The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  She smirked, then grabbed the wagon’s seat as they bumped over a large rock. There was no answer to his remark—for he couldn’t be more right.

  “All right, here is my assessment then, since you asked.” He turned to her, allowing the horses to find their own speed. “What I know is that you are fair to chafing in that gown, and lest you decide you are done with it, I had best keep an eye on my breeches. Your words are more crumpets than cowpeas, proving somewhere along the way you were raised by a proper lady, a curiosity considering you now travel with a ranger. But there is one thing I am hog-tied to figure out.”

  Don’t ask. Don’t do it. That was what he wanted. But the need to know, ever her downfall, swelled like snowmelt on the Genesee River. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “If that lilt to your voice is Mohawk or Mohican.”

  Scowling, she faced forward once again, ignoring the man and his questions. He could wonder about her heritage all he liked—for she had no intention of sating his curiosity.

  They rode in silence until it was her turn to swap with Matthew on scouting duty. Only once did they break their pace to water the horses and gnaw on a hardened crust of bread and a pouch of pemmican Matthew had seen fit to bring along. Matthew commented to her that he was surprised Elias was still in one piece. She’d shot back that she noticed Rufus was too, to which he’d answered the day wasn’t over yet.

  And she couldn’t agree more. Would this day never end? With no sun to gauge by, she figured there were maybe two more hours of travel time until they hit the clearing to camp for the night—but when they turned a bend in the trail, she revised that opinion.

  An enormous oak lay sideways in their path. Why hadn’t Rufus run back to tell them? The man was worthless as a scout, though it shouldn’t have surprised her. The only thing he excelled at was shirking his duties and complaining.

  Elias set the brake and hopped down. So did she.

  Eventually, Matthew joined them in front of the felled blockade. “That is a big one.”

  He wasn’t jesting. Laid flat, the trunk stood as high as her knees. She frowned at the barrier, fighting the urge to kick the thing.

  Elias turned to Matthew. “How many axes have we?”

  “Two.”

  Her frown deepened. A fool’s task, an idea brought on by too much brawn and not enough brain. “If we backtrack a half mile or so, I know a way around this. ’Tis an old Kahnyen’kehàka trail but ought to be wide enough.”

  Elias shook his head. “Too dangerous. We stick to the route.”

  What gall! Why did this man—this traitor—think he owned the last word? She whirled to Matthew. “If we turn around now, we can—”

  “Go grab the axes, Mercy.” Matthew cut her off.

  “Matthew!” His name shot past her lips like a hiss. Was he really siding with a man he barely knew over her—and a branded turncoat at that? “You know I can walk this land blinded. I’m telling you my way will be faster.”

  “I don’t doubt your knowledge, girl. But this time of year, after a winter of holing up, those trails are a-swarm with braves keening for a fight. I reckon you know that too. So like Elias says, we’ll bust up this tree and continue on. Agreed?”

  Her hands curled into fists. Unbelievable! Why did men always think they knew better? The time it would take to clear a path would put them behind schedule on the first day out. But the cut of Matthew’s jaw and the blue steel in Elias’s gaze fairly shouted they would not be moved.

  “Fine,” she strained out. “I will scout up ahead.”

  She stormed along the length of the trunk, spying out the best place to heft herself over. It was a grand and glorious lie she’d told, for she couldn’t scout a thing—not with the red haze of rage coloring everything.

  Night fell hard and fast in the forest. Elias worked quickly in the dark, spreading an old army blanket across the tops of the crates in the wagon. If anyone asked what he was doing, he could say he was preparing a place for Mercy to sleep—which he was. Now. But before darkness had eaten up the last of day’s light, he’d rummaged to find the crate he’d notched and made sure the weapon he’d tucked safely at the bottom was still there.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Mercy’s voice seeped through the canvas, competing with the low whirr of a few brave insects. Shrugging out of his coat, Elias added the extra layer to soften the bedding. It would make for a lumpy mattress, but if the sky’s rumble held true, at least it’d be dry.

  He climbed out of the wagon and headed back to the fire—the small flames of which were an allowance he and Matthew would abide for this night only. This close to the fort there likely weren’t any scalp-takers on the prowl, not with soldiers frequently ranging this far out. But the farther they traveled into the backcountry, the more careful they would have to be.

  Rufus and Matthew already sat cross-legged on the ground, holding out their bowls. Mercy stooped over a pot, stirring the meal. He took a spot opposite them all, the orange flames a barrier between him and the men, and held out his fingers to the warmth. It would be a cold one tonight, but late March was ever fickle in its temperament.

  Mercy ladled out a watery broth with softened salt pork and root vegetables, the earthy aroma mouthwatering on the evening air. The stew hardly hit the bottom of Rufus’s bowl before he moved to take a slurp of it—the beast.

  “Hold off, Bragg.” Elias skewered the young pup with a piercing gaze. Wilderness or not, a lady deserved respect, one of the few lessons from his mother that had ever taken root. “Wait for the lady to take the first bite.”

  Rufus spit out a curse. “Who died and put you in charge?”

  “If you would act as a human instead of a beast, I would not have to tell you.” Half a smirk twitched his lips. How many times had he heard that himself growing up? He could almost feel the swat of his grandfather’s big hand across the seat of his breeches.

  “You are a disappointment.”

  His smirk faded at the ghostly reminder.

  Mercy scowled and sat next to Matthew, her own dinner in hand. “Such manners are for fine ladies at white linen tables. Neither are here.”

  Elias shrugged. The women he’d known back in Boston would’ve taken his words as a kindness. “A lady is a lady, no matter the setting.”

  “The man’s just lookin’ out for you, girl.” Matthew nudged her with his elbow. “Take a bite so we can get on with it.”

  Silently, Mercy lifted the bowl to her lips, her gaze fixed on Elias the whole time. What went on behind those dark eyes of hers? She stared warily, as if he were a rattler about to strike.

  The silence wore on until he could take no more of Rufus’s slurping. Setting down his bowl, Elias swiped his mouth. “We will need to leave come first light to make up for today’s loss of time.”

  Mercy set down her bowl as well, breathing out guttural words too fast and low to identify.

  Matthew frowned at her for a moment, then met Elias’s gaze over the fire. “I’m surprised you’re eager to reach the fort. Seems a man in your situation might want to drag his heels.”

  He stared the captain down. “I never shirk a duty, even when it is not to my liking.”

  A chuckle rumbled in Matthew’s chest. “You sound an awful lot like someone I know.”

  But there was no humor in the shadows on Mercy’s face. “You seem to have no qualms about which side those duties are for. Do you, Mr. Dubois?”

  Her challenge crackled in the air like the pop of wood in the fire. He clenched his jaw. There was no easy way to answer that, leastwise none that wouldn’t give away his true colors.

  Matthew broke the standoff by setting down his bowl. “Rufus, you take first watch. Mercy, grab second. I will take—”

  “I will take third,” Elias offered. A smile as thin as the stew twitched his lips. “But I will not be much of a guard without a weapon.”

  “By the looks of you, you’re a scrapper. I have no doubt you can take down a man without a gun in
your hands.” Matthew stretched out on the ground vacated by Rufus, the younger man already having stalked off into the dark. “Besides, you got a voice, don’t you?”

  Elias grunted. His bellow wouldn’t be much of a defense should someone decide to attack them in the blackest hours of the night.

  Mercy gathered the bowls, wiping them out with nothing but moss and the hem of her apron. She lifted the pot from the fire with a large branch, letting it cool in the dirt. Elias was just about to ask her if she was finished when she plopped onto the ground and curled up next to the fire. Did she seriously think to sleep outside? What kind of woman did that without a mutter of complaint?

  He stood and stretched out his hand to her.

  She looked at his fingers, firelight making it impossible to read what went on inside that mind of hers. Regardless, she did not move.

  So he lobbed his own challenge. “You are not afraid, are you?”

  With a hiss, she grabbed his hand, allowing him to hoist her to her feet—but when her warm skin touched his, a jolt shot through him. Instantly he released her, shaken beyond reason. Of course he’d held women’s hands before—and much more than that—but never, ever, had one left a mark on him like this.

  And by the sound of it, she felt the same, for she sucked in a sharp breath.

  He turned away, unwilling to ponder the strange sensation any further. Must have been the chill spring air getting to him in naught but a shirt. “Follow me.”

  Her feet tread silently behind him. Were it not for her musky sweet scent, he’d wonder if she followed at all. He led her to the wagon and nodded for her to climb up.

  Her brow furrowed at him. “You need me to fetch something for you? Why not do it yourself?”

  “Nothing of the sort. Just go on up.”

  She stood silent for a moment, only God knowing her thoughts. Then without another word, she hiked her skirts and climbed up.

  He bit back a grin. She’d been surprising him all day, and the thought of surprising her right back warmed him as much as if he wore his hunting frock.

  She ducked inside, and he hesitated. Should he wait here for her gratitude or go back to the—

  A fury of dark hair and flashing eyes sprang down from the wagon seat, landing in front of him. If the woman could kill by glower alone, he’d already be bleeding out on the dirt.

  “I may not be the kind of woman you’re used to, Mr. Dubois, but I am not that kind.” She whirled, the thick coil of her braid once again whipping his arm. Her feet pounded hard on the ground.

  What in the name of God and country was she going on about? Couldn’t she—

  His breath hitched as her meaning sank teeth into his conscience. Did she think…? He hadn’t intended that at all.

  He charged after her. “Thunder and turf! Rain is in the air. Most women would be happy to bed down in a dry space. I thought you would be pleased.”

  Her steps did not slow. “Stay away from me.”

  Instantly Matthew was in front of him, a deadly set to his jaw. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes!” Elias threw out his hands. “By the name of Mercy Lytton.”

  Matthew glanced over his shoulder to where Mercy whumped onto the ground, her back to both of them. Then he quirked a brow at Elias.

  Elias stifled a growl. Somehow being locked in that stinking storage shed with shackles on his wrists seemed preferable to this drama. “All I did was make a dry spot for her to bed down. Alone. Nothing more. I swear it.”

  A slow smile spread on Matthew’s face, then he tugged Elias’s sleeve, leading him out of earshot of Mercy. Matthew’s gray eyes, black now in the dark of night, peered into his.

  “A word of advice. Mercy can’t be prodded. She can be led, but only if she trusts the leader. You ain’t earned that trust yet, and with what she knows of you, it might take a long time. A very long time. Same goes for me. While I appreciate your hard work today and that you have not tried to run off, just know that I’ve got my eye on you.”

  Elias blew out a breath, long and low, easing some of the tension but not all. Were the tables turned, he’d feel the same way. “Point taken.”

  “Good.” Matthew turned to go but then doubled back. A peculiar glint in his gaze—like that of a freshly sharpened blade—cut through the darkness. “One more thing. You ever try to touch that woman, and she doesn’t finish you off first, I will kill you.”

  Rain tapped a tattoo against the canvas, trapping Mercy in the foggy world of awake-yet-not. Though the patter did its best to lull her back to sleep, she forced her eyes open. The soft light of a morning yet to come washed everything gray. For a moment she lay there, blinking, thankful she’d taken Elias up on his offer of dry bedding—though in the end it had been Matthew’s words that had persuaded her. Yawning, she pushed up, the scent of Elias Dubois’s coat still thick in her nose, peppery and smoky. A manly smell—one she did not wish to know so intimately. She snatched up his hunting frock and climbed out of the wagon.

  Outside, water dripped everywhere. Heaven’s tears, weeping life into the earth, made everything soggy. At least it wasn’t snow. While not likely, a final strike of winter wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  Thick snores cleaved the predawn, tearing out from inside the other wagon. It must be Rufus, for Matthew had taken the final night watch. Ahead, Elias stood with his back toward her, fingers busy checking harness buckles on the horses. The linen fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders.

  She advanced toward him with his coat outstretched. He had to be miserable without it, though the gleam in his blue eyes as she approached did not hint at such. In fact, he looked all the more rugged and thriving without it. She pressed her lips tight to keep from an openmouthed stare. The man was an enigma. Once she’d gotten over the fact that he’d meant no ill intent by making her a cozy shelter, she truly had been thankful. Not even Matthew would’ve provided in such a personal way. Why had Elias Dubois?

  Elias nodded, the hair unprotected by his hat wet and curling at the ends. “Good morning.”

  “Morning. I think you will be needing this today.” She thrust the hunting frock into his hands.

  He grunted then proceeded to shove his arms into the sleeves. “I trust you slept well.”

  “I trust you did not,” she shot back, but she added a half smile to soften her banter.

  Tying his belt, he said nothing, yet the smirk on his lips acknowledged her attempt at levity.

  Though the rain was light, the dampness of it soaked into her bones, and she removed her shawl from her shoulders to resettle it over her head as a mantle. She should’ve thought to grab her hat. “Thank you, for the shelter last night, I mean. I…”

  Her words stalled as his gaze locked onto hers. The same queer rush of heat fired inside her from heart to belly like when she’d gripped his hand the night before. It was a new feeling, unexpected—and completely uninvited. What kind of magic did the man wield?

  She forced the rest of her words out in a rush. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”

  With his forefinger and thumb, he ran his fingers along the brim of his hat, flicking off the water dripping onto his face. Then he jutted his chin toward the wagon where the next loud snore ripped through the air. “I have suffered worse than Bragg’s wood sawing.”

  She cocked a brow. “And his stench?”

  For a single, breath-stealing moment—and quite against her better judgment—she shared a grin with Elias Dubois.

  He turned and pointed at a mug sitting on a rock, a flat biscuit atop it. “There is a cup of chicory and a square of hardtack, rain-softened by now. I figured you could eat on the road. We should head out.”

  Her smile flattened. Ought she be cross that the man had thought her incapable of keeping herself fed—or flattered that he’d set aside food for her? If she had to think this hard on every odd thing he did, she’d be addlebrained by the time they reached Fort Edward.

  Pushing aside a pine bough, Mat
thew strode in from the cover of the woods and eyed them both. “We ready? Besides Rufus, that is. A nudge with a gun barrel will get him moving fast enough.”

  She flung the loose edge of her shawl over her shoulder, securing the fabric snug against her head for a venture into the woods. “I will be, after a moment. Go on ahead. Elias and I will catch up.”

  She pushed her way into the damp green of the New York wilds, breathing in the pungent odor of wet dirt and bloodroot crushed beneath her step. All the stress of the past few days seeped away the farther she ventured. This was home, this maze of trees and rock. A place where she was master, where the only one she had to be sure about was herself.

  Surveying from trunk to trunk, she set a course for a private spot to answer morning’s call. With a last look around, she squatted, unwilling to admit the convenience of a skirt for such a purpose. Breeches were nice for running, but cumbersome when it came to other necessities.

  After a moment, she stood. She ought to rush back, but the pull of creation tempted too strongly. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the luxury of inhaling a few breaths of peace and moist moss. Soon this journey would be over, and she would return to…what? With Matthew wanting to settle, she’d be alone. No one would hire a woman to scout on her own. It was a shaky future, as uncertain as chaff caught by the wind. Where she’d land was—

  Her eyes shot open. She froze, still as death, for her life might depend upon it. Senses heightened, she scanned the area. She should’ve thought to grab her gun, but the blue gaze and kindly manner of Elias Dubois had scrambled her normal thinking. How foolish.

  Around her, rain tapped the same as always. Rivulets whooshed from rock to rock where the ground drank no more. The only movement was that of freshly sprouted leaves bending from the steady beat of droplets. At ground level, trillium quivered from the constant pelting. Nothing else moved.

  Even so, she pulled out the knife she wore against her chest. Something wasn’t right.

  She sniffed, hoping to catch the scent of whatever it was that bristled the fine hairs at the base of her neck. She breathed in the same zesty aroma of a wet March morning—but this time something more muddied the air.