Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (71 page)

“Will you spend a few days with your aunt?”

Her aunt. Something shattered inside her, that fragile band of hope that had clung relentlessly to the last shreds of her dreams. Gregory wanted to speak of her relatives. Not of her. Not of saying goodbye or professing his love.

She cleared her throat and spoke over the roughness that coated the inside of her mouth. “No. Julien says we'll sail on the evening tide.”

“Halston, are you coming?” Kessler called over his shoulder as he and the others began the steep ascent up the hill bordering the coast.

Gregory reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I've business to attend—namely retrieving your money—but I'll return this afternoon to say goodbye.”

“Don't.” The word shot from her lips before she could think to stop it.

“I beg your pardon?”

She took a step back, her eyes suspiciously hot and wet. Oh, why had she not heeded her father's advice and made her farewells in France? “Send Farnsworth or another of your servants with the money later and say goodbye now. There's no use in prolonging this.”

“But...”

She held up a hand. “We've been coming to this moment since the time we first met, no matter how many kisses or looks we've shared along the way. So let's be done. Farewell, Lord Halston.”

She gave him a little curtsy. Polite, proper and a completely appropriate gesture for a peasant to make before a lord.

“You got yourself shot for me.”

Her hands quivered, and she fisted them at her sides.

“
Oui
, and I'd do so again...because...because...” The words clogged in her throat. But if she didn't tell him now, when would she? It wasn't as though he'd be around for her to feel embarrassed once she spoke.

She sucked in a deep breath. “I'd take another ten musket balls for you, Gregory Halston, because I love you.”

* * *

Something hard slammed into Gregory's chest. “You can't love me.”

Of all the insensible things for her to do, did she not know better than to—

“I know.” She flung her hands wide as though angry. With him? Why would she be angry with him? He wasn't the fool who'd gone and...and...

No, the words didn't bear thinking. He reached out and took her shoulders. “You're French. And a peasant. There can be no future for us.”

She jerked away from his hold. “You think I don't understand such things? This is why I refuse to see you later. Go back to your family and marry—” she waved her hand absently in the air, her movements tight and jerky “—whoever it is you're supposed to marry. Some gentlewoman who dresses in silks and has one of those pretty little parasols to shield her complexion from the sun.”

“It's not like that.”

“Isn't it? Your mother probably has an entire list of perfect little wives already picked out. Women who don't know how to throw knives or sneak Englishmen past French soldiers. Women who don't know the ways of smugglers let alone have them in their family lineage. Go marry one of them.”

He fully intended to.

Except he didn't want to marry anyone from his mother's confounded list. He wanted to marry the woman in front of him.

No. Why was he thinking such thoughts again? He couldn't entertain them, not now and not ever. Too much was at stake.

“Go now, Lord Halston, and don't come back. Send a servant with my money later.” Danielle's shoulders slumped, and she stared down at her feet, her eyelashes fluttering furiously. Where was her defiance? The bite underlying her words, or the stubborn set to her chin? Where was the flash in her eyes and icy stiffness in her spine?

He was destroying her, his presence slowly leaching her energy. She was right, he had to walk away. Now. Before he made an even bigger mess of everything.

And he would, except...

He pulled her into his arms. “I don't want to lose you, either.” He needed this one last embrace, the feel of her body close to his, the scent of sunshine and woods and Danielle Belanger winding about him, the tender look in those wide blue eyes.

He lowered his lips to hers, tangy with the taste of the sea. She stilled but didn't jerk away as he'd half expected. So he pulled her closer, as though if he held on to her tightly enough, he might not lose her. If only kissing her could melt away their struggles and hardships. Could somehow abolish the difference between peasant and aristocrat, English and French. Could eradicate the war that raged between their countries and the prejudice that divided their countrymen.

“Ahem.”

Gregory raised his head, breaking his lips from Danielle's.

“We're waiting.” Kessler gestured to Westerfield and Farnsworth, standing partway up the hill as they watched him and Danielle. Gregory's gaze skittered over the beach, where Julien also stood watching, arms crossed and face dark.

Yet, even with everyone looking on, his arms refused to release Danielle.

She pressed her face into the curve of his neck. “
Adieu
, Gregory. I shall remember you forever.” Then she took his forearms gently in her hands and unwrapped them from about her.

All he could do was stand and watch as she headed to her brother, her back straight and stride long.

A bony hand landed on his shoulder, its grip far stronger than when he'd first rescued Kessler nearly three weeks prior. “She's an admirable woman, Halston. Even I can see that. But you're doing the right thing by leaving.”

“Yes, quite,” he muttered.

Except, as he turned to tread up the slope, his actions didn't feel right.

Chapter Twenty

“E
asy on the sails, Danielle. I don't want to have to mend them before we return tonight.”

Danielle scowled at her brother but stepped back from the mast, leaving him to deal with the aft sail. So perhaps her movements were a little jerky as she handled the thick fabric, but at least she was busying herself rather than standing on the beach watching Gregory walk up the hill like some lovesick dunce.

He was leaving her. Fine. Best to get on with her duties.

“You should have never fallen in love with him,” Julien spoke from the other side of the boat.

She slammed her hand down on the gunwale and glared. “I didn't do it a'purpose!”

He snorted.

“Just you wait. One day love will strike you, and you'll be just as heartsick as I.”

“Love doesn't strike a cripple,” he spit.

Her gaze drifted down to his left leg, the injury from the war invisible beneath his trousers. “You're not crippled, you merely have a limp.”

He didn't even bother to look at her.

“Besides it's not as though you can pick when you fall in love.”

Julien leaned over the gunwale and glared. “There's where you're wrong. Because if I happened upon some rich, beautiful heiress along the British coast, I'd have no trouble returning her to safety rather than falling in love with her.”

The arrogant lout. His words came easily, but in truth, he hadn't any idea what he would do in her situation. “What if you had to care for her for three weeks before you could return her home? What if she looked at you with eyes the color of the foggy sea and admired you despite your limp and kissed you as though...”

She looked up at the top of the hill where the break in the brown winter grass indicated the path Gregory had trod.

He wasn't standing there looking back at her. Of course he wasn't. He had to take Westerfield home and assure his family of everyone's safety, collect her money and find a servant to deliver it. He didn't have time or reason to stand atop the hill watching her, especially not when they'd already said their goodbyes.

A sob welled in her chest. She wrapped one arm about her middle and pressed her fist to her mouth.

“Aw, Dani. I didn't mean it like that.” Julien came around the boat and settled an arm about her shoulder. “You'll be fine. Some French
garçon
will take a fancy to you here soon, and you—”

“There's no French
garçon
for me.” She smeared a tear across her cheek. “I've spent five years looking for one. None of them ever understood me or valued me. None of them ever cared for me like Gregory.”

“He doesn't care for you, Dani, not truly. If he did, he'd not have let you go today.”

“He does.” He had to care for her, had to love her. Had to feel something inside his heart for her. “But he can't marry me.”

Julien's grip tightened about her shoulder. “He's a lord. He can do whatever he wants. He just doesn't care for you enough to make the sacrifices marrying you would require.”

The sob came then, loud and unhindered. Julien spoke truth. She'd known it since she first realized she loved Gregory. Since before then. Since he'd followed her that night and held her on the rock while they'd listened to the river rushing past. If Gregory wanted to marry her badly enough, he could find a way. He simply didn't want to.

Tears streamed down her face while another sob racked her body. Julien pressed her face into his shoulder, similar to how she'd stood with Gregory not a quarter hour ago. Except Julien smelled of the sea rather than the land, and he didn't hold himself so rigidly proper. And his comfort couldn't begin to fill the gaping hole inside her.

“'Twas right strong of you to tell Halston to leave as you did. Not many a woman could manage that.” Julien smoothed her hair down her back. “You wouldn't be happy with a man such as him, not for long. You deserve someone who will fight for you, not run when things get difficult.” He patted her back and pushed her gently away. “There now, go on into the cave and lay down. You'll feel better after some sleep.”

She nodded numbly and stumbled off toward the cave. Pulling the blankets into a tangle around her, she lay down, but sleep didn't help. She couldn't even close her eyes without her mind filling with memories of Gregory sitting atop the rock, coaxing Clyde into moving or learning to impale a rabbit on a spit for roasting. And when sleep finally claimed her, the dreams only worsened. She woke to find Julien lying beside her asleep, the boat pulled up into the opening of the cave so no one would find it.

She stood, and her stomach twisted with hunger while her eyes blurred with another bout of tears. She felt in her pocket for some of the English coin Julien had given her and then left the cave to start up the hill. A quick trip into town should yield not only meat pies but also a distraction.

Because she desperately needed something to take her mind off Gregory Halston.

* * *

She loved him. Gregory dug his heels into his mount, urging the beast faster over the road as if doing so would leave his troubled thoughts behind. He had other things to be doing, like getting money for Danielle and Julien, visiting with his mother and sister to rehash the events of the past two months in France, seeing to the myriad matters of business that had surely piled up in his absence and making arrangements to leave for London on the morrow.

Yet here he was, having been home for less than a quarter hour before calling for a mount and racing across the countryside to the home of Michel and Isabelle Belanger.

He had to see Lady Isabelle for himself. Because if a duke's daughter could be happy married to a peasant, then why not a marquess's son?

No. It was too much to hope for, too much to think of. There would be no happiness for him if he married Danielle and stayed in England.

But how could he find happiness and contentment in his life without Danielle?

There's no difference between servant and master, peasant and lord, at least not to God.
Danielle's voice came back to him, proud and defiant as she'd flung the words at Kessler.

He had to see Isabelle Belanger. Had to hear from her own lips whether she minded the sacrifices she'd made so that she could marry the man she loved.

It seemed half of England had known Lady Isabelle's parents, the Duc and Duchesse de La Rouchecauld. When she'd arrived from England a decade ago, having been the only member of her immediate family to escape the peasant revolts and the Terror of the French Revolution, the entire ton had been shocked to learn she'd married a peasant. Even destitute and just off the boat from France, Isabelle de La Rouchecauld could have chosen from any number of suitors looking to marry into one of the most powerful and ancient families of France.

He'd been at Cambridge at the time but remembered coming home on holiday to hear his mother fuming about the way the horrid revolution in France had destroyed the House of La Rouchecauld and convinced their only living daughter to wed a peasant. Even worse, the Belangers had decided to settle near Hastings. “Practically on our doorstep,” as Mother had put it, her tone full of disgust.

In those days, no one in England had known of Michel Belanger's talent for furniture making or his mind for business. A decade later, the man's wooden masterpieces were the most coveted in the country, but he was still in trade—a vulgar thing as far as his mother and the rest of the ton were concerned.

Gregory turned his horse up the twisting drive that led to the Belanger estate. It wasn't nearly as large as his own family's lands, but just as impressive given the wealth had been earned rather than inherited. He swung off his horse in front of the modest country home and charged up the stairs.

When the door opened, he presented his card.

The footman raised an eyebrow but showed him to the parlor before slipping silently from the room.

Midmorning sun poured through east-facing windows that overlooked brown winter grass, bare trees and a small pond. The landscape was simple and yet elegant, just as the room he stood in was decorated with stylish but not ornate furniture and drapes. Gregory paced the room from one side to the other. Belanger could well afford a more expensively appointed room and lavish grounds, but then, perhaps his conservativeness with his funds was part of the reason he had so many.

The door opened and a woman entered inside. She needed no introduction. The perfectly straight way she held her back, the relaxed yet regal slant to her shoulders, the slight tilt to her chin—she'd undoubtedly been raised as the daughter of a duke.

Her beauty was the stuff of legends, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, a complexion like the finest porcelain, and hair so dark it reflected the light from the window. He'd thought Danielle was beautiful, and she was, but compared to this woman, Danielle's beauty looked like a wild-grown iris while Isabelle Belanger was the finest, most cultured rose. Her gown might not be made of the most expensive fabric money could buy, but with looks such as hers, she hardly needed yards of exquisite silk.

Which was likely why the ton had been so aghast when she'd escaped from France married to a commoner. Had she been fat and sour faced, no one of consequence would have cared a whit.

“Hello.” She offered a formal curtsy. “I'm Mrs. Isabelle Belanger. I believe you're an acquaintance of my husband?”

“I am his man of business, yes.”

“I have sent James to notify him of your arrival. He should be with us shortly.”

“I came to see you.”

She tilted her head slightly, the gesture both polished and stately. “So I was informed. Whatever for?”

Indeed. He rubbed the back of his neck. Here he'd raced all the way across Hastings to meet with this woman, and suddenly his brain couldn't seem to unscramble his tangle of thoughts. So he started with the most basic words he could manage. “I met your niece Danielle in France.”

* * *

Stray pebbles skittered beneath Danielle's feet as she wound her way down the hillside to the beach. She blinked into the overly bright winter sun and tucked the extra meat pies she'd purchased under her arm. The English might not make
soupe à l'oignon
,
saumon fumé
, or
moules à la crème
, but their meat pies were among the best.

“Julien,” she called, stepping into the alcove. She'd dallied rather long in town, looking into storefronts and stopping by the confectionary. Her brother should have long been awake, but he didn't appear in the entrance to the cave.

“Julien,” she called again, then stilled. Where was the boat? Had her brother pulled it farther inside? By himself?

Her pulse thrumming against her neck, she bent to place her meat pies on the ground and retrieve her knife from her ankle. Her fingers touched the cool leather of the hilt as the cock of a pistol resonated through the air.

“Move and I'll kill you.”

She looked up into the austere faces of two men. Two unmistakably British men.

The man with the gun moved forward. “I told you there'd be more than one.”

More than one? Did that mean they'd already found Julien?
Please, God, let him have escaped.

But the prayer seemed futile. Her heart knew the answer before her mind formed the words. They must have captured Julien and the boat.

Her fingers hovered only a hand's span away from her knife. Unfortunately the dark-eyed man with the pistol kept his gaze riveted to her hand. If she attempted to grab the knife and throw it at his neck, he'd have a musket ball lodged in her head before the knife ever left her hand—and that would still leave the second man to contend with.

“Stand, wench. And slowly.”

She carefully rose to her feet. “I didn't do anything.”

The man smirked. “You're here, aren't you? That's enough.”

She met his gaze. “I'm here on behalf of the Marquess of Westerfield.”

“Lord Westerfield? That's a nice tale there.” He laughed and then gestured to the man in the blue coat standing weaponless. “Take her knife, then search her to make sure she's not hiding more.”

“I only have the one. I swear it.”

“Sorry, wench, you'll forgive me if I don't accept the word of a smuggler.”

“I'm not a smuggler!” Panic rose in her chest, and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

“A spy, then. Perhaps we'll see a hanging before the week is out.”

“I'm neither. I told you I'm here on behalf of the Marquess of Westerfield.” She took a step forward, imploring him to believe her.

He kept his gun steady while his gaze raked over her. “And what, exactly, would the Marquess of Westerfield want with the likes of you?”

“He employed me to...to...” She clamped her mouth shut as the horror of her situation swept through. How was she to answer? By claiming she'd just come from France? The mention of her country would condemn her to be hung for spying before sunset.

“Your story fails you rather quickly. Hal, search her.”

“My pleasure.” The other man strode forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes and a tight smile on his lips.

She started to back away, but 'twas futile when the first man still held his gun on her.