Naomi Rawlings - Falling for the Enemy

“Careful, Halston, you don’t know the full of it,” Westerfield rasped.

No, he clearly didn’t, because Westerfield’s decision to come to France and bring Kessler home still made no sense. But one thing was clear: were it not for the duel, Westerfield wouldn’t be gravely ill, and the rest of them wouldn’t be stuck in a country they were at war with.

Then again, other parts of the story were as clear as water on a cold winter morning. “When you’re a guest in someone’s home, you shouldn’t make free use of the serving girls. That isn’t difficult to understand.”

Never mind that it was a common enough practice among the ton. Never mind that Kessler’s own father never would have taught him otherwise—had probably been the leading example, in fact.

Wrong was still wrong, and it shouldn’t take a vicar pointing his bony finger at Kessler to sear the man’s conscience.

And listen to him, waxing moral. Perhaps he should have joined the church, as Mother had wanted, rather than become a man of business.

But then he wouldn’t have those two thousand pounds to pay the Belanger siblings for taking his party to the coast. Nor would he have the funds he contributed to the Hastings Orphanage or the foundling hospitals.

And he probably wouldn’t have known about Suzanna because he would have been seeing to his parish in some far-off village instead of staying at his family’s country home for a visit.

He didn’t regret what he’d done.

Which only proved to nearly everyone he knew that he’d gone mad at some point since he’d graduated from Cambridge, because titled members of the ton didn’t call out future earls over a serving girl. A duel could be fought over a lady, certainly, but never a servant.

Westerfield coughed again, his hacking more violent this time.

Gregory touched his forehead. “You’re getting worse.”

“I’m f-f-fine,” Westerfield stammered through a sickening wheeze.

But he wasn’t fine. His skin was hot and clammy, and his once-strong body lay pale and emaciated. “I’ll go for a physician if you but give the word.”

And he would. It mattered not how many napoleons or guineas he’d have to use to buy the physician’s silence. His brother needed to live.

“The cough isn’t so bad, really.” But Westerfield couldn’t even speak the words without letting loose a smaller cough.

Something rustled by the fire, and Gregory turned to find Serge sitting back beside his sister. Farnsworth had busied himself making up pallets to sleep upon, and Kessler had returned. He set down his pail of water and approached the Belanger siblings, a length of rope in his hand.

Not again. Gregory pushed wearily to his feet.

“Be kind,” Westerfield warned.

Why should he? Hadn’t he told the man to leave Danielle be? Not that Kessler would ever deign to listen to a mere third son when he was a future earl.

Kessler crossed his arms and waited for him. “We can’t have her escaping in the night.”

“She’s not some slave to be bound at your whim.”

Danielle scooted closer to the trees while Serge’s wide-eyed gaze moved from him to Kessler and back.

Kessler held up the rope. “She’ll escape by morning if you don’t tie her, and we’ll likely awaken to gendarmes and bayonet tips.”

“She promised not to run.”

“And you’re risking our capture on the word of a woman who held a knife to your valet’s throat and pretended not to speak English?”

“The knife to my throat was rather uncalled-for, if I can say so,” Farnsworth spoke from where he unrolled the final blanket for his own bed.

“Don’t tie my sister, please,” Serge’s pleading eyes sought Gregory rather than Kessler. A smart boy, that Serge Belanger.

Gregory heaved a sigh. Kessler was right—much as he hated to admit it. Perhaps she would keep her word, but she was also the sort to use her wits and cunning to seek any loophole she could find. Danielle had promised she wouldn’t run, but she’d never said for how long. She was likely just waiting for night to fall and everyone else to sleep. If he didn’t tie the woman, they’d be rotting in prison cells come tomorrow evening.

“Fine, but let me do it.” He jerked the rope away from Kessler.

“ Non ! You can’t.” Tears flooded the boy’s eyes. “She’ll promise to be good and not escape, won’t you, Dani? She doesn’t deserve it, I swear.”

Gregory wouldn’t say she didn’t deserve it—his cheek still throbbed where she’d scratched him—but he’d no desire to humiliate the woman, either. This wasn’t about what she deserved—it was about protecting himself and his brother.

“Do you need me to hold her?” Farnsworth approached while Kessler stalked around the fire to his pallet.

“Please don’t.” Danielle looked up, her blue eyes entreating him in the firelight.

This would be easier if she screamed or attempted to run. Instead she sat too still, like one of his sister’s dolls propped on a shelf.

He paused, and Westerfield coughed again from where he lay. As beautiful and earnest as she might seem, he couldn’t risk his brother, risk them all, based on the word of a woman who’d already proved herself untrustworthy.

He knelt behind her. “Put your hands behind your back.”

She kept her fists anchored firmly by her sides and looked away but couldn’t hide the slight tremble in her jaw.

He tugged her hands behind her back, her skin far too soft for one who seemed so fierce.

Blast! He was letting her charms play tricks on his mind. So she was beautiful. He’d seen many a beautiful woman before, all dressed in finer clothes than Danielle Belanger, with jewels dangling from their necks and fingers and coiffures. Simpering, delicate creatures who wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the woods, let alone know how to use a knife or attempt to escape a band of strange men.

But Danielle didn’t fight him now. She didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him as he began to tie.

Why wasn’t she begging, pleading, attempting to struggle?

A faint bead of moisture slipped down her cheek to glisten in the firelight, and she sucked in a long, quivering breath. Perfect. Instead of fighting him like the woman two hours ago would have done, she now struggled against tears.

Yet another thing Eton and Cambridge hadn’t taught him. How to tie up a captive woman so she couldn’t escape. Or what to do with one when she cried.

Useless schools, the both of them.

He tightened the knot as much as he dared against her tender wrists, then stood, tossing another length of rope to Serge. “Tie your sister’s ankles.”

“Non.” Hatred radiated from the boy’s eyes.

“Either you tie her legs, or I will. But in the end, her ankles will still be bound.”

Serge reached for the remainder of rope, and Gregory dug the heel of his boot into the dirt as he watched. He was making a muck of everything. Serge hadn’t despised him until now. Sure, Danielle had wanted naught to do with them from the first, but the boy had been much more amicable, helpful even.

Gregory couldn’t let them escape and call in gendarmes, yet neither could they travel to the coast with two guides who hated them. He had to find some way to make amends and change their minds about helping, or this was going to be the longest, most miserable journey in the history of Europe.

But how exactly could he convince a humiliated woman and her angry brother to help him? Somehow, he didn’t think a nice little apology was going to repair things.

* * *

Danielle lay back on her makeshift pallet, her hands bound behind her back and her ankles tied tightly together while hot tears of mortification welled behind her eyes. She had no one to blame but herself for this situation, she supposed. She was too rash, always too rash. Papa and Maman had told her so numerous times over the years, but what did she do over and over again? Run headlong into a situation, waiting until she had herself well and truly tangled before she stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, she should have slowed down enough to mull things over before she’d acted.