Falling for the Enemy

by Naomi Rawlings

  Men had searched her? Gregory’s stomach churned.

  Edward stopped at the end of the corridor and unlocked another heavy wooden door that led to a dank, narrow stairway.

  Behind him, the governor was rambling about why it had been necessary to search and then confine Danielle, words like “blade” and “attack” and “disrespect” filling his diatribe.

  “Enough! Just take me to her.”

  The guard glanced over Gregory’s shoulder at the governor, then cleared his throat. “This way, then.”

  The air on the floor above had been foul, but the stench inside the stairway grew more rancid with each descending step as the scents of human waste and sweat fought to overpower the stale, damp air. Unlike on the floor above, no dim light trickled into this part of the building from small, barred windows. If not for the lantern in the guard’s hand and another single lantern mounted to the wall halfway down the filthy corridor, they would be surrounded by impenetrable blackness.

  “Hello?” Danielle’s voice, weak and tentative, called out. “Is anyone there? Please, unchain me.”

  “You chained her!” Gregory turned toward the guard, fire coursing through his blood.

  The guard blanched, then pointed to the governor. “He ordered it.”

  The governor tugged at his collar. “It’s standard treatment for prisoners who attack guards.”

  Gregory snatched the lantern from the guard’s hand and burst ahead, following the sounds that emanated from the last door on the left.

  “Dani?” He held the light up to the barred window surrounded by heavy iron. She sat on a squalid floor with her arms chained to the wall above. Dirt and tears smeared her face, while her hair fell in disarray about her shoulders and a jagged tear cut across the bodice of her dress to reveal her chemise beneath. She glanced up, fear in her eyes as they met his.

  Gregory rattled the bars separating him from Danielle. “Unlock this door. Now.”

  “Yes, sir, Lord Gregory.” The guard hastened forward, keys rattling as he shoved the correct one into the lock and turned it.

  Gregory rushed inside, hanging the lantern on a wall hook before kneeling in the rotten straw to enfold Danielle in his arms.

  “Gregory?” Her tear-glazed eyes moved to his. “You came? I thought...”

  “Shh. Of course I came.” He stroked a hand over her matted hair. “I couldn’t leave you here. Just a moment, and you’ll be free.”

  “She’s a violent one, Lord Gregory,” the guard spoke. “Are you certain you want me to—”

  “Release her now!”

  The large man crossed the room and inserted the key into the manacles on her wrist.

  “Faster.”

  “But Lord Gregory,” the governor protested from somewhere in the foul cell behind him, “she’s dangerous. She had three knives on her and fought while we searched her. We can’t be sure whether she’s got another.”

  Danielle’s eyes went from dazed and frightened to humiliated, and his throat tightened at the hint of what Danielle surely endured at these men’s hands—of what he could have prevented had he whisked Danielle away to marry him that morn rather than left her on the beach.

  “She fights like a hoyden even without a weapon,” the guard offered.

  “I said, unlock the shackles.”

  One simple click and the cruel irons released her. She sagged back against the cold, grimy stone and fumbled with the front of her dress, pressing the torn fabric tight against her chest.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” He swooped her up in his arms.

  She gasped in pain at the jostling, but he started toward the doorway where the governor stood. She needed to get out of this horrid prison before her injuries were tended.

  “Wh-what about my brother?” Danielle’s voice was so quiet it could barely be heard above his footsteps on the straw. Her chin trembled as she raised her eyes to the governor’s. “Have you freed him yet?”

  Gregory paused before the governor and glared. “Yes, tell the lady what you’ve done with her brother.”

  “He’s, ah...not exactly here anymore.”

  Her body tensed in his hold. “What do you mean, ‘not exactly here’?”

  “Dani.” Gregory tightened his grip on her, partly because he craved the warmth of her body against his, and partly to support her when she learned what had befallen Julien. “I have a man out searching now and will put more men on it as soon as we leave, but Julien has been taken to Portsmouth.”

  “Portsmouth.” Her confused eyes sought his. “Why Portsmouth?”

  “He’s an able enough sailor, miss. The navy can use him.”

  Given her weakened state, Gregory half expected her to swoon from the news. But a sob tore from her chest, and she clawed at his hold, her gaze riveted to the governor.

  “You impressed him into the navy? I should kill you. If Gregory can’t find him, if he ends up on one of your wretched English war machines like the one that killed his twin, if—”

  “Not here, Dani.” He hefted her higher in his arms and strode through the doorway and into the dank corridor lit only by the one meager lantern on the wall. Her diatribe turned from shouts to mutterings to soft sobs with each step he took farther away from the filthy cell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I love her.” Gregory sat in the drawing room with Westerfield, staring down at his hands as though they could somehow give him the answers he sought. “I want to marry her.”

  “She’d make you a good wife. She’d make any man a good wife, for that matter.”

  Gregory’s head shot up, and he eyed his brother reclining across the settee. “This is quite a different tune from what you were singing back in France. You discouraged me from getting close to her—and don’t pretend you don’t see the obstacles to the union. A marriage to her would ruin Lilliana’s hope for a husband and your search for a new wife. Mother would be devastated and—”

  “Yes, I most certainly would be devastated.”

  Gregory glanced toward the door, where his mother had suddenly appeared, and stood. “But I love her,” he stated firmly.

  “That he does.” Westerfield smiled, his eyes dancing with merriment. He seemed to be enjoying this conversation a little too much.

  “Don’t start spouting notions of love.” Mother’s perfectly coiffed hair trembled as she stomped a dainty little foot into the Turkish rug beneath their feet. “A good marriage involves more than love.”

  “Love seems like a solid place to start. As does respect. Commitment.”

  “Commitment! She’s French, doubtless tempestuous and full of passion. Her commitment to you will not last more than a fortnight.”

  “Her commitment to me has already exceeded a fortnight.” Gregory drew in a breath and reached out to settle his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “She saved us. Your eldest son is home and well, not because of me, but because of her. I should think you’d be upstairs thanking her, not denying us a future together.”

  Mother slanted her gaze around him toward Westerfield, her blue eyes brimming with moisture when they swung back up to Gregory’s face. “You’ll be mocked out of London for marrying a French peasant. Never invited to another ball, never—”

  “I’ll not be mocked out of London, because no one will know I’ve wed at all, let alone who my new bride is. Danielle and I will marry one evening and leave for America the next morn.”

  “America?” The stern lines around Mother’s eyes drooped. “Certainly you don’t mean to...to... Why, I’ve just gotten your brother back, and now you intend to sail across the ocean?”

  “It’s the only way to protect our family. I can wed Danielle, and it won’t hurt Lilliana’s chances with a husband or Westerfield’s with a new wife. My marriage won’t bring shame on the
family, not if it’s done clandestinely, and in the end, I can still build a life with the woman I love.”

  “That’s a noble sacrifice to make for Danielle, Halston, but it’s not necessary.” Westerfield raised himself to a sitting position. “Not if we spread the story of how Danielle aided Kessler and me in our escape, or the news of who her grandfather was.”

  “Her grandfather?” Mother’s eyes narrowed on Westerfield the way a hawk’s would when spotting a mouse in a field. “Who was her grandfather?”

  Gregory sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “A farmer.”

  “A seigneur.” Westerfield answered at the same time. “Or perhaps he was even a baron. ‘The Gentleman Smuggler,’ he used to be called, though I understand there was little gentlemanly about him. He ran a smuggling ring out of Calais for the first part of the French Revolution.”

  Gregory turned to face his brother. “A seigneur? How do you know this?”

  Westerfield raised an eyebrow. “I asked.”

  “You...but...how? When?”

  Westerfield chuckled low in his chest—which soon turned into a cough, but not even the hacking wiped the devious smile from his face. “‘Who?’ would be the better question, and the answer is Serge, not Danielle. That woman is too tight-lipped to reveal such a thing. The boy, on the other hand, doesn’t have a reserved bone in his body.”

  Gregory’s body felt suddenly light, as though his feet stood on clouds rather than the solid floor of the drawing room. She was a seigneur’s granddaughter? All this time, he’d assumed her descended solely from peasants—an assumption that she’d never once bothered to correct.

  “That solves everything,” he muttered to himself.

  “What was that, brother?”

  He beamed at Westerfield. “I can marry her and stay in England. Ha! I can marry her tomorrow if I wish it. And I think I will. Yes, yes. I’ll do just that!”

  “Ah, you might want to ask the lady first.” The teasing smile was still plastered across Westerfield’s face.

  Ask the lady. That was precisely what he needed to do. He bolted for the door.

  “What about dinner?” Mother called after him.

  But he cared not. He was already taking the steps two at a time up to Danielle’s room.

  * * *

  Propped against pillows, Danielle stared at the darkness outside the window. She lay on the most comfortable mattress she’d ever felt in her twenty-two years. The feathers beneath her cocooned her in a world of warmth, the bedclothes were so soft they could be cut up and used for undergarments, and one of the maids had heated a brick and tucked it down by her toes so her feet stayed warm.

  A special brick solely for the purpose of warming a bed. Of all the frivolous things. Why could the English simply not wear a pair of stockings when they went to sleep?

  She sighed and settled back into the pillows, pressing her eyes shut against the candlelight flickering over the opulent bedchamber.

  Sleep. The mistress of the house, doctor and a maid had all commanded her to do that very thing. But her side hurt, having reopened itself during her struggle earlier; her wrists were bloody and wrapped in bandages, and her throat ached from the hours she’d shouted in the jail.

  And Julien was still missing. How could she sleep when her brother was, in all likelihood, imprisoned in the galleys of a British man-of-war?

  The latch on her bedchamber door clicked, and Danielle opened her eyes to find Gregory barreling into the room.

  She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Did you find—?”

  “You’re not descended from a peasant.”

  She collapsed back into the pillows. So he didn’t have news of Julien.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It didn’t seem...significant enough to mention.” She absently traced the patterned quilt atop her bedclothes. “My country doesn’t recognize barons, or lords, or any of that foolishness under the consulate.”

  “Empire.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Gregory approached the bed. “Evidently sometime while we were winding our way through northern France, your Napoleon was crowned emperor—or rather, crowned himself emperor, if the papers are to be believed.

  “Oh.” She bit the side of her lip. That did sound a bit like something their leader would do. She could hardly imagine Napoleon letting someone else crown him, least of all the pope. “I suppose I was a bit too occupied to be reading the news.”

  He smiled, a large, ridiculously silly smile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “About Napoleon?”

  “Danielle.” He drew her name out until it dripped with unspoken warning, though it wasn’t too convincing given the grin still covering his face. He plopped himself onto the bed beside and took her chin in his hand. “You knew your family line would matter to me.”

  “Oui, I knew,” she whispered into the space between them then dropped her gaze. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because it would have mattered too much. It would have mattered more than...than...than me.”

  Tears beaded behind her eyelids, and she blinked furiously. One brief stay in a British house of corrections and she was suddenly tearing up at the most ludicrous things.

  “Oh, Danielle. I was such a fool. You matter to me. You, all by yourself. More than anything else. I love you.”

  “You love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.” He wrapped an arm around her back and brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms despite the door being open for any passerby to see. “I’m only sorry it took me so long to realize it. Forgive me for being so mule headed and proud.”

  She sniffled, pressing her face into the crook of his neck so that her hot, wet tears slid between them. “Of course I forgive you. I love you too much to do anything but.”

  “Marry me.” He whispered the words, tender and soft, into the hair beside her ear. “Love me. Stay with me here in England. I’ll be a good husband to you, I swear it. I’ll not leave you again as I did this morning.”

  More tears rushed to the fore.

  “Don’t cry, love.” He lifted her head from his neck and feathered soft kisses across her face to wipe away the moisture. “Just promise to marry me. I can send to the archbishop for a special license this very evening. We’ll be married tomorrow if you wish it.”

  “I’ll make you a terrible wife,” she sniffled. “Your mother despises me, and I’ll not be satisfied to sit home and embroider or host dinners or...”

  “You’ll make me an interesting wife. And my mother will learn to love you in time. She’s not a cruel woman—she just had a rather long list of eligible debutantes for me to consider, and you weren’t one of them.”

  “And what about everyone else? Your entire country will hate me because I’m French.” Not that she could cast much blame on that attitude given the way she’d hated him for being English when they’d first met.

  But Gregory merely shook his head at her, that silly grin back on his face. “People will love you when they learn of how you boldly brought the Marquess of Westerfield back from France, though I think we shall have to change your surname so your parents don’t get in trouble with the French law.”

  She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. He made staying together sound so believable. Because of their nationalities, no union between them would be without hardships, but... “I’ll still throw knives. That’s a skill I intend not to lose.”

  He squeezed her waist. “Danielle Belanger, I fell in love with you just how you are, and I want you to stay that way.”

  She swallowed thickly. “Yes. I’ll marry you. And tomorrow sounds like a perfect day for our wedding.”

  “Ah, so this is where the lovebirds are.”

  Danielle jolted away from Gregory to find Westerfield stan
ding in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the molding and a wicked smile on his lips.

  “Leave us be.” Gregory looped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her back to his side. “I was just about to kiss my lady.”

  He lowered his head until his lips hovered a hairbreadth away, but she shoved against his chest. Fiancée or not, she wasn’t about to kiss him in front of an audience.

  Westerfield’s laughter echoed across the room. “Looks like you’ve got a little wooing to do yet before you can call her ‘your lady.’”

  “Dani,” Gregory huffed, “you spent the past fortnight baring Westerfield to the waist and slathering plaster over his chest. Certainly you’re not embarrassed to kiss your betrothed in front of him.”

  She peeked at Westerfield, who started laughing at her all over again. “You’d best watch yourself, Lord Westerfield. The governor gave my knives back before I left the house of corrections.”

  Unfortunately her words only caused him to cough and then laugh harder. And Gregory, taking advantage of the distraction, turned her face back and planted his lips atop hers before she could do naught to stop the kiss.

  Not that she really wanted to stop it.

  If anything, she wanted to burrow closer to Gregory, surrounding herself with the calm strength that had fortified her through the past weeks, resting in the peace that invaded her heart whenever his arms surrounded her. She settled closer against his chest and let his mouth play over hers. Not because she loved him—which she did—but because he loved her back. All of her. Even the parts of her that threw knives and blurted things best left unsaid. Even the parts that had scared off every other suitor. Even the parts of her that no sane person ought to love.

  For some reason she’d never fully understand, Gregory Halston loved her despite her myriad faults. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew in the familiar scent of him.

  Tomorrow’s wedding seemed far away indeed.

  Epilogue

  London, England

  September 1806

  “When you grip the knife, you need to hold the blade just so. Not too tight around the hilt, but not so loosely you can’t point it accurately. Then when you throw, you—”