Heaven in His Arms

by Lisa Ann Verge

  Andre gathered her limp form in his arms and rose to his feet, guilt stabbing through him. How had she crawled so deep under his skin? Why did he push her and push her, test her over and over, though he knew—damn it, he knew she could survive anything she faced? Now he’d pushed her over the edge of a canoe into some of the most vicious white water he’d ever run. In some black part of his heart, did he want her dead? Was he destined to murder every wife he had?

  No. He gripped her tightly, feeling the contours of her wet body press against him. He was her enemy, yes, her enemy, for she wanted something from him that he would never give. She would never be safe in his presence. He’d wanted her frightened, not dead. He’d wanted her so frightened that she’d run away from him. For he knew, from somewhere deep inside, that he couldn’t let her go.

  He was fighting to protect her from himself. And then he knew the truth.

  The raw emotion roared inside him, primitive and undeniable, an emotion he dared not name.

  Chapter 12

  Genevieve drifted on a warm cloud. She felt as tranquil and comfortable as a well-fed babe swaddled In soft cloth and held against her mother’s breast. Sounds drifted in and out of her consciousness: the voices of the voyageurs as they argued, the wind soughing in the trees, and something flapping, like the billowing sails of a ship. The scents of spicy pine fires and sweet tobacco smoke floated around her. She heard rustling nearby and felt gentle hands massaging the arches of her feet.

  It was this languorous sensation that tempted her from the edges of her slumber. Genevieve blinked her eyes open and examined her surroundings. She was inside a tent, a tent whose sides collapsed and extended with the battering of the wind. In the corner, a strange collection of round stones radiated feeble waves of heat. A heavy deerskin blanket smothered her from the chin down. She pushed the soft, smoke-ripened leather away from her face and peered around the rest of the tent.

  “Awake, Taouistaouisse?”

  She saw his eyes first, gold and intense. He sat just inside the entrance to the tent, cross-legged, wrapped in a woolen blanket. Beneath the blanket his chest was bare. His beaded bag swung against the hollow of his chest as he kneaded her left foot.

  “You’ve been out since yesterday afternoon.” He ran his thumb over the pads of her toes. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep till All Saint’s.”

  The foggy remnants of her languor skittered away as she remembered the terrible sucking of the rapids, the white blindness, the icy rolling, and the feel of the frigid water gorging her lungs. Genevieve sucked in a ragged breath and felt the soreness in her chest. She didn’t dare move, for even lying still, she could feel the aches in her joints, the bruises on her skin, the sting of a hundred scratches.

  His warm hand tightened around her ankle. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed dryly. “Am I?”

  His hand gently traced the bone that ran over the top of her foot to her big toe. “You’re safe now. Nothing’s broken. Your legs and arms are scratched up, and you’ll be blue with bruises for a few days.”

  She carefully wiggled her fingers and tested her limbs, wincing as pain shot through her body.

  “Lie still, little bird.”

  She groaned as she tried to twist, and every muscle and joint screamed in complaint. “I feel like someone has spent the night scraping me against a washing board.”

  “Lie still.”

  His hair fell over his brow as he concentrated on her foot, rubbing the hollow behind her anklebone with his thumb, then digging his fingers gently into her arches. It felt good, the slow, soothing caresses, and she was reluctant to speak anymore, reluctant to distract him from his work, for the warmth of his touch seeped up her leg and eased some of the soreness in her muscles. She watched the way his hair fell over his face, the way his large-boned hands spread over her sole, the way his fingers found all the tense points between her toes and gently pressed them until she closed her eyes, easing into forgetful slumber.

  “It was my fault.”

  Genevieve blinked open her eyes. She looked down at him, confused. His concentration remained on her feet.

  “The rapids below the falls are dangerous.” He put her left foot down and picked up the right, warming her toes in his palm. “But they’re more unpredictable when the water is low. I wasn’t paying attention.” The blanket slipped off his shoulder, showing a long, strong clavicle and a deep hollow behind it. “My mind was on other things.”

  She remembered something, a flash of a memory, powerful and vivid. He stood at the stern of the canoe, soaked from head to toe, the white swath of the falls roaring behind him, his teeth bared in a reckless smile. His deerskin clung to the muscles of his chest and arms like a second skin. His hair was swept back from his face and his eyes were like molten gold upon her.

  “I managed to climb on a rock in the white water after the canoe tipped. I saw The Duke save himself and the canoe, but I couldn’t see you.” His hands curled over her toes. “I swam the rapids myself, and I still couldn’t find you.”

  Genevieve eased herself up on her elbows, watching the intensity of his features as he kneaded her foot.

  She remembered when he had found her, but only vaguely, for it wasn’t long after that that she had fallen into the darkness. She remembered the strength in his arms as he bore her up, the warmth of his chest as he held her tight against him. She remembered feeling safe. She remembered thinking that no man who caressed her like this could hate her, no man who held her with such desperation could wish her harm.

  Strange thoughts. Born out of sentiment, she supposed, or out of the terror of the moment. She dismissed them. “I’m here. What difference—”

  “If I had been a minute later, you’d be at the bottom of the Lake of the Hurons.”

  She shivered, with a cold that came from her heart, not from the chill air around them. For all her struggles in Paris, she’d never come so close to death before, had never felt its breath on her skin.

  She shook off the feeling. “It was an accident.”

  “Do you believe that?” His eyes flickered up at her. “Or do you think I’m trying to send you to the Great Hunting Grounds before your time?”

  She drew in a soft breath. The Great Hunting Grounds was The Duke’s version of Heaven—the place beyond the sea where all departed spirits thrived, living on the souls of the animals they had killed during their lifetimes. She wondered why he’d think she’d suspect him of such a thing .. . and knew the answer even as the thought formed. Rose-Marie.

  Something inside her reached out to him. How long would he torment himself with a past over which he had no control? How long would he look into her face and see the ghost of his dead wife? He must have loved that woman deeply, to hold on to such guilt for so long. The thought brought a new stab of jealousy.

  “What’s this?” She hated herself for the petulance in her voice. “Is the wolf feeling remorse?”

  “You thought I had a scheme. You said as much before we left Montreal. I put you in danger. Intentionally.”

  “You warned me over and over about the dangers of this journey.” Genevieve straightened to a sitting position, ignoring the pain shooting up to her shoulders. “It’s a little late for a case of conscience—”

  She cut herself off, for his hand had tightened over her foot like a vise. She looked down and realized the blankets had fallen to her waist, and she was naked. The pink tips of her breasts tightened into buds beneath his perusal.

  Genevieve clutched the sagging deerskin, then crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I tried to ease my conscience.” His gaze slipped over the deerskin as if nothing covered her body. “When we made camp, I stripped off your clothes and hung them up to dry. I told myself I needed to tend to your cuts and bruises.”

  Her hair fell over her shoulders as she lowered her head. He had stripped her naked. “Indian women joined us at Allumette Island,” she murmured, remembering the small cano
es of the squaws, which had grown in number every day behind the flotilla. “You could have sent one of them to care for me.”

  “I wanted to do it. It was my fault you were so battered.” His hand felt hot on her foot. “You have freckles on your thighs.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “How gentlemanly of you to notice.”

  “I kissed them, Genevieve.” His voice flowed over her like trickles of sand. “I was supposed to be tending your wounds. Instead, I followed the trail up your inner thigh. You moaned in your sleep.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Her thighs quivered like bowstrings. She probably had moaned. She probably had opened her legs wider, inviting him to explore more. For two weeks she had battled to suppress her desire for this man, since the day on Calumet Island, but her body stubbornly refused to listen to the dictates of her mind. Whatever else had happened between them, she could not deny this primitive, uncontrollable passion.

  He leaned closer to her. His hand slipped up, under the covers, to caress the taut muscle of her calf. “You were in danger then, too, Taouistaouisse.”

  “Did … did you . ..”

  “I wanted to.” His fingernails dug into her calf. “I wanted to take you right there, while you lay beneath me. But I didn’t. I want you awake when I make love to you. I want to see your eyes.”

  She could no longer feel the bruises and stinging welts that riddled her body. All she could feel was the hollow ache in her abdomen and his callused hands on the bare skin of her calves. He made no move to caress any higher than the tender hollow behind her knee, though she silently screamed for him to clutch her thighs, to lean forward just a little more and kiss her… . But Genevieve knew though he might be a ruthless, lustful, determined wolf, he had some scruples. He wouldn’t take her unless she allowed him.

  So here she was, in the very position she’d wanted to be in since she set out on this wretched voyage. But everything had changed that day on Calumet Island. She couldn’t give herself to a man who promised her nothing in return but poverty and hardship. By sheer luck, she’d saved that one precious part of her, as the only treasure she truly had, to be given to the man who’d be her husband and protector… . She couldn’t give it to a man who would, without second thought, abandon her in the middle of a forest hill of savages. Not to a man who wouldn’t live up to his vows.

  Even if he did give her blankets and leggings to keep her warm. Even if he did ride the rapids for her comfort, and then hold her in desperation when he pulled her out of the white water.

  She couldn’t give this part of herself to a man who didn’t love her as, God help her, she loved him.

  Her head throbbed. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was too confused to sort this all out, not now, when she had just awoken from her slumber, and his touch was making her weak and trembly. He shouldn’t take advantage of her weakness, but she should expect no less from him.

  “Damn it, Genevieve, you shouldn’t look at a man like that.”

  He slid his hands down to her ankles, settling back with a growl of a sigh. When she opened her eyes, he’d reached between his legs and lifted up two pieces of buff-colored deerskin decorated with dyed porcupine quills.

  “Here,” he said gruffly. “You lost your moccasins in the river. I bought these from one of the squaws.”

  He yanked the whisper-soft material over her foot. She forced her voice not to quiver, not to show how close she’d come to succumbing. “Are we breaking camp?”

  “Not yet.” He slipped the second moccasin on her other foot. “The men spent yesterday afternoon patching the hole in the canoe with birch bark and caulking it watertight. It needs to dry well before it’ll be ready for use. Tomorrow is soon enough to travel.”

  Her brows knitted. She’d been on this voyage long enough to know the rhythm of the campsite. If the canoe wasn’t already watertight, she’d smell the pungent scent of heated spruce gum in the air, or she’d hear the voyageurs working upon it. But all she could hear was good-natured laughter, an occasional outraged shout, and the clatter of dice on stone.

  He was lying to her.

  “I’ll bring you some sagamite. One of the men shot a deer yesterday, so there’s fresh venison.” He yanked the blanket down over her legs. “Your clothes should be dry by tomorrow. I’ll get you some brandy.”

  Genevieve pulled her brows together more. He had jealously guarded their precious, illicit stores of brandy since the first day out of Lachine, when all the men were given a single ceremonial tote of the fiery liquid. He had driven the men onward in the worst of rains, even forcing them out on Lake Nipissing during a storm, and now he was allowing them to take a day off to rest, when their journey was far from over and the air seeping through the ragged edges of the tent was nippy with the threat of winter.

  He’s doing it for me.

  She watched him as he rearranged the heating stones with a stick, wondering if she’d ever understand the man who sliced deep wounds with one hand, then healed them with the gentle caress of the other.

  “Andre …”

  His name slipped through her lips without conscious thought, and a quiver warmed her body as he turned and fixed her with those molten golden eyes.

  What am I doing? Her breath rushed through her lips. She couldn’t close her eyes. She couldn’t block out the sight of him, tall and strong, his shaggy hair falling over his shoulders, his chest bare and hard . .. my husband.

  No… not her husband yet, but a man torn between honor and his own passions; a man torn by guilt and the fear of making the same mistake twice; a man who kept pushing her away … to protect her, perhaps? She didn’t know. She couldn’t think now, not with so much emotion muddling her senses.

  She shouldn’t feel like this—a woman like her— but she’d never felt like this before, and some secret part of her wondered if she ever would again. Some secret part of her whispered, Love him… . Know what it is to love a man. Have a memory to hold against the others that still lurk in the shadows… . Purify me, Andre, baptize me.

  “There must be … a way.” She bit her lower lip on the words, hating herself for not having the sense to keep quiet, for not listening to that instinct of self-preservation screaming in her head, for allowing herself to hope again. “For us to … to prevent … complications. Like before. Isn’t there?”

  ***

  Andre didn’t think. He’d long moved beyond the point where he could think clearly when it came to the woman looking up at him with hope and desire in her eyes. He reacted to those innocent, hesitant words by clutching a handful of the deerskin blanket and yanking it clear off her body.

  There she lay, all rosy flesh on a pelt of fur, naked as the day she was born, her thighs pressed together and her knees raised, her arms crossing instinctively over her full breasts. His mind conjured up a thousand images of how he could love that body, how he could caress and kiss and suck her flesh into ecstasy, imagining how she would feel and taste, the texture of her deepest flesh.

  He dropped to one knee, prying open her thighs, viewing her moist inner core, touching her with one bare hand. She bucked and gasped in surprise, then relaxed and looked down at him with eyes soft with wanting. She grew hot and moist, welcoming his hand.

  Something inside him cracked. I’ll give you what you want, wife.

  He fell atop her, between her legs, then clutched them at the backs of her knees and lifted them up, up, so her sex lay open beneath the tumescence straining against his breechcloth. He ground himself against her, seeking the heat pulsing beyond the thin barrier of deerskin.

  Color rushed to her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut and thrashed her head back, arching against him. He released her legs and clutched her wrists, dragging them high above her head, holding her tight beneath him with one hand.

  Her neck tasted of salt and musky woman. With his tongue he felt the vibrations of a groan flutter in her throat. Sweet, foolish, reckless, dangerous woman .. . look what you’ve done to me. The mindless heat burned
away all pretense of tenderness. She was all yielding flesh beneath him, soft and small and trembling. And he took, and took. He turned her chin and kissed her hard, sinking his tongue deep into her mouth as it gave way to him, then clutched one breast pressing against his shoulder, beading the nipple between his fingers, scraping it against his palm, then sucking on it—hard, deep—drawing it against the back of his throat.

  What does it take to make you scream, woman? Even now, when she should be fighting against this assault, she ground her hips up to him instead, bucking beneath the restraint—a wild virgin, deaf to all but the cries of her own body. He should give up trying to frighten her away; but the woman would not run, the fool of a woman would stay, damn her.

  He reached down and tugged free the ties of his breechcloth, shoving the leather between them out of the way.

  Hot, slick, wet. He ground his shaft against the crease of her womanhood, back and forth, back and forth, the damp essence of her licking his most sensitive flesh from tip to root. This was the closest they could get without him taking what he wanted, the closest he could come to temptation. She quivered beneath him and he felt every throb; she struggled to loose her hands from his grip.

  No. He would not loosen her. If he did, he’d lose every last bit of restraint, that tiny leash that kept him from plunging in at an angle each time he drew back, each time he felt the heat of her center blast against the tip of him; that’s where he wanted to be, that’s where he belonged.

  Her body tensed and she growled a tight cry. He dragged his hand under the hollow of her back, then wedged his fingers beneath her buttocks, lifting her hips against him even as she arched, even as she cried out and swelled against his loins, reaching her climax already, already.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in her neck, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of her bottom as the same swelling tightened his tumescence to the thin edge of bursting. I belong inside you, woman. I want to touch that center of you forbidden to me… .