Falling for the Enemy

“What exactly did you overhear earlier, before Farnsworth found you in the shrubs?”

Before Farnsworth had found her? Something about traveling at night and being lost and a sarcastic comment that involved asking the gendarmes for directions—which was about the time she’d decided to go find a gendarmerie post herself and turn the men in.

And also happened to be about the time she’d made too much noise backing through the shrubs.

She licked her lips. “Nothing terribly significant.”

“Turn around.”

She startled again, the edge in his voice warning her not to disobey.

He crouched before her, his large, looming body so close all moisture leached from her mouth. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t...that is...I don’t...I mean...um...”

“Tell me—Dani, is it?” His gray-blue eyes flashed at her.

“Danielle,” Serge piped up. “Just the family calls her Dani.”

“Danielle.” The name sounded long and cool on his tongue, an oddity considering the way the rest of his words smoldered. “What is it you think we’re going to do to you?”

She squeezed her eye shut. Take her and Serge to England, throw them in a dungeon and leave them to starve. Or maybe he wouldn’t take them to England but kill them here in the woods and bury...

“Danielle, look at me.”

She forced her eyes open. “I know not.”

“I’m not going to harm you, merely offer you a few napoleons—a business proposition, if you will. Are you familiar with business?”

She nodded, afraid to speak an answer lest he somehow trap her with her own words. She was already quite trapped enough with the way his intense eyes refused to let hers go and the way his strong body hovered so near her own.

“Our papa lets land and farms.” Serge, evidently, didn’t feel quite so trapped. The dunce. “And he owns a share in a clothing manufactory. We know all about business.”

The man’s eyes left her gaze, only to run slowly down the rest of her hunched form. “And you’re good with a blade...know English rather well.”

“Our maman taught us the English,” Serge spoke up again, and Danielle clamped her jaw so tightly her teeth ground together. Would the boy never learn to hold his tongue? “She used to be a governess, she did, and insisted we learn it. Then there’s our aunt and uncle across the channel, so we’ve got to know English for when we go over there to visit.”

Halston’s eyebrows rose. “You have relatives on the other side of the channel?”

“Hush, Serge,” she gritted.

“And you visit them despite the war?”

Serge finally closed his mouth, but it was too late. Gregory’s calculating eyes gleamed in triumph.

The kind of triumph that could only mean her own defeat.

“You’re perfect, then. I’m in need of a guide to the channel, and you have the ability to take us there.”

Every muscle in her body turned hard as stone as she stared at the abhorrent man. Help men from the country that had killed her brother? The man had to be mad. “Do you think me a traitor? I care not how much coin you can offer. I will not aid English spies. Not now and not ever.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_3fe65faf-e374-5c11-8006-5565ef2036a3)

“Spies?” Gregory sputtered. “You think we’re spies?”

The accusation was laughable, really, if it didn’t carry such deadly implications should they be caught and imprisoned as such. “Last I checked, English spies don’t get themselves lost or need maps. English spies speak flawless French, and if you met an English spy on the street, you’d never know.”

The color that had suffused the woman’s cheeks just moments before drained away, and her jaw fell open for the slightest of instants before she hardened it again. “You’re still Englishmen. In my country. In the middle of a war. You can have no honest reason for being here, or you would not dread being spotted by the gendarmes. Do you expect me to take your guineas or napoleons or whatever other coins you offer and let you continue on your way to the channel with no objection?”

He sent a gaze toward the heavens. “No. I want you to help us get to the channel.”

She turned her back to him.

“I’ll pay you well. I’ve only a few guineas now, but I can promise two thousand pounds sterling if you see us safely to the coast.”

The woman still didn’t deign to face him. “I told you once. I don’t want your filthy English money.”

Heat surged up the back of his neck. “My money is far from filthy.”

“Dani, don’t be a fool.” The youth nudged his sister. At least one of them had a fraction of sense. “Just think of it. Two thousand pounds is enough to buy up more of the clothing manufactory. Why, you could start your own factory for that sum.”

She swiped a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t want to start my own factory. I just want to go home.”

A large, uncomfortable lump settled inside Gregory’s stomach. Yet another thing he’d never learned at Eton or Cambridge: How to hold people hostage and drag them across half a country against their will. But the woman knew too much for him to allow a different course of action. “You and your brother are coming with us to the coast. You can either aid us with our journey and be paid in turn, or you can fight us—in which case you’ll be restrained and towed along. But either way, if you’re caught with our party, your fate will be the same as ours.”

Danielle looked out over the tangle of shrubs that circled them, then to the larger trees in the forest beyond. Planning her escape, most likely. She could handle a blade well, but she would make a poor spy. Every thought and plan flitted across her expressive blue eyes a half instant before she acted.

She sighed. “If you’re in northern France headed toward the coast, I suppose you escaped from Verdun.”

He watched her with the same hard gaze he would use on anyone he distrusted. And in the selfsame manner, he held his tongue. Let her think they’d come from Verdun, where Napoleon had interred all the English he’d rounded up after the peace treaty failed. Yes, that was the most reasonable assumption, and if Westerfield and Kessler had been interred there instead of imprisoned in a forgotten fortress, they’d likely be following this very path back to the channel.

But then, had Westerfield and Kessler been in Verdun, he’d have known their whereabouts long ago and been able to send Westerfield money to procure apartments and buy wares, set Westerfield up with a household and purchase new clothes. From the reports Gregory had heard, Verdun functioned as any normal British city would, with people attending the theater as well as gaming halls, making calls and going about everyday business. The only difference was the English weren’t allowed outside the city’s impenetrable walls.

But Westerfield and Kessler hadn’t been imprisoned in a place where they could get sunshine and a decent meal, much less the other trappings of ordinary life, not with the crimes they’d been accused of committing. Oh, no. They’d been held in one of Napoleon’s secret prisons, instead, deprived of the most basic comforts, and Westerfield had fallen deathly ill because of it.

Danielle already suspected them of being spies. If she knew the whole of it, she’d never agree to help. “Think about whether you’ll aid or hinder us. But know this, I won’t let you escape again as easily as last time.”

Gregory stood and moved to the other side of the fire, keeping one eye on her. She’d promised she wouldn’t run.

If only he believed her.

Kessler wrinkled his nose as he ate a bite of salt pork, watching Danielle and her brother the way a hawk did a field mouse while Farnsworth tried coaxing tea down Westerfield’s throat. His brother only coughed in response, and a thin stream of liquid trailed down his chin to dampen the blankets beneath his head. Gregory turned away, his jaw working back and forth. Could nothing go as planned?

He was a man of business. He made his living off predictions and plans. He predicted the Exchange, rates on interest, returns on investments and likelihood of growth for various industries. He also predicted people. His father would never invest in a shipyard—too risky given that ships would be lost during the war. Yet shipping could offer a great return on investments, and a man like Kessler would have no trouble putting money toward such a venture.

When he’d come to France, it hadn’t been on a whim. He’d had a plan, which was why he’d hired a guide, purchased coarse French clothing and carried both guineas and napoleons on his person. Yet he’d still ended up here, dependent on two French strangers for the safety of himself, his servant, his brother and Kessler.

Father God, am I doing something wrong? Please save my brother and get us safely to England.