Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(2)

But if Lieutenant Steele wanted to threaten her, then she’d do the same to him.

They both knew she could report him for being outside the fort. All the soldiers were restricted to their quarters once the fort musicians played tap-too in the evening until reveille the next morning. Breaking the curfew could result in severe punishment.

Only the week before, a soldier had been caught outside the fort after hours. His sentence had been one hundred lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails. The captain had reduced the lashes to seventy-five when the soldier had pleaded that hunger had driven him out to look for food.

“If you give me the fish,” the quartermaster said more soberly, as if he too remembered the recent whipping, “then we can pretend I never saw you and that you never saw me.”

She loosened her grip on the string of fish, hesitated only a moment, and then tossed them at his feet. Every muscle in her thin body tensed with the need to escape the moment he bent over to retrieve the fish.

But instead of going after the trout, he lunged at her with a quickness that belied his vulnerable state. His bony fingers circled her arm, and he yanked her against his emaciated frame with surprising strength.

She was too stunned to react.

“I think you’re hiding more food.” His sour breath fanned her cheek, making her want to retch. The hard bones of his ribs pressed against the thinly wrapped ashcake in her bodice.

She pushed at his chest. His red coat had become threadbare after the harsh winter. His hair was overlong, his face scruffy, and his eyes sunken into what at one time had been a handsome face. He was a sorry sight now.

After two years on the island, all the soldiers were a sorry sight. The winters on Michilimackinac were hard on even the most seasoned islander, much less a thin-skinned, poorly clad British regular.

“We’re all hungry,” she said quietly. “Please take the fish as my gift. Then let me be on my way.”

His grip wavered, but only for a second before tightening again. “Give me the rest of what you have. Now.”

“I can’t do that.”

He grunted and slipped his hand around her neck. His fingers coiled, cutting off her breath.

With a burst of panicked energy she kicked at him and plucked at his hand, trying to free her neck from his choking hold. But in his hunger-induced delirium, his strength was unshakable.

Her throat began to burn, and desperation dragged at her lungs. She needed a fresh breath, but no amount of twisting or grasping would loosen his clutch and allow the air through.

She could feel her eyes loll back into her head, and a wave of blackness crashed over her.

Was this how she was destined to die? On her beloved island, while fighting over the food she was determined to deliver to her starving friend?

A loud thwack came from behind the lieutenant, and instantly the deathly chain around her neck fell away.

Lieutenant Steele stared ahead blankly and then crumpled to the ground at her feet, sprawling into the mud with a splat.

She stumbled backward and gasped for air, wheezing through her bruised airway and staring at the motionless form.

At a sudden flash in the early morning mist, she ceased breathing.

There behind the lieutenant stood an even bigger apparition, another loup-garou, this one looming fiercer than the last. His long cloak swirled around deerskin leggings and a loose leather shirt. He held an Ojibway Indian club that he’d obviously used on the quartermaster. A single strike with the dangerous round ball on its top often proved lethal.

The apparition toed the lieutenant with his moccasin boot.

Lieutenant Steele groaned, yet he didn’t move.

Her rescuer stuffed the club into a belt tied around his waist. It was no ordinary belt, but the special woven sash belonging only to a voyageur.

Angelique’s heart gave a rapid burst of excitement. Besides the sash, he also wore weather-worn buckskin, a red worsted cap, and a cloak that was really more of a capote—an Indian blanket coat.

He was a voyageur. There was no doubt about it.

But if he was one of the canoe-paddling fur traders, why was he here now? So early in the morning?

She glanced around the woods that lined the path. Usually when the voyageurs arrived back on the island every spring, they came in great numbers with laughter and singing.

But she saw no evidence of anyone else. The island hadn’t had any communication with the outside world since the end of last fall and the onset of winter, when the ice had isolated them as it did every year.

The voyageur started to retreat as silently as he’d approached.

“Thank you for saving my life,” she said, unwilling to let him leave just yet.

He nodded but continued to move away.

She had to know where he came from and whether the rest of the voyageurs were on the way. “Wait.” She started after him, forcing her feet to move finally.

He held out a hand to stop her from coming any nearer.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He put a finger to his lips. As he did so, for the first time, he faced her directly and the shadows fell away.

She stifled a gasp.

It was Pierre Durant.

Even with the heavy layer of winter scruff that covered his chin and cheeks, she had no trouble recognizing the face beneath. His features hadn’t changed much in the five years he’d been gone from the island.

He still had the same dashing good looks he’d always had. The deep, rich brown eyes that had always done funny things to her pulse, the unruly wavy dark hair, and the swarthy skin he’d inherited from his French father.