Heaven in His Arms (10 page)

"Obviously."

"I can't watch you always, though looking at you now ..." He released the tress upon her bosom, letting his fingers graze the swell of her breast. "I can think of only one thing I'd want to do more."

Genevieve drew in a deep, ragged breath. She saw something, bold and unguarded, in his tawny eyes. She'd seen that look a hundred times before. The knowledge came to her, swift and sure, as undeniable as the sound of the wind soughing in the pines above their heads.

He wants me.

She hadn't expected this, not yet. She'd expected him to avoid her until he was sure she would make it to that chewywagon place; she'd expected him to watch her like a hawk during the trials and tribulations of the journey, to test her, to judge if she were, worthy to be his wife. That's why he'd brought her out here, she'd concluded after a day of thought. Yet here he was, on the first day of the voyage, alone with her in the woods, staring at her as if she were some sort of succulent dessert.

I'm supposed to want this, to submit to this
. The voices she had heard earlier this morning clamored in her head, but they were dull now, muffled by some other, stronger sound, something new, something that she had never heard before. It was a primitive music, unfamiliar and yet familiar, strange and potent, full of sensation and emotion, rising from a primal source, deeper than any instinct. It had no words, no voice, no reason, and it surged in her from a place far too distant and far too deep for her to control. She stared at the tall man before her, watching the stripes of light illuminate his hair, the fire grow in his eyes, and Genevieve knew that somehow he was the source of this new feeling.

She smelled the damp, smoke-ripened skin of his shirt, saw the sudden gleam of his eyes as she dropped her hand from where it lay protectively against the laces of her bodice. Words rushed to her lips, words she knew she shouldn't say. But she found herself thinking that it was right to encourage him, that once their marriage was consummated all would be secure, all would be right, and her battle would be finished, even though she sensed in her heart that there was more to this than she could yet understand.

She dared to reach for him, to finger the frayed fringe of his sleeve. "We could stay here for a while," she whispered. "The men wouldn't interrupt us."

A muscle moved in his cheek. His nostrils flared. He reached out and buried his hand in her hair, lifting it so it was lit by the last ray of the sun. Then he let it slip, tress by tress, through his fingers. "Such a brazen bride." His voice was tight, controlled. "You're supposed to be frightened, little Marie, not staring at me like this."

She slid her hand from his shirt. "Don't call me that."

"You are a bold wife," he murmured. "Too damned bold for your own good."

"No. Not. . . not that."

Genevieve dropped her gaze. Perhaps she was being too bold. She had to be careful . . . careful. In her veins ran the blood of her mother—that had become clear enough in Paris. But that was not what bothered her. This was the first time he had called her by her false name, and it jarred against her ears.

She had prepared for this long ago, but she didn't expect to have to lie now, when her tongue was thick in her throat and her senses whirled in confusion. This was too important to her. If she were to be his wife, she couldn't stand to hear another woman's name on his lips until her dying day.

"No one ever calls me Marie,'' she said with a shrug. "There were a thousand Maries in the Salpetriere."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Genevieve."

"Ah, yes." He traced her cheek. "You nearly wrote that name on the parish register."

She started. "I did?"

"You were so delirious that one of the other girls had to remind you of your name." His finger slipped to her mouth and rubbed her lower lip. "It fits you somehow. Marie is such a common name for such an uncommon woman. Genevieve. ..."

Time stopped. The whole world condensed to this one place, to this one moment in time. The last ray of light died, bathing them in a dusky blue glow. She heard the river lapping gently against the stones. She heard his slow, ragged breathing; she felt the warmth of his body; she watched a hundred emotions pass through his eyes. Genevieve waited, interminably, for him to lean just that one inch closer and take what was already his.

Instead, he passed his hand over her breast, then cupped its fullness in his palm.

She flinched at first but did not move away. His touch was gentle, not what she'd expected. Shadows swathed his face, and she could see nothing but the glitter in his eyes. He squeezed her breast tenderly. Her nipple hardened against his palm. Her knees felt ridiculously weak and her heart pounded in her chest, though she stood as still as a doe sensing danger. Come, Genevieve, you 're no shrinking innocent. Come, come, you know something of the lusts of men. She knew he could feel her heartbeat through the layers of chemise and boned bodice. His hands were so warm on her body, the skin of his callused fingers scraping where he touched the bare skin above the sagging edge of her bodice.

And he touched her gently . . . gently. No roughness, no harshness here. He kept touching her, making her feel something . . . something strange. Perhaps a taste of what a man feels when he wants a woman.

She was swimming, swimming . . . and these were unfamiliar waters.

The silence stretched on. She grasped his upper arms and swayed slightly, as if the solid rock beneath her feet had suddenly broken off from the shore and floated into the river. She wanted to understand these strange feelings. She wanted him to kiss her, as he had once before, and show her how it could be between a man and a woman.

"I thought you would be like this," he said, his voice strangely ragged. He brushed his thumb against the rigid peak of her breast. "All needles and sparks on the outside, but on the inside, pure molten fire."

Of course . . . She should have known that her mother's blood would flow true through her, that she could never escape it. She pressed her hand against his own, forcing his fingers hard on her breast, reacting by instinct again, even as some secret part of her bucked against the truth. "Andre ..."

He swooped down upon her. She welcomed his lips, closing her eyes as they moved over hers, demanding, greedy, hungry. His arms wound around her and crushed her against his solid frame. His unshaven cheeks prickled her skin. He tasted of tobacco and heat and passion, and as he forcefully bent her head back and parted her lips, she went limp in his strong arms. Genevieve felt as weightless as an autumn leaf being buffeted about in a tempest, but before she could lose herself completely, before the winds of passion swept her away, he released her and left her standing, swaying, alone.

"I didn't come out here for this." His breath was uncertain as he ran a hand through his long hair. "I came out here to bring you back."

"Stay."

"Sacrebleu."
He stepped away as if she had struck him. "Do you want to lose your virginity within shouting distance of the men," he asked hoarsely, "with your skirts bunched around your waist and your back hard against the forest floor?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She couldn't tell him that the thought of his strong body poised above hers had robbed her of the power of speech, that it had brought with it a rush of other memories, cold, hard, and ugly, rusted daggers from a past she had determined to forget.

"Jesus!" He turned and strode into the forest. "Come now, back to the campsite ... before I fulfill my own damned prophecy."

***

Genevieve gripped the gunwale of the canoe, her fingers raw and stiff from clamping the lashed edge. All around her the river seethed in fury, whipping up a froth as thick and white as milk as it tumbled down a bed of worn stones. Here and there, jagged edges of bare rock thrust from the boiling cauldron, stopping slick tongues of current and transforming them into torrents of foam. Sudden eruptions of spray thrust high from the roiling surface of the river, then slapped down like thunder. Powerful whirlpools eddied in secluded bays along the steep banks, churning fallen branches and slender tree trunks into slivers of splintered wood.

In the midst of the froth and the spray, in the mouth of the current, stood Andre. The water pounded against his bare chest as he clung to one side of the canoe. He steered the vessel upstream, keeping the fragile birch bark away from the bank and maneuvering it around the boulders hidden beneath the churning surface of the river. His hair, dripping with water, clung to his head and neck, and periodically he would shake it and send the glittering spray whirling around him.

A rope tied to the canoe's curved bow led to the shore, where Tiny and Wapishka pulled the canoe forward as they stumbled over rocks and stumps and climbed over trees growing out of the solid stone. The other voyageurs traveled a steep path farther inland, carting over land most of the merchandise that had cluttered the vessel, to protect it from damage and to make the boat lighter and easier to maneuver. Andre had suggested, with a wicked smile, that she ride in the canoe while he pulled it upstream.
It will give you a taste,
he said,
of the voyage to come.
Now she clung to her bumpy, uncertain seat on one of the cedar ribs in the canoe's half-empty belly, watching him battle the powerful currents that vibrated the canoe's thin rind. Despite the weathered wooden crosses that dotted the shore, evidence of the loss of life along this stretch of white water, she felt no fear. The roar and tumble of the rapids filled her with breathless awe, as did the sight of her bare-chested husband, waist-deep in the wild fury, his arm muscles bulging and his ripple of ribs pressing against his gleaming sides.

Tiny stopped and waved from his perch atop a bare elevated clump of rock, yelling something to her that was lost in the noise and tumult but was understood by Andre. Andre loosened his grip on the side of the canoe and guided it forward, letting the gummed edge graze his rippled abdomen. She wanted to ask how much longer they must fight through these rapids, but her tongue lay thick and unresponsive in her mouth. Talk was a waste of energy, anyway, for the current roared and dispersed all sound, and his efforts were concentrated on directing the canoe farther upstream to a place where the men could pole or paddle again. Andre took a position near her, at the widest part of the canoe. His smoldering golden gaze alit on her briefly, as it had a dozen times since they'd left the campsite.

Her cheeks burned as he pushed the canoe into deeper water to avoid an outcropping of stone and earth. They had exchanged no more than a few words since last night. After their kiss, she had followed him back to the campsite and lain down on a fragrant, springy bed of spruce boughs the voyageurs had made for her, but sleep had eluded her. During the night, her thoughts had tormented her worse than the little gnat! the men called mosquitoes. She told herself she must encourage him, she must seduce him. Once their marriage was consummated, she'd have a name, a wealthy husband, and a home in truth, not just in name.

Still, there was something more to her boldness than cold-blooded utility, something she was afraid to name. On a practical level, she must seduce him. What bothered her was the part of her heart that yearned for . . . something. If she admitted to those feelings, then she would be admitting to a nature she'd been determined to suppress; she'd be admitting that her enemies had been right.

Genevieve clutched the cedar rib behind her as a contrary current surged around the outcropping and jerked the canoe to one side, bringing her attention back to the dangers of the moment. Andre's knuckles whitened on the gunwale as he stopped and searched for safe footing on the cold, slick rocks beneath the surface. He took another step forward. The water reached his chest. A stinging spray spattered endlessly over the edge of the canoe.

It seemed to take hours to inch past the outcropping, for the current pounded down upon them, harder with each of Andre's steps. The rope attached to the bow of the canoe hung heavy with water, though Tiny and Wapishka tried their best to keep it taut and firm. Slowly, carefully, Andre eased the canoe past the outcropping and into a small bay. Genevieve felt the lessening of the current through the thin bark. Her ears rang as the roar of the water eased, and she dared to dry her soaking face as fewer and fewer waves crashed against the bow and soaked her with the frigid spray. She sat straighter in the vessel as she smelled burning tobacco, evidence that the voyageurs had stopped their work to smoke one of their frequent pipes. On the shore, she saw Julien fighting yet another baptism in the frigid waters of the Ottawa River.

Genevieve glanced at her husband. His chest heaved and his breath was audible now, out of the thunder of the white water. Red welts rose on his skin at the level of his dark nipples, evidence of the force of the current. Veins bulged like bluish lead wires over his biceps and along his knotted forearms. As the water level fell to his hips, some of his men splashed into the bay to help unload the canoe.

Andre draped his arms over the rim of the canoe as the men approached. Water dripped from his chin and ran in rivulets over his chest, sprinkled with whorls of golden hair. Genevieve rose from the belly of the canoe and sat on the middle lath, arching her back and pressing a hand against the soreness caused by the cedar rib bumping into her spine. She was intensely aware of her husband's eyes on her body.

"Well, wife, how did you like your ride?"

She winced and glanced sideways at him. "I feel like a bean in a baby's rattle."

"It's going to get worse." He wiped his dripping chin with his forearm. "There's twelve more miles of this before we hit calm water."

Genevieve ignored his lopsided grin. She wasn't worried about the journey taking its heavy toll of her. She had been through worse . . . much, much worse. She was worried that there were twelve more miles of watching him in action, and she was wondering how long she would have to pretend to ignore his fascinating, powerful, half-naked body, like the lady she was supposed to be, before she was caught staring at him as no gentlewoman should.

She nodded toward the banks, where the men gathered among piles of merchandise. "Why are we unloading the canoes here?"

"There's a waterfall less than a mile ahead." He reached into the canoe and slid his bulging arms beneath her back and knees. "We've got to portage around it."

She wound her arms around his neck, feeling the cordons still taut and hard from the exertion. His bare chest was slick and as cold as the river water. He smelled clean and wet . . . and felt very naked.

Suddenly, she felt very hot.

As soon as he reached dry land, Andre released her onto the shore, turned around, and returned to the canoe. Genevieve stood upon the banks and watched the back of his lean thighs flex as he splashed into the water, but her leisurely perusal was interrupted as the men swiftly brushed by her, running from the bank to the canoe, unloading what remained in the vessels and piling the merchandise in some sort of mysterious order upon the shore. She scattered away from the activity, rinding an elevated post to arch her aching back and watch the preparations. Another canoe rounded the outcropping and eased its way into the bay, and soon the men were hard at work unloading its wares. The voyageurs helped each other strap kegs and bales onto their backs in a sort of rope harness. Genevieve watched in horror as Tiny heaved three
pactons
on his back and adjusted the thick leather strap around his forehead. She knew that each of those packages weighed almost as much as she did.

"If you keep watching him, he'll add a fourth for pride's sake."

She started and glanced over her shoulder. Andre wrestled into his shirt, which grew damp on his chest and shoulders. Genevieve nodded toward Tiny. "He'll hurt himself if he tries to carry all that."

"He'll do the entire portage with that load if it kills him in the process." Andre stood close enough for her to feel the damp heat emanating from his body. "At least there's one advantage to having a Frenchwoman around."

"What, exactly, does that mean?"

"It means my men are acting like roosters in a henhouse, brawling and puffing out their chests for your sake alone.'' He ran a hand over the spiky bristles of his unshaven chin. "We'll either finish this portage in half the time, or we'll end up with twice the injuries."

"Your men are braggarts all, by the sound of the stories they swapped over the camp fire last night. If I weren't around, they'd just try to outdo one another." She brushed a tendril of damp hair off her neck. "Perhaps, if you strain yourself, you can think of another advantage of having a wife."

His smoky gaze fell upon her, dipping to where her headrail clung to her swelling bosom. Her breath gathered in her lungs. No . . . she would not take it Back. She had to say things so recklessly seductive if she was ever going to get this man in her bed. For the jut lire, she told herself. For survival, and for no other reason.

"The only other women we've ever taken on these Journeys were Indians. If you were a squaw, you'd be expected to paddle, to carry the canoe, to strike camp, to tend to the fires, and to carry nearly as much as Tiny."

"So heathens treat their women as badly as white men, then."

"Are you complaining?"

"I have reason enough. Since I've met you, you've tried to bury me, abandon me, divorce me, and now you're suggesting I work like a common laborer."

" Can you at least cook?"

"Cook!" She glanced toward the shore, where the cook heaved a huge copper cauldron on his shoulders. "It wouldn't take much imagination. We've been eating sagamite since we left Montreal, and the venison your cook flavors it with is getting as tough as leather."

"Sorry, wife, but we left the royal chef in Paris."

"It seems you left your wits in Paris, too, my husband, if you can't think of anything else to do with a wife but put her to work over a cauldron."

He thrust her case at her. "Here are the fripperies you insisted on taking with you. I warned you you'd have to carry them. They should feel like a hundred pounds in a few hours."

"You'll thank me for these fripperies when we reach that chewywagon place." She gripped the handle of her case, battered and wet, and nodded to the men upon the shore. "Maybe you should ask them what they would do if they had a French wife—Oh!"

"They would drag you into the bushes and roll you in the mud whenever the urge struck them." He swung her about to face him. "They would paw you like an animal in public. Is that what you want?"

Genevieve tilted her chin. She'd gone too far. She was supposed to act like an innocent, fainting young lady, when the truth was that since last night, part of her could think of little else but laying with this man when a woman like Marie Duplessis should dread it as a despicable duty.

"Jesus! Didn't the nuns at that charity house teach you anything?" His fingers tightened on her arm. "When a man makes a proposition like that, you're supposed to strike him or, at the very least, look at him in horror."

"I was under the impression that we were married, and such behavior was acceptable."

"Acceptable!?"

"If I can't believe my husband when it comes to such matters, whom can I believe?"

"You can't possibly be that innocent."

Genevieve tried to blush but knew she failed miserably. She looked away in a manner that she hoped was demure and shy.

Andre groaned and released her abruptly. "Christ! The ultimate innocence. Absolute trust in a husband."

She blinked, feigning surprise, sensing a crack in his armor. "Are you suggesting that what you said was improper?"

"No." He combed his fingers through his hair. "Not exactly."

"Then it's my duty to 'roll with you in the mud,' no matter how messy it sounds." The devil whispered in her ear and she gave him voice. She leaned toward him. "There must be a dozen bushes along this portage. If it's your wish—"

"There'll be no bushes for us, Genevieve." Andre stepped back. A muscle flexed in his cheek. "You're making it very difficult for me to consider your welfare."

"I'm trying to honor my vows. Except for some scratches and bruises from twigs and roots, I can't imagine it could be unhealthy—"

"It's going to be a long voyage. Save your strength for survival, not seduction."

She let her gaze drop to the stretch of glistening golden chest revealed by the V of his shirt. "Seduction doesn't seem to take much effort."

"Survival will," he growled. He gestured to the edge of the clearing, where some of the men, already bent forward under the weight of packets and kegs, headed up a small path into the forest. "You'll need to follow those men. If some of my men catch up to you, let them pass. Wait wherever they pile the merchandise. We'll have to do several runs before we get it all to the end of the portage. And don't veer off the path. We won't have time to search for you later."