BLUE BAYOU ~ Book I (historical): Fleur de Lis (27 page)

§
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE §

Lt. Armand Scoraille tucked his tricorn under his arm and bowed low over Natalie’s hand, his lips brushing her gloved fingertips. “I will call again tomorrow,
madame
, if I may.”

Sh
e withdrew her hand, held by the handsome lieutenant just a fraction too long. Having arrived only several weeks before from Paris, his uniform was in immaculate condition. Soon the sultry heat, even though it was almost October, would convince him that the heavy woolen blue jacket, along with the brown bagwig, was unnecessary for another couple of months at least. However, St. Denis still managed to turn out in splendid array after all those years. “Perhaps another time. I leave tomorrow for Fort Rosalie.”

A frown furrowed the brows over the lieutenant’s light brown eyes. He was merely one more among the throng of men already courting the widow. “Surely, Madame de Gautier, you’re not planning on making the journey yourself?”

She lifted her shoulders prettily. “And why not? I’m half-owner in Louisiana Imports-Exports, I keep the books and select the merchandise to be bought and sold.”

“Well,
naturellement
, I have heard of this business you run so successfully.”

Natalie didn’t bother to inform the officer that it wasn’t so much business that sent her to Fort Rosalie as it was a message from Jeanne-Antoinette, who was expecting her first child in a month and wanted Natalie to be there to help with the delivery.

Lieutenant Scoraille continued, “But to travel to the Natchez Trace,
madame
, it can only be
tres dangereaux
for a woman.”

Her mouth curved in a wry smile, and, stepping from the company’s overhanging porch into the blistering sunlight, she raised her yellow lace parasol. “Two of my employees will be with me. Besides, Lieutenant, I have seen and been through more danger in the last few years than most soldiers see in a lifetime.”

A lifetime. She felt as if she had lived several lifetimes, and she had yet to see her thirtieth year. Nevertheless, she felt terribly old.

“Ah, yes,” the lieutenant
said, touching her elbow sympathetically. “I have heard the tragic circumstances of your husband’s death. My condolences.” He bowed again, annoying her slightly with his solicitous attentions.

“
Au revoir
, Lieutenant Scoraille,” she said curtly, starting homeward. It was impossible for her to feign sorrow at François’s death. The real tragedy had been François’s life, not his demise. She felt his death had at last set him free. Oh, the settlement still gossiped about his suicide.

All of Natchitoches had known that his depression had driven him to drink and other wild excesses, so the fact that he had died by his own hand wasn’t so farfetched. Only
she and St. Denis knew the full accounting given by Nicolas—that he had sidestepped François’s driving sword, and François, still immobilized by Nicolas’s arm, had inadvertently impaled himself. However incredible, she believed the story. St. Denis hadn’t felt it necessary to call for a court of inquiry, although Father Hidalgo had been incensed that the commandant had ignored his accusations that the peculiar circumstances pointed to skullduggery.

She passed by the hotel, stagecoach depot, and the theater and ballroom, all of which had sprung up in the past year due to the town’s booming trade. All roads led to Natchitoches. It was the outfitting point for the thousands of people going
west. It was the terminus for the eastern end of El Camino Real or the San Antonio Trace. Another route led eastward to Fort Rosalie, where it connected with the Natchez Trace.

Arriving home, she handed her parasol and gloves to Therese, who met her at the door. “Is Quin-Quin napping?”

The freedwoman’s jowls wattled with her nod. “Yes,
madame
, but there’s—”

“And my baggage, did you have a chance to pack it?” She knew she sounded short-
tempered. The conversation with Lieutenant Scoraille about the past had triggered her bad mood. “If not, don’t worry about it, Therese. I can do it tonight before I go to bed.”

“Madame, Monsieur Brissac awaits you in the parlor,” Therese managed at last.

Natalie’s stomach fluttered like a hundred hummingbirds. “How long has he been here?”

“About a half hour,
madame
. I served him the chateau wine.”

“Good. Please see that no one disturbs us.”

Therese’s large, raisin-brown eyes gleamed with wicked good humor. “They’ll have to cross my dead body first,
madame
.”

Natalie closed the parlor doors behind her and leaned against them, waiting for her legs to regain some stability. Her eyes searched the room and found Nicolas, his back to her as he stared through the jalousies. He was fashionably dressed in a dark blue suit with wide skirts and silver-buckled shoes. The silken hose displayed his muscled calves. His black hair was neatly tied back in a queue.

She was glad she had worn the yellow silk damask with the white satin quilted petticoat—but regretted the mobcap that hid her hair.

“I see the English colonies have civilized
Monsieur le Sauvage
,” she said quietly.

He took a drink from the footed glass he held. So he drank more easily now.

“You could at least have let me know where you were,” she said, this time vehemently. “I worried—”

Without turning, he said, “You’ve done well with the business, Natalie.”

She crossed the parlor to stand behind him. Her fingers ached to caress that broad back. “I heard once you were in Williamsburg’s countinghouses—that you had bought shares in a three-ton merchant vessel.”

She had also heard he had purchased an indentured servant from Ireland and scandalized Williamsburg by setting the lass free. The last Natalie had heard was that the young woman was living with him.

He set the empty glass on the sideboard and turned to face her, his hands at his hips pushing back the front panels of his finely tailored coat. Inwardly, she shrank from the sulfurous eyes. “I kept account of your half of the company, Nicolas,” she rambled. “It’s all deposited at the Royal Bank of New Orleans.”

“As I’ve said, you’ve done v
ery well. Much better than I expected.”

“You resent my independence, don’t you?”

He tossed back the remaining wine in his glass. “I want to sell out to you.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t deserve your hate, Nicolas.”

The corners of his lips curled in a bitter smile. “Oh, I don’t hate you. I still want you as much as I ever did, damn you, Natalie.”

She reached up to touch the muscle that throbbed in his jaw. He said tightly, firmly, “Don’t.”

She dropped the threatening hand to her side, blurting suddenly, “Nicolas, I love you!”

He caught her arms and shook her with exasperation. She didn’t care. At least he was touching her. “God, Natalie, are you so determined to have your own way that you can’t see
François would always be between us!”

“
François is dead! We’re alive!”

His angry glare left her to sweep around the parlor, taking in the damask wall hangings, the silver tea service, the spinet in the corner. His eyes returned to settle on her parted lips. “You and I are mismatched, Natalie. I’m not
François. I could never settle down for long. The freedom of always moving on is strong in my blood. The lure of the horizon would soon beckon me like a siren.”

“I’ve waited for you for all this time. I would wait for you to return the next time, however long it might take to exorcise the wanderlust in your blood.”

The nostrils of his high-bridged Indian nose flared. “Are you so certain? How do I know that while I’m gone some handsome officer won’t keep the lonely nights away from your bedroom? Perhaps the Lieutenant Scoraille already has.”

She wanted to slap his barbaric face, to remind him of the indentured servant he had kept and all of the other women he had undoubtedly possessed over the years. Instead, she flung her arms about his neck and pressed her feverish lips against him. He grasped her arms to remove them, but she clung to him. “Nicolas, please,” she murmured against his mouth. “Don’t make me grovel.”

For an answer, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her ruthlessly, his mouth controlling hers. His teeth ground against her soft lips, and his tongue thrust between them with cold, brutal passion. Her bruised mouth returned his savagery. This was what she had waited for.

When he scooped her up in his arms and deposited her on the settee to thrust her dangling legs apart, she felt a liquid fire burn through her in anticipation. “Nicolas, I’ve waited so long for you. So long.”

What matter that his passion was ignited by anger rather than love? What matter if he hurt her? At least she was feeling something at last, if even it was pain. Years . . . years since she had even been kissed. Her breasts had forgotten their need to be touched by a man.

He straddled her with one knee and ripped the panel from her bodice. Her eyes closed. Her breathing thundered in her ears. His swarthy hands cupped each breast, his fingers biting into their milk-white softness. She entwined her fingers with his. “Nicolas, tell me . . . please tell me you love me.”

His breathing was harsh. “If I said no, Natalie, would you stop me from taking you?”

The moss-green depths of her eyes glistened. She shook her head. “No,” she said huskily. “No, I would still want you.”

Dark passion ignited in the depths of his pupils, and he lowered his head over her breasts. She arched her back and gasped when his tongue touched the purple welt of the fleur-de-lis between her breasts, burning his own brand over the old one.

His hand deserted one breast to push up her skirts, but his fingers discovered that she was already ready for him, already moist with the seepage of wanting him so desperately.

His hands came up to cup either side of her face, his fingers digging brutally into her scalp. The scent of her clung to hands. Bitterness warred with misery for dominance in the set of his mouth. “Do you understand that I won’t be coming back after this?”

“Yes,
mon sauvage
." Tears welled at the outer corners of her eyes at the certain knowledge, but her body demanded him no matter what the aftermath.

Again his mouth ravished hers, and she responded in kind— this would be the first and last time she would surrender herself to the man she had loved so long. Her hands worked frantically at the buttons of his breeches. Abruptly, she turned her head from his kiss and propped herself on her elbows. She pressed her face against the smooth skin that sheathed his muscled chest and hard stomach, inhaling deeply of his singular masculine scent.

When she nuzzled over him, his hand anchored in her curls and pulled her head backward. “I want you now, Natalie.”

She nodded, feeling the pull of her hair at the temples.

With that, he took her, filling her aching cavity with himself, a slow, sure plunging that increased in tempo until she felt engorged, close to bursting. She held on to the feeling growing in her. Too soon what she had waited for so long would be rapidly spent. The moment had to last forever. Oh, God, don’t let her forget the exquisite pleasure of this moment, united with Nicolas, at one with her own Nicolas.

Afterward, she lay still on the settee, her eyelids shut tight, and listened to him dress. She waited for him to leave so that she could cry, but he surprised h
er. He came over to her and rearranged the skirt that was bunched about her thighs, dampened by their lovemaking. Through a tangle of wet lashes, she stared up at his face. “Nicolas, please stay. Please.”

He bent over her and kissed the salty tears that spiked her lashes. "
Adieu
, Natalie.”

This time Natalie found the journey to Fort Rosalie less pleasant. For one thing, the caravan didn’t leave until two weeks later because of unseasonal rains. For another, everything seemed flat— the taste of food and wine, her usual joy in the autumnal colors, her anticipation of being with Hervé and Jeanne-Antoinette again. The company’s two freedman, Jeremiah and Samuel, did their best to ease the hardships of the journey, but by the time she had spent three weeks on the trail, with only an oilcloth to keep off the rain, she was thoroughly miserable.

A half-galley out of New Orleans, loaded with merchandise, was anchored below Fort Rosalie’s soaring bluffs. At word of the pack train, the soldiers mounted Fort Rosalie’s parapet to watch the stream of mules plod toward the village of St. Catherine. The musical sound of the bells tinkling on harnesses brought the people of the concession to their doorways.

Jeanne-Antoinette, leaning against the wooden balustrade on her narrow gallery, spotted Natalie astride the Appaloosa and waved one arm enthusiastically. The young girl started down the steps toward the pack train, her arms outstretched in greeting. Natalie realized that she was very pregnant, all stomach with two thin arms and a round, little face attached and, somewhere below, two feet.

Natalie waved Samuel and Jeremiah on to the company’s trading post and reined up before
Hervé’s little house. Dismounting, she hurried to give Jeanne-Antoinette an affectionate hug. She stepped back, still holding the girl’s shoulders, and looked her over. “It appears you’re carrying a son as big as Hervé,” she teased.

The girl blushed. Natalie realized this was no longer the child who had come over as a casket girl with her on the
Baleine.
She was . . . Natalie mentally paused to figure Jeanne-Antoinette’s age. The girl was nearly twenty now.

Bashfully, Jeanne-Antoinette touched her mounded stomach. “Oh, Natalie, I was so afraid the rains would keep you from coming in time.”

“I’m glad I didn’t wait any longer,” she said with a pointed glance at the girl’s stomach.

During the rest of the afternoon, the two women gossiped, but when
Hervé arrived that evening for dinner, the talk turned to a heated discussion about the newest restrictions France was placing on trade.

“Our business is off,”
Hervé told her, his sloping brows furrowing down over the usually droll eyes. The hominy that Jeanne- Antoinette had cooked with rabbit might have been tasty, but Natalie’s stomach had been queasy for the last few days. “The British are besting us along the Natchez Trace for the trade of the Chickasaws.”

She laid down the wooden spoon, unable to eat another bite. “I understand your commandant’s stupidity and stinginess is not helping matters.”

Jeanne-Antoinette said, “Sieur de Chopart has demanded more land from the Natchez, including even White Apple Village, where their ceremonial pyramidal mounds are.”

“Did they surrender their village?”

“Their leader, the Great Sun,” Hervé said, “has said he would think about it.” The former brigand shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows, but a soldier who came to the post today said he had heard from his Indian sweetheart that the Choctaws were conspiring against us.”

“Why, the Choctaws have always been friends of the French,” Jeanne-Antoinette said with a dismissing motion of her little hand.

Over after-dinner brandy, talk turned to problems with the Indians at the trading post itself. Natalie, tired from the trip and sleepier than usual, went to bed early—this time alone on a box chair that folded out into a narrow bed.

Sleepy as she was, she lay, wide-eyed, tossing from side to side. Reluctantly, she let her thoughts drift to Nicolas. Abruptly, she bolted upright. Perspiration beaded her temples. With painful clarity, she realized she was pregnant. The queasy stomach, the inordinate sleepiness, the monthly flow that was several days late—the signs were all there. She counted back to the afternoon in the parlor. A little over a month.
Sacre bleu
!

She lay back down and, arm thrown across her forehead, considered the changes the baby would make in her life. Naturally, the fanatical Father Hidalgo
would be up in arms about an unmarried white woman having a baby—a woman of property at that. It would be quite a scandal, but she knew she would be able to depend on friends like the St. Denises to rally around her.

Nicolas’s child!

She smiled to herself. Whether Nicolas liked it or not, he had given her a part of himself forever.

She would have to be careful. That first time, when she carried Philippe’s child, the trauma of the branding had caused her to miscarry. She had been a child herself then; this time, she swore to herself, would be different.