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