In the midst of the froth and the spray, in the mouth of the current, stood Andre. The water pounded against his bare chest as he clung to one side of the canoe. He steered the vessel upstream, keeping the fragile birch bark away from the bank and maneuvering it around the boulders hidden beneath the churning surface of the river. His hair, dripping with water, clung to his head and neck, and periodically he would shake it and send the glittering spray whirling around him.
A rope tied to the canoe’s curved bow led to the shore, where Tiny and Wapishka pulled the canoe forward as they stumbled over rocks and stumps and climbed over trees growing out of the solid stone. The other voyageurs traveled a steep path farther inland, carting over land most of the merchandise that had cluttered the vessel, to protect it from damage and to make the boat lighter and easier to maneuver. Andre had suggested, with a wicked smile, that she ride in the canoe while he pulled it upstream. It will give you a taste, he said, of the voyage to come. Now she clung to her bumpy, uncertain seat on one of the cedar ribs in the canoe’s half-empty belly, watching him battle the powerful currents that vibrated the canoe’s thin rind. Despite the weathered wooden crosses that dotted the shore, evidence of the loss of life along this stretch of white water, she felt no fear. The roar and tumble of the rapids filled her with breathless awe, as did the sight of her bare-chested husband, waist-deep in the wild fury, his arm muscles bulging and his ripple of ribs pressing against his gleaming sides.
Tiny stopped and waved from his perch atop a bare elevated clump of rock, yelling something to her that was lost in the noise and tumult but was understood by Andre. Andre loosened his grip on the side of the canoe and guided it forward, letting the gummed edge graze his rippled abdomen. She wanted to ask how much longer they must fight through these rapids, but her tongue lay thick and unresponsive in her mouth. Talk was a waste of energy, anyway, for the current roared and dispersed all sound, and his efforts were concentrated on directing the canoe farther upstream to a place where the men could pole or paddle again. Andre took a position near her, at the widest part of the canoe. His smoldering golden gaze alit on her briefly, as it had a dozen times since they’d left the campsite.
Her cheeks burned as he pushed the canoe into deeper water to avoid an outcropping of stone and earth. They had exchanged no more than a few words since last night. After their kiss, she had followed him back to the campsite and lain down on a fragrant, springy bed of spruce boughs the voyageurs had made for her, but sleep had eluded her. During the night, her thoughts had tormented her worse than the little gnat! the men called mosquitoes. She told herself she must encourage him, she must seduce him. Once their marriage was consummated, she’d have a name, a wealthy husband, and a home in truth, not just in name.
Still, there was something more to her boldness than cold-blooded utility, something she was afraid to name. On a practical level, she must seduce him. What bothered her was the part of her heart that yearned for … something. If she admitted to those feelings, then she would be admitting to a nature she’d been determined to suppress; she’d be admitting that her enemies had been right.
Genevieve clutched the cedar rib behind her as a contrary current surged around the outcropping and jerked the canoe to one side, bringing her attention back to the dangers of the moment. Andre’s knuckles whitened on the gunwale as he stopped and searched for safe footing on the cold, slick rocks beneath the surface. He took another step forward. The water reached his chest. A stinging spray spattered endlessly over the edge of the canoe.
It seemed to take hours to inch past the outcropping, for the current pounded down upon them, harder with each of Andre’s steps. The rope attached to the bow of the canoe hung heavy with water, though Tiny and Wapishka tried their best to keep it taut and firm. Slowly, carefully, Andre eased the canoe past the outcropping and into a small bay. Genevieve felt the lessening of the current through the thin bark. Her ears rang as the roar of the water eased, and she dared to dry her soaking face as fewer and fewer waves crashed against the bow and soaked her with the frigid spray. She sat straighter in the vessel as she smelled burning tobacco, evidence that the voyageurs had stopped their work to smoke one of their frequent pipes. On the shore, she saw Julien fighting yet another baptism in the frigid waters of the Ottawa River.
Genevieve glanced at her husband. His chest heaved and his breath was audible now, out of the thunder of the white water. Red welts rose on his skin at the level of his dark nipples, evidence of the force of the current. Veins bulged like bluish lead wires over his biceps and along his knotted forearms. As the water level fell to his hips, some of his men splashed into the bay to help unload the canoe.
Andre draped his arms over the rim of the canoe as the men approached. Water dripped from his chin and ran in rivulets over his chest, sprinkled with whorls of golden hair. Genevieve rose from the belly of the canoe and sat on the middle lath, arching her back and pressing a hand against the soreness caused by the cedar rib bumping into her spine. She was intensely aware of her husband’s eyes on her body.
“Well, wife, how did you like your ride?”
She winced and glanced sideways at him. “I feel like a bean in a baby’s rattle.”
“It’s going to get worse.” He wiped his dripping chin with his forearm. “There’s twelve more miles of this before we hit calm water.”
Genevieve ignored his lopsided grin. She wasn’t worried about the journey taking its heavy toll of her. She had been through worse … much, much worse. She was worried that there were twelve more miles of watching him in action, and she was wondering how long she would have to pretend to ignore his fascinating, powerful, half-naked body, like the lady she was supposed to be, before she was caught staring at him as no gentlewoman should.
She nodded toward the banks, where the men gathered among piles of merchandise. “Why are we unloading the canoes here?”
“There’s a waterfall less than a mile ahead.” He reached into the canoe and slid his bulging arms beneath her back and knees. “We’ve got to portage around it.”
She wound her arms around his neck, feeling the cordons still taut and hard from the exertion. His bare chest was slick and as cold as the river water. He smelled clean and wet … and felt very naked.
Suddenly, she felt very hot.
As soon as he reached dry land, Andre released her onto the shore, turned around, and returned to the canoe. Genevieve stood upon the banks and watched the back of his lean thighs flex as he splashed into the water, but her leisurely perusal was interrupted as the men swiftly brushed by her, running from the bank to the canoe, unloading what remained in the vessels and piling the merchandise in some sort of mysterious order upon the shore. She scattered away from the activity, rinding an elevated post to arch her aching back and watch the preparations. Another canoe rounded the outcropping and eased its way into the bay, and soon the men were hard at work unloading its wares. The voyageurs helped each other strap kegs and bales onto their backs in a sort of rope harness. Genevieve watched in horror as Tiny heaved three pactons on his back and adjusted the thick leather strap around his forehead. She knew that each of those packages weighed almost as much as she did.
“If you keep watching him, he’ll add a fourth for pride’s sake.”
She started and glanced over her shoulder. Andre wrestled into his shirt, which grew damp on his chest and shoulders. Genevieve nodded toward Tiny. “He’ll hurt himself if he tries to carry all that.”
“He’ll do the entire portage with that load if it kills him in the process.” Andre stood close enough for her to feel the damp heat emanating from his body. “At least there’s one advantage to having a Frenchwoman around.”
“What, exactly, does that mean?”
“It means my men are acting like roosters in a henhouse, brawling and puffing out their chests for your sake alone.” He ran a hand over the spiky bristles of his unshaven chin. “We’ll either finish this portage in half the time, or we’ll end up with twice t
he injuries.”
“Your men are braggarts all, by the sound of the stories they swapped over the camp fire last night. If I weren’t around, they’d just try to outdo one another.” She brushed a tendril of damp hair off her neck. “Perhaps, if you strain yourself, you can think of another advantage of having a wife.”
His smoky gaze fell upon her, dipping to where her headrail clung to her swelling bosom. Her breath gathered in her lungs. No … she would not take it Back. She had to say things so recklessly seductive if she was ever going to get this man in her bed. For the jut lire, she told herself. For survival, and for no other reason.
“The only other women we’ve ever taken on these Journeys were Indians. If you were a squaw, you’d be expected to paddle, to carry the canoe, to strike camp, to tend to the fires, and to carry nearly as much as Tiny.”
“So heathens treat their women as badly as white men, then.”
“Are you complaining?”
“I have reason enough. Since I’ve met you, you’ve tried to bury me, abandon me, divorce me, and now you’re suggesting I work like a common laborer.”
” Can you at least cook?”
“Cook!” She glanced toward the shore, where the cook heaved a huge copper cauldron on his shoulders. “It wouldn’t take much imagination. We’ve been eating sagamite since we left Montreal, and the venison your cook flavors it with is getting as tough as leather.”
“Sorry, wife, but we left the royal chef in Paris.”
“It seems you left your wits in Paris, too, my husband, if you can’t think of anything else to do with a wife but put her to work over a cauldron.”
He thrust her case at her. “Here are the fripperies you insisted on taking with you. I warned you you’d have to carry them. They should feel like a hundred pounds in a few hours.”
“You’ll thank me for these fripperies when we reach that chewywagon place.” She gripped the handle of her case, battered and wet, and nodded to the men upon the shore. “Maybe you should ask them what they would do if they had a French wife—Oh!”
“They would drag you into the bushes and roll you in the mud whenever the urge struck them.” He swung her about to face him. “They would paw you like an animal in public. Is that what you want?”
Genevieve tilted her chin. She’d gone too far. She was supposed to act like an innocent, fainting young lady, when the truth was that since last night, part of her could think of little else but laying with this man when a woman like Marie Duplessis should dread it as a despicable duty.
“Jesus! Didn’t the nuns at that charity house teach you anything?” His fingers tightened on her arm. “When a man makes a proposition like that, you’re supposed to strike him or, at the very least, look at him in horror.”
“I was under the impression that we were married, and such behavior was acceptable.”
“Acceptable!?”
“If I can’t believe my husband when it comes to such matters, whom can I believe?”
“You can’t possibly be that innocent.”
Genevieve tried to blush but knew she failed miserably. She looked away in a manner that she hoped was demure and shy.
Andre groaned and released her abruptly. “Christ! The ultimate innocence. Absolute trust in a husband.”
She blinked, feigning surprise, sensing a crack in his armor. “Are you suggesting that what you said was improper?”
“No.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Not exactly.”
“Then it’s my duty to ‘roll with you in the mud,’ no matter how messy it sounds.” The devil whispered in her ear and she gave him voice. She leaned toward him. “There must be a dozen bushes along this portage. If it’s your wish—”
“There’ll be no bushes for us, Genevieve.” Andre stepped back. A muscle flexed in his cheek. “You’re making it very difficult for me to consider your welfare.”
“I’m trying to honor my vows. Except for some scratches and bruises from twigs and roots, I can’t imagine it could be unhealthy—”
“It’s going to be a long voyage. Save your strength for survival, not seduction.”
She let her gaze drop to the stretch of glistening golden chest revealed by the V of his shirt. “Seduction doesn’t seem to take much effort.”
“Survival will,” he growled. He gestured to the edge of the clearing, where some of the men, already bent forward under the weight of packets and kegs, headed up a small path into the forest. “You’ll need to follow those men. If some of my men catch up to you, let them pass. Wait wherever they pile the merchandise. We’ll have to do several runs before we get it all to the end of the portage. And don’t veer off the path. We won’t have time to search for you later.”
She couldn’t resist. “I promise I won’t be hiding in any bushes.”
He dragged her close and spoke in her ear. “Don’t tempt me, woman. It would be dangerous for you to become pregnant before we reach Chequamegon Bay.”
Her smile dimmed. Genevieve knew there were ways for a man to prevent a woman from having a child, ways any man would know, certainly one as virile as Andre. She nearly opened her mouth and told him her thoughts, but stopped herself in time, for Marie Duplessis would never know such things. Instead, she shrugged and hefted the case more firmly in her hand. “My mother always told me babies were found beneath bushes. Now I know what she meant.”
Chapter 6
A rivulet of sweat ran down Andre’s temple, soaking the leather strap attached to his harness and pulled tight across his forehead. His thighs flexed as he climbed a steep grade, straining from the weight of the load against his hips. It felt good to stretch those muscles after spending the morning pulling the canoe through the frigid rapids. A cool breeze filtered down through the scarlet leaves of a maple tree, chilling the perspiration on his face and chest and soaking the back of his shirt.
Andre strode through the woods, brushing away saplings, crackling roots, and leaves beneath his moccasins. He filled his lungs with clean mountain air, savoring the weight of the load on his back, the wavering heat of the sun on his head, and the pounding of his heart in his chest. He listened to the forest, full of the music of birds, the crunch of dead wood, the lazy buzz of what remained of the late summer insects. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the labored breathing and the shuffling gait of the canoeman some distance behind him, and it pleased him that his years in the deafening French cities hadn’t dulled his senses.
He glanced at the furrowed rinds of the pines, judging the direction in which he walked by the growth of the moss on the tree trunks. He scanned the deep, green forest floor, judging the time of day by the length of the shadows. Andre felt the bite of mist on his skin and knew that if he hacked his way through the dense growth on the right, he would soon reach the cliff that overlooked the waterfall. He scanned the ground and saw the footsteps of each of his men imprinted in the dirt and scraped upon the rocks. Then, as he reached muddy ground, he found what he had been trailing for hours—the footsteps of the woman who had propositioned him twice in twenty-four hours, the woman whose kiss he couldn’t get out of his mind.
He smiled grimly as he examined the imprints. Normally, the impression of her right foot sunk deeper than that of her left, because she carried her case in her right hand. Periodically, the pattern would switch, as if she was holding the case in her left hand. The pattern had switched three times in the last fifty paces. His stubborn, seductive wife was getting tired.
Good. He shifted the weight on his sweat-soaked back and heaved himself upon a ledge. His men had stared at him in horror after he sent her off into the woods carrying her own baggage; several of them had even offered to take her load upon their backs, but he had refused. He knew what he was doing.
A few days on the journey, and the temptation itched at him. Sacre! What man could resist a woman who propositioned him like a courtesan, then, when he kissed her, melted into a passionate innocent in his arms? It wasn’t in his nature to say no. Damned auburn-
haired, sharp-tongued beauty. To sleep with her was to consummate a marriage he didn’t want and he wouldn’t have. The sooner she became exhausted, the sooner she would cry to return to the settlements, and the sooner he would be rid of her and the temptation.
A dead tree trunk lay across the path; he paused ;is he reached it. A carpet of lichen undulated over the log, devouring the decaying wood. Andre eased down, the weight on his back straining his knees, and touched the splintered end of a branch that stuck upright from the trunk. On the ground beyond the fallen log was a deep gulch and, farther, two sets of evenly paced footprints.
He frowned and climbed over the log. Andre heard the voices long before he reached the height of the hill, he knew who they belonged to before he saw Genevieve and Julien standing in the sunshine, huddled far too close together.
“The landing is at the bottom of the hill, pork-eater.”
The two of them jumped apart as he strode into the clearing. Julien’s face reddened beneath the edge of the copper pot he wore on his head. Andre’s gaze paused on Genevieve, on the dirt streaking her pink skirts and caked in a lock of her hair. “Having some trouble, ma mie?”
She wiped the grit off her cheek. “Nothing a good scrubbing in the river won’t fix.”
“So you’ve finally discovered that the path isn’t made for a lady’s boot.”
She plopped her hands on her hips—damned saucy hips, they were. “Don’t fear, husband. I’ll survive one little tumble in the mud.”
Heaven in His Arms Page 11