Heaven in His Arms (22 page)

***

Andre's footsteps crunched on the bare stones as he and The Duke picked their way along the edge of the steep cliff that formed one bank of the river. Nothing obstructed the view down the edge of the precipice into the deep ravine that held the swirling white water of the rapids, for here, as along the shore of most of this river, scarcely any dirt covered the bones of the earth. Only stunted jack pines and scrubby, dry vegetation flourished atop the hill, their gnarled roots digging deep into fissures of rock.

The water flowed low in the ravine. In places, only the tips of rocks thrust from the river, easy to see from above but nearly impossible to see from the rim of a canoe. Still, as Andre scanned the length of the rapids, he knew they could be run if the canoe was empty of merchandise and only two skilled men manned the vessel. With Genevieve as a passenger, of course. Break, woman. It was a damned cruel thing to do, but he'd reached the limits of his control. Soon, they'd pass the farthest western point he'd ever traveled. Ahead lay territory charted by only a few Frenchmen, and beyond that, by none but the Indians. Now he was fully in his world, his savage world, where life was short and hard and a man didn't fight against his pleasure.

Break, woman
.
For there can be no such thing as a Frenchwoman with the courage and grit of an Indian squaw.
Now she'd get a taste of what it was like to live in his world, always riding the edge of control, swept along by the forces of nature, in a place where only those quick of wit and courage could survive.

"We must watch those ridges." The Duke squatted and pointed down the ravine toward a ragged line of stone that thrust out into the center of the river, the shells knotted in his hair clanking as his slick black ponytail slipped off his shoulder. "We must remember to bear away from them when we reach I his curve."

They discussed the run all along the route to the camp. All his canoes had landed and the merchandise lay scattered about the rocky shore like so much flotsam. The men had already eaten their gritty breakfast of sagamite flavored with blackberries, and a haze of blue smoke hung in the air from the pipes and the cooking fire. The cook clanged his copper pot clean near the shore.

Andre saw Genevieve perched upon a boulder while Wapishka regaled her with a story that, by the amount of hand waving, was exaggerated utterly out of proportion. Andre's loins tightened at the sight of her, her breasts straining against her bodice, her legs crossed at the ankle and swinging back and forth, her lips parting in a laugh.

She looked at him suddenly.

"Come." He bowed and swept out an imaginary hat, then gestured to The Duke, who waded out to the empty canoe. "Our carriage will be departing soon."

"I thought we weren't running the rapids." She leapt gracefully off the boulder and jutted her chin toward the water, where The Duke ran his hands over the sides of the birch bark vessel. "The canoe is empty."

"It's just you and me, woman." He grinned as her eyes widened. "And The Duke. We'll be doing the run with an empty canoe. It's the only way to be sure we don't damage the boat."

"What use is that?" She shrugged herself into her blanket. "The men will still have to portage all the kegs over that rock."

"I'm not running the rapids to save time, Genevieve. I'm running them for you."

She blinked at him, then her chest inflated and that steely, defiant look lit her eyes. "If that's the case, I'd rather not."

"You were all-fire eager to run the rapids an hour ago."

"I thought it was the quickest way down."

"It is the quickest way down." "But that's useless if it's only me, you, and The Duke who are going to benefit from it. I'm perfectly capable of climbing the portage by myself."

"I thought," he growled, frustration curling his hands into fists, "you would enjoy the ride."

"I would." Her dark lashes rose as she met his gaze evenly. "But I'm not willing to pay the price for your kindness."

He clutched her arm as she tried to turn away. "Frightened, Genevieve?"

"Suspicious." She tugged her skirts clear to her knees, so he could see the leggings strapped around her leg. "These leggings, the blanket, and now a ride down the rapids. What are you trying to do, Andre?"

"I don't need a woman freezing to death or collapsing on the trail."

"It would save you a lot of bother. No woman to slow you down on the voyage." She leaned toward him, arms akimbo. "No annulment proceedings in the spring ..."

"Quiet." He lowered his voice when he realized some of the men had turned to stare. "If I'd wanted you dead, I'd have done it by now."

Genevieve set her jaw and glared at him, and he saw all of his treachery in her eyes. "I might have spent too much of my life in charity houses like the Salpetriere," she retorted, "but I know one thing: No man gives a woman gifts unless he wants something back from her."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say I don't want anything from you, but he stopped himself, for it was a blatant lie. He did want something—he wanted her. He had had enough of this cold, angry Genevieve. He wanted back the woman who laughed, he wanted back the woman who tried to seduce him at every turn, and he wanted her without commitment, without entanglements, without complications.

But most of all, he wanted to kiss her pouting lips, then caress her until she was senseless with desire, until she begged him to take her, until she melted like a block of snow in the sunshine. His breechcloth tightened at the thought. He wanted to pull her in his arms, press his loins against her, smother her parted lips with kisses, feel her sex with his fingers, and make her throb for him, as she had that day on Calumet Island. He knew he couldn't. He had no right—and that was what was tormenting him, this last shred of honor he'd not yet shed. She had to initiate any lovemaking between them—and she'd damned well better do it soon, before he forgot himself.

Then he remembered how she'd looked, only moments ago, when they had run the five miles of rapids. The exhilaration and the power of the white water had affected her as it had always affected him: It made her forget, for a brief moment, that he was the enemy. She had been eager and open. Passionate. They had shared a moment.

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.