Armand nodded agreement. He felt exactly the same.
"Perhaps it takes time before it starts to take effect," she said. "Maybe we should just go home and be alone so there is no one to fall in love with."
"The charm might be specifically for husbands," Armand suggested. "It may very well do nothing to us."
"We should go home and tend to our usual business and simply pretend that this did not happen."
"Yes, I think that really might work," Armand agreed. "We will just go home and stay by ourselves."
"Until . . . ah . . . until tomorrow?"
"How long can a charm like this last?" he asked.
"Surely no longer than a day or so," she told him hopefully. "It couldn't stay in the body very long."
"Then we will go home and stay alone and nothing will happen. Nothing can happen," he assured her.
"Good," she agreed. "Very good. Everything will be fine."
"Yes, everything will be fine."
Aida sighed as if in great relief, and Armand momentarily felt sorry for her. It was his fault, after all. She hadn't eaten the tart until he started.
"Well then, let us get going," she said. "We'll head for the Heberts."
"The Heberts!" Panic momentarily seized him.
"Yes, isn't that where your pirogue is? The sooner we get it the sooner we get home," she said. "We can't know when this charm might begin."
"We can't go to the Heberts! Jean Baptiste is there."
"Jean Baptiste?" Aida looked at him puzzled. "He doesn't know that we ate his tart."
"No! Jean Baptiste will . . . Oh never mind, it's just that we can't go there."
"But we must."
"We cannot."
"Then how will we get home?"
It was a question for which Armand didn't have a ready answer. His time was surely running out, but he could not risk taking Aida Gaudet to the Hebert place, where his brother was. He loved his brother and Felicite. He couldn't take the risk that Aida Gaudet might fall for Jean Baptiste and lure him from his wife.
But he had to do something. Something. He had to get her home so that she would fall in love with no one. Or he had to find someone appropriate for her to fall in love with. Laron was down on the German coast. Who else was there?
Perhaps it was the effect of the charm or maybe Armand just saw things clearly for the first time. But within a fraction of a heartbeat he knew whom he wanted the beautiful Aida to love.
He reached out and took her arm and pulled her into his own.
"Armand?"
Hearing her speak his given name was like a spark to kindling.
"Kiss me!" he demanded.
With almost no hesitation she brought her mouth to his. He met her lips with his own. Warm. Plump. Sweet. It was everything that he had ever imagined. Everything that he had ever longed for.
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. They were wide with surprise, perhaps fear, but also there was desire. He saw it and recognized it and it urged him forward.
He half-led, half-dragged her into the shade and safety of a stand of cottonwoods. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close again, angling his kiss to fit more closely and opening his mouth upon hers, seeking, tasting.
He had never held a woman before, never kissed one. But he suffered no reluctance or hesitation. Aida Gaudet felt right in his arms. Her body fit with perfection against his own. Her lips seemed familiar rather than foreign. After all, he had loved her for so very long a time.
"My Aida," he declared in a whisper as he nipped her lower lip lightly and explored her mouth once more.
She felt so right against him, all her soft curves of her body corresponding accurately with the sharp angles of his own. Her high round bosom, long admired at a distance, was now pressed so firmly against his chest. And unexpectedly she wrapped an eager limb around the leg of his trouser, stroking the back of his calf with her heel.
"Mmm yes," he encouraged against her lips. "Mmm."
They broke apart only momentarily to draw in breath and gaze at each other in heightening lustful longing. Then they recklessly kissed again, this time deeper, their tongues dancing in exquisite tenderness.
Keeping her tightly against him, Armand allowed his kiss to wander from the generous warmth of her lips to the vulnerability of her pale throat. She gave a gasp of pleasure and shock as he, like a rutting stallion, nipped her there. Her reaction only served to encourage him. She threw back her head like a spirited mare, offering him easier access to her smooth slim neck.
Armand's hands did not remain idle. He much enjoyed the tight embrace that pressed her breasts so firmly against him. But he could not resist the long, straight length of her back. He soothed and eased her as he kissed and caressed. When the direction of his exploration led him to the curve of her waist and then to the flair of her derriere, his heart pounded like a hammer.
He traced the shape of her buttocks, round and high as if daring a man to touch them, pulling her up against him intimately.
Aida cried out, partly in surprise, partly in pleasure. Then she squirmed against him, desperate to get closer.
Armand's body flashed like fire. He, too, felt an almost frenzied need to meld with her flesh.
"I don't think I can stand up," she whispered against his hair. In truth her body leaned against his heavily. "My legs are no sturdier than the filling of the blueberry tart."
Armand also felt like jelly. That is, except for the hard throbbing ache in the front of his trousers.
"Let's lie down," he said, astonished at the surprisingly normal tone of his voice. His breathing was quick and labored, his heart pounding like a drum, and the heat of desire surging through his veins like lightning in a stormy sky. "We'll just rest here on the ground."
Rest was the furthest thing from either's mind. Without relinquishing their embrace the two lowered to their knees. Armand eased her back onto the yellow Indian grass, still slightly moist from the morning dew. He lay atop her, which was even better than pulling her close. No longer did he have to use his arms to embrace her, but could allow his hands to wander where they would.
Aida's hands also were free and she measured the width of his shoulders and the length of his spine. She coaxed and kissed him and called out his name.
He could feel the curve of her breast through the covering of her clothing and caressed her.
She purred like a cat and thrust her bosom forward, pleading for more. Armand squeezed and kneaded and stroked through the rigid restraint of her boned bodice, but it was not enough.
"Take it off," she whined. "Help me take it off."
Enthusiastically Armand began pulling at the front laces of her corset vest, loosening her from the stiff confines.
He sought the softness of her skin and managed to get a hand beneath her blouse. The warm, smooth feel of her naked flesh was far too enticing to resist. A moment later he held her firm, plump breast, the nipple at its peak, thick and hard.
"Oh my God!" he exclaimed in whisper. "Aida, my sweet, sweet Aida, I never thought it would be like this."
"Kiss me," she pleaded.
He did. He kissed her lips, her neck, her throat. He kissed her again and again and again. The pressure of his erection became more insistent. He just couldn't get close enough. He just wasn't quite close enough.
Aida must have felt similarly as she squirmed and wiggled beneath him, fanning the flames of Armand's desire and making tiny curious sounds of passion that spurred his lust.
With a growl that was almost beastlike he rolled over on his back, pulling her with him. Aida's skirt hiked up considerably and the feel of her bare legs straddling him made Armand moan aloud.
It was a little better this way. The hot, damp haven at the crux of her legs was poised immediately over his throbbing ache. It was closer, nearer, but it was still not enough.
He ran his hands up the backs of her bare thighs and under her skirts. The round nakedness of her buttocks was perfection beneath his touc
h. He caressed her, kneading and squeezing her generous backside. Then he bucked and clutched her close, grinding his body against hers.
She gave a little cry of delight and half sat up, arching her back, meeting his pressure with her own.
With eager, almost desperate hands she cast away her unlaced bodice and jerked her blouse off over her head.
Armand's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her unadorned breasts above him, like two big luscious peaches hanging just within reach and clearly meant for him. Eagerly he sampled the proffered fruit, tasting the sweet, salty flavor of her skin and worrying the stiffened nipples with his teeth.
Aida buried her hands in his hair and held his head against her, aiding him in his homage to her.
She was squirming again. Squirming and wiggling atop him as if she were riding an untamed horse.
"Oh please, please," she began to whimper. "Oh please Armand, my love, my love."
She begged please, and to please her was what he wanted most in the world. He didn't know where first to touch, where to probe. He wanted to kiss and caress her everywhere, everywhere at once. His mouth on her right breast, his hand on her left. He continued to stroke her bottom, but he was drawn to the hot recesses between her thighs. He slipped his hand through the back of her legs and possessively clutched her intimately. She was damp, eager, and she squirmed against his hand.
Armand was not far from begging himself. His heart was thundering in his chest. His breathing was rapid and labored. And his erection was hard, heavy, and pressing painfully to be free of clothing.
He relinquished her breast to pull at the buttons on his trousers. Aida tried to help, but the touch of her small hand upon him had him calling out in pleasured anguish.
She jerked at her skirts, gathering them about her waist. She was naked against him. Nothing now separated them except the thin layer of cottonade that covered him. Nothing else separated them. Nothing else except vows and honor and holy wedlock.
"Oh no! I can't stop!" The words were screamed in agony and directed at his own conscience. It had gone too far. He had meant for her to fall in love with him, not to make love with him. She was not herself, she was under the effects of the love potion. And he was painfully aroused, living out a dream. He had desired her from afar so long and so secretly, and now she was in his arms, nearly his.
"I can't stop," he moaned again. "I can't stop now."
But he did.
He rolled over and laid her upon the ground. Slipping out of her embrace, he widened the distance between them.
"Armand?" She spoke his name, her voice husky with desire. It was almost his undoing.
"Don't move, Aida," he told her. "Please just lie still a moment; don't speak and don't move."
He sat up, still struggling to catch his breath and slow the beating of his heart. He covered his face with his hands and tried to imagine poling down the river in springtime when the hyacinth were in bloom.
"Armand?"
Her question was plaintive. He ached to press himself against her once more.
"We can't," he told her. "We can't do this, Aida."
"We can," she told him. "I want to."
"It's the charm making you want me this way, think this way," he said. "But the charm will wear off and if we continue, we'll be compromised beyond going back."
"I don't want to go back!" she insisted.
"But you will," he told her. "You'll regret this very much and want to go back."
Her silence condemned him. He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. Her hair was wild, her dress was mussed, she had never been more beautiful.
"Oh Aida," he whispered. "I am so sorry."
"You don't want me," she said. "Not even my body. You don't even want my body."
He could see her lip trembling; her whole body began to shake likewise. He couldn't ignore her, leave her trembling. Armand scooted over to her and enfolded her in his arms.
"Shhh, shhh." He whispered the words as he stroked her back. "I do want you, all of you. How could I not? Shhh, sweet Aida. It will be all right, somehow we will make it all right."
He must hold her like a brother, Armand cautioned himself. If he allowed passion to flare again, perhaps he would not be able to stop it. He must hold her like a brother, a friend. Though she was in his arms, he kept the lower portion of their bodies separated by a distance. He must comfort her but protect her, from the charm and from himself.
"Hold me close, Armand," she pleaded. "Hold me close and kiss me again."
"Keep very still and I will hold you," he promised. "I will hold you until this feeling passes."
She snuggled against him. He steeled himself not to react.
"I love you, Armand," she told him. "I really love you."
The words sounded so sweet, so precious to him, he felt unwelcome tears well up in his eyes. How he wished it could be true. How he secretly longed for those words. But they were false. All of this was false.
"No you don't, Aida. You don't love me," he answered. "It's the charm. Be still now and let this feeling pass. It is just the love charm."
Chapter 14
Helga Shotz and her children worked together gathering fruit into baskets in the brightly colored persimmon woods. Each child gathered what he could reach of the purplish orange fruit known as plaquemines.
"Have we got enough yet, Mama?" Jakob asked her.
"We must fill up all the baskets," she told him. "We'll get everything we can carry."
Helga had not known persimmons until coming to this bayou. And her first experience had not been good. Unripe, the fruit had puckered her lips. It was the most sour and bitter flavor she had ever tasted and had lingered for hours. Miraculously, she discovered, when they ripened, the persimmon was the sweetest fruit ever tasted. Dried and ground with mortar and pestle, it was sprinkled onto sweets and baked into cakes. Although cane grew in grand abundance on plantations down the river, cut and squeezed and cooked into sugar by African slaves, for her children and many others among the prairies, the only sugar was persimmon sugar.
Of course, ripe persimmons were good to eat right off the tree, they dried easily and grew in such abundance that they were used for livestock fodder. But for Helga, one of the best parts of gathering the fruit was the excursions to the persimmon grove. They always took on an almost picnic tone and were much enjoyed by her children. These days joy was something she couldn't offer her little ones much of.
Karl helped his baby brother up on his shoulders so that Jakob could pick "up high," an unceasing ambition of the littlest child. Karl pretended that the weight was too much and feigned staggering with mock danger. Jakob squealed with delight and had all of them laughing together. It was good to hear laughter once more.
Helga knew that she'd done the right thing. She'd had to break it off with Laron. A woman might choose for herself a life of sin, a life beyond the edges of accepted society. But a mother could not, should not, force that life upon her children. Karl did not deserve to cringe with shame hearing his mother's name on another boy's lips. And Elsa was growing up. What chance would she have of finding a nice, kind man to love her if her mother was beyond the pale?
And more than all of that, how could she expect, demand, the upright standards that she knew would make her children's lives better, happier, if her children did not see her, their mother, living that example?
Jakob was whooping now, pulling persimmons from high limbs at a wild hectic pace.
"Don't throw them, my baby," she cautioned. "We don't want them bruised."
She knew that she was doing right. Still, she could not hide the sorrow, the emptiness that filled her since Laron had said goodbye. Each day she told herself that tomorrow it would be better. But day after day the ache, the grief, the hollowness inside her welled up once more.
She tried to recall how she had felt when her husband walked out. She had been frightened. Overwhelmed with the responsibility, uncertain of the future, she had been all those things
. But under that, she had been relieved, relieved and even glad.
Helga could not work up any gladness about the leaving of Laron Boudreau. His absence was like a mortal wound. It continued to bleed strength from her day after day. She needed him so much. She needed just to look at him, to laugh with him. She needed to be enfolded in his arms, garnering strength and sharing sorrow.
She should never have become involved with him. That was what she told herself a dozen times a day. If she'd kept her wits and her morals about her, she'd never have gotten herself in such an unhappy position. But in truth, even in her most self-critical moments she could not wish away the happiness of the last three years. Not for herself and not for her children.
Laron had been a father for them as Helmut had never been. He loved them wholly and unconditionally with a naturalness that even Helga could envy. It was the way that he had been loved by his parents and in honesty, Helga thought it a wonderful legacy. Something that she could not help but want for her own children.
And they missed him, too. She'd told herself that they would be fine, that he would slip from their young memories as easily as their father had. But she knew it was not true. The day that he'd shown up at their dock had been the best since he'd left. Jakob had been laughing and happy all the way up to bedtime. And Elsa had not been compelled to argue with her older brother over anything. Only Karl had been silent. But then, only Karl was torn by the knowledge that the two people he loved most, the two people whom he had begun to think of as his parents, were joined in an alliance that was condemned by the church, by the community, and by the very rules that they themselves had taught him to respect and honor.
Karl had begun to feign staggering once more under the tremendous weight of little Jakob. Elsa pretended that she was trying to help, and the three-year-old so high on his brother's shoulders giggled with enthusiasm. Finally Karl gently and conveniently "fell" into a soft patch of grass. The two immediately began to wrestle, Karl pretending that he was furiously angry at losing his balance. He allowed the little fellow to get him in a stranglehold while Elsa cheered them on.
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