Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  Chapter 10

  Now, with no sentry to bar her way, Catherine ran away from Rive, heedless of her direction. There were few people about, only children playing a game of tag and a small group of women tending to the corn in the vegetable garden. They went about their work, perhaps having already lost interest in her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Rive standing outside the lodge, slowly shaking his head.

  Her flight took her directly to the river, which put her in a less than enviable position. Caught between a wide expanse of water and Rive, she was momentarily nonplussed as to which held more danger. However, it was too late to change course.

  Flat ground gave way to a gentle slope. Midway, concentrating less on the terrain than on her pursuer, she tripped and lost her balance. Momentum carried her down the knoll, where she lost her footing. Breathless, she landed on her hands and knees. The thick grass cushioned her fall, but small stones scraped her outstretched palms and exposed knees.

  She sat on the downward edge of the slope, collecting her breath. The sky formed a deep blue canopy, and the river sparkled under the fiery glow of the sun. A light breeze brushed her skin. The scene was idyllic, and might have remained so, had she not spotted Rive easily negotiating the same ground where she had almost broken her neck. She scrambled to her feet and backed toward the water’s edge. When it licked against her heels, she stopped.

  “Do not come any closer.”

  “Catherine ...” His tone held an implicit warning.

  She backed away until the water rose to her ankles.

  “I advise you not to venture any farther. There are dangerous currents in this river.”

  She knew he spoke the truth. The man whose long strides had taken him to within a few arm’s-lengths of her posed an even greater danger. With no weapons close at hand, she tore off one sopping-wet moccasin and threw it at him. It land harmlessly at his feet. Her aim improved with the second one, which grazed his chest but did nothing to dissuade him. She backed away until the cold water lapped against her bare legs.

  “I’d rather drown,” she cried.

  “Would you?” He pulled off his shirt then his moccasins and tossed them aside. “Your threat lacks conviction, but its truth is easily put to the test.”

  She gulped in a deep breath. Good God, was he planning to strip naked? To her relief, he kept his trousers on as he waded in.

  His strong hands closed about her waist, and he carried her deeper into the water. In no time it reached his chest, and her feet no longer touched the bottom. She’d never been immersed in anything more perilous than the calm and shallow lake waters in which she had recently bathed or the rose-scented baths she had once enjoyed in London, so her fear was only natural. Not to mention that this man was unpredictable. Soon the river was lapping at her chin.

  “This is lunacy.” She choked on a mouthful of water.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Of course she’d had no intention of drowning herself, and well he knew it. Now he seemed intent on doing it for her.

  “Let me go.” Even as she spoke, she realized her error.

  His lips parted in a wicked smile. “If you wish.” Abruptly, he released her.

  She sank beneath the surface, with almost no time to panic before he pulled her up.

  She clutched wildly at his shoulders. “I cannot swim.”

  “Shall I teach you, then?” His hands glided to the small of her back, and he drew her toward him.

  She shot him a withering glare.

  “Take care your pride does not do you in.” He lifted one hand and, with his thumb, brushed aside the wet strand of hair that clung to her cheek.

  Smarting, she turned her head aside. Only the depth of the water kept her from placing a well-aimed kick. “My pride will still be intact long after you’ve been sent to the gallows.”

  “Ah, but many a man has cheated the hangman, just as many a woman has learned the virtue of humility. That, my pet, is something I am determined to teach you.” Prying her hands from his shoulders, he held her at arm’s length. “Ponder such in the black depths below, and for once, take care to keep your mouth shut.”

  The water rose to her chin. Still, she felt little of her earlier fright. Theirs was a clash of wills, and he was not about to drown her to prove the strength of his. She was beginning to feel chilled and much in need of warmth. Still, she did not wish to grant him satisfaction. It did so irritate.

  “I concede that you are stronger than I.” She clasped his hands and used them to keep herself afloat. When the flimsy lifeline proved too precarious, she made a grab for his arms. They tightened around her, and she let him settle her against him again.

  “Physical strength is not at issue.”

  She clung to him, her fingers seeking the shallow ridge between his neck and shoulders. “All the more reason you should fight fairly.”

  “But, ma belle, what has given you the idea I wanted a fight?”

  As if to prove the point, he slid his hand beneath the hair at her nape. His fingers caressed her skin then slowly splayed through the wet, wild, tangle to her scalp. Cupping the back of her head, he brought his even closer, seeking the underside of her ear with his lips and brushing her skin with a kiss no woman would consider chaste.

  “Please ... stop.” She breathed the words against his cheek, fighting the honeyed thickness that invaded her tongue.

  His answer came without words, but with a prolonged exploration of her throat, where he planted a trail of kisses. He teased her mouth with his, parrying lightly, then exerting just the right amount of pressure to lure her into a response to his kiss. He parted her lips and used his tongue to plunder at will.

  She melted against him, intensely aware of the outline of muscle and bone where her breasts pressed against his chest. Quite clearly, she remembered how he had felt the previous night without the layers of clothing. At least now, they formed more of a barrier between them. She tried to free her lips before her body betrayed her into enjoying the deliciously wanton sensation spreading through her scalp and down into her toes.

  His thumbs glided across the slick surface of her arms. Then his hands lowered to her waist, probing, defining each indentation, before moving over the rounded swell of her hips.

  Her breath caught, sounded a ragged echo against her ears. No sooner had she recovered from his devilish caress when his hands moved still lower to lift her up and tightly against him. It occurred to her that perhaps the clothing separating them was merely an illusion. He held her for a long moment before lifting her into his arms, carrying her to shore, and retracing his steps to the lodge.

  It was cool inside with a breeze filtering through the roof opening. He set her down then knelt to light a fire in the open pit in the center of the room. When the flames shot up, she watched them with longing. Instead of edging closer, she stayed near the wall, hugging her arms around her shivering body.

  “Come here by the fire.”

  “No.” She wished he would leave. She didn’t trust him. Even worse, she didn’t trust herself.

  “Don’t be stubborn. I’m certainly as cold as you, so you need not fear me.”

  She grasped his meaning but still remained apart. Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, he took her by the arm and steered her to the fire.

  He lightly fingered the deerskin that swathed her hips. “You’ll warm yourself a lot faster if you remove some of your clothing.” He spoke as if theirs was a close and consensual relationship.

  Catherine swatted his hand.

  He threw both of his up in surrender. “It was merely a suggestion made only out of concern for your comfort.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to lay blame for her lack of comfort and to suggest he return to his lodge and warm himself by his own fire. It seemed wise to refrain, however, so as not to provoke him further. Instead she extended her hands toward the heat. When he moved closer to the flames—most likely to hasten the drying of his clothing—she did, too.


  He made no further effort at conversation. The minutes passed, and she allowed herself to luxuriate in the enveloping warmth. She turned her back to the heat and wondered if, at some point, he planned to leave her alone.

  Then he said, “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.” Having eaten sparingly all her life, she wondered that her appetite was now so extravagant. When was she not hungry?

  He left and was gone so long she wondered if he were preparing a feast or if he had forgotten. Then he returned with a shallow basket containing the same kinds of food she had consumed earlier in the day. He also brought an odd vessel filled with water that he described as a dried, hollowed-out vegetable called a “gourd.” He also brought two similar but smaller shallow bowls. Then he placed everything on a woven mat and sat down near the heat. Without having to be coaxed, Catherine sat beside him. They ate in silence. After they finished, he poked at stray bits of wood with his fingers and brought new life to the fire.

  Turning her back to him, she tucked her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms about her legs. The heat from the fire soothed her limbs, and she breathed a quiet sigh. A languorous feeling crept into her body. Satiated from the food, her energy spent, she rested her cheek against her knees and closed her eyes. She listened to the crackling of the wood and tried to pretend she was home in London, sitting before the fireplace in her father’s house and shut away from the rest of the world. Drowsiness overcame her, and she gave in to it gratefully, surrendering her mind to the blissful drug of forgetfulness.

  A delicious tingle crept along Catherine’s skin, rousing her to a half wakeful state. For a moment, her mind groped for the source of the sensation that sent ripples of delight across her flesh. The impulse to probe was swept away by a swelling tide of intoxication. Her lips parted in a soft sigh, and she stretched lazily, arching her body, bringing it closer to this newfound source of pleasure.

  Still half asleep, she tried to open her heavy lids but succeeded only in parting them a fraction. Through the web of her lashes, she watched a man’s face take shape. Then, as if caught in a dream yet somehow outside it, she watched herself extend her arms to him. His lips brushed her cheek, sending a delicious shiver through her body.

  Even as a distant alarm sounded in her mind, she fought to hold on to the sweetness of the dream. Slowly, her eyes opened, but reality had not yet fully intruded, and she saw she was lying in the man’s arms. She felt herself slipping, down, down. Then, suddenly, she came awake.

  “You,” she gasped, pulling herself away from Rive. “If you touch me, I’ll ...”

  “What?” He grinned and came to his feet. “If you threaten me with the noose again, I shall have to grow another neck to satisfy your honor.”

  His grin broadened into a smile. It had melted many a woman’s heart, no doubt, but not hers. Never, never hers. That must become her creed. Although her body might betray her, she pledged to keep her heart steeled against his artful ways.

  Perhaps her expression sounded a warning he chose to heed. He sauntered to the doorway.

  “Au revoir, then. I shall leave you to the solitude you crave. But think upon this as you lie alone in your bed tonight. Your destiny and mine follow a common course that was plotted long before we came together on that dark country road.”

  Catherine, in no mood for mystical incantations, searched for something to hurl at him. Before she could lay a hand to anything, he slipped into the gathering darkness.

  Chapter 11

  On the afternoon of the twelfth day of Catherine’s captivity, Rive appeared at her lodge. Dressed only in what she had come to learn was a breechcloth, he settled himself cross-legged on the floor and proceeded to rub an oily mixture along the shaft of a short, stout wooden stick. One end resembled the crook of a branch. This, in turn, supported an interlaced network of leather strips attached to form an elongated cup of sorts.

  “What is that?” She put aside the book of poetry, one of the pair she had commandeered.

  Without looking up, he continued to work at his task. “It is a lacrosse stick.”

  The rag he used looked suspiciously like the torn-off ends of her shirt sleeves, confirming it was Rive who thought to make her attire more modest.

  “What is its purpose?”

  “It is for sport. You will see shortly. Now go back to your reading. Or perhaps you would care to read aloud to me. I believe toward the back of the volume you will find several poems of, shall we say, an amorous nature.”

  At his remark, a hot flush worked its way up her neck and into her cheeks. “Perhaps I shall recite one to you while you await your turn at the gibbet,” she muttered before hiding her face behind the book.

  He laughed too loud and far longer than she thought her gibe warranted. Then he fell silent while he concentrated on preparing the lacrosse stick. As the minutes passed, she continued reading.

  “In a few days we leave for Quebec. The timing is poor, but I cannot delay any longer.” He gave no further explanation, as though none were necessary.

  “Quebec!” Catherine jerked her head up and stared at him as if he had just announced that it might snow the next day. “What devilish business are you about now?”

  “The business of war. You claim to be a student of history. Need I remind you the war between France and England has spread to the eastern reaches of New France?”

  War, other than her own private one with Rive, had been far from her mind of late.

  “Why Quebec?” She snapped shut her book and put it aside.

  “New France is threatened as never before. If Fort Niagara is taken, the Ohio Valley will fall securely into British hands. It is the same everywhere. Your general, Amherst, laid siege on Carillon, forcing the French garrison there to mine the fort and blow it up rather than surrender it. A British army has landed unopposed on the Île d’Orléans, making Quebec extremely vulnerable. If Quebec falls, the conquest of New France will follow.”

  “I should think your effort comes somewhat late. Or do you believe your presence at the eleventh hour will turn the tide in your country’s favor?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot argue with that.”

  “Then why get involved?”

  He regarded her with mild exasperation. “My dear Catherine, I have neither the time nor the inclination to recount my past efforts in this conflict. Let us just say I have been very much involved until recently. However, it is time now to put aside personal considerations. The loss of New France, along with the British conquest of the Ohio Valley, will have a lasting effect, in many respects, upon my family. I owe a debt to someone in France. It is time I resumed my part in fulfilling my obligation to him.”

  She wondered if he referred to his uncle in Paris, the man Louis had mentioned earlier. In that case, his participation was certainly a noble gesture. Yes, she would grant him that, but there was nothing noble in his dragging her along with him.

  “I will not go with you. You cannot force me.”

  Rive set aside the stick, which he had oiled to a glossy sheen. “You will, and I can. God in heaven, Catherine, I do not want to go to war with you over it.”

  His hands, resting on his knees, drew her attention. His fingers, long and tapered, were very strong as she had learned through physical contact with him. Those fingers would have no difficulty hefting a sword or firing a weapon.

  For a fleeting moment, an image formed in her mind of a battlefield like the ones artfully sketched in her history books. It was not at all difficult to project Rive leading a charge in the forefront of such a field, scattered with cannons and stout defenses. She imagined him fitted out in a white and blue uniform—why that color, she could not explain—seated upon a spirited black horse, his hat cocked at a jaunty angle. As he rode into the fray, he brandished a sword above his head.

  However, glory was often illusion and reality usually of a less kind nature. In truth, he might be killed. The prospect should have lightened her mood, and it was with a great deal of surprise
and confusion that she found the opposite true. She frowned and was still pondering her conflicting emotions when she became aware of his fingers beneath her chin. Gently, he tipped her face up to meet her eyes.

  “What is it?” The tension in his facial muscles made his concern evident. “You look like you are about to face a firing squad. Your life will not be in danger, if that is what worries you.”

  The intensity of her feelings frightened her, and she felt on the verge of tears.

  “What is it? Tell me, Catherine.”

  Betrayed by her emotions, she could not speak. Nor could she tear her gaze away.

  His eyes widened, as if he sensed the truth behind her anxiety. “Don’t tell me you are worried for my safety?” His dark brows rose in shock. He looked as if someone had dropped a bucketful of icy water over his head.

  Finally, his words penetrated Catherine’s almost trance-like state. “No. Why would you imagine such a thing? You are too conceited. If anything, I should pray for your swift demise.”

  He traced the underside of her chin with his finger. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

  The gold band placed on her finger by Jeremy Flint bit into her flesh, reminding her of where her allegiance lay. She must not allow Rive to cart her off, like a camp follower, to Quebec. The consequences to her family were too severe, should Flint discover she was no longer within his reach.

  “I protest only your insistence I should accompany you to Canada.”

  “I cannot leave you here.”

  “And if my husband has abandoned me? What will you have accomplished?”

  Rive hefted the lacrosse stick and examined it. “Any man who abandons you would be a thousand times a fool. Is Flint such a man?”

  Catherine’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “I cannot say. I knew my husband less than a month before I agreed to the marriage.”

  The green eyes shifted to hers and narrowed in speculation. “It appears, then, you did indeed act in haste.”