Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (63 page)

Chapter Eleven

T
he foul scents of animal and sweat mingled with the odor of ladies' perfumes. Gregory stepped away from a group of women behind him and closer to the wagon where Westerfield lay, only to find an elderly man standing on his right.

Where had all these people come from? Mere minutes ago, they'd been traveling along unhindered. The foot traffic had been heavy as they passed more and more houses interspersed with fields and the occasional woods, but Danielle had told them to expect people that morning when she mentioned they'd be journeying around the bustling city of Amiens.

As though traveling with such a crowd wasn't bad enough, now everyone had suddenly stopped, the press of bodies suffocating beneath the wan winter sun. Gregory shifted uncomfortably. They needed to move around this crowd before someone discovered that the only French thing about him was his clothing.

Westerfield blinked open his bleary eyes. “Why are we stopping?”

Gregory stepped closer to his brother. Fortunately no one stood near the cart's right side to overhear Westerfield's use of English.

“There's some kind of holdup,” he whispered in bumbled French.

Westerfield propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the throng of peasant travelers. A cough rumbled from deep in his chest, and the group of women standing behind the cart took several steps back. Good. Less chance of them overhearing his and Westerfield's accents.

“Anything to be concerned about?” Westerfield's soft voice was barely audible over the muted threads of conversation and animal noises.

“Besides all the people?” Gregory craned his neck, looking past Kessler, Serge, Farnsworth and Danielle in front of him to the throng traveling the worn dirt road. An endless sea of wide-brimmed peasant hats and assorted mobcaps stretched ahead. He stood on his toes, attempting to view what, if anything, clogged the road. Up at the very front of the mass, a series of black bicorne hats floated above the crowd.

Gregory's fingers clenched around the smooth little button at the top of his coat's pocket. They'd all likely be locked in a dungeon before sunset. “I believe there're gendarmes ahead.”

Westerfield's face, which had regained color in the week Danielle had been treating him with herbs, grew suddenly pale. “No.”

The man standing to Gregory's left grunted and frowned at them.

“L-lie down,” he whispered in French. If only his accent weren't so horrid.

Westerfield sighed but returned to his prone position. “Ask Danielle what this is about.”

What this was about? This could only be about one thing. Danielle had explained there would be more checkpoints as they neared the coast, but he'd assumed she'd evade the stations by taking hidden trails through the woods. Except woods didn't surround them now, only wide, open fields interspersed with more houses than he cared for. They'd not be able to strike off the road into one of the fields without being noticed.

Ahead, the crowd nearly enveloped Danielle's tall, slender body. Why wasn't she turning them around and leading them back the direction they'd come? She just stood beside Farnsworth as though unaware that gendarmes waited at the front of the crowd. Did she not know about them?

Impossible. Danielle wasn't the type to lead them into a crush like this without knowing what it was about. So why did she stand there?

Clearly, she'd misunderstood what he'd expected when he hired her to lead them
safely
out of France. Nothing safe lay in their current situation.

“Don't cause a commotion while I'm gone,” Gregory growled at his brother. People pressed around him, their bodies close and cloying, almost suffocating as he shuffled his way toward Danielle. Some citizens stepped aside when they saw he headed deeper into the crowd while others seemed determined to stand in his way. He passed Serge, who guided the decrepit mule, and Kessler, who stood with his back too straight and shoulders too stiff to blend with the throng of common workers and travelers.

Not that his own posture likely blended well, either.

They all wore the clothes Danielle had purchased in Saint-Quentin, a little finer fabric and nicer cut than their former peasant garb. But Kessler still managed to carry himself like a member of the aristocracy rather than the bourgeoisie. Gregory glanced down at his thick woolen coat and mud-caked boots. Was he doing any better? He hunched his shoulders and attempted not to step so precisely.

He jostled his way around a broad-shouldered farmer, the last person standing between him and Danielle, then leaned down and placed his mouth beside her ear. “What are we doing standing here? You've got to get us out of this. Now.”

She glared at him, an entire lecture conveyed in that single, direct look:
Your wretched lack of French is going to give us away.

Had his whisper not been quiet enough? He looked around. The broad-shouldered man glared at him, certainly, but likely because he'd shoved his way past without offering an apology, not because the man had overheard his English. The mother and three small children standing ahead of them hadn't turned around, nor did the older woman in the thick coat standing to their right look disturbed.

Danielle placed a hand on his forehead. “Oh dear, André. You're right. You do seem to be coming down with a fever. Perhaps you should lay down in the cart with Pierre. Just make sure you have your papers in order first.” Her French words rang loud but sweet over the crowd, and she softly patted his cheek.

He ground his teeth together. This was her answer? To start pretending they were sick? They'd spoken of such a plan before, yes, but only as a last resort. “I hired you to get us safely to the coast, not parade us under our enemies' noses. Find us another road.”

The mother in front of them herded her children closer to her side and inched forward into the press of bodies, as did the older woman to their left. Even the large man at his back took a step away.

“Your stomach is bothering you, also?” Danielle arched away from him, once again speaking loudly. “Poor darling. I think it best you
lie down
. I hope you aren't adding to the foul miasmas in the air. We wouldn't want to get others sick, now would we? Let me help you back to the wagon.”

Though the smile plastered on her face was serene, her eyes burned hot into his. She took his arm, a caring gesture to anyone who might be watching, but her fingers dug through the wool of his coat hard enough to bruise his skin.

She turned him back toward the wagon, and the burly farmer behind them moved quickly out of their path, as did the older woman standing behind him.

“Which do you think will cause more suspicion?” she whispered as she led him past Serge and Kessler. “Going through this checkpoint like the two hundred others in line, or turning a group of six people around while everyone watches us leave? We don't know if we can even get around on another road. They might all have checkpoints.”

The crowd parted easily as they moved toward the back of the wagon. Evidently word of “illness” didn't take long to travel among a crowd.

Gregory ran a hand along his throat, loosening the coat's suddenly tight collar, and leaned closer to Danielle. “Have you forgotten four of us can't speak passable French?”

Her fingertips dug into his arm as she guided him around the back of the cart. “
Non
. But if the guards believe you to be ill, perhaps they will leave you alone. Lie in the cart and feign illness. Get your citizenship papers ready and prepare to answer to the French names you've assumed. And whatever you do, don't speak. Not even to each other.”

But what if the gendarmes ask questions? What if they notice Kessler stands too straight? What if...?

Danielle stared pointedly at the back of the cart and then glared at him. His fingers clenched around the button atop his pocket once again. The plan was risky, but how could he argue here, surrounded by people who thought him ill—thanks to Danielle's lie? He scooted himself onto the aged wooden planks and forced out a cough that sounded about as convincing as his French.

Danielle sent him a brittle smile before she disappeared around the side of the wagon. She returned only a minute later with Kessler, his face set in firm lines that looked nothing like a sudden illness.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

Gregory attempted another false cough. “Just get your papers out and try to look sick.”

“Don't tax your sore throats, cousins,” Serge called over his shoulder with a glare that rivaled his sister's.

“Now get some rest. Serge and I will explain everything to the guards.” Danielle looked out over the crowd. “I'm afraid my cousins have fallen rather ill. It might behoove you to stay away from the wagon.”

A grandmother hefted a child in her arms and turned, working her way back through the crowd. The group of woman who had spent the past quarter hour tittering behind them stepped off the road and into the muddy field

As foolhardy as Danielle's plan seemed, it appeared to gull the crowd. But what about gendarmes?

The sun slanted toward the western sky by the time they reached the checkpoint, and Gregory's legs were cramped and aching from the nearly two hours he'd spent scrunched in the little wagon bed with Westerfield and Kessler.

“Why are three men riding while the woman walks?” a rough voice demanded.

Gregory stared at the wooden slats of the cart's side and heaved in a breath. If he looked like he was struggling to breathe, would he appear more ill? Or would he only look suspicious? Why had they not practiced feigning illness earlier in the woods? He hadn't the slightest clue how to convince a soldier he was ill. And judging by the haughty tilt of Kessler's nose, neither did his brother's friend.

“Papers.” A gendarme appeared at the back of the small wagon, his voice smoother than the one barking orders from the front.

Kessler offered the man a weak cough as they handed over their papers.

“I wouldn't get too close.” Serge came around to stand beside the gendarme. “They're quite ill.”

“Ill?” the guard sneered. “Out of the cart, the lot of you.”

Gregory pressed his eyes shut and sucked in a shallow breath—neither of which calmed his racing heart. This was it. They were about to be discovered and he could do naught to stop it.

“Move faster,” the gendarme commanded.

He climbed slowly down with no need to feign his trembling legs and shaking hands.

Westerfield propped himself into a sitting position and inched his way out of the wagon bed, his face growing pale with the effort. Gregory took hold of his shoulder and helped him stand, then the pair of them turned to face the gendarme.

“That last one there has been sick for nigh on a fortnight.” Serge jutted his chin at Westerfield. “But I think his ill humors are spreading. The others will be retching and emptying their bowels within the day if that's what they've caught.”

Gregory doubled over and groaned. Did he sound like a man attempting to heave his stomach contents?

He could only hope.

He kicked Kessler in the back of his ankle, and the other man bent and attempted to cough.

Serge gave a sudden, loud cough, as well—one that actually sounded real. “Could be some miasmas in the air, too.”

No sympathy flickered in the gendarme's eyes as he ran his gaze over them and then scanned their papers.

Farnsworth came up beside Kessler as if afraid the man were too weak to stand and propped him up by the shoulder, while Serge sidled closer to the gendarme, his eyes wide and innocent looking, and coughed again.

Despite winter's chill, sweat beaded on the back of Gregory's neck, and a drop trailed down between his shoulder blades. Would the man believe their story?
Please, God, let him believe.

The gendarme scowled at Serge, who offered a tentative smile in return. Gregory groaned again, not because he feigned sickness but because the gendarme was going to see through them any second.

And where was Danielle? Hadn't she said she would do the talking?

He raised his head enough to scan the checkpoint. Several paces in front of the cart, Danielle talked to another gendarme—one standing far too close to her. She reached into her cloak and produced her papers. The man smiled brashly, his hand lingering on hers as he took her proof of citizenship.

Gregory tightened his jaw and rubbed his hand over his forehead, which had turned hot at the sight of Danielle with the leering stranger. If nothing else, he was faking a fever passably. He coughed again for good measure.

The gendarmes standing on the opposite side of the road took papers from the stream of travelers before allowing them to continue on their way. Most were detained for only a second before proceeding down the road. But then, most didn't have three men crammed into a cart, either.

A giggle sounded from the front of the cart. Danielle? Gregory looked over in time to see her bat her eyelashes and smile up at the gendarme, who stood close enough his coat brushed Danielle's skirt.

Since when did Danielle smile at anyone, let alone flutter her lashes?

Since when did she giggle?

Something hot crept through his veins, and he dug his fingers into the side of his leg to keep himself from stomping over and yanking her back beside him.

Or at least beside Serge.

Danielle's gendarme leaned closer and whispered something in her ear before pressing a hand to her cheek.

Her cheek! Right there, in the middle of the road, for all the world to see.

And Danielle did nothing to stop it.

“Stop staring,” Westerfield rasped beside him in terrible French.

Gregory averted his gaze and launched into a coughing fit. Perhaps if he coughed loud enough, he might distract the gendarme with their papers from noticing Westerfield's terrible accent.

Instead the gendarme looked straight at him. “The four of you are from Dieppe?”