Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (12 page)

An idea came to her and she raised herself on one elbow. She leaned over him, allowing her hair to slide forward, cascading over his face and forming a shining tent over his head and shoulders. Smiling slightly, she picked up the end of a tress and brushed it gently, tentatively, over his lips. As they tightened, she did it again more firmly, paying attention to the corners. He did not move, but she plainly felt the muscles of his arm, against which she lay, as they tightened into hard cords. Then, with slow care, she trailed the lock of hair under his nose and across the angle of one cheek, then back under his nose to the other side. She brushed his eyes and the ridges beneath his brows, his forehead and temples, then down to the intricate turnings of the ear next to her.

It was disappointing when he showed so little sign of the distress she was sure he must feel from her unmerciful tickling. She was not deterred, however, but rather spurted on to greater liberties. She inched lower in the bed furs, drawing the soft strands of her hair down so that they spread over his chest. With sweeping motions, she rubbed that silken abrasiveness over him, massaging him with it so that the warmth of his body and her own brought out the scent of violets that still clung to her hair from the soap she had used to wash it last. Lower and lower she moved, her hand pressing along his side, down to his flanks, smoothing over his belly with sure strokes, her face absorbed behind the concealing curtain of hair.

The hardness of his body under her palms, the sense of its contained strength, winch she recognized with her fingertips, pleased her in some deep level in her mind. Without being obvious about it, as if it were incidental to what she was doing to him, she pressed against him, letting the fullness of her breasts brush his arm, grazing his rigid thigh with her own, moving her hips so that the small, firm mound at the apex of her legs touched the knuckles of his lax hand. Somewhere in the center of her being, warm enjoyment grew, opening, spreading like a soothing, exciting opiate.

With her foot she dislodged the buffalo fur, exposing him to the knees. The veiling of hair swirled lower, covering, surrounding, entangling his manhood. She touched it first by accident, her hand sliding along its length, but so instantaneous was its lift and throb that she captured it in a cocoon of hair, kneading. And inside her was an abrupt flush of heat and triumph as she understood that in this at least he could not deny his physical reaction.

He wanted her. His need was strong, incredibly so. But because of his promise he would not take her, would not touch her. It followed then that the worst thing she could do to him at that moment would be to withdraw from him. To leave him there in the throes of unsatisfied arousal. It would hurt her in some strange way, that withdrawal. How much more devastating it would be for him then.

She did it, moving slowly so that her hair trailed over the length of his body with the tickling softness of a lingering caress, so that it was long moments before he knew what she intended, before he could grasp that she would actually go.

By then it was too late. He caught a glimpse of the curve of her hips as she wriggled out of the end flap. He started up, lunging after her, then, with a wrenching effort, stopped himself. He flung himself back down on the furs with one fist thrown across his forehead. As he stared up at the weave of the material of the enclosure, a single refrain ran through his mind: What had he done, with his devil’s bargain with the Widow Laffont? What had he done?

~ ~ ~

“Hey, half-breed, you’re going the wrong way!”

It was Pascal who called out to Reynaud, though the decision to confront him had been made by all of them. Henri had first noticed their gradual northerly trend. He had said nothing for a time, thinking that it was caused only by the curves and twists of the trail they followed. Even after he had mentioned it at a rest stop to the others, several hours had passed before they could confirm it with the setting sun. They should have been traveling west and north, and had been before now. For some reason Reynaud was now leading them almost due north.

“You hear me?”

Reynaud had been ranging some two hundred yards ahead. Now he slowed and turned, waiting for them to come even with him. “I hear.”

“Well?”

“You are mistaken.” The words carried the bite of temper. The half-breed had not been in the best of humors since early morning. It was as if he was holding himself on a short rein and the challenge of the merchant was an added irritant.

The merchant put his hands on his hips and stuck his chin out. “We may not be woods runners, but we know the difference between north and south. You’re leading us into the wilderness.”

“No. Merely to my home.”

“Your home?” St. Amant exclaimed. “But,
mon ami
, what is this? We were to go to the fort on the Red River.”

“And so we will, eventually. Nothing was said of going direct.”

“But it was understood—”

“By whom? You asked me to guide you and I remember no conditions.”

“We must get to the fort,” St. Amant said, throwing out his hands. “There are people there who don’t yet know of the up-rising, the massacre; people with relatives who are now dead. They must be told.”

“Or they can be left in happy ignorance a little longer.”

“It will seem odd if we tarry on the way.”

“Will it? You must blame me then,” Reynaud said with a shrug. “I go to my home to make arrangements that are necessary before going on to the fort.”

“You can’t do this!” Pascal shouted.

“On the contrary, I can.”

Elise, watching the arguing men, felt an odd tremor of fear and anger. Was it possible that Reynaud was doing this because of her? Had he taken her claim that she and the others could find their own course as a challenge to be met? Perhaps he thought to take them far out of their way, into the deep forest known only to the Indians and a few intrepid French trappers? They would be at his mercy then.

Reynaud turned his head, meeting her amber gaze. As he saw the accusation there, his features hardened.

“And what are we to do,” St. Amant was asking, “while you tend to your arrangements?”

“Do what you like,” Reynaud said, his tone abrupt. “You may come with me as my guests, you may wait for me here, or you may go on under your own guidance.”

Everyone fell silent. St. Amant looked from Pascal to Elise and away again. Pascal stood, frowning in unaccustomed thought. Madame Doucet was weeping, though more at the loud voices, Elise thought as she tried to comfort her, than from any understanding of the problem they confronted.

Henri stepped forward, his face white and his hands clenched at his sides. His voice shaking, he said, “Y-you are a bastard, Chavalier. Y-you demand and we m-must obey, all of us, e-especially M-madame Laffont. You lead and we m-must follow or risk d-death. You p-play with our lives and souls and d-defy us to stop you. W-what I would not give to s-strike you down, here and n-now.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I cannot allow you that pleasure. In the meantime, poor Madame Laffont is tending to your charge.”

Elise glanced up to find them all watching her. Pascal was scowling, and as her gaze turned in his direction, he gave a small, meaningful jerk of his head toward Reynaud. When she still stared, he did it again and she realized suddenly that the merchant wanted her to reason with the half-breed. That she was expected to have some influence with him after what had occurred between them that morning struck her as funny indeed, but she felt no real inclination to laugh.

She moistened her lips. “M’sieu … Reynaud, won’t you reconsider? The — the delay may mean the news will arrive before us and it could be weeks before people can be told that we are safe. That would cause much unnecessary grief. Besides, you must realize that we have deep concerns about recovering our property, concerns that must be placed before the governor at New Orleans as soon as some way of reaching that city can be assured.”

“Property?” Reynaud asked in scorn.

“It’s our livelihood, our only security.”

“Your security lies in yourself.”

“If you mean my body,” she began in tones thick with rage.

“No,” he said, making a hard, cutting gesture straight out from his body with his right hand. “No.”

She believed him; still, she had not another word to say in appeal. It would, she was sure, be useless. She did not know this man well, but she understood him enough to realize that much.

St. Amant cleared his throat. “I suggest we take a vote.”

“We must go with M’sieu Chavalier,” Marie Doucet said.

The older woman had understood more than they thought. There was a moment of surprise, then St. Amant, rubbing his chin, agreed. Pascal wanted to go on to the fort, as did Henri. Elise hesitated, uncertain what would be best.

“The choice, it would seem, is yours since the vote is even.”

She looked at Reynaud, seeing the grim amusement in his gray eyes as he spoke. For there was an added choice and he knew it well. If she voted that they go on alone, she would be free of him, while if she took the safe course of remaining with him, then she must continue to share his bed and keep their bargain. She opened her mouth.

“This is nonsense,” Pascal said. “Women have no vote.”

“Nor do striplings,” Reynaud said without looking at him, “which would leave you against St. Amant. What say you? Shall I cast the final vote? Or would you prefer to hear from the lady?”

She had decided to cast her lot with Henri and Pascal. Suddenly that seemed a foolhardy thing to do, trusting to a merchant and a boy to find their way through this tangle of trees, vines, and briers that stretched for endless miles. Why should she risk all of their lives out of pique? Far better to allow the half-breed his victory, to endure his company for a while longer, than to court death in this wilderness.

“Enough,” Pascal said with a grunt. “This place of yours, Chavalier, how far out of the way is it?”

“A matter of two or three days of travel at our present pace.”

“Then let us get started, the sooner to have done.”

The amusement vanished from Reynaud’s eyes, to be replaced by brooding annoyance as he was cheated of hearing Elise’s answer. He shouldered his pack and moved ahead with his long, loping stride, soon outdistancing them. Though he left them a well-marked trail of glaring, resinous blazes cut into the trees to follow, they did not see him again until dark. They came upon him then, outlined against a beacon fire that drew them in, a great leaping blaze that had been kindled beside a river that tasted of salt.

5

T
HE MOON ROSE low on the horizon: huge, yellow-tinted with shadings of orange, and circled with a blue ring. It had been another warm day and the night was cool, no more. A faint wind stirred the trees, sighing among the thinning branches, and the patter of leaves drifting down was like soft rain. Soon the cold and the frosts would come, but not yet. Not yet. These were the wine-sweet days of the autumn called Indian summer by some. How they lingered this year, and what a cruel jest it was that they did.

Pascal had gone to bed, as had Madame Doucet. St. Amant and Henri sat near the fire, talking in low voices. Reynaud had disappeared soon after they had eaten and had not returned. Despite the tiredness that hung about her like a cloak, Elise could not settle down. The fire was too warm and she was not sleepy enough to retire. She did not care to join the two males in their discussion. St. Amant, for all his gentlemanly reticence, had a cynical edge to his voice that wore on her nerves, especially when he mentioned the half-breed and herself in the same breath. Henri’s soft gaze was so doggedly worshipful that it made her uncomfortable, though this afternoon she had seemed to feel reproach when he looked her way.

She sighed, picking at one of the worn, bald spots on her once splendid velvet habit. Why was it so difficult to live with other human beings? Why must they continually appraise each other’s actions and stand in judgment of them? Why must there be quarrels and killings? What possessed men to turn and rend others of their kind? Why could there not be tolerance and peace and the cooperation that would bring prosperity to all? Was she so simple that she did not see the reason?

Men, and women, were as God made them, fallible creatures, and yet surely they had the intelligence to see that greed and betrayal, as in the case of the Natchez, led only to hatred and vengeance? How much pain and misery and death would there be before the French could live in peace once more with their former Indian allies? Injuries inflicted, for whatever reason, only brought more revenge in return, creating an endless cycle of bloodletting. Could they not see?