your brother’s tenants join with half the poor of Hastings and march on your house.” The words shot like little arrows, sharp and determined, from her mouth. “If they pounded down your door and flooded inside, stealing everything they could and smashing that which they couldn’t take. Imagine your parents and brother being brutally killed, their heads paraded on pikes through the village, their bodies...their bodies...” She pressed a hand to her mouth while moisture welled in her eyes.

  He’d never imagined such a thing, no. He fished around in his pocket for his handkerchief and approached. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to upset you. I merely wondered...”

  He clamped his lips shut. Why had he even asked? He hadn’t needed her words so much as he needed to see her happy and content—which she’d been until he brought up her past.

  The chamber door swung open. “Lord Gregory, I’m glad to hear of your return. I trust...” Michel Belanger’s gaze riveted on his wife.

  “Isabelle?” Rather than offer his own handkerchief, he strode toward her and wrapped her in his arms. “Is something wrong, mon amour?”

  She only sobbed harder.

  Belanger turned furious eyes on Gregory. “What did you do to my wife?”

  Lady Isabelle shook her head, still burrowed in his chest. “N-nothing. It’s not him. He came to ask about Danielle. And I was just explaining...” She drew in another deep, shuddering breath.

  “Danielle? As in my niece?”

  She nodded and sniffled. “Lord Gregory and Danielle apparently met in France. I assume they came to know each other rather well.”

  Michel Belanger glowered at Gregory over his wife’s head. “I heard a rumor you’d gone to France for your brother, but I assumed it to be just that—a rumor. Only a fool would attempt such a thing with Napoleon preparing to invade.”

  And only a fool would fall in love with a common woman from Napoleon’s country. “Yes, well, as it turns out, I happened upon Danielle and Serge quite by accident, but they proved invaluable on our journey. We arrived at dawn on Julien’s fishing boat.”

  Jaw hard, Belanger set his wife aside and took a step toward Gregory. “That’s information you had best keep to yourself. If anything happens to Julien or—

  “He loves her.” Lady Isabelle pressed the handkerchief to the corner of her eye and gently wiped away the last of her tears.

  “What was that?” Belanger turned back toward his wife, his brow marred with confusion.

  “Lord Gregory, he loves our Danielle. That’s why he’s here. He wanted to ask me about why I married you, and if I regret it.”

  Gregory swallowed tightly. The time for claiming his feelings were just some passing infatuation or fancy had passed. Perhaps he shouldn’t love Danielle. Perhaps he had every reason imaginable not to love her.

  But love her he did.

  Then again, knowing the truth in his heart and admitting it aloud were two different things. Surely Lady Isabelle understood the impossibilities that faced him if he decided to wed Danielle.


  “I...I can’t care for Danielle that way.” His voice sounded weak and shaky, even to his own ears.

  “So you’re going to act like that, are you?” Lady Isabelle laughed derisively. “You’re all the same, every last one of you English aristocrats. You look at me as though I’m poor for marrying the man I love and turning my back on the ton, but you don’t understand that I’m rich in the ways that matter most. I never finished what I was saying before my husband entered. Allow me to do so before you take your leave.”

  Gregory’s gut twisted again—a reaction that Isabelle Belanger seemed quite adept at provoking.

  “Everything I’d ever known, the entire world I’d grown up in was torn away from me in a matter of days. My own servants stole from me and my sister, the only other member of my immediate family to survive that first terrible night, and we became paupers living in a forgotten cottage on our aunt’s decimated estate. I found work as a seamstress while Marie stayed and tended the house. We worked for four years to earn passage to England, and still, Marie was caught and taken to the...the...” She sucked in a heavy breath, her eyes welling with tears anew.

  “Hush now, Isabelle. You don’t have to share this story.” Belanger reached out to take her hand.

  “I do. He needs to hear it.” She drew her shoulders back into her elegant, regal pose. “Imagine all of that, live through that, find a way to survive that. And I guarantee you, Lord Gregory Halston, that if a person finds you after all you’ve lost and offers you help— offers you food and water. Offers you life once more...you will not look down on him or her for who their parents are. Nor will you criticize the size of their house or number of their barns.”

  She met his gaze, her eyes wet with moisture yet somehow strong and undefeatable. “You will see them as your equal. Because that’s who they are. You think money, silks, carriages and lands make you valuable and equal to others with similar holdings? You’re wrong. What makes you equal to a person is your heart. Look at a person like my niece and what’s inside her heart. I’d wager, Lord Gregory, that hers will surpass the hearts of most young women you’ll find in the ton.”