Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (14 page)

“It’s no trouble.”

That was not her concern. She felt vulnerable here in the water where she could not maneuver as he could, vulnerable in a way she had never felt on dry land. There was also his state of undress and her own scant covering. They had lain together in their shelter in just that way, but somehow that had been different.

She retreated, the water rising to her breasts, her shoulders, her neck. Her foot came down on something slick and slimy, a rotted log. She stumbled, lost her balance, and sank under the water.

There was a heavy splash and a deep surging in the bayou’s flow. Before she could regain her feet, something brushed her side, then Reynaud’s strong arm encircled her waist, pulling her upward.

Her head broke the surface and she gasped for breath. The water swirled and she was pulled against the unyielding hardness of his body. For an instant she lay along his long length, her breasts pressing into his chest, her thighs gliding over his heated loins and the ridged muscles of his legs as he stood with feet planted. The agitation of the water moved them gently, one against the other. There was whipcord strength in his grasp, and safety, and in the dark surface of his gray eyes as he gazed down at her was the reflection of the moonlight on the water.

A shiver ran over her that was caused partly by the warmth of his body upon her own cold flesh, by the shadow of an old distaste, and by something more that she could not name. She unclenched her jaws, saying in icy tones, “Thank you. You may release me.”

He complied, the movement stiff, almost jerky. “I beg your pardon for the trespass. It seemed … necessary.”

“By your own admission I was hardly in danger of drowning.”

“You went farther than I expected and it isn’t always possible to be certain.”

His tone was distracted and he did not meet her eyes. His gaze, in fact, was directed somewhere beneath her chin. Elise glanced down. In putting her on her feet again, he had set her nearer the bank, where the water came only halfway up her chest. Her wet shift had sagged at the neckline, twisting around her. The white curves of her breasts gleamed, one of them exposed to the apricot-rose aureole and taut nipple.

“I must thank you then,” she said, her voice tight in her throat. She grasped her shift, snatching it around to cover herself before she went on. “I suppose you lost the soap root?”

“No.”

He raised his left fist that had been clenched at his side. Opening the fingers, he showed her the tiny bits of root. With his other hand, he scooped up water to sprinkle over them, rubbing his hands together to make lather. She reached out and he carefully transferred the soapy bits to the palm of her hand, smoothing over it with his warm fingers before he let it go.

She looked at him. He stared back, standing unmoving as if he had no intention of returning to the bank. She thought of asking him to go, but there was something about him that made her think better of it. Half turning from him, she worked at the soap root. The memory of her earlier remorse came to her. It was gone now and in its place was an impulse so curious that she was not sure from whence it came.

Still he had not moved. Lowering her lashes as if unaware of his regard, she began to smooth the lather up over her arms and shoulders, lingering over the slender turnings, enjoying the gliding sensation of the rich soap and its raw, fresh smell. She lifted her chin, stroking the curve of her neck, letting her hand slide in a slow circular motion downward to the swells of her breasts. She molded the cloth that covered them, robbing with unconcern, as if she meant to wash the shift as well as herself. Leaving the lather as it was, she reached up with both hands to apply the suds to her wet hair. Shaking her head back, she worked it through, only half aware of Reynaud now, though she slanted a quick glance at him now and then from slitted eyes.

He shifted to place his hands on his hips, watching her with a brooding look in his eyes. His stance brought an odd
frisson
of fear, but she dismissed it. An idea came to her and she began to turn her back, holding out the hand that contained the root bits, saying, “Would you mind doing—”

She stopped abruptly, appalled at the request she had been going to make. She snatched back her hand, closing it into a fist and holding it against her chest as she swung around.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I think you did. Did you forget you aren’t supposed to like being touched or can I congratulate myself that you no longer consider me a threat as a man?”

“It isn’t — it wasn’t—” She stopped, pushing back her hair with a helpless gesture before she began again. “I wasn’t thinking, you must believe me. I was just—”

“You were baiting me again and went too far.” The wet surface of his chest glistened and his nostrils flared as he took a breath that was bellows deep. “Fair enough. I suppose I should be flattered that you feel safe enough to try it. But remember one thing, Elise. I may be no threat, but I am still a man. Bait me if you will, but never invite me to touch you unless you mean it. Never.”

A cloud drifted across the moon, dimming its light. She could no longer see his face. The timbre of her voice was strained as she answered, “No, I won’t.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that is a promise that deserves a seal.”

“What?”

“You have not yet kissed me. I think it’s time.”

“Because of what happened?”

“In part, but also because I desire it.”

“But it wasn’t a part of the bargain!”

“Wasn’t it? I don’t remember a ban.”

“It isn’t touching,” she protested, “and that was the agreement.”

“Isn’t it? It would be difficult without.”

“You’re impossible!”

“And I’m waiting.”

“I have soap all over me.”

“I don’t mind, but rinse if you like.”

“You are so kind!” she jeered, though the words sounded petulant even to her own ears.

“And patient, up to a certain point.”

“You won’t … take over?”

He hesitated for an instant as if there might be a doubt in his mind, but his voice was firm when he replied. “No.”

She owed him a recompense. If she must render a service, then it would be just as well if it were something he wanted. She was not finished with her bath, however. He must put up with the soup.

She closed the distance between them with slow grace and lifted her arms to slide them around his neck. Rising on tiptoe, she drew down his head and placed her mouth against his. His lips were warm and smooth and vibrant, and though he did not move, they molded infinitesimally to cling to the moist and alive surface of her own. She felt her mouth tingle in response, knew the moment when her heart began to throb in her chest. Briefly she thought of Vincent’s fetid kisses that had threatened to devour her and left her lips bruised and cut. This was nothing like that, nothing at all.

With slow, experimental care, she moved her head, brushing her lips over his, feeling the faint ridge that marked their edges, their firm yet tender texture, the deep indentation of their corners. Tactile pleasure caught at her, spiraling downward into the center of her being. Longing, suppressed and denied, gripped her and with a sigh she moved nearer. The slippery surface of her breasts touched his chest, their resilient softness skimming, melting into him. By degrees her lips parted and the warm tip of her tongue found the sensitive line where his lips met and, sweetly, exquisitely probing, ran along it. Their pressure lessened and she found the moist and fragile inner surface, felt the lift of his chest as he drew breath, heard it catch in his throat. He lifted a hand, setting it at her waist under the water. His grasp was firm, as if he would draw her closer to him, then abruptly it fell away.

She lifted her head, and for an instant confusion and loss crowded in upon her. Still, when he did not try to prevent her, she stepped back. He stared at her in the darkness, then, with a movement that roiled the water, swung from her. He lunged for the bank, and though she could not see him without the moonlight, she heard the crackle of the leaves as he found his clothing.

“Don’t be long,” he said, a terse command. “I’ll build up the fire to dry your hair.”

Elise wanted to answer, but could not find the words. Thoughtfully she began to rinse away the soap, finishing the peculiar bath since she had begun it. It was an odd thing, but the fire he had promised held little appeal. She was no longer cold.

For all the care she took drying her hair, she might as well not have bothered. Toward dawn of the next morning came another rainstorm, one that settled into a downpour that continued without letup. Reynaud had swung his leather cloak about her as she stepped from the shelter, but it had no hood and her hair was soon soaked. She had worried about what the half-breed would do for protection from the elements, but he had taken out another square of leather and wrapped it around himself, knotting it at his right shoulder to leave his right hand free. It was a style she had often seen on the men of the Natchez, and women, too, when they were working. It seemed to suit him.

Elise did not enjoy the protection of the long cloak alone. She could not leave Madame Doucet to be wet through, so she took her under her arm. They struggled along through the downpour together, slipping and sliding in the wet leaves and mud. It was as well to keep moving. They had little protection in any case, and it not only brought them nearer their destination, but kept them warm as well.

It was a miserable camp that night, with the rain blowing and hissing into the fire even under the protective lean-to of saplings and pine boughs they had constructed. The bedding that was not wet was clammy with damp so that, as tired as they were, no one wanted to leave the fire. Reynaud had killed a pair of squirrels, but even the savory stew Elise had made did little to enliven their spirits. The only blessing was that the mosquitoes were not in evidence. In the end, they simply rolled up in the driest of the bedding and curled around the fire, with the women on the inside slant of the lean-to, away from the sweeping rain.

The day that followed was much like the one before. They started out in a mist that turned to driving rain before the first morning halt, afterward becoming a steady drizzle. It began to seem as if rain was all they had ever known or ever would know. The creeks became deeper as they crossed, the streams wider. The ground, black and rich, was so soggy with moisture that it oozed with every step. Their shoes grew sodden and the skin of their feet turned white, then began to form blisters. They wrapped their feet in rags and limped along, for there was nothing else to be done.

The land had begun to rise. Though barely discernible under the great virgin trees, there were gently rolling hills and ridges along which the Indian track ran to stay as much as possible out of the swampland and creek bottoms. Still they trod on and on, following Reynaud, too tired and dispirited to question where he led. When he said stop, they halted; when he said go, they struggled to their feet and went on. They had ceased to grumble or even to talk among themselves. Madame Doucet still moaned in her deep and moved her lips as if talking to someone unseen, but she did not falter. Her endurance was amazing, or perhaps it wasn’t. The older woman had survived the voyage to the new world and the hardship of making a life in this wild country. She was strong, at least in body. St. Amant struggled along with his crutches, finding it heavy going in the uncertain footing caused by the rain. At first he had complained of cramps in his arms from hitching his sticks along, but no longer. Henri, without Madame Doucet to care for now, walked beside St. Amant, reaching out to steady him when needed. Of them all, Pascal strode out with the most élan. His energy was fed by resentment, Elise thought, for she sometimes saw him staring at Reynaud’s back with frustrated fury in his small eyes. She suspected it might be better if he would vent his anger with his customary curses and sneers, but he seemed to be hiding his time, doggedly marching, though his back was so stiff it could be seen that he begrudged every stop that did not take him to the fort in the Natchitoches country.

Dusk came and still they did not stop. Night fell. An hour passed. They staggered drunkenly as they walked and hardly noticed when the rain finally ceased to fall. At last they came to a clearing. Beside it ran a fair-sized stream. The earth was sandy, a mixture of white, gray, and sooty black. Scattered about were large clay pots, most of them broken. There were a few that were whole and filled with water sitting near a wide flat of sand in the center of which was a bubbling spring. The water of the spring was cold and clear, but with such a strong taste of salt that Henri, the first to dip into it, spat it out again onto the ground.

This then was where the Indians made their salt by letting the water evaporate from the clay pots, leaving the grainy residue behind. It was a neutral ground, open to all without fear of reprisal. They could rest easy.

They dried their bedding around a roaring fire, but did not build the shelters. The air was chill now that the rain had stopped and there were no mosquitoes to be heard. Elise went to bed early, but, despite her exhaustion, could not sleep. She lay with her head on the crook of her arm, staring at the fire where Reynaud sat alone. If he did not come to bed, it would be the third night. She had slept alone after her bath in the bayou, after she had kissed him. Perhaps he had thought that demand enough, or possibly he had grown tired of her teasing. It didn’t matter, of course. She was relieved of the grain of wondering what he might next ask of her. It was only that it would be warmer with him beside her. It really was turning colder at last. At dusk they had seen large vees of ducks and geese flying southward, their numbers so great that they had streaked the sky with geometric designs. Their honking and calling could still be heard overhead, a mournful sound in the dark stillness.