Heaven in His Arms

by Lisa Ann Verge

  Andre admitted, in some deep part of himself, that he didn’t know whether he was running the rapids to frighten her … or to seduce her.

  “Ride the rapids with me.”

  Her pupils widened, darkening her eyes, and he knew with a rush of heat that she wanted him, too.

  “It won’t be a gentle ride,” he barked. “It’ll be rough and dangerous—”

  “With you, I suspect it always is.”

  “Say yes.”

  The tension stretched between them, sweet and hot. A pulse throbbed in her throat; her lower lip swelled. A flush crept over the creamy skin of her breasts. He no longer knew whether he was talking about the rapids or talking about making love to her. He just wanted her to say yes, to come to him willingly, to submit, to surrender.

  “Yes.”

  Andre didn’t give her time to change her mind. He swept her up in his arms. Her rounded hip brushed against his abdomen. The softness of her breasts crushed against his chest. She was so small, so fragile, this tough little bird, and she had said yes. He splashed out into the water, splaying his hands over her thighs and back, staring at her lips as if they were food and he were a starving man. If there weren’t two dozen men watching them from the shore, he’d wrestle her to the bottom of the canoe and have his way with her, right now, right here, kiss her until she lay naked and eager and willing in his arms.

  The canoe rocked wildly as he released her in the center, among the cedar ribs. Nodding to The Duke, who stood at the bow, the two of them tumbled over the gunwale. Without the weight of the merchandise to equilibrate the vessel, it wobbled wildly with every move, and with Genevieve struggling to a sitting position, it took all of Andre’s skill to keep the vessel upright as he and The Duke steered it into the current

  There was no more time for thought. Just beyond the landing point the river funneled into a steep-walled canyon and the drop for the rapids began. Andre dug his paddle into the water and felt the ferocity of the current tugging at the red-painted end. The run would be short and tight, and it required his full attention to avoid the danger of the rebounding waves and the tips of rocks that just barely jutted from the surface of the water. At the end of it, he would send The Duke away and he would be alone with her.

  He would melt the ice princess; he would make her ask for it, and then there’d be no guilt.

  The Duke called out a terse warning as the canoe slipped down the first drop, gliding on a rush of current, splitting the lacy white spray and flinging it aside. Flung against one side of the canoe, Genevieve quickly righted herself. Above the roar of the water, Andre heard the yells of encouragement filter down from the edge of the gorge as some of the voyageurs who had already begun the portage watched the progress of the canoe from above. The painted prow dipped beneath a wave and then shot up again, splashing frigid spray over The Duke’s naked chest and soaking Genevieve in her seat in the middle of the vessel. The rumble grew louder as the ravine narrowed and all sound reverberated off the pinkish granite walls.

  For a few yards, they rode a high ridge of water, formed by the velocity of the current between two large rocks. Beyond, the river swirled and scoured the granite walls with the force of its passage. Andre rose from his crouch in order to read the river, which had turned into a long swath of turbulent white foam. The vessel slid with gathering speed down slick tongues of current. He dug his paddle into the current, stroking one side of the canoe or the other to veer the bow away from ragged crests of lacy spray that hid boulders and ridges. They reached the ridge that thrust out from the right wall of the ravine, and he and The Duke struggled against the force of the current to veer the canoe far to the left. His thighs burned with the strain and his arms ached from fighting the elements, but he barely noticed the pain as the canoe glided past the dangers, the prow dipped into a standing wave, and a wall of frigid water battered over the bow. Andre shook his head, flinging droplets of water around him.

  The run wasn’t over. The roar of the upcoming cascade filled the ravine. The canoe careened around a bend and then he saw Recollet Falls, a long sheet of white foam plunging from the height of the gorge into a vortex at its foot, in the middle of the river. The canoe soared down, closer to the fury of the cascade, and Andre and The Duke put all the musculature of their backs into veering the vessel into the slim path between the mist rising from the crash of the falls and the perpendicular wall that formed the other bank. The fog rose as thick as cream around them, soaking them instantly. The vortex of the falls yanked on his paddle and he battled it, as the canoe edged its way around the thunderous sheet of spray and found its way down the next, and milder, chute.

  He looked down at her. She had her back to him and was kneeling in the canoe. The whole run had taken less than a dozen heartbeats, but they must have fallen ten meters in less than fifty of length. Genevieve turned around to look up at him, her cheeks scoured red from the cold air, her breath misting through her lips. Her bosom heaved above the constriction of her boned bodice. Drops of water sparkled in her hair, but nothing could match the brilliance of her eyes or the blinding light of her smile as she laughed, the music of the sound blending with the roar of the waterfall.

  And for a moment, nothing existed but him and Genevieve. Not the pounding of the cascade, not the aches and strain of his muscles as he fought the rushing water, not the wind in his hair or the icy water dripping off his chin, not the thick mist clogging his breath. She looked as if she had just been made love to, fiercely and thoroughly, as if he had just made love to her, and he wanted her with a sort of blind violence. Every sinew, every bone, every muscle, ached with urgency for her. He needed her. He needed to plunge his sex into her soft, tight body… to hold her hips flat against him … to feel her energy throbbing around him like the power and fury of the rapids … to spill his seed into her … to conquer her as he had just conquered the white water.

  Amid the muddle of his lust a thought came to him, hazy but sure—Genny, Genny, Genny. She was as unpredictable and as stubborn as this great stretch of untamed land—full of mystery, full of secrets, constant only in that she was ever-changing. A man could wrestle to master her and conquer her, but it would never be more than a veneer, for the wildness inside her could never be fully tamed. A man could spend a lifetime exploring her, understanding her, living with her, making love to her, and it would be like riding these rapids—wild, exhilarating, bordering on the brink of control.

  He saw the passion in her eyes, too, as her smile faded and she continued to stare, the water flowing from her face over her long white neck, to slip between her breasts and spread a wet stain in her cleavage. Mouthing his name, Genevieve rose to her knees and moved toward him, stumbling as the canoe wobbled with the unexpected motion. It wasn’t until he heard The Duke cry out something that Andre knew he had taken his attention away from the river too long.

  The canoe keeled as it slid down an unexpected high ridge of water. Off balance, Andre thrust his paddle deep into the river to try to regain control. Knocked to one side, Genevieve fell against the gunwale. The canoe tipped from the uneven distribution of weight. She cried out and clutched the gunwale, but the force was too strong. Suddenly, her skirts were in the air, like the opening petals of a flower, and then she was sucked beneath the surface of the water.

  “No!”

  The vessel rolled in the other direction and his feet lifted from the ribs of the canoe. Andre felt weightless for a moment, suspended in the air, and then the cold river clutched him.

  The water gurgled around his ears, gorged his nostrils, and flushed past his ears, creating a painful vacuum. The warring currents yanked him downstream, deeper into the river. Andre extended his legs and flattened his feet to rake the rocky riverbed, searching for footing as needles of rock sliced his moccasins and tore the callused skin of his feet. Gasping, he swam up from the icy chill, filling his lungs with air, coughing out the river. He jammed his toe into one hold and lost it, then found another as the current thrust him towar
d a smooth rock jutting above the surface. He winced as he slammed into the stone, but before the current could whoosh him around it, he grasped the slimy skin and dug his fingers into the grain. Lodging his feet in the cracks beneath the surface of the water, his thighs bulging, Andre fought against the pounding of the river.

  He climbed onto the stone. His ribs ached where he had been pushed against the boulder. The canoe suddenly rushed past him and knocked against a rock downstream. The craggy boulder sliced through the bark hull like a knife through soft butter. He saw The Duke’s dark head as the Indian clung to the stern of the vessel and, somehow, found a foothold in the riverbed.

  Andre peered through the dripping curtain of his hair, desperately looking for Genevieve. A log whooshed by, bobbing high on the current, crashing in a spectacle of wet splinters a dozen meters downstream. He searched the rocky shore for a glimpse of her faded pink skirts, for the sight of her auburn hair. The deep gorge had widened and there were places along the shore where she could hold on. If she could hold on. If she could keep her head above water in the rush of the rapids. If the river hadn’t thrust her against one of its embedded rocks and knocked her unconscious.

  He yelled her name, but his voice was lost in the tumult. There was no sight of her. No sound. His heart pounded in his chest. He slid down the opposite edge of the boulder, submerging himself in the eddy behind the stone. The current swept on either side of him, encasing him in a triangle of whirling water. He balled himself up and thrust his body into the current. It assaulted him and shoved him downstream. The water was chest-deep and swift, and Andre struggled to keep his head above the river, struggled to slow his forward motion by planting his feet firmly against the gritty riverbed. He searched the shore, the treacherous scattering of jagged rocks, desperately seeking a scrap of pink petticoat, a length of copper-colored hair. A sudden drop in the riverbed forced him below the surface and he struggled against the undertow, only to be spit up like a bobbing piece of wood a few meters downstream. He lost control. Ahead, he saw a treacherous scattering of boulders funneling the river into a dozen different arteries. He could not avoid them. Andre braced himself for a knocking, but instead a crosscurrent whirled past a verdant outcropping of the bank and thrust him into the sudden shelter of a swirling cove.

  His knees scraped against the pebbly bottom, and the deerskin and the flesh tore. He shook his head to dislodge the water clogging his ears, dragging himself unsteadily to his feet. The eddying current pulled weakly at his knees as he scanned the cove, searching for her. His breath came fast and deep. A pile of flotsam lay on the pebbly shore, thrust there by the same current that pulled him into this small bay.

  Oh, God, Genevieve.

  Andre stumbled through the water toward the other tip of the crescent-shaped cove. His heart thudded against the walls of his ribs. He reached for the rough, thin trunk of a jack pine, pulling himself out of the cove and onto the sheer edge of the bank. Digging his fingernails into the lichen, he clambered up over the bare rocks. His breath burned in his lungs. A hundred disjointed thoughts flooded his mind. He remembered Genevieve vividly, laughing with him on the floor of the forest, her hair the color of aged claret in the last light of day, her eyes sparkling with life, her clothes stinking of skunk. Genevieve, a daughter of the petite noblesse, slogging through the woods with the intrepidness and courage of any coureur de bois, looking regal and seductive nonetheless in her torn, mud-stained skirts, her cheek livid with scratches. Genevieve, lying huddled beneath her blanket in the twilight, bantering with the voyageurs as they sucked on their pipes and bragged about their adventures by the campfires.

  Oh, God, Genevieve. Genny.

  He had been a fool, distracting himself with thoughts of her when he should only have been thinking of the danger. He knew the rapids were treacherous and unpredictable, that the water level could cause dangerous funnels that disappeared when the river rose. He’d dragged her with him because they would frighten her, hoping to scare the living wits out of the wench so she would cry Enough! Enough! and he could be rid of her. He could say Yes, yes, she’s like all the others, then send her away from him before he let himself do something he’d sworn he’d never do. Christ, he should have stifled his own lusts for a time when he could get Genevieve alone, someplace safe, and instead he might have killed her … killed her… more blood on his hands … more blood on his hands.

  Genny’s blood on his hands.

  Then he heard the cry. A weak wail, like the meow of a kitten, and it was swallowed up almost immediately by the rumble of the rapids. Andre yanked himself to the top of the boulder and stumbled to his feet. He raced to the edge of the outcropping and searched below, where a motley collection of timber and leaves and debris had gathered, forming a dam between the bank and a rounded boulder a few meters away from the shore. He heard the cry again, and then he saw a bit of faded pink among the foam.

  Andre scrambled recklessly down the outcropping, slipping on the slimy moss, shifting a spray of pebbles into the water, clawing the stone with his free hand as he bumped his way toward the water. A fallen log had lodged with one end against a boulder on the bank and the other against a boulder in the water, and among the shattered branches bobbed Genevieve, her skirts tangled in the tree. The current pounded her against the log, battering her back incessantly.

  “Genevieve!”

  She opened her mouth to speak but coughed instead as the water pounded her. Her hair lay in dark tendrils all over her face. She slipped below the surface for a moment, her skirts tugging on the branches, but she struggled up again and clutched the trunk with both arms.

  Andre splashed into the water, heedless of the stinging of the icy liquid on his raw knees and thighs. The log was unstable, likely to be dislodged at any moment. The current here was fierce. He clutched the trunk for support as he worked his way toward her. She watched him, her eyes wide with fear. Bits of wood—twigs and splinters—dug into his bare side, propelled there like needles by the force of the rapids. The riverbed dropped suddenly and he struggled to regain his balance. The water rose to his chest, but Genevieve was only an arm’s length away.

  He held out his hand and she reached for it. Grasped it. Tiny frozen fingers in his hand. He yanked her toward him, but her skirts were tangled in the log’s branches. Heedlessly, he ripped the worn material from the netting of branches with his bare hands, leaving bits of cloth and thread hanging from the ends. Her skirts fell into the water and were swiftly sucked beneath, pulling her with them. Genevieve gasped and her grip slipped on the trunk, but he pulled her toward him until their bodies slapped together.

  Her cheek was as cold as ice against his neck. Her body bucked with the force of a cough. He closed his eyes and smelled the scent of her, rising from the warmth still trapped in her hair. The current pulled heavily on her skirts and yanked on his legs.

  “Hold tight.”

  He headed back toward the shore, each step careful, the bundle held tight in his arms. Something banged against the log, dislodging it from the shore. It shot past them as they climbed out of the water, disappearing beyond the outcropping. He fell to his knees on the rock, dragging Genevieve up with him.

  Andre held her while she coughed the last of the river from her lungs, hacking until he knew her throat was sore and raw. He ran his hands over her body, warming her, searching for injury. She was as skinny as a wet kitten. The remnants of her skirts clung to her legs, and her leggings sagged over one foot. She’d lost her moccasins in the rapids and her right foot protruded, bare and unprotected, but nothing seemed broken. He boldly felt the swell of her breasts, felt her heart beating rapidly beneath her bosom, then he dragged her hips closer and lay atop her, his body sheltering her from the cold air, his loins pressed into hers, where they belonged.

  Where they belonged.

  He framed her face in his hands. She trembled like a wild thing, her lips tinged purple from the cold. Her skin was so pale and translucent that he could see the bluish veins beneat
h the surface of her cheeks, and her freckles stood out like flecks of cinnamon. A gritty streak of mud stained her forehead and a dozen welts seared her skin where she had been struck by debris. He knew he should just hold her, for she was weak and exhausted, hurt and dangerously cold, but those damned eyes, those damned bruised, frightened, grateful eyes …

  Her lips were as cold as ice, but the inside of her mouth was not—it was warm and fragrant and soft and welcoming, and he tasted the sweet, crystal purity of the mountain water on her tongue. This was Genevieve, his wife, spit back at him from the hell into which he’d sent her. The fierce wanting gripped him. He kissed the one woman on earth he had forbidden himself to touch.

  Her heart pounded loudly against him. He pressed a hand against her chest, against the sound, feeling the proof of her survival vibrate against his fingers. Beneath her shivering skin he felt the coursing of her blood, the trembling of muscle, the rush of air in and out of her lungs. Genevieve broke free to catch her breath. He tasted the sweet river water running in rivulets over her temples, dripping from the soft lobe of her right ear, dampening the heat of her long neck, pooling in the fragrant hollow of her throat.

  Her chest filled and collapsed with every deep, ragged breath. Andre rolled her nipple, as hard as a pearl, against his palm. He looked up into her eyes … eyes that had brightened to the color of sunlight falling on a shaded forest pool. Relief poured through him, mingling with passion, with that blind, reckless yearning… She’s alive, alive, alive ….

  “I knew … you would find me.” Her voice was husky and raw. “I knew … you wouldn’t … let me die.”

  And suddenly he realized that his breechcloth was full with passion, that he was seducing her here, on the banks of the river, when he had just pulled her from the maelstrom of the white water. What the hell was he doing? What the hell was she turning him into, this red-haired chit of a girl? She was hurt, she was frozen, and he could think of nothing else but laying with her.