Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (70 page)

Desire flooded in upon her, swirling in her veins, heating her skin, settling with aching vulnerability in the lower part of her body. A soft cry gathered in her throat, and she barely suppressed it. Panic assaulted her. This was too magical, too cataclysmic. It might well be a binding thing, a necessity for which even happy widows remarried. She had been wrong to think it could be used so easily. She wanted to stop it, to go back to the way things had been before, but she knew in some corner of her mind that it was too late. Too late.

Her strength of will was gone, transmuted into rich and acquiescing languor. She spread her hand over René’s back, avoiding his bandaging, and was bemused by the ripple of the muscles under the skin and the scorch of his lips in the valley between her breasts. She shifted, allowing him to draw the chemise slowly down the length of her body and to follow its retreat with delicate application of mouth and tongue.

Oh, he knew the curves and hollows of a woman’s body, knew the careful and patient attention required to set them aflame. He was a tender invader, a bringer of rapture and joy. Cyrene lay, pulsing and entranced, lapped in beguiling waves of pleasure. Captivated by the splendor of it, and the wonder, she drifted in voluptuous acceptance that had yet a shivering edge of distress. Powerless in the grasp of ecstasy, she fretted at the soft sounds, the strained breathing, the soft rustling of the pallet, and the sense of fleeting time. And yet she could not deny the turbulent pressure building inside her, the urgent need that hovered, waiting.

The bright ravishment rushed in upon her so suddenly that she arched against him with a cry locked in her throat and her hands clutching his arms in a grip of ferocious power. Swiftly he stripped away the breeches he wore for sleeping and eased between her thighs. His entry, heated and stretching, brought an instant of burning anguish that eased, miraculously, as he pressed deeper. Her breath of relief and of glimpsed glory fanned his shoulder.

He moved upon her then with careful strength, and she thrust against him, rising to meet the tumult of his need that had been so long denied, so valiantly withheld, encompassing it with her own. Together in the darkness, fused yet shadowed and apart, they strained toward the ineffable grandeur that waited. It ignited around them, a brightness to meld or to destroy, to vanquish or to offer the rare gift of grace, and so brilliant was it that only time could reveal the difference.

5

THE FLATBOAT BEGAN to swing on its mooring ropes toward dawn. Thunder grumbled low overhead. The wind whistled around the cabin’s roof, fluttering at the corners. Cyrene came awake in a rush. She stared into the darkness for a long moment, disoriented by the solidity of the floor under her and the odd confinement of her position on her side when she should be rocking in comfort in her hammock. Then she remembered.

René lay at her back with his long body curled around her. His arm was across her waist with his fingers curved at her breast. She could feel the ridges of muscles on his legs and the roughness of his body hair against her own nakedness. The comfort of his warmth surrounded her under the bearskin that covered them, though the air she breathed was cool.

She had not meant to fall asleep with him. It was unbelievable to her that she had spent most of the night lying so close in his arms. Even now she was reluctant to move, though cramped muscles urged her to stretch. It was not that she had any liking for how she was placed, not at all; it was only that she would rather not wake René at this moment. She first needed to collect herself, to repair her defenses and decide how she must behave toward him.

It was also necessary to decide what she must do now. If the purpose of losing her virginity was to convince the Bretons to give her more freedom, they must be informed, therefore, that she was no longer intact. The difficulties in doing that suddenly appeared enormous.

They would not be pleased. That was a major consideration, but not so great a one as how she was to find the words to convey her new status. She did not fear Pierre and Jean, not for herself; they had never attempted to impose discipline upon her, never raised a hand to her. It was, she realized, their disapproval and their disappointment with her that she dreaded.

What they would do to René was another matter entirely. That had always been at the back of her mind; still, an aspect of it that she had not considered was that she would be responsible for whatever was visited upon him. He was in no real condition to defend himself just now. Under normal circumstances there would be little cause for concern; when René was free of injury, he would doubtless be equal to most situations, particularly those of this nature. Past experience would probably aid him tremendously.

That last rather acid thought disturbed her. His experience was no concern of hers, had, in fact, been to her benefit. Not that she wished to think of the manner in which it had proven useful. Certainly not. Though on consideration she could recall little indication that René’s injuries had affected his ability as a lover the night before. There had, perhaps, been a little more care and tenderness and less vigor in his treatment of her, but she did not think it had anything to do with his strength or lack of it. That was a bit puzzling, but also a relief. She was glad to know that he would not be defenseless against her protectors.

Nor would he be caught off guard. He was no more asleep than she was. How she knew, she was not certain; he had not moved or made a sound. Still, she would swear that he lay alert and intent. She considered it while thunder muttered once more over the wide river beyond the dipping, swaying flatboat.

Abruptly she knew what had given him away. It was the tension in his muscles. There was good cause for it. Beyond the curtained doorway, there was a shifting sound and a slight creak as one of the Bretons left his hammock, Pierre from the position of the sound. An instant later, there came the blossoming yellow glow as a tallow dip was lighted. It would be the storm that had disturbed him, that and the wild swing of the flatboat. The mooring ropes would need checking.

Cyrene made a small, convulsive movement, as if she would spring up and leap for her hammock. René’s arm tightened around her. She subsided. He was right, it would be better to make no sudden sound, no violent moves that might draw attention. On the other hand, the curtain closing off the cubicle was almost always looped up at night after she had dressed for bed. That it was down might arouse suspicion.

But if it did, what of it? Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wouldn’t it be better to be discovered than to have to make a stumbling explanation?

Cyrene relaxed, lying perfectly still. Her nakedness under the bearskin brushed her mind with an instant of embarrassment, but she refused to regard it. If she and René were found out, it would be because it was meant. Such fatalism was soothing to her strained nerves, even if it was a sham.

The outer door of the cabin opened and closed. The sound of footsteps moving about on the outside deck came clearly through the walls. Overhead, the rain began to spatter on the split cypress shingles. It fell harder, taking on a wet resonance. Then the cabin door banged open, letting in a rush of wind that flapped the door curtain, sucking it outward into the cabin. Beneath it, Cyrene saw Pierre standing in the outer doorway with the rainswept darkness behind him. He was staring straight at her.

There was the thud of bare feet. The curtain was thrown aside. Pierre stood over them, his face contorted with rage and pained disbelief.

“Cyrene!”

She sat up, clutching the bearskin cover to her chest. A heated flush mounted to her face. She had not expected the guilt that pressed in upon her. It robbed her of speech and made her feel as chastened as a wayward child. Beside her, René raised himself to a sitting position also and began with deliberate movements to put on his breeches.

“What does this mean?” It was Jean who spoke, moving to stand behind his brother. Gaston, rousing in his hammock, peered past them with his eyes widening with shock.

Cyrene could not answer. It was René who spoke. “I would think,” he said, his tone dry, “that the meaning is obvious.”

The remark drew Pierre’s fire, as it was meant to do. “Name of a name! Is this the way you repay us?”

“Oddly enough—” René began.

As Pierre, his blue eyes murderous, started toward him, Cyrene threw up a hand to stop him. “The fault is mine, not his,” she said, her voice tight. “He did nothing that I did not wish.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Jean doubled his fists, putting them on his hips.

“Because it’s true.”

“Impossible! He seduced you, beguiled you with lies.”

She shook back her hair; the action was also a denial. “No. I asked this of him.”

“The way of a whore? Never. You seek to protect him, but it’s no use.” Jean made as if he would push past his older brother. Gaston, his face grim, was on his feet, moving toward the cubicle to join them.

“I need no protection.” René’s voice was armored in steel as he went to one knee. As he faced the Bretons his gaze was level and challenging and without fear. “I will give any one or all of you satisfaction, if you require it, but first you might ask yourselves what reason Cyrene would have for what has been done.”

Jean spat out an epithet, lunging past his brother. Pierre shot out his hand and caught his shirtfront, dragging him to a halt. “Wait,” he said, a dangerous edge to his words, “Lemonnier has a point. Let us hear Cyrene.”

The rain was loud in the sudden quiet. Cyrene’s heart jarred in her chest. She moistened her lips. “The reason is my freedom. I am so tired of being watched and guarded like some prize.”

“You are a prize, one of great value,” Pierre said roughly.

“I’m a person. I want to come and go without having a man always at my side. I want to do what I like, when I like. I want to be free.”

“You don’t know what you say.” The elder Breton made a quick gesture with a hand much-callused in the palm from years of rowing. “Women must be protected.”

“Why? To ensure their purity or their fidelity? There is a difference between protection and imprisonment.”

Pierre stared at her, a frown drawing his brows together. “We never meant to imprison you,
chère,
or to make you unhappy.”

Cyrene clenched her hands on the fur of the buffalo hide. “I haven’t been unhappy, only maddened by the constant vigil held over me. I’ve tried to tell you, but you never listened. I will go mad if it doesn’t stop.”

“And you think this is the way to end it?”

“How better? There will no longer be a need now for your protection.”

“You think not?”

“Why should there be? Unchaste women walk the streets alone day and night, especially at night.”

“You mean to become a whore?” The older man’s tone was dangerously soft.

“Of course not! But such women go unguarded simply because they no longer have anything to lose.”

“You expect us to let you go about the streets now as you please, without escort?”

“Why not?”

“But you don’t wish to be a whore?”

“I told you, no!”

“Who is going to save you from the wolves who will gather when they learn that you have known a man? Who is going to keep you from becoming their prey, their whore?”

Anger and humiliation sparkled in her brown eyes. Never had anyone said such a thing to her, certainly not Pierre Breton. Still, she refused to let him know how he had wounded her. With a lift of her chin, she said, “I’ll protect myself. I have the knife you gave me, and I remember how to use it.”

“You’ll need more than that. You are far too choice a morsel to go unclaimed because of a puny blade or a few lessons from me in cut and thrust.”

René, listening with intent purpose beside Cyrene, spoke suddenly. “I will be her protection.”