Chapter Ten

 

 

Who are you, Genevieve?

A frisson quivered up her spine. How could she answer that question? He gripped her shoulders, willing her to answer him. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to scream, I am Genevieve Lalande. She wanted to pour out all of the desperation that had brought her to this man and to this place in the wilderness. She wanted him to want her, not some aristocrat by the name of Marie Duplessis. She wanted him to want Genevieve, the daughter of a murdered courtesan, a thief, a pickpocket, a poacher, a liar, a bastard.

Could she trust him?

Wordlessly, she searched his face. The dusky predawn light gilded the streaks in his shaggy hair and dazzled her. He was strong. Stubborn. Determined, capable. Secretive, half–wild.

Breathtakingly handsome.

No, no, no, she would not be a fool—a silly, sentimental fool. She wasn’t a besotted young girl who’d risk everything.

She wasn’t her mother.

“Damn you.” He dragged her against his body. “Damn it.”

He pressed his lips against hers. She opened her mouth to let in his tongue. Their breath merged and so did their gasps. He cradled her head and moved her so they fit closer—still closer—and her eyes fluttered closed and all she could do was hold on because good sense flew away like a startled bird.

When the kiss ended, Genevieve clung to him as if the earth had fallen away beneath her feet.

He said, “It’s useless, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Fighting you.” His breath warmed her hair just behind her ear. “I'm tired of trying.”

He lifted her off her feet and the next thing she felt was the prick of nettles against her back as he pressed her down on the forest floor. His body was heavy and large, as was the thigh he thrust between her legs. A ripple of excitement shuddered through her as he tugged on the ties of her bodice. Suddenly she was trying to help him, but her arms were heavy, her fingers clumsy. The two of them pulled until the strings flew free between them, until her bodice eased open and finally she could fill her lungs with air she couldn’t get enough of.

Grunting, he pushed her bodice apart, tugged her chemise until the morning air kissed her skin, but only for a moment. He engulfed one aching nipple in his hot mouth, making her arch up off the floor, pushing her nipple deeper. She thrust her fingers through his hair and held his head so he wouldn’t stop.

He sucked her nipple. She heard herself making noises, moans and little mewling sounds that embarrassed her though she couldn’t stop, no more than she could stop the sensations shooting down between her legs. She buried her face in his hair, smelling the scent of river reeds and wood–smoke. It no longer mattered that the earth was cold and damp against her back, that heavy drops of rain pattered around them, splattering her collarbone, his head, her knuckles. All that existed was the feel of his body sliding over hers and the pull of his mouth on her tightening nipple.

He released one breast long enough to unveil the other. The cool air chilled her nipple to an aching peak. He rolled that nipple between two fingers as he reached below to rearrange her skirts. She helped him, lifting her hips, kicking the cloth away from beneath her. His callused fingers slid up her knee, riding above the threadbare stocking to scrape the bare flesh of her inner thigh. Her body trembled in anticipation, all sensation spiraling down between her legs. He didn’t hesitate. He followed her inner thigh to her inner lips, nudging them apart to touch her in a way that made her jerk off the ground.

“Taouistaouisse.” His voice was soft as he watched her face. “Open to me.”

She let her knees drop wide and he rewarded her with a long, masterful stroke. He kissed her while he stroked again, his kisses stealing her breath, his tongue tracing her lips as his fingers explored below. The sky whirled above her and she closed her eyes as his stroking continued, twisting a tension in her abdomen.

She heard herself beg, “Please …”

The stroking of his fingers grew rougher and Genevieve broke away from his kisses. She found the fringed hem of his shirt and plunged her hands beneath it to run her palms across his muscled back. She felt something pressing against her thigh and realized it was him, filling the deerskin of his loincloth, that long hard part of him she wanted deep inside her.

He spoke against her cheek, “You’re ready for me.”

Then his fingers slipped inside her and she released a ragged moan as her inner muscles clenched and her whole body throbbed. She cried out against his chest as the throbbing happened again, harder—and yet again. She arched against his hand, wanting so much more, and as if he knew he thrust more fingers inside her, pushing, circling, and she cried out, bowing against him until the throbbing passed and she was left breathing as heavily as if she had run the length of a rocky portage, pressing the back of her head against the ground.

***

His bride was not a virgin.

Her body had stopped throbbing against his hand. She was slick and wet all around his palm, but he knew it was not from blood. She’d been tight, but there’d been no barrier when he slipped his fingers inside her.

His mind roared even as his body ached for release. He couldn’t move. If he tried to roll away from her, he knew instead he would roll upon her, push aside those sweet thighs and thrust his straining cock into her body. He was as hard as a brick and the urge to do what he’d set out to do was so fierce that it took all his willpower to stay still. He heaved in breath after breath, trying to think straight.

His wife was not a virgin.

A red haze crossed his vision. Images rose behind it, of Julien with his doe–eyes following her around, of Genevieve granting the boy that simple, pleased smile that she always held back from him. Images of Julien grasping her by her wrist, tugging her off the path of a portage, finding a stretch of soft moss to lay her down, to heft these skirts above her waist and—while she smiled that pleased smile, while she threaded her fingers through Julien’s hair—the boy would—

André flinched. He would kill the boy if he’d touched her. He would hold him under the rapids with his bare hand on the back of his neck until the light went out of those doe–brown eyes.

He stared down at her now, her long white throat arched, her head still thrown back after the pleasure he’d given her. A flush stained her cheeks. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted. She’d planned all this, he was sure. She’d seduced the boy because he’d been easier to seduce. She’d been determined to return to Montreal pregnant, whether it was his child or not.

A wife would expect him to buy forty acres of Canadian land for a few coppers and a couple of chickens a year. A bride would expect him to give up fur trading and spend his time tilling the rocky soil. A king's girl would expect him to fill their house with furniture and earthenware and linens imported from the motherland, to drape her in lace from Brussels and silk from Lyon, to clutter his life with more things than any one man could carry.

“Don't stop, André.”

Her voice, breathless, rose between them. She’d blinked her eyes open. Her pale breasts rose and fell—tight, rosy, responsive nipples puckered up in invitation. His fingers were still inside her, flexing, feeling the silky moisture that he still wanted to feel wrapped around his cock.

“We're finished.”

He pulled his hand out. He pushed off her, yanking her skirts down so he wouldn’t see what his body throbbed for.

“But,” she sputtered, as she struggled up onto her elbows, “there must be more to ravishing than this.”

“There is.” He rocked back on his heels. “But you already know that, don’t you?”