“What the devil?”
A thin sliver of light broke through the mist. Catherine looked up at a man’s dim figure looming above her. He lowered a lantern until it shone in her face. Then he stepped back as if he had seen an apparition.
“Mon Dieu,” he gasped. “What are you doing out here? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” He raised the light and peered about the empty street, then helped her to her feet.
Grateful for his support, she allowed him to lead her away from the roadside. When they stood in the shadow of the wall, he studied her in the flickering light. His face remained perplexed.
“What is your business here?” He had a kind voice. At her hesitation, he added, “Come, come, you can tell me. I am not going to harm you.”
Short and spare of frame and dressed in soiled breeches and coat, he did indeed look kind, although shocked at finding a lone woman on the road.
“I was traveling with the St. Clair family. We have passage on a ship bound for France.” She recounted all that had happened, careful to leave out the incident with Marielle.
He shook his head slowly. “I am afraid fate has been unkind to you. The ships have all sailed with the tide. So you see, Madame, it is pointless for you to continue on. You must return home. Under the circumstances, there is nothing else for you to do.”
Catherine slumped against the cold, rain-soaked wall. “Are you certain? Is there any chance you are mistaken?”
“I wish it were so, but my information is reliable. My brother was at the wharf. He helped load the ships and stayed until they cast off.”
To give herself courage more than to ward off the increasing cold, Catherine hugged her upper body. There seemed no recourse except to return to the house. Darkness had not fully set in, and the fires that still burned through the drizzle provided some light.
“I would take you there myself, but I am on watch for several hours yet. Can you find your way alone?”
The rain fell heavier now, and she was anxious to start back before nightfall. “I shall manage.” She thanked him for his assistance. She turned away but had gone only a short distance when she heard footsteps close by. She felt something thrust into her hand.
“Can you fire a pistol?”
Catherine’s fingers closed about the weapon. “I don’t think so. I have never tried. Why give me yours?”
“I have this other one.” He patted a pistol tucked into his belt. “You are a woman alone. With so many houses empty, there has been some looting in the city.”
“Surely the soldiers must be able to keep order.”
“They have no time for petty criminals. For your own safety, keep this with you.” He reached for the weapon. “Here, I will prepare one shot and show you how to fire it.”
When she had mastered the required steps, he led her partway up the road. “I wish you bon chance, Madame.” He then left her to continue on her way.
Once inside the Palace Gate, she quickened her step. A small cluster of French soldiers, along with many more civilians shouldering muskets, hunkered down around open fires. She felt their eyes on her as she slipped past, the pistol concealed in the folds of her cloak. At any moment she expected to be stopped and tried to reassure herself the men meant her no harm. Still, with no other women about, she was acutely aware of the danger. Head lowered, she dared not meet their eyes and prayed desperately that she was headed in the right direction.
Once past the glowing fires and muted voices, she began to run. Virtually alone in the street, she searched for familiar landmarks to guide her back to the St. Clair’s home. Twice she had to retrace her steps, but at last she found the house, still miraculously standing. Exhausted, she stumbled up the path to the front door and turned the knob. The huge portal swung open and she hurried inside.
The house lay silent and cold as a mausoleum. For a minute she stood in the entryway, thoroughly bewildered and unable to move. Her sodden clothes sent a chill into her bones, and it occurred to her she had best get undressed before she added an ague to her woes. She ascended the stairs in near darkness and entered her bedroom. Laying the pistol carefully on the nightstand, she removed her cloak and gown and hung them in the armoire. Her shift was at worst damp in spots, and she felt thankful she had one garment fit to wear. Her bed beckoned, and quickly she slipped between the cold sheets, pulled the comforter up to her chin and closed her eyes.
Sleep did not come at once. Although safe for the moment, she turned her thoughts to the St. Clairs. Had they made it safely to the ship? Did they assume she was somewhere in the throng? Marielle, perhaps, declared she had seen Catherine somewhere onboard. They would not worry until it was too late. She could only imagine their concern when they discovered she was not among the passengers. No doubt André would blame himself. She prayed the worry would not affect his heart.
For the time being she had shelter, but no protection. The city had become dangerous to everyone, but especially to a woman alone. She had no money and no means of acquiring any. How was she to live?
Eventually, exhaustion forced her to still her dark thoughts and close her eyes. For now, she was safe. Tomorrow she would turn her mind toward taking whatever steps necessary for survival. A short time later, she drifted off to sleep.
She awoke to the loud chiming of the clock echoing throughout the house and signaling the second hour past midnight. Warmed by the bed covers, she felt somewhat refreshed from her few hours of sleep. Her head no longer ached, and the rain seemed to have stopped. She looked longingly at the grate and wished she had a fire. The remaining logs lay cold and dead, and she did not possess the skill to revive them. If she had a candle, she could go downstairs and forage for food, if indeed any remained. Her empty stomach reminded her that she had eaten nothing since early the previous morning. The prospect of leaving the safety of her room sent her huddling deeper under the comforter.
Gnawing hunger, however, soon outweighed any fear. After chiding herself for being a coward, she stepped out of the bed and onto the icy floor. Immediately, she felt a chill and dragged the comforter off the bed, wrapping it around her body.
The hallway loomed dark, the stairs broken and precarious. She took care not to trip over her improvised cloak. A sliver of moonlight seeped through a kitchen window, enough for her search to yield a small trove of biscuits and a basket containing a few apples. Quickly, she devoured several biscuits, cramming them into her mouth, and followed them with a piece of fruit that proved surprisingly juicy. Realizing her small stock of food would not last long, she satisfied herself with the meager fare. She must ration her provisions, since there was no longer anyone here to see to her needs.
Now, with her hunger satisfied, she carefully retraced her steps, grateful for the tiny bit of light cast by the moon. In the upstairs hallway, she listened intently to the night sounds. Creaks and groans, typical of an old house, greeted her. Then a new sound made her freeze. Directly below, the front door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps echoed as someone crossed the entryway.
Catherine’s senses sharpened, alerting her to the danger waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Treading lightly, she tiptoed into her bedroom, tossed aside the comforter and retrieved the pistol from the nightstand. Then she returned to the landing, cloaked in night shadows.
Somewhere below, a chair scraped against wood, followed by a muttered oath. Then everything fell silent. Catherine’s heart beat with terrifying speed. Fear swept through her in an icy wave, and her legs threatened to collapse from under her. She tightened her grip on the pistol and unsteadily raised it. Without shifting her gaze from the darkened stairs, she crouched against the wall and aimed the weapon toward the narrow space that fell away into the dusky void.
Again, the sound of footsteps carried, this time closer to the stairs. A man’s dim shape took form and grew in size as he began the slow ascent toward Catherine, who huddled above. Remembering the instructions, she laid her finger against the lever that released the shot and steeled herself not
to fire until he was within range. She wanted to scream, to give vent to the suffocating fear that was slowly choking her. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut and took aim.
A stair creaked. Fearing she would lose her nerve, she slid up the wall, cocked the pistol and fired. The shot went wild, tearing through what remained of the banister and splintering the wood.
“What in God’s name?” A deep, masculine voice exploded just as Catherine screamed.
For a split second neither moved. Then, suspecting the man had no intention of retreating, she gathered her wits and through the quaver in her voice said, “Stay back or I shall shoot you for certain this time.” Although she’d had only the one shot and her hand could barely stay steady, she made the pretense of taking aim.
“Catherine, is that you? What in God’s name are you doing here?”
At the sound of Rive’s voice, the pistol fell from her hand, and she tumbled into his outstretched arms. Sobbing, partly from her earlier fright and now with relief, she clung to him, her arms wound about his neck, her face pressed into his shoulder.
”Hush,” he soothed. “Do not take on so.”
No words could silence her. Neither could the hand that stroked her hair nor the lips that kissed the crown of her head.
“Oh, my sweet, beautiful Catherine,” he said, pressing her against him. He lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hallway and into the bedroom. There he laid her on the bed and sat down beside her. Her hands clutched his shoulders, and he leaned in close, kissing her closed eyelids and dabbing at her tears with the backs of his fingers. Stroking her hair, he said, “Sweetheart, you’re safe. Look at me.”
She opened her eyes. Then she lowered her arms, made a fist and brushed away the last of her tears. When her breathing began to ease and her awful fear was all but vanquished, she placed her hands against his forearms. “You must think me a hopeless coward.” She gave a tiny hiccup and fought back a renewed spurt of tears.
He laughed softly. “I would hardly call you a coward.” He eased aside the tangle of hair that had fallen onto her brow and stroked behind her ear with his thumb. “You almost shot me. I can only imagine what you might have accomplished with a little practice.”
The tiniest smile tilted up her lips, and she shrugged and swallowed a laugh. Finally, she began to feel better.
He fingered the delicate linen that draped her shoulder and took one of her hands, placed its palm against his chest and held it there for a long moment. “Stay put. I’m going to see about building a fire.”
He left the bed and crossed to where the tinder box sat on the mantle. He placed kindling on the grate and spent less than a minute igniting it. The flame grew, and he waited a moment before piling on several pieces of wood.
When he returned to sit beside her again, he enclosed her hands in his. “Why are you still here? Where are the others? Did Baptiste not come to escort you to the ship?”
“He did his best to deliver us safely.” She was anxious to absolve the boy from any blame. She told him of the circumstances that led her to become separated from the others but made no mention of Marielle’s treachery. In truth, she had already forgiven the girl.
“Oh, my brave Catherine.”
“Do you think me so?”
He kissed the tip of her nose, and when he turned her palms up, he kissed the scraped flesh. “Yes, I think you are the bravest woman in New France and anywhere else, for that matter. And beautiful beyond a man’s imagining. I must have pleased all the gods to have found such good fortune.”
“Oh? What might that good fortune be?” Breathless, she barely recognized her own voice.
He kissed her lips lightly, and her chin. “You are my good fortune, my brave, sweet Catherine. I thought you would be safely away by now. I only returned here to reassure myself.”
“Don’t you see? Everything—obtaining my passage, your marrying me—was all for naught.”
He opened his hands and brought her fingers to his lips. The tip of his tongue glided down the long slim stem of first one finger and then the other.
“Surely not all.”
As his tongue leisurely skirted along her skin, leaving a hot moist trail, she felt a little quiver deep inside.
“No?”
“I think we can salvage something.” He kissed the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat in a quickened rhythm.
She pulled her breath in and out through parted lips. “You do?”
He leaned down and gazed into her eyes. “I most certainly intend to try. However, to succeed will necessitate a joint effort.”
“A joint effort.”
“Hmm. You know. Something that requires the cooperation of two people, usually a husband and wife.”
“Oh, you mean that.” She knew all along where he was leading. She knew, too, she would let him make love to her tonight. What once she had thought of as forbidden fruit had suddenly become a downright necessity. She felt as if she were about to leap out of her skin.
“Hmm, yes, that. As I recall, we were almost halfway there on more than one occasion.” He gave a slight tug on the satin ribbon that held closed her shift and the bow opened. “Yes, decidedly that.” He slid the fabric off her shoulder and kissed her there. Then his lips continued along a path down her arm. He began anew at the hollow at the base of her throat.
Her body arched toward his, and she brought her hands up to where his hair swept the collar of his shirt. The first two buttons were undone, and she had no difficulty sliding her thumbs beneath the neckline and across the hard ridge of his upper back. She felt his muscles tense. Shyness no longer seemed in character for her and, needing to explore further, she slipped both hands under the sturdy cotton. His skin felt smooth, taut and warm against her palms, not as she would have imagined, if she had ever dared allow her thoughts to wander there.
He pulled her into his arms. When his mouth sought hers, she was ready and more than eager for his kiss. Her lips parted, and a muffled groan came from deep inside him. She felt his hand on her hip, where only the delicate linen draped her nakedness, and shivered in expectation of what he would do next. Indeed, the fabric was so fragile he might just as well be touching her bare flesh. Heat flared under his touch, and when he bunched the shift and slid it higher up her leg, she thought him the most considerate man in the world for providing her a cool respite.
“I love you,” He said, as his palm skirted her bare knee and the tips of his fingers explored the warm flesh at the crook of her slightly bent leg. When they glided along her thigh, she shuddered. Her nipples peaked, and she felt the stiff, hardened buds brush her shift; she wanted nothing more than for him to touch her there. He was touching her now inside her thigh and she twitched and almost certainly leapt a full half-inch up off the bed.
She wished he would hurry. Each of her senses was focused on the part where he would begin teaching her about lovemaking. No, he was taking all the time in the world, diligently easing the back of her shift up past her buttocks. Why did he wait? Did he think she was going to succumb to the vapors if he got down to it any faster?
Then all of a sudden he stopped.
Chapter 27
“Nooo.” She hadn’t meant to utter a sound, but it slipped out, a great wailing tortured sound. It would probably have awakened the neighbors if, by some chance, there were any left. She pulled her hands out from under his shirt.
He sat up and began to laugh—no wry little chuckle, but a deep throated guffaw. It emerged from him like a small explosion, one that might never stop.
“You’re making sport of me.”
He shook his head as he sought to bring himself under control. “No, my love. I can think of ten things I would rather be doing with you right now, but making sport is not one of them.”
“Then what do you find so humorous?”
“You see before you a man who has just had the biggest shock of his life.” His index finger curved over one of her cheekbones. “I thought ... I expected, if any
thing, that you would feel shy.”
“I’m supposed to, aren’t I?”
“Don’t feel obligated on my account. This works perfectly for me.”
“Then why did you stop?” She wondered if she would ever understand him.
“I thought we had reached the point where you were almost naked and I wasn’t. I was going to strip.”
Her mouth fell open, and she stared at him.
“Did you think I was going to make love to you dressed like this?” He tapped his fingers against one of his high black boots.
She shrugged, truly at a loss, having wandered into such strange territory.
“Well, I’m not.”
He stood up and, without further explanation, dealt with his shirt. In no time, he had flung the garment over a chair. The boots, which required something of a struggle, followed. It was while he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches that she closed her eyes. A moment later she felt the mattress depress under his weight and the long length of his body settle beside hers.
Several moments passed. “Do you ever intend to open your eyes?”
“Possibly not. Is it required?”
He laughed softly. “Yes, definitely.” There was a pause. “Have you had no instruction as to how a man and a woman consummate their marriage?
“My husband ... you ... is supposed to teach me everything about lovemaking. That was my mother’s advice.”
“Very good advice it is. I suspect, my love, you have a natural ... uh ... proclivity for it. However, just to be on the safe side,” he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, “why don’t we start with lesson one. Open your eyes and look at me.”
There was nothing for it but to do as he bid.
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