Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (26 page)

Still, he had been a wondrous lover. Never had she dreamed that she could feel so intensely, that it was possible for there to be such magic in the meshing of two bodies. A sweet and heavy thrill moved over her just at the thought of it. For that part of her incarceration here, she bore him no malice. It was only that his own desires had always been paramount and the means he had used to achieve them could not be justified.

She turned on her stomach with a decided flounce, deliberately thrusting such thoughts from her. She tried instead to think of Fort Saint Jean Baptiste and of what she would do there, of the people she would meet. One of the women who had been on the
Mutine
on the voyage from France, another correction girl, had married a man from the community near the fort. They had been friends during the voyage, though Claudette had been older, nearly nineteen. Her case had been a sad one, for she had been sold into prostitution by an uncle after he had initiated her into the practice himself. Claudette had been overjoyed at the prospect of marrying a kindly, older man and of going to live in the back beyond. She thought that no one would know her past there and she might become respectable.

And what of herself in that small community? Would her intimacy with the half-breed be known? Could Pascal and the others be trusted not to broadcast the details to all and sundry? The morality of the colony was rather loose and accommodating, but there might well be snickers and crude jokes behind her back and problems with other men as a result.

It did not matter. She would take care of the situation as she had always done. The important thing would be to regain her property. The first thing she must do would be to speak to the post commandant, a man named St. Denis. He must help her to get to New Orleans where she could plead her case before the council, or even the governor himself. The Indian war, the prospect of an army being sent to fight the Natchez around the area of her holdings, would make it difficult to return and begin to rebuild for some time, but it must be done eventually. There was nothing else she could do.

She awoke to a touch on her hip. Before she could move, she was caught, turned, and held close against a hard male body beside her under the cover. She stiffened, bracing her arms, trying to push away.

“Lie still,” Reynaud whispered. “Just lie still.”

Her head was on his shoulder, her forehead pressing into his neck. In a voice of fierce resentment, she said, “Let me go.” He did not answer, but only drew her closer against his long length. He was naked, she discovered, his body cool except for a heated area that rested against her belly with disturbing hardness. He smoothed her loosened hair with gentle strokes and bent his head to inhale its light fragrance, pressing his mouth to the top of her head.

A curious weakness possessed her. She relaxed by degrees. Her anger remained, but it seemed to have no force. A tightness rose in her throat, and she was aghast to realize that the thing she felt most vividly was pain for the way she had been used by this man. He had taken her, bent her to his will with threats and slow cunning, not because he felt anything for her personally, but because she represented a challenge. She had insulted him and he had seen to it that she regretted it by bringing her to accept him in the most intimate manner possible. He had breached her defenses and used her own emotions to force her capitulation.

Her one consolation was that for whatever reason he had begun his siege of her, it had not been a bloodless coup for him. She had not given in easily and his methods had left him open to considerable retaliation. He might care little for her as a person, but he had wanted her desperately toward the end.

Indeed, it would soon be ended. He might not have kept to the letter of their bargain, but it would be finished tomorrow — or rather today — if their horses were swift enough to carry them to the fort by nightfall. It could be considered that in bringing her to his home, he had merely been seeing to it that she kept to the letter of her own agreement. She had promised to share his bed furs in return for their safe arrival and had known well the meaning of the phrase. Perhaps she could not truly complain.

His hand caressed the curve of her shoulder through the silk of her hair. He pushed his fingers into the thick swath that lay against her neck and lifted a strand, holding its satin smoothness under her chin as he tilted her head back.

His kiss had the sweet potency of the tafia he had been drinking. His mouth was warm with desire, his lips firm and smooth but for the scab of the small split place where she had struck him. Slowly he moved against her, letting her feel his need, inciting her to join him in it.

Against her will, or so it seemed, she returned his pressure. Her hands opened, spreading over the smooth and muscular hardness of his chest and touching gently the faint scars left by his tattooing. It would be for the last time. Never again would she feel his strength, know his tender control. She had thought so blithely of other men, but would there ever really be another who would woo her so sweetly, who would tend her desire before his own, who would or could wait with such iron control and unobtrusive patience until she was ready to receive him? Would there ever again be a man with a body so lean and firm and perfectly formed to fit against, and into, her own?

One last time. What could be the harm of it? It would not hurt her and did he not deserve it? Did she not owe him this? She always paid her debts, so let her pay this one, with sweetness, with some small return of all he had given her. She would be generous, for it was how she felt. She would give herself without reserve as he had given himself to her. She would bring him joy, as a final gift, if she could. It seemed to be what he wanted and, for this moment, what she wanted also. Could it be so wrong, when he was letting her go while he took up the dangerous job of war chief of the Natchez? And even if it was, even if he became the enemy of her people, could it make any difference now?

With tears rising in the back of her throat, she slid her arms around his neck and molded her mouth to his. Urgency like pain burgeoned inside her, swelling her breasts so that it seemed she must feel them naked against him, must press their hardened nipples into his chest. She lifted her knee across his thighs and felt a deep trembling begin inside her as his hand moved to her hip, pushing aside the soft material of her nightgown and drawing it higher.

A soft moan escaped her and she returned to help him drag it up and off over her head. Then they moved together in tender savagery, seeking, searching, so closely held that it seemed their skins must become one, allowing them to merge each into the other. With hands and mouths and poignant longing, they nurtured the unendurable pleasure that held them in its grasp until it seemed that no more could be borne.

Elise aided his entry, enclosing the moist rigidity of him with a gasp and a dissolving sensation that brought the darkness of the night close upon her. He filled her and so exquisite was it that she felt the tears she had been holding back spill hot and salty over her lashes, wetting her face. Then he was above her, plunging, taking her with him into the realm of unforeseen bliss, unimagined rapture.

The last time. She clung to the corded sinews of his arms as she rose against him, feeling the echo of their trembling deep inside. For now, this moment, she was his and he was hers, one, indivisible. It must end, but not now, pray God, not now. It was sweet, so bright. Perfect. A magic blending, merciless in its ecstasy. Fire, driven deep. Brilliant even in the dark; a bursting, glaring glory. She could not bear that it might never come again, she could not bear …

When it was over and they lay with bodies entwined, Reynaud rubbed a strand of her hair, which was wet with her tears, in his fingers as he stared with burning eyes into the darkness. He had meant to let her go. He had thought that he could, that it was necessary. No matter. He would hold her, for he knew now, if there had ever been any doubt, dig she was his. He would keep her if he had to fight the world. Or Elise herself.

10

“THEY HAVE GONE.”

Elise looked at Madeleine over her morning cup of chocolate, a stunned expression gathering in her eyes. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Departed. Left for the fort. At daybreak.”

“But how could they go without me? Why wasn’t I called?” She set the china cup painted with a pattern of violets carefully to one side, afraid she might drop it or throw it.

The woman’s voice was colorless as she answered, but her hands were tightly clasped at her waist. “They were told you had decided to remain behind.”

“By whom?”

Madeleine did not answer and in truth there was no need. Who else would dare? Who else could, or would, persuade the others to go on without her? Who else except Reynaud?

“I will kill him.” Elise flung back the covers and slid from the bed, heedless of her naked state. With her face set in grim lines, she reached for her habit and underclothing, which she had laid out, and began to struggle into them.

“There is no need to upset yourself. He meant it for the best.”

“The best for himself! What am I supposed to do? Stay here patiently waiting for his return from war? He had best not depend on it!”

In the last two days, an unacknowledged truce had been drawn up between her and Reynaud’s cousin. The older woman seemed to accept her as a necessary part of Reynaud’s comfort while Elise looked upon the older woman in much the same way. Their basic attitude had become one of mutual respect and tolerance, with tentative friendliness. Now Madeleine frowned, hesitating before she spoke.

“It was too bad of him not to give you the choice, but is it so terrible that he wants you to stay? He needs you and I think the same may also be said of yourself about him.”

“I need no one.”

“Come, we all need someone.”

“I will not be kept here against my will!”

“You cannot go alone.”

“I can catch up to the others if I have a fast horse.”

“Yes, but will Reynaud give you one?”

“He will or I will steal it!”

She flung herself from the room, buttoning her habit as she went, throwing her hair, which streamed around her back over her shoulder, with a gesture of angry impatience. So incensed was she that she hardly noticed the chill of the morning air or the thick layers of fog that swirled among the trees, obscuring the sun. She saw Reynaud, however, saw his broad shoulders and the billow of his buckskin cape. He was directing the loading of a pack train of five scrubby plains horses. There was a half-dozen Natchez around him, though it appeared that the others had gone. All that was left where the Indians had feasted the night before was a wide circle of bare and beaten ground and a curling wisp of smoke from the blackened coals of the fire.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded as she neared him. “By what right did you have the others leave me behind?”

He swung on her with his face set in hard lines. His hair was drawn high, dressed with swan’s feathers. His cape tie had loosened so that the edges hung open, leaving his chest bare. The thong that held up his breechclout rode low on his hips, exposing the flat surface of his stomach. His leggings clung to his thighs, but left a fair expanse of the copper skin of his hips revealed. In his half-naked hauteur, he seemed suddenly foreign, not at all the same man who had held her the night before. There was about him, too, a hardness of purpose that was daunting.

“You are speaking to me?”

“Of course!” she replied, lifting her chin in defiance.

“Then you will do well to moderate your tone. My warriors have no use for harridans and will not understand if I permit myself to listen to one.”

“A harridan? Simply because I object to being kept here against my will?”

“Go into the house. I will talk to you there.”

The words were harsh, dismissive. He turned his back, rapping out a trenchant order to an Indian who had stopped to listen to their conversation. It was highly likely that the warrior had understood most of what had been said; the Natchez had been dealing with the French for some thirty years and they had a certain facility for languages, there being so many dialects among the different tribes. Most Indians spoke their own dialect, a portion of that of their near neighbors, plus the Chickasaw that was used universally in a vast area of this southern portion of the continent. But even if he did understand, why should she care?

And yet it was her misfortune that she was able to see Reynaud’s point. He was now the war chief and must keep the respect of his men. He could not do that if he was seen to accept the strictures of a woman, no matter how highly regarded females might be among his mother’s people. Deference to warriors was a sacred tenet of all the tribes. It boosted the confidence and ensured the courage of the men who would be called upon to risk their lives for the good of their people.