Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(3)
His legs were long, his shoulders broad. And beneath his Indian coat, his muscles bulged against the seams of his shirt.
Wonder tangled her tongue and made her shy and speechless. She waited for recognition to dawn, for his face to light up at the sight of her as it had so many times in the past.
But his eyes darted to the quartermaster lying prone in the mud and then to the woods that led to the west shore. A flicker of urgency crossed his face. When he glanced at her again, there was nothing in his eyes but irritation, as if she were an interruption he hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he whispered tersely, “but I must ask that you speak to no one about our encounter.”
Didn’t he recognize her? She hadn’t changed that much in five years, had she? Her fingers fluttered to her face. She rarely took the time to wash the grime away. She dressed plainly. And she always wore her long auburn hair tucked under her cap, the way Ebenezer required.
But couldn’t Pierre see who she was anyway? She was still the same Angelique who had raced him along this very path more times than she could count. The same friend who had climbed trees, and fished together with her, and gathered wild strawberries, and swum in the pond.
The quartermaster gave a groan and stirred.
Without breaking his stare on the soldier, Pierre began creeping backward through the dense foliage, climbing over windfall and tangles of branches.
“Where are you going?” She couldn’t possibly let him leave. Not yet. Not without knowing where he’d been, and why he’d come back to the island after so many years.
Once again he held out his hand to stop her from advancing. “Please, mademoiselle. You must pretend you never saw me.”
At the coldness in his voice, she halted. So he really didn’t know who she was? She fought back a wave of disappointment.
Part of her wanted to blurt out her name, to inform him that she was his childhood friend, that she hadn’t ever stopped thinking about him in all the years he’d been gone. And part of her wanted to tell him that since Jean had been forced off the island, she was the one keeping Miriam alive—that if it weren’t for her sacrifice and help, his mother would have died by now.
But Pierre was already disappearing into the mist. From the furtive glances he was casting, she had the suspicion something wasn’t right, that perhaps he was in some kind of trouble. Why else would someone come to the island before dawn and then attempt to slink away undetected?
She strained to see him and the red of his cap, but the fog swallowed him completely until he was gone. She had the urge to shout his name, but behind her the quartermaster moaned again. She spun and ran from the soldier, hastening down the path, needing to put as much distance between herself and Lieutenant Steele as possible.
In spite of the danger that lurked everywhere, she loved early mornings on the island, when everyone was still asleep, when she could pretend all was well and they weren’t in the middle of a war, that they weren’t slowly starving to death.
And she loved the spring, with the sweet cool air that came after the ruthless winter, the warmer temperatures that finally melted away the layers of snow and nurtured the island back to life.
If only she had time to linger and enjoy the beauty as she’d done so many times with Pierre and Jean when they’d been younger. But she couldn’t dally or Ebenezer would suspect that she did more than fish every morning.
By the time she reached the clearing, the misty meadow, and Miriam’s log cabin beyond, Angelique was breathing heavy. Pink tinted the fog, indicating the sun was rising and would soon chase away the mist.
Angelique took a deep breath and tried to steady herself before entering the small home that belonged to her friend.
“Good morning, Miriam,” Angelique said, slipping through the doorway of the one-room home.
“You’ve been running.” Through the darkness of the interior, Miriam’s reply came from near the hearth. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.” She prayed Miriam would believe her.
From the rustle of straw, Angelique knew that Miriam was already hard at work weaving the hats she would sell to the visitors that came to the island during the summer. Thankfully, hat weaving was one thing Miriam could still do in spite of her failing eyesight.
Angelique loosened the string of her pocket, holding her breath, willing Miriam to share the news, to tell her she’d seen Pierre.
The rustling stilled, and silence filled the room.
“Something happened,” Miriam finally said quietly.
Angelique slipped the eggs from her pocket and placed them on the table. If only the dear woman weren’t so perceptive. “Did you have any visitors this morning?”
“Was I supposed to?”
Angelique reached into her bodice and pulled out the ashcake she’d wrapped in a rag. She laid it on the table next to the eggs, then crossed the room and knelt before the dying embers.
Pierre was a louse. Why hadn’t he taken a few minutes out of his busy life to visit his mother? That wasn’t too much to ask of anyone, was it?
“You can tell me the truth, Angel,” Miriam said.
Angelique grasped a scant handful of the shavings and crumbles of bark that covered the bottom of the woodbox. “You’re almost out of wood. It’s a good thing the nights aren’t so cold anymore.”