Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(65)

Chapter

18



The hand at her mouth was slimy with the metallic scent of blood. “Don’t move” came a harsh whisper.

It was Pierre. She sagged back against him and let the solidness of his chest hold her up. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know it was her. She pressed a kiss against his palm, tasting the saltiness of blood, and she prayed it wasn’t his.

His grip fell away and he spun her around, lifting his hands to her face, caressing her cheeks. “Angelique?” His whisper was an echo of surprise.

“Yes.” Her hands moved to his arms, to his chest, searching for a wound. “Are you injured?”

“Non, ma cherie. I’m fine.”

She expelled a long sigh, then jerked away at the realization of her forwardness. “I thought maybe you’d been shot.”

“What are you doing here?” The surprise evaporated, and his voice became hard. “You’re supposed to be in the fort.”

“I couldn’t make myself go back, not without knowing you were safe.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I saw you pull the wounded soldier from the battle and I tracked you here.”

He released her and groaned. The coldness of the cavern slinked around her, and she hugged her arms across her chest.

“Then you were at the battle?”

“No one followed me,” she said quickly. “They’re all still fighting.”

“I’m not worried about being followed. I’m worried about you getting hurt.”

“What about the soldier?” she asked, glancing at the prostrate form of the wounded man. Finally her eyes began to adjust to the light coming from the shaded opening of the cave.

“You shouldn’t have come. I can’t do anything else now until I take you back and make sure you’re safe inside the fort.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I was fine all winter—”

He grabbed her arms, cutting off her words. “Don’t tell me not to worry, that you’ll be fine. Not when I’m scared to death that something will happen to you.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d found yourself a woman, Pierre” came a weak voice from deeper in the cave. “Sounds like you’re having a lovers’ quarrel.”

Pierre didn’t respond, though his grip on her arms tightened. She didn’t budge. Something in the soldier’s voice drew her attention.

“Who is it, Pierre?” The question from the soldier was stronger this time, and his voice sounded familiar.

She gasped. “Jean? You pulled Jean from the battle?”

Pierre nodded.

Jean. Her Jean was there. And he was injured. A fresh burst of anxiety broke through her chest. Before Pierre could say anything more, she wrenched away from him and hurried across the cave toward Jean.

Once she was beside him, her pulse thudded with nervousness. “Jean, it’s me. Angelique.”

“Angelique?” He pushed himself to his elbows. Through the faint light she could see the outline of his face. The beard and mustache were new since he’d left the island. His dusty blond hair was longer. But otherwise he seemed unchanged.

She knelt next to him, willing herself to feel some enthusiasm for seeing him again, even the tiniest amount of joy. Yet besides concern over his injury, all she felt was a strange emptiness.

He let himself fall back to the dirt floor, as if the effort to raise himself had completely exhausted him. He held out a hand. “Angelique, is it really you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, putting her hand in his. “It’s really me.”

A smile lit his grime-streaked face, and for a long moment the tight lines of pain eased. He brought her hand to his chest and laid it near his heart. “Angelique, my sweet girl.”

Pierre edged next to her, and she could feel the heat and strength of his body. He had to crouch low under the slanted ceiling of the cave. He let his shoulder brush against hers with a familiarity that made her cringe with shame. She couldn’t let Jean see them together. Not here, not when he was wounded.

“Where are you hurt?” She scanned his uniform through the darkness.

“It’s not too serious.” He pointed toward his lower body. He grimaced and was obviously fighting back a contortion of pain. “Took a bullet in my leg. That’s all.”

Pierre leaned against her again. To break the contact with Pierre, she bent over Jean and searched for his wound. Her fingers found the wet spot in his trousers below his knee. The fabric was saturated. He’d lost a lot of blood.

She brushed against a length of ripped linen tied tightly above the wound. At least Pierre had attempted to stem the flow. Even so, the ball needed to be removed from his flesh before infection set in.

At her slight touch, he hissed. “Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked.

“I’ve forgotten about it now that you’re here.” Jean’s voice was pinched, but he held her hand against his heart as if that were the healing touch he needed. And he smiled again at her. Even through the darkness she could see his eyes glimmering with happiness. “You look so beautiful. Just the sight of you is enough.”

She returned his smile and let him stare at her. In her usual plain garments she knew she was nothing special to look at. She wished she wanted to stare at him in return, but his presence, his lanky body, his scruffy face, his kind eyes didn’t stir anything in her the way the sight of Pierre did.