The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  “That is as far as I can go,” he reminded her gently, and her smile disappeared.

  When they reached the spot where the small pine tree grew, Armand stopped. “Good night, my sweet.” He brushed his lips lightly against hers.

  “Good night,” she said softly, wishing she could remain in his arms all night, yet knowing she needed sleep and a bath, not necessarily in that order.

  She plodded slowly toward the house, in minutes she was undressed, bathed and in bed. But her eyes kept popping open to search the heavens outside her window for answers that weren't there. Morning arrived slowly.

  Throwing on some leans and a loose-knit emerald sweater, Hope brushed her teeth and washed her face without bothering to look in the mirror. She brushed her long hair and clipped it back with a barrette, then pushed her feet into dark tan deck shoes.

  She heated two frozen breakfasts and together with her notes from the day before, carried them carefully up the hill. When she reached the closed tent flap, she set everything down on the grass.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead. The sun's been up for hours! Besides, you have to eat, and then we have to talk.” She pushed aside the flap and reached around the small chest to grab the corner of the sleeping bag. It was empty.

  Her hand froze in midair and her heart thumped heavily against her breast. He was gone. He had faded away again during the night and somehow hadn't returned.

  She dropped heavily to the ground, her hand still clutching the edge of the sleeping bag. She closed her eyes against the pain that invaded her.

  Birds whistled cheery songs to each other. A fish or two splashed in the lake. An old French tune drifted through the air, faint at first, but growing stronger with each bar.

  Hope lifted her head, straining to hear better. The sound came closer. She stood up, motionless as she tried to discern its source. Her heart pumped faster. No one else knew that song. Not even Faith. Armand had told her so.

  Slowly she turned. Her fingers dug into the sturdy fabric of her jeans. When at last his dark head bobbed above the aide of the hill, joy enveloped her, and she dashed toward the path he was following.

  “You're here!” she cried as he halted in front of her, a makeshift fishing pole in one hand.

  “Where else was I supposed to be, hmm?” he asked indulgently, one brow raised.

  “Gone.”

  His smile faded. He leaned his pole against a tree trunk and reached for her, gently gathering her in his arms. His lips teased the side of her neck, and he breathed in her scent before releasing a contented sigh. His arms tightened around her. “No. I did not go away,” he said huskily, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “I am very strong in the morning, my sweet.”

  She offered him a shaky smile. “That's what they all say.” Unable to stay her hand, she touched the side of his jaw, then traced the corded muscle down the side of his neck and onto his broad shoulder. Her fingertips paused on the pulse point at his throat.

  His eyes smoldered like cinders. He drew her back into his embrace, leaning the full weight of her body against his, running his hands over the curve of her hips and waist, stopping only when he reached the pert thrust of her unbound breasts. “I am still astonished that ladies are allowed to wear so few clothes. Pleased...but astonished.”

  “But you only have on a shirt and a pair of pants. No underwear.” Her amused eyes told him how much she had loved that discovery, and he grinned at her wolfishly.

  “Some men search the world over to find someone like you, my Hope. A woman who knows her own body well and enjoys what happiness it brings both to her and her lover.”

  “Most of those men you describe were probably way ahead of their time. Women always liked what men did, but were told that they shouldn't let anyone know for fear of being labeled hussies,” she explained, rocking gently against his pelvis.

  “My mother never enjoyed it,” he said autocratically.

  “Poor mother,” she whispered, kissing his throat and tasting the salty tang of his skin.

  “She was a lady through and through. A duchess who knew that everything must be done just so, and who did it with panache.”

  “You mean her days were filled with work, and her nights were without joy. How terribly sad.” Her hands stroked his shoulders from neck to biceps, then back again.

  His eyes were becoming heavy-lidded with desire. “But that life was right for her,” he insisted. “My father's mistress served him very well.”

  “Poor father,” she murmured consolingly, nibbling on the strong column of his throat. “It's a good thing he wasn't born in this time, or he would have been kicked out by his good wife. Besides, if one wants something, isn't it better to have it next to you in bed, rather than to have to get dressed to go out and then undressed to make love, then dressed once more to get back home? How bothersome.”

  “I will have to think about that. I think you have turned logic inside out.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, then her forehead and her cheeks, and she couldn't even chuckle at the thought of disarming him. She couldn't think, period.

  “Kiss me here,” she ordered before taking his head in her hands and placing his mouth over hers where it belonged.

  Long moments later she reluctantly moved out of his arms and went back to the tent to retrieve the breakfast trays. “Here. I'd better feed you before you fade away from lack of nutrition. Then I want to tell you what I've found out.”

  Reluctantly, he accepted the tray. Peeping under the tinfoil, he asked, “What is it?”

  “French toast and sausage,” she explained, reclasping her barrette around the thick cord of shiny dark hair at her neck.

  “French toast? Impossible.” He shook his head as he stared at the concoction he held. “This is something invented by the English, I am sure. We French would never call this by our national name,” he said, curling his lip in what she was sure was supposed to be utter disdain.

  Unimpressed, she laughed. “Eat it. You'll love it.”

  “I hope what you found is better than this looks,” he said, still eyeing the tin plate of food. But his face held a trace of a smile as he sat down. Leaning against the tree trunk, he tasted his breakfast.

  His smile became a frown of consternation. Certainly Hope was making a joke when she called this French toast, he thought. The French never joked about food, and this tasted like a sickeningly sweet sponge.

  Hope ate slowly, her mind occupied with her finds, wondering If Armand would be angry when he learned that his enemies had succeeded. They had done very well for themselves, if the ledger pages were correct, and she was sure they were. She knew she'd feel bitter if she were in his place....

  Grabbing up the research papers, she sat in front of him and gathered her thoughts. But she made the mistake of looking at him, and she was suffused with a sense of wonder. He was so real, so very wonderful…. She shook her head to break the mood. “We need to talk,” Her voice sounded breathless.

  His dark brows lifted. “Please do so,” he said as he reached for her hand once more. “I have been waiting all my life for a woman who talks as little as you do,” he teased. “But now that I have found you, I would like to hear your voice a little more often.”

  “Don't be complacent,” she laughed. “You may disappear yet.”

  His smile waned. “I hope not yet. There are so many things I want to say to you. Do with you.”

  Her hand traced the line of his cheek. She loved his lean, strong face. It was a face one could count on. Dream about. “I know. I didn't mean that. You're still here, so I think you'll stay a while.”

  He shook his head. “Let us not delude ourselves. I will go someday. I may not want to, I may not be ready. But I will disappear. I have come to terms with that over the past few days.”

  “You have?” Her eyes searched his. “Why haven't I?” she murmured, as if to herself.

  “Perhaps because this is your time to live, not to come to terms with death.” He twisted his
head and kissed her caressing palm. “I am here only to have you help me. When you go...” He let the rest of the sentence drift away, but she knew what he meant. When winter came, she would have to leave or be stranded. And when she left, he would be alone.

  Crossing her arms, she stared at the blue water. She could feel Armand behind her, waiting calmly for her to speak. Finally she faced him. “I found some records—ledgers from a merchant in Duluth who was dealing with Grand Portage during the middle seventeen-hundreds.”

  He raised his brows. “And?”

  “One of the men, Francois Tourbet, apparently married an Indian girl. They worked together selling furs in Grand Portage. It seems he died a few years later, and his account was settled on his wife and child. Henri Houdon stayed at Grand Portage instead of trapping. I don't know where he got the money, because he wasn't paid by the post, except once, although he did buy supplies.”

  “Go on,” he said, staring out at the blue water below the jutting cliff.

  “The third man—” she glanced quickly at the sheets in her hand “—Jacques Pillon, made a small fortune if the records are correct. The records show constant amounts of money given to him in payment for furs, yet he was never gone from the fort for very long. All the accounts are only three or four weeks apart.”

  “What else?”

  She sighed. “I went to Grand Portage. It seems that there are no other records concerning Grand Portage left in the United States. If I need more information, I'll have to go to the museums, or the offices of the Hudson’s Bay Company or the North West Fur Company. In Europe.”

  “No.” It was said softly, but with stubborn conviction. “You will not travel that far. There has to be another answer.”

  “There are a few more sources to check out. But most of the records in Minnesota have to do with the logging industry, not fur-trading.” She looked at him. “But I do have an excellent lead. There's a historian who is fascinated with the French occupation. He's writing a book on the Northern Arrowhead families. He might have something we can use.”

  “The French ownership,” Armand corrected. “Was it taken from us? By whom? New France was becoming more British every day. Even the Scots were claiming our land.”

  “Everything France owned in the Northwest Territory was signed over to the British in 1763, one year after you were here.”

  “Very well,” he said, as if the point were not important enough to argue about.

  “Anyway. I'll be going back to Duluth in four or five days, and I'll see if I can get ahold of the historian. He might know more about what happened to the men who killed you.”

  Armand began to pace, his boots scuffing through leaves and pine needles along the bluff. “Then we shall know soon.” He halted his restless march, staring at her as a new concept occurred to him. “Is there any mention of the key? The one that opens the chest?”

  She shook her head. “No, not yet.” She'd been afraid he would ask that question. How did one go about finding a two-hundred-year-old lost key? It was impossible...

  “You will find it,” he said with a certainty that nettled her.

  “How do you know?” she demanded. “After more than two hundred years, it could well be lost! The United States is big enough to hide thousands of people a year, let alone one small ivory key that's older than the country!”

  “The country has always been here,” he admonished as if speaking to a child.

  “I mean the Declaration of Independence. It wasn't signed until 1776!”

  “Really? You must tell me about this declaration sometime. I do not remember you mentioning it before.”

  She grinned reluctantly. “Do you think you're going to divert me from an honest tantrum by changing the subject?”

  “I do not know, chérie. But it was worth the attempt.” His blue eyes twinkled. “However, if that diversion does not work, I have another in mind. One that would be much more pleasant for both of us.”

  Against her will, he had her laughing again. “You're incorrigible!” she exclaimed, allowing herself to be enveloped in his arms once more.

  “What is this incorrigible?” he murmured, his lips tasting the side of her throat. “Is it a compliment? Does it mean that I am in love with you, or that you melt when I touch you? Stroke the core of you? Taste of you?”

  Her arms circled his neck. “No,” she drawled, a twinkle in her eyes. “It means that you're brazen, egotistical and spoiled rotten, and there is no hope for redemption. No wonder women fell at your feet.”

  “Alas, no, chérie,” he murmured. “Into my arms, but never at my feet, much to my dismay.”

  Before she could retaliate, his lips had covered hers with a kiss that sent all thoughts scurrying away like mice escaping a hungry cat.

  She knew her information had upset him. She could see it in his eyes. Three men who had obviously been involved in killing him went on to succeed in their lives without retribution. But if he wanted to forget in an embrace, the least she could do was help him.

  Her arms tightened as she allowed him to assume the mastery of their lovemaking. After all, he was French. Surely she should allow a Frenchman to do what he does best…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She had been right—Armand was upset by the news she had delivered. Thinking she had dozed off, he'd crept from her side and gone for a walk. She glanced at the small black watch on her wrist. A long walk, apparently; he'd been gone almost three hours. It was after noon, and the sun was at its warmest. She knew that if she looked she'd probably find him down at the cliff, skipping stones or just staring into the water.

  Damn it! Didn't he know that she needed to comfort him? And comfort herself, as well...

  She loved Armand, and she wanted to be with him for as long a time as he had left. She didn't know how or when she had fallen in love, but there certainly hadn't been any brilliant light that flooded her with truth and knowledge. Instead, love had seeped slowly into the very core of her being, growing from a seedling to an oak, until it filled every corner of her mind and body. It was something she just knew, and now she could not deny it to herself.

  Imagine being in love with a man who was a chauvinist before Chauvin! A smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. Armand was born to lord it over women—all women. It was his nature. But it was also a sign of the times—his times.

  There was something good about his attitude, though. At first she couldn't quite put her finger on it. But then it came. He was strong. And that strength gave her a feeling of sweet security she had never felt with any other man. He was protective without being possessive. Strong without being overpowering. He could speak in the softest of whispers, yet project great authority.

  The sound of crackling leaves brought her head up. Her gaze darted among the trees, only to lock onto the startling blue eyes of the man who filled her thoughts. Neither she nor Armand moved.

  Little by little, every muscle in her body became taut. His expression was more eloquent than any words could have been, telling her that they were meant to be together for whatever time was left.

  Her eyes spoke volumes, too, telling him she needed him close to her. Expressing feelings she was only just beginning to grasp.

  She watched him as he walked toward her with a grace that was part animal and part man. His every muscle and bone worked together to create a masterpiece of motion that almost took her breath away.

  Armand sank to the ground across from her. He cleared his throat then reached out, his fingers lingering to limn the outline of her ear. “Are you so uncertain, my Hope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of me, or yourself?”

  She looked up. “Both.”

  “And do you not believe that I could be unsure also?” Sadness touched his eyes, revealing a deep vulnerability that almost shocked her. “I am the one who must knock down stone walls to get to the heart of you, my love. Every time I make an advance to get closer, you fight me, because you believe, no matter what I tell you, that y
ou are only a replacement for another. By now, we both should know that this is not true. A reminder, yes. A replacement, no.” His tone was so melancholy that it oozed over her like warm syrup. He was telling her of his love for her, not for another woman!

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She heard no doubt in his voice, and she searched his face, seeking any flaw in his conviction. There was none.

  “I love you,” she said quietly, gaining strength from the sound of the words themselves. Once they were said, released into the warm summer breeze, a weight lifted from her body and she felt as light and trembly as the aspen leaves shimmering overhead. “And because I love you, I'm scared, Armand.”

  His eyes glowed. “I know. I have been waiting for you to admit it.”

  Her hand rose to cradle his hand against her face. “Whether time or the gods worked against us as a joke, or brought us together for some purpose, I do not care, Hope. I have you now. That is all that matters.”

  She was almost afraid to say the words, but she had no choice, “And when you go?”

  He shrugged fatalistically. He wanted to hold her, crush her to him so they could blend together and never be separated. But that was not to be, and he knew it. “I will simply go. It is out of our hands. But during the time I am here, I want to be with you. To love you. To try to take care of you.”

  It was her turn to smile. “Even if I'm stubborn and mean?”

  He nodded. “Yes, even when you withdraw from me in anger and frustration. Most especially then. Your soul is mine, Hope, just as mine is yours.”

  Tears flooded her eyes as she became aware of the depth of his commitment.

  “When you cry, I will wipe your tears away. When you laugh, I will laugh with you. When you misbehave, I will punish you.” His hand drifted to her shoulder, then dropped lightly to the bare skin just above the fullness of her breast. “When you love, it will be only with me.”

  The tears stopped. “Punish?”

  “Punish. Every woman needs a beating now and again.”

  “Not on your life.”