Captured by Love

by Jody Hedlund

  She spread out the stained linen, wishing it were clean.

  He lifted his pouch and dumped the contents into her lap.

  Delight brightened her like one of the shafts of sunlight slanting through the branches. “Wild strawberries,” she said.

  “I remembered how much you love them and I picked them for you.”

  “The first of the summer.” She lifted one of the red berries, plucked off its green top, and slipped the fruit into her mouth. The mingling of tartness and sweetness was like a taste of heaven, and she closed her eyes to savor each juicy bite.

  When she finished and opened her eyes, she quickly picked up another. Though food on the island had been plentiful of late, Ebenezer’s stinginess hadn’t changed, and her belly was never full enough.

  She stuffed another berry into her mouth before she realized Pierre was watching her. She turned to him with a smile. “You’ll eat some too, won’t you? You can’t have picked all these just for me.”

  But he wasn’t smiling. Instead his eyes were dark and unreadable and focused on her lips.

  She stopped chewing and held her breath. There was something about the look in his eyes that made her almost believe he was thinking more about tasting her lips than tasting the strawberries.

  She didn’t move. The world grew strangely silent, and she thought she could hear the wild thumping of Pierre’s heartbeat.

  He lifted his fingers to her neck, circling them around the back so that his thumb ended near her ear. With exquisite softness he brushed his thumb below her jaw against her pulse, which was throbbing.

  She wanted to lean her head back and let his fingers have full access to her skin, but she was too weak, too powerless to do anything but relish the gentle touch.

  His gaze lifted and connected with hers. Without breaking the contact, he tilted his head as if to kiss her. He hesitated for the merest instant, a flicker in his eyes seeming to ask her for her permission.

  In answer, she could do nothing less than lean toward him. Didn’t he know by now that her heart was his for the taking, whether she wanted him to take it or not? It had always been his. She was only fooling herself to think otherwise.

  His fingers at the back of her neck tightened and drew her toward him.

  She wanted to kiss him, had always dreamed about kissing him. She couldn’t deny it any longer.

  “Oh,” she whispered as he made the barest contact with her mouth, the slight softness teasing her, almost as if he were planning to take his time and enjoy every facet of mingling his lips with hers.

  He grazed her lips again, but then pulled back a fraction. Her stomach cinched with longing.

  And when his mouth touched hers again, this time lingering a second longer, she moved toward him.

  But he held himself just slightly out of her reach, tantalizing her lips with quick feather-like brushes.

  “Pierre . . .” she breathed as his mouth grazed hers again. The longing that was growing inside told her there was more, much more to a kiss than this sweet teasing. “Please—”

  “Say my name again,” he said.

  “Pierre,” she whispered against him. “Pierre—”

  His lips cut her off with a decisiveness that wrapped around her and wouldn’t let go. He was a current against her, pulling her in, taking her under with his kiss that kept deepening until she was drowning in it.

  A screech from above startled her, and she broke away from him. Her breath came in rasps. Guilt and embarrassment rushed over her, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

  Pierre released her, but stared at her with an expression that said he was thinking of pulling her back and kissing her more. The warmth twisting in her insides told her that she would have a hard time resisting if he reached for her again.

  He lifted a hand to her hair and touched one of her curls. She shook her head and leaned away from him.

  He stopped, and his eyes widened. As much as she wanted his affection, her pulse pounded a warning. She couldn’t let him break her heart when he left this time.

  Her mind traveled back to the day before he’d departed five years ago, when he’d pulled her along behind him through the woods, just like he had now. And how he’d taken her to one of the cliffs on the shore to show her a broad-winged hawk’s nest. They’d sat for several hours watching the nest. She’d listened as he raged about his frustrations with his father and his family for not understanding him. And when he’d finally exhausted himself, he reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers through hers.

  “I love you, Angelique,” he’d said, and then he laid a gentle kiss against her cheek.

  At that moment she’d been the happiest thirteen-year-old girl who had ever lived. It hadn’t mattered that he was a man of almost eighteen, that he was angry with the world, that he wanted to leave the island and never come back.

  He’d said he loved her.

  Her heart had swelled with her own love for him, all the love that had been growing during their childhood. And even though she hadn’t told him that day that she loved him in return, she had.

  But then he’d left the next morning. He’d gone without telling her where he was going or when he would return. And he’d taken her heart with him.

  Over the years he’d been away, she’d learned there were different kinds of love. That Pierre hadn’t loved her romantically. He’d loved her as a friend. Nothing more.

  But the knowledge had hurt her more than she’d wanted to admit. And it had hurt that in all those five years he’d been gone, he hadn’t once thought to write to her or visit or send her even the smallest token of regard.

  He’d forgotten all about her. If that had been his definition of love, it hadn’t been the kind she’d wanted.

  How could she bear the pain again when he left this time?

  She shifted so that she wasn’t touching him. “I’m sorry, Pierre,” she said. “I shouldn’t have . . . we shouldn’t have . . .”

  He took off his hat, jabbed his fingers through his hair, and expelled a long, shaky breath.

  She fumbled for something to say that would help ease the tension. “I have to be faithful to Jean.”

  He jammed his hat back on. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking of Jean.”

  They sat silently for a long moment, a breeze swooshing the pine needles around them, rattling the dry pine cones that lingered in the tree, and stirring the thick scent of resin. Through the branches, the open fields spread out before them. They could see almost all the way to the northern beaches of the island.

  “You’re leaving soon,” she said, not wanting him to be angry with her. “And when the war is over, Jean will come home and I’m going to marry him.”

  Pierre’s shoulders slumped.

  Yes, he’d made it clear that he didn’t think Jean was right for her. But did he have deeper reasons for objecting? She fought the flutter of longing. Could his kiss mean he wanted her for himself? Or was he merely charming her like he did most of the women in his life?

  After all, she’d seen the way he’d looked at Lavinia. And if he’d been alone with Lavinia in the shadows of a cedar tree, he probably would have kissed her too.

  Angelique stifled a shiver. She couldn’t make more out of the moment than it contained. This was Pierre. And Pierre was . . . well, selfish. Wasn’t he?

  She picked up one of the ripest, fullest strawberries he’d gathered for her and held it out to him, hoping he’d sense her peace offering.

  He hesitated, then with a nod took it from her, popped the green top, and tossed the berry in his mouth.

  She let her fingers linger over the berries in her lap, waiting for him to say something, anything. She didn’t want him to leave the island upset at her.

  “So I suppose you’ve kissed Jean?” His question was low, almost teasing.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that his good humor was returning. “We kissed once.”

  “Just once?”

  “Just once.”<
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  “What’s wrong with him?” Pierre laughed.

  “He’s honorable.”

  “And dull.”

  “Pierre!” she chastised, though she knew her tone lacked any conviction.

  “If I were him, I wouldn’t have been satisfied with one kiss.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re not him, because that’s all I would have given you.”

  He grinned. “When did he kiss you?”

  She knew she should protest Pierre’s questions. What had transpired between her and Jean was none of his business. But for some reason she felt as if she must confess the truth. “He kissed me the day the British forced him to leave the island.”

  “A good-bye kiss?”

  She nodded. It had been on the crowded beach, with everyone on the island swarming around them. With tears in his eyes he’d hugged and kissed Miriam, then turned to her. He’d drawn her into a one-armed hug, patting her back awkwardly, and then gave her the briefest of kisses. It had been over before it had begun, leaving no trace of remembrance upon her lips. He then stepped away from her and into the boat that would row him to the ships anchored farther out in the harbor. His sweet smile was all she’d had to store in her heart since he’d been gone.

  “A good-bye kiss doesn’t count as a real kiss,” Pierre said.

  “It most certainly does count.” It hadn’t been anything like Pierre’s. Not even close. Her stomach flopped as she thought again about the pressure of Pierre’s lips against hers, soft at first and then hard and crushing.

  She slipped a strawberry into her mouth and tried to banish the sensation that was embedded on her lips. Even if Jean’s kiss hadn’t lingered upon her the same way Pierre’s had, she wouldn’t dismiss Jean’s affection or trivialize it.

  Pierre was still grinning, but when his eyebrows shot up, he couldn’t hide the intensity that lurked amidst the playfulness.

  “Any kiss less than fifteen seconds isn’t a real kiss.” Pierre took another strawberry and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Fifteen seconds?” She gave a short laugh. “I suppose you’re the kissing expert now?”

  He shrugged. “You’ve kissed us both. Who’s better?”

  She couldn’t resist glancing up at him, at his lips that had only moments ago taken her to the brink of pleasure.

  His smile turned up on one side, as if he’d heard her answer even though she hadn’t spoken a word.

  She gave him a playful shove. “Oh, stop it, Pierre. You’re much too conceited for your own good.”

  He laughed again, and the warmth of the afternoon wrapped around her, making her grateful for the time she could spend with him.

  “If you ever need practice,” he said, “I’m here for you.”

  She pushed him again.

  “What?” he asked innocently. “It’s obvious Jean needs to learn how to kiss you much more thoroughly. I’d be more than happy to give you a few lessons that you can pass along to him.”

  With any other person she wouldn’t have dared to carry on about something as intimate as kissing. But she’d always had an openness with Pierre that she didn’t have with anyone else. “I’m sure, given the right circumstances and setting, Jean will do just fine.”

  Pierre snorted. “He’s about as exciting as a cow chewing his cud.”

  In her mind’s eye she could see Jean standing next to Pierre. Compared to the dashing and handsome Pierre, Jean was fair and plain. He was simpler, down-to-earth, and content with his life. He wasn’t constantly dreaming of bigger and better things beyond the horizon.

  “Jean may not be exciting like you, Pierre,” she finally said, “but he’s a good man. And he loves me.”

  Pierre’s smile faded, and a soberness descended over his features.

  For the briefest of moments she held her breath and waited for Pierre to tell her that he too loved her, and to promise that he’d always be there for her. But they both knew the truth.

  Pierre couldn’t promise her what he didn’t have to give.

  Chapter

  12

  Pierre swung the ax down again. His muscles burned in agony, and his hands stung from the blisters that had formed there hours ago.

  The wood split with a crack that jarred him. He bent, picked up the pieces, and tossed them onto the mountainous pile he’d already chopped.

  “Take a break, my dear son,” Maman called from the cabin. “Please.”

  Pierre wiped at the sweat that had run into his eyes. His shirt was wet and clung to his skin and did little to keep him dry anymore. And the humidity in the air coated him in a sticky film that was suffocating.

  The sky was the color of stormy lake water. If only it would rain and put them out of their misery. He peered toward the west, in the direction of his swimming hole. He wished he could drop everything and sneak away to it. If he’d been with his brigade, he could have jumped into the river to cool off. At the very least he could have splashed himself. The clear river water would have been at his hand, the refreshing wilderness breezes at his back.

  “You’ve worked too hard, Pierre,” Maman said. “I think it’s time to call it a day.”

  “I’m almost done,” he called. At nine o’clock at night in June, he could probably get in another hour of work before it grew too dark to see. He eyed the pile of logs still waiting for his blade. He wouldn’t be done until he split the rest of the wood he’d chopped yesterday. After that he’d need to stack it against the cabin and inside the barn. Even then, he didn’t know if Maman would have enough to last her through the winter.

  The problem with farm work was that it was never ending. When he finished one job, there were ten others that needed his attention—unlike fur trading, where he could mark his accomplishments by the strokes of the voyageurs. They paddled thirty miles a day, fifty-five strokes per minute, fourteen hours a day.

  Even at the portages, he could measure their progress. With two ninety-pound packs strapped to their backs and heads, they could still make the haul overland in ten-minute intervals per half mile.

  But farming . . . He shook his head in frustration at all he had left to do.

  The three weeks he’d planned on staying had passed, and he was still on the island—without the hired help he’d tried to find for Maman. He’d had several leads, but they’d all fallen through. No one wanted to commit, not with the uncertainty of the war and the inevitable battle that loomed ahead.

  And try as he might, he couldn’t make himself walk away. He knew he’d feel guilty if he did. He wouldn’t be able to paddle to Montreal and find the usual contentment with his brigade knowing he’d left Maman as helpless as he’d found her.

  Why was he growing a conscience now after all these years of living the way he wanted?

  He glanced to the swirling gray clouds overhead. He knew what was happening. Ever since he’d repented and let God grip him, the fingers of the Holy Spirit had been wrapped around his heart and he could no longer ignore the pressure there, the urging to do what was right.

  He had to take care of his maman.

  Even though he couldn’t audibly hear God, the nudging of the Spirit inside told him the same thing Red Fox had—that Maman needed him more this summer than his brigade did.

  Besides, two nights ago under cover of darkness, when he’d paddled to Bois Blanc Island to send another missive to the American forces, he’d picked up a message from Red Fox that the brigade hadn’t had any confrontations yet with the North West Company. They were doing fine without him.

  Would it really be so terrible to stay on the island for the summer?

  He mopped his sweat-drenched eyes again in time to see Angelique step out of the woods and start across the meadow toward the farm. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at her, from watching her lovely swaying and the gentle contours of her figure.

  His mind flashed to the kiss he’d shared with her in the tree several days ago, the way she’d said his name and the way her lips had melded with his. He c
ouldn’t remember wanting to kiss another woman quite as much as he’d wanted to kiss her. Even after she’d pulled away from him, he’d ached with the need to hold her again and keep on kissing her.

  What was he thinking? He wasn’t supposed to get involved with any woman, much less a sweet, innocent girl like Angelique. He’d never had any trouble in the past. He’d always been content to consider her just a friend. What had changed?

  Even as the question ricocheted around in his mind, the answer hit the target head-on. She had changed. She’d grown up. Not only had she developed into an attractive woman, but she’d become even kinder and sweeter and more fun to be around. He loved the way she wasn’t afraid to follow him without any questions wherever he took her, that she wasn’t too grown up to climb a tree, and that she still understood him in a way no one else ever had. He had to admit, he was drawn to her the same as when he’d been a boy. Only now he was drawn so much more forcefully.

  He shoved another length of wood onto the chopping block, steadied it, and then swung his ax into it. This was supposed to take his mind off Angelique. The pinging of the ax and the splitting of the wood were intended to distract him from her approach. But with each step she drew closer, his muscles hardened with awareness, until he felt like the slightest pressure would split him into pieces.

  Why did she have to grow up? Why couldn’t things have remained the same as always? Out of the corner of his eye he watched her embrace Maman.

  Was that why he hadn’t left the island yet? Was it because he wasn’t ready to leave Angelique?

  He lowered the ax and rested the blade against the wood chips scattered around the base of the block. That couldn’t be the reason. He wasn’t looking for a relationship with a woman right now. He didn’t want a woman in his life, did he?

  Non. Of course not. He was only concerned about Angelique and Maman because they were alone on the island, having to fend for themselves. And with the danger of the upcoming battle, he wanted to make sure they were safe before he left.

  Maybe he would stay through the summer, do as much as he could to prepare for winter, and be there to keep them safe during the battle with the Americans. And then after Red Fox and his brigade returned with fresh trade goods and supplies, he’d take his leave.