Heaven in His Arms Read online

  His gaze fell to the provocative swelling of her bosom above the straight edge of her bodice, and he decided in an instant to play along. “Congratulations. You appear to be in the full bloom of health.”

  “How unfortunate for you.”

  “On the contrary …”

  “Don’t you dare deny it!”

  “Deny what?”

  “You wanted me dead!”

  He held up his hand. “I don’t think—”

  “It’s true! You got what you wanted, then you abandoned me to my fate.”

  Fool of a man, whoever it was that this woman searched for. No man with red blood pumping in his veins would take this woman and then abandon her without a final taste; there were few enough women in the settlements, and fewer of such generous bounty. She definitely had the wrong person, though she knew him by name. Andre had a policy about Frenchwomen that he made clear before a love affair: no promises, no commitment, no complications.

  He approached so she could get a better look at his face, for the candlelight in the room was dim. “I think you judge me too harshly, cherie. “

  “Don’t you dare call me darling.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Oh, I understand better than you think.” Her bosom heaved dangerously against the restriction of her clothing. “You chose the wrong woman to take advantage of, monsieur. I was sick, not a fool.”

  There was still no doubt in those green eyes, only anger and accusation and a growing impatience. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she had made a mistake, but the words stuck like glue to his lips. If he told her, she would leave, and this was the most intriguing visitor he’d had since he returned to New France.

  It was his last night. One final sniff of French perfume would be a fine way to say goodbye to civilization.

  “Speechless with shame, are you? I should think so. How does it feel to be caught slipping away like a thief in the night?”

  His gaze wandered over her pale pink dress, lingering on the creamy swell of her breasts, then slipped down to her narrow waist and over the flair of her skirts. “I find myself … pleased to be captured.”

  Her lips parted in a gasp. Desire rushed hot through his blood. Not since Aix-en-Provence, where he had made the mistake of taking a mistress who expected more out of him than money, had he enjoyed a woman. It had taken weeks to disentangle himself from that relationship. Frenchwomen always complicated a good night’s worth of lusty lovemaking with so much baggage—vows of eternal devotion, fidelity, paroxysms of guilt about their own sensuality. Andre was looking forward to the simple, honest passion of an Indian woman.

  He met her eyes. They sparkled with a strange mixture of fury and surprise. He wondered if she were playing some sort of vixen’s game. Perhaps she had seen him in Montreal, had wanted him, but now that she had dared to join him in the confines of his room, she’d lost the courage to tell him precisely why she was here. He glanced down at the woven basket she’d tossed between them. There was no doubt; she had come to spend the night. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had played an elaborate role in order to justify her own infidelity. The lengths civilized women went to hide their own passion.… Well, he was more than willing to go along with the charade if it meant an evening rolling in the linens with this lovely creature.

  He pressed closer … close enough to cast his shadow over her. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding between us.”

  “You call abandonment a misunderstanding.”

  “I was a fool to abandon you,” he murmured, playing along with the game. Her lower lip was plump and wet, fuller than her upper one. As juicy as a ripe peach it was, all pouty and centered with the faintest dimple. He wound his fingers around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “Come, love. Forgive me my wrongs.”

  She jerked in his embrace. “You must be jesting.”

  “At least let me make it up to you.”

  Her mouth parted, but before she could speak, he met those inviting lips with his own. Her breath caught and held. Her heart thumped hard beneath her breasts, hesitated, and stopped, then thumped harder still. He pressed his nose against her cheek as he deepened the kiss, smelling river mist and rain, along with fresh pine-scented air, clinging like dew to soft, soft skin.

  Dieu! It had been too long. Pure passion in his arms she was, all quivering, curvy, and warm. He slid his hands off her shoulders and wound them around her back. She fit against him, the fullness of her bosom giving against his chest, swelling soft, soft, even as she stiffened. He slid his hands down farther, to her narrow waist, digging his fingers into her side … only to come against the hard whalebone rib of her corset. Damn the Frenchwoman’s clothing, all those laces and knots and rigid seams and layers—for man’s benefit, they said, all these locks and keys. He wanted to feel bare, hot flesh, not seams and satin. He buried his free hand in the silk of her curls, pulling her head back to fix his lips more firmly on her own. His blood coursed hot and fast through his veins.

  The tips of her nails dug into his linen shirt, her only movement other than the give of her body and lips. Pleasure or resistance? He couldn’t tell, and as long as her lips lay open beneath his, Andre refused to retreat. She parted those lips still further to gasp, and he took brazen advantage of the breach. He tasted the juice of her mouth, sweet, and delicious, vaguely naughty, forbidden fruit. But before he could drink fully of the nectar, she began to struggle.

  No, no … don’t. Dammit, why must Frenchwomen always fight the rush of their blood, the fury of their own passion? He wouldn’t hurt her. He’d show her all the pleasure there could be between a man and a woman in lovemaking—and he would see that she would not grow big with child after he left. He held her tighter, trying to squeeze the fight out of her, to see if this struggle were nothing but another parlay in the elaborate French game of refusal and surrender. Her heart raced in her chest. He spread his hand over her lower back. Boldly, he ran his tongue over the silky swell of her lower lip. She started as if she had been struck with fire.

  He didn’t like the feel of her shock. Andre released her lips and raised his head only enough to see into her eyes. They were misty and bright, like the color of a shallow lake in the summer sunshine. She no longer looked like the fiery woman who had burst into his room, so full of rage and self-righteousness. She looked young, confused, and thoroughly, thoroughly kissed.

  “What is it, cherie? What troubles you?”

  “You’re kissing me.”

  He grinned. “Obviously.”

  “Does this mean you’ll start treating me … like a wife?”

  He had been planning to treat her like a wife—in his bed. By the serious expression in her eyes, he knew she meant something more. Her pink tongue darted out and lingered on her lower lip. With an inward groan, he followed the journey of that pink tongue as it swished back and forth across her lower lip. She looked like a child tasting licorice for the first time.

  Andre started. Christ, she’d never been kissed before. He released her abruptly. This was no wayward wife looking for an infidelity. He examined her clothing and his suspicions grew. She dressed too well to be without family or husband. Frenchwomen arriving in the settlements were married almost as soon as they set foot upon Canadian soil, he knew that well enough. His gaze fell to the battered woven case on the floor, which was large enough to hold enough clothes for several days. Perhaps she had run away from her family. Perhaps she was looking for someone to take care of her. For the first time since she’d walked in, Andre began to wonder if there were more to this than he suspected—like a musket-wielding father downstairs, waiting for his daughter to emerge ruined from the stranger’s room so he could force him into marriage.

  Ironically, he already was married. Temporary or not, he still had a wife in Quebec. As much as he wanted to lay this woman down on his bed, spread her coppery curls over the pillow, and merge with her supple, young body, he knew he couldn’t let this charade continue any furt
her. She probably was— God forbid! —a virgin.

  Andre took one step away from her. “I think we should have a talk, you and I.”

  Her fingers had replaced her tongue on her lips, but at the sound of his voice, she dropped her hand. “Long overdue, that.”

  “Is it?”

  “I want to know your plans.” Her gold-tipped lashes curled up as she met his gaze. “For us.”

  She sounded so sure of herself, so sure of him— as sure as he was that he had never before laid eyes on her. “Do you know who I am?”

  Her brows twitched with sudden uncertainty. “You are Andre Lefebvre?”

  “Yes. Do you know that I already have a wife?”

  She looked at him as if he were crazed.

  He spread his hands and sighed. “I married only recently.”

  The girl’s bosom heaved. A fiery flush infused her cheeks. Her eyes glowed with new flames, reducing to ashes any hopes he had of spending the night with her. When she finally spoke, her voice was full of incredulous fury. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  If she could shoot venom through her eyes, he’d be dead a hundred times over. He shrugged helplessly. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been in Montreal… .”

  “You wretch!” She wiped the back of her hand against her lips. “All this time, you thought I was just some whore throwing herself upon you—”

  “Would that all women be so passionate,” he interrupted. “I wish I were the man you’re seeking … but you’ve mistaken my identity.”

  “Mistaken!” She planted her fists on her hips. “You didn’t mind pretending you were the man you thought I mistook you for!”

  “You’re too tempting a morsel not to bite.”

  “Oh!” She sucked in her breath through clenched teeth, then swirled in a swish of skirts. “I shouldn’t be surprised at all!”

  “You shouldn’t, not when you enter a strange man’s bedroom after dark.”

  “You’re married!”

  “I’m not dead.”

  “You’ve got the morals of a stray cat!”

  “You dropped into my lap like manna from heaven, cherie. ” He glanced with appreciation at her body. “And you’re a creature that would test a Jesuit’s own chastity.”

  “Am I?” Her fists slipped off her hips and she leaned forward, tantalizing him with a glimpse of deep cleavage. “That’s good to know. You’ll be easy to cuckold.”

  “I told you, I’m already married—”

  “I’m your wife, you fool!” Andre choked on the word.

  “Yes. Wife.”

  Impossible. Impossible. This couldn’t be his wife. His wife was a pitiful little thing with red-rimmed eyes and dark freckles against gray-tinted skin. She didn’t have hair like burnished copper … but then again, she had been wearing a linen headrail when he’d married her, and her hair had been soaked with perspiration. He struggled against the fog of memory. She had been half dead that day in Madame Bourdon’s house, a weak, tiny thing clinging to his arm for support and slurring her vows. Undoubtedly, she was still at the Hotel-Dieu, recovering from her illness … if she weren’t already dead.

  Illness. What had this woman said about illness when she first arrived?

  “Has your memory returned yet?” She swayed closer to him, emboldened by his silence, clutching the edges of her cloak. “Let me refresh it for you. My name is—was—Marie Duplessis. We married in Madame Bourdon’s home in Quebec, in the presence of Philippe Martineau and about a dozen other couples. Then you abandoned me at the Hotel-Dieu.”

  He stared at her. With a start, he noticed a spattering of freckles across her nose, paler now against skin that had flushed an angry rose.

  His blood ran cold when he realized how close he had come to consummating his own marriage.

  “That’s more of the reaction I expected from a man caught cheating on his wife with his wife.”

  “Last time I saw you,” he argued, stepping back and meeting those sparkling green eyes with a new wariness, “you were retching at my side.”

  “It was nothing more than shipboard fever, my husband.”

  “You’re supposed to be at Marietta’s.”

  “I didn’t come across the ocean to be the governess to another woman’s children. Yes, yes, I went to Marietta and she told me you’d planned to keep me there until you returned. But I did not come to Quebec only to be abandoned by my husband. …”

  “I didn’t abandon you.” He snapped the words and turned away from her. The candle sputtered in the corner on the desk. A sheaf of papers balancing precariously on the edge of the bed slipped off the pile and swept over the floor. “I left for a voyage already long delayed. I made arrangements—”

  “For my burial.”

  Guilt twinged at him. Damn it. His gaze swept over her, from the jiggle of her curls to the hem of her skirts, and anger started at a slow burn, sizzling away from the guilt. All Frenchwoman . .. worse, all aristocrat. The breeding showed in her long, white neck, her delicate skin, her pointed chin and cheekbones. He’d noticed the signs in her sickness, and now, in the full of health, she stood before him the embodiment of the one kind of creature to whom he wanted no commitment.

  A woman like this didn’t belong in his world. He couldn’t protect her, he couldn’t keep her safe.

  “You didn’t look like this when I last saw you,” Andre argued, raking his hand under his wig. “I made arrangements for you to stay in a safe place in a warm house with people I trusted, in the closest thing to civilization you’ll find in this country.”

  “For how long? Forever?”

  “Didn’t Philippe tell you my plans?”

  “Which ones? Burial or slavery?”

  He frowned. She’d been too sick to remember her own name at their wedding, let alone understand his plans, and he had been too busy making arrangements for his voyage to check on her at the Hotel-Dieu. He’d told Philippe to take care of everything— including explaining his intentions to his new wife. Philippe, with his usual distaste of unpleasant tasks, had delayed this one too late. Marietta had probably down into a rage when this woman appeared on her doorstep, most likely seeing to it that she was on a boat to Montreal within minutes of her arrival. He crossed his arms in front of him, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation.

  “You’ve come a long way to hear what Marietta could have told you.”

  “I wanted to hear it from the coward’s own lips.” She looked him up and down, her nose wrinkling in an aristocratic sneer. “I also wanted to know what kind of swine would abandon his wife so quickly.”

  “You won’t be my wife for long.”

  Something murderous in his eyes must have given her pause. She stepped back, stumbling over one of his abandoned shoes. “If you touch me, I’ll scream so loud that every man in this inn will come running—”

  He cut her short with a jerk of his hand. “I’m a fur trader, not a murderer.”

  “How comforting,” she snapped, kicking away the offending shoe and giving him a view of a slim, booted ankle beneath a muddied froth of skirts. “Fur traders don’t kill their wives. They only abandon them after they get their trading licenses.”

  “Then you know about Talon’s ruling.”

  “You’re not even going to deny it!” she sputtered. “How noble! A brigand who’s honest about his treachery.”

  “This marriage is a convenient one for both of us.”

  “It isn’t convenient for me to care for someone else’s children, in someone else’s house, or wait nine months for my husband to return from God knows where to tell me what he plans—”

  “If I hadn’t married you, someone else would, and you’d have very little choice in the matter.”

  “I had no choice in the matter when a ruthless lecher plucked me off my deathbed.”

  “I’m giving you a second chance. Come summer, when I return to Quebec, I’ll have our marriage annulled. Then you’ll be free to marry again. …”

&nb
sp; “So you will get rid of me.” She tossed her head of curls and crossed her arms snug under her breasts. “I thought as much. What do I do between now and summer … other than give you horns?”

  His jaw tightened. He had no doubt she’d find a dozen willing men to quench her desire in his absence, and briefly he wondered how a daughter of the petite noblesse had managed to cultivate such passion, such spirit. “Philippe and Marietta will see to it that you behave like my wife.”

  “So while you’re roaming in the woods, I must sit in a stranger’s house for nine months, waiting for you to return so you can toss me off like an old wig?”

  “Come summer, you’ll have a choice of men, unlike the other girls who have to decide on a husband within fifteen days.”

  “I came clear across the world to start a new life in this colony. I didn’t do it so I could be abandoned by my husband within days and divorced within months.” She uncrossed her arms and wagged a finder at him. “You married me, Monsieur Lefebvre. You’re going to treat me like a wife.”

  “Am I?” He let his gaze roam insolently over her lovely body. “You don’t even know what that means, cherie.”

  “It means,” she said, ignoring his look, “that you put me in your house and not leave me with utter strangers.”

  “I don’t have a home here.”

  “None?”

  “I’ve nothing but an abandoned old hut on a piece of land I inherited from my father, land that has long returned to forest.”

  “You’re supposed to be a rich man,” she countered, brows as sweeping as sparrow’s wings tugging together. “You must have a house bigger than Marietta’s. …”

  “I don’t, not a habitable one, which is why you’re staying with her.”

  “Oh, but I’m not staying with her.” She glanced around the room and saw his small bag packed in the corner. “Wherever you are going, I am going.”

  Amid the swirling currents of anger, Andre felt an urge to laugh. She was a stubborn creature, a willful woman-child, and the thought of her sleeping on the hard ground under the open sky or perched upon all the merchandise stuffed into a birch bark canoe was too ludicrous for him to ignore. “You have no idea where I’m going. You belong with Marietta, in civilization or what passes for it here, not in the forests.”