Heaven in His Arms (28 page)

Her lips curved in a smile—a courtesan's smile; she'd been born to be loved like this, he was sure. Genevieve backed away from him, and he leaned against the door and watched. She bent over, giving him an unobstructed view of her full breasts and the tempting dark shadow between them. She lifted her skirts from the floor to show one slim, delicate leg encased in a sleek white stocking. An emerald ribbon held it up at the thigh and she picked at the knot, drawing the satin between her fingers, showing a glimpse of naked flesh just above the edge of the stocking. She let the ribbon flutter to the floor and slowly rolled the stocking down, over her knee, over the swell of her calf, and then off the tip of her pointed toe.

She tossed the stocking aside. Andre struggled for control as she leaned over and repeated the process with the other leg. He wanted those bare limbs wrapped around his hips. He wanted to cross the two strides that separated them and throw her on the bed and make love to her—now—but he was fixed to the spot as he watched his aristocratic wife slowly strip herself bare of the trappings of civilization ... all with a seductive half-smile on her face and a wild light in her heavy-lidded eyes.

Tonight, she was his pampered mistress, his highborn courtesan, and she played the part solely for him.

Her bodice was next. It seemed to take forever for her to remove the lacing from the holes hidden beneath a flap of green velvet on the front of the garment. Slowly, the bodice eased and the weight of her full breasts pushed the edges apart. She shrugged it off. Through the thin veiling of her shift, he saw her rosy areolae and watched them peak as she loosened her skirts. She wiggled her hips seductively and stepped out of the pool of velvet.

The fire blazed at her back, showing the blurred outline of her body through the knee-length shift. He leaned away from the door but stood, waiting breathlessly, his loins afire, as she crossed her arms, gathered the linen in her hands, and lifted it. His gaze followed the rising hem, lingering on the auburn pelt of her loins, the gentle curve of her stomach, the ripple of her ribs, finally, resting on her flushed face as she tossed the shift aside.

He took one step toward her.

"No." She held out her hand. "Not yet."

The air burned his lungs. He curled his hands into fists and waited. With both arms, she reached up, bent her head forward, and pulled the pins from her hair. They tinkled as they hit the wooden floor and long, copper curls fell from the neat roll to tumble over her shoulders and rest against her breasts. He couldn't swallow; his throat was too dry. She tipped her head back and shook out her long hair, then smiled slowly and opened her arms.

"
Joyeux Noel
, my husband."

He crossed the space that separated them, folding his hard arms around her naked body. He knew his lips bruised hers with their insistency, that his beard razed her cheek and chin. He couldn't help it. She was naked, defenseless against him, and he wanted this soft aristocrat with the same urgency that he wanted the rough little savage she had become. He clutched her firm buttocks, spread her legs, and drew her up against him, scraping her naked inner thighs against his cold, damp deerskin, rubbing the icy, crackling leather against her loins until she was crying out in need.

Andre carried her to the bed and dropped her upon the pelts. He tore the shirt off his back, then unlaced his leggings. The fur ruffled against his shins as he knelt on the bed. Instinctively, she opened her legs to him and he saw her rosy womanhood, gleaming amid the auburn curls in the firelight. Lowering his head, he tasted the noble flesh, breathing in the scent of her, suckling on the nub of her pleasure until she buried her hands in his hair and cried, "Please."

He fumbled with his breechcloth, tossing it aside. Clutching her hips, he filled her. She contracted around him on the first, long stroke. Andre thrust deeper. Genevieve arched up and cried out. He told himself to wait . .. wait ... to stretch this joyous moment, but when he felt the third pulse of her womanhood, he filled her with love.

Genevieve stared at Andre through a red haze, as if a fortress full of cannons had turned their dark muzzles toward her, then fired in unison, leaving her body shattered and bleeding on the pristine white snow.

She gripped his bicep and spoke, her voice hoarse and croaky. "Andre . . . I'm your wife."

He looked down at her suddenly, as if only now he became conscious of her presence. Something flashed in his gold-brown eyes. "Genevieve, it's not as it seems."

The ground dipped beneath her feet like a canoe on the swells of Lake Superior. Questions clogged her dry throat and choked her. Her entire body trembled—but with what emotion, she could not say, for a hundred emotions struggled for dominance within her. Disbelief, denial, fury, and betrayal all flooded her senses, but beneath them all flowed a stormy, whirling sea of pain.

Andre gripped her shoulders. "Genevieve, this is a dangerous situation." He shook her gently. "It's best if you go back inside the house."

She shook her head, at first hesitantly, but as the haze of her shock began to disperse, she shook it more and more vehemently. This couldn't be—she was his wife. Only moments ago they had been snug in their home, on the verge of lovemaking. Now this woman appeared. . . . She glared at the squaw, noticing the beads and shells woven in her hair, the fine designs on her moccasins, the eagle feathers—signs of success in battle—hanging from the hair of her escorts.

"You're going to have to trust me,
Taouistaouisse
." A muscle moved in Andre's cheek as he leaned down, forcing her to face him. "If this situation isn't handled with care, you and me and all the men could find ourselves in the middle of a war. An ugly, bloody war. Do you understand?"

Genevieve looked up into the intense, tawny eyes of the man she loved, the man whose child she longed to bear, the one man she'd trusted with her most precious gift. . . the man to whom she had dedicated her life. She wondered if he were like the other voyageurs, like all other men, unable to stay faithful to one woman, marrying and discarding them as he pleased.

"I will tell you everything, I promise.'' He squeezed her arms reassuringly. "But right now you must go back into the house. For me . . . and for every other Frenchman in this stockade."

He released her. She felt the cold wind slap her cheeks. Julien placed his hand on her arm and tried to draw her away. Suddenly, she realized that all the men of the fort stood in the yard, watching them with curiosity. Her cheeks flooded with color. They all knew . . . they all knew. She had lived in blissful ignorance while all of them had known.

Genevieve set her jaw and yanked her arm free of Julien's grip. She would not be pitied—and she would not show her weakness here, in front of the world. She had her mother's proud blood in her. Wrapping her robe tightly around her, she turned and walked alone into her home.

Inside, her shoulders drooped. Trembling, she leaned back against the wooden door. The heat of the fire blazed against her icy skin and she smelled the ashy odor of burnt sagamite. She heard Andre's footsteps crunching in the snow as he walked away from the house and toward that woman. Genevieve listened to his muffled voice as he spoke in the guttural Indian tongue but she could not distinguish the words of the language she had only just begun to learn.

For him. She had tried to learn the Algonquin dialect for him. She had spent the winter learning the skills of setting up a household in the wilderness for one reason only: to prove to this man she loved that she was worthy to be his bride, that there was no reason to set her aside come spring. Now, all her work was for naught. He had a profusion of wives. The thin veneer of control that pure shock had provided crumbled away like a wall of sand.

She dropped to the floor. Strands of hair caught on the rough boards of the door and pulled painfully on her scalp. Cold winter air flooded in from beneath the frame, chilling her back, but she barely felt these twinges of physical pain. The heart-wrenching sword of betrayal cut deep inside her, releasing a wellspring of anguish, blocking out all other sensations. She curled up into a ball, hugging her caribou robe around her, hugging her shivering body. Hot tears gathered in her eyes.

She had given him everything. She had given him the one gift she truly owned, the one gift that was truly hers to give, the gift she had managed to save despite all odds. But not only had she given him her virginity, she had also given him her heart, and now it lay in bleeding tatters in her chest.

One tear burned a trail down her cheek. She remembered a thousand things he had told her in the weeks of their journey from Montreal. How many times had he resisted her, only to have her press against him, taunt him, seduce him in the only way she knew how? He had told her he would never have a wife. She had believed his resistance was nothing more than the reluctance of a man who did not want the responsibility of a wife—a man who feared the joys of loving and family because of what had happened to Rose-Marie—but now she wondered if he had kept another horrible secret from her.

A wife in the wilderness. An Indian bride.

What a fool I am.
Genevieve leaned her head back against the door and gulped in air. She should have known this would happen. He was a man. More than that, he was a passionate man, not the type to live like a celibate monk in the forests when the woods swarmed with young, healthy, lusty Indian maidens offering up their bodies to him without conditions. What need did he have of a French wife and all her demands when an Indian woman would serve his needs better?

The thought wandered into her mind that he might have just taken this woman as his wife while away on his latest trading voyage. The thought pierced her like a poisoned arrow, the pain too excruciating to bear. This was why he loved his life in the wilderness. Here, he was free to take whatever woman pleased him, whenever he wished, free of all encumbrances. . . encumbrances like a possessive French wife.

Genevieve felt the tiniest frisson of anger and she grasped it desperately, holding on to it as a shield against the pain. He had lied to her. The thought intruded that she had lied to him just as severely, but she pushed it away. Her lie would never hurt him, for he would never discover the truth; he would never know who she really was. He must have known that sometime during the winter, she would discover that he found his pleasure outside, as well as inside, the walls of this home.

She sucked in long, deep breaths. The anger grew, dulling the agony. She wiped away the hot trails of tears. Men were faithless creatures. She was a fool to think otherwise. How else did thousands of whores all over France make their living? How had her own mother survived through the years? How else had she herself planned to survive those last horrible days before being sent to the Salpetriere? Genevieve knew at least four voyageurs in the fort who had French wives in the settlements as well as Indian wives and half-breed children living in little bark cabins outside this fort. Why would Andre, the leader of these men, be any different?

She shucked the caribou robe off her shoulders and struggled to her feet. Her legs felt as weak and trembly as if she had walked a seven-mile portage uphill, but somehow she crossed the room and stood before the blazing fire. He was a man like other men, but there was one glaring difference: She was head, heart, and soul in love with him, and no matter what happened today, she knew with certainty that that would never change.

Genevieve didn't know how long she stood motionless in front of the fire, breathing in the coarse odor of burnt sagamite rising out of the pot. All time seemed suspended until the moment she heard his footsteps hesitating outside the door to their home. She squared her shoulders and turned to face him, dry-eyed, as he opened the door and stepped inside.

The concern in his eyes unnerved her. Her neck muscles tightened into cords. She struck, nonetheless, for the bow had been drawn too taut for too long.

"Well, my husband, have you picked a wife, or is the array of choices too bewildering for you?"

Andre had the grace to look shamefaced. He tugged on the beaded Indian sash, tossing it aside along with his robe, then uneasily rubbing the back of his neck. "She's the daughter of a powerful Ojibwa chief."

"Wonderful. A savage of rank.'' Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me, what's her name? 'Deer Who Runneth Wrongly After Randy Buck' or 'She-Wolf Who Trails After Mate'?"

His eyes flickered. "She's known as Running Squirrel."

"How charming." She gestured toward the pot of ruined sagamite. "Should I throw a serving of acorns on the fire for the fleeing rodent?"

"She won't be staying."

"Good. There's barely enough room in that bed for the two of us, and I don't want her gnawing on all the furs." She crossed her arms in front of her. "So. Tell me. Will she be burrowing herself in some tree stump outside the fort, or are you going to build her a nest within the walls?"

"You can put down the knife, Genevieve." His voice was low. "She and her people are leaving tomorrow morning—for good."

She tried not to show her relief, though it bathed her in a sudden tingling warmth. She stared at him, her lips pressed tightly together, waiting for him to continue. He stood by the door, his arms limp at his sides, his tawny gaze steady and even.

"I married her four years ago while I was wintering in Ojibwa country. ..."

"Four years?!" The words burst from her lips. "You've been married to her for four years?"

"I would have told you . . . but, frankly, I forgot about her. In the spring after the marriage, I returned to Montreal to fight against the Iroquois. When that was over, I discovered I had an inheritance waiting for me, so I left for France."

"You, my husband, have a bad habit of abandoning your wives."

He flinched as if struck. She choked off her own flash of guilt. He deserves it, she mused.

"Tell me," she continued, "did a priest preside over this blessed union, or did some Indian shaman do the honors?"

"We married in the way of the country."

Genevieve made an exaggerated gesture of relief. For whatever it mattered, she was still legally married to him. All the rattle-shaking of the Indian ceremonies held no sway in the courts of the settlements. "It's good to know you're not a bigamist as well as a liar."

He stiffened. "I didn't lie to you, Genevieve."

"No? Over and over you told me you would never have a wife, and now I discover I'm the third!"

"The only reason I married her was for the benefit of the trading alliance. ..."

"And the only reason you married me was for a trading license." She blurted out the question whose answer she feared the most. "Did you enjoy your savage marital rights with her while on this last trip?"

"No. I never saw her. She heard of my presence from one of the tribes we visited while out in the interior, and then she traced me here."

"The Rodent Queen went to a lot of trouble to sniff you out."

"It seems I'm plagued with persistent wives." His face was soft, full of gentle compassion. He was teasing her. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"I'm furious," she retorted. "You should be sly enough to keep your wife and your courtesan apart."

"She didn't come invited. She had a half a dozen warriors by her side and they were prepared for battle."

"There was war the moment you told me she was your wife."

"I didn't meant to tell you so bluntly." He spread his hands and shrugged. "She surprised me. Some of the Ojibwa's main villages aren't far from here. If the men thought the daughter of one of the boldest chiefs in the tribe was shamed in any way, there could be war." His teeth flashed briefly behind his beard. "I saw bloodlust in your eyes, little bird. I wanted you in this house before the fur started flying—or the arrows.''

"It must have been a tender reunion—I didn't hear a battle. I'd have gnawed your face off for abandoning me for that long."

"Not all wives are as possessive as you."

"You told me she's leaving." Her eyes narrowed. "Where is she going? I suppose it's not so far that you can't drop in every once in a while and firm up those trading alliances. ..."

"Her new husband wouldn't appreciate that."

"What new husband?"

"The one she took while I was away."

"Lies, bigamy, adultery." She threw her hands in the air. "You're all going straight to hell!"

"The Indians are more practical about marriage than the French." He closed the meager distance between them. She flinched when his hands fell upon her shoulders. "When I didn't return to her village for a few years, she assumed I was dead. So she found herself another husband. She's already borne him a child. When she discovered I was alive, she came to ask to be released from our tie and be given to her second husband." He gave a self-conscious laugh. "She came here to get rid of me, little bird, not to be my wife."

"She has more sense than I thought."

"More sense than you." He rubbed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. The logs in the fire crackled and rearranged themselves on the stone floor of the hearth. "All those weeks on the journey, I tried to convince you I wasn't the right man for you, that there was a better man waiting somewhere in Montreal who would give you all you wanted. You never listened."

"You can't get rid of me as easily as you got rid of that squirrel."