Abruptly, something snapped inside her. She flung herself at him, pushing, pummeling. “Get out,” she hissed. “Get out! Leave me alone.”
In an instant she was hurtled to her back. The air left her lungs as his weight came down upon her chest and the lower part of her body. Her wrists were caught in hard hands and wrenched above her head. She lay still with every muscle in her body clenched into a knot and a black and burning core of resentment in her brain.
“That wasn’t very smart,” he said.
Her breasts rose and fell against him with her short, hard breathing. The firm press of his taut-muscled thighs on her, his controlled strength, and the wrenching power of his hold were like a threat, though one held in careful abeyance. He was not hurting her, but she had never in her life felt more vulnerable or more certain that to try to fight would be painful.
“Maybe not, but it helped my feelings.”
“Did it? You want to hit me?”
The impulse was rapidly fading. She grasped at it as a defense. “Are you surprised?”
“Why? Because I struck you, back there in the water?”
“That has nothing to do with it!”
“Doesn’t it?” He released her, lifting his weight, moving back to rest on one elbow. “All right, then. Go ahead, hit me.”
The temptation was strong. She clenched her hands into fists, still feeling the imprint of his hold on her like a brand. She did not like feeling that she could be rendered so helpless so easily.
She couldn’t hit him. Why she couldn’t, she did not know. She just couldn’t do it.
“No?”
He was waiting for an answer. She shook her head, whispering, “No.”
“Then let me tell you something. That is the last chance I will give you to be revenged. Don’t attack me again, or you won’t like the consequences, I promise. You won’t like them at all.”
He settled back, shifting to pull the bearskin that had been dislodged back up over him. He lay staring up into the darkness, and it was long moments before he realized that he was holding himself stiff and straight. By degrees, he relaxed his taut muscles, subduing by sheer strength of will the race of the blood in his veins and the need that fueled it. The feel of Cyrene’s soft curves, the natural fragrance of her body lingered in his mind, taunting him. He had not realized what a torment it would be to lie beside her and yet be unable to touch her. But it was not the discomfort of inconvenient desire alone that troubled him. He felt a need to hold her, to make amends, perhaps for hitting her, perhaps for the way he was using her, or perhaps for the crime of involving her in his own need for vengeance. It did not help that the strongest prohibition against it, as well as against the appeasing of his other needs, was his own.
Cyrene lay unmoving for long moments, until the cool air brought the rise of gooseflesh. A shiver rippled through her, and in its aftermath she burrowed under the bearskin, her instinct being as much to hide as for the warmth. But there was heat under the thick fur. It radiated from the man beside her, inviting, enticing. She closed her eyes tightly, aware of him with every prickling nerve of her body. She hated this effect he had upon her, hated his assurance and his strength, hated the damnable coil in which she had become entangled with him. It was humiliating, then, that the thing she craved the most at that moment was the contentment, elusive and incredible, that she had found once in his arms.
8
RENÉ CAME AWAKE as he always did, in abrupt, total clarity. He opened his eyes and went rigid. Despite his reputation, despite the beds he had passed through, it was not his habit to wake up with a woman. He had always preferred to take his leave after a suitable interval, seeking his own bed before he slept.
Cyrene lay in his arms. At some time in the night his will had slipped his control and he must have reached for her, perhaps as she turned against him. Her warm breath caressed the hollow of his throat, her legs entwined with his, and his arm lay across the slender turn of her waist. In the gray and pellucid light of dawn filtering into the shelter, he could see the fine texture of her skin, the pure and meltingly sweet lines of her mouth, and the thick, black fans of her lashes. There was such strength in her face and such beauty that he felt a tightening around his heart, as if it were caught in a net that was slowly closing.
Dear God, he was an idiot.
What had made him think he could take this woman for the basest of reasons and emerge unscathed? This woman of all others? He should have known from me beginning how it would be. He had not been the same since he had come to his senses, lying waterlogged and bleeding on the rough boards of the flatboat floor, to see her hovering in annoyed concern over him. When he was a very old man, he would remember the simplicity with which she had offered herself to him and the mind-stopping joy of possessing her. It was likely that was all he would have to console him. It could hardly be otherwise.
He wished it was not so. He wished with sudden fervor that he could start all over, could put things back the way they had been. He would come to Cyrene openly, court her, reveal himself to her, and take his chances.
No. That way, he would have less of her than he did now. There was no way to change what had happened. He would have to endure the role he had assigned himself and accept the consequences.
The first of these, and the worst so far, was to lie there with Cyrene in his arms and desire throbbing in his veins and do nothing. He longed to kiss the soft curves of her lips, to run his hands over the gentle undulations of her body under the thin chemise and draw her closer against him, to set himself to give her pleasure in all the small ways he could discover by diligent searching and consummate, tender care. He wanted to lose himself in her, to forget who and what he was and why he was lying there beside her. He wanted to forge a bond between them that was so strong nothing else could, or would, matter.
It was impossible. He knew it, and so lay unmoving, inhaling the warm, clean scent of her, imprinting the feel of her upon some innermost part of his being, protecting her from all harm, as he had sworn, but most of all from himself.
There were limits to all endurance. It was some time later when he eased from the pallet with soft stealth, picked up his clothes, and ducked out of the shelter.
Cyrene watched him go through slitted eyes. She had awakened as she felt the removal of his warm hold, though she had been conscious in a vague, drifting manner of his regard for some time. Now she lay listening to his retreating footsteps. When he was far enough away, she sat up and got to her knees to push aside the leather curtain.
He had gone down to the beach. The tall shape of him was indistinct in the early-morning light, yet it was still magnificent as he dropped his clothing in a pile and plunged into the water. Cyrene shivered as she imagined that sudden chilling submersion. How he could bear it, she did not know; the cold wind off the water that filtered into the shelter was enough to raise the gooseflesh until she felt as scaly as an alligator. Still, she stayed where she was, watching the strong lift and stretch of René’s arms and the dark, moving blot of his head as he pulled toward deep water. Only when he was lost to sight in the dimness did she let the curtain fall and dive back under the bearskin.
She had escaped more lightly than she had expected. She was glad, of course, but also puzzled. Why had René insisted on sharing her shelter if he had not meant to press his attentions on her? Such restraint was at odds with what she knew of him. Where was the practiced art of seduction in which he was supposed to excel, the delicate assault upon her defenses, the charming siege of her fastness? It was possible that he had been put off temporarily by her protests, her resistance, but she had expected to have to defend herself with a great deal more vigor.
It was possible that he had spoken no more than the truth, that he had been in search of only a bed for the night. It was also possible that after having had a sample of her lovemaking he was not anxious for more. She must have seemed woefully inexperienced compared to the women he had known. No doubt he was used to a great deal
more finesse, to say nothing of more cooperation, more enthusiasm.
Not that she cared. He was insufferable with his talk of protecting her. He wanted something, she would swear it, something more than a close look at the wilderness of this vast land and insight into trading with the Indians. She only wished she knew what it was.
She did not see René again until breakfast. The Bretons were invited to partake of the meal around Drowned Oak’s fire. To refuse that hospitality would have been a grievous insult, and so they dutifully sat while Little Foot and her daughter, a nubile young girl who was a half-sister to Gaston, brought their meal and set it in front of them. Cyrene looked to see if René meant to taste everything in his wooden bowl, from the venison to the turtle eggs and sagamite, for to fail to do so would also be an insult. He seemed to have some of the Choctaw’s instinctive good manners, however, for he was carefully following Pierre’s lead, eating with his fingers, chewing slowly. He seemed to have a bit of difficulty swallowing now and then, but he was sampling a little of everything in turn. He would not embarrass them.
René seemed to have the approval of Little Foot’s daughter also. The girl known as Quick Squirrel lingered near him, brushing against his shoulder as she leaned to offer special tidbits of food, smiling at him with sparkling dark eyes. She was quite attractive, with rather exotic features in the eyes of a Frenchman, and a lithe, wild grace that was typical of the females of her race. That René appreciated the girl’s charms was readily apparent from the way he returned her smiles.
Quick Squirrel had to be much as Little Foot had been when Jean had bedded with her to produce Gaston. It was easy to see why the younger Breton brother had succumbed; what man could be expected to resist such a natural and unrestrained approach? Certainly not men starved for women as those in Louisiana had been in the early days. Certainly not a hardened roué who had sampled so many others.
Well, let René respond to Quick Squirrel’s blatant lures then. What did she care? That should allow him to expend his male urges without striking out into the cold waters of the bay. She only hoped that no other man had been there before him and left the girl diseased. It would be such a pity if his career as a rake was cut off in midstride.
The waspishness of her thoughts startled Cyrene. She had nothing against Quick Squirrel, had always liked her, if the truth were known. She had from time to time been envious of the Indian girl’s freedom and her untrammeled behavior, but she had no cause to think her promiscuous. The strain of the past weeks was telling on her nerves, that was all.
It was going to be a mild day. There was warmth in the sun that climbed into the sky. It tempered the wind from the south, softening it, bringing out its smell of salt and sweet grasses and far distant island flowers, as it took away the chill of the night. It made fishing poles appear and set the Indian children running and playing in headlong glee.
The warmth also brought Captain Dodsworth from his ship to the beach for the trading negotiations. He knew he could depend on the Bretons to save his scalp, he said, and it would be nicer on shore than in his stuffy and cramped quarters. No one was fooled by the excuse. What the captain obviously thought was that the presence of the Choctaw band anxious for English goods would bring the Bretons speedily to terms.
He soon learned different. The Choctaw were quick to see what he was after, and it was not their way to aid an enemy or discomfit a friend. They went about their business, scarcely acknowledging the Rhode Islander and pretending they did not see the knives he laid out so that the blades flashed in the sun, the bolts of cloth he unrolled, or the beads he swung so that they danced with vivid rainbow colors. Their assumed indifference, in fact, soon became an advantage on the side of the Frenchmen.
The goods were spread, the indigo tested and weighed, and true bargaining began. The two older Bretons and the captain sat haranguing each other in more or less good nature, making offer and counteroffer, thinking, figuring in the sand with a pointed stick. Gaston and Cyrene watched and made an occasional comment, though now and then the younger man, losing patience, got up and strolled away to dally with the younger Indian women before returning. The day advanced. The Indian women brought food and drink. Captain Dodsworth talked and pulled off his wig to rake his fingers through his hair, then talked some more. He sent to his ship for a keg of rum, then, as the Bretons remained stubbornly sober, threatened in high dudgeon to go back in the longboat himself. Still the haggling went on.
René had taken a place beside Pierre and Jean, watching closely. Now and then he asked a question. At first the answers were merely distracted. The Bretons were serious about their trading, however, and as the stakes grew higher, their tempers became short and their replies less amiable. After a time, René, afraid he might be jeopardizing their position, rose and took his leave, sauntering in the direction of the beach.
Cyrene watched him go but sat on herself, now and then supplying amounts and totals when called upon by Jean or Pierre, or pointing out deficiencies in craftsmanship in the articles displayed. After so long a time, however, the trading became a test of wills and stamina that was little aided by facts and figures, with little to entertain those who watched. When it began to look as if it were all over except for the ship captain’s final capitulation, she got to her feet and eased away.
Cyrene had seen Little Foot only in passing that morning, and there had really been no time for a proper exchange of greetings and news the evening before. Such courtesies being extremely important to the Choctaw, she turned in the direction of the round shelter constructed of bent limbs, bark, and palmetto that she had seen Little Foot and her daughter enter.
Outside the Indian woman’s hut, she called for Little Foot in quiet tones. Immediately, there was a rustling inside, added to what sounded like a whisper and a scuffle. A few seconds later, Little Foot emerged from the small opening of the hut. Her color was high, but her face was stolid as she greeted Cyrene. “Daughter of the house of my son’s father, it gives me pleasure to see you.”
In the Choctaw manner, Little Foot would not say the name of her lover any more than she would have her husband. This Cyrene accepted, just as she had accepted the fact that Little Foot considered her an adopted daughter of the Bretons since she was staying with them. She had tried patiently to explain that she was no relation to Jean and Pierre, but Little Foot would not have it. If Cyrene was not a wife or a lover of the Bretons, then she must be a daughter; there was no other category.
“I hope I see you well,” Cyrene said.
Little Foot replied in the affirmative and there was a general exchange of other such compliments. A silence fell. Cyrene waited, expecting to be invited into the hut for refreshment. Such an expression of hospitality was a courtesy with the strength of a law. Only a hated foe would be denied.
Little Foot did not speak. She looked miserable, her face flushing with shame as she twisted her hands together. Still, she remained silent.
For Cyrene to demand to know why she was not offered hospitality would be as terrible a breach of manners as Little Foot’s failure to extend it. One did not demand that which was always given freely, nor did one hint at the lack. Still, there was a formula for getting at the root of the problem.
“Tell me how I have offended you, Little Foot, and I will discover a way to repair the damage.”
“Oh, Cyrene, there is no damage,” the woman said, the words a near wail.
A possible explanation presented itself. “Do you have sickness in your house?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Relief spread over Little Foot’s features and she tried to smile. “Come, walk with me and we will visit my sister.”
The Indian woman moved away from the hut a step, pausing for Cyrene to join her. Cyrene moved to fall into step at her side.
The Choctaw did not lie well. Their consciousness of an untruth was so acute that they could not speak it with any naturalness. Little Foot was lying, there could be no doubt of it. More, she wanted Cyrene away from her hut.
Cyrene searched her mind for what she had done wrong. She could think of nothing. She had not trespassed upon Little Foot’s conversation the night before with Jean. There was nothing in her life that was different except that she had become involved with René. It hardly seemed likely that Little Foot could have anything against the man; she could not know him. As for the moral question of Cyrene’s intimacy with him, Little Foot was unlikely to consider it a matter for concern.
The only reason important enough for Little Foot to lie would be to protect Cyrene’s feelings. Added to that was the intimation she had had that there was someone else in the woman’s hut. The most likely person was her daughter, but that would have been no reason to keep Cyrene out. But what if there had been another person? A man? If Little Foot knew that Cyrene had spent the night before in a shelter with René Lemonnier, she would be reluctant to permit her to see him closeted in her hut with Quick Squirrel this afternoon.
“Your sickness — I hope it isn’t serious?” Cyrene said as she walked beside the other woman. She did not listen to Little Foot’s attempt to reassure her, however, but searched the encampment with her gaze. There was no sign of René” or Quick Squirrel among the people milling here and there or sitting about in groups. That did not of itself mean anything, but it gave her a sinking sensation inside.
They reached the hut of Little Foot’s sister. The woman invited Cyrene and Little Foot inside and brought out coffee from a precious hoard kept for special occasions, boiling a little over the fire. This was offered with a few corn cakes sweetened with berries. The two Indian women and Cyrene sat talking of this and that in a mixture of French, Choctaw, and the Chickasaw that was the lingua franca of the southeastern Indian tribes. As Little Foot relaxed enough to laugh and tell a salacious story or two about her aging father, Cyrene began to feel that her suspicions were ridiculous. In any case, it was no affair of hers what René chose to do or with whom; there was certainly no reason for her to be upset.
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