The Pelican Bride (3 page)

Geneviève touched her arm in reproof. “There’s no need to be rude.”

But Lanier smiled and executed a rusty bow. “
Touché
, little canary. You must forgive our collective admiration. I am Tristan Lanier.”

Aimée’s small pointed chin remained elevated, but she graciously extended her hand. “I accept your apology, monsieur. I am Aimée Giselle Gaillain of—” She scowled at Geneviève, who had pinched her. “And this is my sister, Geneviève.”

Geneviève managed to rise against the edge of the table and dip a mortified curtsey. “We met earlier today.”

Lanier bent over Aimée’s fingers as gallantly as if she were seated in a grand Parisian dining hall instead of a thrown-together adjunct to a warehouse on a windswept island. “Mademoiselle.” A twinkle lingered in his eyes as he released her fingers and straightened, but the continued silence in the long, narrow room brought his gaze to the ginger-haired officer. “Dufresne, are you going to allow these men to sit here all night gawking at our guests? Surely Bienville has made provision for their lodging.”

The redhead’s expression darkened. “Of course he has, though it is no concern of yours, Lanier.” He rose and snapped his fingers. “Come, men. We are to clear out of the barracks and turn it over to the ladies.” Picking up his trencher and spoon, he led the way out of the room, catching Aimée’s eye as he passed. “Mademoiselle Canary,” he murmured with a silky undertone that made Geneviève uneasy. Bowing to her, he quitted the room, followed by a straggling rank of reluctant soldiers.

Geneviève indicated the empty seat across the table. “Would you join us, Monsieur Lanier?”

Lanier folded himself onto the bench, his amusement dissolving into lines of weariness. “Mademoiselle Gaillain, if you are going to ignore this fine meal, please pass it across the table so that I may deal with it.”

Aimée blinked but complied, staring at the Canadian.

In the confines of this dark, squalid little room, Lanier seemed to Geneviève even bigger and wilder than he had appeared on the beach. His worn, reddish shirt had dried against the contours of his shoulders, his dark hair falling in thick waves against its open
collar. Both sun-browned hands bore heavy white scars across the knuckles, and she couldn’t help wondering how he had injured them.

Transferring her gaze to his face, she found him watching her. She probably appeared to be sizing up his potential as a mate, despite his claim of disinterest. Hurriedly she glanced away, but not before his lips curved.

“You two have made quite an impression on the men from Fort Louis—including my little brother.” Lanier turned to confiscate a tankard left on the table behind him. “He could not stop talking about the blue-eyed angel he carried into the warehouse this afternoon.”

“Captain Lanier was most kind,” Aimée said stiffly.

Her sister was clearly annoyed with his tone of amusement, so Geneviève attempted to steer the conversation into less personal waters. “We are anxious to complete our journey, m’sieur. Will you and your brother travel with us to the settlement?”

Mild irritation darkened his expression. “I’m afraid so.”

Geneviève waited for him to explain, but he continued to eat in silence. She tried again. “How early will we need to be ready to leave in the morning? I understand we’ve half a day’s travel ahead of us.”

He sighed and glanced at her. “That’s right. My brother has instructed your priest to be ready by daylight. The journey will be much more pleasant if accomplished before the heat of the day presses in.” His lips tightened. “Besides, you’ll have much to do once you land at Fort Louis, and I must get home before sunset.”

She wanted to ask him where “home” was. Presumably not Fort Louis. “Where shall we reside? No one was able to prepare us for the details of life here.” She touched the itchy upstanding collar of her dress. “I suspect we all brought wildly inappropriate clothing for the climate.”

Lanier’s dark eyes skimmed over her. “Certainly less . . . confining attire will be more comfortable.” He scooped up the last of
his stew and said offhandedly, “I imagine you will be housed with families in the settlement who have made room for you.”

“But we were promised homes of our own!” Aimée had apparently overcome her determination to maintain a dignified silence.

Lanier eyed Aimée, his expression unreadable. “Bienville won’t be concerned about promises made by those without the power to fulfill them.” He shrugged. “When you marry, your husband will provide as well as he is able—and you must learn to make do with that.” He stood and bowed with more than a hint of mockery. “But don’t rely upon my word alone. After all, I will not be staying to find out.”

The sun was no more than a strip of pink chiffon along the eastern horizon as Geneviève followed Father Mathieu’s black-robed figure across the damp sand toward what looked like a glorified fishing boat bobbing in the dark surf. She looked around to make sure her sister followed. Aimée had had the nightmare again last night, her scream jolting Geneviève from a sound sleep. She’d managed to wake Aimée and soothe her gasping tears without creating a scene, but she’d gone back to bed with a bite mark in the side of her hand and a renewed rage toward the dragoons who had invaded their home.

To her relief, Aimée rounded a sand dune just then, enfolded in a gaggle of the four youngest girls. They were giggling at the galumphing gait of rotund nursing sister Marie Grissot, who marched ahead of them with more determination than grace. Sister Gris, as they called her—to distinguish her from her companion, Sister Marie Linant—held her billowing habit off the sand with one hand, and with the other struggled to keep her wimple from blowing off.

Geneviève congratulated herself that her own cap was tied snugly beneath her chin and her skirts too short to tangle around her ankles. She’d thought about keeping her Bible with her, to while
away the long trip up to the fort, but had decided not to risk unnecessary questions. It lay at the bottom of her trunk—which, along with the rest of the baggage from the
Pélican
, had already been trundled to the beach on a cart pulled by a spavined ox. The poor animal’s indignation at this task expressed itself as a series of grunts only exceeded in their ferocity by Sister Gris’s snoring last night.

“What gives you a smile, little one?” Father Mathieu had dropped back to match her steps, one arm extended for balance like the wing of a glossy blackbird, the other clutching a painting of the Madonna and Child he had brought all the way from Rochefort. His button-brown eyes crinkled with teasing affection.

“The joy of walking on solid ground, even for a few more minutes.” Geneviève offered her elbow for support, and he took it with a grateful look. The priest rarely showed his age, which, judging by the sparse fringe of gray hair which brushed his shoulders, must be over sixty. She studied the shadows beneath his eyes, the yellow tinge of the leathery skin. The fever had hit them all hard, and Father Mathieu had helped with nursing duties during the most difficult hours of the nights at sea.

He sighed. “Do you suppose we could simply walk the rest of the way to the fort?”

She chuckled. “Not unless you have a mind to emulate Saint Peter and walk on water.”

“And we know how well that ended,” he said drolly. “Massacre Island, they call it. I can’t help wondering how it got that terrible name.”

“I’d rather not think about it.” Geneviève made out three vessels bobbing in the water. They looked alarmingly small. “Are we all going to fit on those little boats?”

“We made it this far, my dear. The good God will surely see us to our final destination.”

Geneviève nodded, reflecting not for the first time that God’s
will could be a capricious thing. Several of their original party had perished at sea, and there was no guarantee the rest of them would reach the settlement without further incident.

Perhaps she was being unduly cynical. Perhaps her faith was weak. But she couldn’t seem to control the questions that assailed her in unguarded moments.

She squared her shoulders and smiled at the priest. “And thus far the journey has been . . . interesting, has it not? What do you think of Monsieur Lanier?”

Following last night’s uncomfortable dinner conversation, Tristan Lanier had abruptly left the dining hall just as his handsome younger brother entered. Acquainting himself with each of the young women and the chaperones, Marc-Antoine bowed deeply, his engaging laughter ringing out loudly and often. He had remained talking to Father Mathieu when the women excused themselves to their quarters for the night.

“He seems a man of strong appetites,” Father Mathieu replied dryly. “You would be wise to keep your little sister out of his sights.”

“Why? Do you think he would . . .” Geneviève couldn’t finish the sentence. Had they escaped France only to thrust themselves into a worse predicament?

Father Mathieu shook his head. “It is not the young captain’s behavior which bears watching, my dear, so much as that of our little Aimée.”

So, he’d meant Marc-Antoine, not Tristan. Geneviève bit her lip, absurdly relieved. “I agree Aimée is too forward, but only because she is so innocent.”

“Perhaps it’s time she learned what you and Jean Cavalier have done for her. It was he who broke you out of prison, and when he told me how you were treated there—”

“And
you
, Father. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been willing to listen to Jean.”

“Pssh. Child, I wouldn’t sleep at night knowing I’d left two
orphans behind to face that nightmare in the Cévennes—and all of it in the name of religion. It’s my hope to create a climate here where all Christians, whether Catholic or Reformed or something in between, will be free to worship together.” His voice rose above the roar of the surf, and he sounded stronger than she’d heard him in days.

“A noble dream, Father.” She patted the trembling hand on her arm. “But I would not speak it within the hearing of Captain Lanier—nor anyone else in authority. We are yet a Catholic state, as long as Louis is on the throne.”

“His Majesty thinks to keep the faith pure.” Father Mathieu shook his head. “But such excesses of materialism—and downright barbarism—I have never seen. How can it be right to murder one’s countrymen just because their interpretation of Scripture does not line up with that of the Pope? And how is it right to live in gilded halls which house at least one mistress and numbers of illegitimate children, when innocents like you and your sister are deprived of parents and driven out of their homes?”

“Please, Father, have a care!” Geneviève stopped, clutching the priest’s arm. They had reached the shore and were within earshot of soldiers and sailors milling about, hoisting kegs and boxes and trunks onto their shoulders, splashing toward the boats.

He gave her a sheepish smile. “You are right, of course. Besides, the sermon is wasted on the righteous. I shall save it for the audience who needs it.” At her alarmed gasp, he laughed. “Don’t worry, I
can
be subtle when necessary.”

Geneviève eyed him with mock severity. “Wise as a serpent, hmm?”

“Quite.” He drew her toward an officer supervising the removal of luggage from the cart. “Pardon, m’sieur, can you advise us as to the procedure for boarding?”

The officer turned and removed his hat to wipe his forehead, revealing a curly mop of red hair. Geneviève recognized the young officer from the dining hall.

He bowed. “Good morning, Father, mademoiselle.” Rising, he gestured toward the swarm of activity surrounding the lading process. “As you can see, we are not quite ready for boarding, but your punctuality is commendable.” His gaze found Geneviève’s. “And how did you ladies pass the night? I hope you fared well on your first day in the New World.”

“Tolerably,” she said without much enthusiasm. The scuttling nighttime noises had been different from, but no less disconcerting than, that of the rats which infested the
Pélican
. And Aimée’s nightmare couldn’t be mentioned. “I must thank you again for your men’s willingness to sacrifice their beds in our favor.”

“It is no sacrifice when one reflects that those beds may soon be jointly warmed.” His sly tone was mitigated by a twinkle in the greenish eyes. “Within the bonds of matrimony, that is, begging your pardon, Father.”

Father Mathieu laughed. “No offense taken, my son. I’m sure you young men have been looking forward to the company of our gentle beauties.”

“And the reality far exceeds the hope. But we have not been properly introduced.” The officer bowed once more, this time with a flourish of his plumed hat. “I am Aide-Major Julien Dufresne, at your service.”

Geneviève dipped a curtsey. “I am Geneviève Gaillain. This is Father Mathieu.”

Dufresne took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Mademoiselle, I am enchanted.” His gaze flicked over her shoulder as he rose. “One of these young ladies is your sister, if I’m not mistaken. I see the familial resemblance.”

Geneviève turned and found Aimée and the other three girls clustered in a tittering knot a few paces away. “Yes, come here, girls. I wish you to meet Aide-Major Dufresne.”