Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  The men lapsed into momentary silence. Then André said, “She is well spoken and appears to have good breeding. Not the type of woman one imagines consorting with Flint.”

  “I quite agree, Uncle.”

  “She spoke of returning to New York City. Was there no way to arrange transport while you were in the colony?”

  “At the time, none.”

  André finished his cognac and put the glass aside. “I suspect you did not wish it.” When Rive was about to respond, André held up his hand and waved him off. “I will not delve into your personal feelings for her. To me they are obvious. As to whether they are reciprocated by the young woman, only you can judge. What you do about them in the future is between you and her. I shall offer no interference or advice.”

  “I appreciate your discretion.”

  André went to the window and looked out for a moment. Then he turned back to Rive. “Lise has become more insistent about returning to France, primarily for Marielle’s sake. No one can predict what conditions will be like if the colony falls to the British. Also, the extended disruption in the fur trade has made the business less than profitable. Hubert and I agreed almost a year ago that we should concentrate more on shipping and banking since we are already well established in those ventures. You’ll find the money there these days. You need not worry about the shares you inherited from your father. I am confident their worth will continue to rise.”

  Rive nodded. “I have the greatest confidence in you and Hubert, of course.”

  “In the meantime, there are other important matters.”

  Rive drained his glass and set it on the nearby desk. “You refer to the war, no doubt. It has finally brought itself almost to your doorstep.”

  “And will be in our beds soon. General Montcalm has made the decision to consolidate his forces here in defense of Quebec. It was a sad day for us when he was placed in command of the army.”

  Although a captain in the Troupes de la Marine, Rive had no direct contact with the great general. “I gather you do not agree with his strategy.”

  André slapped his hand down on the desktop hard enough to rattle the glass Rive had set there. “Strategy? The man has not the slightest notion of it. On his recommendation we abandoned the whole of the Ohio Valley as well as Lake Champlain. What kind of war does he think he is fighting?”

  “I suppose he conducts it in the way he best understands.” Rive shrugged. “Do not be too quick to condemn his tactics. When we crossed the St. Lawrence we happened on a large British force massing close to these shores. The fleet, from what I observed, consisted of several dozen warships as well as countless smaller craft. It looked as if they are planning to land a large army. I need not remind you, Uncle, that the Americans will fight alongside the British and add considerably to their numbers. Perhaps Montcalm can repeat his victory at Ticonderoga, where he defeated an English army far greater in number. In any event, he will need all the troops he can muster just to defend Quebec. He cannot spread himself too thin.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to me complain. It has been nothing but frustration. The defeat at Île d’Orléans, which fell last month, constituted a terrible blow for us. I saw the end in sight. You are correct about the fleet you spotted. British warships do indeed lie upriver, threatening a landing. Here, I will show you.” He pulled a map from a desk drawer and spread it out, stabbing at the broad, black lines denoting the waterways. “The British are in firm control of the rivers. That, as anyone save the most confirmed optimist will tell you, spells disaster for us.”

  Rive leaned over the map and studied it carefully. He had been cut off from the fighting for three months. Since he spoke perfect English, he had been commissioned to impersonate a high ranking British officer and purchase arms in New York, as well as arrange for a privateer to transport them to Quebec. Success was vital, for the ports in France were blockaded and few ships were able to slip through. Although he would have been summarily shot if the deception had been discovered, he readily agreed to the plan. Fortunately, no one questioned the letter of intent he forged to purchase the arms. Had it not been for his commission, he would never have been at the wharf the day he spotted Flint and Catherine.

  He continued to study the map. “Wherever they land, it will be difficult for them to scale the heights.” He pointed to an area a mile or so beyond the city, where the steep cliffs, rocky and hazardous, fell in an almost straight path down to the river. “If I were General Wolfe, I would pick a spot such as this. By appearance it seems the least likely choice. Possibly not as well defended as the more logical sites. What do you think, Uncle?”

  “If I had an answer, I would be in command in place of Montcalm.”

  Rive threw back his head and rocked with unrestrained laughter. “A pity you were not blessed with the gift of clairvoyance. A word from you and the illustrious Marquis would find himself demoted to the lowliest position in the infantry.” Rive’s words elicited a weak smile from his uncle. Clapping André on the back, he continued, “Try to look on a more positive side. Before winter comes, the rivers will freeze. Even if King George were to float every ship in the Royal Navy on these waters, they will have no more effect than so many stumps of dead wood.”

  André shrugged, appearing somewhat mollified. “I hope you are right, if we can hold out until winter.” He picked up the cognac bottle and poured a small amount of the amber liquid into both glasses. “Now, let us toast your return and continued safety.” He clicked the rim of his glass against Rive’s. “Let us drink, also, to the successful routing of our enemies. May we send them back to Britain like whipped curs with their tails tucked firmly under their bellies.”

  * * * *

  Catherine ran her fingers over the lovely apple green silk gown the maid had laid out on the bed earlier. On the floor nearby sat a pair of cream kid slippers. After the woman left, two housemen brought in a commodious porcelain tub that took several trips to fill with hot water. Now, alone in the room Lise St. Clair said had once belonged to her daughter Francoise, Catherine pulled off her soiled gown and shift and stepped into the tub.

  Sinking down until the water lapped against her throat, she leaned her head back against the rim. She closed her eyes and rubbed her skin with the perfumed soap Lise had generously supplied. To bathe like this amounted to sheer luxury of the type she had not experienced in the several months since she’d left London. Not even the hot bath Rive had provided for her on the day she made her futile escape attempt in the canoe could begin to compare.

  Rive. He had not been long from her thoughts. The distraction of the tub being filled and the maid arriving with the gown and a fresh shift lasted at most a half hour. So, as happened all too frequently when she had only herself for company, she could not prevent every physical attribute he possessed from sprouting in her mind like fertile seeds—his face, his voice, the startling green of his eyes, the midnight black hair and long angular lines of his body. These images appeared too often in her dreams, as well. Mercifully, she rarely remembered what occupied her during her hours of restless sleep. Sometimes, upon awakening, memory evoked a mosaic of images, images on which a chaste young woman had best not linger. She did linger at times, indulging in a guilty pleasure that, thus far, had never strayed beyond the familiar to that.

  She sat up so quickly that the water slid toward the rim of the tub and almost spilled over. She didn’t need a mirror to confirm the flaming red of her cheeks, which she clasped between her hands in dismay. She knew so little of lovemaking beyond the half-hearted explanation her mother had provided in an attempt to prepare her for marriage. An explanation so woefully deficient in details as to leave the subject as mystifying as ever. A man and a woman coupled. That seemed to be the extent of it, although how this coupling was accomplished remained, for the most part, unclear.

  “Your husband will teach you everything you need to know,” her mother had finally blurted before closing the subject. That left Catherine dependent upon her imaginati
on, which she had no desire to indulge at the moment; not when her skin tingled and the sensation, which went beyond guilty pleasure to the forbidden, had once again settled between her legs. She shook her head and willed her body to cease its wanton exercise.

  She heard a door open, one nearby from the sound of it. Quickly, she turned her head toward her own door. The key sat in the lock. Had she remembered to turn it? She thought so but couldn’t be absolutely certain. Then footsteps sounded and a male voice said, “Ah hah.” Rive’s voice. From the other side of the wall closest to where she bathed, she heard water splash and guessed the housemen were preparing a bath for him, as well. Several minutes later came the sound of a door closing, then silence.

  She sat stone still, listening. What was he doing? In short order the answer presented itself. With only the wall separating them, she heard the distinct sound of water being disturbed, and she guessed he had sunk down into his tub. Then silence again. Was he leaning back with his head propped against the rim as she had done earlier? Had Lise provided him with perfumed soap? She still held her bar but feared the consequences to her equilibrium if she were to stroke it against her body. Her mind drew pictures of him reclining naked under a colorless veil of water. She clamped her knees together tightly lest her body invite a return of the wanton sensations to which, lately, she so easily seemed to fall prey.

  Then he began to sing in a deep, rich baritone, in French and not too far off key. A rather rollicking song, one she supposed would appeal to a soldier. The tune was unfamiliar and she caught only a few words, considering the language barrier and the wall separating them. He continued on for a while before falling silent. Then, just when she thought his impromptu concert had ended, he resumed, only this time in the slower tempo appropriate to a ballad. And he sang in English.

  Oh, she’s had her true admirers

  Both near and far away

  Her kisses sweet, she rations them

  Lest she be led astray

  And though I prize her best of all

  Receive naught but her scorn

  For I am just a troubadour

  Who earns his keep with song.

  Eyes closed, she listened intently. Then after another pause, an additional word came through loud and clear: “Catherine.”

  Her eyes flew open. Was he singing about her? A troubadour, indeed. Altogether too near, as well. If she reached out, her hand could almost touch the wall separating them. With the sound so audible, she had the distinct impression he was at most an arm’s length from his side of the barrier. She wondered whose room he occupied and if he knew from the start that she was in an adjoining one, bathing just like him.

  “Catherine,” he sang, as if in answer to her question. He knew.

  Although the water had begun to cool, heat suffused her body; her limbs turned languid. She allowed several minutes to pass before she dared attempt to step out of the tub. A linen towel had been laid out on a chair, and she snatched it up and wrapped herself in it. She needed no prophet to tell her that the odd sensation in the pit of her stomach stemmed from his proximity. Surely it was not caused by longing—not with all the effort she had put forth to guard against it.

  She dried her hair as thoroughly as time allowed then pulled the shift over her head. Edging the sleeves was a lace finer and far more costly than that she had torn from her own shift by the stream in the wilderness. Had nearly a month passed already?

  Have I been with him for an entire month?

  Quickly, she donned the stays, gown, hose and shoes, grateful that everything fit so well. Velvet ribbons in a deep green secured the bodice, which partially exposed her shoulders. She sat at an elegant dressing table, its oval mirror crowned on top with a cluster of intricately carved rosettes. After months of hardship, she reveled in the luxury of pampering herself. She gathered her hair and wished there were some way to secure it so it did not fall loose down her back.

  She opened the center drawer. As she hoped, it contained a simple brush and comb along with a glass receptacle that held several hair pins. Hearing only silence from the adjacent room, she hurriedly arranged her hair into a twist and securely pinned it so it lay against her nape. Her cheeks glowed rosy pink, but not entirely from her bath. She tiptoed to the door.

  She put her ear to the door. Hearing no sound, she stepped into the hallway. As she turned toward the stairs, a movement caught her attention. Rive pushed himself away from the wall, linked his arm through hers and twirled her almost completely around. Without missing a step, he opened the door and guided her back into the room. Before she had a chance to utter a word, he pushed the door closed with his foot.

  Yes, he knew.

  “Mmm. You smell like wildflowers.” He stood close enough to make a judgment.

  He wore oyster-white breeches and black boots. His white shirt was open at the throat, his blue uniform jacket unbuttoned. His hair appeared slightly damp and tousled as if he had not had her luck finding a comb. Except for his devilishly handsome face, he might have been a stranger.

  “You,” she exclaimed and took a step back.

  He placed one leg before him and executed a deep bow. “Yes and, as always, at your service.” Barely suppressing a smile, he straightened to his full height. “You seem surprised. I assure you that a gentleman’s dress—in this case the uniform of an officer in His Majesty King Louis’ army—is not wholly outside the realm of my experience.” As he spoke, he moved closer.

  “I have only your word.” Having been so effectively cornered unsettled her, and she took several steps backwards. “In any event, I attach little importance to clothing. After all, who can tell these days? Behind a gentleman’s finery might easily lurk a backwoods lout.” She had not meant to insult him but, as was usually the case, words were her only weapons against his boldness. He stood too close, was too imposing, too confident, too wickedly handsome … She found her defenses no longer shored up with stone, but with fine-grained sand.

  One step and the distance between them evaporated. “I see a proper bath and change of clothing have done nothing to curtail your sharp tongue. Mind, Catherine, that it does not cut too deeply.”

  Had it?

  Can he possibly be sensitive to my opinion?

  “Is that a warning?”

  “Certainly not. Warning you takes a talent I, apparently, lack.” The softness of his laugh indicated that he harbored no real resentment at her words. His fingers closed lightly about her arms. “Shall we put it forth as a suggestion?”

  “That would be something new for you.” The sting had gone completely from her tone.

  Somehow he managed to back her against one of the four posts that anchored each bed corner. Her heart began to beat wildly. She reached behind and grasped the post for support; clearly her legs intended to be of little service. His fingertips glided down her arms with the softness of butterfly wings. Then he disengaged her hands and brought them to his chest, keeping his own hands closed about her wrists. A feverish heat surged through every part of her body; her skin was on fire with it.

  He nuzzled her hair. “Yes, definitely wildflowers. When I rejoin the battle, I shall carry that scent with me.” He bent his head and kissed the flushed skin at her throat. “Along with the feel of you.” His face was a hair’s breadth away. “The taste of you.” His lips moved over hers.

  The kiss, though deep, lasted but a few seconds. Then his fingers left hers to pluck the few hairpins from the twist at her nape. He dropped them onto the bed.

  “Your beautiful hair. Don’t ever hide it.” His fingers combed through the long, thick strands. “If I fall in battle, my last thought will be of you, looking exactly as you do at this moment.”

  She felt the rise and fall of his chest and looked into his eyes. She saw no fear of death. As she had suspected weeks ago, he would never shrink from leading a charge into the enemy’s lines. Musket fire would never stay him. A maudlin thought and certainly not the last she wished to have of him.

  “You
are far too ornery to be felled in battle”

  He pressed a fingertip lightly against her parted lips. “Let us not speak of my past transgressions.” His finger moved from her lips and glided over her chin. When it rested in the soft flesh beneath, he tipped her head back.

  His eyes expressed his desire, and she sensed his wish for them not to argue. This she could not deny him. Yet she must choose her words with care, must give no hint that if he died in battle her heart would wither. Her family obligation was clear; her destiny lay elsewhere. He could never become a part of her life.

  “I had thought to say only that I wish you Godspeed, as I would wish it for any soldier. My hope is, when this conflict ends, you will be delivered safely to your family.”

  If he expected a more affectionate declaration, he hid his disappointment. He took her hand, turned the open palm upward, and brought it to his lips.

  “Au revoir, then.” He released her. “I think it is not yet over between us. That is my hope. Perhaps time will prove me right.”

  “You are mistaken.” Catherine spoke in a surprisingly steady voice. It masked an overwhelming sadness, one which she could never confess. “What you are suggesting will not come to pass.”

  She did not think he would stop her from leaving the room, and he proved her correct. Still, she was wise enough to turn her gaze from his. Walking quickly to the door, she almost ran from her own heated denial.

  * * * *

  Marielle stood with her back against her bedroom door, her features pinched into a scowl. The ten minutes she had spent with her eye to the keyhole confirmed her worst suspicion: Madame Flint and her cousin were much more than traveling companions. She wondered if they were lovers and decided that in all likelihood they were. Why else would he be welcomed into her bedroom?