“I don’t think I need to tell you, soldier, that you will be crossing dangerous ground. The chances of making it alive to Fort Edward are slim. You’re a condemned man anyway. Expendable. And if you don’t make it…” He shrugged.
Interesting—but completely implausible. Elias grunted. “What is to stop me from killing my companions and running off?”
“They will be armed. You will not.”
No one could survive in the wilderness without a gun or a knife. Elias shook his head. “Then I might as well die here.”
“With good behavior, you shall walk free. Eventually.” Bragg held up both papers, shaking them so that the documents rippled like living things. “So, what will it be? Life…or death?”
Elias shifted his gaze from one to the other. Was this an answer to his prayer? Or a fiendish jest?
Reaching out, he snatched the parchment sentencing him to the gallows. He could end this here and now. Stop the running. Finish the vagabond life that he’d come to hate. Just a quick jerk from a tight rope, then a blissfully peaceful eternity with the only Father he’d ever respected.
Bragg’s jaw dropped.
Elias smiled from the satisfaction of it.
Then ripped the document to pieces.
Morning stretched with a gray yawn across the sky, unwilling to fully awaken. Mercy frowned as patches of rainwater, frozen to brittle sheets by last night’s chill, crackled beneath her feet. If the cloud cover tarried and the earth held firm, at least they would make good time today. The sooner this journey was over, the better.
Across the parade ground, a curious sight snagged her attention. Three men filed past the gallows, then veered away from it. The raggedy one in the middle strode the proudest, shoulders back, gait sure, despite the shackles weighing him down. The man was so filthy it was impossible to see the true color of his coat or breeches. Was this the traitor who would play the part of her husband? But no, clearly he was in no condition to travel anywhere except back to the stocks.
The prisoner turned to the captain behind him, and a fist knocked him to the ground. Not an unusual sight given the nature of the fort, but what followed put a hitch in Mercy’s step.
The man staggered up from the blow, turned aside and spit, and then, with as much grace as a buck, lifted his face to the sky. His sudden stillness reached across the distance and pulled her in. This far away she couldn’t hear his words, but the sacredness of the moment stole her breath. Clearly he spoke to his God, and she got the distinct impression his God bent and listened with a keen ear. Growing up in a Mohawk camp, she was no stranger to the mystical ways of shamans, but this? Gooseflesh prickled down her arms, and she was unaccountably glad when the captain shoved the man forward into the brigadier general’s quarters.
Shaking off the unsettling feeling, she shifted her hold on her bundle of belongings and upped her pace. The man was none of her concern. She had bigger wolves to slay this day, namely setting out on a journey with a husband she did not want—even if it were in name only. Maybe she could persuade Matthew to let her ride with him instead. As a rule, she did not like working with strangers, and she especially did not pine for it when the man had a name like Dubois.
Drawing near the two wagons at the front gate, she caught Matthew’s eye and hailed him with a tip of her chin. After so many years learning each other’s ways, words were a hindrance.
He helped a soldier shove a crate up a ramp into the wagon, then strode her way. “Stow your pack. And you wanna check those supplies?” He hitched his thumb, indicating a box on the ground up near the other wagon. “Prob’ly ain’t much.”
“We’ve been through lean.” She glanced past Matthew’s shoulder to where another soldier had taken his place in the loading. Both men strained their muscles against the next trunk. She recognized one private, but not the other. Neither was a bowlegged effigy. “Where’s Rufus?”
“I imagine he’ll show when the work’s done.”
“No doubt. Is that man over there my…” The word husband crawled back down her throat. Thinking it was one thing. Speaking it into being, an impossibility.
Matthew shook his head. “He ain’t showed yet either.”
Relief hit her as sweet as the brisk morning air. It would be short-lived, but she savored it nonetheless. Her bundle clutched to her chest, she bypassed the length of the canvas-covered wagon with four horses hitched to the front of it and neared the back of the other wagon. She hefted her pack over the back gate and tucked it snug beside six fat trunks that rode shoulder to shoulder, close as friends huddled near a fire—clearly more comfortable at the prospect of the ride than she.
She turned from the sight and rifled through the contents of the remaining crate on the ground. A blackened tin pot. Several packets of hardtack. Dried beans and some strips of meat so old and shriveled as to be beyond recognition. There was one jug of watered ale and several handfuls of root vegetables, all as wrinkled as tribal elders. This far from civilization and after a winter spare of game, they were the best victuals to be had.
She secured the lid, then heaved the crate into the wagon, grunting from the effort. For such mean supplies, the box weighed heavy. Footsteps thudded on the hardened dirt, and she turned.
Rufus Bragg wasn’t much of a man, for he barely held on to sixteen years. So gawkily built was he, his bones put up a fair fight to support his garments. Were it not for the knobs of his joints, he’d have to tie the shirt to his skin to keep it from falling off. Mouse-colored hair hung over one small, dark eye. The other one blinked at her. He said nothing. Not only did he own no manners, it seemed he never intended to purchase any.
But beyond looks and manners, the mark of wickedness was the young man’s worst fault. She’d once seen him torture a rabbit kit just for the enjoyment of it. Were he not the brigadier general’s son, he’d have been cashiered long ago.
She glanced over at the other wagon, where the men loaded the last crate, then pursed her lips and speared Rufus with a scowl. “Right on time, as always.”
His mouth parted in a toothy grin. “Ne’er too late and ne’er too early.”
“Never around to lift a finger, more like it.”
He shrugged, and she feared the sharpness of his shoulders might cut through his shirt and coat. “Cain’t be blamed if the men don’t wait for me.”
She clenched her jaw. Matthew was right. They would both be bearing crosses. Sidestepping Rufus, she strode back to Matthew. “As you thought, there’s not much by way of food. Have to hunt along the way. Could slow us down some.”
Matthew rubbed his jaw, clean shaven but not for long. “Now yer eager to be rid of me?”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it. The sooner we reach Fort Edward, the sooner”—she lowered her voice as the man-boy swung around the back of the wagon—“we’ll be rid of Rufus. We ready to go?”
“Soon as your man shows.”
She gasped. “My man?” The familiarity he awarded a known traitor and a French one at that roiled the bellyful of chicory coffee she’d swigged for breakfast.
“Quit yer chafing. Gotta play the part, Daughter.” He rested a big hand on her shoulder. “If we don’t swallow our roles now and trouble comes along, our lives are on the line.”
“Fine. But I don’t like it.”
“You have made that quite clear.” His hand fell away, and the rebuke in his gray eyes scorched like an August sun.
She dipped her head. “Very well. I will be the most obedient daughter ever to grace the wilds of upper New York.”
“That don’t worry me. I’m fretting over how you will manage to act the goodwife.”
Elias shivered, naked and cold. Having just left the general’s office, he’d expected to be outfitted for the upcoming trek—but not with an icy drenching. He gritted his teeth to keep from gasping when the next bucketful hit. Captain Scraling and the private laughed—then the private picked up yet another bucket and did it again. Elias shook his head like a dog. He sho
uld be thankful for the washing, but Lord have mercy, this was humiliating.
“Get yourself dressed. I ain’t no lady’s maid and those wagons are itchin’ to leave.”
The private lobbed a ball of clothing at him. He caught it just before the bundle landed on the wet ground.
Scraling leaned against the general’s quarters, gun at the ready. Did the man truly think he’d need it? Only a fool would make a stripped-bare run for it in the company of soldiers long deprived of a good fight.
Elias shrugged on a shirt too small and breeches better fitted to a scarecrow. His own clothes had been ruined beyond repair, thanks to men such as these. He shoved his arms into the sleeves of a linen hunting frock, and forgave the tightness of the garments beneath, for this coat with its long sleeves and longer hem covered a multitude of sins. He grabbed up his own leather belt and secured it, then jammed his feet into his moccasins, both mercifully unscathed save for a few nicks.
Once again he fell into step between the private and the captain, who led him around the building. Scraling rapped on the general’s door and Bragg emerged. Daylight wasn’t kind to him. Though dawn hardly grabbed hold of the day and cloud cover did its best to vanquish even that weak light, broken veins showed clearly on the fleshy parts of the general’s face.
“So, there was a man beneath that filth.” The general nodded at Scraling and the private. “Thank you, men. That will be all. Dubois, follow me.”
Elias kept time with Bragg’s hike across the parade ground. The noose dangling from the gallows waved as they passed, and Elias tugged at his collar. While this wasn’t his day to swing by the neck, that did not mean death wasn’t crouched nearby.
Narrowing his eyes, he studied the figures ahead. A tall man, silver-fox hair shooting wild from beneath his hat, conversed with a woman, who stood not much shorter. If it weren’t for a long braid of dark hair tailing down her back and a dun-colored gown flaring out at her hips, he almost might have mistaken her for a man, so wide was her stance, so confident the stretch of her shoulders. Two soldiers strode away from the rear wagon, revealing a lank-limbed, scruff-faced younger man.
“If the weather holds”—Bragg’s voice interrupted his assessment—“it should take you a fortnight to reach Fort Edward, though given the rain we’ve had, the going could be treacherous. You are adept at handling a wagon, are you not?”
He bit back a smirk. The man had no idea. “Are the loads weighed even?”
“Captain Matthew Prinn, your…er, father-in-law, will have seen to that.”
He grunted. “Then yes. I am no stranger to hauling goods.”
“With a name like Dubois, I thought as much.”
Elias let the slur slick off him like water from a beaver’s tail. With a French surname, he’d heard it all before. Most English thought him either a voyageur, a criminal, or a scalp-taker—and they were right on all accounts. Or at least he had been in the past. But if Bragg knew what British blood also flowed in his veins, the man would bend a knee and plead for mercy.
The general stopped just paces behind the woman. “Miss Lytton, Captain Prinn, allow me to introduce the last member of your team, Mr. Elias Dubois. Keep an eye on your weapons, for under no circumstance is this man to be given one.”
Anger scorched a blaze up his neck, erasing any memory of his earlier cold dousing. A man couldn’t survive without a gun and a blade, especially not in the company of this sorry-looking lot. They would be lucky to make it to nightfall. His hands clenched at his sides, itching for the feel of a musket stock or knife hilt. “That is a mistake, General. Unarmed, I am of no use to anyone.”
“As I said, you’re expendable if need be. Godspeed.” The general wheeled about.
So did the woman. Brown eyes bored into his, just about level with his own. This close, she was taller than he’d first credited. Dark of hair, darker of gaze, with cheekbones high and eyes large and wide enough to dive in and swim around. He might almost place her as a native—were it not for skin so fair, it glowed soft and white. He sucked in a breath. By all the blessed stars above, how had he ever thought her to be mannish?
“Ma’am.” He dipped his head in greeting.
Her lips parted, full and surprisingly deep in color, yet she said nothing.
“Mr. Dubois.” The man behind her stepped forward and offered a hand. “I’m Matthew Prinn.”
“Elias, please. If we are to pose as a family, it would be best to be on a first-name basis.” He clasped the fellow’s hand and measured his character by grip alone. Strong. Unwavering. Calloused and hard. But not overpowering, revealing a kind of stalwart humility.
“I s’pose you’re right.” The man let go and nudged the woman with his elbow. “This here is Mercy.”
Elias clamped his jaw. An apt name, for Lord have mercy, she captivated like no other woman, and to his shame, he’d known quite a few.
She lifted her chin. “Daylight’s wasting. We should be on our way.”
She whirled so fast, her long braid slapped his arm. Her skirts swished as she stalked toward the front wagon.
Elias’s brows shot up. There was nothing skittish about this one.
Prinn’s gray eyes followed the woman while his jaw worked. “Mercy can be a little…Let’s just say she is a fiddle string wound tight and about to break. Might wanna ride quiet for a while. If she snaps, it will leave a mark. She’ll get over it soon enough. Rufus! Hike yerself up to the seat. I will take first scout.” He turned, leaving Elias standing alone at the rear, caught between the empty gallows and the fort gates swinging wide, gaping open to a wilderness filled with danger.
Elias cracked his neck one way then the other. Had he escaped one sure death only to face another? He lifted a prayer as he hiked toward the front wagon. More than one life depended on his survival—and with the worn man, young buck, and fiery woman, he’d just added three more to that count.
Mercy studied Elias Dubois as he swung up onto the wagon seat beside her. She had never thought this day would come. She sitting next to a man purporting to be her husband—real or not. She gripped the wagon’s side to keep from pinching her skin to check if this was some kind of nightmare. After years of watching her mother being subdued so thoroughly by her father, she had sworn not to put herself in the same position. Ever. Not even as a farce.
To Mr. Dubois’s credit, the man said nothing, merely spit out a “Get-up” and slapped the reins, lurching the wagon into movement. It was a small act, one she did not want to admire, but clearly he owned some sense—both in coaxing the horses to tow such a heavy load and in allowing her time to settle in silence.
Beneath a felt hat, his dark hair hung wet to his shoulders, stark against his colorless linen collar. One eye was purpled nearly shut. His good eye stared straight ahead. A fresh cut drew a red line on his cheekbone, just above the scruff of his beard. He sat tall, but not much higher than her. A bump rode midway down his nose, the legacy of a fighter, but not nearly as pronounced as the crooked bend of Matthew’s. His skin was tanned to burnt honey—a rarity this time of year, unless one lived outside regardless of the seasons.
Her gaze shifted down his arms. While one hand gripped the reins, the other rode on his thick leg. His knuckles were grazed raw. Fighter, indeed. How many men had those fists struck? She stared harder. Worn grooves marked the flesh between his fingers—ruts worn by rifle balls, a testimony of years spent caressing a gun.
Yet despite his rugged exterior and the fact that he rode toward God knew how many years of imprisonment, he guided the horses as if he were on a Sunday drive. A strange contentedness flowed from him, as if he’d lived and walked around in hunger and need, then strolled out the other side a more peaceful soul for the journey.
“Your assessment?” He spoke without pulling his gaze from the narrow trace they followed.
His voice carried a strange mix of accents. French. British. And oddly enough, a throaty twang she couldn’t place at first—and when she did, she narrowed her eyes at hi
m.
Native…but which people?
“You’re capable enough,” she admitted. “Leastwise I don’t think I shall have to be saving your hide.”
“So, you think it is a hide worth saving then?” He flashed her a smile, one that did strange things to her belly.
“You tell me.”
His grin faded. A shameful loss, that. His blue gaze—the color of an October sky—held hers with as much intensity as she might employ.
“You are a bold one,” he said simply.
“And is that the sum of your appraisal?” At the quirk of his brow, she continued, “Don’t bother denying it. Even without looking, you have been measuring my strengths and weaknesses since we left the fort.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a warm sound, heating her despite the chill of the spring morn. He smelled of smoke—gun smoke, wood smoke, and the heated charge in the air left behind when lightning struck a pine.
Laughter spent, he faced forward again. “You are as much a riddle as me—and I think we both know it.”
“At least I’m not a traitor.” She bit her lip. Too late. An arrow once shot could not be re-quivered. If Matthew heard her, an ear-burning scolding would light her on fire.
But Elias—for yes, she ought to think of him as such, despite her misgivings—merely continued guiding the horses along the trail. “Judging on hearsay is a danger,” he said in an even tone.
Her jaw dropped. This man, the one she’d seen shackled and dropped to the ground, was denying the accusation? She hitched her thumb over her shoulder. “Isn’t this load of gold what you were moving for the French?”
“It is.”
“But you have English blood.”
“Indeed.” He glanced at her sideways. “Sharp eye.”
“Seems to me your loyalties are a-tangle, Elias Dubois.”
His shoulders shook. For one beaten half-dead and parrying an earful of a woman’s blows, he was generous with his humor.
The chuckle in his throat faded. “I would say my allegiances are no more conflicted than yours.”
The Captured Bride Page 3
