The Pelican Bride (2 page)

Boldly she returned his stare. His bony, angular face was outlined by a neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache, with black eyebrows slashing above a pair of fierce brown eyes uncannily like those of the boy who had carried Aimée ashore. Dark hair curled to his shoulders and blew back from a broad, intelligent brow.

“You should know,” he said, “that I only came to pick up supplies. I’m not here for a wife.”

It had been a long time since Tristan had held a woman in his arms. This one was thin, bedraggled, and exceedingly wet. But she held her arms clasped across a nicely shaped bosom and stared
up at him with black-fringed eyes the color of the ocean sloshing around his legs.

Stiff as a wet cat, she fairly hissed. “As if I would want to marry a presumptuous oaf who hoists me over his shoulder like a barrel of flour and then insults me without bothering to introduce himself.”

“I am Tristan Lanier,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m s—”

“Put me down. I’ll take my chances with the sink holes.”

And then he saw the tears. Pity curbed his initial impulse to dump her onto her curvy derriere in the sand. He released her legs but kept a steady arm across her back. “The sand is firm here. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” She would have stepped away, but her legs buckled. “Oh!” she gasped as he caught her, pulling her hard against him. “The ground is heaving up and down!”

“It will do that for quite some time. Give yourself a minute before you try to—”

But she had already pushed away, staggering onto dry sand, where she stood peering up and down the beach. She had to squint against the sun, which had abruptly come out from behind the clouds.

Tristan followed her gaze. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t see my sister.”

Each of the men who had flocked to the aid of the women in the longboat had collected a prize and headed for shade. The longboat was already on its way back to the ship for another load. Tristan and this woman were alone on the beach.

“Come,” he said, softening his voice. “I’ll take you to the warehouse. That’s where she’ll be.”

She nodded and picked up her soggy skirts to follow him. As they rounded one of the large dunes lumped along the beach, he glanced at her. She looked like a woman who had just awakened from sleep to find herself face-to-face with her nightmare. The
fine sea-green eyes darted right and left at the seagulls wheeling in search of food, and she visibly struggled to maintain her balance. Her small leather boots, cracked and thin, must be little protection against the hot sand.

Halfway up the beach, a tall stand of sea grass blocked the way. Tristan went ahead to hold it back so that she could pass without getting slapped in the face. On the other side of it, she stopped, putting a hand briefly on his forearm.

“Monsieur Lanier, I must beg your forgiveness. I have been unkind in the face of your assistance.” She bit her lip, looking away. “My—my distress is no excuse for lack of gratitude.”

“Apology accepted, mademoiselle.”

A faint smile curved her lips and found her eyes, turning her from a pinched-face harridan into a starkly lovely young woman. Her hair was drying in dark waves that gleamed in the strong sun with umber and bronze lights, and there was a charming sprinkle of freckles across her straight nose. She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen years old.

She grabbed the blowing tresses with a self-conscious yank and twisted them into an impromptu knot at the back of her head. “In the absence of correct social protocols, m’sieur, I must introduce myself. I am Mademoiselle Geneviève Gaillain, late of Rochefort.” She dipped a curtsey whose grace was marred only in the slightest by an unsteady step backward into the sea grass.

Tristan grabbed her wrist before she could go rolling down the hill. “It is my very great honor to make your acquaintance, ma’m’selle.”

She peeked up at him as if gauging his sincerity, but allowed him to help her up and over the dunes. She was quiet as they trudged the remaining distance between the beach and the warehouse at the top of the rise. He could not fathom what had brought such a pretty, engaging young woman to the wilds of Louisiane to find a husband. Were the men in Rochefort blind, deaf, and dumb?

This largest of the structures erected during the French occupation of Massacre Island stood between two open-air sheds and contained, at any given time, varying quantities of consumable products such as flour, sugar, barley, molasses, wine, lard, and meat. Also stuffed under its twelve-foot-high roof one could find piles of wooden shingles, miscellaneous cooking pots, axes, guns, and butcher knives; available as gifts for the Indians were red stockings—the preferred color—as well as handbells and glass beads.

But as Tristan shoved open the warehouse’s warped front door, his supply list fled his mind.

Holding court on a rough three-legged stool just inside the door, hands clasped demurely in her lap, was the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. She blinked up at Tristan’s brother Marc-Antoine with eyes the color of gentian violets, her flaxen curls spilling onto her dainty shoulders from under a white ruffled cap. Her oval face was thin from illness, but the ivory skin gleamed with the purity of a cameo.

Then he caught Marc-Antoine’s dazed eye. His brother looked like he’d run straight into a wall.

Geneviève rushed past him. “Aimée!”

The two women embraced for a scant second before the beauty squealed. “Ooh, Ginette! You’re making me wet again!”

Geneviève pulled away, searching the younger girl’s face. “Are you all right?”

Aimée nodded. “I’ve been well cared for, Sister.” She pursed her sweet lips and flicked a glance at the male audience observing the exchange with slack-jawed interest.

“Indeed?” Geneviève tucked her arm around Aimée’s shoulder and faced the crowd like St. Jeanne d’Arc confronting the English at Orleans.

Clearly Geneviève Gaillain was capable of taking care of her little sister, which put his responsibility for them at an end. And at the moment he had more pressing concerns to discuss with his brother.

Tristan slapped Marc-Antoine’s shoulder. “Come, you promised to help me transport supplies to my boat.”

Marc-Antoine blinked. “Ah. Yes.” He bowed to the two young women, a jerky, little-used courtesy. “Mademoiselles.”

Tristan grabbed his reluctant brother by the sleeve and towed him toward the open doorway of the warehouse. “You’ll have all the time in the world to fix your interest, once the ladies settle in at the fort.”

Marc-Antoine looked over his shoulder. “But what if some other fellow takes up with her before I go off-duty again?”

“Yours was the first face she saw, is that not correct?” His brother had taken the drooping Aimée from her sister’s arms and carried her ashore as gently as a mother with a newborn babe. And the girl’s blue eyes had flickered to Marc-Antoine’s face each time he looked away.

Marc-Antoine shrugged. “Women’s affections, I have noticed, are often swayed by proximity.”

Tristan chuckled. “Then let us hope she will return to your proximity at a more convenient time. I have news from the upper river.”

“News?” Marc-Antoine glanced at him sharply. “What is it?”

Tristan lifted a hand. “Not here.”

Stepping outside the warehouse, Marc-Antoine switched to the tongue of the people among whom he had spent a year as a teenager. “The Alabama? Has something happened to them?”

Tristan answered in the same language. “No, why would you assume that?”

Marc-Antoine’s expression cleared. “What then?”

Tristan lowered his voice. “The British have sent agents to the Koroa—maybe the Kaskaskians as well. If Bienville wishes to protect trade on the upper river, he’d better find a way to convince those Indians that their best interests lie in alliance with us.”

“So they still think to take our territory? We were here first!”

“They’ll never be satisfied until they control the rivers and ports.”
Matching his brother’s angry pace, Tristan shrugged. “But neither will King Louis and Pontchartrain. It’s going to come down to war.”

“We’ll have to send agents of our own to renew Indian alliances.” Marc-Antoine’s expression shifted to a mischievous, engaging grin. “There’s nobody better at that, brother, than you and I.”

Tristan halted. “Oh no. I’m no longer responsible for keeping Bienville out of trouble.”

“You know your own safety depends on the fortunes of Louisiane. Besides, how can you abandon us to this British thievery?”

“You’ll figure it out. In the meantime, how do you plan to get twenty-five women and all their fripperies transported to the fort in two little barques and a fishing boat?”

“We had to send the pinnace to Veracruz for gunpowder.” Marc-Antoine started walking toward the beach, where the longboat could be seen debarking another load of passengers from the
Pélican
. “By the time we got word of the
Pélican
’s arrival, I was the only officer available to meet her.” He waved a hand in irritation. “Well, me and Bienville’s little hound, Dufresne.”

Tristan nodded, grateful that he no longer had to deal with colonial politics. “You should keep an eye on young Dufresne. He’s definitely got something up his sleeve besides his elbow. He was sniffing around La Salle’s office earlier this afternoon—walked off and pretended to be looking for something on the ground when he realized I’d seen him—but there’s something, I don’t know,
off
about the fellow.”

Marc-Antoine rubbed his forehead. “Bienville hired me as an interpreter, not a babysitter.”

“He sent you down here because you can be trusted to do your job.” Tristan threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “So quit whining and do it. And who knows, little brother—you may end up with a wife!”

“It could happen.” Marc-Antoine gave him a sideways look. “Why don’t you visit the settlement? It’s been a long time since you lingered in civilization.”

“Yes, and for good reason. I’ve planted corn this year, and I don’t need to be away for more than a few days.”

“If you cleaned up a bit, there might be a woman crazy enough to go back with you.”

Tristan laughed. “
I’m
not crazy enough to take a Frenchwoman to Lanier Plantation, so get the notion out of your head. You’re all the heir I need.”

“Tristan—”

Tristan stopped him with a cuff on the arm. “Leave be,” he said lightly. “I’m happy with my independence. I come and go as I please, and have to answer to no one but myself. It’s a good life.” As he reminded himself ten times a day.

Marc-Antoine shook his head. “The least you can do is lend your barque to help us transport the young ladies up to the settlement.”

Tristan frowned. “No one takes my boat but me.”

“Then
you
captain her. Tristan, we can’t leave any of those women to fend for themselves here on the island. We haven’t enough men to protect them from . . . well, from the men.” Marc-Antoine laughed. “You know what I mean.”

Tristan looked away, picturing the Gaillain sisters, one damp and flushed with righteous indignation, the other pale and delicate as a butterfly. Neither should be left to the doubtful care of a handful of bored and randy young soldiers.

Conscience defeating pragmatism, he chanced a look at Marc-Antoine and found him grinning. Reluctantly Tristan laughed. “All right. One trip up the river with as many parakeets as you can fit onboard—and that’s all! Then I’ll be on my way—and don’t ask me to stay.”

2

G
eneviève swayed upon the rough wooden bench to which she had been assigned for dinner, her eyes closing of their own volition. Her skirts crackled with dried salt, the nape of her neck itched as if ants had crawled under her collar, and her underarms were chafed raw. In short, she desperately craved a bath.

On the way to dinner, however, Father Mathieu had informed his dazed charges that there would be no time or opportunity for niceties until they reached Fort Louis. And maybe not then. August rains could be “unpredictable,” the priest had admitted, avoiding Geneviève’s gaze.

Squeezing her eyes shut now, she pictured the little mountain creek in which she and Aimée had waded as children, imagined its icy rush wetting her petticoats and turning her bare feet blue with cold. Perhaps she’d never feel cold again. Probably never walk through fresh snow or pick poppies or eat wild chestnut honey . . .

Resolutely she opened her eyes and focused on the sunburnt face of the young soldier seated opposite her at the table. He gave her a shy grin and went back to gobbling his stew.

Neither, she reminded herself as she lifted her own spoon, would she face the horror of watching her home burn to the ground in
the aftermath of civil war. All she had to do was keep her personal beliefs private.

One could live without snow.

“Ginette, when are we going to our beds?”

Geneviève glanced at Aimée, who sat to her left, food untouched. “Soon,
cherie
.” She leaned close to whisper, “They have tried to make us welcome, so we must eat what we can. Besides, you need food for strength.”

“I’m not hungry.” Aimée’s voice wobbled. “I’m tired.”

“Just a little longer, then we can retire.”

“But they keep staring at me.”

Geneviève glanced down the length of the table and found, sure enough, several men with rapturous eyes fixed on Aimée. A young officer notable for a mop of ginger-colored curls, apparently feeling her gaze, nodded without embarrassment and returned to conversation with the man next to him. “They haven’t seen young white women in a long time. They’ll get used to us.”

“I hope so.” Aimée grimaced. “Do you suppose they speak French?”

“I assure you, mademoiselle, we can understand every word you say. We Canadians are Frenchmen, not barbarians.”

Oh dear. Geneviève looked over her shoulder to find a tall, dark-haired man emerging from the shadow of the doorway. With a flood of relief she recognized Tristan Lanier, the man who had carried her ashore this afternoon.

Aimée seemed not to notice the humor in Lanier’s eyes. Her face flushed with hectic color. “I’m very sorry to have offended, monsieur, but one tires of dining like a bird in a cage, with eyes peering at one through the bars.”