Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(10)

From her position behind the crowd in the tall sea grass, Angelique spotted the balding head of Ebenezer. He’d forgotten his hat, which meant he’d have to return to the tavern at some point in the afternoon to retrieve it.

But for the present she could take a few moments to watch the festivities without the worry of his censure.

It didn’t take long for the rowboats to arrive.

“There’s a new captain” came the murmurings. And finally the news filtered back to Angelique that it was Colonel Robert McDouall, a Scotsman, a veteran of eighteen years’ service in the British Army.

A Scotsman? She rose on her toes to get a better look.

Her father had come from Scotland, had talked with a brogue she’d loved and had a face full of bristly auburn hair that had tickled her whenever he hugged her, which hadn’t been often.

She didn’t remember much about him. But he had given her two things: her hair color and a love of the island.

He’d passionately loved Michilimackinac, had loved every rock formation, every tree, every beach, and every trail. And he’d loved his beautiful wife even more.

He’d adored her.

Only her mother hadn’t returned his love with quite the same fervor.

Painful memories still haunted Angelique. Her father’s heartbroken, gut-wrenching cries. Her mother’s pleading. The slamming of doors and crashing of crockery against the stone hearth.

If only her father hadn’t surprised them with a rare visit one winter. If only he’d stayed away until spring like he normally did.

Then he wouldn’t have discovered his French beauty in the arms of another man. Then he wouldn’t have rushed blindly away into an approaching winter storm. Then he wouldn’t have gotten hopelessly lost. . . .

A farmer near St. Ignace had discovered the body in the spring. Her father hadn’t been wearing his snowshoes, almost as if he’d given up, sat down, and decided to die.

Angelique had never been able to make up her mind which had killed her father first—his broken heart or the snowstorm. And she’d never been able to make up her mind who she blamed more for all the problems—her father for being a fur trader and leaving them every fall, or her mother for being so beautiful and unable to resist the attention men paid her.

Angelique pressed her hand over her chest to ward off the pain. She wouldn’t let the nightmares of the past trouble her today, not on a day meant for celebration, on a day that brought hope and life to their starving community.

Even though she wanted to stare at the approaching voyageurs, and even though everything within her tightened with the need to look again, to search for Pierre, she forced herself to look away, to find a diversion.

Her attention landed upon the woman standing behind the new captain who’d come ashore. The young lady’s features were too young and fresh to be the man’s wife. Maybe she was his daughter?

Her gown was much too fancy for the island. There were enough bows and ribbons to sew together and hoist into a sail for one of the ships. She wore a hat with enough feathers to attract a kingfisher looking for its mate. And she held an open parasol that threatened to carry her away with one gust of wind.

The young woman scanned the gathered islanders as if she were looking for someone. She skimmed over Angelique, but then just as rapidly her gaze jumped back. Her delicate eyebrows arched, and she studied Angelique, her eyes alight with interest and something else.

Was it pity? Did the woman feel sorry for her?

A whisper of embarrassment wafted over Angelique. She ducked her head and tried to move out of the line of vision of the newcomer.

She knew she was filthy, especially after her work in the hen house. But she didn’t mind. She figured if she kept herself plain and unattractive, that maybe she’d avoid suffering the same fate as her sister Therese.

So far, she’d survived. The townspeople didn’t notice her, except to occasionally acknowledge her as the “fish lass.”

She glanced again at the newly arrived young woman and, to her dismay, found herself still the object of the woman’s scrutiny. In fact, the lady had leaned toward Father Fontaine, the priest of St. Anne’s, and both of them were staring at Angelique. Father Fontaine was nodding in response to whatever the woman was saying.

A trickle of unease wound through Angelique. Just as she was turning to go, the boisterous voices of the voyageurs singing the song of Saint-Malo begged her to stay.

We’re going to glide on the water, water away.

On the isle, on the isle to play.

Did come sailing vessels fleet

Laden with oats and laden with wheat.

She hesitated, but then another glimpse over her shoulder at the young woman’s pitying gaze sent Angelique scurrying along the sandy path toward the tavern. Her heart thumped out a warning—a warning to avoid the pretty lady, that association with her would only lead to trouble.

Besides, she had no reason to linger on the beach to discover if Pierre had returned.

Jean was enough for her. He was all she needed.





Chapter

4



Pierre crossed the open field Papa had cleared many years ago when they’d first settled on Michilimackinac Island. By the full light of afternoon, Pierre was able to assess much more than he had the previous day when he’d rushed past the cabin before dawn.

The mist and darkness of his early morning visit had cloaked the farm, yet now the sun’s rays touched every broken fence post, every weed jutting from the unplowed field, every scraggly fruit tree, every piece of crumbling chinking in the cabin wall.