Heaven in His Arms (12 page)

"I see where I'm going." She released the branch and toed her way down the rubbled hill. "I only fell once, and it was because a branch got tangled in my skirts."

"Take care, Genevieve. I doubt you'll take well to The Duke's medicines."

"Such concern for my welfare." She tossed a knowing glance over her shoulder and smiled widely.' 'The wolf I thought I married is turning out to be a gentle puppy. He saves young boys from the whipping posts and sets slaves free—"

"You're my wife. What tales do you think my men are going to tell? They know where their next meal is coming from."

"Mmm, and I think they know, too, that you wouldn't deny it to them, no more than you would deny milk to a child."

The path widened and Andre brushed past her. His gaze slipped over the disorder of her tumbling auburn hair, over the freckled tilt of her nose.

"I won't tell anyone," she murmured, wrinkling her nose at him, all mischief. "It will be our little secret. There's something charming about a strong man with a soft heart."

"You've listened to too many fairy tales, woman."

He ground to a halt in the mulch, swiveling around her. Genevieve gasped in surprise, then grabbed on to a sapling to steady herself on the uncertain path. Nose to nose they stood, so close he heard her breathing, the sweet, ragged breath of excitement. He focused on the dirt smeared over the pert tilt of her tiny nose; a child's nose, ridiculously small, but the full lips beneath spoke of a woman's sensuality. . . . Those lips parted, showing a glimmer of moist tongue, and Andre leaned closer, drawn to that mouth, to the quiver of those lips.

Wretched witch, staring at him, tempting him. He was no damned saint. She'd see soon enough, out, soon enough, when those white hands of hers cracked with pain from cold and exertion, when those slim ankles of hers wobbled under the strain of climbing, when her white skin chapped with cold and wind; then she'd see the pith of him. How long would it take? How long did he have to watch her breasts rising and falling, soft warm mounds straining against her snagged bodice, before the journey finally took its toll and stole the roses from her cheeks? It was already taking too damned long. Someone had woven steel into this bit of lace.

Her lips quivered in the faintest of smiles; mocking him, she was, the fool. He clutched her by the waist and thrust her against him. Her breasts surged against his chest, the nubbed hardness of her nipples raking his shirt.

"Careful, Genevieve." He whispered the words against her cheek, fluttering a tendril of hair curving soft to her shoulder. "These woods make savages out of the most civilized men."

The case clattered to the ground; her hands swept up his chest. He seized one hand and squeezed it, cruel and tight. "Remember this: There's one rule on this journey, woman. Don't slow me down."

He released her. She reeled back and snatched a sapling to steady herself. He turned away and strode down the hill, faster than safely allowed with the heavy weight unevenly distributed on his back. "From here," he called over his shoulder, "there's no turning back, Genevieve. No matter what."

Andre increased his pace, increasing the distance between him and his muttering wife. Twice he slipped on the sleek rug of pine needles that matted the forest floor, maintaining his footing only by force of will. He needed to get away from her eyes, he needed to get away from the guilt that was nipping at his innards. She was beginning to trust him, the foolish wench. Damn fool men, conspiring to paint him like some sort of kind-hearted hero—and well they might, since they didn't know his plans for this woman. He hadn't even told Tiny, not yet.

He had no intention of bringing this spitfire all the way to Chequamegon Bay. He had no intention of spending the long, cold winter nights anywhere near her voluptuous little form. She would not be his wife. Ten days. Ten days, if all went well. Then they'd reach Allumette Island. She was still spritely now, but ten days traveling the rapid-strewn Ottawa River should be enough to exhaust his wife to the point of collapse; he would see to it. By then she would be screaming to return to Montreal, too bone-weary to continue any farther on the journey.

Then he would leave her with the Algonquin Indians and Jesuit missionaries who wintered every year on Allumette Island.

Andre trudged toward the shore, where the rest of his men were unloading their harnesses and loading the canoes floating in the water. Come next spring, as he returned to Montreal from Chequamegon Bay, he would pass by the island, pick her up, and bring her back to civilization. He could already imagine those green eyes snapping at him with all the power of nine months of pent-up fury. But it would be too late for her to wreak vengeance, for he would annul their marriage and then they'd both be free to do what they willed—he to return to the woods unencumbered, and she to marry some docile settler she could control.

Life was a circle, he mused darkly, just as the Indians believed. He'd seen his own life come around again, though he'd fought it tooth and nail.

Another French wife, abandoned in the wilderness for the winter. A grimace stretched across his face, tight and humorless, as dark as the shadows in his eyes. The fates mocked him. They mocked him, indeed.

***

"Hell and damnation!"

An icy wave slapped her awake. Genevieve straightened up off her wobbly bed of cartons and kegs and gasped, opening her eyes, as the frigid water soaked through her clothing. She coughed, sputtering, and glared blindly around her, searching for the culprit who'd woken her so rudely from her sleep.

"Ah, the sweet music of a lady's voice." Andre stood outside the canoe, gripping one side as he pulled it in toward the shore. His eyes danced. "Tiny, you'll have to watch your language. My wife is learning the native tongue."

As she looked around, she realized the voyageurs surrounded the canoe, having just leapt off in their usual synchronized fashion, sending up the spray of water that had awoken her. They were red-faced, trying to hold back their laughter. Genevieve flushed. She would have to learn to curb her tongue. She had spent too much time taking lessons in cursing from fishmongers' wives on the banks of the Seine.

She glanced at the rocky shore and groaned. "Is this another portage?"

"No." When the water was hip-deep, he signaled lot Ins men to begin unloading the vessel. "We're done for the day."

Genevieve tried not to show her relief. For the past three days, they had done nothing but pole and pull upriver, only to stop what seemed like every half mile to unload and portage over terrain that was becoming steeper, rockier, and more and more overgrown. The Ottawa became so narrow and the water so swift that she wondered if the men were going to carry all the merchandise—six thousand pounds of it, according to Simeon—through the next five weeks of travel. The first few days, her muscles had merely been sore at night, but now they quivered with exhaustion at the end of each day. And when she awoke in the morning, it took all her strength to drag herself out of her bed. This morning, she barely remembered Andre carrying her out onto the canoe, until he woke her for the first portage. After each successive one, she would sink back down on her bumpy seat and drift back off into a jostled sleep.

She dragged her fingers through her nest of hair. Twigs and leaves fluttered to her lap. They scattered all over the canoe when Andre reached in without warning, swept her up, and carried her to the shore. Her stomach growled as she smelled the fires, set up ahead of time by the cook, who waited upon the bank.

Genevieve winced when he released her and her feet hit the shore. Blister upon blister had developed on her heels and toes after all the walking, for Marie's shoes were too small for her feet. She had tried wearing two pairs of stockings, but instead of cushioning her sores, they only made the fit of the boots tighter. She was tempted to walk barefoot from now on. Sharp, jutting stones couldn't do her feet any more damage than these wretched boots. Genevieve envied the men their soft deerskin slippers and even their shameless leggings, and found herself wishing she weren't pretending to be a lady, so she could freely find something to wear other than rigid boots and a boned bodice.

She leaned over to stretch the aches in her back, surreptitiously loosening the ties of her shoes at the same time. When she straightened, she watched as the voyageurs moored the canoes offshore, laying one end of a long pole on the gunwale and the other end on the beach, then swiftly unloading them and piling the merchandise on the banks. The sun gleamed golden on the water and shimmered off the sheer rock cliff that rose up from the other side of the river.

Julien brought her her woven case, smiling at her shyly. She nearly dropped it as she took it in her hand. Not for the first time, she wondered how a basketful of clothing and pins could weigh as much as gold bars after a few hours of carrying. She vowed that she'd get Julien or one of the other voyageurs to fashion a rope harness for her, so she could sling it across her back. Then, at least, she'd have two hands free so she could lift her bedraggled skirts and push aside the thick foliage that obscured the paths.

Genevieve dropped her case on the ground and sank down wearily upon it. She knew she should go wash herself and comb the debris from her hair while the men toiled, for she wouldn't get her dinner until Andre was free, but right now the only thing she could think of was eating. It seemed like days since her last hearty meal, though she had eaten her fill of cornmeal this morning. She worked, instead, on brushing the cakes of dirt from the ragged hem of her skirts.

Andre tossed his pack by her side, sending up a fresh spray of mud in the process. She frowned at him and wiped the splattered dirt off her cheek. His grin widened as he hunkered down next to her, looking at ease in his buckskin and fringe, as if the campsite were his own kitchen. He shoved a steaming pewter bowl into her hands. "Dinner."

She peered into the grainy, yellowish mixture. "Sagamite again?" She watched him spoon the gruel into his mouth. "Can't your cook fix anything else?"

"Get used to it. We'll be eating it clear through to Lake Superior, if the supplies last."

"Well I hope it all falls into the river and gets carried all the way to the sea."

"You shouldn't." He cocked a brow at her, his mouth full. "Then we'll be living on
tripe de roche.
"

"Anything is better than this."
Tripe de roche
is moss scraped off of rocks, flavored with whatever juicy caterpillars happen to be upon it."

Her stomach twisted. She whirled her wooden spoon in the cornmeal mixture. "Has your cook at least added some fresh meat instead of that leather he claims is leftover venison?"

Andre laughed and shook his head, his sun-washed hair shining in the sunset. "This isn't Paris, my wife."

"I noticed." She gestured to the boughs above her with a twirl of her spoon. "Who has hunting privileges in this land?"

He squinted into the stripes of sunset pouring through the trees, bathing him in a golden glow. He shrugged and turned his attention to his meal. "No one. Everyone. The land is free to all of us."

"Then let's hunt!"

He chewed around his words. "Sorry, princess, but we left the royal huntsmen in Montreal."

"It wouldn't take huntsmen to find fresh meat." She leaned toward him. "I've tripped over a dozen hares in the past few days. And the geese! They make enough noise to wake the dead. Yesterday I came so close to a doe that I nearly petted her."

"Hunting takes time."

"Why the haste, anyway?" She ate a spoonful of her sagamite, grimacing at the far-too-familiar gritty taste. "It's only September, and Julien told me it's a four-or five-week trip."

"That pork-eater you've grown so fond of has never taken a trip into the wilderness. He has no idea how long it will take."

"Somebody told him four or five weeks."

"It'll be four or five weeks if we paddle hard. If the weather doesn't turn. If the Iroquois stick to their treaty. If you don't slow us down. If we have no accidents ..."

"Still, how much time could we waste hunting? An hour or two a day?"

"An hour or two tracking and killing a beast large enough to feed all these men, hours more to skin it and quarter it and roast it over an open fire. We don't have that kind of time. The men know it, too. We'll have plenty of time to fatten up when we get to Chequamegon Bay, but winter comes early in Canada. Early and hard."

Genevieve ate another warm spoonful and glanced around the clearing. A few hardwoods stood among the pines, gold in their autumnal glory. Birds still chirped high in the boughs. The sky was clear and the air warm, and winter seemed far, far away. "Mmm," she mused, swallowing, "I can just smell the snow on the wind."

"You'll see soon enough. If we make it to All Saint's Day without a snowfall, we will consider ourselves blessed."

"We'll starve first." She glanced over to where Tiny leaned back on a rock, puffing his pipe into full smoke. His leather shirt collapsed in folds where, only a few days ago, it had been stretched tight over his belly. "Even Tiny's bulk is wasting away."

"He was as big as a horse when we left Montreal, bloated from too much brandy and too many aniseed cakes." His pale almond gaze slipped intimately over her torn and stained dress. "You don't seem to be suffering from the steady diet."

She shifted her weight and felt the looseness of her bodice around her waist. "Ah, what a wonderful thing a boned bodice is."

"The sagamite must have sharpened your tongue."

"You can dull it with a piece of fresh meat."

"We'll have more fresh meat than we can eat when we reach Chequamegon Bay."

"We'll all be nothing but skin and bones by then."

Andre leaned over and snatched the empty bowl from her. He smiled, only inches from her face, his eyes gleaming like a pale, tannic pool. "Don't worry,
ma mie
. I won't let you starve."

She frowned as he stood up and walked back to the pot of sagamite. The men squatted around the steaming cauldron, eating from their bowls with concentration, their wooden spoons flashing briefly before disappearing into their mouths. Genevieve knew Andre and all the other men were hungry for meat, too, and she suspected that he was acting like this just out of pique.

She never should have told him what Julien and Wapishka had divulged to her three days ago. Since that day, he had intentionally done everything to prove to her that her instincts were wrong. He warned her not to slow them down every time he crossed her path. He teased her unmercifully when she lounged around in the predawn light while his men raced each other to see which team would be the first to fill the canoes. He grinned like Lucifer whenever she reached the end of a portage, her face and arms itchy and red from insect bites, her clothes covered with soil, snagged and torn in spots where the skirts had caught upon branches, her hair tugged out of its chignon. He acted as if he had no mercy, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps he didn't.

Genevieve rose from her seat, wincing as she put all her weight on her battered feet. She swept up her case and turned toward the woods, judging by the emergence of several men from the towering pines which was the best direction to head for her toilette. She wandered into the dim quiet of the clustered trees, humming one of the voyageurs' songs, until she heard the splash of a stream. Finding it winding over a tumble of stones, she placed her case upon a waist-high boulder near the edge of the creek and dipped her hands into the clear, cold water. She arched her neck and ran her wet hands over her skin, pushing the loose tendrils of her hair out of her face. "Don't move."

She started as she heard Andre's whisper, only a few steps behind her. Genevieve whirled around and glared at him as he approached, as silent as a spirit.

"Why . . ."

He clamped his hand over her mouth. His pistol was drawn and cocked, and he was staring at something to her right. He motioned for her to be silent, then released her mouth and pushed her behind him with one arm.

She followed the direction of his gaze, seeing nothing but a few branches by the creek swaying in the wind, six or seven paces away. She frowned and glared at him, willing him to turn around, but his attention was on the crackling underbrush.

Genevieve planted her hands on her hips and whispered, "Why did you follow me here?"

He reached back and pulled her tight against his body, until her cheek was crushed flat between his shoulder blades. He turned his head but not his eyes. "You have a bad habit of bumbling blindly into the forest."

Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "I know exactly where I am."

"You surprised two men from a very comfortable squat in the bushes during your walk to this creek. Did you know that?"

She frowned against the warmth of his deerskin shirt.

"I didn't think so. With all your humming and stumbling and breaking branches and making tracks, I'm surprised you didn't alert everything within miles of our presence here."

"At least I don't sneak around behind other people's backs." She tried to push her hair off her forehead. "I'm your wife. You don't have to hide in the bushes and watch while I bathe."

"I wouldn't. Someone else might." He nodded toward the swaying bushes. "We've got company."

Brushing the deerskin fringe out of her eyes, she peered around one taut bicep toward the underbrush. After watching for a few minutes, Genevieve realized that the movement was too erratic to be caused by the wind, but it was subtle enough for her to wonder how he had noticed it. By the way he was gripping the handle of his pistol, by the tenseness of his muscles against her cheek, he obviously thought the unexpected visitor was dangerous.

She stood on her toes to be closer to his ear, holding on to his sleeves for balance. "Is it an Iroquois?"

"If it were an Iroquois," he whispered, "we'd both have arrows through our hearts."

"Then what is it?"

"If you keep still and be quiet, it might be that fresh meat you've been craving."

She bit her lip and stood as still as she could, waiting for the creature to emerge from the bushes. She had seen lots of strange-looking wildlife over the past few days. Enormous stags with antlers like giant hands, fingers spread and palms cupped, facing heavenward. Prickly rodents the men called porcupine. Though she hadn't yet seen any, the voyageurs told stories of big, black bears with toothy jaws, of sleek, swift wildcats with sharp claws, of packs of wolves running wild in the forests.