Heaven in His Arms Page 9

  Tiny had done well in his absence, Andre thought as he scanned the shore. The men were ready to launch.

  “Strange name for such a place.” His wife eased her grip on the boards of the seat as he pulled the cart to a halt at the edge of the clearing. “Why is it called China?”

  “The man who used to own this land was named La Salle,” Andre answered absently, counting his men. “For years, he stopped everyone returning from the interior and asked if they had heard anything about the route to the China Sea. The voyageurs called this place La Chine, after him.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No. He sold the land so he could go and look for the sea himself.”

  She raised both brows. “Those whom God wishes to destroy, he first makes mad.”’

  From the faded memories of his schoolboy days in France, Andre remembered the quote as coming from some classic poem. Greek poetry and philosophy were common enough subjects to study as a boy hut were exceptional in a woman, even a well-bred noblewoman. “There is no great genius without a touch of madness,’” he countered, quoting from what he remembered of Aristotle. Andre gestured to the great expanse of water before them. “It’s a big country, but somewhere it has to end.”

  He leapt off the cart and sauntered around to help her down. When he rounded the oxen, he saw his wife jump off the cart of her own volition, sending up a spray of mud in the process and exposing a well-turned pair of booted ankles. She glanced at him, startled, then brushed past him to stare at the scene on the shore.

  “Are all the boats yours?”

  “Canoes. Everything you see here is mine.” He pulled her case out of the back of the cart, realizing the sooner he got her into the canoe, the better his chances would be of actually getting her into the interior before she got a good look at his men and had second thoughts. “It’s all going with us.”

  She scanned the bags of cornmeal, the pots, the tolls of birch bark, the oilcloths. Her eyes narrowed as she turned to him. “There’s enough here to take to that mythical China Sea of yours.”

  “So the Onontio has finally come!”

  The voice bellowed in the clearing. Andre glanced over his shoulder. Tiny emerged from the water, his meaty thighs bare above his leggings. Andre smiled at the timely interruption and strode to meet him.

  “After yesterday,” the giant roared, “I thought you’d be rousing us from our beds before the first birds awakened.”

  Andre tilted his head toward his wife, who followed in his wake. “I ran into a delay at the inn.”

  “Jesus! Andre!” Tiny pulled off his red cap and bowed to her as she reached their side. “Not three weeks since you’ve stepped foot on Canadian soil and you’ve captured the finest filly in the settlement. By the passion of Sainte Therese, where’d you find such a sweet morsel?”

  “Certainly not in the brandy-house you spent the night in,” he retorted, backing away from the path of the giant’s breath. “Are all the men here?”

  “All but the Roissier brothers. I sent Simeon to drag them out of the widow Toureau’s house.” Tiny gestured to her with his cap.

  “Are you going to be a boor, old man, or are you going to introduce me to this heavenly vision?”

  “Madame, I’d like you to meet my most experienced voyageur, Tiny.”

  He saw the surprise on her face. There was nothing tiny about Tiny. His shirt alone was the product of the skin of three stags, stretching across his shoulders and belly and barely covering his privates.

  “The real name’s Bernard Griffon,” Tiny corrected as he reached for her hand. She gave it, belatedly, then tugged it away as Tiny leaned over and kissed it. “He forget to mention that I’m as strong as a black bear and can carry four hundred pounds of cargo without breaking a sweat. …”

  “He’s also a shameless liar,” Andre added.

  “I’ve never said a lie in my life!”

  “Ah, yes,” Andre mused, “as saintly as the blessed Virgin …”

  “Let’s not be committing blasphemy, not with a lady about.” Tiny turned his attention back to her. “Tell me, sweet creature, where have you been hiding from me, and where did this ruffian find you?”

  She tilted her head. “So I’m not the only one who thinks he’s a ruffian.”

  Tiny roared. “The woman knows to call a rat a rat when she sees one!”

  “I wouldn’t insult the rodent.”

  Tiny’s bushy blond brows raised high on his forehead, “Tell me there are a dozen others just like you! Where can I find them?”

  “The same place where this ruffian found me— in front of a priest.”

  His yellow teeth gleaming, Tiny glanced sideways at Andre. “Going to Mass, now, are we? Praying we’ll make Chequamegon Bay before the first frost?”

  Andre shook his head. “Making marriage vows.”

  “Making vows? Well, there’s a fine way to—” Tiny stopped mid-sentence. His blue eyes bulged above the high, ragged edge of his bushy blond beard.

  “I hope the canoe isn’t fully loaded.” Andre thrust her case into Tiny’s belly, then released it and slipped his arms around his startled wife. He heaved her high in his arms. “We’ve got a bit of unexpected cargo.”

  Tiny opened his mouth but no sound came out. He grew blue around the lips, as if he had swallowed his tongue, then he emitted a faint croak.

  Andre laughed aloud and splashed into the water, leaving the giant sputtering soundlessly behind him. His wife’s arms slipped around his neck, warm and soft. He felt her breath on his cheek when she spoke.

  “You took great pleasure making a fool of him, monsieur.”

  “I’ve waited twelve years for an opportunity to make that blowhard speechless.”

  “Your men are gaping like visitors to a menagerie,”. she murmured. “Did I mention that they look like they belong in cages, dressed as they are in nothing but feathers and beads and skins?”

  “Shocked?”

  “Surprised. I didn’t expect so many.” Her eyes narrowed: “Is there something you’ve neglected to tell me, husband? Are we off to find the China Sea like that madman La Salle?”

  “So full of suspicions.” His grin widened, for he was knee-deep in water and this woman in all her skirts was tight in his arms. Success smelled good and he was close enough to taste it, even with the bitter edge of guilt. “I wouldn’t mind having my name bandied about after I’m rotting in the grave, so if I happen to stumble upon the China Sea during my travels …”

  “Now you’re making me think you’re mad.”

  “I am not mad, most noble wife, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness.’ “

  “Quoting the Scriptures won’t convince me otherwise,” she argued. “You didn’t tell me this was such a large expedition. There must be thirty men here.”

  “You sound disappointed.” He leaned over and toppled her onto the oilskin, toward the rear of the canoe, where the French flag in white with gold fleur-de-lys snapped in the wind. “Did you think we’d be alone?”

  She tilted her head so her hair slipped off the column of her white throat. “I suppose there are always ways,” she said, her voice dry and husky, “for two people to be alone in a crowd.”

  He released her abruptly. The canoe wobbled as she searched for a steady seat atop the uneven floor of boxes, bales, and kegs.

  “For a lady,” he said hoarsely, while she settled her bottom in the center of a keg and curled her legs to one side, “you have a disconcerting habit of speaking your mind.”

  “You, my husband, are as slippery as an eel.” She lifted her hands to her hips, then thought better of it as the canoe wiggled beneath her. “Now, convince me again that we’re going to this chewywagon place.”

  “Chey-way-megon,” he corrected. “We’ll have little time to go any farther west.” He nodded woodenly toward a young man clutching the end of the canoe. “Julien, make sure she doesn’t drift away. I’ll be right back.”

  He walked away from her, still reelin
g from the effect of a few whispered words. Andre couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever turned away from a willing woman—least of all a beautiful one. Now he was faced with five or six days in the wilderness with this bold creature—a wife who offered herself willingly—and he hadn’t touched a woman in months. She was a dangerous temptation. He’d best get himself a willing squaw, he thought, for his sake and his wife’s, for she had no idea that she was tempting her own ruin.

  “Married, my ass!” Tiny, fully recovered from the shock, thrust Genevieve’s case into her husband’s belly as Andre reached the shore. “By all the flaming martyrs, you almost fooled me! How long are you going to leave her bobbing out there?”

  “It’s no trick.”

  “By sweet Saint Anne …”

  “The Intendant’s ruling, remember? I married her right after the last ship arrived.”

  “What did you do, pluck her off the ship before it even warped into its moorings?” Tiny squinted against the sun to get a better look at her. “The fops at Quebec would never let such a fine piece slip out of their net.”

  “I’ll have time enough to tell you the story after we’re far away from this place. She’s running over with questions and I can’t keep her still.”

  “Shouldn’t have left her out there with that boy.”

  Andre turned around and saw his wife, dressed in her rose-colored, beribboned, boned dress atop a savage-looking canoe in the middle of the wilderness. Her bright hair was close to Julien’s dark head. Andre splashed quickly back into the water. As he neared the canoe, he heard Julien’s words.

  “… it’s made out of bark from a birch tree. The bark is stretched over some cedar beams, and it’s all sewn tight with spruce root and caulked with pine resin so it’s watertight. There’s not a nail in the whole damn—excuse me, ma’am. It can hold almost two thousand pounds of weight without cracking the gum or sinking, and it’s light enough to be carried—”

  “You’d better hold the canoe tighter than that, pork-eater,” Andre interrupted, using the common term of derision for men on their maiden voyage into the wilderness. He turned to Tiny, who followed behind him, and whispered, “Shut that boy up until we’re out of here.”

  “Eh, pork-eater,” Tiny bellowed. “Are you ready to start your first voyage?” A gleam lit his eyes as he approached the young man. “Are you ready to live hard, lie hard, sleep hard, and eat dogs?” Tiny placed one meaty hand firmly over Julien’s head, the other on the gunwale of the canoe. He dunked the boy in the cold lake water and smiled at Andre’s wife. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am.” Julien sputtered and struggled beneath the giant’s grip. “You see, the boy needs to be baptized, it being his first trip and all.”

  She lifted a brow and asked, “Will I be baptized as well?”

  “Oh, no …”

  “But it is my first trip.”

  “But you aren’t a voyageur, madame,” Tiny explained. “You’re a guest.”

  Julien surged up from the water and shook his head. His long brown hair flattened against his forehead and cheeks. He wiped it out of his eyes and glared at his attacker, then glanced at the woman perched upon the canoe. Julien’s cheeks exploded with color.

  Hip-deep in lake water, Andre waved for his men to join him. He glanced sideways at his wife as he took his position near the stern and the other men approached to take their positions around the canoe. “Men, this is my wife. She’ll be joining us on our journey.” Her eyes widened as she perused his crew. “Madame, let me introduce you to the men who will be our companions in this canoe for the next six weeks.” He held out his hand to them, one by one, and they bowed in the water. “This black-bearded rogue is Simeon, our resident religious who has recently recanted his vows. Those bleary-eyed men are the Roissier brothers, Anselme and Gaspard, looking worse for wear from a night at the widow Toureau’s house. You know Tiny and Julien already.” He watched his wife carefully as he gestured to the knotty-armed Negro standing across from Tiny. “Wapishka is an old friend of mine, an adopted member of an Algonquin tribe. The man at the bow is The Duke, a Huron Indian. He’ll be guiding the canoe.”

  Genevieve nodded at each of them, then looked down at Andre from her perch upon the canoe. “If you expected me to be frightened of heathens and fallen angels,” she said, “you’ll be sorely disappointed. I’ve already met you.”

  The men smothered their laughter. Andre smiled wickedly, then gave the signal. He and the seven men surged up the side of the canoe and tumbled in. Julien, exhausted and inexperienced, tumbled in late. The vessel rocked wildly, but within minutes, as the men took their positions, the canoe balanced itself, and all that was left of the wild motion were the waves radiating out on the surface of the lake. Genevieve clutched the thin rim of the canoe with white fingers.

  Immediately, the vessel began drifting backward. Andre stood up behind his wife and picked up the cedar paddle. He heard her gasp. As he steadied the canoe, he noticed that she was staring at The Duke, who stood at the prow wearing nothing but a breechcloth.

  His grin widened. “If you keep staring at him, wife, I’ll have to call him out.”

  “What will you duel with? Stones? Wooden sticks? The bones of long-dead ancestors?”

  “He might be a savage, but he can guide this canoe better than any Frenchman.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she retorted, “since it’s held together by spit, bark, and heathen magic.”

  “You shouldn’t be deceived by appearances.”

  Genevieve stared at The Duke’s skimpy breechcloth dripping water onto the oilcloth. “That savage isn’t concerned about hiding anything.”

  “I mean the boat,” he explained. “The boat is stronger than it looks.”

  “Twigs and sap do not a seaworthy vessel make,” she retorted. “Someday you’ll have to explain—”

  “Later,” he murmured as he guided the vessel toward the opening of the lake. “Later.”

  Andre felt the familiar rocking of the canoe beneath his feet, the open air brushing his body, the current tugging against the red-painted end of his paddle. Six of his men clutched their paddles and began rowing, three on one side, three on the other. A volley of shots cracked the silence. Upon the shore, blue puffs of smoke rose in the air. The two men remaining on the bank raised their arms in farewell. Suddenly, Tiny’s voice filled the air with song.

  “I’ve braved the tempests and the floods of the Saint Lawrence. In my bark canoe laden with Indian riches and paddled by good men …”

  The men in the other canoes joined in. A golden glow shimmered off the trees that clung to the edge of the banks. Andre watched the receding shoreline, and he felt as if his bonds were being stretched to the limits, until finally, joyously, they snapped and he knew he was free.

  The voyage was beginning; the dream had begun.

  He crouched down behind his wife and pointed toward the bank. “Take one last look.” His voice whispered softly in her ear, causing a curl to flutter against her earlobe. He couldn’t prevent the grin of triumph from spreading across his face. “Take a good look … then say goodbye to civilization.”

  Chapter 5

  “A terre!”

  Genevieve sighed in relief as Andre cried out the order to land. The naked savage who stood in the front of the canoe twisted his long paddle and aimed the painted prow toward a rock-faced clearing on an island in the middle of the Ottawa River. She was sorely tempted to lean over the edge of the canoe, dip both hands into the water, and paddle—anything to hasten their arrival on dry land—but she knew if she felt the cold, clear water flowing through her fingers, she’d lose what little control she wielded over her aching bladder.

  She shifted her weight and winced. Her legs lay cramped beneath her, but she didn’t dare adjust her position atop the wobbly keg. The sound of the river water sloshing against the sides of the canoe, the endless bobbing of the vessel in the current, all conspired to torment her. The men had stopped on dry land only once since they
departed from Lachine this morning, and then only to eat a bowl of gritty cornmeal and to pay homage at a rough-hewn church dedicated to Saint Anne. Groaning, she thought about the skin full of clear mountain water she had drunk to wash down the gritty sagamite. She wouldn’t do that again, and by the sight of the squirming men, neither would they. Several times during the trip through the Lake of Two Mountains and up the mouth of the Ottawa River, she had gazed beyond the naked, widespread legs of Andre, standing behind her in the canoe, and glimpsed one of the voyageurs from another canoe passing water over the gunwales. Her presence alone prevented the men on this canoe from standing up, pulling up the hems of their shirts, pushing aside their loincloths, and relieving themselves in the wide, flowing river.

  A cool evening breeze kicked up, ruffling the surface of the river, bringing with it the scent of damp earth, pine resin, and mist. They neared the clear stretch of shore, nothing but a bare, flat rock jutting out from a dense growth of scraggly pines. Andre gave the signal and the men made one last stroke. Their paddles clattered in the boat, and before the momentum faded, they gripped the lashed edges of the vessel and sprung out of the canoe into the water. Genevieve gripped her uneven seat as frigid water sprayed over her, soaking into her linen headrail and bodice and running in tortuous rivulets into her cleavage.

  By the muffled, collective sighs of relief, she knew the men, waist-deep in the river, weren’t waiting to reach dry land to ease their discomfort.

  Genevieve glared at Andre, who was paying no attention to her. He was grinning and watching the rest of his colorful flotilla slice its way through the water to the shore. The golden light of the sunset gleamed on the dark blond lock that streaked his hair from his forehead to his shoulders. Soon the men were pushing aside the tarpaulin atop the merchandise and starting to carry the cargo, piece by piece, through the water to the island.

  “Well?” she said loudly when her seat became loose enough to wobble dangerously beneath her. “Are you going to leave me here all night, or do you expect me to swim to shore?”

  His grin widened as he sloshed through the water to the side of the canoe. “How did you find your first day afloat?”