“A gift from my father to my mother,” Julianne breathed. “Benjamin kept them as a remembrance and gave them to me.”
Nodding, Marc-Paul tossed the combs back into the open box. “I was right to suspect you were hiding something. I was only wrong to assume it was adultery. Still, I lost you to another man just the same, didn’t I?” The young man who betrayed Marc-Paul’s friendship had turned Julianne against him as well.
“That’s unfair.” Her nightdress whispered across the floor as she came and stood between him and the mirrors on the table. “My long-lost brother came back to me and said you would kill him if you knew.”
“I am no murderer.” But he did not say what they both understood. Judgment had already been cast. If Benjamin was caught and the law upheld, the order to execute must be carried out. If not by Marc-Paul, by another.
“Tell me, Marc-Paul, what was I to think? You let me believe Benjamin died of fever—”
“To spare you pain!”
“But it was a lie! You kept the truth hidden when we’d said no secrets should ever come between us! And let’s not forget about Lily—”
“I told you Lily could be mine the very day I brought her home!”
“She was another secret, Marc-Paul. I love her, and I know you do too, and I even concede that her existence was a surprise to you as well. But trust is a fragile thing, and twice I’ve been shocked when something in your past dramatically entered my life.”
Marc-Paul’s cravat tightened around his neck as he fought to maintain his composure. “Are you forgetting that Benjamin left me to die when he attempted to desert? Yet it seems I’m the only one on trial here. What is my crime, exactly?” He unwound the linen from his neck and cast it to the floor.
When Julianne started to turn away from him, he grasped her shoulders. “Forgive me, for I am guilty. Of loving you when France and New Orleans had abused you and cast you aside. I love you in spite of your brand, in spite of what your brother did, both to me and to the colony. I love you so much I was willing to bear that burden alone, because I could not bear to lay one more heartache upon you. And for this, you condemn me? Now that you know Benjamin is alive, do you prefer him so completely over me?”
Julianne pressed her fingers to her temples. “Must I choose between the little brother I raised and the husband I love?” Her voice cracked beneath her question. This was exactly the pain Marc-Paul did not want her to carry.
“Have you not made your choice already?” he asked, smoothing a crease from her brow with his thumb.
Tentatively, she rested her hands on his waist, and he wondered if she knew her fingers touched one of his scars through his linen. “You must believe that if his intention has been to injure Louisiana, I was not aware of it. Until . . .” Her gaze shifted sideways.
“Until what?” he prompted, careful to keep the urgency from sharpening his tone. He took her hands in his. “Tell me.”
She bit her lip. “After you left, he came to me with a fever. I noticed some strange markings on his chest. They looked native. I’ve seen some tattoos on Red Bird and Running Deer, but these weren’t the same.”
“Describe them.”
She did, then peered up at him for the verdict.
A knot tightened in his gut. “You’re quite certain? You got a good look at them?”
Julianne nodded. “Why? What do they mean?”
“Those are Chickasaw markings.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. For a long, tense moment, the only sound in the room was the chirping of the crickets beyond the window. “Marc-Paul, his gun. I think it was British.” She choked on the words.
A great sigh rose in Marc-Paul’s chest before he wearily released it. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I am only grieved. Benjamin is in far too deep, and he’s trying to pull you in with him. But if you truly desire to join him, I’ll let you go. A quiet divorce.”
Her gaze flew up to his.
“I’m sorry, Julianne, but you cannot be devoted to both of us.”
“I know,” she whispered. A lump bobbed in her throat. “But would you still have me, after all of this?”
Hope glimmered, however dim. “I would have you, wife.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “But you must choose, and be certain. This is not a decision to be made in haste.”
Chapter Thirty
A week later, Marc-Paul left again, this time without telling Julianne—or the soldiers remaining in New Orleans, for that matter—his destination. Hours after his departure, shimmering, sweltering heat beat down upon the settlement. The air was so thick with humidity that Julianne felt as though she were wrapped in steaming flannel. On afternoons like this, she could think of nothing but napping like the Spanish. Lily too had taken to her room, most likely to splay herself over the floor.
Shuttered light striped the room with hot gold bars. As she peeled the layers of her gown from her body, Julianne caught the reflection of the fleur-de-lys in the looking glass at her toilette table. My name! On your skin! The thrill in Lily’s voice still rang in her ears. So too did the taunts of the crowd gathered at the wooden horse. Murderer! Bloody her! Shuddering, she pulled her mother’s silver combs from her hair and laid them in front of the mirror.
In nothing but her chemise and petticoat, Julianne sagged onto her bed and spread her hand over the dip in the mattress beside her. The scent of Marc-Paul—leather and clean linen and the coffee he preferred to brandy—enveloped her. Her thoughts rolled back to the circuit in her mind. To choose between her brother and her husband seemed a cruel decision. Fear of losing either one of them marched beside the love she held for both, pounding her bruised and weary heart.
Questions hounded her. Why would Benjamin side with France’s enemies? Could Marc-Paul be mistaken about her brother’s tattoos? Perhaps she hadn’t described them correctly. Her head ached as she struggled to grasp what she was loathe to admit. At some point after his arrival in Louisiana, Benjamin had taken a dreadfully wrong turn.
Rolling onto her side, Julianne hugged Marc-Paul’s pillow to her chest. Did he miss her, wherever he was? Or was he only relieved to leave the palpable tension in their home? As she drifted off to sleep, it was her husband’s face she longed to see again in her dreams.
Then a thud sounded from somewhere else in the house. Julianne held her breath, listening. Footsteps fell. They did not belong to Lily.
Etienne? Julianne slipped from her bed and threw her robe volante over her body. Careful not to disturb Lily’s rest, she quietly went in search of him.
She followed the sound of rustling papers to the library across the hall. But the man whose back was turned to her, hunched over the desk, was not her Canadian friend. Her frown deepened as she silently watched him rifle through Marc-Paul’s things.
“I see you’ve recovered.” Julianne kept her voice low.
Her brother whirled around. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You came into my house without so much as a knock, and you’re rummaging in my husband’s desk. That bothers me.”
Benjamin shrugged. “The window was open.”
“It’s customary to use doors. After knocking. After being invited in.” She crossed her arms over her gown.
“I knew Girard was gone. What, aren’t you happy to see me?”
Julianne raised an eyebrow. “It would seem I’m not the one you came to see.” She nodded at the mess on Marc-Paul’s desk. “Wondering how his mission went to establish a fort on that river?”
“Heard it went badly.” He did not seem displeased.
“Heard from whom?”
“Another courier.”
“Would this be the courier you sent to the natives along the river to warn them of a French contingent headed their way? The courier who advised them against an alliance?”
“I won’t bore you with the details.” But he didn’t deny her insinuation. He certainly didn’t seem shocked. “What can you tell me about where your husband is now?”
&
nbsp; She gritted her teeth. “Nothing. He didn’t brief me.”
“Don’t be coy, Julianne. Tell me what you know. You just have to trust me.”
But trust was a luxury she no longer possessed. “No, I don’t.”
His eyes flashed like silver saber points. “Tell me. I would not ask if it wasn’t important. Where is he now?” His voice ratcheted up in both volume and pitch.
She narrowed her eyes at her younger brother. Rarely had he taken that tone with her growing up. Never, not once, had it persuaded her to give him what he wanted. “Exactly what business is that of yours?”
Benjamin’s determined gaze matched Julianne’s. He ran a thin hand over his face. “My business is the good of the country. I vow.” Sweat glittered on his brow.
She stepped closer to him. “Which one?”
“Pardon?”
“Which country, Benjamin?” She swallowed, willing him to deny her suspicions. “Which king do you now serve?”
He straightened, as if at attention and ready to salute. “The one who serves me back.”
Releasing her breath, Julianne gripped the back of Marc-Paul’s chair, fingernails digging into its crimson brocade. “How could you?” Her voice quavered.
“Ma foi, Julianne, how can you wonder at this? You, of all people? France exiled you in the name of Louisiana, but did the king or his regent trouble themselves to see that you had enough to eat? Of course not. They did not even care to clothe their own soldiers, let alone send food. How can you serve a country that doesn’t serve its people? You’ve had no choice, perhaps, but Captain Girard—” Benjamin shook his head. “His loyalty to the crown borders on the blind faith a sheep has in its shepherd. I’ve seen him suffer for France. I’ve seen him haunted by some of Bienville’s policies toward the native peoples. And yet he remains. Following orders. Obeying rules. As if he had no mind of his own.”
Julianne stepped back and leaned against the doorframe as Benjamin’s words crashed over her. This was treason. This was a death sentence. “Marc-Paul serves a cause bigger than himself. You were a soldier once. You should understand.”
“I understand that he is a fool not to cut his losses.”
“And turn his coat?”
“Strategically realign himself.”
Traitor. Julianne felt the scales fall from her eyes. Marc-Paul had not testified falsely against Benjamin. Benjamin had condemned himself with his actions. And now again, with his reckless words.
“Julianne, come with me.”
What? She was too stunned to speak.
“Start over in Carolina. There are many, many French in Charles Town. Huguenot exiles. They’ve formed a community and thrive as merchants and farmers. You have no idea what a colony can be. You should see how the British live, while here it’s all you can do to survive.”
Her head spun. “I’m married,” she sputtered.
“To a soldier. Soldiers die.”
The look in his eyes sliced through her. “What are you saying?” A whisper, for her voice had gone.
“Dangers are everywhere. A snakebite can kill a man. An alligator certainly would. Not to mention a stray musket ball, or arrow, or tomahawk.”
Memory triggered. Her first husband brought home from Natchez, his body so altered by tomahawk and scalping knife she was not even allowed to look at him to say good-bye. “Simon.”
“I’m sorry, Julianne. Truly. If there was any other way . . .” He pursed his lips, cutting off his confession.
She swallowed. “Sorry for what?” She looked at him with new eyes, daring him to admit some role in Simon’s death, and in the same instant, silently begging him not to.
Benjamin opened his mouth, then shut it for a moment, clearly thinking better of his reply. “Louisiana is a dangerous place. And I genuinely regret your heartaches.”
But she knew. Her little brother was dangerous too. Oh, what have you done?
“You have no children by Girard,” Benjamin barreled on. “Surely you don’t prefer an impotent husband. You had a baby with Simon, after all. Come to Carolina, remarry, and have the desire of your heart: a baby of your own. Why stay, when a better life awaits? Abandon this godforsaken place. King Louis already has.”
“You go too far—”
“Your mark would mean nothing to the Huguenots, who have their own reasons to reject the king and country who put it there. Aside from your marriage, which is tenuous, what ties you here?” His face was bright with persuasion and possibility. “We’ll take Lily with us. What’s left? Do you even midwife anymore, or has your brand exiled you beyond the settlement’s borders?”
“I am not in exile,” she spat. “I’m still a midwife.” She would not tell him that her brand had reduced her from official colony midwife to a volunteer. Nor that Lisette was almost as skilled as Julianne by now. She certainly wouldn’t tell him that her greatest recent professional victory was that Helene had softened toward her since she’d interceded at the wooden horse, and had convinced the other tavern girls to allow Julianne to tend them again.
Why stay? The question curled around her. A better life. A baby of your own. Your mark would mean nothing. Like a vine, the words climbed, winding their way about her in a breathless embrace.
“Come with me,” he whispered, and it sounded like a serpent’s hiss in her ear. “Please.”
Her gaze snapped to his, and the uncertainty that had bound her shriveled away. She made her choice. “I will not leave Marc-Paul.”
Benjamin’s jaw tightened as he looked at her. “At least tell me where he is.”
Silence.
He swore under his breath, then sighed. “Once I leave, you’ll never see me again if you don’t come too.”
She bit her lip to keep from crying but made no sound.
A sadness flowed into his eyes and hung there a moment. “If you tell anyone I was here, I’m a dead man. Adieu, ma sœur. I trust you’ll keep this to yourself.” He kissed her cheek and climbed back out of the window.
Julianne sank to the floor.
Lily wasn’t really taking a nap. She was doing what she did best—staying invisible. And listening to the angry voices coming from Papa’s library. There was a man in there with Madame, and he was making her upset. He spoke so quickly, and Lily couldn’t understand his French. But there was no mistaking that whatever he’d said had made Madame cry. Again.
She watched him slide from the window and recognized him as the man she’d seen twice before. He was the hunter from the swamp and had come to talk to Madame at the house while Papa was away. But when Lily told Papa about him the night he came to soothe away her nightmares, he’d seemed so upset she tried to take it back. “Maybe I didn’t see anyone after all,” she’d said, desperate to smooth the creases from Papa’s brow. “Maybe I only dreamed it.”
Maybe she’d been wrong to try to cover it up. This man who spoke French but stole around like a Chickasaw—he was up to no good.
Lily’s legs ached to run after him. And so she did. Her feet made no sound as they landed on the ground outside her own window, as they carried her off toward the swamp. She would trail him like a real hunter. Wouldn’t Papa and Madame both be proud? Arms and legs pumping, she smiled as her braids swished and bounced behind her back. I am the wind, an invisible sigh. And the wind could never be caught.
Sand sprayed her calves beneath her skirt as she ran along the ridge between cypress and gum trees. Moccasin prints on the path ahead of her pulled her along. When a branch barred the path, she planted her hands on its mossy bark and vaulted over it, eyes keen on the man’s trail. Clearly he hadn’t thought he would be followed, or else he would have walked in the water instead. Lily smiled at her sharp wits.
Then she stopped. Frowning, she looked behind her. Her own footprints were just as easy to spot as his, since she had been pounding the ground so hard. If someone wanted to follow her trail, she’d made it far too easy. With only a moment’s hesitation, Lily stepped into the shallow pool where turtles wad
ed beside the sand. She took long, steady strides, and satisfaction filled her chest. She’d made her trail disappear.
Mud squished under her feet as she traveled beside the sandy ridge, keeping one eye on the moccasin prints and the other eye on the water, where fish swirled about her ankles. More than once, she stepped in a hole and lost her balance, nearly falling headlong into the water. Still, she trudged on.
Until a hand clapped over her mouth and her feet lifted out of the mud. An arm cinched around her waist and carried her farther from Papa’s house.
Shock coursed through her. She kicked, but he squeezed her harder, until she needed all her strength just to breathe. Unable to see his face, she looked down at his feet instead. He wore black leather boots with square heels. This was not the man she’d tracked.
“Bonjour, little spy,” he hissed in her ear.
Chapter Thirty-one
Benjamin’s exit still stinging, Julianne drew a fortifying breath and went to Lily’s room. Surely she would have heard the shouting and would be wondering what had happened.
“Lily?” Julianne stepped inside the room. The bed was empty. The floor was clear. Quickly, she looked under the bed.
Lily was gone.
Dismay drummed in Julianne’s chest as she hastened from room to room, calling her name. Did she run away? Or did she only wander again? They were the wrong questions for the moment. The only things that mattered were where Lily might be and if she was safe.
Julianne ran from the house and found Etienne in the garden. “She’s gone,” she cried breathlessly. “The river—the current is so fast—”
Etienne hurried to the shed, grabbed a coil of rope, and looped it over his shoulder. “Just in case,” he said.
“I’ll check the swamp,” Julianne said above the pounding of her heart, for the settlement held no charm for Lily.
The Mark of the King Page 30