The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  Rising, he stared into the maze of brilliant greens and browns. Wherever she went, she’d gone willingly.

  He pivoted and faced the wagon behind his, lifting his palm toward Rufus. “Hold on.”

  Rufus turned aside and spit off the side of the wagon, then spit out a curse as well. “We ain’t got time to be waiting!”

  Elias frowned. He knew that better than anyone. Strange though to see Rufus ruffled up about anything other than the next meal.

  “This will not take long.” He strode off, glad to leave behind the sour-faced complainer. It was a wonder the young man had lasted this long as a regular without a cashiering.

  The trail was easy enough to follow, with no trace of care being taken to cover the tracks. Ahead, twenty yards into the forest, a small shape took on form, bent low to the ground. At twelve yards, he distinguished a dark stripe splitting that shape—a long, dark braid—and he upped his pace. He stopped only steps away from where Mercy curled over in a patch of flattened trillium. Alone. Was she sick?

  “Mercy?” he murmured so as not to startle her. “What ails you?”

  She jerked upright, the cloth across her shoulders stretched taut. She said nothing, nor did she face him.

  “Are you ill?” he tried again.

  “I…I am fine. Give me a moment.”

  The hesitation, the stutter, the slight tremble shimmying down her backbone all twisted a knife in his chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  In two strides he bent and gripped her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. Before he could turn her around, she wrenched from his grasp and scuttled away, picking up her gun where she’d dropped it.

  He froze, fully prepared for her to swing the barrel straight for his chest, but she did not. She just stood there, cradling her gun, breathing hard—and that kindled a fear in him more terrible than staring down a cold, gray muzzle.

  “Mercy, look at me. I would see your face.”

  “Go.” Her voice shook, throaty and unsteady. “I will take first scout.”

  “Matthew is already on it.” Using all his skills at shadow walking, he approached her on silent feet, stopping inches behind her. “Now, turn around.”

  She whirled, eyes red, wet stains yet shiny on her smooth cheeks. “Go away!”

  The tension in his jaw loosened. This she-devil he could work with. “Your brother brought news?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, her dark gaze narrowing. “What would you know of that?”

  “I followed two sets of prints from the wagon to the wood’s edge. Yours and those deep and long enough to belong to a big man, just like your brother. I did not figure you would go willingly with anyone else.”

  She sighed, mournful as a dove. The nod of her head looked as if it took all her strength—and more. Sweet mercy! What awful news had the man brought her?

  He looked past her, expecting the painted shapes of warriors to spring out at any moment. “Are we in danger?”

  “Life is danger.” The emptiness in her tone chilled the sun’s warmth. No one should sound so hollow.

  He cut his gaze back to her. “What happened?”

  Her lower lip quivered. A single fat tear fell, riding the curve of her cheek. “Our father—” Her voice broke.

  So did his usual reserve. The woman was naught but a sorrow-filled waif, gripping a gun too big and a grief too great. He opened his arms, offering, hoping, and surprisingly willing to take on her pain instead of running the other way. He hardly knew himself anymore.

  And that was a very good thing.

  Mercy blinked, loosing a fresh burst of tears—then dropped her gun and plowed into him. He staggered from the force of her assault, her weeping, her ragged cries. Wrapping his arms around her, he held on through the storm.

  “My father is gone,” she wailed into his chest. “My village…and now my brother. There is nothing for me to go home to.”

  Her pain lanced through his heart, making it hard to distinguish from his own.

  “I hardly know the meaning of the word home,” he mumbled against the top of her head, more to himself than to her. He knew the horrid feeling all too well, the sudden ripping away of the ground he’d always stood on. The plummeting sensation of not knowing where to land, how to land. If he’d land. All the emotions of losing his mother as a young lad, the regret of not making peace with his grandfather before he died, barreled back, unexpectedly vivid.

  He clung to Mercy every bit as much as she pressed into him.

  Eventually her breathing evened, and she stilled. It wouldn’t be long before she pulled away, but for now, he cherished the trusting way she leaned against him, drawing from his strength. Would that they might stand here forever, him bearing her up, her warming his arms. A perfect fit. Like none he’d ever known.

  “Dubois! Where are you?”

  Rufus’s voice hit him from behind, shattering the moment. Mercy jerked away and retrieved her gun, the loss of her from his arms near to unbearable.

  He blew out a sigh, letting go of the gift. He’d learned long ago that nothing beautiful lasted, save for eternity. “Did your brother know anything of that sign we found last night?”

  “No. He killed the man before he could talk.” She glanced at him as she passed by. “But he was a Wyandot.”

  Once again he gazed at the endless stretch of trees. Wyandot. Had that message been for him? Because if it was, then he really had trouble. Good thing they would put plenty of time and space between this place and themselves by the time two days were spent.

  If the new wagon wheel proved roadworthy.

  Mercy ran, the gun at her back bouncing a rhythm against her spine.

  The strap dug into her chest, but that did not slow her. Driving herself hard and fast, she ignored the fatigue in her quivering muscles. She could outpace Matthew, who’d been tracking her for hours now, but it was impossible to outrun a demon—especially the one that gnawed to get out from the inside. Still, a trifle such as impossibility had never stopped her before.

  And she wasn’t about to show any more weakness.

  So she pumped her legs faster and leapt over a downed maple, barely catching herself with a wild swing of her arms, then pressed onward. If the world had an end, she’d find it and fling herself off the edge, putting a stop to all the ragged emotions burning inside.

  But as the afternoon dragged on, the futility of her race caught up to her. Lungs heaving, she slowed, body spent and near to ruin. Any farther and she’d collapse. Not a bad idea, but it wouldn’t be fair to Matthew. She’d given him enough of a challenge.

  She bent and planted her hands on scraped knees, gasping for air. It did no good. All the running. The distance. In spite of secluding herself yesterday and the better part of today, the ache was still there, raw and unrelenting. The same grief raged. The same humiliation churned. Nothing had changed save for the new rips in her hiked-up skirts and fresh gashes on her legs.

  She sank onto a rocky ledge, letting her feet dangle. Below, the woods encircled a small glade where spring flowers sent up green shoots. Come the corn-planting moon, this patch of dirt and sun would yield a beautiful swath of purple and white, fresh and innocent. And for some odd reason, the thought of such magnificence was too much to bear.

  With her remaining strength, she snatched up a rock and threw it, squashing a small patch of plants far below. A churlish thing, but unstoppable. She’d never been so out of control in her life.

  And that scared her more than anything.

  Behind her, ferns rustled, crushed beneath a heavy step. Labored breathing whooshed along with a slight breeze tickling the overhead maple leaves. The tangy odor of sweat wafted up to her nose as Matthew flopped down beside her. She ought to lower her skirts and cover her bare legs, but honestly, she just didn’t care. Besides, it was only Matthew.

  Yet when he opened his mouth, a stranger rebuked her. “I gave you plenty of space yesterday and most of today, but this stops here and now. You’re officially off duty
until my say-so.”

  The command was steel cold and just as hard. She jerked her face toward him. “You can’t do that.”

  “You know I can.” His gunmetal eyes sparked a challenge—one she’d best not meet. She’d seen only one man ever survive it, barely.

  Tucking her chin, she sighed. “What I mean is you can’t do that. How could you? I can’t sit on a wagon seat all day, not with this burning inside me.”

  “Oh girl.” He shook his head, the familiar Matthew peeking out through his softening gaze. “I know you’re hurting, but it is time to quit running.”

  She peered up at him, drawn by the tenderness in his tone. More white whiskers than she remembered peppered his bristly beard. Weathered lines cut into his cheeks below a purple bruise that spread from his eye. She squinted, studying his face more closely. A cut marred his jaw and a scrape made a red stripe on his forehead. Were those wounds purchased at the expense of chasing her?

  She slumped. He was right, as usual. All her running hadn’t eased her pain but instead had given him some.

  “Elias told me about your father. Unh-unh.” He wagged a finger. “Don’t get all puffed up about him telling me your business. I forced his hand. He said it was yours to tell, but after a tussle, he broke.”

  Her eyebrows shot skyward. “You wrestled with Elias?”

  “Flit! I ain’t in the grave yet.” He rubbed his jaw, the rasp of it soothing in an odd sort of way. “But I admit he packs a powerful right hook. Truth is, I think he took pity and lightened up.”

  Unbidden, the feel of Elias’s embrace wrapped around her once again, and just like all the other times she’d relived that moment, she was powerless to stop it. He’d stood there open-armed, inviting her in but at her own pace. Even now if she inhaled, she’d likely still breathe his scent of smoke and danger. Ah, but there in his arms, for the briefest of time, she’d experienced a release like none other when she’d wept into his shirt. He’d stood there, taking her sorrow, shoring her up like a great beam. Waiting her out until she settled. No one had ever done that. Not her father, her brother…not even Matthew. Elias was like none other. And if she dared to admit it, if he ever opened his arms again, she’d run into them headlong and unflinching.

  She hung her head. What kind of daughter thought of another man when mourning her father? A weak one, that was what. She was weak as the woman she’d scorned for such softness all these years. With a sigh, she reached for her necklace.

  Matthew’s big hand patted her leg. “Grief never comes easy, girl. It never comes calling at an opportune time. I grieve for your loss.”

  She stared at the skin on the back of his hand, all leather and snaked with blue veins. “You’re all I have left.”

  “Someday a man will steal your heart, maybe already has, and I won’t be but a memory.”

  “No.” She snapped her gaze to his. “No one will ever take your place.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I expect we’ll always remember our times together.”

  The faintest of smiles whispered over her lips. “Does that mean I can be back on duty?”

  He reared back and looked down his nose. “You are a wonder, Mercy Lytton. A full-out, stubborn-headed—”

  His words cut off like a snuffed candle, and they both sat rock still, listening.

  Mercy drew up her legs and flattened to her belly. Beside her, Matthew lay flat as well. Below, at the edge of the glade, a flash of blue and white marched in. Twenty. No, twenty-four. A full squad.

  Of French soldiers.

  Tree line. Road. Tree line. Road. Elias pinged his gaze from ruts and rocks to the dark green of forest on either side, looking, hoping, praying for some sign of Mercy or Matthew. It’d been too long. Far too long. The twinge in his gut said so, as did the lengthening shadows heralding day’s end.

  “Hold up!” Rufus’s holler bellowed louder than the turn of the wheels—which all held solid, even the one they had recrafted.

  He pulled on the reins, slowing the horses to a stop, and waited for Rufus to jog up alongside him.

  The young man swiped back a swath of stringy hair, then reset his hat and peered up at him. “It’ll be dark soon. I say we stop for the night.”

  Elias pulled his gaze from the young man and scanned the area. Thick trees closed in on both sides—too thick to wedge a horse’s rump through, let alone an entire wagon. Surely even Rufus knew they couldn’t stop mid-road and spread out bedrolls in an occupied stretch of wilderness. He grunted. “Not here.”

  “Din’t mean here, you half-witted—”

  The deadly scowl he aimed at Rufus ended whatever tirade the man-boy thought to spew.

  “What I meant was—” Sniffing, Rufus ran his sleeve beneath his nose. “We turn off past three-oak boulder, just a spell farther, and there’s a nice patch o’ land hidden by a ridge. That is where we camp.”

  Elias chewed on the information like an overly spiced piece of meat, the kind that had been smothered in strong flavor to hide rancidity. Something rotten was hidden in Rufus’s words, for the young man was never that accommodating.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Now how would you know that?”

  One of the more colorful profanities flew out of Rufus’s mouth. “That old man and Mercy aren’t the only ones what know this countryside. I been to Fort Edward before.”

  Reaching back, Elias kneaded out a knot in his shoulder while he thought on Rufus’s proposal. Judging by the slant of light, they had maybe an hour, hour and a half of day remaining. Since yesterday morning, they had put a good distance between themselves and the Nowadaga crossing, so whatever ill omen that sign had portended, they were far enough afield to miss it. Hopefully. And Lord knew Mercy could use a good sleep. Valid reasons, all.

  So why the sudden prickles on his scalp? He lowered his hand. Other than the queer feeling, there was no other basis on which to turn down Rufus’s suggestion.

  Against his better judgment, he nodded. “All right.”

  Rufus scuttled back to his wagon, and Elias slapped the reins with a “Giddap.” The horses kicked into a trot, and he went back to his tree line–road–tree line–road routine. Still no sign of a dun-colored skirt or a barrel-chested old ranger.

  Just past a moss-covered boulder at the base of three oaks, the woods thinned on the south side as Rufus had predicted. Teasing the right rein with steady pressure, he turned the horses off the road and onto uneven ground. His teeth chattered as the wagon bumped over virgin growth, felled tree limbs, and rocks. Near to a half mile in, he wondered if the narrow path would ever open up—and when it finally did, if he were a swearing man, he’d have put Rufus to shame.

  He drove the wagon into a grassy clearing, flat and wide, protected on three sides by a ridgeline of rocks, a perfect enclosure for a campsite—and for an ambush. He should’ve known better than to trust Rufus’s suggestion.

  Pulling hard to the left, he turned the wagon around so that once Rufus caught up, they were side-by-side and face-to-face. “This is your idea of a ‘nice patch o’ land’?”

  “Unless you wanna camp on the road.” He paused to pick at his teeth. “Next glade I know of is five miles off. Be dark by then.”

  “If you knew that, then why not say something back when we had a chance to pull off earlier?” The low-grade anger that had been simmering all day started to boil, shooting heat up his neck.

  Rufus’s bony shoulders merely jerked skyward in a sharp shrug.

  Closing his eyes, Elias counted to twenty. First in English, then in French. It was either that or leap over and throttle the dunderhead.

  Disgusted, he blew out a sigh and jumped off the seat, then resurveyed the area. He had to admit the flatland was suitable for bedding down, and they would be sheltered from the road. It could work—if three kept watch while one slept.

  He frowned. It would be a long night.

  “Well?” Rufus prodded.

  “All right.” He turned back to the man. “See to the horses. I will take a loo
k around.”

  He tromped over to where grass met rock and climbed to the top of the ridge. For a while he scouted along the western edge, poking around for Indian sign. The most interesting things he uncovered were some bear scat and a rabbit warren. So he swung back around and worked his way eastward. More bear tracks, some wolf paw indentations, and then suddenly the crack of a twig.

  He cocked his head, every sense heightened. No more cracks. No rustle of underbrush. Just that single, isolated snap.

  That was no animal.

  He dropped belly down in a thick patch of wild senna and held his breath.

  A minute passed, then more, until his lungs burned—and the step of a foot crushed a swath of leftover leaves.

  He lifted his gaze to see a pair of brown-legged breeches cross ten paces in front of him. Sucking in a breath, he rose.

  In front of him, Matthew spun, musket leveled. Then his eyes widened, and he lowered his gun. “Might wanna think twice before you do that again. I can’t be blamed if I put a hole in you for jumping out like that.”

  Though he was no longer a target, his pulse pumped loud in his head. Why was Mercy not with Matthew? “Where is Mercy?”

  Matthew’s gaze shifted just past his left shoulder.

  Elias turned. Mercy stood, quiet as a shadow, staring at him with hollow eyes and even hollower cheeks. When was the last time she’d eaten? Torn skirts hung askew from her hips. Her braid was undone and wild to her waist, and a cut marred her jaw.

  He took a step toward her. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  “I am well, but we may not be for long. There’s a French squad, twenty-four men, five miles off.”

  The news rippled through him like a pebble thrown into a pond. French? Could he use this to his advantage? Possibly, but not without the capture of Matthew and Mercy. Or Rufus. He frowned. French captives were notoriously mistreated, especially women. The thought of Mercy enduring such brutality twisted his stomach. No, better to stick with his plan.