Mercy’s gasp collided with Elias’s. Her gaze snapped to him. His dark eyes burned into hers, wide open.
Amos chuckled. “That is what I thought. Go on now. We’ll relieve your men when they come in.”
Elias let go of her hand. “No, I—”
“Go on now. I mean it.” Amos shooed him off with his free arm. “The missus and I won’t move a step till you settle.”
“Not a single step,” Mary repeated.
Beside her, Elias blew out a low breath and mumbled, “Much obliged.” Then he pivoted and stalked off.
Leaving her alone. Blinking. Feet itching to tear off into the woods. But that was not what a wife would do, was it?
Grabbing handfuls of her skirt, she padded to where Elias waited at the front of the wagon.
His face was more shadowed than the twilight. “After you.” He swept out a hand.
Surely he couldn’t be serious. Yet there he stood, unmoving, a determined clench to his jaw.
Swallowing, she climbed into the seat, then worked her way through the opening of the canvas, more aware than she ought to be of the man following her.
Once inside, she immediately turned. Better to face a danger than be attacked from behind. If he thought to act upon that which the Shaws had hinted at, she’d gut him before he could holler for help.
But his blue eyes merely burned into hers, some kind of pleading bending his brow. “Mercy, I—”
His voice weighed heavy with an emotion she did not want to guess, for her own feelings surged in a dangerous swirl.
She backed over the crates and pulled out her knife, brandishing the blade for a quick strike if need be. “Keep your distance, Mr. Dubois.”
The heat of a summer day warmed Elias’s back. Small puffs tickled the hair at the nape of his neck, as feverish as an August breeze. His spirit quieted, so peaceful and calm the moment. It was a dream. He knew it. But he held on to the sweet sensations with all his strength. This kind of tranquility hadn’t bathed him in years. Decades, were he honest. He rolled over, sinking deeper into such serenity.
Until a faint coo shot his eyes open.
A breath away, in the soft light of early dawn, an angel slept deep and even. Mercy’s familiar scent of pine and woman instantly awoke his every nerve. Her dark lashes curved shut above high cheekbones. Her lips were parted, barely, issuing the warmth he’d felt on his neck—which now brushed against his mouth like a kiss. How sweet would that taste?
He should leave. Now. Crawl right out the canvas opening and let the cold air slap him in the face. He should. He swallowed. All the should in the world never had kept him from reaching for trouble. Only the grace of God had stayed his hand.
Give me strength now, Lord.
Slowly, his gaze moved from the sleeping eyes, to the full lips, to the hollow at the base of her bare neck where a gold chain hung heavy, weighted by a ruby heart. Her long hair, free of her braid, draped over her shoulder, spilling across her waist and highlighting the swell of her hips. A charge ran through him. If he moved, slightly, he could pull that body against his and—
He bolted up, not caring if his rash movements woke the sleeping beauty. He needed air, and lots of it. He dove out the canvas opening and scrambled to the ground.
Straight into the barrel of a musket. His hands shot up in reflex.
“There a problem, Mr. Dubois?” Matthew’s voice, barely above a whisper, shouted a threat as cold and hard as the muzzle shoved into his chest. The man’s eyes were hidden in the thin light of a morning just waking and the thick shadow of his hat brim, pulled low. Had he been out here all night?
Elias lowered his hands and lifted his chin. “Nothing to concern you.”
Matthew looked past him, gun still trained on his heart. “You all right, Mercy?”
He didn’t need to turn around to know a brown-eyed woman stared out from the canvas hole.
“I am fine.”
Her words were sleep-laced and breathy, rekindling his desire.
Slowly, the gun lowered, and Matthew nodded at him. “Get yourself out on watch. A walk will do you good.”
Bypassing the older man, Elias stalked off, glad for the task. Matthew couldn’t have been more right. He did need a walk—a very long one.
By the time he returned, sun painted the camp brilliant. One Shaw woman sat on a log, fussing with the wrappings of her baby. Her sister-in-law hauled one of her boys with a firm grasp on his ear toward the wagon she shared with her husband. The other boy scampered too close to the fire. Matthew and the two Shaw men worked with the broken wheel. And Rufus, as usual, was nowhere to be seen.
Mercy stood on the far side of the clearing, red-faced and aiming a finger at Logan much the same as the muzzle he’d faced earlier this morn. What the devil?
He strode over to the pair, catching the tail end of Mercy’s heated words.
“Stray near those belongings or me again, and your scalp will be swinging from my apron ties.”
Elias’s brows shot skyward.
Logan’s face paled to an ugly shade of gruel. Without a rebuttal, he pivoted and trotted off like a hound from a cornered badger. Even the ridiculous feather in his hat seemed to droop.
Elias stifled a chuckle. “Remind me not to cross you.”
She faced him and her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. So she hadn’t thought before shooting her word arrows.
This time he couldn’t stop a laugh. “What did Logan do this time?”
Her hand fell, and red crept up her neck. “He was poking around our load. Said he was looking for a whetstone to sharpen his knife. A whetstone! You’d think we’d brought the whole of a fort’s provisions with us. Why, I—” She cocked her head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Sunshine warmed her skin to a burnt-honey glow, highlighting every curve he’d appreciated earlier in the dark. The fire of her words reminded him all too much of the heat she’d radiated next to him in the wagon. His grin widened. If he answered her question, his scalp would be swinging from her apron strings right next to Logan’s.
He wheeled about and retraced his steps back to where the men worked. Matthew and Amos Shaw pounded away on the iron tire ring. Nathan Shaw sat on a rock, whittling a new spoke.
Squinting against the sun, Nathan peered up at him. “Looks like you married a feisty one.” His lips parted in a sloppy grin. “’Tis worth it, though, especially once the younguns come along. Love’s always worth the trouble, eh?”
Was it? He had no experience. Nothing to measure Nathan’s words against. He cast a glance over his shoulder. A brown braid swished wide down Mercy’s back as she darted toward the fire to yank away the Shaw boy.
Yet as he watched her pull the lad from danger, he had a niggling feeling that Nathan might be right. For the love of this woman, any amount of trouble might be worth the effort.
Moisture trickled down Mercy’s back as she darted toward the fire. She’d been chasing after fools all morning. First little James Shaw, unattended down by the river. Then Garret Logan, poking around their belongings as if he owned them. Now James’s twin brother, Jonas, played an insane game of pitching rocks onto the fire, shooting up sparks and scattering the coals the men would need for the wheel. If one of those burning embers flew out and hit the five-year-old, the child could be branded or blinded. She upped her pace, unsure which provoked her more—the mischievous boy or Mary Shaw, who sat on a log nearby, ignoring all but the bundle of empty swaddling in her arms.
Jonas hefted another rock, raising it high. Mercy sprang, grabbing the boy’s arm before he could swing.
“Enough!” She tugged him around, his brown eyes widening from the surprise attack. “Fire is not a plaything. You could get hurt—ow!”
Pain bit into her shin, and the rascal wrenched from her grasp. Jonas Shaw scampered off laughing while she sported the beginning of a bruise from where he’d kicked her. She clenched her fists, breathing out a string of oaths in Mohawk. The scamp reminded her far t
oo much of Onontio when he was a boy.
The fuss broke the trance of Mary Shaw, who peered up from her perch on the log. “You shall make a fine mother, Mrs. Dubois.”
She froze, breath hitching in her chest. What was she to say to that?
“Oh, don’t fret.” The woman smiled, clutching her blankets tighter to her chest. “I see the way your husband looks at you. It’ll happen soon enough.”
Despite the warmth of the day, a shiver ran across her shoulders. Mary Shaw was crazy, plain and simple. And she ought to know, for as a young girl she had frequently been in the presence of insanity. How many times had she sat cross-legged with a heart full of doubt, listening to the tribe’s milky-eyed oracle spin crazy tales of fire monsters or talking trees?
Unbidden, her gaze strayed to where the men worked. Elias’s broad back all but blocked her view of whoever it was he was talking to. His felt hat rode proud atop his tousled hair, the ends of which curled against his shoulders. A waft of breeze carried his scent, so well did she know it by now, for she’d breathed it in all night when he’d lain beside her, separated by only a blanket and her knife. Her mouth dried to dust at the memory, shame rising up. She’d meant to stay awake the night through, on guard against any untoward advances. But the peace of his steady breathing and the comfort of a warm body at her back fighting the chill of evening air had embraced her in a way she’d never known.
Without warning, Elias turned, his blue eyes seeking hers, pulling her close in ways that pulsed warmth to her cheeks. She gasped at the tangible connection. How had he known she was looking at him?
She spun back to Mary, then wished she hadn’t, for the woman’s gaze was every bit as canny as Elias’s.
A smile beamed on the woman’s face. “The only thing better than the love of a good man is bearing his little one.”
Mercy turned and fled, following the earlier route of Jonas when he’d escaped her. She needed air, solitude, a lung-clearing scream, something. Anything but the strange allure of a traitor and the babble of an addlepated woman. She rounded the corner of the Shaws’ wagon, intent on beating a path to the river, when Emmeline Shaw appeared, a wriggling boy in her grasp.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Dubois, but I saw what my son did to you, and Jonas here has something to say.” She nudged the boy forward, planting him between herself and Mercy. “Go on, Jonas.”
The boy kicked at the dirt with one toe. “Saw-ree-missus-do-bwa,” he mumbled.
His mother thumped him on the head. “Jonas Shaw, you apologize proper, right this minute, or I will have your father take care of this.”
His chin shot up, the threat flaring his little nostrils. “I apologize, Mrs. Dubois.”
She pressed her lips together, making him squirm a bit, then offered the boy a smile for doing the right thing. “Apology accepted. Now, stay away from the fire, you hear?”
Jonas nodded then darted off before his mother could yank him back.
Emmeline’s gaze followed the lad, a frown creasing her brow. “Those boys are like to be the death of—oh!”
A groan stole the rest of the woman’s words. Emmeline Shaw bent, hand on her swollen belly, gasping.
Mercy shot into action, wrapping her arm around the woman’s shoulders and leading her to a crate near the wagon. She guided Emmeline to sit, wishing she could drop onto a seat as well. Every time a woman in the village went into the birthing hut, Mercy ran the other way. Some women relished the process of bringing a new life into the world. Not her.
“Mrs. Shaw, tell me true.” She crouched and peered into the woman’s face, moisture dotting both their brows. “Is that baby coming?”
Emmeline sucked in a big breath, then straightened, color returning to her cheeks. “No, not yet, I think. Leastwise I hope not. It is too soon.”
Though the woman appeared to be recovering, unease tightened Mercy’s chest. If that babe came now, Mrs. Shaw would be likely to lose it—and possibly meet the same fate as her sister-in-law, clutching a heap of empty swaddlings and crooning lullabies to a nonexistent child. Blast that Mr. Logan for leading this family out at such a time—unless there was some reason she didn’t know about.
She smoothed back a hank of blond hair from Emmeline’s face, sneaking a feel of the woman’s forehead in the process. Cool to the touch. That was good. She sank back onto her heels and smiled at Emmeline. “Tell me, Mrs. Shaw, why did you leave Fort Edward? Why did you not stay until the baby came?”
“Mr. Logan said we needed to reach the lake before the heat of summer.”
“The heat of summer?” She cocked her head. “I never heard of such a thing. Usually guides are more concerned about winter snows.”
Mrs. Shaw rubbed her belly, arching her back but not groaning. “Mr. Logan says heat is the bane of all travelers.”
Maybe for that big skin of hot air, but a larger problem would be the war being waged on whites and reds alike—and these people were headed in the direction of land that was in the heart of it all. She frowned. “What lake are you talking about?”
“Lake Ontario.”
She stood and smoothed her skirt with her hands, schooling her face to hide the horror the woman’s words birthed. How could the Shaws have missed hearing about a war that’d been raging for near to five years now? “Surely you know, Mrs. Shaw, that there’s already a post—a French post—at Fort Niagara, on the westernmost shore of Lake Ontario.”
“Exactly.” The woman nodded, eyes flashing bright. “We’ll be the first to set up an English post in that territory. My husband and his brother say there’s a lot of money in fur nowadays—more so than they could make in a lifetime had we remained in New York. We’ve scrimped and saved for a year now, selling all to purchase a load of trade goods. That is the beauty of it.”
“That is the danger of it!”
“But Mr. Logan says this is the only way to gain an edge over the traders on the Mohawk River. We’ll have first access to the finest furs before they travel from the Great Lakes on down to New York.”
Mercy’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Sure, they would have first access, but only if they lived long enough to establish a foothold in the trading industry—and with Logan leading them out beyond Fort Wilderness, that wasn’t likely.
Splaying her fingers, she swung her long braid back behind her shoulder. “How did you say you met up with Mr. Logan?”
“Mr. Logan placed a post in the Evening Gazette and Universal Advertiser. Did you know he is one of the top ten guides listed in the paper? We were fortunate he took us on.”
Ill fortune, more likely. She cleared her throat to keep from snorting. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now, I suppose.”
“How’s that?”
“Look, Mrs. Shaw, you have not yet begun to face danger. Once you pass Fort Wilderness, you will be on your own with no one between you and peril but Mr. Logan. Mightn’t your husband consider turning south, or better yet turning back? At least hiring a different guide at Fort Edward?”
“Turn back?” The lady worried her bottom lip with her teeth as if the words tasted bitter. “I don’t understand.”
Blood. Gore. Death and sorrow. It was a blessing Emmeline did not understand what was ahead of her—and far be it from her to tell the woman. “I’m thinking your Mr. Logan isn’t as experienced as he claims.”
For a moment, the woman’s brows pulled in to a tight knot, then slowly loosened. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Dubois, and I sorrow over whatever misfortunes made you and your family head back east. But regardless of Mr. Logan, I trust my husband. Nathan’s looking out for us as surely as Mr. Dubois looks out for you.”
A sigh drained the rest of her fight, and she rose to her feet. The woman’s trust in her husband was commendable—but completely naive. From what she’d seen of the Shaw men, they didn’t have half the wilderness sense of Elias. Or Matthew.
She spun and stomped off, annoyed that Elias came to mind sooner than her old friend.
An
early evening breeze blew away the chatter near the fire. Where he stood, yards away, Elias drank in the moment of relative quiet, save for the squawk of a jay on a nearby branch. He crouched in front of the newly constructed wheel, examining the workmanship for a last time before joining the others. Running a finger along every seam, he tested the strength of each new spoke, then squinted to blur the outline and gauge the shape. The thing appeared to be the picture of sturdiness, a testament to the value of many hands lightening the work. Not that the Shaws were expert wheelwrights, but they labored as a team—unlike Rufus and Logan.
“I’ve brought you something.”
Startled, he shot to his feet, reaching for a gun he did not have, a reaction honed from years of experience—yet one unnecessary in this instance. He turned to face Mercy, who smirked at his obvious surprise.
He grinned in return. “Even with a toe on the mend, you move on panther paws.”
“I wouldn’t be a good scout if I banged around like the Shaws. Here”—she held out a mug—“I figured it a wifely thing to bring you some of this.”
The rich scent of coffee hit his nose, as stunning as her words, and he took the cup from her. “Thunder and turf! Where did you find this?” He slugged back a mouthful of the brew, ignoring the burn and relishing the flavor.
“The Shaws have many unnecessary things. Mr. Logan’s ideas of provisions are peculiar at best.” She leaned against the oak trunk, scaring the jay off its perch. Her gaze landed on the wheel at his feet. “Matthew says you will be able to give that a go tomorrow.”
“He is right.” He savored another mouthful, appreciating both the coffee and the ranger. “Matthew is a good man. I see why you took up with him.”
She nodded, still staring at the wheel. “I will miss him, for certain.”
She’d miss the man? He grunted. What was Matthew—or she—planning? “Who is doing the leaving, you or him?”
The Captured Bride Page 10