Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(45)

An oil lantern flared inside the cabin, lighting up the interior. From where he stood, Pierre caught a glimpse of Papa’s paddle on the wall. The brightly painted red and blue pattern rose up to mock him, to remind him of the day Papa had hung it on the wall and made the declaration that he’d never use it again, that his days of fur trading were over.

It had been the spring after Papa’s last voyage. He’d paddled back to the island, walked away from his brigade on the beach, and the first thing he’d done when he walked in the house was nail the paddle to the wall. Then he’d taken Maman in his arms, kissed her long and hard, and told her he’d never leave her again.

Pierre swallowed a lump that arose at the memory.

Papa had declared he was a changed man, that he’d turned his life over to the Lord, and that he wanted to put his house in order—namely loving his wife and children the way God wanted him to. He claimed that once a man had a wife and family, he couldn’t abandon them for nine months of the year for his work.

And Pierre agreed. He’d vowed he would never do that to a wife. He wouldn’t marry a woman and leave her behind. And he certainly wouldn’t bring her along with him into the wilderness. Living out of a canoe was no kind of life for a wife and children.

Pierre stared hard at the paddle on the wall. The truth was, if he wanted to be with a woman he loved, he’d have to give up his fur-trading ways, like his father had.

Could he ever do that? Could he ever give up the wilderness and his traveling in order to have such a love?

Through the open door he saw Angelique assist Maman into a kitchen chair. She began unraveling the plait Maman wore at the back of her neck until her long hair hung free.

His chest expanded at the thought that Angelique had risked leaving the inn to help Maman with a bath and washing her hair.

Angelique MacKenzie was the sweetest, kindest woman he’d ever met.

If there was a woman who could make him want to give up everything he loved to settle down, she just might be the one.





Chapter

13



In the blackness of the hallway, Angelique crept up the ladder to her dormer room, praying the rungs wouldn’t squeak. She’d taken too long with Miriam’s care.

As she’d slipped into the inn, past the crowded dining room toward the back stairway, she’d held her breath, waiting for Ebenezer to step into the kitchen and stop her. But apparently he’d overstayed his time on the beach with the Indian women and wasn’t home to catch her sneaking in.

She fumbled in the dark to find the door latch, but stopped short when her fingers brushed against the metal hook dangling instead of locked snugly the way she’d left it that morning.

Her muscles tensed. Someone had gone into her room.

Though Ebenezer often clamored up and down the ladder into the attic for supplies, he always latched the door. Had one of the voyageurs snuck up into the dark corridor? Was someone waiting even as she climbed, ready to jump out on her as she made her way to her pallet?

She pushed at the trapdoor, then hesitated. She’d never had any trouble with a voyageur sneaking into the private quarters of the inn. Ebenezer insisted the men use the side stairway on the outside of the inn that led to the long bedroom above the dining area.

A sharp cry came from the direction of the room Betty shared with Ebenezer. Was the intruder attacking Betty? Angelique shuddered while slipping back down the ladder. She couldn’t let the poor girl suffer, not with the unborn child at risk too.

Angelique stumbled through the dark hallway, skimming her fingers along the wall until she brushed against the door handle. She paused and listened. The usual raucous laughter and loud voices of the men drinking and playing cards came from downstairs. The tobacco smoke from their pipes had filtered through the stickiness of the night and hung heavy in the air. Yet Betty’s room remained silent.

If only she had a weapon. Maybe she should return to the kitchen and find a knife. Or she could grab her ivory-handled comb in her room. The prongs were sharp.

She had started to spin toward the ladder when another of Betty’s cries stopped her. She didn’t have time to go for a weapon. Without another thought, she swung open the door and plunged into the darkened chamber. “Betty?” she called.

The slithering of sheets mingled with strangled panting.

Angelique squinted through the darkness at the bed. Betty lay alone, writhing and gripping her distended abdomen.

“I think it’s time to have the baby,” the girl moaned.

Angelique crossed the room to the edge of the bed. Her earlier fear was swept away by a new panic. “I’ll call for the midwife.”

Betty let out another sharp cry. “It . . . it might be too late for that.”

“What can I do?” Angelique knew almost nothing about birthing babies, and she dreaded what Ebenezer would do if she didn’t go find the midwife. His last wife had died in birthing. He certainly wouldn’t want Betty giving birth at Angelique’s inexperienced hands.

“I really should call for the midwife,” she said, her voice trembling as she searched the darkness for a lantern.

“If you’d been here earlier when I came looking for you, then you might have had time. Now it’s too late.”

So Betty had been the one to climb into the attic and had discovered her absence.

“I suppose you’re sneaking down to the beach to fornicate too,” Betty said bitterly.