Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(36)

A slap and then a cry, like that of a wounded animal, echoed in the clearing. It was followed by another tap of the drum.

She didn’t have to look to know what was happening. A soldier was being disciplined.

“How many lashes?” Pierre asked under his breath to a nearby woman, one of the laundresses, who stood next to a wooden bucket on a plank table. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she held a dripping shirt in one of her chapped red hands.

“One hundred stripes,” the woman replied. Two children sat silently under the table, staring at the whipping post.

Angelique prayed that the man suffering the whipping wasn’t the woman’s husband or the children’s father. Some of the enlisted men brought their wives, who could earn extra rations by scrubbing clothes. The women and their infants lived with their husbands in the cramped barracks, sharing their room with several other soldiers.

Next to marrying a fur trader, Angelique ranked marrying a soldier as the second worst match. The lack of privacy and the absence of any real home life made the life of a soldier’s wife as unappealing as that of a fur trader’s.

“What’s his crime?” Pierre asked the laundress.

“Drunkenness,” the woman said.

“That’s a harsh sentence for drunkenness,” Pierre muttered.

Everyone knew that overindulgence in rum and whiskey was a common problem among the soldiers, certainly not worthy of a hundred lashes. But Colonel McDouall had arrived on the island with one goal in mind—to prepare for an attack by the Americans. Not only was the colonel driving them to finish Fort George as speedily as possible, but he was also apparently trying to crack down on disorderly conduct among the soldiers.

Another slap of the cat-o’-nine-tails against flesh rose in the air, along with a hoarse and tortured cry.

Pierre’s grip on Angelique was unswerving. But Angelique didn’t fight him. She liked the iron of his arm against her body, holding her, shielding her. She relished the warmth of his back so near her cheek she could lean against him if she took but a tiny step closer.

“He broke the curfew last night too,” the laundress added.

“Broke curfew?” Angelique slipped from Pierre’s hold and glanced at the bloody back of the soldier tied to the whipping post, his arms stretched up, leaving him helplessly exposed. She sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the mutilated flesh.

With a murmur of disapproval, Pierre wrestled her back behind him.

But she’d already glimpsed enough to see that the culprit wasn’t Lieutenant Steele. Thankfully. She didn’t want him thinking she’d been the one to reveal his disobedience that early morning he’d attacked her.

“I told you not to look,” Pierre said, tossing her a frown.

“I’m a big girl. I can handle it,” she said halfheartedly. The sight of the gore didn’t turn her stomach, not after gutting fish day after day. But she fell behind Pierre anyway. She was so accustomed to being strong and carrying so much on her own shoulders that Pierre’s concern was a refreshing change.

The drum kept count with the last of the lashes, and when the discipline was finally over and the soldier dragged away, Pierre released her.

His attention shifted to the officers’ quarters across the wide lawn. There in the shade of the stone building stood Lavinia McDouall. She wore a green muslin gown, and against the whitewashed wall she stood out like a budding leaf on a bare tree.

And of course Pierre had noticed her.

Angelique’s stomach twisted with dismay.

With a new lightness to his step, Pierre started across the yard toward her, past the flagpole where the British colors were raised and flown proudly above the smattering of buildings inside the walls. In good weather the flag was raised faithfully at the beginning of every day. On a clear day she could see it all the way from the Straits when she was out fishing.

Angelique hesitated in crossing the grounds. Should she leave and go back to her duties at Fort George or should she follow Pierre?

“Mr. Durant.” Lavinia smiled and stepped away from the building into the sunshine. Her skin was pale and her cheeks thinner, but she’d obviously survived her illness without diminishing her beauty. “I was beginning to think you had left without saying good-bye.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” With a flourish Pierre bowed, reached for her hand, and kissed it.

He wasn’t supposed to be so sweet to other women. Or to flirt with them. Or look at them with interest. She was his childhood friend—they were practically best friends, weren’t they? His special twinkle, his joking, and his laughter were meant for her and her alone.

“You must come see me more often,” Lavinia said.

“Now that I know you’re recovered, I’ll be breaking down the door to see you.”

Lavinia gave a tinkling laugh that contained her delight over Pierre’s flattery. The sound of it stung Angelique’s heart. The young lady tugged at one of her dangling curls playfully. Angelique had a feeling she was communicating with Pierre in a language only men could understand.

Angelique crossed the lawn toward Pierre. Even if he meant nothing by his flirtations, even if he was only bantering with Lavinia, Angelique still didn’t like it. She knew she had no right to stop him from having a relationship with another woman. She had no claim on him, not when they were only friends.