Flinging aside the door flap, she ducked inside and closed the stained canvas behind her. Three empty cots were lined up before her like fallen soldiers. The farthest one called her weary bones to lie down and forget the world. Pah! As if she could. The general’s words boiled her blood hotter with each pump of her heart.
“You will be wed by tomorrow.”
“We’ll see about that,” she muttered, glad her tentmates were either out washing regimentals or nursing sick soldiers. “Men! Pigheaded, the lot of them.”
Reaching up, she fumbled at her collar and pulled out the locket she never took off. She ran her thumb over the center of a ruby heart, surrounded by gold filigree, and slowed her breathing. Years ago, she’d worn the necklace out of rebellion. Now the heavy stone was a weight of penance and—oddly enough—comfort.
Oh Mother…
Wind riffled the canvas walls. She felt more alone now than she had in years.
With a sigh, she shrugged off a man’s trade shirt that hung to her knees, untied her leggings and peeled them off, and lastly loosened the breechclout at her waist. She’d have to hang them up to dry before packing them away, but for now, she gave the heap a good kick, tired of straddling the line between male and female, native and white. Tired of everything, really.
Shivering, she knelt in front of her trunk and opened the lid. Pulling out a clean gown and undergarments, she frowned at the feminine attire as fiercely as she’d scowled at the hunting clothes. Why was she so different? Why could she not be like other women?
She blew out a sigh and slipped into a dry shift and front-lacing stays, knowing all the while there were no answers to be had. She’d been born different, and there was nothing to be done about that.
After retrieving a hairbrush, she closed the lid on her trunk and sank onto its top. For the moment, she set the brush in her lap, then began the arduous process of unpinning her long hair, her thoughts every bit as snarly. Why must everyone push her into marriage, as if she were some precious bauble that required protection? Little good it had done her mother. Brushing her hair with more force than necessary, she winced. In a man’s world, survival came by acting and thinking like a man.
With deft fingers, she braided her hair into a long tail and was tying a leather lace at the end when footsteps pounded the ground outside her tent.
“Mercy, come on out.” Matthew’s voice leached through the weathered canvas. “We need to talk.”
She dropped her hands to her lap. What was there to say? She’d given her answer. Not even a war party of Wyandots could make her change her mind.
“I know you’re in there,” he growled. “And I won’t go away.”
Of course he wouldn’t. She rolled her eyes. The man was as determined as a river swollen by winter melt. Tucking up a stray strand, she rose and opened the flap. “You’re wasting your time. I will not entertain the general’s suggestion.”
“At least hear me out. Then make up your mind.” He held up a blackened tin pot. “Besides, I’ve brought stew. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.”
Her stomach growled, and she frowned. Of all the inopportune times to remind him—and her—that she was human.
Matthew smirked.
She sighed. Ignoring him would sure be a lot easier with a belly full of hot food. “Very well. Give me a moment.”
Darting back inside, she retrieved a shawl, then grabbed a horn spoon and wooden bowl.
Outside, Matthew already sat on a log next to a smoldering fire, dipping his spoon into his own bowl. She joined him. The rich scent of broth curling up to her nose nearly made her weep. And the first bite…aah. There wasn’t much finer in the world than thick stew on a chill day—especially after going without for so long.
She shoveled in a mouthful before eyeing Matthew sideways. “What’d you trade for this?”
“Rum.”
“Your loss. Much as I’m obliged”—she paused for another big bite—“I won’t be bought for a bowl of pottage.”
“’Course not.” Afternoon sun glinted off the stew droplets collecting on Matthew’s beard as he spoke. “You’re worth far more than that.”
The soup in her mouth soured, and she swallowed it like a bitter medicine. The man was forever prattling on about God’s great love for her. “Don’t start, Matthew. I can’t bear a sermon right now.”
“Fair enough.” Lifting the bowl to his lips, Matthew tipped back his head and finished the rest of his meal. He swiped his mouth with his sleeve while setting down the dish, then angled to face her head-on. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but despite the danger of it, General Bragg’s plan is solid. Like he said, with clear weather, it’ll take but a fortnight to get the load over to Fort Edward.”
“Fort Edward?” Her appetite suddenly stalled. The rangers were stationed out of that fort. Matthew’s former cohort. Was this his way of saying goodbye?
She swallowed, the stew having lost its appeal. “I see.”
His brows gathered together like a coming storm. “No, you don’t. When it comes to that falcon eyesight of yours, you are unequaled. But in matters of the heart, you are blind.”
“Matthew!” She spluttered and choked. After three years of scouting sorties with this man, surely he wasn’t pledging troth to her. He was old enough to be her father!
“Certainly you are not hinting at…” She cleared her throat once more, unable to force out any more words.
For a moment his eyes narrowed, then shot wide. His shoulders shook as he chuckled. “No, girl. Nothing like that. Look at me, Mercy. Really look. What do you see?”
Lowering her bowl, she focused first on her breaths. In. Out. Slower. And slower. Sound was next. One by one, she closed off the hum of the camp—the whickering of a horse, coarse laughter from afar. The thud of men tromping about. Even the beat of her own pulse quieted until silence took on a life of its own. Only then could she see, and in the seeing, her heart broke.
Where whiskers were absent, lines etched a life map on Matthew Prinn’s face. A chart of the years—decades—of toil and grief. Spent vigor peppered his beard and hair that were once raven. Even his eyes were washed out and gray now. In the three years she’d known him, he’d earned a new scar near his temple and a larger bump on his nose—all in the service of the king.
And her.
She set her bowl on the log beside her, no longer hungry. “What I see is a great man who faithfully serves the crown, relentlessly brings back intelligence, and keeps me safe in the process.”
He shook his head. “That is what you want to see. The truth of it is I’m tired. This fight is winding down, and so am I.” Pausing, he looked up at a sky as sullen as the furrows on his forehead. “I aim to go to Fort Edward, then keep on going east till I find me a nice patch of land and put down stakes.”
“You’re going to quit? Just like that?”
“’Tis been a long time coming.” His gaze found hers again. “You did not see it because you did not want to.”
The accusation crept in like a rash, hot and uncomfortable. Of course she did not want to see it, because if she did, she’d have to look long and hard at her own life. She dropped her gaze and picked at the frayed hem of her shawl. He’d sacrificed time and again these past three years for her. Time now she returned the favor.
“I understand, Matthew. Truly.”
A grunt resounded in his chest. “Good. Then we’re agreed.”
She jerked her face upward. “But that doesn’t mean I will marry.”
His teeth flashed white in his beard. “I did not say it did.”
“But the general said—”
Matthew held up a hand. “If you’d have stayed long enough to hear the man out, you’d know we’ll travel as a family unit in name only, not deed. Rufus and I—”
“Rufus Bragg?” She spit out the name like an unripe huckleberry.
“Aye. We will both have a cross to bear. He is to pose as my grandson, and he and I will man the rear wag
on. You will ride the lead, scouting for trouble as always.”
Picking up a stick, she stabbed at the coals in the fire, stirring them to life. “With my husband, no doubt.”
“Like I said, in name only.” His hand snaked out and stilled her frantic poking. “Why are you so skittish over this? I’ve never known you to back down from a request to serve. What of your high ideals of duty and honor?”
She pulled from his touch, wishing it could be as easy to shy from his question. But she couldn’t, for truth once spoken could not be unheard. “You’re right,” she mumbled. Slowly, she lifted her face to his. “But what shall I do without you?”
“Time you took stock of your own future, girl. Where is it to be? What is it to be? With whom is it to be spent?”
She jumped to her feet, grabbing up her bowl and spoon. She’d rather run barelegged through a patch of poison oak than consider the answers to those inquiries, for she wanted nothing more than to remain unfettered and free. “If we are to leave at daybreak, I need to pack and get some rest.”
She whirled toward her tent, then turned back. “Tell me, Matthew, who is to be my, er…” The word stuck in her throat, and she forced it out past a clenched jaw. “Husband?”
He stood, gathering the tin pot and his bowl. “Fellow by the name of Dubois, more than likely.”
“Dubois?” The French name festered like a raw boil, the food in her stomach churning. “Pah! I’m to be married to a Frenchman?”
“Oh, he is more than that.”
Her hands shot to her hips. “What aren’t you telling me, Matthew Prinn?”
“Dubois,” he drawled, leveling a cocked eyebrow at her, “is a condemned traitor.”
Light crept in through the cracks between boards. Pale. Lethargic. Morning, but not quite. As if the sun hovered just below the horizon for the sole purpose of tormenting Elias Dubois, forcing him to live his last moments on this earth stuck between night and day. No matter. It felt like home, this in-between, the threat of death a familiar companion. But this time, more than his life would be on the line. Other men depended upon him if he did not make it back to Boston. And that single, bruising thought stuck in his craw, sharp as a wedged bone.
“You are a disappointment.”
Lifting his hand, he shoved away his grandfather’s words echoing from the grave and probed his swollen eye. The chains hanging from his wrist rattled like a skeleton—a reminder of what he’d soon become. A slow smile stretched his lips. At least he could see. Face the noose head-on and die with dignity. His smile bled into a frown. Was there anything dignified about the last beat of a heart?
“Dubois! You ready to die?” A voice, as chilling as the spring air, blasted against the storage shed door.
Elias pushed up from the crate he’d called a bed. “Now is as good a time as any.” The lie flowed a little too easily, and he winced, regretting the falsehood…regretting his failure. Because of his error, a deadly French weapon would kill countless English and Colonials.
Unless he made it out of here—alive and with that weapon—the tide of the war could once again turn back to the French. Ah, but his grandfather surely must be rolling in his coffin to know that the fate of an entire war hinged on his prodigal grandson.
A key scraped against metal. A wooden bar lifted. The silhouette of a red-coated grim reaper darkened the door.
“Then let’s be about it.” Captain Scraling stepped aside, leaving enough room for Elias to pass yet not escape, for another soldier stood outside, five paces away from the door.
His smile nearly returned. Where would he run to inside a palisade with guards at the ready?
Stretching a wicked kink out of his neck, he strolled ahead as if the request meant nothing more than a call to a hearty breakfast. But once past the threshold, he stopped and studied the sky—gray as a corpse drained of life. He shot the captain a scowl. “You are early. The sun is not up yet.”
Scraling shrugged. “I have many things to do today. You are the least of them. Follow the private, if you please.” He tipped his head toward the Colonial regular.
Elias smirked. “And if I do not?”
The captain’s fist shot out. Elias’s head exploded. Reeling, he plummeted backward, unable to stop himself from crashing to the ground. Blast! Just when his eye had started to open.
The next strike drove the air from his lungs. Groaning, he rolled over and gasped for air. An impossibility though when Scraling grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him to his feet.
“Move it!” The captain shoved him between the shoulder blades.
He stumbled forward, catching himself before ramming into the man in front of him. And a good thing too for the private stood ready to pummel him as well.
“Lead on, Private,” the captain ordered.
They marched across the parade ground. Two wagons were being loaded near the front gate, not far from the rough-hewn gallows—a reminder to those arriving and departing that justice would be meted out, even here in the New York wilderness. Each step stole a breath from the few he yet owned, but he couldn’t begrudge these men who prodded him onward. He was as guilty of the charges as Lucifer himself.
Birdsong trilled in the quiet of predawn, a pleasant accompaniment to the tramp of their feet. The shaking started then. First in his hands, working upward over arms and shoulders, diving in deep and spreading from gut to legs. It was always like this when the smell of death grew stronger—or was that his stench from being locked in a shed for two days without courtesy of a privy break?
He glanced skyward. Is this it, Lord?
A gentle morning breeze nudged the hanging rope. The movement was slight, barely noticeable, but enough to twist Elias’s throat into a sodden knot. The hairs at the back of his neck stood out like wire. Was he truly ready to die? Was anyone?
Spare the lives of those men, God. The ones I failed. And forgive me for my lack.
Just ten paces more and—
The private made a sharp right, pivoting away from the scaffold. Elias’s step faltered. Was this some kind of trick? He looked back to the captain.
A fist smashed into his nose. Double blast! His head jerked aside, the force knocking him to his hands and knees. The ground spun. Blood dripped over his top lip. The captain taunted from behind, something about his manliness or lack thereof. Hard to tell. Sound buzzed like a beehive that had been whacked with a stick—but even louder was the anger inside him, pumping stronger with each heartbeat. His fury strained at the leash. Staggering to his feet, he bit back a curse and spit out the nasty taste in his mouth, then lifted his face to the sky.
“Forgive these men too, Lord, for I surely am not able to at this moment.” He spoke in French, not only to prevent the satisfaction the captain would feel at his admission, but more importantly to irritate the Englishman.
“Move along!”
Head pounding, he tromped after the private, unable to work up any more curiosity as to why they bypassed the noose and neared the officers’ quarters. Likely a last interrogation—and his last chance to talk his way out of this mess.
Please, God. More than my life depends upon this. Have mercy.
The private knocked and, after a gruff “Enter” grumbled from inside, shoved open the door.
Elias advanced, swiping the blood from his nose and breathing in sage and rotgut rum.
Brigadier General Bragg did not so much as look up from his desk. He merely flicked out his hand as if the lot of them were blackflies to be swatted. “Captain, Private, wait outside.”
With a final scowl aimed at Elias, Captain Scraling stomped off. Clearly he was not happy for being told to wait like a dog—and the thought of his inconvenience made Elias smile, despite the way the movement stung.
The general pinched a document in his fingers and held it up, skewering him with a glower of his own. “This is a warrant for your death.”
Elias frowned. Why show him the document before draining the life from his eyes? This was not sta
ndard procedure. He’d fold his arms and stare the man down were his hands not weighted by irons.
“And this”—Bragg paused and held up a different parchment—“is a stay of execution.”
A stay? What in all of God’s great glory? A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he refused to gape, for surely the general expected such a response.
Though he’d regret it, the irony of the situation slowly unraveled inside him, and he chuckled. If only François could hear this. He laughed until the pounding of his skull could no longer be denied.
Bragg’s brow darkened, as did the scarlet tip of his nose. “I fail to see the humor in this, Dubois.”
“Are you seriously cutting a deal with a traitor?”
“I’d deal with the devil if I had to.”
“Well, I suppose I am the closest thing you have to that.” He angled his head. “What is your offer?”
Bragg leaned so far back in his chair, the wood creaked a grievance. “I have a shipment of gold needing safe delivery into British lands.”
Elias advanced so quickly, Bragg reached for his pistol. Stopping short of lunging across the man’s desk, Elias slammed his hands onto the wood, the chains adding to the startling effect. “Are you asking me to deliver the gold you stole from me?” The question echoed above the crackle of wood in the fire and the snort of the man in front of him.
“Yes.”
Straightening, he lifted his face to the plank ceiling. “You never stop surprising me.”
“We’ve only recently met.”
He aimed his gaze back at Bragg like a loaded musket. “I was not talking to you.”
The general shifted in his seat, laying his pistol in his lap. “My terms are these: You will be part of a four-person squad, traveling under the guise of a family moving back to civilization. Reach Fort Edward with the gold intact, and your execution will be pardoned, though the required jail time is nonnegotiable.”
His stomach clenched—and not from lack of food. Something wasn’t right about this. “Why me?”
The Captured Bride Page 2
