Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)
Jody Hedlund
Chapter
1
MICHILIMACKINAC ISLAND, MICHIGAN TERRITORY
MAY 1814
The dawn mist swirled around Angelique MacKenzie and shrouded the forest trail. She didn’t need the light of day to guide her. She knew every path of her beloved island and could run them blindfolded if need be.
Even so, something in the damp foggy air sent a shiver up the back of her neck and forced her bare feet to move faster. The cold mud oozed between her toes, squishing and squelching with each step. She glanced at the dark tangle of bramble surrounding her as if a loup-garou would leap out at her and bare his sharp wolf’s teeth.
She knew nothing of the sort could happen. Werewolves belonged only in tales, like the one she’d overheard the raconteur tell the night before. But she couldn’t keep from seeing the hairy hunched back, long tail, and pointed ears in every flitting shadow.
Her heart raced, its pounding rivaling one of the duty calls of the fort drummer.
Her secret early-morning deliveries were becoming riskier with every passing day. Especially now that nearly all the islanders were on the brink of starvation. The British soldiers living in the fort were faring even worse. Over the long winter they’d butchered all their horses. And now they were growing desperate.
And dangerous.
But danger or not, she had to make her delivery. Her dear friend depended on the meager food gifts she brought every morning.
With one hand Angelique pressed against the threadbare linen of her skirt and steadied the delicate lumps in her pocket. And with the other she dangled two of the trout she’d caught.
A crack of a branch and a low, raspy call pierced the silence, startling her.
She halted and sucked in a breath of the cool May air that hinted of newly bloomed spring beauties and trailing arbutus. She cocked her head to listen, peering through the mist.
Another raspy call came from overhead, and this time she recognized the sound. It belonged to a red-winged blackbird.
A breeze of relief whispered through her. The migratory birds were returning now. And if the birds had made it to the remote northern island, then maybe the supply ships would be able to reach Michilimackinac Island too. At least she would pray the ships would arrive soon, and put an end to their misery.
A twig snapped, and her gaze jumped back to the path. At the sight ahead, she froze.
There stood a loup-garou—the werewolf—half hidden by the mist, blocking her way, feet spread apart, tail poking out behind, and one ear pointing high.
Her blood turned as frigid as the lake water she’d waded in earlier when she climbed out of her birchbark canoe.
The loup-garou growled with a hacking cough. And then he took a swaying step toward her. “Give me your food.”
Everything within her screamed to retreat, to disappear into the forest. With her knowledge of the woods, she could easily escape the beast. But fear planted her feet in the mud and refused to release them.
The werewolf lurched forward. With each step he took, his tail strangely changed into a long sword and his ear into an officer’s hat that sat at an odd angle, as if he’d put it on backward.
“I know you have food.” The words came out slurred. “And I command you to hand it over.” He staggered nearer, and the mist seemed to evaporate, revealing an all-too familiar red coat.
This was no loup-garou. This was a menace even worse.
It was one of the British soldiers. The enemy. The starving enemy.
In fact, he was Lieutenant Steele, the quartermaster. And he was exactly the kind of danger she’d hoped to avoid.
She lifted her hand away from the two eggs in her pocket, not wanting to bring attention to her hidden treasure. And she resisted the urge to lay her hand protectively against the thin slice of ashcake and the few acorn shells tucked into her bodice. She could give him the fish if she must, but the eggs and the bread were her prized hoarding of the day.
His hollow gaze fixed hungrily on the trout. In the fog his gaunt face was more like that of a skeleton rising from the grave rather than the werewolf she’d first imagined. “The fish, lass.”
“Yes?”
“What would Ebenezer Whiley say if he discovered you were withholding some of your catch for yourself?” The question held a threat.
Everyone knew how stingy her stepfather was. Even the British soldiers who came to his tavern and store had learned he dealt a hard bargain. If Ebenezer found out that Angelique was holding back even a few small fish out of her morning deliveries, he’d do his best to stop her, and punish her harshly. Then what would become of Miriam?
Lieutenant Steele’s lips twisted into a grin. “Ah, I see you don’t want Mr. Whiley to learn about your cheating.”
The soldier took another unsteady step. “As quartermaster I’ve been instructed by the general to help the commissary collect more food for the garrison this morning.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. With his bloodshot eyes and untidy appearance, she guessed he’d spent the night drinking and was on his way to the North Sally Port, hoping to sneak into the fort undetected.
She’d play along with his game. “Oh, I beg your pardon. In all my hard work this morning, I must have missed the sounding of reveille.”
She knew for a fact the drummer and fifer hadn’t woken the troops yet. She always listened for reveille. Even though it was played within the fort, the islanders used it as their clock. Ebenezer would expect her back shortly after the sounding.