She had no sooner come to that conclusion when a flicker of movement drew her attention to Little Foot’s hut. Quick Squirrel was just leaving it, whipping through the opening as if pursued. She straightened and moved away a few steps, then stopped to twist the wrapped leather of her skirt back into place and to smooth the braid of her hair. With a toss of her head, the girl moved on, swinging her hips as she made toward her grandfather’s fire. Cyrene looked after her, and there was a hot ache in the center of her being. It was some time before she could return her attention to the other two women.
The arrangement between the Bretons and Captain Dodsworth was concluded perhaps an hour later. The remainder of the goods owed the Bretons were brought to shore in the longboat, after which the captain retreated to his ship. Pierre and Jean spread their new wares on their trading blankets and invited the people of Drowned Oak to gather close. Business was brisk and a great many of the furs brought in were of fine quality. Before Captain Dodsworth sailed there would be more trading, though in furs instead of indigo. Other Choctaw villages above New Orleans were just as hungry for items of English manufacture.
The sun shone down, glittering with winter brightness. The air grew more balmy. It was one of the wonders of the colony’s climate, this change from winter to something like spring in a matter of hours, one of the things that most endeared the land to Cyrene. She left what had become an Indian village in miniature and wandered down to the beach. The water came rolling in onto the golden sand, gently lapping. Somewhere beyond the barrier islands was the tumbling turquoise gulf, but it did not intrude here. Overhead a shore bird called, a piercing cry. A pelican stood at the water’s edge, as motionless and brown and silent as a half-rotted stump. The wind in her face was pleasant, soft with moisture, scented with salt. A fly hummed around her and winged away again. She began to walk away from the bustle and noise behind her, following the shoreline.
She did not consciously intend to be alone; still, the solitude of the far-stretching water’s edge reached out to her, drawing her onward. The packed sand under her feet made walking easy, like an endless path. There was enjoyment in the movement of her body, the free swing of her stride. Now and then she bent to pick up a piece of driftwood, a curious bit of shell or fish bone. Always she moved on again.
She saw them in the distance, two men who stood talking with their heads bent and their shoulders almost touching as they faced the bay. The nearest one, alert to her approach, turned toward her, then said something to his companion. The other man seemed to make some answer before moving farther down the beach. The first man turned and began to walk toward her with a long, swift stride.
Cyrene’s eyes had grown sharp in the past three years, as had her ability to see more when she looked and to remember what she saw. The man moving in her direction she would have known anywhere, any time. It was René. The other one just vanishing among the trees that edged the shore was the marquise’s henchman, Touchet.
What had the two been doing together? Was it an accidental meeting, here away from everyone else, or was there some purpose behind it? René had been the marquise’s favorite, and Touchet was her hireling. René had not been in New Orleans long; still, it would not be surprising if he knew the other man. It was unlikely that they were friends, however; certainly they had not greeted each other as such the night before. If they had business together, it must concern the wife of the governor. Madame Vaudreuil had many and varied interests, but one of her main ones was to stop the smuggling that cut into her profits. If René and Touchet were involved in that, it did not bode well for the Bretons.
“You’re a long way from the camp,” he greeted her as he drew near.
Cyrene looked at him as he stood before her with smiling ease, the light from the water giving his eyes a silver-gray sheen and the breeze lifting soft strands of his dark hair. She thought of Madame Vaudreuil’s visit aboard the flatboat and also of Little Foot emerging from her hut, and her voice was cold. “I might say the same about you.”
He lifted a brow at her tone though his comment was light. “Yes, but I don’t require a guardian.”
“No, you are one, or so I was given to understand.”
“A post with little reward, though I would not have deserted it if I hadn’t thought Pierre and Jean, not to mention Gaston, were on duty. Did you miss me?”
“I didn’t come looking for you, if that’s what you think.”
“I should have known,” he mourned.
“So you should. The question is, did you come looking for Touchet?”
The amusement faded from his face as he stared at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come, I know he’s the marquise’s man.”
“Which means that I may be also?”
She lifted her chin. “The thought naturally occurs.”
“Naturally. And if I said that I had never met the man before last night?”
“Then,” she said a shade less certainly, “I would have to warn you against him. It’s known that he killed a man in Paris, if not more than one. He makes himself useful to Madame Vaudreuil, including purchasing opium and hashish for her, not for her use but for her steward to dispense, though she doesn’t scruple to measure them out herself when he isn’t available. They also say he is a spy, gathering information wherever he can and concocting out of whole cloth what he can’t discover.”
“A thoroughly disreputable character, one who must be avoided at all costs.”
“I don’t speak lightly.”
His face hardened at her sharp tone and there was a hint of swift thought in his eyes. “I can see that, though why you presume to advise me at all is less plain. I may be at a disadvantage in the wilderness, but it’s been some years since I needed to be coached in the ways of the world.”
She would not back down. “Am I now supposed to retire, defeated by your sophistication? It doesn’t explain why you were meeting Touchet.”
René hesitated. There were two options available to him as he saw it. He could either stalk away in a fine rage, which would remove him from her company, the wisest course, or he could mollify her with a show of surrender. Why was it she was always where she might be least expected? She was fast becoming his nemesis, albeit a lovely one, with the wind molding her clothing to her gentle curves and fine tendrils of hair blowing about her face.
“Forgive me,” he said, inclining his head in a bow of polished grace. “It’s been some years also since I have been asked to give an accounting of myself. It goes against the grain. The truth is, I met the man in passing, returning from my walk.”
Was it the truth? She would give much to know. She did not like the suspicions that jostled in her mind. Nor did she like the feeling that she was being humored, though there seemed little she could do about it.
When she made no reply, René spoke again. “Shall we walk on? Or would you prefer to return? I promise I will not neglect my duties again but will stick like a burr to your side.”
“That will, I fear, prove most inconvenient,” she said in stringent tones, and wished a moment later she had not spoken as she saw where the comment would lead her.
“For me or for you?”
Cyrene turned and began to walk so that she need not look at him as she answered over her shoulder, “For you, of course.”
René had no trouble in catching up with her, though he made no effort to bring her to a halt as he would like but merely kept pace. He watched her closely, however, as he asked, “How is this?”
“It will most certainly get in the way of your conquests.”
His brows drew together over his nose. “My what?”
“I speak of Quick Squirrel. It was hardly sporting of you to bed her with such haste.”
“Quick Squirrel?”
“Little Foot’s daughter, the granddaughter of Drowned Oak. You might at least have discovered her name.”
“I have not,” he said distinctly, “had the pleasure of either her acquaintan
ce or her bed.”
It was ridiculous of her to be relieved, but that was how she felt. She turned her face toward the water to hide it. “No?”
“No. Is it too much to ask what made you think I had?”
She told him, though with some reluctance.
“Because an Indian girl is caught dallying in a hut, I am immediately suspect? You give me too much credit. Or too little.”
His words were dry, carrying scant expression. Cyrene could not tell if he was amused or annoyed, or perhaps both. “Too little?”
“By assuming that I make no distinction between women.”
“And do you?”
“I have a reputation, I believe, for being selective.”
She sent him a flashing glance. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”
“Now what,” he said softly, “made you think I was referring to you? If I remember correctly, I was chosen, not the other way around.”
“That’s very true,” she said through the tightness of mortification in her throat. She would have given anything to take back her words. They had the sound of pique entirely too much, and that was too close to jealousy for comfort.
“I have to tell you, however, that if I had been free to pursue you, without the restrictions of gratitude and hospitality, I would have done so from the moment you dragged me aboard the flatboat.”
She stopped and turned to him, the look in the depths of her eyes suspended, vulnerable yet skeptical. “Would you?”
“I give you my word.”
She wanted to believe René; that was her problem. Her female vanity required that sop. It didn’t matter that she had little respect for him or liking for the kind of man he was so long as she could think he found her desirable, so long as she could think he had not agreed to her wanton request of him out of mere gratitude or excessive courtesy. It was a sad failing in her as a person, one she must set about remedying.
“It makes no difference,” she said, keeping her gaze level with an effort as she summoned a smile, “but it’s nice to know.”
It made a great deal of difference to René, how much he was only beginning to understand. But he was in no position to say so. He inclined his head, and together they moved on again, back toward the encampment.
The feasting and dancing began as darkness fell. Drums beat and the drummers hummed in accompaniment while the Indians sang, now in wild harmony, now in determined discord. Cane flutes shrilled and gourds rattled in a mind-numbing, spirit-raising rhythm. Children ran and yelled, and dogs barked. The smell of roasting meat rose with the wood-smoke that hung in blue and gray layers in the air. Pipes filled with tobacco passed from hand to hand, as no Choctaw would think of smoking without offering every man within sight a puff. Kegs of tafia were broached and cups made the rounds, each man drinking according to his need but with respect for those who were still thirsty. The food was parceled out in much the same manner, with each serving himself from the common pots.
Only the men danced on this occasion, which was one of celebration for the conclusion of fine trading, plus a farewell to the Bretons and the English bringer of goods. The Choctaw would be returning to their village when daylight came the next morning. They had enjoyed their brief time away but had to return to their log lodges before others claimed them.
The Indian women ate and laughed and chattered and showed off their new finery: their cloth chemises or their beads, which they had sewn upon their bosoms or strung into necklaces, and the small mirrors of polished steel that hung on chains around their necks. Little Foot in particular seemed unusually bedecked, wearing not only a new silk skirt but a fine hat with a feather plume and a silver chatelaine from which was suspended a thimble, a tinder box, and a pair of scissors as well as a mirror.
The night was clear and just cool enough after the warmth of the day to make a fire feel good. The flames leaped high, reaching with licking tongues for the stars that hung low and bright above them. The faces of those sitting around it reflected the flickering red and yellow light. Joyous and somber, they gave back its glow while the fire danced in miniature in the pupils of their eyes. It drew them to its comfort, emphasizing the vast reach of the marshy land and untenanted waters around them, holding them in a warm circle of brotherhood.
Cyrene sat among the Indian women while she ate and afterwards for a time as they all watched the dancing displays of the men. There was much comment on the strength and endurance, the muscle development and the agility of the various dancers, along with approving or disparaging remarks about the music. It was as if the women considered the exhibition for their benefit, and perhaps it was.
After a time, the younger women with babies strapped to their backs or children at their skirts began to slip away to make the younger ones ready for bed. Cyrene got to her feet in order to help up a heavily pregnant girl with a two-year-old slung in a blanket on her back, then changed her own position, moving to the edge of the woods, which lay on the outer perimeter of the women’s circle. She leaned her back against a tree with her hands behind her. The smells of food and smoke and warm human bodies were less here, and the fresh night wind in the branches of the tree overhead made a softer, more soothing music.
From where she stood, she could see René. He sat between Pierre and Captain Dodsworth, near the place of honor held by Drowned Oak. She wondered how he was enjoying the savage banquet and if he compared it in his mind with the more sumptuous occasions he had partaken of at Versailles. He certainly appeared to be in fine fettle as he leaned back, braced on one arm with his wrist on an upraised knee, drinking, listening to the jokes around him. Now and then he laughed with his head thrown back and his teeth gleaming white in his face. But then his kind was infinitely adaptable.
There was the soft sound of footsteps in the sand. Cyrene turned her head to see the man Touchet coming toward her. He made her a small bow as he drew near. “A fine night, is it not, mademoiselle, and a fine celebration?”
“Fine, indeed.” She could not be rude without direct cause, but there was no encouragement in the words.
The dark and supercilious little man needed none. “The good Bretons have had a most profitable journey from New Orleans.”
“And you also, I trust.” It was a reminder that he was apparently on the same errand, if it was needed.
He shrugged away her comment. “But what of yourself? One hopes such a devastating creature has gained from the venture also.”
“You needn’t worry about me.” In fact she had not yet spoken to Captain Dodsworth about her own trading transaction. She was waiting for the right time and somehow it had not yet seemed appropriate. Perhaps she would go out to the ship with Pierre and Jean in the morning when they traded the furs they had gained this afternoon for more goods.
“No? But some men are so unreasonable; they do not like to share their gain. Now if you were allied with me, I would see you decked in pearls and gold baubles, in silk and satin and perfumed lace.”
Cyrene turned her head sharply to look at him. The expression she saw in his eyes made the skin on the back of her neck creep. Her voice was cold as she answered. “I assure you, I have no need of those things.”
“Don’t you? But they would suit you so well. You are like a rose in a dung heap with Pierre and Jean Breton. You deserve a much sweeter and more luxurious setting. I could give it to you.”
“I don’t desire any more than I have.”
She would have moved away then, but he put out his hand to catch her arm. “Take care. There may come a time when you will regret refusing my offer. For it is an offer, you know. I would enjoy very much having you as my woman.”
There was something in the intensity of the man’s black gaze and the fierce bite of his fingers into her arm that disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. She sought in her mind for something that would deter him, and the words rose unbidden to her lips. “I already have a protector.”
He released her arm, a smile twisting his thin lips. “Lemonnier? T
he interest of that one will not last long.”
“That may be, but I hold it for now, and I doubt he would wish me to accept your gifts.”
“A pity. I do hope he is generous?”
“That is none of your affair.”
“Unfortunately. When he is through with you, you might come to me, to see if I’m still interested.”
The arrogance of the man grated on her nerves. “I would advise you not to wait. Hired lackeys have no appeal to me.”
He gave her a thin smile for the pleasantry. “What of gold? A great deal of it, enough to make you a fine lady with a fine and independent future?”
She had already started to move away when he spoke. Now she turned back, her attention caught not by his extravagant promise but by something like a threat she heard in his voice.
“What are you talking about?” she said sharply.
“The subject was gold.”
“For what?”
“For becoming my… ally.”
“Your ally,” she repeated.
“You could be very helpful to me, as well as most dear. The reward for bringing in your former companions, the Bretons, on charges of smuggling could be high.”
He was watching her closely, and there was a message in his eyes that was also the answer to the innuendo in his words. She saw it clearly, and cold anger settled in her stomach.
“You expect me to inform against Pierre and Jean, to join with you in handing them over to the authorities?”
“Why not? What are they to you?”
“My friends, something you would not understand.”
“I understand a great deal more than you know, mademoiselle.”
“Then understand this: I won’t do it. Not now. Not ever.”
“That is a decision you may live to regret, my fair one.” But he called the words after her retreating back, for she left him in a whirl of skirts, striding away with clenched fists and clamped lips.
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