Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(12)

His chest tightened and he drew in a breath of the lilac fragrance that surrounded her. He’d hoped and longed for her embrace, but had been afraid he’d never get to experience it again.

“Oh, Pierre,” she said again through a broken sob. She pressed her face against his, wetting his cheek with her tears.

He was about to wrap his arms around her when she leaned back and put him at arm’s length. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She lifted her fingers to his face and grazed his chin, nose, and cheeks, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. A smile lit up her face amidst the tears. “God be praised. It is you.”

“Oui, it’s me,” he said softly.

Her fingers continued to explore his face, almost as if she were seeing him through her sense of touch rather than her eyes.

He looked into her light-blue eyes. They were glassy, like a foggy sky in the early morning. And they didn’t look back into his with the directness she’d always used.

Something was wrong. “How are you?” he asked, grasping her arms, studying her, taking in the stains on her tattered apron, the black singes on her sleeves where she’d obviously had further accidents with the fire, and the red blisters on the back of her hand.

“I think I’m in heaven.”

Beneath his fingers he felt nothing but her bones. She barely had any flesh left. What had happened to her? To the farm?

“I’ve been praying for this moment for so long,” she said, reaching for him again to draw him into another embrace.

This time he held back, trying to catch her gaze, wanting her to look deep inside him and see the new man he was becoming. But she only stared at his face unseeingly, as if she were . . .

“Yes, Pierre,” she said, her smile dimming a little, “I’m almost blind.”

“How . . . ?” He cleared the squeakiness out of his voice. “How long have you been unable to see?” Her blindness would account for much of the neglect and disrepair he’d seen around the farm.

“For a while now.” She laid her smooth palm against his cheek.

He looked around at the interior of the cabin. On one side of the window hung Papa’s paddle, painted in stripes of red and blue. On the other side was Papa’s fishing rod. The same hand-hewn table and chairs filled the space of half the room, while a sagging bed occupied the other half. The ladder leading to the attic room that he’d shared with Jean was covered with cobwebs.

Very little had changed about his childhood home except the barrenness. Always before there had been freshly baked bread, soup or stew simmering above the hearth fire, bundles of dried herbs dangling from the ceiling, and some kind of sweet treat for him and Jean and Angelique to share.

But now, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t a crumb of food anywhere. Had she been living in the cabin alone all winter with nothing to eat? How had she survived?

With her blindness she wouldn’t have been able to plant a garden or plow a field. She wouldn’t have been able to hunt for wild berries or nuts. She wouldn’t have been able to manage feeding hens or milking a cow—even if she’d had them.

Helplessness poured over him. Someone should have been here to assist her. “Why did Jean leave you here all alone?”

“Jean didn’t have a choice.”

“He should have stayed.”

“He agonized over leaving, Pierre. He really did. He didn’t want to go.”

Then he shouldn’t have, he wanted to say. But he held the words in. He didn’t want his reunion with Maman to become clouded with his anger.

“The British learned he was a loyal American,” Maman rushed to explain. “If he’d faked his allegiance to them, they wouldn’t have trusted him. Eventually they may have accused him of treachery or spying and sent him away anyway.”

Pierre sat back on his heels and tried to ignore the guilt that pricked him and reminded him that he’d left the island too, but his reasons hadn’t been quite as noble as Jean’s.

“Don’t blame Jean.” Maman caressed his cheek again. “He didn’t know I was going blind when he left or I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone. And now if word ever reached him of my condition, I know he’d try to return, even though he’d put his life in danger to do so.”

Why did Jean have to be the good son, the one who was always doing what was noble?

“My dear, dear son.” She pulled him into another hug, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him with surprising strength.

He slipped his arms around her. He closed his eyes to hold back the urge to weep at her fragile condition.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She smoothed his hair. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I didn’t know if you’d be glad to see me again or not,” he said hesitantly. “Especially after all the horrible things I said before I left.”

“Pierre, my love for you is unconditional, just as the Lord’s is. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, both the Lord and I will always be waiting here with open arms.”

“I don’t deserve your love or forgiveness for the way I treated you and Papa and Jean when I left.” A swell of emotion clogged his throat, making him need to clear it before he could continue. “I’m deeply sorry for not respecting you the way I should have. And I pray you’ll forgive me, although I know I don’t deserve it.”