Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (11 page)

St. Amant was a different type altogether. If Reynaud was any judge, there was within him the remnants of an aristocratic background. Many a younger son had come to the Louisiana colony hoping to make his fortune and return in glory to flaunt his wealth at the French court. There had also been any number smuggled out of Europe with the law grasping for their coattails or else sneaking away with the shadow of debts of honor, of one sort or another, hanging over them. That kind often found Louisiana more of a prison than a refuge. And they could be dangerous because they had so little reason to live.

Madame Doucet was a burden, there was no other word for it. She slowed them to less than half their possible pace. Her shock and grief had confused her, troubling her mind to such an extent that her grasp on sanity was far from strong. She must be closely watched if she wasn’t to jeopardize all of them. It might be a double benefit to put her under the special charge of Henri, giving her protection and the boy a sense of purpose and responsibility.

Reynaud’s gaze narrowed and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his thoughts returned to the woman on the other side of the fire. She was making a valiant effort to keep up and was succeeding, though he expected it was pride and anger that sustained her. That the rage he had glimpsed once or twice in her eyes was directed at him he minded not at all; better that than fear. It made him feel sick inside to think of the way she had trembled in his arms the night before. He had tried during the long day to keep himself from thinking of how she must have been mistreated by that bastard of a husband or of the ultimatum he himself had finally given her. He might have been able to feel better about the last if he could be sure that it was concern for her that had driven him to make it instead of the urging of his own base desires.

God guard him, how he wanted her. The lithe grace of her body as she walked, the sheen of the velvet that covered the roundness of her breasts when she turned, the gleam and weight of her hair coiled at the base of her slender neck — any of these things was enough to bring the tightness to his groin. Even the sight of the pale and slender turnings of her ankle and the narrow length of her foot as she removed a shoe and stocking caused him no small amount of distress. It almost seemed that she knew it as she lifted her skirts higher, angling her bare foot to the side to catch the light of the flames.

“What are you doing?”

Elise looked up, startled by the sharpness of his tone. “Trying to see if I have a thorn in my foot.”

“You stepped on one?”

“It went into the side of my shoe.”

“Let me see.” He came upright in a single motion, stepping around the fire, then getting down on one knee beside her.

“I can do it,” she said hastily, jerking her foot back as he reached for it.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“It — it’s nothing, just a scratch.”

“The thorn may have broken off in it.”

His voice was deep and persuasive, but it also carried a hint of steel. She stared at him in indecision. If there was still a piece of thorn in the streak of torn flesh, then it could become septic and cause blood poisoning. Failing that, it could make it hard for her to walk, something she must be able to do at all costs.

“All right then,” she said with ill humor as she thrust out her foot, “look at it!”

His warm grasp closed firmly about her ankle, the other hand sliding under the sole of her foot. He was silent, his gaze intent upon the red weal that marred her skin.

“Well?”

“There is a dark spot, probably the thorn. I don’t suppose you have a needle?”

“No.” Her answer was short.

“I can take it out with my knife point.” Ignoring her immediate denial and her attempts to wrench her foot from his hand, he went on, “But I have another bargain for you. I’ll remove yours if you will do the same for me.”

She was still. “You have a thorn?”

He released her, swinging to show her his right hand. That the skin was not torn was due to its toughness, for the thorn that had been driven into him was thick and vicious. Over an inch in length, it was imbedded in the side between his wrist and little finger. She could see at owe that it would be difficult for him to remove it with his left hand.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’ll enjoy it,” he said with a brief, hard smile.

That was entirely possible. She frowned to cover the thought. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

He took up her foot again and, almost before she was set, drew his knife and sliced quickly into her foot with the razor-sharp point.

“Ouch,” she said on a quickly drawn breath of pain.

“Stop wriggling.”

“Just you wait,” she said through clenched teeth.

He did not comment. A moment later he removed the knife point and pressed his thumb to the place it had been to stop the tiny trickle of blood. “There’s your thorn.”

“Let me see,” she said darkly, by no means sure there had ever been such a thing.

But it was there, a quarter of an inch long and shining blackly in the firelight as he rubbed it off the knife point into the palm of his hand. When she nodded, he brushed it away and stood. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She watched him disappear into the woods, moving as if it were broadest daylight. She looked down at her foot, expecting to see a deep slit, but there was only a small, clean cut no deeper than the original scratch. The bleeding had stopped and so had the throbbing that had made her remove her shoe and stocking in the first place.

There was a faint sound, then he dropped down beside her once more. He leaned toward the pot of water that simmered beside the fire and dropped what appeared to be a handful of trash into it. Seeing her puzzled glance, he said, “Red oak, the inner bark, to prevent blood poisoning. You will soak your foot in it.”

“That was my bath water!”

“I’ll bring more. In the meantime … “

He unsheathed his knife once more and presented it to her, then turned his hand so that the right side was uppermost and placed it on her drawn-up knee.

She took the knife gingerly, holding it near the tip as she reached with her left hand to grasp his fingers. Staring at the ridged skin where the thorn lay, she tried to decide the best way to cut it out. She moistened her lips, catching the inner skin of the bottom one in her teeth. Where had her anger and thirst for revenge gone now that she needed them?

She sent a quick glance at Reynaud. He was watching her, his gray eyes dark and intent. For an instant she felt herself ensnared, unable to look away. Her heartbeat quickened and she lowered her lashes swiftly.

If she tried to cut through the tough, hornlike skin that bulged over the thorn, it would roll from under the blade. She needed more purchase. She released his fingers to grasp the flesh of his palm, pinching it to hold it steady. Taking a deep breath, she touched the knife to his skin, increasing the pressure, harder, harder, until she saw it break beneath the edge, then she sliced along the ridge quickly. As the shiny black thorn was exposed, she dropped the knife and, using her nails, lifted the stiff base and pulled it from its bed. Blood welled up, dark red and rich, from the small wound, but she scarcely regarded it. A breathless gasp very like a laugh escaped her, and holding the thorn in triumph, she looked up at the half-breed.

It was only then that she realized he had neither moved nor made a sound. The thorn was no major thing, of course, and yet most men she had known would have yelped and flinched at the very least under such minor but rough-and-ready surgery. Vincent had cursed and slapped her when she had been forced to do any similar thing for him, steadying his nerves when it was over with a strong tot of cognac. As she met Reynaud’s steady gaze once more, she knew with sudden clarity that he had felt the pain. It was there within the flesh and nerves and sinews as surely as in any mortal. It was only that he accepted and surmounted it with impassive resolve, refusing to concede it the victory over him. And it occurred to her to wonder, since he hid it so well, what else might lie concealed behind the stern and implacable mask of his features.

Together they soaked their injuries in the steeped and steaming tea made with red oak bark and bound them with strips of soft leather to keep the dirt out. Reynaud brought more water for her bath, then left her, heading toward the spring. Elise debated for several minutes over whether to sleep in her habit again. If she wore only her shift, might he not take it as an invitation? It did not seem likely, not after what had passed between them. While she considered it, she let down her hair and combed it as best she could with her fingers. Her loosened tresses were such a relief that in the end the urge toward comfort won and she crawled into the shelter in her single undergarment.

She need not have worried. She was heavily asleep, lying on her side in the middle of the bed of furs, when Reynaud finally joined her there. He did not touch her, but moved carefully to curl his body around hers in the same position, there being no room in the shelter for him to lie otherwise. As he settled the furs back over them, she sighed and stretched out one leg. The smooth skin of her thigh, where the shift had ridden up, skimmed along his knee. Excitement rippled along his nerves, combined with a peculiar guilt as if he had broken a vow. With a wry shake of his head, he put a careful six inches of distance between them and, with the lines of his face set in determination, closed his eyes.

Elise awoke to an uncomfortable warmth and a feeling of being suffocated. She opened her eyes. The dim gray light of dawn was filtering into the shelter so that she could just make out the support poles. The furs were pulled up, half covering her face. The source of heat was against her back, though there was a heavy weight across her ribs and another resting on her knee and the calf of her leg. It was a moment before she recognized what, or rather who, held her, then a spasm galvanized her muscles and she flung up her arm to throw off the cover, shoving herself away from the man beside her. The enclosure shuddered as she came up against the side. Spinning around, she stated with wide eyes at Reynaud.

He met her gaze, his own cogent and brightly self-derisive. His voice was quiet, with a drawling quality, as he spoke. “Good morning.”

She lay back, shutting her eyes tightly as she waited for the tumult of her pulse to steady. She swallowed, raising her eyelids. “Good morning.”

With her retreat, there was more room in the bed of furs. He turned onto his back and raised his arms, clenching his fists above his head as he stretched out full length. He relaxed again. “If I trespassed,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “I’m sorry.”

She eyes him with suspicion glinting among the rust flecks in her amber-brown eyes. “Are you?”

He turned his head to look at her. “In spirit, at least.”

Her hair was straight and fine, spreading around her in a honey-brown veil that covered her shoulders, coiling to a length that reached well past her waist, lying like silk upon the coarse buffalo fur around them. A soft lock, gently curling at the end, lay upon her left breast. It gleamed with the fast rise and fall of her breathing, drawing attention to the rounded softness it rested on and to the taut peak and dark circle of the aureole that could be seen through the much-washed thinness of her shift.

Elise followed the direction of his wandering gaze. Her stomach muscles tightened. A wary note in her voice, she said, “Hadn’t we better get up?”

“It’s not quite time.”

“But the others will be awake and we may as well—”

“Besides,” he interrupted without raising his voice, “we have unfinished business between us.”

“You mean—” She stopped, unable to find the right words to say what she thought he meant.

“I do.”

“But it’s morning!”

“Whoever told you that such things happen only at night?”

“I can’t,” she said, her tone positive. “Not with you watching me.”

“I’ll close my eyes.”

She balled her fingers into a fist, bringing it down to thump the furs. “Why are you doing this? It can’t give you any pleasure.”

“Can’t it?”

“Only if you enjoy tormenting me!”

“Never that.”

“I won’t.” She refused to meet his eyes and there was a sullen edge to the words.

“Remember the consequences.”

“I don’t believe you will abandon us, and anyway it doesn’t matter. We must be halfway there. We can find our own way.”

“Something less than half, and the worst is yet to come. But perhaps you would like me to take the initiative?” He reached out with his left hand to take up that intriguing lock of hair at her breast.

She slapped his hand away and snatched at the tress, throwing it over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed, she said, “Make me do this and you will regret it.”

“Will I?” The words were calm, but there was a hint of doubt in the gray depths of his eyes.

“I’ll see to it.”

His thick lashes dropped, shielding his expression, “If you mean what I drink, I look forward to the attempt.”

She would see about that, she told herself grimly. There was scarcely a tremor in her nerves as she shifted closer and reached out to draw the furs down below his waist. The faint rush of his indrawn breath as he felt the touch of her nails on the flat surface of his belly spurred her on and she pressed them into him. But though she wanted to claw at him, she found she could not. Instead, she trailed her nail tips upward, circling his navel, raking gently over his diaphragm and along his breastbone in a titillating threat. She teased his paps and followed his tattoo lines, explored the hollow of his throat and the jutting cleft of his chin.