Heaven in His Arms

by Lisa Ann Verge

  Genevieve dropped her case on the ground and sank down wearily upon it. She knew she should go wash herself and comb the debris from her hair while the men toiled, for she wouldn’t get her dinner until Andre was free, but right now the only thing she could think of was eating. It seemed like days since her last hearty meal, though she had eaten her fill of cornmeal this morning. She worked, instead, on brushing the cakes of dirt from the ragged hem of her skirts.

  Andre tossed his pack by her side, sending up a fresh spray of mud in the process. She frowned at him and wiped the splattered dirt off her cheek. His grin widened as he hunkered down next to her, looking at ease in his buckskin and fringe, as if the campsite were his own kitchen. He shoved a steaming pewter bowl into her hands. “Dinner.”

  She peered into the grainy, yellowish mixture. “Sagamite again?” She watched him spoon the gruel into his mouth. “Can’t your cook fix anything else?”

  “Get used to it. We’ll be eating it clear through to Lake Superior, if the supplies last.”

  “Well I hope it all falls into the river and gets carried all the way to the sea.”

  “You shouldn’t.” He cocked a brow at her, his mouth full. “Then we’ll be living on tripe de roche.”

  “Anything is better than this.” Tripe de roche is moss scraped off of rocks, flavored with whatever juicy caterpillars happen to be upon it.”

  Her stomach twisted. She whirled her wooden spoon in the cornmeal mixture. “Has your cook at least added some fresh meat instead of that leather he claims is leftover venison?”

  Andre laughed and shook his head, his sun-washed hair shining in the sunset. “This isn’t Paris, my wife.”

  “I noticed.” She gestured to the boughs above her with a twirl of her spoon. “Who has hunting privileges in this land?”

  He squinted into the stripes of sunset pouring through the trees, bathing him in a golden glow. He shrugged and turned his attention to his meal. “No one. Everyone. The land is free to all of us.”

  “Then let’s hunt!”

  He chewed around his words. “Sorry, princess, but we left the royal huntsmen in Montreal.”

  “It wouldn’t take huntsmen to find fresh meat.” She leaned toward him. “I’ve tripped over a dozen hares in the past few days. And the geese! They make enough noise to wake the dead. Yesterday I came so close to a doe that I nearly petted her.”

  “Hunting takes time.”

  “Why the haste, anyway?” She ate a spoonful of her sagamite, grimacing at the far-too-familiar gritty taste. “It’s only September, and Julien told me it’s a four-or five-week trip.”

  “That pork-eater you’ve grown so fond of has never taken a trip into the wilderness. He has no idea how long it will take.”

  “Somebody told him four or five weeks.”

  “It’ll be four or five weeks if we paddle hard. If the weather doesn’t turn. If the Iroquois stick to their treaty. If you don’t slow us down. If we have no accidents …”

  “Still, how much time could we waste hunting? An hour or two a day?”

  “An hour or two tracking and killing a beast large enough to feed all these men, hours more to skin it and quarter it and roast it over an open fire. We don’t have that kind of time. The men know it, too. We’ll have plenty of time to fatten up when we get to Chequamegon Bay, but winter comes early in Canada. Early and hard.”

  Genevieve ate another warm spoonful and glanced around the clearing. A few hardwoods stood among the pines, gold in their autumnal glory. Birds still chirped high in the boughs. The sky was clear and the air warm, and winter seemed far, far away. “Mmm,” she mused, swallowing, “I can just smell the snow on the wind.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. If we make it to All Saint’s Day without a snowfall, we will consider ourselves blessed.”

  “We’ll starve first.” She glanced over to where Tiny leaned back on a rock, puffing his pipe into full smoke. His leather shirt collapsed in folds where, only a few days ago, it had been stretched tight over his belly. “Even Tiny’s bulk is wasting away.”

  “He was as big as a horse when we left Montreal, bloated from too much brandy and too many aniseed cakes.” His pale almond gaze slipped intimately over her torn and stained dress. “You don’t seem to be suffering from the steady diet.”

  She shifted her weight and felt the looseness of her bodice around her waist. “Ah, what a wonderful thing a boned bodice is.”

  “The sagamite must have sharpened your tongue.”

  “You can dull it with a piece of fresh meat.”

  “We’ll have more fresh meat than we can eat when we reach Chequamegon Bay.”

  “We’ll all be nothing but skin and bones by then.”

  Andre leaned over and snatched the empty bowl from her. He smiled, only inches from her face, his eyes gleaming like a pale, tannic pool. “Don’t worry, ma mie. I won’t let you starve.”

  She frowned as he stood up and walked back to the pot of sagamite. The men squatted around the steaming cauldron, eating from their bowls with concentration, their wooden spoons flashing briefly before disappearing into their mouths. Genevieve knew Andre and all the other men were hungry for meat, too, and she suspected that he was acting like this just out of pique.

  She never should have told him what Julien and Wapishka had divulged to her three days ago. Since that day, he had intentionally done everything to prove to her that her instincts were wrong. He warned her not to slow them down every time he crossed her path. He teased her unmercifully when she lounged around in the predawn light while his men raced each other to see which team would be the first to fill the canoes. He grinned like Lucifer whenever she reached the end of a portage, her face and arms itchy and red from insect bites, her clothes covered with soil, snagged and torn in spots where the skirts had caught upon branches, her hair tugged out of its chignon. He acted as if he had no mercy, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps he didn’t.

  Genevieve rose from her seat, wincing as she put all her weight on her battered feet. She swept up her case and turned toward the woods, judging by the emergence of several men from the towering pines which was the best direction to head for her toilette. She wandered into the dim quiet of the clustered trees, humming one of the voyageurs’ songs, until she heard the splash of a stream. Finding it winding over a tumble of stones, she placed her case upon a waist-high boulder near the edge of the creek and dipped her hands into the clear, cold water. She arched her neck and ran her wet hands over her skin, pushing the loose tendrils of her hair out of her face. “Don’t move.”

  She started as she heard Andre’s whisper, only a few steps behind her. Genevieve whirled around and glared at him as he approached, as silent as a spirit.

  “Why …”

  He clamped his hand over her mouth. His pistol was drawn and cocked, and he was staring at something to her right. He motioned for her to be silent, then released her mouth and pushed her behind him with one arm.

  She followed the direction of his gaze, seeing nothing but a few branches by the creek swaying in the wind, six or seven paces away. She frowned and glared at him, willing him to turn around, but his attention was on the crackling underbrush.

  Genevieve planted her hands on her hips and whispered, “Why did you follow me here?”

  He reached back and pulled her tight against his body, until her cheek was crushed flat between his shoulder blades. He turned his head but not his eyes. “You have a bad habit of bumbling blindly into the forest.”

  Her voice was muffled against his shirt. “I know exactly where I am.”

  “You surprised two men from a very comfortable squat in the bushes during your walk to this creek. Did you know that?”

  She frowned against the warmth of his deerskin shirt.

  “I didn’t think so. With all your humming and stumbling and breaking branches and making tracks, I’m surprised you didn’t alert everything within miles of our presence here.”

  “At least I don’t snea
k around behind other people’s backs.” She tried to push her hair off her forehead. “I’m your wife. You don’t have to hide in the bushes and watch while I bathe.”

  “I wouldn’t. Someone else might.” He nodded toward the swaying bushes. “We’ve got company.”

  Brushing the deerskin fringe out of her eyes, she peered around one taut bicep toward the underbrush. After watching for a few minutes, Genevieve realized that the movement was too erratic to be caused by the wind, but it was subtle enough for her to wonder how he had noticed it. By the way he was gripping the handle of his pistol, by the tenseness of his muscles against her cheek, he obviously thought the unexpected visitor was dangerous.

  She stood on her toes to be closer to his ear, holding on to his sleeves for balance. “Is it an Iroquois?”

  “If it were an Iroquois,” he whispered, “we’d both have arrows through our hearts.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “If you keep still and be quiet, it might be that fresh meat you’ve been craving.”

  She bit her lip and stood as still as she could, waiting for the creature to emerge from the bushes. She had seen lots of strange-looking wildlife over the past few days. Enormous stags with antlers like giant hands, fingers spread and palms cupped, facing heavenward. Prickly rodents the men called porcupine. Though she hadn’t yet seen any, the voyageurs told stories of big, black bears with toothy jaws, of sleek, swift wildcats with sharp claws, of packs of wolves running wild in the forests.

  She tightened her grip on his arms, pressing closer to his warmth, to the well-muscled curve of his back. The blue twilight gleamed off the resinous, knotty trunks of the pines, silvering the bark. The branches waved wildly. Whatever the creature was, it didn’t seem disturbed by their presence.

  Andre raised his pistol slowly as the beast waddled out of the underbrush.

  Chapter 7

  Genevieve suppressed a smile and pressed her cheek against Andre’s arm. The beast they had waited for with such anticipation was black and furry and as big as a lapdog. A pair of long white stripes ran along its back. It waddled to the edge of the stream, oblivious of their presence, nuzzling the ground with its black snout and then lifting it to the wind.

  She released Andre and grinned into his eyes. “Is this one of the wild animals of the forest I should fear?”

  He flashed her a look, then shoved his pistol into his sash. “You’re lucky it isn’t a wolf or a bear.”

  “The most savage thing I’ve encountered in these woods is you, and we both know just how savage you are.”

  “Do you?” His gaze, as deep and potent as rum, slipped over her body, over her loosened headrail, over her bedraggled appearance. He tilted his head toward the creature, who had noticed their presence and now stood still, sniffing the air and staring in their direction. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I have no idea, but it looks as harmless as a cat.”

  “It’s not running away from us.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his knife. “How do you know it doesn’t eat human flesh to survive?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I suppose next you’re going to be telling me it has piercing fangs and claws like knives.”

  “It might have venom in its teeth or poison on its fur.”

  “If you’re afraid of it, my husband, I’ll scare it away for you.”

  ”Go right ahead.” He grinned and crossed his arms. “I dare you.”

  She blinked in mild surprise. He was taunting her, as if she really feared this furry little animal, as if the creature could really do her harm. Genevieve glanced at it. She had never seen anything like it in France, but she could tell it was stiff and frightened. She was sure it would race away as soon as she approached. Unless he was telling the truth …

  What rot. She frowned, angry at herself for letting him plant a grain of doubt in her mind. This beast was nothing but an oversized rodent. Her husband was taunting her, testing her courage, and she’d been in enough gambling halls to know a bluff when she saw one. Tossing her head, she strode toward the creature and waved her arms at it.

  “Get away, little furball, before my husband faints of fear.” Startled, the creature turned its back and raised its tail. She raced toward it, stamping her feet loudly on the ground, then laughed and pointed at it. “Look, Andre! Look at your maneater now… . Oh!”

  An odor, more rank than anything she had ever smelled, exploded into the air. She covered her face with her hand and coughed, smothering in the vile, putrid stench, stumbling back, away from the animal who scurried, tail raised, into the bushes. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  His laughter echoed in the clearing. She turned and glared at him through the stinging eyes, and saw him bent double in mirth, his hand pressed against his belly.

  “You’ve just met your first putois d’Amerique.” His teeth gleamed. “The skunk has a unique way of warding off predators, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You wretch!” She looked down and saw wet spots upon her skirts. Her eyes teared from the odor and her nostrils burned. “That creature shot poison at me.”

  “It’s not poison, it’s only scent.” He covered his nose and mouth with his hand as she shook her stench-ridden skirts, trying to disperse the odor. “Now you know that something small and furry can still be dangerous.”

  “And something that’s not so small can be as wicked as Lucifer!”

  “You offered to scare it away.”

  “You dared me when you should have warned me!”

  “If you were the kind of woman to listen to warnings, you wouldn’t be on this journey with me now.”

  Genevieve stalked to the edge of the creek and dropped to her knees, lifting palmfuls of water to her skirts in a vain attempt to wash herself free of the stench. She should have known he would play a trick on her; she should have expected his treachery. A thousand vile curses rolled in her head and surged in her throat, most of them concerning his birth, his health, and the size and capabilities of certain parts of his anatomy. It took all her will to silently pour the frigid water over her lap and pretend to be a lady, when she wanted to curse him to the bowels of hell.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “It’ll take days before the scent wears off, no matter how well you wash.”

  “You miserable wretch.” She glared at him over her shoulder as water dripped from her chin. “You’re nothing but a mangy cur —”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “There are names for men like you.” Whoreson. Pox-ridden, thieving spawn of a babbling idiot. Her chest heaved with the effort not to wish upon him the French disease or sundry other painful, embarrassing conditions that would affect the most sensitive organ of a man’s body. Marie Duplessis would know nothing of them. Damn it, had she ever really been as innocent as Marie Duplessis? Had there ever been a time of innocence?

  “I should go chase after that thing.” she argued and throw it o you.”

  “I doubt it has any scent left after that shot.” Andre coughed as she stood up from the edge of the creek and the wind blew in his direction. “Dieu! I’ve never known anyone to get hit so badly. You smell like burning flesh.”

  Her teary eyes narrowed. His face was red from trying not to breathe in too much of the stink. She stopped thinking. She reacted like Genevieve and threw all vestiges of ladylike behavior to the winds.

  His laughter stopped abruptly as he saw her racing toward him, her auburn hair fiery, her eyes blazing green. He straightened and fled into the woods.

  “Afraid of a little stench, Andre?”

  “A little stench?” His laughter returned as he eluded her, running deeper into the woods. “You smell like the gaping mouth of hell!”

  “A scent you will soon be very familiar with.”

  Andre laughed, crashing through the underbrush, and she followed in hot pursuit. He swung around pines to divert her, raising clods of mud in his wake, recklessly snapping branches and holding saplings so they would whip back and impede her progre
ss. He headed into the thickest growth of bushes where, in her blind, headlong rush after him, her skirts tore and caught upon the thorns, slowing her down. She stumbled and cursed, not caring that the hanging branches pulled at the pins in her hair, sending them flying all over the forest, making her tresses tumble in knotted locks down her back. She didn’t care that she was hiking her skirts well above her knees, that branches and twigs and saplings were pulling on the delicate wool of her stockings. His taunting laughter floated back to her, and she swore before the night was over, she’d rub her stench-ridden skirts all over his body so he, too, would pay the price of her foolishness.

  The men, attracted by the sound of them crashing through the forest, wandered in through the trees to see what was about. Andre knocked Julien over as he rushed by, and Genevieve pushed him away as she followed. The sun had nearly set, making it more difficult to see in the shadows of the woods. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and figure out which of the silhouettes she saw through the trees was Andre.

  “You wretched coward.” Genevieve hiked her hands to her hips, coughing as she took a deep breath and the stench burned all the way to the bottom of her lungs. “Your men are here now; do you want them to see you running away from a woman?”

  A voice came from behind her. “They’ll get one whiff of you, my wife, and they’ll run, too.”

  She whirled in the litter, racing after him, keeping her gaze fixed on the fluttering fringe of his shirt, the bare skin of his thighs. The voyageurs laughed and clapped, urging her on as they watched from the periphery, their silhouettes stark against the orange-red fires of the campsite. Her feet swelled unbearably in her tight boots, but she ignored the pain. He was too swift for her, too sly and clever, and she knew he was taunting her, coming close but never close enough for her to do more than scrape the deerskin of his shirt with her nails. Once he teased her by trapping himself in a copse of pines, then slipping between the close trunks when she raced in for the kill. Just when she thought her lungs would burst from the exertion, fate intervened in the form of a tall, blond-bearded giant.