Falling for the Enemy Page 10

  She laid a hand over his fingers. In some ways, she was sorry, too, but some things couldn’t be helped. “I hope your Lord Westerfield lives.”

  “And the rest of us?”

  She glanced around the campsite, still empty of Serge and Kessler. She didn’t want these Englishmen dead, non, but neither could she continue to aid people who told her lies. “I hope you make it safely to England, but you must understand...”

  He squeezed her arm. “I do. And Citizen, those words you spoke when you first agreed to journey with us—the ones about people being valuable and standing on their own merits?—I understand those, too. I think I even agree. Thank you.”

  She couldn’t help the small smile that curved the edges of her mouth. Perhaps some of her ramblings and mutterings hadn’t been futile after all. “You’re valuable, Farnsworth. Don’t let anyone tell you differently because you weren’t born to a duke or some other peer.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Adieu.” She cast a glance at Halston, still standing near the log, and blew out a little breath. Either she or Serge still needed to show someone where the cart was hidden, especially since one of the men would need to sleep with the mule and conveyance tonight. She could wait for Serge to return and have him bring Halston or Kessler where the cart was, but doing so would delay their departure.

  Taking Halston with her now was the most obvious solution, even though the man would surely bludgeon her with all the reasons she shouldn’t leave. She straightened her shoulders and took a step toward him. “I’ve hidden the cart and mule by the road. If you want to find the beast again, you’d best follow.”

  She headed away from the camp, the tromping of boots through the brush behind her indicating he followed.

  “Danielle, wait. I wish to speak with you.”

  Could the man not understand? Another conversation would only lead to more arguments—arguments she had neither the strength nor inclination to endure. She moved lithely around branches and saplings, not quite quickly enough to lose Halston altogether, but not slowly enough that he could catch her.

  “Danielle!” Her name echoed through the forest, louder this time than the last.

  Was the clod trying to get them all captured? She paused for a moment, until the dreary gray of his greatcoat flashed through the trees, then started walking again.

  “Danielle, please.”

  The cart and mule came into view, nestled in a patch of brambles near the road. She held out a handful of oats from her pocket as she approached. The old, tired animal had cost an exorbitant sum thanks to the military confiscating every reliable beast in France, but the extra money Halston had provided eventually convinced the cobbler who’d owned him to sell.

  “There, boy,” she whispered, stroking his head. “Rest easy tonight. You’ve got a big task ahead of you, taking Westerfield to the coast.”

  The gray animal nibbled the oats and then snorted.

  Footsteps sounded in the trees to her left. “Danielle, did you not hear me calling for you?”

  She pressed her fingers to her temple. “I’ve no desire to speak with you, I just brought you to show you the beast. Now that you’ve seen him, you can head back to camp.”

  “I wish to explain.” Halston moved toward her, all wide shoulders and tall body and aristocratic bearing. His tousled brown hair hung over his forehead while a handful of twigs snagged the bottom of his coat.

  “Save your words for someone who wants to hear them.”

  “Do you not wish to know why Westerfield and Kessler were imprisoned?”

  “Non.” It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t want to know, because she didn’t care about a bunch of English spies who refused to treat her fairly despite how much she’d risked to help them.

  So why did questions niggle in the back of her mind?

  Halston settled himself against the side of the cart, arms crossed and hip leaning against the wood. “They were never interred at Verdun with the rest of the British.”

  “I understand that now, very much. Merci.” She clamped her teeth down on her tongue. Hard.

  “They were in Paris when the Peace of Amiens ended. I’m sure you remember how quickly the treaty fell apart, after which Napoleon rounded up all the British visiting France.”

  “Your king declared war and captured two of our frigates first.”

  He waved his hand in the air, as though it made little difference which country had been the first to break the treaty, which had been the first to declare war and then perform the act that began it. “The point is—”

  “That your country started this war?”

  He scowled. “You know it’s not as simple as that.”

  She rubbed her hands together to ward off the encroaching cold. Perhaps it wasn’t. Napoleon certainly hadn’t abided by his terms of the treaty—not that she was about to admit France’s guilt.

  “Kessler and Westerfield attended a ball in Paris before the treaty broke. They were in the garden talking, but afterward someone accused them of overhearing...things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things that allowed them to be incarcerated as spies.”

  She stiffened. “I knew they were spies from the first.”

  And she’d been a fool for allowing herself to become tangled in their dastardly mission. But not anymore. She was washing her hands of them, bidding them good riddance and not looking—

  “They’re not spies.” Halston straightened to his full height. “They were accused of spying. There’s a difference.”

  She straightened her back, also, though any threatening effect her posture might have was likely lost on a man who towered over her. “And you expect me to believe this?”

  His eyes turned from the color of fog over the ocean to the shade of deep, dark storm clouds. “When Napoleon rounded up his British visitors two days later, my brother and Kessler were thrown into a dungeon to molder, mostly with other Frenchmen accused of thwarting your beloved Napoleon. It took nearly a year and over ten thousand pounds for me to find them.”

  Ten thousand pounds just to find his brother? Something inside her chest tightened. But then, she’d known from the beginning that Halston was loyal and determined when it came to his brother’s welfare. ’Twas the only reason she was still standing here, in his presence, instead of halfway home by now.

  But his story was utterly ludicrous. Oh, he spoke his words smoothly, looked at her with those charming eyes and entreated her to believe him, but she was neither a schoolgirl nor a fool. “So Westerfield and Kessler were imprisoned after being tried and convicted as spies, but you claim they should be free? How surprising.”

  “They weren’t tried,” he growled. “They were simply imprisoned.”

  “After going before a magistrate.”

  “No magistrate, no tribunal, no trial. An officer close to Napoleon accused them of overhearing something about the navy at Boulogne. Then they were thrown into a dungeon and left to starve.”

  She furrowed her brow. Would Napoleon truly imprison someone on a flimsy accusation? Two British peers, no less? And if so, wouldn’t England have tried to get the men back in some sort of prisoner exchange? King George held four times the number of prisoners as Napoleon. It shouldn’t be that difficult for the British government to arrange something with the French. “’Tis no secret about the navy stationed at Boulogne. Half of England knows of it, from what I understand. I can’t think why that information is enough to imprison two men.”

  Halston paced the ground before her, his shoulders tight and gait stiff. “I know I’ve given you little reason to believe me, but I swear I speak the truth. My brother and Kessler were caught in the wrong place, but they were never spies.”

  Oui. He had given her little reason to believe him. Too little. And he had every reason to li
e now, every reason to convince her Westerfield and Kessler sought not to harm her country. And yet, a part of her still believed him. Curse those beseeching, smoky-blue eyes and the honesty ringing from his voice. This man would be the death of her.

  “What prison were they in? I’ve heard there’s one in Bitche. Another in Sedan.”

  “No. Not Bitche. Not Sedan. Not anywhere near a city where people might know of them. They were held in a secret, forgotten dungeon northwest of Reims. One where the prisoners are starved of food and water. One where sickness runs rampant. ’Tis surprising Kessler’s not deathly ill along with Westerfield, to hear Kessler tell it.”

  A secret prison where men were starved? ’Twas unthinkable. Or rather, it should be unthinkable. But in some ways, the information made entirely too much sense in light of Papa’s secret work. Did Papa know of these prisons?

  Halston stopped his pacing and looked up at her. “Do you believe me?”

  She eyed him. “You lied to me before. What’s to prevent you from lying now?”

  “I didn’t lie. You assumed.”

  “I assumed?” She shoved herself away from the cart. “That’s your excuse? I assumed?”

  “I never said they were in Verdun. You supposed they were there, and I...ah, I...failed to correct you.”

  She glared up into the smooth planes of his handsome, blue-blooded face. “Exactly.”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder, gentle despite the way her body trembled with anger. “Not because I wanted to deceive you, but because I needed you, Danielle. I needed you.”

  He needed her? Needed? He had to be mistaken. People didn’t need Danielle Belanger. Quite the opposite. She was always in the way. Always doing men’s work. Always ruining the bread she attempted to bake and messing up her mending. Always underfoot. Always...

  “Danielle?”

  The sound of her name on his lips drew her gaze back to his face.

  “Is something wrong?” His hand squeezed her shoulder. “Did I say something I ought not?”

  She clamped her eyes shut lest the hotness building behind them turn into moisture and slip down her cheeks. “Non. You said nothing wrong.”

  “Then why do you cry?”

  She blinked furiously, but the rebellious tears pooled in her eyes anyway. “I’m not crying.” Because she wasn’t. She refused.

  He took her chin in his hand and raised it until their eyes met. “What did I do? Tell me. I know not.”

  She sniffled and swiped at a tear with the back of her hand. This was nonsensical. He could lie about where Westerfield and Kessler were imprisoned with little care and force her to lead them to the coast without concern, but the moment her eyes grew teary, he was suddenly undone.

  “Nothing. You did nothing. I just wish...oh, never mind.”

  * * *

  Gregory reached out and stroked a strand of hair behind her ear, her skin soft and warm. She stilled beneath his hand, her eyes on his in the dim light of the woods, her lips just a breath away from his own. He stared down at them, full and red from the bite of winter’s chill. What would kissing them feel like? Fierceness and determination, like the woman he’d first met in the woods four days past? Or tenderness and sorrow like the hurting woman standing before him now? He inched forward the slightest bit, leaning his head down another inch.

  “Stop.” She gasped and jerked back, wrapping her arms about her middle. “You can’t...we can’t...” Her face flushed a dull pink, and she swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

  He blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Had he nearly just kissed her? A peasant woman he could never pursue? And not just a peasant, but one whose country was preparing to invade his own? “I hardly think that will be possible, seeing how you’re leaving in a few minutes.”

  She looked down at her feet and then peered back up at him. “You understand why I have to leave, do you not?”

  She turned away and reached down with a trembling hand for the sack that had slipped to the ground at some point in their conversation.

  “I was rather hoping you’d still help us.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more honest from the beginning.” And he was. “I simply...I’d do anything to save my brother, and I feared you’d leave if you knew he’d been accused of spying.”

  She shoved another tress of falling hair behind her ear and sniffled. “Like I’m leaving now?”

  “A bit like that, yes.”

  “You rescued your brother and Kessler from a secret prison.” She opened another sack in the back of the cart and collected a handful of supplies. “You only need to reach the coast now. You’ll be fine without me.”

  He’d be fine without her? The trip to Saint-Quentin must have somehow addled her mind. “We won’t last a week, which I knew when I first came to France. That’s why I hired a guide. It’s not my fault he deserted us.”

  “It is if you offered to pay him a measly two-thousand guineas. The consulate has a bounty of double that on Westerfield and Kessler’s heads.”

  It did? Gregory’s tongue turned dry as sawdust. “How do you know such a thing?”

  “Handbills are posted all over Saint-Quentin. When you offered your guide that two thousand pounds, you failed to consider how valuable British spies are to our government. A couple of escapees from Verdun? Not worth so much. But men who might impart war secrets to our enemies? And especially men of the peerage? They’re valuable indeed. If Napoleon had a mind to trade Kessler and Westerfield back to England for money, King George would probably pay ten thousand pounds apiece for their safe return. When your guide betrayed you, he was likely thinking that your party was worth more money were he to catch you when you were free, especially if you already gave him part of the money promised.”

  He pressed his forefinger and thumb to the shallow indentations in his eyebrows. He had indeed paid his guide a handy sum once the man had located Westerfield and Kessler’s prison. But then, why hadn’t his guide laid a better trap? Had gendarmes meet them at the rendezvous spot once Kessler and Westerfield had been freed?

  Because there wouldn’t have been a large reward placed on their heads yet? “He probably still searches for us, then.”

  Danielle looked over her shoulder and surveyed the trees, as though scanning them for sudden danger. “Oui. And he would know the roads you planned to take, as well as where you’ve booked a boat along the channel.”

  “Berck. I have passage back to England arranged with some...er, fishermen in Berck. That’s how I first found my guide, through the fishermen’s recommendation.”

  Her eyes took on a knowing gleam. “You need not lie to me about the fishermen, Halston. I can discern the difference between a fisherman and smuggler.”

  Were his dealings that obvious? “The truth is, much of this business of getting Westerfield back to England has been unsavory. But he’s not a spy, nor does he pose any threat to your country, and since I’m to blame for his capture, I need to see him freed and returned home. But I can’t do any of that without you. None of us can hunt like you or scout out where to set camp. We don’t know the back roads to the coast or the narrow paths to follow through the woods. And if anyone spots us, if we have to talk for any reason...”

  She turned back to the wagon and picked up the bundle of clothing. “Here, take these back to the camp and make use of them. They should make your disguise more believable, provided you don’t need to say anything in French.”

  He accepted the sack and dug through a few of the items. “These are finer than what we’re wearing, and more colorful.” Blue breeches instead of the drab gray or brown. A dark red waistcoat.

  “That’s because you don’t pass for peasants, even in your rags. Your posture is too straight and your mannerisms too refined. Better to dress like members of t
he bourgeoisie.”

  She continued packing, taking things from various sacks in the back of the cart and transferring them all to the single one she held.

  “Is there nothing I can do to change your mind about leaving us?”

  “I should have never helped in the first place.” She took a bundle of salt pork from his sack and placed it in her own.

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because I wanted Westerfield to live. Because if it were my brother stranded in England, I’d hope and pray someone, anyone...” She blew out a breath and gave her head a subtle shake. “Non. I was wrong to ever help. I knew not what I risked until I entered Saint-Quentin yesterday.”

  What she risked? “Your danger is little compared to ours.”

  She dropped her sack, her hand flying through the air so quickly he hadn’t time to halt it before her palm struck his cheek. “How dare you. You think you’re the only one who risks something on this journey? You know nothing. Nothing! Of who my family is, of how we could be hurt, of the dangers that await everyone I love were Serge and I to be caught.”

  His skin smarted from the slap, and he raised his hand to cover it. “No, I rather suppose I don’t.”

  “My father’s name might not be recognizable to you, but he’s a member of Fouché’s police force. He’s been secretly reporting to the Minister of Police since the middle of the Révolution, long before Napoleon rose to power and gave Fouché his official role.”

  Gregory sank back against the cart. Her father was a member of some secret network? The same secret network that ran the prisons where Westerfield and Kessler had been? The same secret network that would have reported his brother and Kessler as spies in the first place?

  “I failed to think about the consequences of helping you at first. Perhaps I believed in the back of my mind that if Serge and I were found and accused as traitors, Papa could use his connections to free us. But then when I went into Saint-Quentin and saw the gendarmes searching the crowds and handbills advertising your disappearance, I realized the truth. If Serge and I are found out, Papa won’t be able to free us, and he’ll likely be arrested and thrown into prison. And not just him, but the rest of my family. My maman, my four little sisters, one of whom has not yet reached her first year. How do you think a babe would fare inside the prison cell that held Kessler and your brother?”