Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (27 page)

She turned on her heel and stalked back to the house, but there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes and a restrained temper in the quickness of her step.

By the time Reynaud joined her in the salon, Elise had brushed her hair and plaited it, wrapping the braids around her head and fastening them with a few brass pins loaned by Madeleine. She had paced back and forth before the fire, deciding what she wanted to say, pausing now and then to warm her hands. Her lips were thin and her stance militant as she faced him, and there was no warmth in her amber-brown eyes as she watched him come toward her.

“What do you want?” he asked without preamble.

“I want a horse so that I can catch up with the others.” She congratulated herself on the calm reason of the request.

“No.”

“No?”

“I cannot permit it.”

“You cannot keep me here. If you will not permit me to leave now, at once, then I will be gone as soon as you are out of sight!”

“I fear not.”

“Wait,” she said between clenched teeth, “and you will see.”

“You can be sure I will be watching you every moment.”

She stared at him with a sudden suspicion forming, looming enormous and dark in her mind. “You mean—”

“Just so.”

The magnitude of the betrayal left her speechless for a long instant. He was not going to leave her here. He meant to take her with him to the Natchez village.

“I won’t go!”

“You will go. The only question is whether it will be as my companion, free to ride beside me, or bound and led like a slave.”

“We struck a bargain; you were to take me with the others to Fort Saint Jean Baptiste! It was understood that I was to be free when your part had been kept. You have twisted the situation to suit yourself well beyond what is acceptable already. You cannot expect to get away with this, too!”

“I assure you I can.”

She stared at him straight in the eyes, her own dark with hatred. “You will be sorry.”

“Probably.”

  The dry self-knowledge in the word did nothing to improve her temper. “You are a bastard.”

“Enough of one to hold you.”

Goaded past all bearing, she drew back her clenched fist and struck out at him. He caught her wrist, twisting it down and behind her back so that she was jerked close against him, her firm curves pressing into the hard planes of his body. The pain in her wrist was sharp, but so great was her rage that she hardly felt it.

“Let me go!” she said on the hiss of an indrawn breath.

His mouth inches from her own, he answered, “Be warned. I will not, and cannot, let you distract me from this point onward. I would advise you to be reasonable. If you do not, whatever happens will be on your own head.”

“You listen to me. Our bargain is at an end. From this moment, there will be nothing between us. Lay a finger on me and I will fight you with every ounce of my strength.”

“We will see,” he answered and released her arm. “Make ready. We leave in a quarter hour.”

It was a mistake to have warned him, of course. She realized the full weight of it when she saw her horse on a lead rein fastened to the pommel of Reynaud’s Spanish saddle. She stood just inside the doorway, debating the wisdom of trying to sneak out the back, of refusing to set foot out of the house. Neither course seemed likely to win her way to freedom. Without a horse, she could not get far before she was run down, even if she could escape the back way, and if she hid out among the outbuildings it was all too likely that she would be run to earth and hauled out unceremoniously. Remaining inside the house would only be an invitation to Reynaud to come and carry her out and, while he might enjoy the opportunity, she had no wish to give him an excuse to domineer over her.

The only dignified thing left to do was to march out with her head high in the hope that capitulation now would give her breathing space and a chance to get away when his vigilance had relaxed.

At that moment there came the sound of horses’ hooves moving at a slow trot. Reynaud rode out from around the hut on a magnificent black horse, a great barb from Barbary by way of Spain and Mexico with flowing mane and tail. On the lead he held in his hand was a cream-colored mare with the delicacy of form that hinted at Arabian bloodlines. He stopped near the mounting block and sat staring at the house with a frown between his eyes. Even as Elise, seeing the maneuver, frowned in her turn, there was the chatter of voices behind her. Madeleine entered the salon, holding what appeared to be a pair of cloaks over her arm and standing aside so that Madame Doucet, attired in a gown of heavy black drouget, could precede her. There was excitement and trepidation in the older woman’s face and she turned and embraced Madeleine with fervor, thanking her for her help in a voice thick with tears.

Madame Doucet was to have her wish; she was to return with Reynaud to the Natchez village. She had misjudged him then. The horse on the lead was for the older woman who did not ride well while the Arabian was for her.

Reynaud’s consideration was like a slap in the face. It was obvious that he did not doubt his ability to control her movements, even when she was mounted on horseback. The Arabian should be much faster than the plains ponies, faster than the barb over short distances though the larger horse undoubtedly had greater stamina. If she made a run for it, he was certain to catch her if he saw her go. If.

Madame Doucet had accepted a cloak and was out the door, Madeleine stepped closer to drape another cloak of the same dark staff over Elise’s shoulders. She thanked the woman, murmuring a good-by.

Madeleine shook her head. “Thank Reynaud, it was he who sent for them for you and for Marie. It was he who spared the time to guard your comfort, your safety.” She hesitated, then went on. “Perhaps now you will think of him, guard him if you can. He will have many enemies.”

“Only the French,” Elise said bitterly.

“And those who would deny his right to be war chief, those who despise his mixed blood.”

“There is nothing I can do.”

“You can watch and listen. Sometimes it is enough.”

Was it a subterfuge to make her feel concern for him? It would not work, not now, not ever, but Madeleine could not know that. Inclining her head in a motion that could be taken for consent if the other woman so wished, Elise turned away.

She had left her departure too late. Reynaud was advancing on her, climbing the steps with his cape flaring around him and a grim look on his face. Alarmed against her will by the hard purpose she saw in his eyes, Elise put out her hand in a useless attempt to stop him. He caught it, drawing it behind his head and swooping to pick her up. She was lifted high against his chest before he swung around, descending the steps once more. She heard the masculine laughter, saw the Natchez, normally so impassive, weaving in their saddles with their amusement. Color flared into her face.

“Put me down,” she said in a furious undertone. Pride and the certain knowledge that it would increase the mirth of the savages prevented her from struggling.

He made no answer, but carried her down the flight of steps to where the horses waited. He shifted her, clasping her rib cage, then threw her up into the saddle. She grabbed the horse’s mane as she sought for balance. With flushed cheeks and eyes downcast to hide her enraged embarrassment, she kicked her skirt into place and gathered up her reins. Settled, she sent a fulminating stare at Reynaud to find him already mounted and watching her, his gray eyes assessing.

Their gazes clashed for a long instant. Then he looked past her to where the warriors sat with Madame Doucet and, glancing back, reached out to adjust Elise’s cloak, which was twisted over her shoulder. It was as if with that single movement he had marked her as his possession, his alone. She had an insane urge to throw off the cloak in a symbolic rejection of that gesture. She might have, except that on second consideration it seemed as if it might well have been a mark of his protection.

They went from the yard before the house in single file with Reynaud in the lead, Elise behind him, and the others strung out in the rear with Madame Doucet sandwiched between them. It was colder as they turned off from the cart track and entered the woods for the fitful sun scarcely penetrated the dense meshing of limbs overhead. During the time that they had spent at Reynaud’s holdings, the leaves had all fallen except for a scattered beech tree or post oak that held on to its fluttering brown covering. In the main, the branches were bare, though clothed by gray rags of Capuchin’s beard near the streams where the air was damp. As they rode the hoofbeats were muffled in the thick carpet of leaves, though now and then the rattling of a layer of crisp dry ones seemed deafening in the quiet.

The miles fell away behind them. It was odd to Elise to see how calmly Madame Doucet viewed her escort. It was as if she hardly realized that the men with her were Natchez, that they might have been the very ones who had killed her husband and carried off her daughter and grandson. What curious logic had she used to allay her former fears? Did she trust them not to harm her because Reynaud was with her or was it simply that, having decided to join the other French women and children, she need no longer fear capture?

She hoped that her own demeanor was even close to being as serene. She felt as if her stomach was in knots as every league took her farther away from the fort in the Natchitoches country. Her anger was allied to a bitter frustration that would not leave her no matter how chilled and tired she became.

She had lost so much; family, home, lands, everything she had gained at such cost. Now her self-respect was gone as well because she had surrendered herself to a man who had betrayed her, because she had become to all intents and purposes his slave. Her face bleak, she contemplated the future. By comparison, going to Fort Saint Jean Baptiste had promised limitless opportunities. St. Amant, Henri, and Pascal must be well on their way to the stockade. She regretted that she had been unable to say good-by to them. They were survivors, all of them, and though she could not quite claim them as friends, there was a curious kinship between them that could not be broken. It galled her to consider what they must think of her failure to join them in their trip to the fort.

The weather did not warm, but seemed to grow grayer and colder. A fine mist began to fall. They stopped now and then to rest the horses, but long before Elise was ready, they were in the saddle again, riding onward.

Once during the early afternoon, Reynaud dropped back to join her. He was almost affable, as if happy to be riding toward the village of his mother’s people once more. He told her the names of the men with them. There was Path Bear, the largest and most fierce looking, a Sun named for the black bear who refuses always to give way when meeting anyone on a trail, and who was chief of the Flour Village, second village in importance after the Grand Village. There was also Long Neck, Red Fox, Shouting Deer, and Spent Arrow, men of the Noble class, many related in some way to Reynaud. They were as tall and broad as he, but darker of skin. Their shoulders as well as their chests were tattooed; one or two even had lines of geometric designs from cheekbone to cheekbone, and most wore ornaments of shell or rings of steel and gold in their ears. To a man, they were alert, watchful, with a hand always near a weapon, either the muskets across their laps, the bows and quivers of arrows slung over their backs, or the small hatchets at their waists. Their vigilance seemed a threat, one that assured she would never be able to get away from the column.

It was getting on toward late afternoon when her chance came. Reynaud had gone ahead a little way on foot, scouting, as had been his habit before as the others rested. Two of the warriors had stepped a short distance into the woods while the others stood leaning against the trees, talking among themselves, cracking and eating handfuls of pecans that they took from pouches tied to the thongs at their waists. Madame Doucet, rubbing her stiff legs and seat, was walking up and down.

Elise wandered along the faint track in the direction they had come as if stretching her legs, too, stopping now and then to arch her back in a parody of aching muscles, though leading her horse at the same time. Just where the track meandered out of sight, she swerved into the woods as though at the urge of bodily functions.

Once hidden from view, she mounted her horse, urging the mare farther away from the others, though she did not dare kick her into a faster gait for fear of being heard. Then behind her came a call. She had been missed. It might be a few minutes before they came after her. She could not risk having that much time, however. She kicked the mare into a run and, bending low in the saddle to avoid the tree limbs, headed toward the open track. By the time she reached it, she could hear the thud of a single set of hooves thundering after her.

She leaned along her mare’s neck, using the ends of the reins as a whip to urge greater speed. She remembered somewhere ahead a point where the path diverged. If she took the wrong fork, would the warrior behind her automatically take the correct one, losing her? Or would she have a better chance of escape if she dismounted, hiding in the woods as she sent the mare on without her?

The cold mist wet her face, streaming back from her eyelids like chilled tears. Her heart was pounding with fear and excitement. Her cloak fluttered and flapped around her, slapping against the straining horse. The sharp hooves of the mare cut into the rich loam of the trail, throwing it up in clods. In Elise’s nostrils was the smell of the wet, dank woods, the warm horse, and the damp wool of her cloak. The fork in the path loomed ahead of her. She had not made a decision. Without checking, she took the correct turning, trusting blindly to the Arabian blood of her mount to give her greater speed.