“What does this mean?” It was Jean who spoke, moving to stand behind his brother. Gaston, rousing in his hammock, peered past them with his eyes widening with shock.
Cyrene could not answer. It was René who spoke. “I would think,” he said, his tone dry, “that the meaning is obvious.”
The remark drew Pierre’s fire, as it was meant to do. “Name of a name! Is this the way you repay us?”
“Oddly enough—” René began.
As Pierre, his blue eyes murderous, started toward him, Cyrene threw up a hand to stop him. “The fault is mine, not his,” she said, her voice tight. “He did nothing that I did not wish.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Jean doubled his fists, putting them on his hips.
“Because it’s true.”
“Impossible! He seduced you, beguiled you with lies.”
She shook back her hair; the action was also a denial. “No. I asked this of him.”
“The way of a whore? Never. You seek to protect him, but it’s no use.” Jean made as if he would push past his older brother. Gaston, his face grim, was on his feet, moving toward the cubicle to join them.
“I need no protection.” René’s voice was armored in steel as he went to one knee. As he faced the Bretons his gaze was level and challenging and without fear. “I will give any one or all of you satisfaction, if you require it, but first you might ask yourselves what reason Cyrene would have for what has been done.”
Jean spat out an epithet, lunging past his brother. Pierre shot out his hand and caught his shirtfront, dragging him to a halt. “Wait,” he said, a dangerous edge to his words, “Lemonnier has a point. Let us hear Cyrene.”
The rain was loud in the sudden quiet. Cyrene’s heart jarred in her chest. She moistened her lips. “The reason is my freedom. I am so tired of being watched and guarded like some prize.”
“You are a prize, one of great value,” Pierre said roughly.
“I’m a person. I want to come and go without having a man always at my side. I want to do what I like, when I like. I want to be free.”
“You don’t know what you say.” The elder Breton made a quick gesture with a hand much-callused in the palm from years of rowing. “Women must be protected.”
“Why? To ensure their purity or their fidelity? There is a difference between protection and imprisonment.”
Pierre stared at her, a frown drawing his brows together. “We never meant to imprison you, chère, or to make you unhappy.”
Cyrene clenched her hands on the fur of the buffalo hide. “I haven’t been unhappy, only maddened by the constant vigil held over me. I’ve tried to tell you, but you never listened. I will go mad if it doesn’t stop.”
“And you think this is the way to end it?”
“How better? There will no longer be a need now for your protection.”
“You think not?”
“Why should there be? Unchaste women walk the streets alone day and night, especially at night.”
“You mean to become a whore?” The older man’s tone was dangerously soft.
“Of course not! But such women go unguarded simply because they no longer have anything to lose.”
“You expect us to let you go about the streets now as you please, without escort?”
“Why not?”
“But you don’t wish to be a whore?”
“I told you, no!”
“Who is going to save you from the wolves who will gather when they learn that you have known a man? Who is going to keep you from becoming their prey, their whore?”
Anger and humiliation sparkled in her brown eyes. Never had anyone said such a thing to her, certainly not Pierre Breton. Still, she refused to let him know how he had wounded her. With a lift of her chin, she said, “I’ll protect myself. I have the knife you gave me, and I remember how to use it.”
“You’ll need more than that. You are far too choice a morsel to go unclaimed because of a puny blade or a few lessons from me in cut and thrust.”
René, listening with intent purpose beside Cyrene, spoke suddenly. “I will be her protection.”
Jean growled and would have stepped forward once more if Pierre had not held him back with an imperative gesture. Cyrene swung around to face René, her eyes startled. “There is no need,” she said in an urgent undertone. “This isn’t your quarrel.”
“Let him speak,” Pierre said, though an odd flicker of something like distress crossed his features.
René rose to his feet, facing the other men squarely. “Make no mistake, I do this out of neither fear nor gratitude. I have in the past few days discovered in myself a strong attachment to Cyrene. What she is to you, or you to her, I don’t know, but this much I can promise you. No harm will come to her because of me, nor will anyone else be allowed to offer her insult or injury while she is under my guardianship.”
Cyrene, listening in amazement, roused herself to remonstrate. “Will you be quiet? I need no help from you.”
“Your guardianship,” Pierre repeated. “And what would she be to you?”
“That is a matter between us.”
Jean gave a soft grunt. “Your mistress, then. Or is it that your guardianship may not extend beyond a night or two?”
“I trust it will be longer. I had thought, even hoped, that it might be at least as long as your next expedition to meet the English will last.”
Jean cursed and Gaston echoed his father, his face pale.
Pierre remained calm, though his eyes narrowed. “You mean to explain that, I hope.”
“Forgive my abruptness,” René said, inclining his head in acquiescence. “I realized what the indigo was shortly after you brought it aboard. It wasn’t hard to know that it must be here since Jean, before he washed his hands, had a beautiful shade of blue under his fingernails. I have been lying here thinking of the adventure you were embarking on and the profits you stand to make, and I discovered within myself a great desire to join you in this enterprise.”
“For the money, naturally?” Pierre said.
“I don’t scorn it, though truthfully I have sufficient for my needs from my family, providing, of course, that I don’t squander it at the gaming tables. You may not credit the real reason, but I can tell you. I am tired of civilization and its rules; I’ve had a surfeit. I long to explore the wilderness now that I’m here, to see the Indians and how they live, and perhaps to do something that carries a certain risk. I can’t explain to you this need, I can only tell you it’s there.”
It was doubtful that he could have hit upon an explanation more likely to please the Bretons. Smuggling was not just their profession, it was their recreation and their joy. The profit to be gained was a consideration, but it was far outweighed by the sheer pleasure of gaining it while avoiding being caught by the king’s soldiers, killed by renegade Indians, or lost in any of the other natural disasters to which the vast country was prone.
“You want to come with us?” Jean said. “A Parisian dandy like you? You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the wilderness.”
“That’s possible,” René agreed, a faint smile in his gray eyes. “It’s also possible that I might surprise you.”
Cyrene looked from Pierre to Jean. The two men gazed at each other, their faces grim. Something in their expressions, a wariness, an acceptance, told her that they were considering the suggestion. They were actually considering taking René Lemonnier with them.
“No,” she said.
She was ignored.
“Can you paddle a boat?” Pierre asked as he looked back at René.
“I’ve rowed on the Seine.”
“The Mississippi is not so tame, or so forgiving. Can you shoot?”
“That I can do.”
“No,” Cyrene said again.
“But have you ever killed a man?” Jean asked, his gaze steady on René.
René did not answer but neither did he look away.
“Of course, you may not consider a savage a man, but
he is a deadly foe,” the younger Breton went on with irony. “But, saying you can defend yourself as well as our Cyrene, do you go for the outing or do you plan to invest?”
“I’ll share the risk, if you will allow it.”
Cyrene got to her feet, wrapping the bearskin around her. “What is this?” she demanded, looking from one to the other. “What are you doing?”
It was Pierre who answered. “This is an agreement among men, chère. As for what we are doing, we are taking on a partner.”
“You can do as you like,” she said, the words firm, well measured, “but understand this, all of you. I’m no part of it.”
“That is a matter between you and the man you have chosen.”
“I’ve chosen no one!”
“Haven’t you? It appears otherwise.”
Cyrene lifted her chin, her eyes fierce and dark with her distress. “I don’t care how it appears, I require no protector, nor do I want one!”
“That is unfortunate, chère, for it seems you have one whether you wish it or not.”
Pierre looked at her for a long moment, his face hard though the pain lingered in his eyes. He turned sharply as if in disdain and, motioning Jean and Gaston back, swept the curtain down into place. From the other side, he spoke again. “We leave within the week, Lemonnier. Be ready.”
Why? That was what Cyrene could not understand. It wasn’t that the Bretons had never taken a partner with them; it was not unusual for them to take on another man or even two. But these men were always fellow voyageurs, men born in this harsh new world and familiar with its ways; always men they had long known and trusted. It made no sense for them to accept a newcomer, a man who was not only strange to the wilderness but who was also on terms of friendship with the governor himself and therefore suspect.
It was the governor’s duty, as supreme authority here so far from mother France, to stop the smuggling that was rife. Toward that end, rewards had been established for informing on the men engaged in such illegal and treasonous activities. Smuggling was seen, in fact, as stealing from the French state since it diverted revenues that would otherwise go into the royal treasury. The penalty was flogging, the number of lashes to be decided according to the degree of the offense, then branding with the fleur-de-lis and a sentence of life on the king’s galleys.
Was it possible that she had brought an informer among them?
Cyrene turned slowly to look at René Lemonnier. “Why are you doing this?”
“I think you heard.”
His gray gaze was clear, without guile, and yet there was something in it that disturbed her. “If this is just an impulse, I beg you will reconsider. A man who knows nothing of the swamps and woodlands can be a danger to everyone as well as to himself.”
“I appreciate your concern, though I could wish for greater confidence.”
“That’s something you must earn, like all men newly come to Louisiane.”
René watched her and was impressed by her close-held composure that belied the fury that caused her breasts to rise and fall so quickly. She felt she had been betrayed, and she was right. For that fact, he did not like himself much. She would not lose by it, however. This he vowed again in silence as he allowed his gaze to touch the strong oval of her face, the rich warmth of her hair, the magnificence of her form that was gilded across the shoulders by the haze of wavering light through the curtain. One did not, of a certainty, marry a woman of such a lower class, but he would see that she lacked for nothing, not even a husband, before he returned to France.
Aloud, he said, “I will try to remember.”
“There is something else you should understand beyond doubting, so hear me well. You may go on this expedition, you may call yourself my protector if it pleases you, but that is the end of it. You will not share my bed. You owe me nothing, nor do I owe you. Is that clear?”
A slow smile curved his mouth, rising in his eyes. “Your position is clear, and I would like to agree. It is only fair for me to warn you, however, that I can’t.”
“What does that mean?” She clenched her teeth together with the effort it took not to scream at him and bring the Bretons back down on them again.
“I consider that I still owe you a great deal — and I have found in myself a strong preference for your method of repayment.”
“Touch me,” she said in sibilant tones, “and I will kill you.”
He tilted his head, surveying her through his lashes. “You have been free with your warnings; now, listen to me. I have never forced a woman, nor do I intend to start now. But that isn’t to say that I won’t woo you when the chance arises and bed you if I am allowed, or can create, the opportunity. So prime your defenses, ma chérie, I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it. Easy conquests are not nearly as interesting.”
“I’m no conquest of yours!”
“Not yet.”
“Out,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Get out.”
He gave a low laugh. “Put me out.”
She could not struggle with him in her present state of undress; it would not be at all wise. She turned her back. “I wouldn’t give you the pleasure!”
“Then I suppose I stay,” he said, settling himself back down on the pallet, “at least until morning.”
Cyrene disdained to answer. She climbed into her hammock and struggled to lie down without losing her bearskin wrapping. The bed suspended between hooks swayed and creaked until it finally fell silent.
René lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He had not been able to resist baiting her, though if she had shown the least sign of real trepidation he would have put her mind to rest at once. It was not his intention to be tied to her day and night, though he must and would stay close. Nor did he need the annoyance of a woman making emotional scenes at the wrong moments. He would carry on a flirtation with her, press his attentions upon her just enough to fan the flames of her rage and keep her at odds with him, but he would not involve himself further.
Or would he? The taste and feel of her ran rich in his mind, and he would like to take her again now, pulling her down with him on this hard floor. It was not going to be easy to remain celibate with her always near at hand.
He would manage because he must. Honor required it. Honor could be a hard taskmaster.
It was cold without the curves of Cyrene’s body against his and without his cover, which she had taken with her.
“Cyrene?” he called softly up to her. “Do I get a coverlet, a blanket, if not the bearskin?”
She made no reply.
He reached above him, running a fingertip along the curve of the hammock, down her back to her hips. She wriggled away from him. Muffled by the bearskin pulled over her head, her answer came.
“Freeze. It may cure your excessive ardor.”
It certainly might. Muttering under his breath, René turned on his side and pulled part of his buffalo robe pallet over him. A moment later, he slept.
They left New Orleans five days later. The departure was triggered by a message from downriver that the English ship they had been expecting had been sighted off Biloxi. By the time they reached the coast, threading through the bayous, lakes, and streams that formed this clandestine passageway below New Orleans, the ship would be anchored in one of the smaller inlets or bays that indented the Louisiane shoreline. The time it could remain there was limited. It was necessary for the Breton party to travel fast and with few delays.
For transport they used a pair of large pirogues. Pierre, Cyrene, and René were in the lead boat, while Jean and Gaston pressed them from behind. The crafts, though sometimes treacherous to handle, were perfect for the meandering trip where occasionally there were stretches of marshlands that had to be crossed on little more than a heavy dew.
It was cold and damp on the water, but there was the labor of paddling to warm them. Cyrene wielded a paddle with the rest. To be idle was to become chilled, and besides, she preferred to do her part. She re
sted perhaps a little more often than the others, not so much because she could not keep up as from a fascination with the wet country around her, the swampland.
The bayous and other streams twisted and snaked toward the gulf, sometimes doubling back on themselves, so that it was often necessary to travel three leagues to make one of southward progress. The lakes were wide and placid, natural reservoirs. The water of the intricate network was muddy and dark, the result of its silt content and the acid in the tree leaves that sifted down into it. In some places there was a perceptible current, but in others the waterway lay still and quietly reflective, as if it were fathoms deep, though the bottom might be no more than a few inches under the pirogue’s hull. Crisp water plants grew along its verge, and great cypress trees rose from a cluster of stumplike roots with smooth tops called cypress knees to soar skyward like the groin-topped columns of a cathedral. Gray swags of moss as wispy as old men’s beards hung from the tree branches, swaying in the wind with somber grace. Here and there were flat, open stretches of floating vegetation, green and brown mats that looked solid enough to stand on but would not support anything much heavier than a dragonfly.
Now and then a fish roiled the water as it fed, a family of native ducks skated out of the way, or a great blue crane, a solitary fisherman, lifted into flight. Sometimes a covey of small birds rose out of the reeds like a swarm of gnats or a raccoon came waddling down to the water’s edge to drink. There was little else to be seen. The frogs and turtles, snakes and alligators, and the myriad insect life, including the clouds of mosquitoes that gave these backwaters life and made them a misery during the warmer months, were taking their refuge from the brief weeks of chill, damp weather that marked the winter.
This time of year was not only best for traveling the waterways, but also best for trade for those who lived in and around New Orleans. The high water caused by the winter rains made travel easier, while the snows farther north would prevent the traders from the Illinois country, with their richer and deeper pelts, from coming downriver for a few more weeks. A man who got out and gathered furs from the southern Indians, even though they were not as good a grade as those from farther north, would be ahead of the market and could get a better price for his pelts now than he would later in the season.
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