Читать книгу Falling for the Enemy - Naomi Rawlings - Страница 12

Chapter Three

“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.

“Can I have some?” Serge came around the side of the small fire, his eyes locked on the salt pork sitting beside Kessler. “I didn’t get supper.”

At least the young man wouldn’t choose to starve—unlike his stubborn sister.

Kessler thrust a piece at him. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Serge.” The youth settled beside Kessler, scarfed down his pork in three bites and reached for another piece.

Gregory sat on the soft earth between his brother and Kessler and took some meat for himself. Danielle merely glowered at them from across the fire, arms crossed and back rigid. Good. For some unfathomable reason, he preferred that rigid silhouette to the sight of her hunched over, arms wrapped around herself and eyes blinking as she pleaded for him not to tie her.

“Serge what?” Kessler took another piece of salt pork. “Have you a surname?”

“Serge Belanger.”

“Belanger?” Gregory set his salt pork aside. “And you say you have relatives in England?”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “Oui, an aunt and an uncle that moved there during the Terror.”

“Are you by chance related to Michel and Isabelle Belanger? They live near Hastings and have a furniture factory.”

The boy stopped chewing. “How do you know Oncle Michel and Tante Isabelle?”

Gregory ran his eyes over the lad. He didn’t look at all similar to Michel Belanger, but why would he lie about such a thing? “I’m Belanger’s man of business.”

Much to his mother’s dismay. She’d wanted him to join the church, but his brother and the other noblemen whose accounts he handled certainly didn’t complain about the money he made them. And if he happened to take on a client or two from the merchant class in exchange for a certain percentage of the money made on their investments, then so be it.

The boy’s nose scrunched. “What’s that?”

“I manage his investments.” He glanced at Danielle across the fire. Was she surprised he knew her aunt and uncle?

The stubborn woman’s jaw was still set and her body angled away from him.

“Man of business.” Serge rolled the words over his tongue. “Sounds like some fancy English farce of a position that no one needs.”

Kessler smirked. “Halston probably makes more money in one day than your father does in a year.”

Gregory rolled his shoulders. He was a bit adept at making money, yes. So much of it, at least, that whatever he spent on clothes or conveyances or housing, he easily made up and then some within the month. Which was why he allotted a large chunk to the Hastings Orphanage and a series of foundling hospitals and poorhouses in other areas of England.

“You don’t look all that rich.” Serge eyed Gregory.

Kessler laughed, the first time the man had likely smiled in two years. “Yes, Halston, why don’t you look rich?”

Gregory rubbed the back of his neck. “I usually don’t traipse about the French countryside disguised as a peasant and trying to evade the law.”

“You’re disguised as a peasant?” The boy’s nose wrinkled again. “With boots as fine as that but unmended holes in your trousers? Being rich sure don’t give you much sense, does it?”

“What, precisely, is wrong with my garments?”

“No peasant would let those holes in their trousers without sewing them up right quick—they need their clothes to last, not fall apart. No peasant would spend the money for boots like that, and no peasant would stand as straight as you do.”

Gregory stared down at his boots. Did they truly give him away? He’d wanted sturdy leather ones that wouldn’t pain his feet while walking. Who could fault him for that? His first guide certainly hadn’t objected when he’d chosen his disguise.

Then again, his first guide had probably intended to betray him all along.

“From where do you hail?” Kessler asked Serge.

Gregory blinked and looked back at the boy. He probably should have asked that before demanding that Danielle and Serge take them to the coast. If this was their first time traveling inland, would they make competent enough guides? Knowing English and having family across the channel didn’t exactly mean the woman and her brother could effectively lead them.

Though the woman’s skill with a knife would certainly be useful.

“Abbeville,” the boy stated.

Kessler merely stared.

“It’s near the coast. Just inland a bit from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Do you know Saint-Valery?”

“I do,” Gregory answered. “It’s somewhat across the channel from Hastings.” Which made the boy and his sister perfect guides for his purposes. They were likely familiar with the roads and terrain between here and the channel and could guide them with far less risk of getting caught than Gregory and the others could ever manage on their own. And he needed that, since the prison guards would have already notified cities, towns and gendarmerie posts of their escape.

Serge reached for more salt pork—what had to be his fifth or sixth piece of the leathery meat—but Kessler clamped down on his hand. “If you’re from the coast, what are you doing so far inland?”

“We were in Reims visiting our tante and oncle and trying to find a husband for Dani.” The boy scowled at his sister. “No one wants her, though.”

Gregory had been taking a sip of water and choked at the boy’s words. No Frenchman wanted her? He glanced at Serge’s silent sister through the smoke of the small flames. What was wrong with the men of this country? Could they not see the crystalline color of her eyes or the smooth, pale skin of her face? The riotous black waves that fell about her shoulders?

No, her hair would have been up. The men wouldn’t have known how magnificent it looked free. But even so, the rest of her was enough to bend any man’s mind toward marriage, wasn’t it?

Well, maybe not if she decided to hold a knife to her suitors’ necks.

“Stow it, Serge.” Warning dripped from Danielle’s voice.

The boy shrugged. “What? They asked. I’m just being honest.”

“Then stop talking all together. Why are you volunteering information to these strangers? Your mouth is what got us into trouble in the first place, Mr. I’m-going-to-forget-I-have-a-brain-and-speak-English-when-I-should-be-speaking-French.”

“On the contrary,” Westerfield’s weak voice filled the air behind them. “I believe his excellent English quite proves his possession of said brain.”

The youth laughed at that, his face alight with pride. “See that, Dani? He thinks my brain is just fine.”

“Though I question the intelligence of any Frenchman who doesn’t want your sister.” Kessler watched Danielle with a predatory glint to his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gregory muttered.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Kessler answered airily.

But Kessler had already had thought of it—and done it—in England, and his gaze said he’d thought of such with Danielle just now.

She glanced between the two of them, as though sensing the tension. Then again, a deaf, blind mute could likely sense the tension between him and Kessler.

Serge, however, stuffed another piece of salt pork in his mouth and spoke around it. “Well, some of the men might want Dani if she tried being nice. She stomped on one landowner’s toe and then slapped him, and he was the richest of the lot of them.”

Danielle threw up her hands. “He tried to...” But she suddenly clamped her mouth shut, color flooding her cheeks. “Never mind. Just keep quiet, Serge.”

“On the contrary, I’m rather curious now that you’ve brought it up.” Kessler’s harsh voice floated over the campsite. “What precisely did this Frenchman attempt, Danielle?”

She hardened her jaw.

“Enough.” Gregory stood. So Danielle was beautiful, any man could see that. But she didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of—especially by someone like Kessler. “Kessler, go to the stream and get more water. Westerfield might need some in the night.”

Kessler’s eyebrows shot up. “You expect me to haul water? Have Farnsworth do it.”

Gregory glanced at Farnsworth, sitting near the fire and stuffing salt pork into his mouth as greedily as Serge. “Farnsworth is about to unroll the bedding.”

His valet shot up and rushed to the pile of blankets, still chewing awkwardly.

“But if you’re too cowardly to walk to the stream by yourself,” Gregory continued, “I’m sure Serge will accompany you.”

“That’s hardly necessary.” Kessler pushed stiffly to his feet, grabbed the one small bucket they had and stalked off into the darkness.

Gregory watched the other man go, and not a moment too soon. Did he think he could take advantage of—

“Don’t.” Westerfield’s voice drew Gregory’s attention away. “Those thoughts won’t do you any good now.”

He approached his brother and kneeled, speaking low enough the others couldn’t hear. “How can I not think of what happened at times like this? When he looks at Danielle as though he would devour her?”

“Put it behind you.”

How could he, when dreams of Suzanna’s tearstained face still came to him in the darkest hours of the night? He could picture the scene in his mind as clearly as though it was happening this very moment. Coming in from a late night in the village, he’d found Suzanna in the stable, her dress undone and her crumpled form sobbing into the hay.

So he’d called Kessler out, and Kessler had injured him in the duel. When infection claimed his leg, his father had been so furious, he’d sworn retribution on Kessler, and Kessler had fled to France. The sordid tale might have ended there were it not for Westerfield. Why his brother would up and leave England to find Kessler, Gregory would never understand. But leave England Westerfield had, only to end up disappearing after the peace treaty failed.

“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.

’Twas probably the reason no decent man wished to wed her. Who wanted to be bound for life to a woman who always created trouble?

Like tonight, she should have agreed to guide Halston and his friends. Why had she not thought it through first? She could have guided them straight to a gendarmerie post and no one would have been the wiser until it was too late. Instead, she’d proudly defied them.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she just pretended to be a simple girl from the provinces, eager to do anything for a bit of coin?

Maybe because she was neither simple nor willing to do anything for coin. Her parents had instilled principles into her far too well. Plus, she was a terrible liar and likely would have given herself away.

Even so, no one had ever warned her having principles and staying fixed on doing what was right could lead her here. To being tied up while a bunch of Englishmen milled around. To being forced into acting as a guide when she should be running through the woods toward a gendarmerie post.

“Don’t cry, Dani.” Serge plopped down beside her, chewing yet another piece of salt pork as he faced her on the blankets. “Everything will be all right.”

“Easy for you to say...” She pressed her eyes shut. How could she even look at her brother while she lay trussed up like some animal? “You’re not the one being made into a spectacle.”

He sighed, long and heavy. “Dani, if you don’t want to be a spectacle, then don’t act like one.”

“I wasn’t trying...oh, forget it.” She moistened her parched lips and glanced at Kessler and Halston sitting beside the sickbed arguing over something or other. “At least they didn’t tie you, too. That should make our escape easy enough.”

Serge cast a quick glance toward the darkened woods. “Figured we’d wait until everyone was asleep, and then I’d untie you.”

Untie her. Like she was some captive animal rather than a person. A fresh wave of humiliation welled inside her chest. “Lie down here and get some sleep. The sooner we go to bed, the sooner everyone else will.”

Serge scrambled down onto the blankets beside her. “Are you going to pretend sleep? If we both truly sleep, we might miss our chance.”

She winced as rope bit into her wrists. Of course, if she stopped trying to loosen her bindings, they probably wouldn’t bite so much. Serge would be freeing her in a few hours, so she could stop struggling and simply wait. But truly, how was she to sit docilely and not attempt to loosen the ropes even a little?

“Danielle?” Serge blinked up at her. “Are you going to stay awake, then?”

“Don’t worry, even if I doze off, I won’t be able to sleep long with these ropes cutting into my skin.”

His eyes turned soft as he watched her. “I’m sorry, Dani. Really, I am. The Englishmen seemed nice enough, and they’ve got that sick man on the other side of the fire. I didn’t think they’d hurt us.”

“Of course they’ll hurt us. Have you forgotten we’re at war with them?”

“But they’re people just the same. And if one of us was sick and needed help, I’d like to think...” His words trailed off as another grotesque cough filled the air.

“That doesn’t mean we need to be nice to them,” she snapped. “Or that they need to be nice to us. Now lie down and sleep. You’ll need all your strength if you’re going to keep up with me tonight.”

“All right.” He rolled over, presenting his back to her as he snuggled in for slumber.

On the other side of the fire, Halston pushed his tall form up from where he sat and approached. In his hands he held a blanket torn into strips and then knotted together formed a makeshift rope. Were they planning to gag her as well?

“Non.” Danielle scooted herself back on the pallet as best she could with both her hands and feet tied.

“It’s not for you but your brother.”

“For me?” Serge pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“You can’t tie him. He hasn’t—” She clamped her mouth shut. She was going to give their escape plan away if she panicked again.

Halston quirked an arrogant, dark eyebrow at her. “You were saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Put your hands behind your back, Serge,” he commanded.

Her brother’s gaze shot fiery little arrows toward the Englishman. “I didn’t do anything.”

“It’s whether you plan to do anything once the rest of us are asleep that I question.”

“So you’re going to tie me with a blanket?” he scoffed.

“We’re out of rope. It will have to do.”

And with those words, the man knelt down to tie her brother, cutting off their best chance at escape.