“He spoke of his affection for these people, who saved his life and offered him a home. He never told me of the circumstances. In truth, I know nothing of your friend. I am not even sure what kind of person he really is.”
Louis smiled. “He has grown into a man of many contradictions. But he is a man of honor. Believe me, Madame. He has a keen sense of justice. He possesses a strong character.”
So far, she had seen nothing of his justice. As for honor and strength of character, perhaps a ha’penny’s worth at best. She replied, “Those are lofty aspirations for someone of rough colonial heritage.”
This earned a laugh from Louis. “Colonial? No. The St. Clairs are not what you imagine.”
Catherine seized upon this information. “Are they not? I assumed as much, since this continent is still largely untamed—”
“Yes, of course, but the St. Clairs are a very prominent family. Rive’s Uncle Hubert, with whom he lived for many years in Paris, is a man of wealth and refinement, as is his Uncle André in Quebec. They are merchants and bankers. They own a fleet of ships and are very active in the fur trade.”
Grateful for the information, Catherine was nonetheless even more confused. Rive was the product of a wealthy family. Was it money, then, that lay at the root of his hatred of Jeremy Flint?
“The St. Clairs are an extremely tight-knit clan. They are in no way provincial. Rive does not lack sophistication. The education he received at the Sorbonne would place him on a par with any man educated at King’s College in the City of New York. He has also studied at Oxford University in your country. Although it might appear otherwise, he is no stranger to social niceties. He has been to court.”
Court? Catherine’s jaw dropped, though she quickly recovered. Were they speaking of the same man, the one who snared rabbits and snagged fish with his bare hands?
There was a long pause. It appeared Louis had nothing further to say on the subject of the St. Clairs. He had left a gaping hole in Rive’s lineage, however, and one she dearly wished to fill.
“You have not spoken of his parents. Do they also live in Paris or Quebec?”
An immediate change occurred in Louis. His whole countenance seemed to take on an air of sadness. “Unfortunately, Madame, they are no longer alive.” Then almost abruptly, as if to avoid further questions, he backed toward the doorway. “I will leave you to your breakfast. I have already taken too much of your time.”
“No, not at all.”
It was too late. With a nod and a slight bow, Louis left her alone to ponder the enigma that was Rive St. Clair.
Chapter 9
Rive sat with his back against the granite face of a boulder, high on a ridge overlooking the village. Two long whistles followed by one short signaled his presence to the young braves stationed on the mountainside guarding the entrance to the valley. When the sun rose high overhead, he would move into the shade to eat his solitary meal of smoked fish, corn cake and melon, all the while continuing his surveillance. No sound escaped his ears, and his eyes remained as sharp as those of the hawks that glided high above on the air currents. If any man ventured forth, he would know it. His pistol was always primed and his knife sharpened to a fine edge.
He began the day with high expectations, certain that soon his vigil would end. Then grim reality intruded. Perhaps he had misjudged Flint. Yet, had Catherine been his wife ... the thought of her always reassured him, for it was inconceivable how any man could allow such a woman’s abduction and make no attempt at rescue.
Shading his eyes with his hand, he scanned the valley below and, beyond that, the horizon. Except for a brown bear foraging in the shallows of the river, he could detect no movement. Silence enveloped him, broken only intermittently by the high-pitched call of geese.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes against the mid-morning sun. The warmth that seeped into his sore muscles rejuvenated him. His mind, however, remained in turmoil. Since rising before dawn, he found his thoughts continuously returning to the woman he had carried to bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. He had intended to bend her to his will, to ignite her passion, and to make a mockery of a marriage in which he had taken no part.
He shook his head. He might just as well have tried to capture the moon and lay it at her feet. Last night he had fought a battle with his desires and chivalry had prevailed. He had spent the better part of the night pacing along the riverbank, debating whether his decision to acquiesce to her wishes had been wise or foolish. At least when he slipped into her lodge at dawn to leave the clothing, he had found her asleep, seemingly at peace.
Opening his eyes, he resumed his lonely vigil, searching the valley for signs of Flint. Almost at once, he heard movement and was certain someone approached. He pulled his pistol from his belt and crouched low in the shadow of the rock where he could not be observed. Only it was not Flint who came into view, but Louis. Stepping into the open, Rive signaled to his friend, then settled back into his earlier position.
Louis scaled the slope and hunkered down in a patch of shade. “It has been quiet?”
“As I expected, Flint has probably used the time to muster help. Perhaps he will make his way here tomorrow. Or the next day or the one thereafter. Eventually he will come for her.”
“You seem certain.”
Rive kicked lightly at the ground with his heel, sending a shower of stones skittering down the mountainside. “What man would not?”
“Flint, perhaps? He has no scruples.”
Rive shook his head. “His arrogance will not allow this to go unchallenged. He appears to have wealth and position now. Somehow, he found himself a young and very beautiful wife. No, I expect that before too long, he and I shall meet again.”
He pulled a long blade of grass from the ground and twisted it between his fingers. He lowered his eyes and, once again, his thoughts spiraled back to the day he had first met Flint—just as they had a thousand times over the course of sixteen years. No detail was too small not to be recalled—the reek of gunpowder, the screams of the women and children who never found safety, the fiery torches exploding beneath the dry bark and grass that covered the lodge roofs, the crimson flames leaping against a dull pewter sky. The army scout, Flint, had led the soldiers and militia to the Indian village. How eager he had been to display his skill at extracting information from women and young girls. Especially young girls.
At the first crack of musket fire, Rive had dropped the beaver pelts he was loading into a birch bark canoe. A group of men swept by. Only through skillful dodging was he able to avoid being trampled beneath the horses’ hooves. He ran toward the chief’s lodge where last he had seen his father.
“What have we got here?”
Rough hands pulled at his shirt. He lashed out with his fists but was no match for the taller man, whose closely set brown eyes exaggerated the cruelty imprinted upon his pinched, narrow face.
“Yer worth ten pounds to me, boy, dead or alive.” The man, dressed in buckskin, brandished a knife. “Makes no difference to me one way or t’other how I collect it.”
“You, Flint.” A soldier wearing the red coat favored by the British called to the man who held Rive. He thrust a young girl forward. “See if you can get this one to talk.”
The chief’s granddaughter was tall and slender, with thick black hair that reached to her waist. Rive suspected she was little older than he, yet her body had ripened into that of a young woman. For four years, he had accompanied his father to this Indian village in early spring to trade for pelts. Each day, he followed the girl with his eyes, too shy to speak with her. Next year, he promised himself. One day, when he entered manhood, he would ask the chief’s permission to make her his wife. On that day, when Flint and the soldiers came to the village, terror had turned her dark eyes to stone.
Flint thrust Rive into the arms of a soldier, who held him in a steely grip. Then he addressed the girl in her own tongue. “Where are the men?”
Her terror had rendered her mute even aft
er Flint used her and then began to torture her with his knife.
Rive shook his head. Memory receded and now there was only the present. “He will want to finish his business with me. His pride and, perhaps, his reputation—if word of this gets about—will demand it. She is his wife.”
The look that passed across Louis’ face made his thoughts transparent.
“The bride’s virtue is still very much intact,” Rive assured his friend. “I doubt Flint had the opportunity to exercise his marriage rights.”
“Which you thought to usurp for yourself, no?”
Rive shrugged, then laughed softly at his unexpected decision to play the knight.
“It seems I have abdicated all right.” The decision did not rest easily with him, nor could he guarantee its finality. He could still feel the curve of her hips and the gentle swell of her breasts as vividly as when she lay against him. Even if he lived long into the century, she would forever torture his dreams.
* * * *
As the day grew warmer, Catherine longed for fresh air. Her breakfast long since consumed, she grew increasingly restless and in need of activity. She remembered the river and its close proximity. Would anyone deny her a short walk along its bank? There was only one way to find out.
She approached the doorway. With some trepidation, but determined to end her forced imprisonment, she pushed aside the deerskin covering.
The sun’s harsh glare almost blinded her. Using her hand to shield her eyes, she navigated the opening and almost collided with an Indian who stepped directly into her path.
“Oh.” She took a deep breath and stared up at the young man she recognized as the one she and Rive had met along the trail the previous day. Puzzled by his presence outside the lodge, she studied his face. If her sudden appearance made any impression on him, he kept it closely guarded beneath a stern countenance.
She stepped forward, fully expecting him to unblock the way. Instead, his arm shot up, posing a hard, muscular barrier.
“You ... stay.” He formed the words haltingly in English.
Suddenly, his purpose became clear. Rive had placed her under guard.
“It is too hot inside.” She did not know if the Indian understood her or not. To make her point clear, she fanned her face with her hand. “Hot.”
The guard did not move or change his expression.
“I must have air.” She attempted to circle around him.
Instantly, his hand reached for her shoulder as his other one uncovered the doorway. With a shove, the Indian propelled her backward through the opening. She landed bottom first on the hard floor.
Too stunned to move and more angry than frightened, Catherine stared at the deerskin pelt the young man had dropped back into place. Ineffective by itself, when combined with the guard who stood on the other side it might just as well have been fashioned from the sturdiest wood. She was indeed a prisoner.
With an exasperated sigh, she stood and straightened her clothing. At least some fresh air came down through the opening in the roof. Also, she could hear birds chirping. How she envied their freedom. She paused and listened to their song. So sweet and musical, it reminded her of the day—her ninth birthday—when her father gave her a yellow canary. She awoke to find it perched in a small cage. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the window and caught the bars, turning them into a golden prison. The bird fluffed its wings as if about to take flight, but the bars stood as a silent warning. After a while, it gave up the pretense. The sight had saddened her, and she opened the small door and set the creature free to swoop about the room. This became their routine every day for the reminder of its life.
She moved into the center of the lodge. How long must she stay confined in this prison? Until her husband rescued her? In the early days of her abduction, she naturally thought he would rescue her. Now seven days had passed, filling her with doubts. Why should he risk his life? Who would blame him if he chose not to? Even now he could be sending word to his agent in London. Then what? She felt a sudden chill as her eyes strayed to the gold band that encircled her finger.
Oh, the irony of it. To pray for rescue from a man she so despised.
She needed to push the dark thoughts from her mind. As she looked about, searching for something to distract her, her gaze settled on the deerskin pouch she had discovered earlier. She opened the flap and peered inside. The contents proved somewhat meager. They included two creased sheets of parchment, one completely blank. The other, when unfolded, displayed a neatly defined map. Someone had circled the names of two important cities in New France: Quebec and Montreal. A line traced a route from Quebec in the north through Montreal, then through the American city of Albany. It ended some distance south in New York City. There were other markings mysteriously marked with an X.
The pouch also contained a quill pen and small inkpot, along with two thin leather-bound volumes and a slightly thicker one.
She moved into the spot where the sunlight shone through the opening in the roof. The books’ leather covers were worn in places, as if the owner had perused them often. One was written in French. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be, of all things, poetry. The second proved the same. Then she opened the third, thicker volume with a strip of leather marking the place.
It was also written in French. Scanning the page, she discovered to her dismay that it was a military journal. The text was illustrated by rough sketches of cannons as well as muskets and other firearms. Notations dotted the margins on either side of the page, the script neat and concise, obviously written by a practiced hand. She suspected the pouch and its contents belonged to Rive. She recalled the skill with which he wielded a knife, so perhaps his expertise extended to a pen as well.
What need had he of such a journal? She perused the unfamiliar writing, hoping to gain insight. Perhaps the notes held further clues to his nature other than the audacious and stubborn sides he had shown. Grateful now for her tutors and the hours she had spent at her lessons, she sank onto a mat with book in hand. Although her vocabulary for this sort of material proved limited, it was not impossible to make sense of it. Time passed, and she became deeply absorbed in her reading.
Then a voice broke the spell.
“I see you have found something to occupy your time. Are you interested in the art of warfare?”
He had entered as silently as a cat, so his deep voice was the first Catherine knew of his presence. With a startled cry, she looked up from where she lay on her side, head propped against her palm. Rive, hands on his hips, stood over her. She quickly drew in her knees and sat up.
“I find my interest piqued of late, but only on a limited scale ... as needed.”
“Ah, last night.” Stooping, he took the book from her hands. “Did you hope to sharpen your skills with this?”
She felt her cheeks burn with shame at his reference to the previous night. Would she ever dispel the memory of his touch? At least today he was dressed in the buckskin trousers and shirt he had worn on their trek. Her attire was also more modest.
“Perhaps, but it is too early to judge. I have read only the first few pages.”
“Then I had best be on my guard when you reach the end.” He gave a low laugh and eased himself down beside her. “You have chosen a good teacher.” He indicated the tome.
She met his gaze without flinching. “I need no text to learn the finer points of treachery.”
“Treachery? That is too strong a word.” His eyes sparkled with unabashed delight, as if he relished nothing better than a verbal duel. “However, if I stand accused by you, then I accept my guilt.”
“It doesn’t bother you, then, to know you are contemptible and totally without honor?”
“Did I imply such?” He laughed. “If so, please disabuse yourself, for you have put forth a minority opinion. In all my life, I have met no man who shares it. Nor any woman.”
She felt an immediate urge to quash his conceit. “Of what women do you speak? The ones who live a simple lif
e in this village or those you consider part of your social circle when abroad? In any event, are any of those women ever allowed to express an opinion? Or do they only parrot the ones foisted upon them by their men?”
Rive’s expression lost its wry amusement. “Sometimes it is to a woman’s benefit to defer to the wishes of a man. You would do well to follow that example.”
“That is a lesson, I fear, which serves a woman ill.”
He uncurled his long frame, rose to his feet and drew her up with him.
“Shall I take the time to teach you? You will find me quite an adept tutor.”
Every muscle in Catherine’s body tensed. Too late, she realized where a verbal joust with him could lead. He was not a man one could easily cajole or best with a well-turned phrase. Then why did she persist in provoking him? If only she could find satisfaction in silently berating him. She could be as stubborn and willful as he. Although he had proved a formidable opponent, it rankled her to remain passive. Since necessity had forced her to defer to one man, it left her with no appetite to defer to yet another.
“I have had cause to observe your tutorial skills, and I find them excessively lacking in subtlety. There is no lesson you can teach me that I desire to learn.” She kept her voice steady, although her hands, clasped at her sides, trembled.
He made no move to touch her, but the gaze from his emerald eyes held her as closely as if he had drawn her into his arms.
“Perhaps I can change your mind. Shall I try?”
Her heart lurched, sending the blood rushing to her head with a thunderous roar. Was there no end to his conceit?
“Shall I teach you obedience?” He rested one long finger lightly against her cheek. “Come.” He glanced toward the bed. “We shall see what an hour can accomplish.”
Recognizing the determination in his eyes, she had the sense to realize no words would sway him. As he reached for her hand, she bolted for the doorway.
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