“I’ve been in forests before.”
He had an image of her strolling calmly through the well-tended woods of some country estate, with exotic peacocks calmly pecking in the courtyards. “Not forests like these. These are full of savages.”
“So are the settlements, I’ve noticed.” She shuffled through his scattered clothing, peering at him through narrowed eyes. “You have to spend the winter in those forests. Where are you going to live?”
A fur trader named Nicholas Perrot had built some crude buildings in Chequamegon Bay when he was last there, but Andre doubted this woman would consider them worthy of the name “home.”
“You do have a home,” she said, clapping her hands twice. “I’ll stay there with you.”
“This isn’t a pleasure voyage,” he argued, kicking aside a pair of his breeches and planting his hands on his hips. “Until we get to that place, we’ll be sleeping on the ground with nothing above our heads but an overturned canoe. We’ll be eating cornmeal mush and boiled peas for most of the trip. We’ll be crossing rapids like you’ve never seen in Paris, and we’ll be walking hundreds of miles to get around them. There’s danger from bears, from wolves, from savages who for one reason or another no longer like the French and would do almost anything to have such a pretty scalp as yours.”
She rolled her eyes. “I outgrew such gruesome tales when I was given my first corset.”
“You’re still delirious.” He clutched her upper arm. “You’re going back to Marietta’s, and you’re going back now.” “Am I?”
The fire flared in those eyes—unusual eyes, a pure jade flame. She dug her heels into the floor. She was more child than woman if she thought she could impose her will on him. Andre tightened his grip on her upper arm. She tried to wrench away but failed. He thought it was a pity that she was his wife; he would have enjoyed kissing the fight out of her.
He headed toward the door, dragging her with him. “This will be easier if you don’t make a scene on the way out.”
“I have no intention of making this easy for you.” She yanked on his arm as he pulled her out into the hallway. “I’m not going to let you just abandon me, your own wife, in a strange country. …”
“Then I’ll have to tie you up and make sure you stay tied up until you’re back with Marietta.”
“The governor will love to hear of that,” she snapped, pink skirts flying as she struggled, tiny pointed boot tips nicking his shins. “I’ll go to his house trussed up like a sack of flour, then he’ll know how badly I’ve been mistreated.”
“Don’t threaten me, woman.”
“I’m Marie Duplessis, your wife, not some common fishmonger! The governor will arrange for an immediate annulment when he hears about this. … If you’re not going to keep me, then I’m not waiting until next summer to get rid of you.”
Andre froze in the middle of the hallway. He knew with deadly certainty that she would do exactly what she said she would. The girl was nothing if not resourceful, having made it this far and finding him. The governor would be none too pleased to be confronted with the abandoned wife of a fur trader. Andre knew exactly what the official would do when he heard this woman’s story. The governor would see to it that the marriage was annulled and this woman remarried. In punishment, he would revoke Andre’s trading license, when it was too late for the fur trader to do anything about it.
A door cracked on the far end of the hall. Andre whirled and dragged her back into the room. He kicked the door closed behind him.
She faced him squarely, wiping a lock of hair out of her eyes. “So, you are going to discuss this now.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” He tugged her arm and thrust her back against the door. “Unless you want to be a great source of entertainment to the guests of this fair inn, I suggest you shut up while I tie you up and carry you back to your boat.”
“Don’t bother tying me up. I’ll go willingly.” She leaned her head back against the door and blew the errant lock of hair from her eyes again. “What difference does it make to you if I get an annulment now or later? You’ve got your license. You don’t need me anymore.”
The wench didn’t even know the power of her own words. She didn’t know that if she went to the governor, everything that he had worked three years to obtain would be destroyed. His grip tightened on her arm. Why had she come? And why now, on the eve of his departure? He should never have answered
the door; after all, good news never comes at night. Some evil manitou was at work here, determined to crush his dreams, and it took the form of this stubborn, beautiful, willful woman who threatened everything and didn’t even know it.
He should just escape the settlements tonight, Andre thought, before she ever had a chance to go to the governor. He could do it. He knew where all his voyageurs were sleeping. He could go deep into the interior and roam the wilderness and forget all that had happened here. But when he returned there would be hell to pay—and it was a hell he could not afford. They’d hanged the last men who’d tried to smuggle illegal furs into Quebec, confiscating everything for which they’d worked. He had struggled so hard to keep everything legal—Christ, he had even married to keep everything legal. Short of imprisoning this woman in Marietta’s house, once he left the settlements, there was nothing he could do to stop her from ruining him and all his dreams.
She was staring at him steadily, waiting for him to say something. If he were a different type of man, he would wrap his fingers around her frail white throat and choke the life from her. Andre saw a flicker of fear in her eyes as she tried to jerk away from him, but he held her fast. He was trapped … trapped more firmly than she was in his embrace. He couldn’t free her from this marriage, nor could he leave her here in the settlements to wreak havoc. He had made a mistake in marrying this woman. He had mistaken illness for docility.
He had to take her with him. Damn it, he had no other choice. She’d slow him down, and any more delays on this voyage could be disastrous. It would take at least four or five weeks just to reach Sault Sainte Marie, the falls that marked the entrance to Lake Superior. Hundreds of uncharted miles separated Sault Ste. Marie from Chequamegon Bay—his destination—and only a few white men had ever traveled that far. The weeks wasted before he’d gotten his trading license had cut his time short. If this trip was delayed or slowed any more, he’d never make it to Chequamegon Bay before the winter freeze.
It would be a hard, long drive to the west, he thought, made a thousand times more difficult by the presence of this woman. He tried to imagine her negotiating the treacherous hills and narrow ledges of the long portages around the waterfalls, teetering on her heeled leather boots. She’d be battered and bruised in the birch bark canoes as they were poled upstream against the raging currents. She’d be useless weight, unable to carry any of the goods during the portages or paddle the canoes over calm water. She’d cry when mosquitoes feasted on her pale, exposed skin; she’d complain about sleeping on the cold earth; she’d cause endless delays. She was a noblewoman, for God’s sake! Weak and pampered and utterly new to this country. He wanted to leave civilization behind, not carry it with him in the form of a well-bred wife. He’d give her two, maybe three days on the voyage before she screamed to come back to civilization. Then what would he do with her? He’d be too far away from Montreal to spare anyone to escort her back to the settlements. She’d be dead weight, a hundred pounds of whining, crying, complaining Frenchwoman.
Then an idea came to him, as swift and straight as an arrow and just as lethal. His body flinched when it came, for the arrowhead was poisoned with guilt.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
Damn it, he’d left her in Quebec, with Marietta and Philippe, in the one part of New France that had become civilized over the past few years. She’d been as safe there as any woman could be in the new world, especially now that the Iroquois were at peace with the French. And so he’d rationalized that he wasn’t abandoning her, as he’d left another Fren
chwoman behind once before, not so long ago… .
He squeezed his eyes shut. By God, why did they come here? Why would these women, these frail swan-necked creatures, leave the security and ease of France to hang themselves about the necks of the men of Quebec? What did the new world give them but danger, the threat of starvation, of cold, of a hard, rude life of labor? For men there was the freedom of the uncharted forests, the challenge of the unknown; for women there was nothing but grief and drudgery.
He blinked open his eyes and glared at her, the lilted, defiant chin, the level gaze. She’d thrust it upon herself, the willful aristocrat, for not staying in Quebec. He’d warned her . .. he’d warned her of the dangers, yet still she wanted to go. He could not let her slay and wreak havoc on his plans, so he’d let her join him—for as long as she lasted.
Then God save them both.
“Whatever you’re planning,” she said, “I don’t like it.”
“Yes, you will.” He released her abruptly. “I’ve changed my mind. You’ll come with me.”
She rubbed her forearm where he had grasped her. “After all that fuss?”
“It’s in your best interests to stay, but you’re a stubborn woman.” His gaze traveled over her intimately. This, at least, wasn’t a lie. “Stubborn and beautiful. Far too beautiful to be left alone in Quebec while I’m wandering in the interior.”
“Ah. So you’re taking me just so I won’t give you horns.”
“You underrate your own charm.”
“And next spring?” she asked boldly, ignoring the compliment. “Are you still planning to annul this marriage when we return to the settlements?”
He lifted a brow. She was far too smart, far too sharp for an innocent daughter of the petite noblesse. He could lie outright, but he sensed she would suspect such an abrupt about-face.
But that kiss … that kiss had unnerved her. He would use it to his advantage.
So he planted his hand above her head and leaned closer to her, covering her with his shadow while the candlelight flickered gold on the rough-hewn log walls. Her pupils constricted, her nostrils thinned as she inhaled deeply. He felt his own blood surge at the aroma of her perfume, rising from her skin, her hair—French scent and woman-scent. “Nine months is a long time for a husband and wife to be alone in the wilderness, cherie.”
She pressed back against the door, suddenly breathless.
“Spring is hundreds of nights away. Anything could happen between now and then. You may decide I’m a terrible husband.”
“I’m convinced … already.”
“Then you’ll be the one screaming for an annulment next spring, not I.” Her lips pouted so invitingly that he had to restrain himself from kissing her. “You took me by surprise this evening.” He forced the lie between his lips. “I want to think about this annulment.”
Her eyes flickered, narrowing. “What caused this sudden change of heart?”
By God, it was too bad she was his wife. Beneath all these prickles was a passionate woman, and he would love to clip off the thorns and make the rose bloom, just for him. His gaze swept from the cascade of her copper curls to the toes of her booted feet. He lowered his voice to a whisper and told her another truth. “You, my wildcat, are not what I expected.”
She blinked at him. He saw surprise, hesitation, and suspicion reflected in her lucid green eyes. Her will was wavering. She was swallowing the bait. He pushed one step further, hating himself even as he did it.
“Have you ever gambled, my wife?”
She frowned, confused by the sudden change in topic. “Charity houses don’t allow gambling.”
“You’re gambling now, as am I. I hadn’t considered taking you with me, not only because you were ill, but because Frenchwomen never travel into the interior.” He leaned closer, so his mouth was only a breath away from hers. “It can get lonely out in the wilderness, with no one but the Indians and my men for company. A Frenchwoman would be a welcome companion … if she could withstand the rigors of the journey.” He couldn’t resist any longer. His lips brushed her tip-tilted nose, then, with the softness of a bird’s wing, brushed her lips. They seemed to blossom beneath his touch. He forced himself to pull away. “That’s where you must gamble. It’s a long, difficult journey. I can’t make the decision for you. You alone must decide whether you are willing to face the risks.” And the consequences.
“I came here to be your wife, to live in your home,” she argued. “I’ll go.”
He smiled into her sparkling eyes, a smile that he knew was more of a grimace. She was a bold, willful creature, a fool. Andre wondered how long she would last through the rigors of the great North American forest, how long it would take to break her spirit. He stifled the guilt he felt for having gone to such lengths to have his way. But she’d brought it upon herself; the consequences would be her own.
He pushed away from the wall and watched the golden candlelight flicker over her features. “We’re leaving at dawn. I’ll make arrangements with the innkeeper to get you another room.”
“Oh, no.” She wrapped her fingers around his arm. “I’m staying right here with you.”
He felt a heavy rush of warmth to his loins. “Such an eager bride.”
“Did you think I was going to let you escape in the middle of the night and leave me here alone?”
The room was stifling again, but it was a different sort of closeness, the kind that urged him to draw nearer to her, to reduce the world to two warm, willing bodies in one soft bed. He needed a woman. He wanted this woman, he was honest enough to admit. Andre forcefully reined in his desire. He had to get away from her now, before he made a very serious mistake.
“Trust me, my lusty wife.” He slipped her hand off his arm and kissed her fingertips, one at a time. Then he bowed, sweeping his hand out as if it held a feathered hat. “I wouldn’t leave you behind for all the beaver in Quebec.”
Chapter 4
He was too damn handsome.
Genevieve paced in her room, rubbing her clammy hands up and down the linen sleeves of her shift. She was alone in this tiny room in the back of the inn, alone in the dim indigo light of predawn, but she felt as if she stood in the midst of a Parisian marketplace, knife tight in hand, limbs tense, waiting for a Victim with a heavy purse to slice, her body poised to race away like the wind.
She had spent the night pacing this room, trying to calm herself enough to sleep. Her instincts roared like thunder. Long ago, she had learned never to ignore the prickling at the back of her neck, the tight knots of her belly, the silent screams inside her head, yet now, when the prickling had turned to needlelike stabs, when the knots of her belly had solidified to stone, and when the screams grew so loud that her ears rang, she knew she must do exactly what every sinew of her body warned against.
She must trust a man who grinned like one of the gargoyles carved into the stone of Notre Dame.
Falling to her knees, she groped along the floor of her room and searched for her scattered clothing. She told herself she was just dressing in preparation for another confrontation with her husband. She told herself that morning was nearly here, because she had heard the first birds peeping outside the walls of the inn, and there was no reason to tarry. She told herself that if she stayed in this room any longer, she’d wear the floorboards down to dust.
Genevieve sat back on her shins and clutched her bundle of clothing tight to her chest, closing her eyes against the voices warring inside her head. The icy cold of the floorboards seeped through her thin shift and chilled her legs. It took every last dram of her will to stifle the urge to run away from this inn, to run like the devil away from that man. But she had come too far to escape like a coward. She reminded herself that nothing awaited her in Quebec except the battle for an annulment … an annulment she wasn’t even sure she could win without his presence, and if she failed, she’d be forced to wait nine long winter months in another woman’s house with another woman’s children until he decided to return to Que
bec to set her free—and thus risk the vague but terrifying possibility of discovery. That would get her a quick enough annulment, she thought with a fresh shiver, and a swift and brutal return to Paris as well.
But if she stayed here with this man with eyes like a lion’s, if she stifled all her screaming instincts, then she would have what she had crossed an ocean to obtain: a home. A home. A place of her own where she could be safe, warm, and protected from the world. All she had to do to make it hers was to follow this sly-smiling, heart-stopping rogue of a husband into the wilderness.
She stood up and draped her clothing over the room’s single chair, taking a deep breath as the fury of her fear ebbed. There was no question what she would do, but still, someone should have warned her. Someone should have told her that he was young, tall, broad-shouldered; that his chest was muscular and golden; that he had no qualms about brazenly displaying it beneath his open, billowing white shirt. Someone should have warned her about his lazy smile, his roving eyes, his strong, hard hands; someone should have warned her that he was not the gentleman she’d expected.
Genevieve fumbled with her rose-colored bodice, slipping her arms into the sleeves as her instincts threatened to overwhelm her anew. When he had drawn near her last night, with that smoky look in his eyes, everything she had planned to say during the trip from Quebec to Montreal had melted like butter on her tongue. She had had no time to fight— no will to fight—when he engulfed her in his arms and kissed her.
She jerked the laces of the bodice closed tightly across her chest, then dragged her skirt off the chair and stepped into the folds. A bubble of humorless laughter slipped through her lips at the irony of it all. It had been her first kiss. He ‘d sensed her surprise, and he’d probably mistaken it as innocence.
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