The Pelican Bride (29 page)

Eyes squeezed shut, she crammed her fist against her mouth to keep from groaning aloud.
Think. Nika, think
. She could not. Thought burned in a flaming burst of fear. Then something Ginette had once said came to her.
When my father was
murdered, all I could do was pray. And God came
to visit me in my anguish. Just like he did
for men and women of the Bible. He came.

God?

It was a weak, tentative plea. She didn’t even know how to ask for help. But he could see her. Yes, and he saw Mitannu. Her little boys too. Had she been a bad wife in trying to keep them safe? But she had to ask.

Please show
me what to do.

Bit by bit her shivers stopped. The fear was still there, a knife at her throat, but as she gained control of her body, she opened her eyes, slowly turned her head, and looked over the rim of the bluff.

What she saw almost made her smile. Mitannu and five braves, all adorned in Koasati war regalia, knelt in the creek shallows, noisily slurping the water like dogs.

I am but a woman, fearful and weak,
she told herself,
one against six proven warriors. But with
God I am all my children need. After all, he
gave them to me, and he has kept me hidden
thus far.

Her heart lightened. What she must do now was stay out of
sight, follow Mitannu, and see if he led her to where he had hidden the boys. Surely she would think of what to do next.

She relaxed. But just as she did so, Mitannu abruptly raised his head, water dripping from his yellow-and-red-striped chin. His narrowed gaze pointed right at her.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

16

D
ark had fallen by the time Tristan cleaned the turkey, roasted it, and shared the meat with his French companions as well as the three young Koasati braves. It was a big bird, but it didn’t go as far as he’d hoped.

Still, the young natives seemed almost friendly as they licked the grease from their fingers, and patted their lean stomachs with satisfaction. The leader with the Roman nose, who called himself something unpronounceable that translated to “Fights With Bears,” got to his feet with fluid grace and addressed Tristan. “You will come with us. My father wishes to meet the leader of the French brothers.”

Tristan exchanged alarmed glances with Marc-Antoine. What the Indians wanted was a hostage.

“We will all come,” Marc-Antoine said, “first thing in the morning.”

“My father will not be pleased if I disobey.” The boy’s chin was set on stubborn lines. “One of you must come now.”

“Marc-Antoine, I will go with them.” Father Mathieu rose. “I will be honored to meet the headman.” The priest had eaten his share of the meal quietly, watching the gestures and body language
of the young Indian men and listening to Marc-Antoine’s and Tristan’s part in the conversation. Clearly he had picked up on the gist of the present dilemma.

“No!” Tristan stepped between Mathieu and the Indians, though he doubted Fights With Bears understood the priest’s words. He spoke in rapid French. “Father, you mustn’t go alone. They speak peace now, but the northern tribes have been known to murder our priests on a whim. Besides, they want our leader—and that would be me.” He eyed his brother, warning him silently to back down.

But Marc-Antoine of course would have none of that. He too was on his feet. “This is my responsibility, Tristan. The chief will respect my uniform.”

“He might, but more likely he would take it as a sign of aggression. There’s been no indication of hostility so far,” he added, discounting his less than friendly initial encounter with the natives, “but if something should go wrong tonight, you must stay alive to carry word back to Mobile. Do you think Bienville will be pleased if his best officer and translator is murdered?”

Marc-Antoine flushed. “I don’t care what Bienville thinks—”

“Yes you do.” Tristan mutely sought the priest’s support. “For whatever reason, maybe simply because they met me first, they think I’m in charge here. Marc, there was a reason you insisted I come along.” He softened his tone, praying his brother would give in. “Diplomacy is my gift. Now let me use it.”

Marc-Antoine’s jaw worked for a moment, then he gave a rough chuckle. “Oh, all right. You could talk the squirrels out of the trees, I swear. But please, come back to me with your scalp intact, or your bride will be relieving me of mine!”

Weak-kneed with relief, Tristan grinned. “You don’t know how true that is.” As he bent to pick up his musket, bow, and quiver, which lay near Mathieu’s feet, he murmured, “Father, please don’t mention our earlier conversation to anyone until I return. I haven’t decided what I want to do about it.”

The priest gave a reluctant nod. “Be careful. Much rides upon your safe return.”

“I will.” As he turned to leave with the three Koasati boys, he looked over his shoulder. His brother stood feet planted wide apart, arms crossed in clear mutiny. But he was safe, thank God.

Tristan had yet to break his promise to their father.

Julien had quite made up his mind.

In fact, he had planned on the morrow to apply to the commander for permission to declare himself to Mademoiselle Aimée Gaillain and ask for her hand in marriage. Circumstances being what they were, however, he feared it might be several days before he became free to do so.

In short, he had been assigned to guard duty, a task for which he was eminently overqualified. But Bienville was adamant. Only a senior officer could be trusted to make sure mad Ysabeau Bonnet remained inside the guardhouse, and that all male visitors be kept out.

He shifted his chair, propped on two legs against the gallery wall, into a more comfortable angle, wishing the Bonnet girl to perdition—where she was bound to go anyway, her crimes being of such a diabolical nature that even lazy Father Henri wasn’t likely to accept a bribe in return for absolution. He could hear her through the high barred window now, singing like a drunken siren.
Go to sleep, Colas, my little brother, go to sleep,
you will have your milk.

That she had dropped the Lemay infant into the well was beyond doubt. No one was sure if she had killed him first.

Julien shook his head and sighed. A nastier web of machinations he had yet to see. The grieving parents—perhaps instigated by Father Henri or La Salle—blamed Bienville for the child’s death, claiming that he had starved from lack of milk. Though Bienville
sympathized and agreed to restrain poor Ysabeau, lest in her madness she commit further atrocities, he refused to accept responsibility for the tragedy.

Personally, Julien thought the girl should be hanged or shot at dawn, and thus released from her misery. Even if she were cleared of infanticide, no man in full retention of his senses was likely to take her on in marriage—or any other relationship, for that matter.

In any case, he had more pressing concerns. He would give much to know how his plans were proceeding in the northern Alabama woods. Mitannu had been most receptive to the suggestion of annihilating the man who had cuckolded him and foisted two bastards upon him. That the savage was also likely to murder his wife and the two boys was an unfortunate side consequence. Nika was a beautiful woman, as well as a useful agent, and Julien had once considered taking her for his mistress. Had she been willing, events might now be proceeding in an entirely different manner. One must, however, cede small pleasures for the greater good.

The greater good, specifically of Julien Dufresne, meant that in colonial matters, the French Crown must yield to the English one. Since it was only a matter of time before England overcame Louis’s feeble attempts to claim this shifting bog known as Louisiane, Julien had no qualms about benefiting from Queen Anne’s inevitable conquest over the southern Indian tribes—as evidenced by the Alabaman resistance to Julien’s covert trade lures. By that time, if all went according to plan, he should be safely ensconced in his ancestral home in the Cévennes.

But first he would need to make sure Tristan Lanier did not survive to supersede him.

So deep in his thoughts was he that he did not hear Aimée’s approach until she was all but upon him. The front legs of his chair hit the porch with a thump as he leaped to his feet. “Aimée! Mademoiselle!” Caught off-guard, he struggled to make out her features in the gloaming. Her pale face gleamed like alabaster in
the moonlight, the blue of her dress a ghostly shade. She really was a little objet d’art. “Is something amiss?”

“No, why should you think so?” She stepped closer to the edge of the gallery, but her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her. “I only came to make sure Ysette is comfortable . . . and to see if you had dined as well. I brought you some blackberry tartlets.” She showed him the basket over her arm. “I made them.”

“Did you? How kind.” He looked for a chaperone behind her and found none. The slight tremor of her voice told him she knew how improper this meeting was. He relaxed. Mademoiselle Aimée was a minx. He took his time descending the shallow steps from the gallery to the ground.

“Here.” She shoved the basket toward him. “I must go back to—”

“I wish you would stay and keep me company,” he murmured, taking the basket with one hand and her warm fingers with the other. “It is so lonely out here with only crazy Ysabeau singing to me.”

That was a mistake. Aimée stopped looking at him to focus on the open window behind him. “Do you think she really did it?”

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything. That fool René Connard has gone over to the Spanish, and they refuse to deport him. He knows enough about artillery development to be somewhat useful to them, and now those of us to whom he owes money are out of luck.” Stifling his irritation, Julien made the effort to focus on his little sweetheart. “But look how my luck has turned just now! The most beautiful woman in New France has come to bring me a treat. What must I do to convince you to stay and share it with me?”

“You mustn’t tease me.” She pulled her fingers coyly from his. “I’m not the most beautiful woman in New France.”

“No, you are the most beautiful lady in all of Europe and the Americas.” He slid his arm around her waist and drew her close. She smelled of lavender and sandalwood, and she was so petite that her curls brushed his chin. “I hope you came to share more than a pastry.”

“I don’t know what you—”

He kissed her, sure that she would belong to him soon.

But he wasn’t particularly surprised when she puckered her lips and pulled away. “You must not!”

He supposed the real fear in her voice was to be expected. “I know I mustn’t, but I can hardly help myself, you are so very lovely.” He dropped the wretched basket on the ground and seized her hard in both arms. “I was going to ask the Commander for you on the morrow, but I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

“You were? I mean, you are? Oh Julien!” She beamed at him. “Then Ginette will have nothing more to say, and you will build us a house, and we shall have half a dozen beautiful children!”

He ignored the blithe reference to imaginary children. “Why do you think your sister is so adamantly opposed to our marriage?”

A tiny frown drew together her perfect brows. “It isn’t like her to be spiteful, but she thinks you have been spying on her. I told her you don’t care one bit about her silly religion. The King is nowhere near to sending dragoons here to arrest dissenters as they did my papa. One church is as good as another, as long as the proprieties are observed. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course I do,
cherie
, as I told Ginette the day we walked to the village together. But she insists that her God is a rigid, colorless Reformer who loathes our beautiful Madonnas and the music of the Mass, and anything else reeking, as she says, of ritual and tradition.”

Aimée chewed her lip. “That doesn’t sound like Ginette . . .”

“She doesn’t want to hurt you, my dear. I had hoped that by getting her alone that day, I could sway her from these foolish and dangerous notions.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid she remains quite adamant.”

“It’s all the fault of that wretched Jean Cavalier! Ginette has always harbored a sort of hero-worship for him.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Julien, you won’t tell anyone,
will you? I’m so angry with her, but I truly wouldn’t want her to be in trouble!”

Jean Cavalier? The Black Camisard who had been leading His Majesty’s dragoons in a merry dance in the south of France? This was even more than Julien had hoped.

He half closed his eyes to hide his excitement. “No, never. Of course I wish only to protect you and your foolish sister.” Julien drew Aimée to the gallery steps and tucked her close to his side with an arm around her tiny waist. “Is there . . . anything in writing that would incriminate her?”

Aimée was silent for a moment. “No, I don’t—oh wait! There is her Bible. Cavalier gave it to Papa—and Ginette managed to retrieve it before we left the Cévennes. I see her reading it every so often, and there’s what looks like a note in it . . . that she always hides when she sees me coming. I think it could be a note from Cavalier himself.” She clutched Julien’s coat. “Oh, Julien! Do you think they would—arrest her, if it were found in her possession?”