Chapter Sixteen

Genevieve snapped, “I'm your wife.”

He looked down at her in surprise. Something flashed in his gold–brown eyes. “Genevieve, get inside.”

At the look on his face, she felt the ground dip beneath her feet like a canoe on the swells of Lake Superior. Her entire body shook—but with what emotion, she could not say. Disbelief, denial, fury, and betrayal all flooded her senses, and beneath them flowed a stormy, whirling sea of pain.

“This is a dangerous situation.” He gripped her arms and gave her a shake. “Go back inside the house.”

She shook her head, at first hesitantly, but as the haze of her shock began to disperse, she shook it more and more vehemently. This couldn't be—she was his wife. Only moments ago they had been snug in their home. Now she leaned to one side so she could see the squaw, noticing the beads and shells woven in her hair, the fine quality of her deerskin, and the eagle feathers—signs of success in battle—hanging from the scalp–locks of her escorts.

“Trust me, Taouistaouisse.” He stepped in front of her to block her view of the other woman. “If this situation isn't handled with care, we could find ourselves in the middle of a war. An ugly, bloody war.”

Genevieve looked up into the tawny eyes of the man she loved. She wondered if he were like the other voyageurs, like every other man that ever existed, unable to stay faithful to one woman.

“Julien,” André barked, “make sure she stays in the hut.”

Her husband released her. She felt the cold wind slap her cheeks. Suddenly, she realized that all the men of the fort stood in the yard watching them. Her cheeks flooded with color. They all knew … they all knew. She had lived in blissful ignorance while all of them had known.

Julien placed his hand on her arm and tried to draw her away, but she yanked free. She would not be pitied—and she would not show her weakness here. Wrapping her robe around her, she turned and walked alone into her home.

Once inside, she sank back against the wooden door. The heat of the fire blazed against her skin and she smelled the ashy odor of burnt sagamité. She heard André's footsteps crunching in the snow as he walked away from the house and toward that woman. Genevieve listened to his muffled voice as he spoke in the guttural Indian–tongue but she could not distinguish the words of the language she had only just begun to learn.

For him. She had tried to learn the local Algonquin dialect for him. She had spent the winter learning the skills of setting up a household in the wilderness for one reason only: to prove to this man she loved that she was worthy to be his bride. To prove that he had no reason to fear for her safety. Now all her work was for naught, because he had a profusion of wives better trained for that position.

She dropped to the floor. Strands of hair caught on the rough boards and pulled on her scalp. Cold winter air flooded in from beneath the frame, chilling her back, but she barely felt these twinges of physical pain. She curled up into a ball, hugging her caribou robe around her. Hot tears gathered in her eyes.

She remembered a thousand things he had told her in the weeks of their journey from Montreal. How many times had he resisted her, only to have her press against him, taunt him, seduce him in the only way she knew how? He had told her he would never have a wife. She had believed his resistance was nothing more than the fear that arose after what had happened to Rose–Marie. Now she wondered if he had kept another horrible secret from her.

A wife in the wilderness.

An Indian bride.

Genevieve leaned her head back against the door and gulped in air. She should have known this would happen. He was not the type to live like a celibate monk in the forests when the woods swarmed with young, healthy, native maidens offering up their beautiful bodies to him. What need did he have of a French wife and all her demands when an Indian woman would serve his needs better?

Then another thought pierced her like a poisoned arrow. Maybe he just married this woman while away on his latest trading voyage. Along with the venomous pain came the tiniest frisson of anger, and she grasped that. He had lied to her. Yes, yes, she had lied to him, too—he still didn’t know she wasn’t Marie Duplessis of the petty nobility—but her lie would never hurt him, for he would never discover the truth. But he must have known that sometime during the winter she would discover that he found his pleasure outside the walls of this home.

She sucked in long, deep breaths. Men were faithless creatures. She’d always known this. Genevieve knew at least four voyageurs in the fort that had French wives in the settlements as well as Indian wives and half–breed children living in little bark cabins outside this fort.

She’d blinded herself to the reality that André would do the same.

Love made her do that.

She shucked the caribou robe off her shoulders and struggled to her feet. Her legs felt as weak as if she had walked a seven–mile portage uphill, but somehow she crossed the room and stood before the blazing fire. He was a man like other men, but that didn’t make a difference did it? She was head, heart, and soul in love with him, the same folly that had brought her mother to ruin—and ultimately killed her.

Genevieve didn't know how long she stood motionless in front of the fire, breathing in the odor of burnt sagamité rising out of the pot. All time seemed suspended until the moment she heard his footsteps, heard the way he hesitated outside the door. She squared her shoulders and turned to face him, dry–eyed, as he stepped inside.

The concern in his gaze unnerved her. She struck, nonetheless, for the bow had been drawn taut for too long.

“Well, my husband, have you picked a wife, or is the array of choices too bewildering for you?'“

André had the grace to look shamefaced. He tugged off the beaded Indian sash, tossing it on the bed along with his robe. “She's the daughter of a powerful Ojibwa chief.”

“Wonderful. A native aristocrat.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, what's her name? 'Deer Who Runneth Wrongly After Randy Buck' or 'She–Wolf Who Trails After Slippery Mate'?”

His eyes flickered. “She's known as Running Squirrel.”

“How charming.” She gestured toward the pot of ruined sagamité. “Should I throw a serving of acorns on the fire for the fleeing rodent?”

“She won't be staying.”

“Really? Good. There's barely enough room in that bed for the two of us, and I don't want her gnawing on all the furs.” She crossed her arms in front of her, unwilling to show the relief she felt. “So. Tell me. Will she be burrowing herself in some tree stump outside the fort, or are you going to build her a nest within the palisades?”

He was looking at her oddly. “She and her people are leaving tomorrow morning.”

She stood unmoving, her lips pressed tightly together, waiting for him to continue.

He said “I married her while I was wintering in Ojibwa country four years ago—”

“Four years?!”

“We made the alliance during my last foray into the wilderness. In the spring after that marriage, I returned to Montreal to fight against the Iroquois. When that was over, I discovered I had an inheritance waiting for me, so I left for France.”

“You have a bad habit of abandoning your wives.” He flinched, and she took a guilty pleasure in it. “Tell me, did a priest preside over this blessed union, or did some Indian shaman do the honors?”

“We married in the way of the country.”

Her sense of relief intensified. All the rattle–shaking of the Indian ceremonies held no sway in the courts of the settlements, though it very well may make a difference in a man’s mercurial heart. “It's good to know you're not a bigamist as well as a liar.”

“I didn't lie to you, Genevieve.”

“No, you just neglected to mention her.” She pushed aside the guilty little voice that said she’d neglected to mention something to him, too—that teensy issue of her true identity. “But over and over,” she forged ahead, “you told me you would never have a wife, and now I discover I'm the third.”

“The only reason I married her was for the trading alliance.”

“The only reason you married me was for a trading license. Did you enjoy your marital rights with her while on this last trip?”

“I never saw her. She heard of my presence from one of the tribes we visited while out in the interior, and then she sought me out here.”

“The Rodent Queen went to a lot of trouble to sniff you out.”

“It seems I'm plagued with persistent wives.”

“You should be sly enough to keep your wife and your courtesan apart.”

“I told you, I didn’t invite her. She had a dozen warriors by her side, prepared for battle. Some of the Ojibwa's main villages aren't far from here. If the men thought the daughter of one of the tribal chiefs was shamed in any way, there could have been trouble.”

“I'd have gnawed your face off for abandoning me for that long.”

“Not all wives are as possessive as you, Taouistaouisse.”

She didn’t like that he used that name, not here, not now. “You told me she's leaving. Where is she going? I suppose it's not so far that you can't drop in every once in a while and firm up those trading alliances.”

“Her new husband wouldn't appreciate that.”

She swallowed her retort.

“The husband,” he continued, “that she took while I was gone.”

“Lies, bigamy, adultery.” Genevieve threw her hands in the air. “You're all going straight to hell.”

“The Indians treat marriage alliances differently. You’ve seen that among my men.” He closed the distance between them, but she gave him her back. She flinched when his hands fell upon her shoulders. “When I didn't return to her village for a few years, she assumed I was dead. So she found herself another husband. She's already borne him a child. She came here to get rid of me, little bird.”

“She has more sense than me, then.” Her heart pounded. She didn’t like the way she felt—the sharpness of her jealousy, the burn of her anger, and worst of all, the seductive tendrils of a new hope. “Maybe you just can’t get rid of me as easily as you got rid of that squirrel.”

“One wife is more than enough.”

“One wife at a time, perhaps—”

“Genny—”

“—one wife a night, or one wife in every trading settlement—”

“Stop it.”

“Now at least I know why you don't want me as your wife.”

“I do want you. That's the problem.”

He pressed his face against her hair. The logs in the fire crackled and rearranged themselves on the stone floor of the hearth. There was too much to absorb and her emotions were a tangle. His tenderness only made it worse. There was nowhere to run in the tiny cabin so she stood, rubbing her arms, her back to him, far too conscious of his tall, strong warmth.

He whispered, “I don't want any other woman but you, Taouistaouisse.”

It was too much for her to hope, it was too much for her to believe, but the words hung in the air between them. Genevieve turned around and faced him. Their gazes met and locked, and she felt the floor drop beneath her feet.

“I love you,” he said. “I love only you.”

 

***

 

André glared at the fat, furry creature that stood in his path. The yearling beaver sat up on his hind legs, his broad tail stretched out behind him. Bits of chaff from the poplar branch he had been chewing littered the fur around his mouth. He squinted up at André, bared his orange–red incisors, and released a querulous churr.

Genevieve's laugh filled the woods. He glanced up and saw that she stood with a cluster of Indian squaws who worked around a maple tree, tapping it in order to collect its sap in a little bark pail. At the sight of him facing down the beaver, she crossed the ground carpeted with bright red trillium and blue lupine.

“It's all right, my little protector.” She scooped up the indignant beaver and nuzzled his dark brown fur. “Isn't he wonderful, André? He does that to any man who approaches.”

He wondered what madness had possessed him to buy the tame yearling for his wife as a pet. She had seen the creature waddling behind one of the bands of Indian traders who arrived weekly at the fort during the late winter. Apparently, those Indians had crushed its lodge and killed its parents a year ago, leaving the kit helpless and its pelt too small to be of any worth. As a result, the squaws had raised the kit and now, a year later, it was as tame as any domesticated dog—at least around women. It hissed and churred at him whenever he approached. Now the beaver and his wife were inseparable. Only by locking the creature outside for the night was he ever free of it.

“One wrong move,” he said, “and I'm turning him into a hat.”

“Hush.” She pressed the dumpy ball of fur to her chest. “No wonder he growls every time you're around.”

“He's been eating up the fur frames and chewing on my snowshoes.”

“The snow is gone—you won't need them anymore.”

“He's also gnawing a hole in the corner of the cabin.”

“You'd better watch out,” she murmured, a sparkle in her green eyes. “If he gets into the cabin at night, he might mistake a certain part of your anatomy for a fresh branch of poplar.”

“If he does, he'll join his brothers in the storehouse.”

“You just don't like him, do you?”

“He'd taste good boiled in his own skin.”

“André.”

She gave him a reproachful look while the beaver made a purring sound against her breasts. He felt a strange stab of jealousy. Lately, that creature got more attention from his wife than he did.

He said, “Put that ball of fur down. I need to talk to you.”

Her green eyes shuttered. In the passage of a single moment, she withdrew behind some kind of emotional wall. He wondered for the hundredth time what had happened between them these past few weeks. Her withdrawal dated from about the time he had purchased the damn yearling for her, or maybe a little before. It had grown worse as the ice cracked into huge floes on the lake and the spring rains began to melt the winter snow. It was as though the more the earth thawed, the colder she grew.

It wasn't as if their lovemaking had waned. It was as hungry as ever—perhaps even more so, because whenever he got close enough to touch her, he made sure their lovemaking was thorough, that she was completely sated. It was the only time he felt he was reaching her. Inevitably, when it was done, she withdrew from him, and no amount of teasing or kissing could draw her out.

“Let's talk later.” She gestured to where the Indian squaws worked, pounding another tube into the trunk of a maple tree. “We've got six or seven pails full of sap that have to be boiled down before sunset.”

“There are more important things for you to do. We're leaving for Montreal the day after tomorrow.”

“No.”

The exclamation was so abrupt that she covered her lips with her hand.

“Genny—”

“It's only April.” She waved at the gleaming surface of Lake Superior. “The ice only just broke up in the bay. There must still be ice somewhere on the lake.”

“I sent out a party to reconnoiter. They returned today. The shores are clear enough to travel.”

She released the fur ball to the ground. “But there is still frost on the ground in the mornings, and there's snow on the hills, and the stream just west of here is roaring with the spring outflow.”

“We'll be on the lake for at least a week before we hit any rivers.”

She pulled an amber–colored chunk of maple sugar from her pouch and sucked on it thoughtfully. Genevieve had developed a voracious appetite for the hard, sweet chunks in the past weeks. His loins tightened as he remembered an evening when he had softened one of the rocks and rubbed it all over her body, then licked off every drop of the sweet, buttery syrup.

She ventured, “Our leaving so early wouldn't have anything to do with the Sioux, would it?”

He gathered his wandering thoughts. “What do you know of the Sioux?”

“There are rumors that they are going to attack. The women told me.” She raised a brow at him. “Is it true?”

He had tried to keep her ignorant of the rumors, but her ability to understand and speak the Ottawa dialect had gotten too good over the winter. It was true that the Sioux were threatening to attack the Huron and Ottawa tribes that were his allies. The threat made him edgy. A wealth of furs lay within the fort, and their powder and shot was almost spent. He and his men had a choice: They had to abandon the fortress or perhaps get embroiled in a war he was of no mind to fight, a war they probably couldn't win.

“The Sioux have been fighting for a long time over the right to harvest wild rice in the marshes south of here. They resent the Huron and Ottawa interlopers who've moved in.” Another time, another place, he might have railed against a situation that so affected his business, and over which he had no control, but right now all that concerned him was getting his wife away from the danger. “It's just a rumor. It may never come to pass.”

“A strong enough rumor that the Ottawa canoemen are staying here to defend their villages instead of coming back to Montreal with us.”

“Have you been listening at the door of the storehouse?”

“The women know more about this than you think.” She rolled the gleaming rock of maple sugar between her fingers. “I know if the Indians don't join us, then we'll have to leave half the furs here.”

“Not half, just a portion. I've trusted some Ottawa to come to Montreal later in the season with the remainder of the furs, when the Sioux threat has passed.”

“By that time,” she mused, “the furs may be eaten by moths and mold.”

“But we'll all be alive and well to bargain next year.” And next year, he vowed, he would make arrangements for men from Montreal to come here in the spring with new merchandise, powder, and shot along with enough canoes to transfer the furs back to the settlements. This way, he could set up a permanent, defensible post in the wilderness—a necessary advancement if he ever intended to stretch the tentacles of the fur trade farther west.

Then he’d never have to return to the settlements again.

He hardened his jaw. He had wanted to speak to her for weeks about his plans, but she had been so distant. He was loathe to push her farther away. But now that the reconnoitering party had returned with news, there was no more excuse for delay. Now he stepped toward her and ran a hand over her hair, warmed by the spring sunshine. Encouraged by her stillness under his touch, he said, “What is it, Taouistaouisse?”

“It's nothing.” She returned the sticky rock to her pouch. “I just didn't think we'd leave so soon.”

“We've been preparing to leave for weeks. You’ve seen the activity inside the stockade.”

“I don’t linger there.” She tossed her plait over her shoulder. “The canoes are scattered all over the place, and the stench of heated pitch makes me sick.”

“So you’re avoiding the canoes? Not me?”

“Don't be silly.”

“Am I, Taouistaouisse?” He nodded to the beaver that waddled his way over to a sapling. “That thing has spent more time against your breast than me.”

“You can't possibly be jealous of a beaver.”

“You were once jealous of a squirrel.”

“That squirrel wore a dress. This is just a pet.”

“I'm jealous of anything,” he added, leaning close enough to smell the maple sugar on her lips, “that gets to nuzzle your breasts.”

“Does that include babies?” She looked directly at him. “Because according to the squaws, I'm going to have one before the first snows of winter.”

The air rushed out of his lungs. His gaze dropped to her hand, now splayed against her abdomen. He had taken four trips into the interior over the winter, each about ten days to two weeks in length, and although as soon as they were reunited they spent every day and every night making love, André had somehow thought the long weeks of frustrating celibacy would somehow prevent his seed from taking root in her womb. Now he noticed the slight fullness to her belly, a plumpness to her breasts.

“I didn't realize it would come as such a shock,” she said dryly. “This is what usually happens when a man and a woman marry—and we certainly haven't done anything to prevent it.”

André reached out and covered the swell of her abdomen with his own hand. He felt her muscles contract beneath the deerskin. This was the result of all those long nights and slow, lazy days of lovemaking. He marveled that in her small body, nestled somewhere deep in the warmth of her womb, lay the beginnings of his son or daughter.

Their child. His and Genevieve's. He felt a fierce rush of pride and some primal sense of triumph that was almost enough to subsume the terror that cut him at the back of his knees.

“Say something, André.” She covered his hand with hers. “Don’t stand there like a mute.”

Inanely, he muttered, “We're going to have a child.”

“Well, it's not going to be a beaver. Are you happy or not?”

His fingers dug into her abdomen. He felt it again, the thrill of wonder, the rush of male pride, and it left him without words. “How long have you known?”

“I've been sure for about two weeks.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought you'd be angry.”

He felt a kick of guilt at the uncertainty in her eyes. He framed her face with his hands. He could see in those eyes that she was thinking about Rose–Marie and the baby his former wife had taken with her into the deep. André felt a new spurt of anger at his late wife for not being strong enough to survive for the child.

“You seemed so anxious to go back to the settlements,” she said. “And now we'll have to stay here.”

“Stay here? Why?”

“Last fall you said the journey would be dangerous if I were pregnant.”

“You’ve got a few months before you grow so big to make travel difficult. This is all the more reason to get you back now.”

“No.”

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

“The native women do well enough without midwives and straw mattresses.” Genevieve stepped back, out of the circle of his embrace. “If I go back to Montreal, I’ll have to live with Marietta and your friend Philippe, always a guest in someone else’s house. I prefer a hut in the wilderness—”

“I told you, my father left his land to me, outside of Montreal. My former house is nothing but a charred ruin, but his house still stands. I’ll restore it when we return.”

“I like this home,” she said. “I’ll return here with you in the fall, before the baby is born—”

“By then 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. “Haven’t I proven strong enough?”

“You are strong, Taouistaouisse,” he conceded. “But even the strongest women can miscarry. Even mothers of ten can die after a difficult birth. Would you risk that for yourself, for me? Would you take such risks for our child who grows within you?”

André watched her face as she struggled with conflicted emotions. There was never going to be a happy ending between the two of them, he’d known that from the start. They’d avoided thinking about this inevitable compromise all winter, unwilling to look too far into the future. But the future was now, and the compromise had to be made. Genevieve was stubborn, determined, strong, but she was also a survivor. André knew that for the sake of their child, she would agree.

When she spoke, her voice was low but her chin was as high as the heavens. “So we're leaving the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

He heard a hiss coming from the ground. There was the beaver on his hind legs again, his beady eyes fixed on him.

Genevieve bent down and picked up the yearling. “Poor thing. He doesn't want to leave, either.”

“He's not coming with us.”

Genevieve arched a brow. “Isn't he?”