by Jody Hedlund
They were silent, their bronzed bodies taut, their attention focused on the American soldiers who had begun to march forward.
One of the American officers and his bodyguard moved out in front of the rest. The Americans were obviously hoping to take advantage of the smaller number of British troops that were left. If only they knew the danger that lurked in the shadows.
Angelique wanted to scream, to warn the approaching troops of the ambush, but she found she couldn’t move and couldn’t make her voice work. No matter how hard she tried to speak, fear clamped its hand around her throat and squeezed tight.
The remaining British forces marched toward the Americans and pushed their artillery with them. One of the Indians arose and lifted his musket, aiming it directly at the American officer at the front of the company. The Indian next to him stood and aimed his gun at another officer.
At the bang of the gunfire, the rest of the Indians jumped up and released piercing war cries. They poured from their positions, leaping toward the American troops with raised clubs and hatchets.
The bullet from one of the Indians hit the officer who’d been in the front, killing him instantly. He crumpled forward, his sword and cap flying in front of him as his body struck the earth.
More shots pounded the air. A bullet tore through the arm of one soldier at the same time an Indian hatchet embedded in the chest of another. Horror paralyzed Angelique, forcing her to watch even though she wanted to run as far away as she could and never look back.
For long agonizing moments the United States Army was in disarray and began to fall back, leaving behind their wounded and dead. In the chaos, only one man attempted to drag off one of the wounded soldiers. He moved with speed and agility, blending in so that she hardly would have noticed him, except that he wasn’t in uniform and his hat had been knocked off, revealing dark curls . . .
Pierre! Her mind shouted his name, yet nothing came forth from her mouth. With growing terror she watched him scramble backward toward the woods, dragging the wounded American soldier by both arms. Bullets whizzed around him even as the Indians continued to strike with fierceness.
Her body tensed as she waited for the first bullet to hit Pierre. And sure enough, the next instant he fell backward, disappearing with a crash into the tall brush. All she could think about was that he’d been hit by a stray bullet. That he would end up lying there wounded and bleeding to death. And that he needed her.
Angelique climbed down the branches until she half fell, half jumped to the ground beneath. She didn’t stop to brush off her hands or to see if anyone had noticed her. She couldn’t think of anything but finding Pierre and helping him.
Her heart raced as she ran in the direction where he’d disappeared. When she reached the area, he was no longer in sight. But all she had to do was follow the trail he’d made dragging the body, the blood from the man’s wounds smearing the leaves with bright crimson. And she prayed that Pierre’s blood wasn’t mingled in.
The war whoops and steady gunfire raged behind her. She refused to think about what would happen if the Indians retreated into the woods and found her there.
Instead she forced herself to use every skill Pierre had ever taught her about tracking. When she lost the trail of blood, she decided that Pierre had slung the wounded soldier over his shoulder and had started carrying him. His heavier footsteps were easier to follow, along with the trail of broken stems and crushed wildflowers and only a few smears of blood.
She whispered a desperate prayer that Pierre wasn’t injured too badly. Eventually she figured out where he was headed and picked up her pace.
Her labored breathing drowned out the battle noises in the distance. She didn’t care what else was happening on the island anymore. She didn’t care if the Americans won or lost. All that mattered was making sure Pierre was safe.
She ducked under a fallen tree and then crawled on her hands and knees up an incline until she reached the dark open mouth of a small cave, the cave they’d dubbed Pirate’s Cove when they’d been younger—playing that they were pirates hiding their treasure. She paused, sat back on her heels, and brushed her loose hair off her sticky forehead.
Below, the lake spread out clear and blue. She could see all the way to St. Ignace and could almost pretend the day was just like any other summer day, that the gunfire was only the usual target practice coming from the fort.
But then the blood and carnage she’d witnessed on the battlefield flashed before her mind. No. This was no ordinary day. It was as if the gates of hell had opened and revealed the horrors there.
With a fresh shudder she ducked her head and crawled beneath the overhanging vines and branches that hid the gaping cavern. A cool mustiness greeted her. She started to whisper Pierre’s name when a hand slid across her mouth and cut off her breath. Then an arm wound around her neck, strangling her.
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.
He shifted and his features contorted in pain. His hold on her hand tightened, his breath coming in gasps. “I’m sorry we have to meet like this, Angelique,” he said haltingly. “This wasn’t the reunion I’d dreamed about.”
“Shhh,” she whispered, smoothing his hair off his forehead. “Just rest now.”
He closed his eyes and didn’t move. Had he passed out?
“We need to get the doctor, Pierre.”
“I’ve already considered it.” Pierre’s answer was close to her ear. “But it’s too risky. Dr. Henderson’s leanings are with the British.”
“He’s known Jean since he was a boy. He wouldn’t turn his back on him now.”
“This is war, Angelique. We can’t trust anyone.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She pulled her hand away from Jean and sat back. “Jean needs a doctor right away. If you won’t go get him, I will.”
“Even if the doctor wants to help Jean, it would still be too risky. We can’t chance word getting out that there’s a wounded American on the island.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“The British would find him, haul him up to prison, and leave him there to die.”
She paused, letting the truth of his words sink in. “But the Americans will retake the island today, won’t they?”
“Not a chance in the world.” Pierre spat the words. “Not after the way Colonel Croghan bungled the whole landing.”
With a weary sigh he sat back next to her. For a moment the steady dripping of water somewhere farther back in the cave filled the silence, along with Jean’s heavy breathing.
They couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. “Jean needs help.” She started crawling on her hands and knees backward toward the entrance. “And I’m going for it.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Pierre followed after her, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her until she was practically sitting on his lap.
She pushed against him. “Let me go.”
But he clamped his arms around her, and the steel of his muscles trapped her.
“Pierre’s right,” Jean said, his voice surprising her. “We can’t let anyone else know I’m here.”
She held herself tense against Pierre.
“I’m just grateful Pierre got me off Dousman’s field when he did,” Jean said. “I’ve seen what the Indians do to the injured who are left behind.”
“We can’t just leave that bullet in your leg,” Angelique said.
“Pierre will sneak me off the island tonight and take me back to my ship.” Jean’s voice grew weaker. “I’ll be under the care of an American surgeon eventually.”
Would it be soon enough to prevent infection? She didn’t ask the question, but instead the desperation of the situation fell over her, as if crushing her under its weight. She buried her face against Pierre’s chest and sucked in a breath. She couldn’t keep from wrapping her arms around him, drawing strength from his presence.
He relaxed his grip. One of his hands splayed across her back while the other slid up into the waves of hair that tumbled about her head.
She rested her cheek against his shirt, and the rapid thumping of his heart pulsed through the linen. At the same time she could feel the heat of his breath against her hair, and the kiss he pressed on the top of her head. She was glad for the darkness of the cave that hid them from Jean.
“Pierre asked for my forgiveness for his past and told me he was a changed man,” Jean said.
She stiffened, dislodged herself from Pierre, and was relieved when he didn’t try to hang on to her.
“Of course I told him I forgave him.” There was something strained in Jean’s voice that sliced into her.
“You’d be proud of him,” she said. “Once he saw the condition of the farm, he let his brigade go on without him so that he could stay and help Miriam for the summer.”
She moved closer to Jean again, praying he hadn’t suspected anything between her and Pierre, and hoping that Pierre hadn’t mentioned anything about their relationship and their plan to get married. They couldn’t break the news to Jean this way, not when he was wounded and in pain.
“It looks like you and Pierre are still close.” Jean’s breathing became more labored, the pain more pronounced.
She could feel his attention bouncing back and forth between them, and panic rushed through her. “We’ve always been the best of friends. You know that.”
“I’m sure you told him we’re engaged, that we’re getting married just as soon as the war is over?”
“Of course I did.”
Pierre cleared his throat. She held her breath. She had to stop Pierre from saying anything about their plans to Jean. They couldn’t hurt him like this.
Before Pierre could get a word out, Jean spoke again. “Then I guess Pierre really has changed. Because the Pierre I used to know would have taken one look at you, saw what a beautiful woman you’d become, and decided he needed to have you for himself, regardless of anyone else’s feelings or previous commitments.”
The hard truth of Jean’s words pummeled into her chest. And whatever Pierre was planning to say fizzled into a sigh.
Jean reached for her hand again. This time he brought it to his lips with uncharacteristic passion and kissed the back of her fingers. “I’ve missed you, Angelique.”
“I’ve missed you too,” she replied, hating that Jean’s lips against her skin elicited nothing, not even the tiniest of tingles.
“I’ve thought about you every day, every hour.” He tugged on her hand, giving her little choice but to lean closer to him. “It was the thought of marrying you that carried me through every horrible battle.”
Each of his words stabbed her tender heart again and
again, until she didn’t think she could breathe through the pain in her chest. It was obvious he adored her.
“Jean . . .” Pierre began.
But then Jean pulled her down, captured her face between his hands, and guided her lips to his. For a long moment he moved his mouth against hers, and even though she tried to muster the response he would be expecting, the kiss felt stiff and forced. When he finally released her, she had to resist the urge to wipe her sleeve across her mouth to remove the cold wetness he’d left there.
“I love you, Angelique,” he said, placing one more kiss in her palm. “And the next time I set foot on this island, I’m going to marry you.”
She rested her hand against his cheek, knowing she should tell him she loved him too and that she couldn’t wait until he returned. Yet the words stuck in her throat.
When Jean had asked her to marry him two summers ago, before the war had started, she’d respected him and even cared deeply for him. She’d been so young, and it hadn’t mattered that she didn’t loved him. Jean had even said as much. He’d told her he loved her enough for the both of them. She’d figured that kind of marriage would be more than satisfying, especially compared to the life she had with Ebenezer . . .
Until Pierre returned and made her feel things she’d never known were possible.
“Come on, Angelique.” Pierre yanked her away from Jean almost roughly. “We’ve wasted enough time already. I need to get you back to the fort.”
“Tell me you’ll be waiting for me.” Jean clung to her hand with a desperation that hadn’t been there before.
She squeezed his hand but couldn’t make the words come out.
“Promise me.” His voice shook. “I don’t know how I can survive without knowing you’ll be there for me when I return.”
How could she refuse him now? He needed her. He needed to hope in their relationship. She couldn’t bear to think he might give up the will to live if she broke his heart now.