Cyrene did not bewail her lost prospects. There was a time when she would have welcomed a husband chosen for her, if he had been young and not bad-looking and respectably placed. This was no longer true. As she had told Gaston, a husband represented nothing more to her now than another restraint. She sometimes thought of balls and routs and masquerade parties, but since she had never tasted these pleasures, she was able to relinquish them without much distress. Her greatest wish was for freedom, the freedom to get on with her life, to get out and make a place for herself. She could do that, she knew, by trading.
She was no stranger to the occupation. Pierre had never considered her father a reliable chaperon, and so had always taken her with him on his trading expeditions. After the second trip, she had assumed an active part, often helping to choose the goods for which the men bartered and keeping an accounting of values and quantities so that the Bretons would not be cheated. Pierre and Jean had a voluminous knowledge of furs and prices and could do complicated sums in their heads, but in common with many men raised in the wilds of New France, they could read little and write less. In token of their respect for her knowledge and her services with her pen, Pierre had the year before given Cyrene a few pounds of indigo, which she had traded to the English for glass beads, combs, polished steel mirrors, and small iron pots. She had then traded these things to the Indian women in the Choctaw villages for worked leather garments, woven baskets, and a few small furs. Finally, she had then bartered the Indian goods in the market in town for a tidy profit, enough to buy twice as much indigo as Pierre had given her.
Her activities had not gone unnoticed. Pierre’s and Jean’s friends among the smuggling fraternity, those with whom they drank and gambled at the pothouse down the road, laughed and teased the two men, swearing that they were led by a lady smuggler. Pierre and Jean merely smiled and shrugged and jingled the extra coins, which she had helped them acquire, in their purses.
But she had been handicapped in her business venture by the necessity of having one of the Bretons always at her shoulder while she bargained, whether it was in the English camp, the Indian villages, or the town. The Indian women in particular had thought it marvelously funny, asking what valuable commodity she had hidden about her or what crime she had committed that she must be so closely held. Cyrene had failed to see the humor. Nor did she see it now.
What she did see was a way to make the protection given her unnecessary. Gaston had provided the key. Virginal, that was what he had called her. In the end, what they were all protecting, or so it seemed, was her virginity. If she were no longer chaste, no longer untouched, there would be no need for such worry. How very simple it was.
Ridding herself of her inconvenient chastity could be difficult. If no man was allowed near her because she was a virgin, then it was also true that she must remain a virgin because no man was allowed near her.
The exception was the Bretons themselves. There was nothing to say that any one of them would allow themselves to be seduced, but she dismissed the thought almost before it occurred. Even if the two brothers had not been so much older, there was still something unnatural about it, most likely because she had been living with them for so long. Gaston might be of a convenient age, but she had squabbled and worked and played with him until he was more like a brother than a prospective lover.
The ideal prospect, of course, would be René Lemonnier. There were many reasons why that should be so — his age, his repute as a rake, his proximity — but unfortunately it was not possible. Even if she could find a way to be left alone with him for sufficient time, he was simply in no physical condition for the task.
Which was just as well. Despite the feeling of control over her life such an idea gave her, and regardless of the peculiar warmth that invaded her senses at the thought of petitioning Lemonnier for such a favor, she knew well enough that she would never dare. The solution might be practical, but it was just too drastic. There must be some other way to gain a measure of independence.
The idea could not be dismissed completely, however. It remained at the back of Cyrene’s mind, a secret amusement, for the rest of the day. It surfaced when she happened to glance at her small room and the man who lay there, and when the Breton brothers left Gaston on guard while they went into town for a few hours. It was also in the forefront of her mind as she made ready for bed.
Ordinarily she would have heated water and bathed in the privacy of her cubicle. That being impossible since Lemonnier had gained consciousness, she made do with a few quick splashes on the darkened deck using water dipped up from the river. Returning to the cabin, she warmed herself before the dying fire while the Bretons hung their hammocks and unrolled their bedding. When Pierre dumped out his pipe, a sure sign that he was ready to go to bed, she moved to her sleeping quarters.
René Lemonnier lay watching her in the fireglow as she stepped inside and dropped the curtain. She sent him a quick look as she took the much-worn chemise that served as her nightgown from its hook. It was dim in the small space, but still she could see the faint gleam of his eyes.
“I must ask you to turn your head,” she said, the words shaded with amusement as she considered the difference between her modest pose and the idea she had contemplated earlier.
“Certainly.”
René complied. It seemed the wisest course, considering the closeness of her protectors just beyond the curtain. Watching her was a pleasure he was finding it increasingly difficult to forgo. She was conscious of him as a man, he knew; her request had proven it, if proof was needed. Still, there was none of the arch coquetry or nervous fluttering in her manner that his reputation usually elicited. The cause, he suspected, was simply that she was accustomed to men in a way that most young women never achieved. Or perhaps she did not perceive him as a threat while he lay flat on his back, dependent on her attentions. That he could be dismissed so easily piqued him, and also intrigued him.
Cyrene skimmed quickly out of her clothing and pulled the old chemise on over her head. Taking up her coverlet of buffalo fur lined with quilting, she wrapped herself in it, then stepped over Lemonnier to climb into her hammock and lie back.
Silence, broken only by the soft and steady lap of the river and the occasional creak of the mooring ropes, settled over the boat. Quiet snores began to issue from the cabin. At least two of the Bretons were asleep. Beneath her, Lemonnier shifted on his pallet.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a whisper. “Can I get you anything?”
It was sheer perversity that made René answer, his tone husky, provocative, “What manner of thing did you have in mind?”
“Another coverlet? Something to drink?”
He should have known better. “No, nothing. Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you are used to the early nights that we keep?”
He thought of the many long evenings of yawning boredom he had spent waiting for the time when it would be the king’s pleasure to leave an entertainment so that he might go also; of the endless round of balls and banquets where one saw the same vapid faces, heard the same inane complaints and scurrilous stories. “I have no objections.”
“For the moment?”
“As you say.”
Cyrene had forgotten to loop back the curtain before she got into her hammock. She had been doing that since Lemonnier came, though ordinarily she left it down for the illusion of privacy it gave. There was a strong sense of intimacy in whispering together, closed off in this tiny space. She was also aware of a secret stir of excitement along her veins, the result of doing something forbidden.
That it might also have something to do with the tentative part she had assigned René Lemonnier for securing her freedom she also knew. The strangeness of having him there on the floor beneath her had been with her from the first, but never before had it occurred to her that if she turned and reached down her hand she might touch him. She had never stopped to think that if he reached up he might trace the curving outline of her body t
hrough the canvas of her hammock. There was no point in thinking of it now, of course; still, the images conjured up in her mind had a curious fascination. It was difficult to be rid of them.
The carriage drew up in the road beyond the levee. A lackey in satin livery and a curled wig jumped down and hurried to open the door. A woman stepped down. No longer young, she wore her powdered hair swept well back from her forehead and covered by a small, lace-edged coif à la Parisienne. Her petticoats, or skirts, came to her ankles and were of green brocade. Over them she wore a shorter skirt that was open at the front and elaborately constructed of ruffles and poufs in gold brocade embroidered in green. The overskirt was topped by a bodice of the same material. Around her shoulders was a fichu of folded gauze held in place by a large emerald. Her ankles were covered by white silk stockings, and on her feet were green silk shoes with hourglass heels. Even if it had not been for the carriage — the first in the colony with four wheels and a conveyance that had caused every planter with any pretensions to gentility to write to Paris for something similar — the cut and extravagance of her clothing would have marked the woman as the governor’s lady, the Marquise de Vaudreuil.
Cyrene, hastily searching out a clean apron and smoothing her braided hair, was on the front deck beside Pierre and Jean by the time the lackey handed Madame Vaudreuil across the gangplank that led to the flatboat. At a short order from his mistress, the lackey returned to the carriage. The lady turned to Pierre.
“You are, one supposes, M’sieur Breton?”
Pierre bowed in his best manner. “As you say, madame. And this is my brother Jean and my ward, Mademoiselle Nolté.”
Cyrene, making her curtsy, could not prevent herself from sending Pierre a startled glance. There was more courtliness in his air than she had dreamed he could assume.
Madame Vaudreuil inclined her head in a gracious nod. “Charming. I believe it was you, mademoiselle, who intervened to protect the life of M’sieur Lemonnier. You have the gratitude of his friends.”
“It was nothing. If you will step inside, I’m sure he will be happy to see you.”
“How kind,” the marquise murmured, though the dryness of her tone indicated that she had never intended anything else. She eyed Cyrene’s uncovered hair with a lift of her brow as she swept past her into the cabin. Inside, the woman paused, and her brows rose higher at the spartan furnishings and the sight of René on his pallet.
What Cyrene had expected, she did not know; still, she was puzzled at the look of annoyance she caught on Lemonnier’s face as he watched the governor’s lady advance. A moment later, she wondered if she had imagined it as he smiled and greeted his visitor with a sketchy pretense of a bow, raising himself on one elbow and begging to be excused for his inability to stand.
“René, mon cher, what a relief it is to see you well,” the older woman declared. “I feared the worst when you sent word you would remain here.”
The irritation returned, then was banished. He swept the black waves of his hair, free of any tie, back from his face. “I am devastated to have caused concern. Forgive me.”
“Yes, indeed. Always, as you well know.” Madame Vaudreuil looked around for a chair. When Cyrene pulled a stool forward, the woman seated herself upon it rather gingerly. It creaked under her weight. The marquise needed no bum roll of padding at the hips. She was decidedly plump, with dimples in her white hands and a second chin above her short neck. Her eyes were large and magnetic, but her mouth rather small, and it was pursed now with displeasure as she turned to look at Cyrene.
In compliance with the suggestive tilt of the other woman’s head, Cyrene hurried into speech. “You will wish to speak to M’sieur Lemonnier alone, I’m sure, madame. Pray excuse us.” Turning, she motioned to Pierre and Jean standing just inside the door to leave.
“Cyrene, wait,” René called. “There is no need. It will please me if you stay.”
She turned in surprise. It was the first time he had used her name instead of the more formal title of mademoiselle, the first time also that he had spoken to her with such rich warmth in his voice. She met his gaze, a question in her own. He appeared not to notice but waved in the direction of another stool.
“I begin to see what keeps you here,” Madame Vaudreuil said.
“Do you?” René answered, his tone dulcet as he watched Cyrene.
“I should have known there was a woman involved. With you it could not be otherwise.”
He looked at the older woman then. “How little you know me.”
“Well enough!”
Cyrene, made intensely uncomfortable by the woman’s implication as well as by René’s odd behavior and hovering in uncertainty over whether to go with the Bretons or stay, roused herself to protest. “I assure you, he is here only because of his injuries.”
“Oh, without doubt,” the lady replied without a glance in Cyrene’s direction. “Well, you rogue, we have missed you.”
“You are too kind, but I would have been desolate to think otherwise.”
“When do you return?”
“That depends on many things.” His answer was glib, his expression bland.
“I am aware,” Madame Vaudreuil said with another flickering glance in Cyrene’s direction.
“I may decide to become a voyageur.”
“Indeed?”
“I must do something now that I’m here in the colony.”
“Surely your family—”
“No doubt, but living on a stipend has no appeal. Besides, I’ve never cared for idleness.”
“There are few here who care for anything else. Why should you be different?”
“Perverse of me, isn’t it? But I find in myself a desire to see more of this wilderness and what is happening in it, to seek out its possibilities.”
Madame Vaudreuil sat in frowning silence for long moments. Finally she said, “I begin to see.”
“And I have your blessing?”
“How can I withhold it? But you will be careful of yourself, for you are a valued addition to our company here.”
“I’m always careful.”
“That I beg leave to question! If you were, you would not be lying here on the floor at this moment.”
“Unarguable,” he admitted, his smile all rueful charm, “and cruel of you to remind me.”
“I am never cruel, only candid. And I require the same from others.”
He inclined his head. “You shall have it.”
“I wonder.” The governor’s lady rose to her feet. “I must go. I have your portmanteau from your lodgings in the carriage, plus a few comforts, if you will accept them.”
“With pleasure.”
“Then I will hope to see you soon.”
There were a few more words of farewell, a little more banter. The lackey delivered the portmanteau of clothing, also a basket of wine, cheese, and sweetmeats, and another filled with various comforts. Then at last the marquise was gone and the rattle of her carriage faded away back down the track into town.
Cyrene unpacked the baskets. She tossed René a fluffy down pillow, which he caught and tugged under his head. She then uncorked a bottle of wine and poured a few inches into a fine crystal wineglass that had been included in the basket. Her movements stiff, she carried the wine to him and set it on the floor beside his pallet.
“Won’t you drink with me?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t care for wine just now.”
He picked up the glass and swirled the rich burgundy liquid, inhaling the bouquet as he watched her over the rim. “Are you angry with me?”
“I don’t understand you enough to be angry.”
“You are offended, then?”
She swung to face him. “Why did you do that? Why did you suggest that you are here because of me?”
“Can you deny that you are the cause?” The color across her cheekbones was entrancing. To see if it would deepen was irresistible.
“I’ve seen nothing to suggest it.”
; Such self-possession was worthy of something nearer to the truth. He abandoned subterfuge. “You’re right. It was an excuse the marquise would accept with little question, given my reprehensible past. Since I had no wish to be dragged into town and put up at the governor’s house with the lady in constant attendance, I made use of you. If you were embarrassed, I’m sorry.”
“It seems to me that your injuries should have been excuse enough not to move.”
“They might have been, two days ago.”
There was a silver flash of laughter in his eyes. Cyrene moved closer as he spoke, the better to see it. “You mean that you — you are recovered?”
“Not that, no, but I may be a little stronger than it appears.” To illustrate his words, he set the wineglass aside and raised himself without discernible effort to sit braced on one arm with the other resting across his bent knee.
“Why?” she said abruptly. Because it seemed impolite to force him to look up at her, she dropped to one knee in front of him.
He shrugged. “A whim. Maybe I wanted to stay. Maybe I will be a voyageur after all.”
A small smile curled her lips. “It isn’t an easy life.”
He matched her smile. “It could be I’m not an easy man.”
She studied the hard, bronze planes of his face, the steady light in his gray eyes. At last she said, “It may well be that you aren’t, at that.”
“Now that is a concession.” His voice soft, he reached with his free hand to take hers, carried it to his lips.
Behind them the cabin door crashed open. Pierre stood in the opening with Jean and Gaston behind him. “Madame Vaudreuil was right,” he growled.
He charged across the cabin and lashed out with a hard kick. Cyrene cried out as the blow caught René on the shoulder, throwing him backward. His breath left him in a soft sound of pain and surprise. The burly voyageur, with his brother behind him, reached for the injured man. René twisted out of the way, pulling himself to his feet by one hand, which was tangled in the switching, swaying hammock. With his shoulders wedged into a back corner, he crouched, waiting. Between his hands, stretched so tight that the links sang, was a length of chain he had snatched up with one of the animal traps dangling from it.
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