Heaven in His Arms (30 page)

"Stay here?"

She tilted her head back. "I'm pregnant. I can't travel all the way back to Montreal."

"You're not staying here with the Sioux thinking of war. . . ."

"But last fall you said the journey would be dangerous if I were pregnant."

"You can't travel if you're as big as a house." His hand slipped down between them, to the slight swell of her abdomen. "You've got a few months before you grow awkward. We've got to get you back now, before it becomes too dangerous for you to travel. The sooner you're back in the settlements, the safer you'll be."

"No!"

He frowned at her adamancy. "Do you want to give birth here, in the middle of the forests, with no one but Indian shaman and squaws to attend you?"

"I don't care about midwives and straw mattresses. The Indian women do well enough without them." Genevieve stepped back, out of the circle of his embrace. Her hands moved protectively over her abdomen. "I want to stay here with you."

"You know I'm going to Montreal with you."

"But what happens in Montreal, Andre?'' She tilted her chin. "Will you find a way to annul this marriage ... a marriage that is about to bear fruit?"

So that is it, little
Taouistaouisse
. Suddenly, he understood why she had kept so quiet about the child these past weeks. The snow was melting and he was preparing to depart, and she was wondering if he would cast her away.

His blood ran cold, for in a sense, he was planning to do just that.

Genny, Genny, Genny
. . . Stubborn little witch. He'd come full circle again, with this woman, full with his child, to be left alone in the settlements. He'd do the same with her as he'd done with Rose-Marie all those years ago. It was a decision he knew, instinctively, she would not like, and so he had never said a word. Better to spend a winter in harmony and wrestle with the demon in the spring.

It was the only way. He could not give up the dreams of a lifetime, the dreams of finding the China Sea beyond the next range of mountains, up the next river, into the next valley; he'd be a shell of a man if he were forced to live in one place for the rest of his life, his dreams burning a hole in his brain. Nor could he take her with him. Though she had struggled and survived this single voyage into the wilderness, she had not been heavy with child. The settlements were safer than these woods, and that is where she belonged, she and his babe, to live healthy and safe.

If he were a stronger man, he'd let her go. He'd give her to a better man. But this was his punishment: to suffer the pain of separation and worry when he was away from her, and to suffer the chains of civilization in order to be with her.

Perhaps it was all his pagan musings that made God mock him so. Again, he'd have a wife in the settlements. A wife and a child. He was tearing himself in two, splitting his existence between two forces he loved equally—the wilderness in which he had spent his life, and the woman he had grown to love as much as life itself.

"My father left his land to me, outside of Montreal, when he died," Andre said, toeing a rock out of the mulch. "I'm going to restore the house on it when we return."

Her lips spread in a blinding, incredulous smile. "You won't set me aside?"

"Jesus." He kicked the pebble across the ground. "Do you think I could just cast you away?"

"But last fall you said—"

"Forget what I said last fall. I was a fool."

"But I thought nothing had changed." She leaned into him and spread her hands on his chest. "I thought you'd still wander the woods."

"I will wander the woods." He clutched her hands and held them tight. "But when I return, I'll come home to you."

She blinked, finally understanding. The light that had begun to grow in her eyes dimmed like a candle snuffed out by the wind. She yanked her hands out of his grip. "Then you are abandoning me."

"Only for part of the year. I'll be back in the summers. You'll have a home, Genevieve, just like you always wanted—only it will be in Montreal."

"I like this home." A defiant light returned to her eyes. "I'll return with you in the fall. .. ."

"You'll be as round as you are tall, little bird." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair off her temple. "It'll be too dangerous. ..."

"Dangerous, dangerous!" She crossed her arms. "That's all you talk about is danger."

"I'm not going to watch you die on the trail from a miscarriage," he argued, "nor am I going to watch you bleed to death in my arms after a difficult birth somewhere on the banks of the Ottawa River. I want you safe—in the settlements—for the sake of you and the sake of our child."

"After all we've been through," she murmured, "do you think I'll really stay put come the fall?"

"You've never been pregnant," he warned. "Come autumn, you'll won't be as swift and agile as you are now. You'll be willing to stay. And there are ways, little bird, to keep you at home. . . ways that I probably should have used long ago."

Andre knew she wouldn't like this unhappy compromise. He also knew that she would have no choice but to agree with it, at least for now.

Genevieve dropped her gaze, but her chin was as high as the heavens. "So we're leaving the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes." He stepped closer to her and ran his knuckles over her soft cheek. "You mustn't work too hard. The trip will be exhausting enough, and I want you healthy when you give birth to our child."

Her lips softened and her chin dropped. "I'll do nothing to risk the baby. You don't have to worry about that."

He heard a hiss coming from the ground and he glanced down to see the beaver on his hind legs again, his beady eyes fixed on him. She bent down and picked up the yearling.

"Poor thing." She nuzzled his fur. "He doesn't want to leave, either."

"He's not coming with us."

Genevieve arched a brow. "Isn't he?"

"Over my dead body."

Yet somehow, by the tilt of her chin, Andre knew that the beaver would be the tenth passenger in the canoe back to civilization.

The men sang.

Their music rang above the distant roaring of the rapids of Saint Louis, echoed in the unbroken shore of pines and carried over the foam-streaked waters of the Saint Lawrence River. The song broke in mid-verse as the men rounded the last wooded bluff and caught sight of the line of peaked-roofed houses, the rough log palisades set back from the shore, the frowning military fort and great stone mill of the settlement of Montreal.

Julien's paddle clattered against the kegs as he rose to his feet. His splotchy, whiskered face broke into a proud smile. He had completed his first journey into the interior and he would never again be called a pork-eater. Genevieve caught a glimpse of Tiny's yellowed grin as he glanced over his shoulder and winked at the Roissier brothers, pointing toward a cluster of brightly clad women gathered near the landing point. Simeon bowed his head and murmured a prayer, then gazed up at the sight of the cross perched atop the Hotel-Dieu, appearing stark against the blinding clear blue of the sky.

The men looked at each other silently, then they filled the air with a series of piercing Indian shrieks.

The beaver barked a plaintive cry, waddling swiftly across the length of the canoe to huddle against the green velvet of Genevieve's skirts. Absently, she ran her hand over the yearling's sleek pelt and watched the town come into sight.

Two wide-hulled vessels bobbed in the middle of the Saint Lawrence, the unfurled sails of one still bleached and salt-stained from the distant sea. Set back from the muddy shore, a cluster of compact dwellings faced the river, huddled against the encroachment of the surrounding forest. Atop the square bastioned fort of stone that formed the western defense, a line of soldiers in their bright white and blue uniforms stood with their muskets aloft. A staccato series of sharp reports rent the air in welcome and wisps of blue smoke hung against the blinding sky. Before the smoke dispersed, the clangor of churchbells rang through the air.

The canoe rocked wildly as the voyageurs sat down and picked up their paddles anew. Despite the fact that they had canoed well over a thousand miles in the past five weeks, and had spent the morning portaging past the rapids of the Long Sault and Saint Louis, the men dug their paddles deep into the boiling waters of the river as if they had just begun the voyage. Tiny started another boastful voyageur's song while the men, lean-armed, worked frantically, tipping, thrusting, battling the strong current of the mighty river, steering the painted nose of the battered birch bark canoe toward Montreal's muddy shore.

After five weeks of icy lakes and swollen rivers and long, muddy portages, after five weeks of living solely on dried, roasted pemmican, a tough, tasteless beaver meat packed in tallow, after nearly nine months away from the settlements . . . they had finally returned to civilization.

Yet despite all the gaiety and anticipation and laughter around her, Genevieve's spirits had dropped to the frigid, murky depths of the Saint Lawrence River. This was the end of the journey for Andre and herself. Soon enough, he would leave her on these shores to rejoin the love he had left behind—the great Canadian wilderness.

As if sensing the darkness of her mood, Andre crouched behind her. He brushed the heavy trail of hair off her damp neck. "The worst is over now,
Taouistaouisse
. We'll be at the inn in a little while."

She looked up at him. His hair, streaked blonder by the days on the open rivers, fell over his forehead and shaded his eyes. Eyes that had stared at her naked, slightly swelling abdomen in wonder during the dark nights when they'd camped on the banks of the river. Eyes that had witnessed her retching over the side of the canoe much too frequently since they'd left Chequamegon Bay.

Twice, Andre had forced the entire contingent to stop and camp until he decreed she had regained enough strength to continue. Had she not argued vociferously against it, he would have laid her on a deerskin stretcher and carried her over the long portages. There was something wonderful about his incessant concern, his willingness to climb trees to find birds' eggs for her dinner, to send the men out to hunt for fresh game to feed her strange and frequent cravings—but she was insistent about completing this journey under her own power.

It had proven only one thing. She would never survive an autumn voyage into the interior while heavy with his child. He knew the truth. Although they never spoke of it, he knew also that she had learned the same painful lesson.

Genevieve turned away from his concerned gaze and stared at the approaching shore. "You owe me, Lefebvre."

"Owe you?"

"For five weeks, you've been telling me all the wonderful things you're going to buy for me as soon as we reach the settlements." She jerked her chin at the wide-spaced row of merchant's booths lined up on the Commune, the muddy space between the houses and the river. "All I see here are beads and kettles and blankets."

"The Indians who come in from the interior trade on the shore," he explained, running a cool finger down her neck. "On Saint Paul Street, there are shops with every kind of frippery you could imagine, straight from France."

"You've dug your own pauper's grave,
Onontio
." Tiny laughed. "She'll spend all your furs before the week's through."

Andre ignored him and continued to toy with her hair. "Tell me the first thing you want."

"Brandy!" Tiny exclaimed, before Genevieve could answer. "Brandy and a good long stick of tobacco. Just wish Wapishka was here to enjoy it with me."

Disappointment glazed Tiny's face. Wapishka had left the contingent at Allumette Island to settle with his wife and children in their Indian village. It was too dangerous for the Negro to come to the settlements and enjoy the fruits of his labor, so he had said his goodbyes a week earlier.

"I'm going to eat a whole goose," Julien exclaimed.

"Stewed in its own juices, and with it a loaf of white bread."

"That's not what you told me last night," Gaspard interjected, his eyes dancing, ducking as Julien splashed him with water.

"You should all go directly to the chapel and seek absolution," Simeon grumbled. "After this past winter, your souls are in mortal peril."

"Why waste time seeking absolution now," Anselme argued,' 'when we'll just have to seek it again later?"

Genevieve mused while the men argued, becoming more and more conscious of Andre's warm breath against her throat.

"The first thing I want," Andre whispered, "is four solid walls and one soft bed."

She bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling, closing her eyes as his lips brushed the lobe of her ear.

"Do you realize this will be the first time in five weeks that I'll have you all alone?"

"Five weeks and two days."

His hands tightened on her shoulders. Though they had managed to sneak away, out of sight of the men, several times during the voyage, their lovemaking was always hungry and anxious, for they never knew when the next opportunity would present itself. The few times they had made love beneath the tent in the middle of the night were slow, quiet interludes, where they had to bite their lips to prevent themselves from crying out.

"Tell me that's what you want,
Taouistaouisse
, and we'll be at the inn before these men finish their next song."

She giggled as he kissed a sensitive spot just below her ear and her skin shivered with goose bumps. Her eyes flew open as an idea struck her. "Gooseberry jam."

Andre fell back on his heels. The men turned to her in surprise, then they struggled with laughter.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting jam," she argued. "The nuns served it to me while I was sick at the Hotel-Dieu in Quebec." Her mouth watered just thinking of it; certainly it wasn't such a strange request. Genevieve blinked up at Andre. "You did promise me anything."

"Mmm." His brows drew together in frustration. "Anything else?"

"Boiled eggs." She ran a hand over the beaver's back. "And aniseed cakes."

He winced. "No wonder you're sick all the time."

"You'd be sick, too," she retorted, "if you had a babe growing in your belly."

He pressed a warm kiss against her neck, his beard scraping her skin. "I promise you'll have your gooseberry jam, your eggs, and your aniseed cakes before the night is through."

They neared the shore at a landing point just west of town, where a slew of canoes already lay upside down on the bank, a bevy of merchants in their silver buckles and wide-brimmed beaver hats critically scanning the merchandise being unloaded on the banks. Shouting, quarreling for space, the voyageurs splashed into the water and pulled the canoe close to shore, then began unloading the tightly wrapped packets of beaver pelts.

Andre leapt off the canoe and sank to his hips in the water. He reached for her. The beaver dove neatly off the side of the vessel and swam his way through the line of men toward the shore, his long leash trailing behind him. The men upon the shore stared at him in stunned confusion.

"He won't get clubbed . . . not here, anyway," Andre said as he noticed her anxious look. "None of these men know how to cure a pelt."

Genevieve gestured to the cluster of wigwams and camp fires just to the west of the landing point. "And I suppose you're going to tell me the Indians don't know how to cure pelts, either?"

"They'll take one look at the way that creature waddles after you, and they'll think it's a spirit and leave it alone."

"He's staying with me."

"At the inn?" Andre's lips clamped shut on a sharp shake of his head. "Not a chance, Genevieve."

"He'll be killed out here and you know it."

"My men will watch him."

"Your men will be either sotted to the gills," she retorted, tightening her arms around his neck as he walked toward the shore, "or hiding in some dramshop all night."

"Not until all these furs are safe in some merchant's warehouse."

"Then until then, we'll have to take him into the inn."

He released her as they reached the shore. Her feet, encased in her old, rigid boots, sank deep into the mud. She waited for him to answer. Several times during the trip from Lake Superior, they had awoken to find the beaver nosing his way between their bodies, seeking a warm place to sleep. Andre had threatened to strangle the creature, but instead he'd fashioned a leash for it and tied it up close to the water. After a few nights of angry, mournful hisses and cries, where Andre made hungry love to his wife in order to keep her from running out to it, the yearling finally quieted down and accepted its fate.

"I'm not going to have him interrupting my nights away from the wilderness, Genevieve. ..."

"I'll tie him up. Away from the bed."

"One whine out of him," Andre warned, "and he takes his place among my other pelts."

Genevieve frowned and watched her husband stride away to speak with Tiny. The beaver perched at her feet and ran his front paws over his head, cleaning his soaking fur. She crouched down, ignoring the bite of her boned bodice on her swollen stomach, and ran her hand over the beaver's damp coat. Besides her well-worn moccasins and deerskin dress, both of which she had lovingly folded and put away in her ragtag woven case this morning as she'd changed into her French clothing, the yearling was the only real memento she had from the long winter spent in Chequamegon Bay. Someday soon, the beaver and her child would be all she had left for company.

She tilted her chin and breathed in the warm breeze, angrily blinking back the bite of tears. She had no right to be so desolate. This time last year, she would have given her life for the things she would soon own: a plot of land and a new home; a place in this exotic wilderness; a new name and a new identity. She would have died in ecstasy to know that she would also have a strong, handsome, rich husband who loved her—and whom she loved. Her hand drifted to the growing swell of her abdomen beneath the waistband of her velvet skirt. The babe was a special gift—icing upon the sweetcakes . .. the extra drop of brandy that made her cup runneth over.

So why did she feel as if her whole world were crumbling around her? Andre was suddenly beside her.' 'Are you all right?''

"I'm fine." She straightened and smoothed her fingers over her belly, her head swimming at the sudden motion. His hands gripped her firmly.

"It's just the heat," she insisted.

"Your freckles are showing."

Genevieve frowned and glared at him. He always said that when she looked pale, and he knew it irritated her to no end. "If you fed me more often, I wouldn't feel so faint."

"Ah, now the color is back in those cheeks." He leaned closer to her. "If you're feeling faint, maybe we should go directly to the inn so you can lie down...."

"Absolutely not." She shrugged away from him and headed toward the Commune. "I'm so hungry I could eat a moose."

The beaver waddled behind them as they passed the wide-spaced rows of temporary booths made of rough-hewn logs. A string of men, bent under the burdens from some newly arrived vessel, made their way from the shore to the marketplace. Throngs of Indians armed with bows and arrows, war clubs, or cheap guns meandered among the rows, some of them completely naked but for the eagle feathers on their heads, the paint on their faces, and the briefest of loincloths. She smiled as she watched a merchant in wide bright blue satin breeches block the view of a naked savage from the sight of his young daughter.