Heaven in His Arms (5 page)

"I don't understand."

"You wouldn't, would you, my sweet, innocent Marie?" The nun patted her chest with a trembling hand. "Oh, this wretched place! To send such a gentle soul here, to the untamed wilderness . . . Men like your husband feast on such innocence."

Genevieve stilled a scowl. What was the old biddy babbling about? What was in that letter that made the holy sister so agitated? "Reverend Mother, you said you didn't know my husband."

"I know his kind all too well." The nun stumbled as she tried to walk around the corner of the desk. Genevieve hurried to her side and clamped her hand beneath her elbow. Mother Superior wrapped her fingers tightly around Genevieve's arm and stared at her with piercing, fervent eyes. "You should be warned, child, as much as the news shall pain you. This is a savage place, little Marie, and the men who come here grow savage as well. It's better that you enter marriage knowing the true nature of your husband's soul than to walk in ignorance." The nun's eyes clouded with tears. "Oh, I shouldn't tell you. I should let you walk in innocence a little longer. ..."

"Tell me."

"It's the brandy!" The words burst from the nun's lips. "It's that wretched devil's brew. For every one heathen soul the Jesuits save, two more are lost to brandy. The savages have no tolerance for it; it opens their soul to the demon. Every spring, this hospital is full of men with hatchet wounds, and nearly all of them inflicted by drunken Indians."

Genevieve controlled the urge to shake the truth from the trembling, aged sister. "What does brandy have to do with my husband?"

"It is the
coureurs de bois
who sell the brandy to the Indians, in defiance of all the laws against it. No matter how many of the traders the bishop excommunicates, they continue to sell it to the savages." Mother Superior's fingers tightened on Genevieve's arm. "Your husband is one of them, child, one of those men. . . ."

"Is he excommunicated?!"

"No, but he is one of the
coureurs de bois
, and they all traffic in that devil's brew."

Genevieve closed her eyes so the nun would not see them roll. She didn't care a fig if her husband sold brandy to the savages. She had broken enough commandments in her lifetime to forgive a graveyard full of sinners—enough to send this nun reeling away making the sign of the cross, if she knew the truth. The Reverend Mother was working herself into a lather over nothing, and she didn't even know Andre. All the holy sister knew was that he was a fur trader, and she was condemning him on that alone.

He was a good man, she told herself. The fact that he had married her, sickly and feverish, when a dozen eager and healthy women were available to him, proved that he was a man of great compassion.

"Now I know why he hasn't contacted you, child. He's undoubtedly roaming in the woods at this time of the year, committing unspeakable sins." The nun released Genevieve and patted her arm. "It's best you stay here for a few more days and then—"

"Oh, no!" She would rather drink the putrid waters of the Seine than stay another day in this hospital. "I must see him as soon as possible. How can I contact him?"

"Dear, I'm sure he's gone by now, at least halfway to Montreal." Mother Superior fingered the paper and squinted over it. "Yes, yes, see? He was instructed that we contact a Monsieur Martineau in the lower city. You are to stay with Monsieur Martineau's family.'' The nun patted her chest and nodded vigorously. "A good man, Monsieur Martineau, and a fine wife. Three children they have, and she's due to deliver another—"

"Can't I just send a message to my husband?"

"Dear, this is not Paris. We have few horses, no roads, and no men to spare for such a frivolous task."

Genevieve clamped her jaw tight against a curse. She was tired of delay, tired of waiting, but she supposed she could swallow her impatience for a little while longer. "Very well, then. How long must I stay with them . . . with the Martineaus?"

The nun rounded the desk and avoided her eye. "Why, until he comes back, of course."

Something fluttered in her stomach. "When will that be?"

"It depends." The nun shrugged. "May, June . . . whenever the ice breaks on the river."

Her breath caught in her throat. May, June . . . Eight, nine months. A lifetime. A burn worked its way up her chest, over her neck, choking her with anger.

The paper fluttered on the desk, buoyed by a draft. Genevieve pushed off the nun's spectacles, snatched the paper, and raised it to the light.

"Oh, Marie!" Mother Superior lunged for her and stopped as Genevieve whirled away. "Your stubbornness will bring you nothing but pain."

Genevieve read the instructions swiftly, then, stunned, she read the paper again. "I don't understand this." She glanced up into the nun's teary face. "My husband leaves instructions for my . . . burial."

"I'm sure he was just thinking of all possibilities."

"I wasn't that ill."

Surely, Genevieve thought, he could tell that she would recover from her illness as soon as she had a few days' rest on solid ground. She was no frail flower, not Genevieve Lalande. Did he know that in this Hotel-Dieu, just like the one in Paris, death was more probable than life? And if he was so convinced she would die, why had he chosen to marry her at all?

Mother Superior was babbling about brandy and savages and fur traders, twisting the knob of her cane with her gnarled hand. Genevieve tried to make sense of it all, of this unexpected broadside.

"... the number of annulments in this parish already is disgraceful—utterly disgraceful—and all because of the Intendant's new ruling. It has brought nothing but grief and sin—"

"What ruling?"

The nun started as Genevieve interrupted her. "My dear child, you don't know about that, either, do you? Such a cruel, vile man! May God show him the face of His anger!"

"What ruling?"

"All single men in the colony must marry within a fortnight of the arrival of the king's girls." Tears glimmered in Mother Superior's eyes. "If they don't, they'll be denied trading, fishing, and hunting licenses."

Genevieve pierced the paper with her thumbnail. The truth slapped her like a frigid wave of seawater crashing over the bow of a ship.

"Now you know, my dear Marie." The nun's tears flowed, but her eyes shone with righteousness. "These men are devils, all of them, preferring the profligate life of the savages than taking a good, honest wife. I'm surprised this hasn't happened more often. I'm surprised they're not here in this hospital right now, fighting over the pallets of the dying girls, demanding the priest perform the sacrament of marriage before the sacrament of the last rites. Oh, wretched, vile men!"

Ramrod-straight, Genevieve swiveled away. She snatched one of the plums lying in a bowl on the Reverend Mother's desk and sank her teeth into the reddish-purple flesh. Her mouth puckered from the sour taste but she didn't spit it out. The sourness fueled her anger. It reminded her that the men who lived on these shores came from the same seed as the men who lived in France. Andre Lefebvre was a rich man, the crudest of the breed. She should have known that here in Quebec she would find the same cruelty as she had known in France.

She chewed the flesh of the plum while the sticky juice ran down her chin. What an idiot she had been to believe that a man would marry for any reason other than his personal gain. The fever must have made her daft. Apparently, Andre Lefebvre wanted a trading license, not a wife, and could only get one with the other. Because of her illness, she'd been swept into the union, and now she was married to the sort of man who freely abandoned his newlywed wife in the hellish halls of the Hotel-Dieu, hoping for her death rather than for her life.

Well, she was back from the grave, Genevieve mused bitterly, sucking another bite of the sour, fleshy fruit. She had come clear across the Atlantic, nearly losing her life in the process, for the chance at a home, land, a family. She had waited too long, worked too hard, and risked too much to let a single man ruin everything.

She would not wait eight months for a resolution. She would not wait another day.

Tossing the plum pit in the bowl, Genevieve clutched a handful of her skirts and hiked them over one shoulder.

"... vile, wretched men. . .. My dear girl! What are you doing?'''

Genevieve tugged free the ties of a lumpy bag slung around her waist, emerging from beneath the froth of her skirts hefting it in her hand. She clanked the bag onto the table. "I have some money, Mother."

"Dear child, there's more gold in your hand than in all of Quebec."

"My dowry from the king," she lied. Genevieve scowled at the worn leather sack of gold. The price of a woman's honor—the price of my honor.

"I will hire a guide with it." Genevieve yanked her skirts straight and met the nun's astonished gaze. There was no better way to spend this long-hoarded fortune than by buying the illusion of an honorable future. "I will find my wayward husband and help him see the error of his ways." A humorless smile slipped across her face. "Surely you must help me in this holy cause, mustn't you, Reverend Mother?"

Andre gathered the last of his papers and tossed them on the bed. He rose from the chair and strode to the window of his sparsely furnished room, peering between the ill-fitting slats of the shutters toward the Montreal shore. Pulled up on the bank, several birch bark canoes lay belly up in anticipation of the morning's departure, the last caulking with pine pitch drying in the air. A half-dozen voyageurs hunkered around a campfire nearby, smoking pipes and passing around a bottle of brandy.

The fire cast a rosy glow upon the faces of his hired men, illuminating out of the shroud of darkness a twinkling eye, a flash of laughter, a companionable grin. He would give a dozen beaver furs to be out there, breathing in the scent of the pinewood fire, drawing the stinging tobacco smoke deep into his lungs, feeling the river breeze on his face. This tiny room stifled him with its odorless silence, with its low

roof, soft mattress, and smothering woolen covers. He had stayed out of the room all day long, but come evening he had no choice but to sleep in this coffin. As leader of this voyage, there were limits to how companionable he could be with the men he had hired.

Andre pushed away from the window. He yanked his sweat-stained brown silk doublet off his shoulders and tossed it on the floor, where it joined the wig, shoes, and cravat he had discarded the moment he had entered the room. He paced at the foot of the bed in shirttails and breeches, forcing himself to think of the details, anything to take his mind off the walls closing in on him, the flickering of the candlelight off the solid log walls. The cornmeal and peas had been bought and bagged; the hatchets, glass beads, knives, brandy, blankets, and other trading goods had already been packed in tight ninety-pound packages. He had hired and paid out one-third wages to two dozen voyageurs, most of them work-hardened, tough, dependable men. The canoes were pitched and ready to be loaded. All he awaited was the dawn.

Finally. All the bargaining, all the delays, all the unexpected new rules in the colony—they were over now. This was his last night in the settlements. Tomorrow he would put on his well-worn leggings and moccasins and return home to a hard, earthen bed and an open sky.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. Andre glared at the portal. He had finished his business for the day. The last thing he wanted to do was haggle with a merchant over last-minute prices or argue with the authorities over the behavior of his drunken voyageurs.

The knock came again, more persistent.

"It's open." Andre swept his wig off the floor and jammed it on his head. "And you'd best have a damn good reason for disturbing my peace."

The door swung open. A blur of pink swept in like a gust of wind. The creature suddenly stilled and fixed him with a fiery, green-eyed glare. With a start, he realized that the guest was a woman.

A beautiful woman.

"Andre Lefebvre?"

Surprised into silence, he stared at her. He had expected Tiny with some problem concerning the canoes or the men, or, worse, a merchant with bad news about promised cargo . .. not a woman with green eyes and pouty red lips and copper-colored hair that gleamed in the candlelight, falling in windblown curls over her shoulders and . . . Dieu! Though she was corseted tightly, no amount of boning could crush those curves. His shock abated; his thoughts whirred. He wondered if the innkeeper had sent her up to him, but one look at the fine rose-colored ribbon trimming her pink bodice told him that this was no public woman. Courtesans of this caliber didn't live in New France.

"You must be Andre." She slammed the door behind her. "No other man would be so shocked to see me." She clattered a woven case upon the floor between them, like a nobleman tossing a gauntlet in challenge. "I'm not a ghost, monsieur, but I have come to haunt you."

Haunt, little firebrand.
He'd never exorcise such a vision from his bedroom. Who the hell was she? She seemed to think he knew her. Andre peered at her features in the darkness, frantically trying to place a name to a face. When he was last in Montreal, he had spent a few passionate evenings with a young widow before he returned to France. What was her name? . .. Charlotte? Colette? It didn't matter. This couldn't be the widow of Montreal. The woman tapping her foot before him couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty years of age, which meant when he was last in Montreal, she couldn't have been more than sixteen—and he avoided sixteen-year-olds as religiously as he avoided Indian stews.

"Well?" She crossed her arms. Her mass of reddish curls quivered about her face, and the point of her booted foot tapped, lifting the soggy hem of her skirts. "Are you going to stand there and stare all night, or are you going to congratulate me for recovering from my illness?"

His gaze fell to the provocative swelling of her bosom above the straight edge of her bodice, and he decided in an instant to play along. "Congratulations. You appear to be in the full bloom of health."

"How unfortunate for you."

"On the contrary ..."

"Don't you dare deny it!"

"Deny what?"

"You wanted me dead!"

He held up his hand. "I don't think—"

"It's true! You got what you wanted, then you abandoned me to my fate."

Fool of a man, whoever it was that this woman searched for. No man with red blood pumping in his veins would take this woman and then abandon her without a final taste; there were few enough women in the settlements, and fewer of such generous bounty. She definitely had the wrong person, though she knew him by name. Andre had a policy about Frenchwomen that he made clear before a love affair: no promises, no commitment, no complications.

He approached so she could get a better look at his face, for the candlelight in the room was dim. "I think you judge me too harshly,
cherie.
"

"Don't you dare call me darling."

"You don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand better than you think." Her bosom heaved dangerously against the restriction of her clothing. "You chose the wrong woman to take advantage of, monsieur. I was sick, not a fool."

There was still no doubt in those green eyes, only anger and accusation and a growing impatience. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she had made a mistake, but the words stuck like glue to his lips. If he told her, she would leave, and this was the most intriguing visitor he'd had since he returned to New France.

It was his last night. One final sniff of French perfume would be a fine way to say goodbye to civilization.

"Speechless with shame, are you? I should think so. How does it feel to be caught slipping away like a thief in the night?"

His gaze wandered over her pale pink dress, lingering on the creamy swell of her breasts, then slipped down to her narrow waist and over the flair of her skirts. "I find myself . . . pleased to be captured."

Her lips parted in a gasp. Desire rushed hot through his blood. Not since Aix-en-Provence, where he had made the mistake of taking a mistress who expected more out of him than money, had he enjoyed a woman. It had taken weeks to disentangle himself from that relationship. Frenchwomen always complicated a good night's worth of lusty lovemaking with so much baggage—vows of eternal devotion, fidelity, paroxysms of guilt about their own sensuality. Andre was looking forward to the simple, honest passion of an Indian woman.

He met her eyes. They sparkled with a strange mixture of fury and surprise. He wondered if she were playing some sort of vixen's game. Perhaps she had seen him in Montreal, had wanted him, but now that she had dared to join him in the confines of his room, she'd lost the courage to tell him precisely why she was here. He glanced down at the woven basket she'd tossed between them. There was no doubt; she had come to spend the night. It wouldn't be the first time a woman had played an elaborate role in order to justify her own infidelity. The lengths civilized women went to hide their own passion.. . . Well, he was more than willing to go along with the charade if it meant an evening rolling in the linens with this lovely creature.

He pressed closer . . . close enough to cast his shadow over her. "I think there's been a misunderstanding between us."

"You call abandonment a misunderstanding."

"I was a fool to abandon you," he murmured, playing along with the game. Her lower lip was plump and wet, fuller than her upper one. As juicy as a ripe peach it was, all pouty and centered with the faintest dimple. He wound his fingers around her shoulders and pulled her against him. "Come, love. Forgive me my wrongs."

She jerked in his embrace. "You must be jesting."

"At least let me make it up to you."

Her mouth parted, but before she could speak, he met those inviting lips with his own. Her breath caught and held. Her heart thumped hard beneath her breasts, hesitated, and stopped, then thumped harder still. He pressed his nose against her cheek as he deepened the kiss, smelling river mist and rain, along with fresh pine-scented air, clinging like dew to soft, soft skin.

Dieu! It had been too long. Pure passion in his arms she was, all quivering, curvy, and warm. He slid his hands off her shoulders and wound them around her back. She fit against him, the fullness of her bosom giving against his chest, swelling soft, soft, even as she stiffened. He slid his hands down farther, to her narrow waist, digging his fingers into her side . . . only to come against the hard whalebone rib of her corset. Damn the Frenchwoman's clothing, all those laces and knots and rigid seams and layers—for man's benefit, they said, all these locks and keys. He wanted to feel bare, hot flesh, not seams and satin. He buried his free hand in the silk of her curls, pulling her head back to fix his lips more firmly on her own. His blood coursed hot and fast through his veins.

The tips of her nails dug into his linen shirt, her only movement other than the give of her body and lips. Pleasure or resistance? He couldn't tell, and as long as her lips lay open beneath his, Andre refused to retreat. She parted those lips still further to gasp, and he took brazen advantage of the breach. He tasted the juice of her mouth, sweet, and delicious, vaguely naughty, forbidden fruit. But before he could drink fully of the nectar, she began to struggle.

No, no . . . don't.
Dammit, why must Frenchwomen always fight the rush of their blood, the fury of their own passion? He wouldn't hurt her. He'd show her all the pleasure there could be between a man and a woman in lovemaking—and he would see that she would not grow big with child after he left. He held her tighter, trying to squeeze the fight out of her, to see if this struggle were nothing but another parlay in the elaborate French game of refusal and surrender. Her heart raced in her chest. He spread his hand over her lower back. Boldly, he ran his tongue over the silky swell of her lower lip. She started as if she had been struck with fire.

He didn't like the feel of her shock. Andre released her lips and raised his head only enough to see into her eyes. They were misty and bright, like the color of a shallow lake in the summer sunshine. She no longer looked like the fiery woman who had burst into his room, so full of rage and self-righteousness. She looked young, confused, and thoroughly, thoroughly kissed.

"What is it, cherie? What troubles you?"

"You're kissing me."

He grinned. "Obviously."

"Does this mean you'll start treating me . . . like a wife?"

He had been planning to treat her like a wife—in his bed. By the serious expression in her eyes, he knew she meant something more. Her pink tongue darted out and lingered on her lower lip. With an inward groan, he followed the journey of that pink tongue as it swished back and forth across her lower lip. She looked like a child tasting licorice for the first time.

Andre started. Christ, she'd never been kissed before. He released her abruptly. This was no wayward wife looking for an infidelity. He examined her clothing and his suspicions grew. She dressed too well to be without family or husband. Frenchwomen arriving in the settlements were married almost as soon as they set foot upon Canadian soil, he knew that well enough. His gaze fell to the battered woven case on the floor, which was large enough to hold enough clothes for several days. Perhaps she had run away from her family. Perhaps she was looking for someone to take care of her. For the first time since she'd walked in, Andre began to wonder if there were more to this than he suspected—like a musket-wielding father downstairs, waiting for his daughter to emerge ruined from the stranger's room so he could force him into marriage.

Ironically, he already was married. Temporary or not, he still had a wife in Quebec. As much as he wanted to lay this woman down on his bed, spread her coppery curls over the pillow, and merge with her supple, young body, he knew he couldn't let this charade continue any further. She probably was— God forbid! —a virgin.

Andre took one step away from her. "I think we should have a talk, you and I."

Her fingers had replaced her tongue on her lips, but at the sound of his voice, she dropped her hand. "Long overdue, that."

"Is it?"

"I want to know your plans." Her gold-tipped lashes curled up as she met his gaze. "For us."

She sounded so sure of herself, so sure of him— as sure as he was that he had never before laid eyes on her. "Do you know who I am?"

Her brows twitched with sudden uncertainty. "You are Andre Lefebvre?"