Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(41)

“Oh,” she whispered as he made the barest contact with her mouth, the slight softness teasing her, almost as if he were planning to take his time and enjoy every facet of mingling his lips with hers.

He grazed her lips again, but then pulled back a fraction. Her stomach cinched with longing.

And when his mouth touched hers again, this time lingering a second longer, she moved toward him.

But he held himself just slightly out of her reach, tantalizing her lips with quick feather-like brushes.

“Pierre . . .” she breathed as his mouth grazed hers again. The longing that was growing inside told her there was more, much more to a kiss than this sweet teasing. “Please—”

“Say my name again,” he said.

“Pierre,” she whispered against him. “Pierre—”

His lips cut her off with a decisiveness that wrapped around her and wouldn’t let go. He was a current against her, pulling her in, taking her under with his kiss that kept deepening until she was drowning in it.

A screech from above startled her, and she broke away from him. Her breath came in rasps. Guilt and embarrassment rushed over her, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

Pierre released her, but stared at her with an expression that said he was thinking of pulling her back and kissing her more. The warmth twisting in her insides told her that she would have a hard time resisting if he reached for her again.

He lifted a hand to her hair and touched one of her curls. She shook her head and leaned away from him.

He stopped, and his eyes widened. As much as she wanted his affection, her pulse pounded a warning. She couldn’t let him break her heart when he left this time.

Her mind traveled back to the day before he’d departed five years ago, when he’d pulled her along behind him through the woods, just like he had now. And how he’d taken her to one of the cliffs on the shore to show her a broad-winged hawk’s nest. They’d sat for several hours watching the nest. She’d listened as he raged about his frustrations with his father and his family for not understanding him. And when he’d finally exhausted himself, he reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers through hers.

“I love you, Angelique,” he’d said, and then he laid a gentle kiss against her cheek.

At that moment she’d been the happiest thirteen-year-old girl who had ever lived. It hadn’t mattered that he was a man of almost eighteen, that he was angry with the world, that he wanted to leave the island and never come back.

He’d said he loved her.

Her heart had swelled with her own love for him, all the love that had been growing during their childhood. And even though she hadn’t told him that day that she loved him in return, she had.

But then he’d left the next morning. He’d gone without telling her where he was going or when he would return. And he’d taken her heart with him.

Over the years he’d been away, she’d learned there were different kinds of love. That Pierre hadn’t loved her romantically. He’d loved her as a friend. Nothing more.

But the knowledge had hurt her more than she’d wanted to admit. And it had hurt that in all those five years he’d been gone, he hadn’t once thought to write to her or visit or send her even the smallest token of regard.

He’d forgotten all about her. If that had been his definition of love, it hadn’t been the kind she’d wanted.

How could she bear the pain again when he left this time?

She shifted so that she wasn’t touching him. “I’m sorry, Pierre,” she said. “I shouldn’t have . . . we shouldn’t have . . .”

He took off his hat, jabbed his fingers through his hair, and expelled a long, shaky breath.

She fumbled for something to say that would help ease the tension. “I have to be faithful to Jean.”

He jammed his hat back on. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking of Jean.”

They sat silently for a long moment, a breeze swooshing the pine needles around them, rattling the dry pine cones that lingered in the tree, and stirring the thick scent of resin. Through the branches, the open fields spread out before them. They could see almost all the way to the northern beaches of the island.

“You’re leaving soon,” she said, not wanting him to be angry with her. “And when the war is over, Jean will come home and I’m going to marry him.”

Pierre’s shoulders slumped.

Yes, he’d made it clear that he didn’t think Jean was right for her. But did he have deeper reasons for objecting? She fought the flutter of longing. Could his kiss mean he wanted her for himself? Or was he merely charming her like he did most of the women in his life?

After all, she’d seen the way he’d looked at Lavinia. And if he’d been alone with Lavinia in the shadows of a cedar tree, he probably would have kissed her too.

Angelique stifled a shiver. She couldn’t make more out of the moment than it contained. This was Pierre. And Pierre was . . . well, selfish. Wasn’t he?

She picked up one of the ripest, fullest strawberries he’d gathered for her and held it out to him, hoping he’d sense her peace offering.

He hesitated, then with a nod took it from her, popped the green top, and tossed the berry in his mouth.

She let her fingers linger over the berries in her lap, waiting for him to say something, anything. She didn’t want him to leave the island upset at her.