Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (70 page)

“You're begging for me to spare an Englishman. What other reason could there be?”

She swiped a stray tear away from her face. “I have to make the crossing with Julien. I've helped Gregory for so long I can't bear to say goodbye here when I could see him safe in his own country.”

“Gregory, is it? Not Halston.”

Her body turned warm at the sound of Gregory's Christian name on her father's lips.
“Oui.”

Somehow
Papa
managed to shift his burgeoning wad of blankets to one arm and held out the other for her. She needed no invitation to step inside and let his strong arm anchor her, his broad body offer shelter.

“The more you prolong your farewell, the more heartbroken you're likely to be.”

She buried her face in his coat. “That doesn't change how I feel.”

“Has he...”

When his voice faded, she looked up.

A muscle worked back and forth in his jaw. “Has he offered for you?”

“It's not like that between us. He's a lord.”

Her father's brow furrowed, and he slanted yet another glance at Gregory. The man was going to tromp over any moment if
Papa
didn't stop staring. As though she needed Gregory Halston privy to this conversation.

“And your birth father was heir to a
seigneury
,”
Papa
continued. “Perhaps if he knew—”

“
Non
. I want to marry a man who values me as a person, not my lineage. I might love him...I
know
I love him. But does he love me? He's never spoken such words, and I doubt he ever will. In his eyes, I'm too far beneath him to make him a good wife.” Just as there'd always been some reason she wouldn't make a Frenchman a good wife. She threw knives and spent too much time in the woods. She couldn't sew, couldn't cook, couldn't do half the wifely duties she was supposed to.

Whether she fell in love with a lord or a peasant, she still wasn't good enough.

Except for her stepfather. He'd always loved her in spite of everything she did wrong. “So you see,
Papa
, I can't...can't...” Her voice cracked, and rather than try to wrench the garbled mess of words from her mouth, she pressed her face into his shoulder.

Papa
's bearlike arms tightened around her, and he settled his chin atop her head, not speaking so much as a word of solace. But then, he didn't need to. The feeling of his presence and the love of someone who wasn't ashamed of her was enough...

Or at least it would be, until she said goodbye to Gregory.

Chapter Nineteen

“H
alt!” Belanger's harsh whisper permeated the foggy twilight.

Gregory stilled, his heart thumping against his chest. Beside him, Farnsworth, Kessler and Westerfield all stopped in the murky gloom.

A wraithlike form appeared shrouded in mist on the empty beach ahead of them. “Gregory, you're here!”

A foul word left Belanger's mouth. “Hush, daughter, or you'll call down half the countryside.”

Danielle? Gregory surveyed the stretch of sand, empty save for themselves and the woman moving toward them. She was supposed to have gone home after she and Serge broke from them last night. Clearly she hadn't obeyed her father.

Clearly he was a fool for thinking she would.

She sprinted toward them as though no musket ball had ever grazed her side, sliding to a halt when her toes were mere inches from his.

He reached out and gripped her arm, no more able to stop himself from running his eyes over her hair and face and lips than he was able to stop the war between their countries. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone had to warn Julien of your arrival. Now come, the boat's ready.” She took his elbow and tugged.

Gregory tightened his hands into fists. As though she belonged on a beach at dusk helping to smuggle men across the channel rather than at home in bed. He glanced around the beach a second time. They'd once again skirted a town, this time coming out on an abandoned stretch of sandy shoreline. The mist shrouded the buildings of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme behind them, and the open bay lapped gently before them.

It seemed too easy, as though some trap lay hidden ahead. Certainly France wasn't going to let them simply board the fishing boat and be off. A pack of gendarmes or soldiers would likely come tearing across the sandy beach at any moment.

But he approached the boat without incident.

“My father and sister tell me you've coin aplenty to pay if I ferry you across the channel.” A voice roughened from hours spent in the salty sea air spoke.

Gregory turned to find a shadow limping toward them, too small to be Belanger and too large to be Serge. “I'm Lord Gregory Halston. Behind me, you'll find Lord Westerfield and Lord Kessler, as well as my valet, Farnsworth. And yes, I can pay.”

“Lords, are you?” With his scruffy beard, wind-chapped skin and limp, Julien Belanger could have stepped out of a children's book about pirates. “That's quite a mouthful of fancy names you got.”

“Leave them alone, Julien, and take us across before someone finds us.” Danielle climbed gingerly inside the little fishing vessel with its gray sails. “I didn't bring them all this way to have us discovered on the beach.”

The auburn-haired man scowled at his sister. “I'm not going anywhere with you in the boat, not when your side's all shot up.”

She crossed his arms. “I already told you I'm going, just ask
Papa
.”

Gregory's mouth turned dry. She was going? With them? He planted his legs in the sand. “No.”

“Don't tell me you've decided to remain in France.” Kessler hopped inside the boat, its fore-and-aft-rigged sails jutting into the dim sky.

“
Oui
. I thought the point of getting you safely to the coast was so you could cross the channel.” Danielle frowned at him.

He tightened his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder. “I intend to go to England, and well you know it. But I refuse to endanger you any longer than necessary. You're supposed to be home right now. Abed. Healing from the injuries I caused you.”

“You didn't cause me to get shot.”

He turned away from her and stalked toward Belanger and Serge on the beach. The sooner they left, the sooner Danielle could return home, where she would be safe. Or perhaps she would even go inside the little cottage near the shore and rest there. Either way, she'd be better off once he departed for England—without her.

He stopped in front of Julien, Danielle, and Serge's stepfather. “You told her she could go to England? It's a needless risk, especially with her being injured.”

“I agree with the lord. Danielle shouldn't cross the channel.” Julien's voice was a low growl over Gregory's shoulder.

Belanger kept his gaze pinned on Gregory, as though Danielle's stubbornness was somehow his fault. “Then you try to tell her
non
.”

“I will.”

Serge snickered beside his father. “Have you learned nothing after spending all this time with Dani? Once she's made up her mind, no one can convince her of anything.”

“Who said anything about convincing? I'll tie her up inside that cottage if necessary.” Gregory jutted his chin toward the ramshackle structure, then headed back to the vessel, where Danielle now stood adjusting the sails. He jumped easily aboard, pushed past Farnsworth and stepped over a sack.

“Move, Gregory, I've yet to see to the aft sail.”

He took her by the shoulders. “Danielle...”

She met his gaze, but not in her usual, defiant manner, no. He could have ordered her off the boat had she glared at him with thunderous eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Instead, she stood with shoulders slumped and eyes wary—even a touch sad. As though she knew what he was about to say. As though she understood he was going to order her out of the boat...

And out of his life.

“What do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted to think a coherent thought, which was rather impossible when she stared at him with such sad eyes. “I, uh...”

“Just say it.”

But he couldn't, because his thoughts no longer made sense. He should be thinking about getting her off the sailing vessel and keeping her safe, but she looked so lost and vulnerable, this strong woman hurt and weakened because she'd defended him from attackers. His arms ached to reach out and hold her, to offer the strength that the musket-ball wound seemed to have drained from her body.

But what good would taking her in his arms do? He'd still have to say goodbye.

Danielle shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, her gaze refusing to let him look anywhere but her somber eyes. “Did you want something from me?”

Yes. No. Perhaps
. He knew not what he wanted anymore—except to kiss her one last time. Kiss her and whisper sweet words of...of what?

He had no promises of a future, no words of love to give. Could he wish her well with her life? Hope she found herself a kind French husband?

Danielle didn't need a kind man. She'd plow over a kind man like a farmer furrowing a field at springtime. She needed someone strong. Sturdy. Stubborn. Someone who would argue with her when she got fool notions in her head. Someone who would tell her to put down her knife and hold her when she needed to be held. Kiss her when she needed to be kissed. Tell her she was beautiful and perfect as she was. Someone like him.

Except it couldn't be him. He could offer her no life of happiness in England, just as she could offer him no life of happiness in France. Were they to wed and settle in France, he'd spend every day fearing being hunted down, just as he had for the past two weeks. And if they married in England, society would have no place for a commoner married to a British lord. Danielle would be shunned and his family would be disgraced.

When Danielle spoke of equality, she made it sound so easy. Everyone was equal in God's eyes, and that was that. But living that way in a world filled with hate was much more complicated than simply spouting words. He hardly had the ability to change society's strictures; nor was he willing to sacrifice his family's happiness so that he and Danielle could be together.

But even so, he hadn't the courage to wish her well in her quest for a fitting husband. He didn't want her to be successful in finding love with anyone but him.

Which meant he was likely one of the greatest cowards to ever walk the earth.

“N-no,” he finally choked out. “I have nothing more to ask of you.”

And he didn't. He had little business making demands on Danielle when he would no longer be part of her life.

“Nothing?” Her eyes flickered with a fragile hope, likely because he wasn't objecting to her trip to England.

“Not anymore.” He turned and stepped over a fishing net, stowing his sack beneath the bench at the prow of the boat.

Danielle stood by the mast, a strand of rigging dangling absently in her hand as she stared out to sea. Part of him wanted to go to her again. A very bad part. Because, in truth, he had no right to her. He never had, and he never would.

But he'd cobble together the words to tell her goodbye after they crossed the channel.

And then he'd walk away without looking back.

Because he was a British lord. And British lords didn't allow themselves to look back at peasant girls.

* * *

Danielle stood at the prow of the boat, her eyes scanning the dark waters for England's rocky shore. Any moment now, and they should be upon the little alcove where they hid the boat whenever they visited their aunt and uncle.

Behind her, Julien manned the sails while Gregory and the others huddled beneath blankets. Sleeping? Maybe the others, but not Gregory. The warmth of his gaze blanketed her back.

“There.” She pointed toward the shadowy outcropping on the bank.

“Not yet.” Julien's rusty but quiet voice carried over the boat. “Look to port.”

She stilled at the sight of two thin lantern beams piercing the darkness. Excise agents?
Please, God, no. Not after we've come so close.

“Who are they?” Gregory whispered.

She surveyed the shore, her eyes narrowing on the pattern of a flickering lantern: three long bursts of light followed by one short one. “Smugglers.”

Her grandfather—the unlamented father of her natural father—had used signals such as that when he'd run his vast operation during the
Révolution
. The only question was whether the lantern signals from shore meant it was safe for the smuggling vessel to approach or whether there were excise agents in the area and the vessel needed to wait.

Julien shifted the sails, and the boat surged forward over the water, closer to shore. Did he know the signals? Was it safe to land? Or did he merely want to get Gregory and the others off his boat?

Likely the latter. The gray tinge in the eastern sky indicated dawn would be upon them shortly, and unlike smugglers, they had no second plans for where to make shore, nor did they have the food and water needed to stay afloat “fishing” all day and land the following night.

The hilly shore loomed imminently in the darkness, then sand crunched softly beneath the prow. Danielle jumped over the gunwale without thought.

'Twas a mistake. Pain lanced her side, though not as sharp as it had been a few days earlier. Then a small splash sounded and Gregory appeared beside her, gripping the gunwale.

“I can manage,” she retorted as she grabbed the boat to haul it farther onto the sand.

He stayed quiet but didn't leave his position, helping to pull the boat into the shallow alcove.

It would only take moments to conceal the small craft behind the grassy outcropping. A cave lay farther back and once the sails were down, they would push the boat inside, where previous experience told her they could leave it for weeks if need be.

“Do you always land here?” Gregory asked.

“Aye,” she answered, careful to rid her voice of any French accent lest someone happen upon them. “Though we haven't come to visit Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Michel often since the peace ended.”

“I still find it rather hard to believe you're related to them.”

She shrugged and looked out over the water growing light in the dim illumination of dawn. Behind her, Julien and the others piled out of the boat and started dragging the craft across the sand toward the cave, leaving her and Gregory alone on the beach.

She should go help. Julien was the only other person who knew how to take down the sails, and yet, this was goodbye, was it not? She'd have no other chance to stand with Gregory again, to wish him goodbye. She drew in a breath. “Do you live far from here?”

“The marquessate is about a half hour on horseback. Longer by foot, but we'll rent horses in Hastings.”

She dug the tip of her boot into the sand, the easy bond they'd shared as they traveled through France now as distant as the country itself. And it was just as well. She'd known they'd have to part. Though somehow, she'd envisioned their farewell being more passionate than this, with sincere words spoken between them rather than dull ones, possibly even a kiss they would both remember in the months and years to come.

She swallowed the lump building in her throat. “Your mother and sister will be thrilled to see Westerfield.”

“Very much so, and I have you to thank for his safe return.” Gregory seemed more interested in staring at the hill behind them than at her.

Then again, she was hardly any better with the way the sea kept drawing her attention. What did one tell the man she loved but would never see again? Did she wish him well for the rest of his life—without her? Did she wish him married to some perfect English debutante who would bear him a passel of dark-haired, smoky-eyed children with perfect English pedigrees?

It had all seemed so clear before. She would come to England, see Gregory safe and say goodbye. Knowing he and his party had arrived unscathed should eclipse any sorrow at leaving him, shouldn't it?

Except maybe she'd been hoping she wouldn't need to say goodbye. Maybe she'd been praying they'd get to this moment and Gregory would realize he loved her and confess his feelings. He'd say her station as a “peasant” didn't bother him any longer and promise they'd find a way to marry regardless of the war between their two countries. Then
she
could be the mother of those dark-haired children.

Foolish, immature dreams, the lot of them. “Gregory, I—”