by Beth White
With her thumb she rubbed one of the four fleur-de-lis which joined the arms of the cross. France, the mother country, overshadowed her life, even here in Louisiane—but it also seemed, in truth, a distant reality. She no longer felt the consuming rage toward the King who had burned her home and murdered her father—only sorrow.
Still, she would never go back there. Never.
Except for worry about the safety of her children, Nika would have had no qualms about attending Bright Tongue. But if Mitannu lingered near the ambush scene and should hear the Frenchman’s feverish raving, the hollowed-out bluff under which she had taken shelter would provide little protection, no matter how much camouflage she pulled across the opening.
Quaking with fear lest her husband’s men should return and discover her, she had first cleaned the nasty hole in the unconscious Bright Tongue’s upper shoulder—the bullet had gone clean through and exited out the back—with water from her gourd. In other circumstances she would have made a fire and cauterized the wound and packed it with softened pine resin as Mitannu’s mother had taught her—but the danger of attracting unwanted attention made that impossible. Instead she ripped a strip of fabric from the tail of his shirt, wrapped it under his arm, and tied it round the shoulder. She would just have to hope that it would not fester and rot.
As a married woman, one of her main chores had been dressing the carcasses Mitannu brought home from his hunting trips. Some of those had been eight-point bucks weighing as much as a hundred and sixty pounds. Still, dragging her former lover’s dead weight to safety took all her strength and determination. She had forgotten how tall and muscular was his body—or maybe he’d grown since leaving the Kaskaskian village five years ago as a lanky teenager. In any case, once he regained consciousness, he thrashed about so that she was hard pressed to keep those long legs and arms out of sight.
“Mah-Kah-Twah,” she whispered, kneeling above him, pressing with all her might into his good shoulder. “You must lie still. You will reopen the wound.”
He mumbled something unintelligible in French, twisting his head back and forth, and tried to jerk out from under her.
“No,” she pleaded, switching to French, “listen, I will lie beside you, but you must be quiet. Please, beloved, lie still.”
Instantly he quieted. His eyes opened. They were glassy, too bright, the pupils contracted. “Nika?”
What had she said? “I’m here,” she whispered. She drew back, but he caught her arm with his good hand.
“Don’t go.” His voice was hoarse, urgent.
“I won’t, but be quiet and don’t move. He might come back for you.” She checked the opening of their shelter. The camouflage was still in place.
Following her gaze, he lowered his voice. “Who? What happened? Why are you here?”
She picked through those questions. “I am traveling to visit my family.”
He tried to rise on his elbow to peer at her, but his color drained on a gasp of pain, and he lay back again, eyes closed. After catching his breath, he looked at her, his expression more lucid. “Your family in Kaskaskia?” When she nodded, looking away, he touched her face. “Were you with the Indians who attacked us? The Koasati?”
Almost she shouted at him, but remembering just in time, she whispered, “No! Of course not. And they weren’t Koasati. They were Mobilians, in disguise.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
“They were—the leader, the one with the gun—that was Mitannu . . . my husband.”
They stared at one another for a long moment, worlds of unspoken emotion between them. They had been all but children when they had loved one another. Nika for one had felt the weight of adult responsibility for so long that she could barely remember that young girl. However, she had not forgotten the magnetism of Bright Tongue’s personality, the candor and fearlessness in his gaze. And this new maturity that had settled into the bones of his face, the way he looked beneath her words for nuances of meaning, drew her damaged heart like the tongue going to a sore tooth.
“I would have gone back for you.” He said it as if the words were dragged from him.
“I waited for a month, and you did not come. I was afraid to wait longer.”
“Nika, I was a young fool. When I saw you in the Mobile village, I thought you had followed me. I strutted like a cockerel and bragged to Tristan that I had won the princess. And then I saw that you belonged to the Indian and—and had his children.” He sighed and looked away. “You have beautiful children, Nika. I’m glad you’ve been happy.”
Tears blinded her, and her throat clogged with bitterness. She wished there were anyplace else she could go. But no, she must face him, lie with him here, bear the consequences of their childish folly. “I saw your brother in the village often. I never saw you.”
His expression clouded. “I have some pride. Besides, my religion forbids me to covet another man’s wife. How could I come there and watch you serving him?”
You blind fool, I would have left him for you! the soft side of her heart screamed. But the reasoning part of her mind reminded her that to have left Mitannu for the white man would literally have brought war to them all.
As, in the end, had come to pass anyway. But how in the world had Mitannu found her out? She had never let on, by word or expression, that she still loved Mah-Kah-Twah. She had been faithful in action if not in her secret heart.
Suddenly, utter weariness and despair claimed her mind, her face, her body. She laid her head down on her forearm as the storm built into silent, soul-shaking sobs.
To his credit, Mah-Kah-Twah made no attempt to stop her. Or perhaps he was in too much pain to speak.
When her grief had spent itself, she heaved a broken breath and said in a small voice, “I’m sorry. I’m worried for my sons.”
“Where are they?”
“I hope they’re with my friend in the Apalachee village. Unless Mitannu took them.”
“You should go and find out. I can manage.” He hesitated. “How many bodies did you find at the campsite?”
“Three. The priest and two soldiers.”
“Two soldiers? There should have been a third—two ensigns and a medical major. Describe the uniforms,” he demanded.
She tried to think. “Plain gray breeches, blue coats, plain buttons.” She shuddered. “Their throats were cut, but they didn’t seem to be important men.”
“Then Barraud must have gotten away,” he muttered. “My brother had gone into the Koasati village for the night but would have come back by now. Unless they murdered him too.” He grew restless again, jostling her as he struggled onto his elbows. He panted for a moment, caught his breath, and with his good hand felt for the bandage she had contrived around his wound. “I don’t understand why the Koasati would attack, when they had been friendly the night before. They shared meat with us and promised to smoke peace with Tristan.”
“Didn’t you hear me? They weren’t Koasati! They were Mitannu’s men.” She shoved his good shoulder, none too gently. “Lie down before you start the bleeding again.”
He ignored her, scowling. “This is a bullet wound. Did you see his gun? What kind was it?”
“I don’t know! A gun is a gun. Our troubles started when you people brought those terrible weapons into our villages.”
“Oh, no, you all were doing just fine before we got here, killing each other with arrows and tomahawks and bludgeons.” He gave her a fulminating look. “It matters whether these savages were armed by the French or the British. Tristan and the priest and I came all this way to try turning the Alabama away from the English, and to get them to band together with the Choctaw, the Chickasaw, and the Mobile. You’ve got to stop raiding each other’s villages, stop taking slaves and selling them to the British. If you don’t, your nations will slowly implode, and we’ll all be left as subjects of Queen Anne.”
She pressed her lips together. “Would that be so much worse than being slaves of King Louis? Your people do n
ot respect him. Your officers rob the royal warehouses to sell goods to our chiefs, and I know at least one who sells information to the British!” She stopped on a gasp, horrified at her lapse in discretion.
Mah-Kah-Twah swiftly caught the back of her head in his hand, his fingers plowing roughly into her hair. “What did you say?”
18
Geneviève tried to think when she and Aimée had last been in a room together for purely social reasons. Oh, there had been the occasion nearly three weeks ago now, the same day she’d discovered Aimée’s purchase of her blackberry tartlets. To give them to Julien Dufresne, whom Aimée knew Geneviève couldn’t bear, as a lover’s gift of sorts . . . that had been a most egregious disloyalty.
She’d best not think of it, if she expected to endure the evening.
Tonight half the settlement seemed to have been invited to Madame L’Anglois’s harvest celebration—the official ending of the season before winter’s chilly fingers began to clutch the colony. The socialite had had good Monsieur L’Anglois working from dawn to dusk, cleaning out his barn so that there would be room for young couples to dance while their elders refreshed themselves with an assortment of Geneviève’s pumpkin pies and cream pastries, washed down with a punch made from the juice of watermelon and wild berries, mixed with the last of the wines from the warehouse.
It was a merry scene indeed, the military men of the crowd freed from a month of intensified guard duty. Word had come from the south that British warships had been sighted off the coast of Massacre Island, hovering like dogs below a treed opossum. They were gone now, and no one knew precisely what they had gained by skulking in the Gulf for six days, but despite the jocularity of the men, the women continued to fret.
Even Geneviève, who was helping Madame keep the refreshment table filled and tidied, couldn’t help listening to the officers discuss Bienville’s plans to dispatch soldiers to the Island. Usually she could dismiss the flutterings of the other women as a waste of energy, but the serious undertone of the men’s conversation carried weight. Tristan’s safety was never far from her thoughts. Also, she couldn’t help worrying about her message sent through Nika. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could be considered treason.
“Madame Lanier, you are looking lovely tonight. Could I trouble you for more punch?”
Startled from her guilty thoughts, she turned. “Commander!” Regaining her grip on the punch ladle, she freshened Bienville’s drink. “Thank you. You are very kind.” She knew she looked well, for she had taken particular pains with her hair and had freshened her stomacher with new ribbons for the occasion.
She felt her cheeks warm as Bienville’s black eyes flicked over her. “Lanier will find himself a most fortunate man when he returns. I pray that he and his brother will bring us a report of a successful mission within a week or two.”
Mistrusting his conciliatory tone, Geneviève returned his regard, absently wiping the lip of the ladle with the corner of her apron. “Have you decided to forgive him of the sin of marrying me then?”
His lips quirked. “Madame Bakery Queen, you have surely learned by now that my anger is generally short-lived—particularly with regard to men who serve the interests of the French Crown as best they know how.” He sighed. “The Lanier brothers have been two of my closest allies, as well as a source of keen aggravation. Please disregard my insulting questions the day after your so-hasty marriage. I was surprised that I wasn’t invited to witness the ceremony, that’s all.”
Though she doubted that was the sole reason for that intrusive interrogation, she shrugged. “We shan’t speak of it again.”
He nodded. “However, there’s another bone I must pick. You’ll have to believe that I choose my words with fear and trembling.” He hesitated, glanced away.
She caught her breath. Had he found out about the message?
Then she realized Bienville was focused on Aimée, who was dancing a reel with her back to Julien Dufresne but giving the young redhead a sparkling look over her shoulder.
Geneviève sighed. “What has she done now?”
Bienville chuckled. “You should rather ask, what has she not done? If she doesn’t hurry up and choose a husband, I shall soon find my officers involved in an elimination round of pistols at dawn.”
Geneviève blinked. “I—I thought she had already become engaged to Aide-Major Dufresne.”
“Then she hasn’t told you?” He gave her an odd look. “Dufresne informed me he offered for her nearly three weeks ago, but she has been playing the tease.”
“That sounds like Aimée. But my sister and I have been somewhat distanced lately. Frankly I haven’t encouraged her to settle on the aide-major, so I’m glad to hear she has not.”
“Pray tell, what is your objection to the son of one of the wealthiest and highest-placed peers in France?” Bienville stared down at her, frowning. “I’ve found him nothing but diligent in his duties and sensible of the privileges he enjoys as one of my officers. Mademoiselle Aimée is a pretty thing, I grant you, but she should thank God on her knees that Dufresne has shown her favor.”
Geneviève wondered what he would think if she informed the commander that her sister had once aspired to the post of mistress of the entire colony.
“It isn’t false pride that makes me discourage the match.” Geneviève struggled to find words that would not unduly offend the commander. “I agree, Monsieur Dufresne could be considered a fine catch. But—but, Commander, I don’t believe he has been entirely forthcoming with me or my sister, and his motives for pursuing her don’t seem quite—” Oh dear, he was looking down his nose at her, in clear irritation. “I mean, I just think there may be something other than real affection—”
“Please do not try to tell me you are one of these ridiculous females who cling to romantic notions of true love between a woman in need of a husband and the man who generously meets that need.” His lip curled. “Was that the way of it between you and my Know-Nothing erstwhile lieutenant? Secret meetings in the still of the night? Poetry, songs, and sweet nothings exchanged through open windows?”
Geneviève wrapped her arms about her middle, feeling as though she had been punched without warning. Bienville looked away, a faint stiffness of shame in his expression, but she would not let him off this time. “What did Tristan do to you, sir, that you treat him with such contempt? As you said only a moment ago, he is a good man who would give his life for you! Yet you seem to find it difficult to speak a civil word in his behalf.”
Bienville pressed his fine lips together. He did not reply for several moments, and the lilting strains of a Purcell minuet from Monsieur L’Anglois’s violin filled the silence.
Finally he gave her a curt bow. “Please forgive my reluctance to resurrect old wrongs, Madame. I assure you I meant no insult to you or your sister. Just remember that she must choose a husband tonight—or I will be forced to choose for her.” Turning on his heel, he cut through the center of the dance floor and disappeared behind a crowd of men in the open doorway of the barn.
Geneviève stared after the commander, every iota of charity to which she had clung evaporated. She was very glad Aimée had not managed to attract his arrogant regard, for if she had been forced to entertain him as her brother-in-law, she would surely have murdered him within a fortnight. Turning her back on the refreshment table, she yanked her fan from her apron pocket and attempted to cool all trace of upset from her face.
“Madame Lanier, you are like to create a tropical surge in the punch bowl if you persist in such violent fanning.” Julien Dufresne’s sardonic baritone behind her preceded his appearance. “Perhaps you will consent to share that welcome breeze with the rest of the room. It is fiendishly hot in here.”
She snapped the sticks of the fan together and jammed it back into her pocket. She was in no frame of mind to joust with this weasel. “Please excuse me. Madame L’Anglois seems to have need of me.”
He snagged her arm before she could walk away. “Ah, you mus
t have mistaken her for someone else, as I just passed her on the way to the, er, privy.”
Would this miserable evening never end? “What do you want, Monsieur Dufresne?” she said between her teeth.
He sighed in feigned injury, his pale eyes glinting. “Why, my dear, such shortness of temper. Could it be that you are increasing? I’ve heard it said that such an interesting condition often makes shrews of the most gentle-natured of women.” Surveying her figure with blatant insolence, he shook his head. “I only wished to exchange courtesies, Madame. After all, you and I are like to be the closest of relatives ere too long. We had best learn to get along.”
Increasing? She wished fervently that Tristan were here to pitch the impudent wretch headfirst into the punch bowl. She had heard about the scene that took place between the two men on the riverfront landing the morning after her wedding. It had afforded her many a private giggle every time she recalled it.
Now, even the mental image of Dufresne dancing a jig with watermelon juice dripping from his red curls enabled her to conjure a smile. “I have heard no wedding banns read, sir, but I shall be sure to let you know when I do.”
Fleeting uncertainty crossed his expression as he glanced over his shoulder at Aimée, who was dancing opposite Denis Lafleur. “Bienville has said I may announce the betrothal tonight,” he said loudly. “It is his wish that I wed your sister.”
“Perhaps he should have informed her first. She appears to be ignorant of this stunning news.”
At that moment the tune ended, and Aimée curtseyed before the laughing Lafleur, who grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips. She blushed like a rose, peeping up at him from behind her lacy fan.
Dufresne’s teeth clicked together hard. He swiftly gained control of himself, pulling out a fresh, snowy handkerchief to blot his beaded forehead. “Aimée cannot help the packs of dogs who follow her like a—” He smiled. “Like the beautiful woman she is. When we are wed, she will have reason to contain her smiles for her husband.”
