The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  “He is, when we reach the fort.” She scowled up at him. “He says he will be turning in his ranger uniform and is bent on becoming a farmer.”

  The tone of her voice, the curve of her shoulders, the way the first shadows of night darkened her face all spoke of her displeasure. He lowered his cup, intrigued. Most women would think such a pursuit admirable.

  He advanced a step toward her, pulled by such an anomaly. “You think he is making a mistake?”

  Defiance glinted in her brown eyes. “I know he is. Plowing dirt’s not the same as running footloose atop it, free to come and go at will.”

  He blew out a long breath, feeling the bone-crushing weariness of years on the run. What would she say if he told her Matthew’s plans were exactly what he’d be about once he returned to Boston? “Running gets old, Mercy. Everyone realizes that at some point.”

  “What about you?” She cocked her head, much as the jay had earlier. “After you get out of jail, that is. I expect you will run far and wide, not tie yourself to a patch of ground.”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. She would’ve been right even a year ago, but not now. His chuckle turned to ashes in his mouth. Oh François. Had his friend not been washed down the Petawawa River, he’d also planned on leaving behind the voyageur life and putting down roots. Would the knife in his heart ever get pulled out?

  He gulped back the rest of the coffee, grounds and all, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and handed her the cup. “The truth is, Matthew’s plan is the same as mine. I intend to settle on a little place down in Connecticut, near Hartford. Build a house, have some children.”

  She snorted. This close, he saw her nose bunch much the same as a rabbit’s—altogether too charming.

  “You might want to find a wife first, Mr. Dubois.”

  “I already have one. You.”

  Color rose on her cheeks, and he grinned. Teasing this woman was far too gratifying.

  “Your sense of humor is as ridiculous as Mr. Logan’s peacock feather,” she shot back.

  He studied her for a moment, questions sprouting up like a freshly seeded field. Was she never lonely, roaming the woods, always on the move? Did she not long for a home other than the trees overhead or a night in a cave? What kind of woman didn’t yearn to dandle a babe on her knee?

  He dared a step closer. “Do you never think of settling down?”

  She shook her head. “Matthew does that enough for me.”

  “I find it hard to believe no man has ever struck a fancy for you.” Why had no one pursued this rare woman?

  A small smile lifted her lips. “More like I’ve never taken a fancy to any man.”

  She peered at him, a peculiar gleam deepening the brown of her eyes. The same charge he’d felt when first holding her hand sizzled in the air between them.

  He edged nearer, almost breath to breath. Slowly, he brushed his knuckle from her brow to her cheek, then lower to rub against the softness below her jaw. She didn’t lean into his touch, but neither did she veer back or run. She didn’t move at all, save for the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

  “What is it you want out of life, Mercy Lytton?” he whispered—then froze with a sudden realization.

  Everything in him craved for her to say, “You.”

  Her lips parted. He leaned closer—any closer and she’d be in his arms.

  “Peace,” she murmured.

  His hand lowered, and a grin rose. He was a fool. One didn’t expect something as ethereal as star-shine to hunger for a man—especially one such as him.

  “Well.” He retreated a step. “Seems we are in agreement then, just going about it in different ways.”

  “I—”

  A scream ripped through the air, cutting off whatever she’d intended to say. A keening scream, shot through with fear and pain.

  Much pain.

  Mercy dashed after Elias, his long legs outdistancing hers—but not by much. They halted just about even at Nathan and Emmeline Shaw’s wagon. Nathan stood at the front of it, gripping the kickboard, face drained of color and visibly shaking. Jonas and James held on to Nathan’s legs, for once silent. Rufus and Mr. Logan were out on watch, so the footsteps pounding behind her had to belong to Matthew and Amos Shaw.

  Another scream ripped out from behind the wagon, lifting the hairs at the nape of Mercy’s neck.

  Letting go of the kickboard, Mr. Shaw took a step toward her, dragging his boys along with him. “You got to help her, Mrs. Dubois.”

  She clutched her hands in front of her to keep from grabbing Elias’s arm for support, feeling as unsteady as Mr. Shaw looked.

  “I—” Her throat closed. How to explain she could gut an elk, elbow deep in blood and gore, but the thought of seeing a baby birthed turned her stomach inside out?

  “Mercy.” Elias’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, but it was a command nonetheless.

  She lifted her face to him. His blue gaze blazed strong and confident. What she wouldn’t give for some of his strength right about now.

  “You can do this, you hear me?” His words flowed with the power of a mighty river. “Go on.”

  Sucking in a breath for courage, she forced one foot in front of the other, then stopped cold when the next wail of agony rent the evening air.

  Lord, give me strength.

  The wailing ceased, and she pressed on.

  “Emmeline?” Her voice trembled as much as she did.

  Emmeline Shaw stood hunched over, shored up against the wagon, one arm cradling her big belly—with a bloody puddle at her feet. For now, the woman was quiet, but that wouldn’t last long.

  Mercy escaped back to the front of the wagon, gasping for air. This was beyond her. A normal birthing, maybe she could attend, but this? No. Most emphatically not. She scanned the gathering at the front of the wagon, looking for a blond woman clutching a heap of swaddling. Four pairs of worried eyes stared back—the same four she’d left. “Where’s Mary? Emmeline needs her help.”

  Amos Shaw shook his head, avoiding eye contact with his brother Nathan. “My wife, well, she can’t. She…” He retreated a step, tugging his hat brim lower. “No.”

  Nathan advanced, his face paler than a winter moon. “Can I…?”

  Her stomach sank. The man would be less help than her. She closed her eyes, wishing that when she opened them, this would all be nothing more than a nightmare. But another scream pried her eyelids open. There was nothing for it. Either she did this, or the blood of Emmeline Shaw and her baby would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  “Tell us what to do.” Elias’s strong voice was a lifeline.

  Swallowing back the acidic taste rising past her throat, she skewered Emmeline’s husband with a stare she hoped looked imposing. “Boil some water. Keep it hot and bubbly all the while, and make sure to keep your boys with you.”

  Without a word, he pivoted and ushered his young ones toward the campfire.

  “Mr. Shaw.” Her voice yanked up Amos Shaw’s chin. “Bring me whatever clean cloths you and your wife can find. Have them to me as soon as you’re able. Can you do that?”

  He nodded, then turned tail and ran.

  Next, she sought Matthew’s face, all the while fumbling in her bodice for her knife. “Here, sharpen this.” She tossed him her blade.

  He caught it with ease and strode off.

  Elias stood alone, his eyes twin blue fires in the gathering shadows. “What about me?”

  “Get me some kind of light—”

  Another scream howled, ragged with desperation.

  Mercy clenched her teeth, wishing to God she could trade places with him. “And pray. Just…pray.”

  She spun and ran back to Emmeline before she could launch herself into Elias’s arms and bury her face in his shirt.

  Behind the wagon, Emmeline arched and panted, one hand planted into the small of her back. The crazed sheen in her eyes looked far too much like her sister-in-law’s. As Mercy neared the woman, Emmeline grabb
ed her by the arms. “Am I going to lose my baby?”

  Mercy pinched her lips shut. By the looks of it, yes, the woman would—but she forced a small smile. “Of course not. We shall—”

  Emmeline’s head dropped and her grip tightened, her fingers digging deep into Mercy’s flesh. A raspy groan tore from the woman’s throat. This was going fast. Way too fast.

  Mercy rubbed little circles on her back, wishing she could think of something better to do. “Shh, shh.”

  Surprisingly, Emmeline calmed. Not much, but enough to give Mercy an idea. Slowly, quietly, she sang—not a birthing song, for she knew none, but a lullaby. The woman wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

  “Ho, ho, Watanay.

  Ho, ho, Watanay.

  Ho, ho, Watanay.

  Ki-yo-ki-na.

  Ki-yo-ki-na.”

  By the time her voice stilled, so had Emmeline. “Thank you,” the woman whispered.

  She wrapped an arm around Emmeline’s shoulder and gave a little squeeze. “Come on. Let’s try to walk a bit, shall we? I don’t know much about birthing, but I know it is good to walk.”

  Between singing, mopping Emmeline’s brow, and shifting the woman from walking to leaning against her, the hour wore on. Nothing seemed to work, not for long. Night fell hard, yet despite the cool evening air, Emmeline sweated and writhed as if the heat of a July afternoon bore down on her. Between her groans and moans, she called for her mother.

  And Mercy did not blame her. She’d not missed her own mother so keenly since the day she’d walked away from her grave three years back. In between Emmeline’s pains, Mercy fingered her locket. Her mother would have known what to do in this situation. She always knew when it came to matters of women. How to soothe. Ways to comfort. Methods of easing the hurt. For the first time in her life, she wished she’d listened to her mother rather than despising her soft ways.

  Emmeline stilled suddenly. So did she. Was this it? Would the woman die in front of her? Blast that Mr. Logan for hauling the Shaws out to the wilderness.

  “God, please,” Mercy breathed out. “I’m not much for prayer, but save this woman and her child despite my lack.”

  During one of their treks around the wagon, Elias had set a lantern on the ground next to a pile of quilts at the back, giving them a privacy of sorts. In the soft glow of lamplight, Emmeline Shaw’s gaze shot to hers and her mouth opened into a big O, but no sound came out. Suddenly the woman grabbed the back of the wagon and lowered into a squat, all air huffing out of her lungs.

  Mercy’s heart stopped—until a wriggling mass landed on the blankets.

  Emmeline sank back, breathing hard. Mercy grabbed a clean cloth and scooped up the babe, wiping the newborn’s nose and mouth.

  A lusty cry broke out. This time the squall of a little one.

  Mercy’s arms shook as she rubbed the wetness off Emmeline’s new daughter. She wrapped the girl tight in another cloth, then handed her to her mother.

  “Ohh.” Emmeline’s one word—and not even a word at that—rang sweetly in the thick night air. It was a victory cry. A benediction. An all-is-well-with-the-world kind of coo.

  For the first time in hours, the tension in Mercy’s shoulders unknotted. The woman wasn’t quite out of danger yet, but hopefully the worst of it was over. Giving Emmeline a moment to breathe, Mercy stood and stretched. It would be best to put everyone’s mind at ease. But as she took a step forward, the lantern’s glow highlighted a white face in the darkness.

  Mary Shaw stood at the edge of the reach of light, glowering. Her arms empty at her sides. The swaddling blankets lay in the dirt.

  Elias’s head bobbed to his chest, then immediately snapped up. He couldn’t afford to doze off, not when those Shaw boys could awaken at any time and sneak off in the darkness. Rubbing a hand over his face, he leaned his head back against the tree trunk, then blinked over to where the boys lay sleeping on the ground. His frock coat, thrown over the top of them, didn’t move a whit. Good. The rascals were still a-slumber in the quiet.

  Wait a minute…quiet?

  He jumped to his feet, instantly alert. Leaves shushed overhead. Night insects clicked. Across the clearing, the fire yet crackled—unattended. And not one groan or moan droned on the air.

  Elias padded past the boys on silent feet, then lengthened his steps into a long-legged stride. Amos Shaw, arm slung around his weeping wife’s shoulders, led her off to their wagon. Mercy stood in conversation with Nathan Shaw in front of the other wagon, but not for long. The man scrambled to the back side of the canvas, where Elias had earlier laid out blankets and a lantern.

  Upping his pace, Elias clenched his teeth. By the looks of it, a whole lot of grief had broken wide open, and Mercy had been the one to have to deliver the awful news. It was his fault, the way she rested her hand against the wagon’s side and propped herself up. Her long braid drooped. So did her shoulders. She’d not wanted to attend the birth in the first place—and he’d been the one to suggest it.

  He drew up in front of her, the urge to pull her into his arms so strong, he flexed his fingers. “How is Mrs. Shaw?”

  A weak smile curved her lips. Ah, but this woman was brave.

  “Emmeline and her daughter are fine for the moment. But Mary Shaw—”

  “Whoa.” He shot up a hand. “The woman and the babe are doing fine?”

  She nodded. Loosened hair—her hat dispensed of hours ago—fell onto her brow, and she pulled it back. “They are.”

  He chuckled. “Thank God. And thank you. You are a wonder, you know that?”

  “Nature’s a wonder, not me.” She reached for her locket, this time already worked loose from her bodice. How many times had she clutched that thing for strength during Emmeline’s arduous labor?

  She peered up at him. “Would that I could do something for Mary Shaw. I fear she has lost whatever sense she had left.”

  The mournful wail of a screech owl sounded from the woods, adding a haunting quality to Mercy’s words. Life could be harsh sometimes, downright throat-slitting harsh…and well did he know it.

  So did Mercy, judging by the bow of her head.

  He reached for her, wishing to soothe away all that she’d endured this night—then pulled back before his fingers touched her hair. He had no right to do so, no claim on this woman, so why the persistent desire to touch her? A strange fire burned in his belly, and he retreated a step.

  “How do you fare?” His voice cracked at the edges.

  She didn’t seem to notice. She merely angled her face and stared off into the night. “You know that feeling after a breakneck run, when you’re bone-weary but the excitement of it is still jittering through your body?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  Her gaze slid to his, and she smiled, so brilliant it shamed the starlight. “That is how I feel.”

  He couldn’t help but grin back. “You did a good thing.”

  “Well, I’m not finished yet. There’s more to be done.” She turned to leave.

  But he stayed her with a hand to her shoulder. “You want I should haul that boiling water over?”

  Her brow scrunched and she cocked her head; then as suddenly, the look disappeared and she laughed. “No, it is not needed.”

  Her words chased circles in his head, never landing in a coherent line.

  “Then why did you have Mr. Shaw tend that water this whole time?”

  She shrugged, taking her braid along for a ride on her slim shoulders. “He needed something to do other than worry himself over his wife and babe. Besides, we can use it to launder the soiled quilts.”

  He sucked in a breath. The woman was cunning, but not like most women. He’d had his fill of the conniving sort, always trying to gain what they wanted at the expense of others. But the brown-eyed beauty blinking up at him was nothing of the kind. Though he was her sham husband in a faux marriage, he suddenly understood some of what Nathan Shaw must’ve felt this night at the thought of losing the one he loved most.

&
nbsp; “Tell me true, Mercy, if we had not been here—if you had not been here—would Mrs. Shaw and her baby have made it?”

  She said nothing, just stared at him. But she didn’t have to. The owl answered for her, chanting its woeful dirge.

  Rage prickled hot up his spine. “Blast that Logan!” He wheeled about.

  “Elias? Where are you going?”

  “To have a word with the man,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Why don’t you sleep on it? Save it for morning.”

  He left her and her questions behind. Too much pent-up anger simmered to a boiling point. Rufus’s slights and grievances were nothing in comparison to Logan’s. That fool led these honest people to their deaths. He tromped down the trail to the riverbank, where Logan should’ve been on watch, should’ve heard him coming—or at the very least seen him.

  But the man sat with his back against a rock, eyes closed, head tilted and mouth open. Snores issued on the inhales.

  Elias nudged the man’s leg with the toe of his moccasin, hoping the restraint of not kicking the fool in the gut would please God—for it surely did not satisfy him. “Get up, Logan.”

  The man’s head bobbed forward. “What? Who’s—”

  “I said get up.” Bending, he grabbed a handful of the man’s coat and yanked him to his feet. “That Shaw woman nearly died because of you tonight, and you sleep?”

  Fully awake now, Logan glowered and batted at his arm. “Unhand me!”

  He clenched the fabric all the tighter, wishing he’d grabbed higher and squeezed the man’s neck instead. “I ought to string you up myself.”

  The man’s face blanched in the darkness. “Put me down!”

  “Fine.” Using all his muscle, he whumped the fellow to the ground, flat on his back.

  Logan gasped for air.

  Elias widened his stance and stood over him, like the Grim Reaper come to call. “When you get these people to Fort Wilderness—if you can manage that—then you find them another guide. You are done. You hear me?”

  “You cannot dictate”—he wheezed—“what I…or the Shaws do.”

  “True. I cannot.” He folded his arms. “But if I hear you led these people out beyond the fort, what I can do is hunt you down. And that is a promise.”