Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (61 page)

Unstrapping the knife from her ankle, she cut into...an onion? She'd brought his dying brother an onion?

Farnsworth frowned at the flakey brown vegetable. “Do you think that will help?”

“Nothing can hurt at this stage.” She placed the onion inside the mortar and first minced, then crushed it before adding it to the water. Then she took a head of garlic from her pouch and minced that as well.

Farnsworth pinched his nose. “That smells strong.”

“Hopefully it's strong enough to cut through whatever has contaminated Westerfield's lungs.” She put the garlic in the flask then took a scoop of an amber liquid—honey, perhaps?—and added it to the drink. “We need to let this sit for a while, but we'll make a plaster for his chest while we wait.”

She set to work on that, cracking eggs and adding flour, getting a yellowish powder from a smaller pouch and combining it to the mixture.

Gregory clamped his lips together and watched her work. Perhaps she was French. Perhaps she was a peasant. But she was also the strongest, most dedicated woman he'd ever met. As soon as Westerfield had his medicine, the two of them were going to talk things through.

Or rather, he was going to fall down on his knees and beg her to stay.

Chapter Nine

D
anielle stared down at Westerfield, bare to his waist with a yellow mustard plaster slathered atop his skin. Leaving his shirt open so the plaster could set, she covered him loosely with a blanket and rose to face Farnsworth.

“This is all I know to do. If it doesn't help, then...” She refused to speak the words, as if they'd prove true if she uttered them. Though 'twas a ridiculous notion. What good could come of garlic and onion and honey? But the apothecary's wife had given her the old remedy in lieu of other medicines or bloodletting, and at least she'd tried to save him.

“Give him as much of the onion and garlic water as he'll drink and keep the paste on his chest at all times. When you run out of either, make more. Do you have any questions?” She wiped a hand across her brow, damp with perspiration despite the chilly air.

“No, Citizen,” Farnsworth answered. “Thank you for your help.”

Citizen. She paused at the use of the word. Evidently her lectures weren't lost on all the Englishmen.

“I've things to prepare for our journey. If Serge returns, let him know I'm at the cart packing.” The wagon and old mule would never have made it back to the camp without leaving a telltale trail through the woods, but she still had some of her supplies stored in the cart—which she should probably show Halston.

As though sensing she was thinking about him, Halston jumped up from his perch on a nearby log. “Danielle, wait. Let me explain.”

“I'm done listening to your ‘explanations.'”

His jaw fell open. Likely because she was the first woman to ignore his fancy words and pleading looks. Well, he could keep that jaw open for as long as he liked. She wasn't going to listen.

Farnsworth rested a hand on her forearm. “
Merci
, Citizen Belanger. You have been most helpful, and I'm sorry to see you go.”

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 lie 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.”