Heaven in His Arms (15 page)

He saw something else, too. His fingers tightened around the carved wooden handle of his pistol.

Genevieve stood motionless in the clearing, inches away from an Indian.

The savage's hand was wrapped deep in her fiery, hair.

Chapter 8

Genevieve's heart leapt as she heard a shout come sharply from the forest behind her. Mother of God, she thought, two savages in one day. By the look of utter terror on the face of the Indian woman who gripped alock of her hair, she knew this new savage was unfriendly to both of them.

The Indian released her. Genevieve whirled around, but she saw no other savage behind her. Instead, she saw a familiar buckskin-clad man crouched in the litter, one glittering, tawny eye narrowed into a slit over the gaping barrel of his pistol.

"By the love of Saint Joseph!" Tiny emerged from the darkness and knocked Andre's pistol up. "Don't shoot! It's a squaw."

Genevieve whirled just in time to see the long sweep Of the Indian woman's glossy black hair as she shot toward the woods. Genevieve cried out after her, but she knew it was useless, for the squaw didn't understand French any more than Genevieve understood the Indian woman's tongue.

"Go after her, Tiny," Andre barked, "before she brings back her husband, her brothers, and every other Iroquois warrior in the area."

Tiny splashed through the stream, chasing the flashes of fringed deerskin through the shadowed woods. Genevieve stamped her foot on the ground, wincing as pain shot up her ankle.

Damn, damn, damn!

"What the hell are you doing off the trail?"

She whirled and glared at Andre. His lips were set in a grim line behind his short beard, but she hardly noticed his anger over her own frustration. "Look what you've done!" She waved toward the woods where Tiny and the squaw had disappeared. "She's running away!"

"I would have dropped her like a deer if Tiny hadn't interfered."

"Why? She meant no harm to you."

"She had a dagger in her hand and her fist in your hair." He towered over her, the anger so fierce it was palpable. "A few minutes later and you'd have lost your scalp."

"I would have given my hair to her! It was the price she wanted for her moccasins."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You have no idea how hard I've worked trying to get her to understand. I've been pointing and jumping around and acting like an utter ass, and now it's all for naught." Genevieve whirled and marched to where her case lay on the ground, the contents scattered about on the grass. She swept up a pile of pins and tossed them into the air so they rained around her like a silver shower. "I've offered her everything I have—scissors, pins, pewter spoons and knives, the last gloves I own—and she wanted none of it. They were as worthless to her as her beads and shells are to me."

"You were bargaining with this squaw?"

"It took me all this time to realize that this wretched mop of knots"—she tugged at her loose brandy-colored hair—"was worth more to her than anything I've been breaking my arms carrying. I was just about to make her an offer when you came rushing in here, waving your pistol like a damn Musketeer to the rescue, when the truth is you've ruined everything."

"You sell your life cheaply."

"I needed moccasins." She flounced to where her boots and stockings lay by the side of the creek, keeled over in the dark muck. "For a pair of slippers, I would pay a lot more than a lock of hair."

"Since when do you speak the Iroquois language?"

"I don't, but I damned well know a bargain when I see one."

"Do you, my foul-mouthed little aristocrat?" Andre shoved his pistol in his sash. "You'd have been wearing those moccasins for an eternity."

She swiveled away and plopped down on,the grass by the edge of the creek, fisting a handful of crackling leaves. She didn't care how angry he was, she didn't care how she sounded. It was she who had lost what was probably her only chance to get a soft pair of slippers, and these past days she'd become obsessed with the desire. "The deal was for a lock of hair, nothing more, and that Indian was more frightened of me than I was of her."

"Her brothers won't be," he retorted, pacing with one ear cocked toward the woods. "And if Tiny doesn't catch the wench before she makes it back to her village, yours won't be the only scalp in danger."

"If they come in anger, it will be because you raised a pistol to her, not because of anything that happened between us." Genevieve heedlessly yanked her skirts above her knees and dipped her feet into the stream to wash them free of dirt and grass, wincing as the frigid water scoured the sores on her toes. "I suppose you came looking for me because I was late. If you had a little patience, I would have made it to the end of the path in a few minutes and you wouldn't have been any wiser."

His shadow fell over her as he splashed into the stream. He seized one ankle and jerked it out of the water. She tumbled back into the mulchy earth as he lifted her leg higher.

"What the hell?"

She struggled to her elbows and tossed back her hair. His face contorted in horror as he traced a blister bubbling on her heel. He examined the rings of calluses and the angry blood-red splotches on either side of her foot, then his hand curled tightly around her bare ankle.

Genevieve bit the side of her lip. She hadn't wanted him to see her feet. She hadn't wanted him to know the extent of her pain, for she knew if he did, he might send her back to Montreal. She would not be sent away, not while she still had breath in her body.

"Not a pretty lady's foot, is it, Andre?"

"How long?"

"Long enough for me to know I need new shoes— shoes I would have bargained for had you not threatened to shoot the merchant."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She yanked her foot from his grip, only to plant it firmly in the cold mud. "You haven't been a fount of compassion these last days."

"You'd rather risk your life than—"

"By Sainte Therese! Stop fighting! You're only wasting your strength." Tiny emerged from the edge of the forest, the Indian woman slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, her feet scissoring wildly as she bucked against his hold.

"Put her down.'' Ignoring the sucking mud beneath her feet, Genevieve scrambled over. "Did you hurt her?"

"Hurt her?!" Tiny tugged a dagger out of his sash and flicked it to the ground, one meaty arm still tight around the squaw's waist. "She nearly made a woman out of me with that."

"It's no less than both of you deserve for scaring the life out of her."

"Put her down." Andre slogged through the creek to face him. "And pull the handkerchief out of her mouth."

Tiny heaved the woman over his shoulder and turned her around, holding her by the arms. The savage's face gleamed with grease, and her hair, as black as a raven's wing, fell like a mourning veil around her shoulders. The squaw snapped at Tiny's fingers as he removed the handkerchief.

Andre asked the woman something in a guttural language Genevieve had never before heard, not even between The Duke and Wapishka. The woman tilted her chin but didn't answer. Andre scanned her clothing—the short skirt; the red, black, and white quill design on the hem and moccasins—and said something else.

Something flared in the savage's coal-black eyes. She spat on the ground. Then, in a long rattle of words, she spoke to Andre, pointing toward the forest whence she had run.

When she finished all was silent, and Genevieve glared at Andre. "Well? What did she say?"

"She claims she's from an Algonquin tribe that camps close by, a proud and strong tribe of many warriors." He glanced at Genevieve, his gaze falling on her hair. "She was searching for blackberries when she found the 'woman with fox hair.' "

"Then she's not Iroquois."

"She says the Iroquois are dogs."

"Well, isn't this a fine kettle of fish?" Genevieve tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You're glib with the savage tongue, but you've got a few problems with French, eh? If you had listened to me, we could have settled this without all the flurry." She gathered her skirts and pointed to the squaw's feet. "Now tell her that if she still wants a lock of my hair, I'll give it to her for her moccasins."

"Moccasins?" Tiny stared incredulously at Andre. "By the passion of Sainte Therese! We thought she was being torn apart by wolves, and here she is, bartering for wares."

"Are you going to ask her in her language," Genevieve said, "or am I going to have to wave my hands around until she understands me?"

Andre barked something to the Indian. The squaw nodded swiftly, kicked off her moccasins, and held them out to Genevieve. The slippers were beautiful, gorgeous, finer than any delicately embroidered satin slippers she'd ever worn in Normandy all those years ago. She took them into her palms. The leather gave beneath her hand, soft, well-worn, and sewn with an odd red, black, and white quill design on the top, with flaps that could be tied over her ankles during the winter, all lined in the silkiest gray fur. . . . Genevieve tugged the savage's discarded knife from the ground and clutched a lock of her hair. She sliced it off and held the auburn curl out to the Indian. Genevieve had a feeling that the Indian took the lock of her hair into her hands with as much reverence as she took the smoke-ripened deerskin into hers.

It was, Genevieve thought, a fine bargain, though she was sure she had gotten the better of it.

Ignoring the men and the savage, she limped back to where her stockings lay by the stream. She kicked her skirts out of the way and washed her toes clean. Then she shook out a worn stocking, pointed one toe, and rolled it up her calf. She slid the stocking over her knee, twisted her leg to straighten the seam, then gartered it on her lower thigh. She did the same with the other stocking, and then, reverently, she took the moccasins and slipped them over her burning, aching feet. For a few moments, she did nothing but stare down at them beneath the froth of her dirty skirts.

They felt utterly divine—cushiony, unrestricted, and soft—and they were worth everything she owned. Even, she thought as she glanced up and saw Andre glaring at her in fury, her husband's anger.

Tiny stood near the savage, eyes politely averted from Genevieve, waiting for instructions from Andre. "Are we just going to leave her here, or are we going to bring her with us for a while?"

"Leave her," Andre snapped, still not removing his glare from Genevieve. "We've been delayed long enough."

"Oh, enough, enough! I'm coming."

She stood up, flounced to her case, and tossed everything haphazardly back in. It was just like him to remind her of the warning he'd issued that day in the woods. Oh, but she wouldn't slow him down. She wouldn't give him an excuse to send her back; she'd come too far now for that.

Genevieve reached for her mud-caked boots, pounding them together so clots of dried mud fell to the ground.

"Throw those things out."

She started at Andre's angry bark, then pointedly tossed her old shoes in her case. "If a lock of my hair is worth these slippers, then someday even these stiff old shoes might be valuable barter." She bent over and tugged the ragged ties of her case closed. When she rose again, she stared at him defiantly. "If you're ready, my husband?"

"I'm ready." He strode to her and gripped her shoulders. "But you aren't, Genevieve."

She winced, for his fingers clawed deep into her shoulders. Genevieve struggled beneath the grip, but words died in her throat as she glanced up into his golden eyes. Fury vibrated in every line of his body, in every thick, hard muscle, in every sinew, and he squeezed her shoulders as if he were unaware of his own strength. And she stilled so he would squeeze no more.

"You've got a lesson to learn about the Iroquois, a lesson that only by the grace of God you've avoided." He jerked his chin toward the portage path. "They like to attack at difficult portages, like this one, when the men are loaded down and weak and tired, when the paths are so congested and narrow that the men can only walk in single file and the Iroquois braves can cut them down one by one with a hatchet to the chest. They won't balk at killing women and babies any more than they'd balk at killing a weak calf, and they would revel if any man or woman dared to stray off the path. When they're finished with their senseless mutilation, they dissolve back into the forest, leaving no trace of their presence but the lingering stench of death."

Abruptly, he released her shoulders and clutched two handfuls of her hair, yanking back her head until she was forced to look into his burning eyes, the color of rum, of dark brandy, of spirits potent and dangerous.

"Do you know," he whispered on a rasp, "what the Iroquois do to prisoners, Genevieve?"

Tiny cast a shadow over them. "Jesus, Andre, don't—"

"The lucky ones die on the trail," he interrupted, ignoring the giant. "The ones that survive are lashed to a stake in the middle of the village. The Iroquois pull out their fingernails, one by one, and then tell their children to chew on the raw ends. They burn welts across their torsos. They flay the top of their heads and pour hot tar over them. The more the prisoner screams, the more they torture, and when they grow bored, they roast the prisoner, long and slow over an open fire, and eat the flesh in strips." She clutched the fringe of his deerskin shirt and the words quivered on her tongue—wretched children's tales—but there was no doubt in his voice, no mockery in his eyes; they were full of a torment she'd never seen before. He shook her hard, and her head snapped back.