PRAISE FOR THE CAPTURED BRIDE
“The Captured Bride captured me with its fast-paced plot, flesh-and-bone characters, and gritty portrayal of the American frontier. But it was the can’t-turn-the-page-fast-enough romance between Mercy and Elias that sparked like gunpowder and won me over completely. Well done!”
–Laura Frantz, author of The Lacemaker
“Taut and timeless, the heart of liberty beats strong and sure in this breathless Colonial tale where the counterfeit marriage of two patriots is as divided as the fledgling nation for which they fight. Steeped in rich historical adventure, The Captured Bride will not only capture your heart and your sleep, but inspire your soul.”
–Julie Lessman, award-winning author of The Daughters of Boston, Winds of Change, and Isle of Hope series
“I’ve never met a Michelle Griep book I didn’t love! I felt like I was traveling through the colonial backwoods of New York State where dangers, adventures, and mystery confronted the characters at every turn. But the best part? The romance truly made me breathless. Another winner from this fabulous author!”
–MaryLu Tyndall, author of the bestselling Legacy of the King’s Pirates series
“Michelle Griep is at the top of her game with The Captured Bride, a riveting tale of divided loyalties and enduring love set in colonial America. The exciting plot is filled with intrigue and danger, and the characters so real, they practically jump off the page. This is one for the keeper shelf!”
–Margaret Brownley, New York Times bestselling author and author of Cowboy Charm School
“What an adventure! Michelle Griep’s beautifully written, intricately plotted story blends fascinating details of life during the French and Indian War with unforgettable characters and high-stakes adventure. The Captured Bride should come with a warning: Reading this book may lead to sleepless nights as you tell yourself, ‘Just one more chapter, just one more.’”
–Amanda Cabot, bestselling author of A Borrowed Dream
“Breathtaking. Unforgettable. Just two of my thoughts as I paused only a few pages into this magnificent story. From the gritty depths of a traitor’s prison to the pristine but dangerous beauty of the lush scenery along the trail, I tumbled into the tale of Mercy and Elias and did not want to put this book down. Griep has outdone herself with this historical masterpiece.”
–Kathleen Y’Barbo, author of The Pirate Bride and the Fairweather Key series
“A heart-pounding read, Michelle Griep takes us deep into the New York wilderness where only the tough survive, and only by God’s grace. The characters spring to life from the first pages, keeping you spellbound through each peril while the romance captures your heart. With this epic novel, Griep has firmly established herself as a top frontier writer. A must-read!”
–Misty M. Beller, bestselling author of This Treacherous Journey
“Michelle Griep has done it again—sweeping adventure, a man of honor, a woman of strength, heart-stopping romance, and a pace that will not let you go! Venture with Mercy and Elias deep into the wilderness of Upstate New York during the French and Indian War, and taste the peril that so often defined the American colonial era, weathered by the courage and faith of those who went before us.”
–Shannon McNear, author of The Counterfeit Tory in The Backcountry Brides Collection and 2014 RITA finalist
“Mercy Lytton may be a Captured Bride, but I was captured by her, Elias Dubois, and Matthew Prinn from page one. Griep’s eloquent style, masterful storytelling, and natural infused humor carry you through to the end before you realize it. Totally sigh-worthy!”
–Ane Mulligan, award-winning author of Home to Chapel Springs
© 2018 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-474-7
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-476-1
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-475-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Photograph: Sandra Cunningham/Trevillion Images
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
DEDICATION
To my wilderness-loving daughter
and her redheaded mountain man,
Callie and Ryan Leichty.
And, as always,
to the Lover and Keeper of my soul, Iesos.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While writing is a solitary profession, a novel is never written alone. My hearty thanks go out to the critique partners who held my sweaty hands on this story: Yvonne Anderson, Laura Frantz, Mark Griep, Shannon McNear, Ane Mulligan, Chawna Schroeder, and MaryLu Tyndall. And also an honorable mention to Dani Snyder, my first-reader extraordinaire.
A huge thank-you to historical reenactors everywhere, but especially those who perform an awesome three-day event at Old Fort Niagara in upstate New York. If you ever get the chance to see the French and Indian War Encampment (usually held near the Fourth of July), it’s totally worth the effort.
And as always, my gratitude to Barbour Publishing for taking a chance on a girl like me. Waving at you, Becky Germany.
Readers, you make this writing gig all worthwhile. And guess what? I love to hear from you! Follow my adventures and share yours with me at www.michellegriep.com.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
MOHAWK LANGUAGE GLOSSARY
Aktsi:’a: Older sister
Ehressaronon: Wyandot
Iesos: Jesus
Kahente: Before her time
Kahnyen’kehàka: Mohawk nation
Kanien’keha: Native name for the Mohawk language
Kaia’tákerahs: Goat
Ó:nen ki› wáhi: Farewell for now
Ó:nen: Goodbye
Onontio: Big mountain
Rake’niha: My father
Sachem: Leader
Skennen: Peace
Skén:nen tsi satonríshen: Rest in peace
Tsi Nen:we Enkonnoronhkhwake: I love you forever
MOHAWK LULLABY
Ho, ho, Watanay.
Ho, ho, Watanay.
Ho, ho, Watanay.
Ki-yo-ki-na.
Sleep, sleep, my little one.
Sleep, sleep, my little one.
Sleep, sleep, my little one.
Sleep now.
Sleep now.
FRENCH LANGUAGE GLOSSARY
Chiens Anglais: English dogs
Démissionner: Stand down
La fin: The end
Merci: Thank you
Regardez: Look
Rien, monsieur: Nothing, sir
It ain’t right. You ain’t right.”
Mercy Lytton brushed off Captain Matthew Prinn’s comment as easily as she rubbed off the dried mud marring her buckskin leggings. Too bad she couldn’t so easily rid herself of the bone-deep weariness dogging her steps. Matthew had a point—somewhat. Going from a scouting campaign and on to the next mission without a few hours of sleep wasn’t right.
She glanced at her self-appointed protector as they crossed the Fort Wilderness parade ground. “’Taint about right. ’Tis about duty.”
Despite the blood under his nails and bruises on his jaw, Matthew scratched at three weeks’ worth of whiskers on his face. “Seems to me by now your duty ought to be raisin’ a troop of your own littles.”
And there it was. Again.
She bit back one of the many curses embedded in her head from a life amongst warriors. A bitter smile twisted her lips, yet she said nothing. It was a losing argument—and she’d had her fill of loss.
So they walked in silence, save for the guffaws of a group of soldiers nearby, smoking pipes just outside a casement doorway. A late March breeze skimmed over the top of the palisade surrounding the outpost, and she shivered. She could forgo rest for a few more hours, but changing out of the damp trade shirt beneath her hunting frock was mandatory.
As they neared the brigadier general’s door, a grim-faced Mohawk strode out and stopped in front of her, blocking her path.
“There is ice in that one’s veins.” Black-Fox-Running spoke in Kanien’keha, tipping his head back toward the general’s quarters. Afternoon sun flashed like lightning in his dark eyes. “Return home, Kahente. We are done here.”
Captain Prinn bypassed them both and disappeared inside the rugged log building. Ever the quick-witted strategist when it came to fighting, he clearly sensed a coming battle between her and her father.
Mercy widened her stance yet bowed her head in deference. Searching for the right words, she studied the fine layer of gray dirt hardened on the toes of her moccasins. Appeasement was never a clever policy, but sometimes a necessary evil. “Your wisdom is unequaled, my father.”
He grabbed her chin and lifted her face. His black gaze bored into hers. Even so, a hint of a curve lifted the edges of his lips. “Wise counsel or not, you will do as you will.”
She stared at him but said nothing. A survival tactic—one her mother should have learned.
“The best sachem is not the one who persuades people to his point of view. He is the one in whose presence most people find truth.” Releasing her, he squared his shoulders. “There is no truth left in the English father Bragg.”
She sighed, long and low. He needn’t have told her what she already knew. But this wasn’t about General Bragg or Black-Fox-Running—and never had been. Reaching out, she placed her hand on her father’s arm, where hard muscle still knotted beneath four decades of scars. “I respect your insight, Rake’niha. I will consider it.”
His teeth bared with the closest semblance of a smile he ever gave. “That is the most I can expect from you, for you will land wherever the wind blows. Ó:nen Kahente.”
“No!” Her breath caught. Why use a forever goodbye? She tightened her grip on her father’s arm. “Only until we meet again.”
Shrugging out of her grasp, he stalked past her, leaving behind his familiar scent of bear grease and strength. She watched him go, tears blurring her sight. While she hated yielding to the will of any man, for him she would almost bend.
Proud head lifted high, Black-Fox-Running called to a group of warriors, her brother amongst them, clustered in front of the pen with their horses. Without a word, they mounted. She turned from the sight, unwilling to watch them ride off, and focused on the task at hand. Better that than second-guess her decision.
She shoved open the brigadier general’s door, and the peppery scent of sage greeted her. Across the small chamber, a few leftover leaves were scattered on the floor in front of the hearth. She bit her lip, fighting a sneeze. Did the man really think he duped anyone with this ruse? Even if she couldn’t detect the smell of whiskey on his breath, his red nose betrayed his daily indulgence. He rose from his seat at her entrance.
She strode past a silent private on watch near the door and joined Captain Prinn, who stood in front of the commanding officer’s desk. Matthew raised his brow at her—his silent way of inquiring after her conversation with Black-Fox-Running—but she ignored him and greeted the general instead.
“Pardon my appearance, sir. Captain Prinn and I only recently returned, and I had no time to make myself presentable.”
“No pardon needed. It is I who am keeping you from the comfort of a hot meal and a good rest. God knows you deserve it.” The general swept out his hand. “Please sit, the both of you.”
General Bragg fairly crashed into his seat, knocking loose a long blond hair that had been ornamenting the red wool of his sleeve. Apparently the man had visited the supply shed with Molly the laundress as well as imbibing until he wobbled.
He coughed into one hand, clearing his throat with an excessive amount of rattling. “Now then, Captain Prinn has filled me in on the intelligence the two of you gained. It is my understanding you had quite the adventure keeping hidden from a Wyandot war party. Between Prinn’s tactical strategies and your keen eye, I daresay we will win this war.”
She shifted in her seat. Praise always prickled, for it usually meant she’d be asked for more than she was willing to give.
The general folded his hands on the desktop. No calluses thickened his skin. No ink stained his fingers. What did the man do all day besides chase skirts and drink?
“Normally I’d give you both some leave, but these are not normal days. There’s been a recent development in your absence.” Reaching for a stack of papers, the general lifted the topmost parchment.
Next to her, Matthew stretched out one long leg and leaned forward. “What would that be, General?”
“The Frogs are running scared, and that is good. Many are scuttling back over the border. A sortie of our men captured a group of them shorthanded, traveling with a load of French gold. We’ve got hold of one of them now…or I should say one of ours.” He squinted at the parchment, then held it out to Matthew. “You recognize this name?”
Matthew’s eyes scanned the paper before he handed it back. “No, sir. It means nothing to me. Congratulations on your fine catch, but what has any of this to do with us? Miss Lytton and I have done more than our fair share of duty.” Emphasizing the last word, he flashed her a look from the corner of his eye.
She flattened her lips to keep from smiling. The rascal. Using her own sentiment of duty.
“I needn’t tell you our position here is tenuous, especially now with Black-Fox-Running pulling his aid. Fickle natives.” Shoving back his chair, the general stood and planted his palms on the desk. “That gold’s got to be moved into secure British lands. I want you and Miss Lytton to be part of that team. You will leave first thing come morning.”
Matthew shook his head. “Why us? You have stronger, younger, more bloodthirsty men in the garrison. Why send a worn-out soldier like me and a young lady who spots trouble a mile away but can’t fire a gun to save her life?”
“It is precisely for those reasons I chose you.”
Mercy rubbed her eyes. Something wasn’t right here. She lifted her face to the general. “Excuse me, sir, but what’s to stop the French from simply taking back the gold as we move it, just as you took it from them?”
His wide mouth stretched ev
er wider, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That is the beauty of my plan. It won’t be a shipment of gold.”
Matthew cocked his head. “Come again?”
“We’ll hide the crates in plain sight, under the guise of two wagonloads carrying naught but homestead belongings. The longer this war drags on, the more families are pulling up stakes and escaping back to civilization. You shall simply be yet more of those tired settlers who’ve had their fill of frontier life.”
Matthew shifted in his chair, the scrape of his tomahawk handle against his seat as offsetting as the lowering of his voice. “You want us to move that gold overland instead of by river? Do you have any idea how long that will take?”
“A fortnight, if luck smiles on you.”
A frown weighted Mercy’s brow, and she glanced at Matthew. The hard lines on his face were unreadable. Scouting out danger from the safety of forest cover was one thing, but rolling along on a wagon in the open was quite another. Suddenly her words of duty tasted sour at the back of her throat.
She shot her gaze back to the general. “Captain Prinn and I hardly make up a family, sir.”
“Indeed. And so I’ve enlisted a few others to add to your numbers. You shall have a recruit to play the part of your nephew. Captain Prinn here”—he aimed his finger at Matthew—“will pose as the kindly father figure in your life, as he always does. And you, Miss Lytton, will no longer be a miss.”
She tensed. If she ran out the door now and saddled a horse, she could catch up to her father in no time. She gripped the chair arms to keep from fleeing. “Pardon me, General, but what are you saying?”
“Why, my dear Miss Lytton.” A grin spread on his face. “You will be wed by tomorrow.”
Mercy bolted out the general’s door, heedless of the stares of milling soldiers. Without slowing her stride, she crossed the parade ground and raced to the sanctity of the women’s tents. This being an outpost garrison, the men were afforded timbered shelters. The women got canvas, unless they were an officer’s wife. There were only six ladies living in the tents—three who refused to leave their husbands, herself, and two who stayed simply because they had nowhere else to go.
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