Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(64)

With a hushed gasp she flattened her back against the cedar, gripping the sticky bark with shaky fingers. Had they seen her? She closed her eyes and waited, prayed they wouldn’t spot her and climb up after her. After holding her breath until her lungs burned, she finally exhaled and dared to peer through the branches to the surrounding woods.

She counted at least two dozen Indians hiding around her. They were painted for war and brandishing clubs, hatchets, and even a few muskets. Angelique’s initial assurance in the strength of the Americans quickly faded. She had no doubt the entire woods surrounding the farm field were full of the Indian allies.

They were silent, their bronzed bodies taut, their attention focused on the American soldiers who had begun to march forward.

One of the American officers and his bodyguard moved out in front of the rest. The Americans were obviously hoping to take advantage of the smaller number of British troops that were left. If only they knew the danger that lurked in the shadows.

Angelique wanted to scream, to warn the approaching troops of the ambush, but she found she couldn’t move and couldn’t make her voice work. No matter how hard she tried to speak, fear clamped its hand around her throat and squeezed tight.

The remaining British forces marched toward the Americans and pushed their artillery with them. One of the Indians arose and lifted his musket, aiming it directly at the American officer at the front of the company. The Indian next to him stood and aimed his gun at another officer.

At the bang of the gunfire, the rest of the Indians jumped up and released piercing war cries. They poured from their positions, leaping toward the American troops with raised clubs and hatchets.

The bullet from one of the Indians hit the officer who’d been in the front, killing him instantly. He crumpled forward, his sword and cap flying in front of him as his body struck the earth.

More shots pounded the air. A bullet tore through the arm of one soldier at the same time an Indian hatchet embedded in the chest of another. Horror paralyzed Angelique, forcing her to watch even though she wanted to run as far away as she could and never look back.

For long agonizing moments the United States Army was in disarray and began to fall back, leaving behind their wounded and dead. In the chaos, only one man attempted to drag off one of the wounded soldiers. He moved with speed and agility, blending in so that she hardly would have noticed him, except that he wasn’t in uniform and his hat had been knocked off, revealing dark curls . . .

Pierre! Her mind shouted his name, yet nothing came forth from her mouth. With growing terror she watched him scramble backward toward the woods, dragging the wounded American soldier by both arms. Bullets whizzed around him even as the Indians continued to strike with fierceness.

Her body tensed as she waited for the first bullet to hit Pierre. And sure enough, the next instant he fell backward, disappearing with a crash into the tall brush. All she could think about was that he’d been hit by a stray bullet. That he would end up lying there wounded and bleeding to death. And that he needed her.

Angelique climbed down the branches until she half fell, half jumped to the ground beneath. She didn’t stop to brush off her hands or to see if anyone had noticed her. She couldn’t think of anything but finding Pierre and helping him.

Her heart raced as she ran in the direction where he’d disappeared. When she reached the area, he was no longer in sight. But all she had to do was follow the trail he’d made dragging the body, the blood from the man’s wounds smearing the leaves with bright crimson. And she prayed that Pierre’s blood wasn’t mingled in.

The war whoops and steady gunfire raged behind her. She refused to think about what would happen if the Indians retreated into the woods and found her there.

Instead she forced herself to use every skill Pierre had ever taught her about tracking. When she lost the trail of blood, she decided that Pierre had slung the wounded soldier over his shoulder and had started carrying him. His heavier footsteps were easier to follow, along with the trail of broken stems and crushed wildflowers and only a few smears of blood.

She whispered a desperate prayer that Pierre wasn’t injured too badly. Eventually she figured out where he was headed and picked up her pace.

Her labored breathing drowned out the battle noises in the distance. She didn’t care what else was happening on the island anymore. She didn’t care if the Americans won or lost. All that mattered was making sure Pierre was safe.

She ducked under a fallen tree and then crawled on her hands and knees up an incline until she reached the dark open mouth of a small cave, the cave they’d dubbed Pirate’s Cove when they’d been younger—playing that they were pirates hiding their treasure. She paused, sat back on her heels, and brushed her loose hair off her sticky forehead.

Below, the lake spread out clear and blue. She could see all the way to St. Ignace and could almost pretend the day was just like any other summer day, that the gunfire was only the usual target practice coming from the fort.

But then the blood and carnage she’d witnessed on the battlefield flashed before her mind. No. This was no ordinary day. It was as if the gates of hell had opened and revealed the horrors there.

With a fresh shudder she ducked her head and crawled beneath the overhanging vines and branches that hid the gaping cavern. A cool mustiness greeted her. She started to whisper Pierre’s name when a hand slid across her mouth and cut off her breath. Then an arm wound around her neck, strangling her.