The Pelican Bride (32 page)

“Didn’t you hear me? They weren’t Koasati! They were Mitannu’s men.” She shoved his good shoulder, none too gently. “Lie down before you start the bleeding again.”

He ignored her, scowling. “This is a bullet wound. Did you see his gun? What kind was it?”

“I don’t know! A gun is a gun. Our troubles started when you people brought those terrible weapons into our villages.”

“Oh, no, you all were doing just fine before we got here, killing each other with arrows and tomahawks and bludgeons.” He gave her a fulminating look. “It matters whether these savages were armed by the French or the British. Tristan and the priest and I came all this way to try turning the Alabama away from the English, and to get them to band together with the Choctaw, the Chickasaw, and the Mobile. You’ve got to stop raiding each other’s villages, stop taking slaves and selling them to the British. If you don’t, your nations will slowly implode, and we’ll all be left as subjects of Queen Anne.”

She pressed her lips together. “Would that be so much worse than being slaves of King Louis? Your people do not respect him. Your officers rob the royal warehouses to sell goods to our chiefs, and I know at least one who sells information to the British!” She stopped on a gasp, horrified at her lapse in discretion.

Mah-Kah-Twah swiftly caught the back of her head in his hand, his fingers plowing roughly into her hair. “
What
did you say?”

18

G
eneviève tried to think when she and Aimée had last been in a room together for purely social reasons. Oh, there had been the occasion nearly three weeks ago now, the same day she’d discovered Aimée’s purchase of her blackberry tartlets. To give them to Julien Dufresne, whom Aimée knew Geneviève couldn’t bear, as a lover’s gift of sorts . . . that had been a most egregious disloyalty.

She’d best not think of it, if she expected to endure the evening.

Tonight half the settlement seemed to have been invited to Madame L’Anglois’s harvest celebration—the official ending of the season before winter’s chilly fingers began to clutch the colony. The socialite had had good Monsieur L’Anglois working from dawn to dusk, cleaning out his barn so that there would be room for young couples to dance while their elders refreshed themselves with an assortment of Geneviève’s pumpkin pies and cream pastries, washed down with a punch made from the juice of watermelon and wild berries, mixed with the last of the wines from the warehouse.

It was a merry scene indeed, the military men of the crowd freed from a month of intensified guard duty. Word had come from the south that British warships had been sighted off the coast of Massacre Island, hovering like dogs below a treed opossum. They
were gone now, and no one knew precisely what they had gained by skulking in the Gulf for six days, but despite the jocularity of the men, the women continued to fret.

Even Geneviève, who was helping Madame keep the refreshment table filled and tidied, couldn’t help listening to the officers discuss Bienville’s plans to dispatch soldiers to the Island. Usually she could dismiss the flutterings of the other women as a waste of energy, but the serious undertone of the men’s conversation carried weight. Tristan’s safety was never far from her thoughts. Also, she couldn’t help worrying about her message sent through Nika. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could be considered treason.

“Madame Lanier, you are looking lovely tonight. Could I trouble you for more punch?”

Startled from her guilty thoughts, she turned. “Commander!” Regaining her grip on the punch ladle, she freshened Bienville’s drink. “Thank you. You are very kind.” She knew she looked well, for she had taken particular pains with her hair and had freshened her stomacher with new ribbons for the occasion.

She felt her cheeks warm as Bienville’s black eyes flicked over her. “Lanier will find himself a most fortunate man when he returns. I pray that he and his brother will bring us a report of a successful mission within a week or two.”

Mistrusting his conciliatory tone, Geneviève returned his regard, absently wiping the lip of the ladle with the corner of her apron. “Have you decided to forgive him of the sin of marrying me then?”

His lips quirked. “Madame Bakery Queen, you have surely learned by now that my anger is generally short-lived—particularly with regard to men who serve the interests of the French Crown as best they know how.” He sighed. “The Lanier brothers have been two of my closest allies, as well as a source of keen aggravation. Please disregard my insulting questions the day after your so-hasty marriage. I was surprised that I wasn’t invited to witness the ceremony, that’s all.”

Though she doubted that was the sole reason for that intrusive interrogation, she shrugged. “We shan’t speak of it again.”

He nodded. “However, there’s another bone I must pick. You’ll have to believe that I choose my words with fear and trembling.” He hesitated, glanced away.

She caught her breath. Had he found out about the message?

Then she realized Bienville was focused on Aimée, who was dancing a reel with her back to Julien Dufresne but giving the young redhead a sparkling look over her shoulder.

Geneviève sighed. “What has she done now?”

Bienville chuckled. “You should rather ask, what has she
not
done? If she doesn’t hurry up and choose a husband, I shall soon find my officers involved in an elimination round of pistols at dawn.”

Geneviève blinked. “I—I thought she had already become engaged to Aide-Major Dufresne.”

“Then she hasn’t told you?” He gave her an odd look. “Dufresne informed me he offered for her nearly three weeks ago, but she has been playing the tease.”

“That sounds like Aimée. But my sister and I have been somewhat distanced lately. Frankly I haven’t encouraged her to settle on the aide-major, so I’m glad to hear she has not.”

“Pray tell, what is your objection to the son of one of the wealthiest and highest-placed peers in France?” Bienville stared down at her, frowning. “I’ve found him nothing but diligent in his duties and sensible of the privileges he enjoys as one of my officers. Mademoiselle Aimée is a pretty thing, I grant you, but she should thank God on her knees that Dufresne has shown her favor.”

Geneviève wondered what he would think if she informed the commander that her sister had once aspired to the post of mistress of the entire colony.

“It isn’t false pride that makes me discourage the match.” Geneviève struggled to find words that would not unduly offend the
commander. “I agree, Monsieur Dufresne could be considered a fine catch. But—but, Commander, I don’t believe he has been entirely forthcoming with me or my sister, and his motives for pursuing her don’t seem quite—” Oh dear, he was looking down his nose at her, in clear irritation. “I mean, I just think there may be something other than real affection—”

“Please do not try to tell me you are one of these ridiculous females who cling to romantic notions of true love between a woman in need of a husband and the man who generously meets that need.” His lip curled. “Was that the way of it between you and my Know-Nothing erstwhile lieutenant? Secret meetings in the still of the night? Poetry, songs, and sweet
nothings
exchanged through open windows?”

Geneviève wrapped her arms about her middle, feeling as though she had been punched without warning. Bienville looked away, a faint stiffness of shame in his expression, but she would not let him off this time. “What did Tristan do to you, sir, that you treat him with such contempt? As you said only a moment ago, he is a good man who would give his life for you! Yet you seem to find it difficult to speak a civil word in his behalf.”

Bienville pressed his fine lips together. He did not reply for several moments, and the lilting strains of a Purcell minuet from Monsieur L’Anglois’s violin filled the silence.

Finally he gave her a curt bow. “Please forgive my reluctance to resurrect old wrongs, Madame. I assure you I meant no insult to you or your sister. Just remember that she must choose a husband tonight—or I will be forced to choose for her.” Turning on his heel, he cut through the center of the dance floor and disappeared behind a crowd of men in the open doorway of the barn.

Geneviève stared after the commander, every iota of charity to which she had clung evaporated. She was very glad Aimée had not managed to attract his arrogant regard, for if she had been forced to entertain him as her brother-in-law, she would surely
have murdered him within a fortnight. Turning her back on the refreshment table, she yanked her fan from her apron pocket and attempted to cool all trace of upset from her face.

“Madame Lanier, you are like to create a tropical surge in the punch bowl if you persist in such violent fanning.” Julien Dufresne’s sardonic baritone behind her preceded his appearance. “Perhaps you will consent to share that welcome breeze with the rest of the room. It is fiendishly hot in here.”

She snapped the sticks of the fan together and jammed it back into her pocket. She was in no frame of mind to joust with this weasel. “Please excuse me. Madame L’Anglois seems to have need of me.”

He snagged her arm before she could walk away. “Ah, you must have mistaken her for someone else, as I just passed her on the way to the, er, privy.”

Would this miserable evening never end? “What do you want, Monsieur Dufresne?” she said between her teeth.

He sighed in feigned injury, his pale eyes glinting. “Why, my dear, such shortness of temper. Could it be that you are increasing? I’ve heard it said that such an interesting condition often makes shrews of the most gentle-natured of women.” Surveying her figure with blatant insolence, he shook his head. “I only wished to exchange courtesies, Madame. After all, you and I are like to be the closest of relatives ere too long. We had best learn to get along.”

Increasing?
She wished fervently that Tristan were here to pitch the impudent wretch headfirst into the punch bowl. She had heard about the scene that took place between the two men on the riverfront landing the morning after her wedding. It had afforded her many a private giggle every time she recalled it.

Now, even the mental image of Dufresne dancing a jig with watermelon juice dripping from his red curls enabled her to conjure a smile. “I have heard no wedding banns read, sir, but I shall be sure to let you know when I do.”

Fleeting uncertainty crossed his expression as he glanced over his shoulder at Aimée, who was dancing opposite Denis Lafleur. “Bienville has said I may announce the betrothal tonight,” he said loudly. “It is his wish that I wed your sister.”

“Perhaps he should have informed her first. She appears to be ignorant of this stunning news.”

At that moment the tune ended, and Aimée curtseyed before the laughing Lafleur, who grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips. She blushed like a rose, peeping up at him from behind her lacy fan.

Dufresne’s teeth clicked together hard. He swiftly gained control of himself, pulling out a fresh, snowy handkerchief to blot his beaded forehead. “Aimée cannot help the packs of dogs who follow her like a—” He smiled. “Like the beautiful woman she is. When we are wed, she will have reason to contain her smiles for her husband.”

Cold fingers traced the back of Geneviève’s neck. There was a very specific threat beneath those words. “What do you mean?”

Dufresne flicked the handkerchief against the sleeve of his uniform coat. “I think you understand me. His Majesty the King may perhaps not be the best model of marital fidelity, but he has been very clear about the fate of his subjects who dare to stray from the Holy Roman Church.” He gave her a malicious glance and went back to dusting his sleeve.
Whick. Whick.
“He takes a very dim view of spiritual unfaithfulness.”

Her mind took the leap. He knew. Aimée had betrayed her, betrayed them both.

They had been three days making their way—painful, limping mile by mile—in a southwesterly direction from the outskirts of the Koasati village back to the Apalachee. Nika, weary and sick at heart, anxious for Bright Tongue and anxious for the safety of
her children, had refused to linger where they were, despite her companion’s wish to wait for his brother to find them. They had wasted half a day arguing, Nika insistent that it was dangerous to expose themselves to the enemy, who were more likely to remain in the area than was Tristan Lanier.

In the end, Mah-Kah-Twah sent her on a roundabout course back to the scene of the attack to look for signs of disturbance. “We can’t leave the bodies there, especially the priest. They should be decently buried. Can you do that, Nika? Will you do it for me?”

Unable to resist the pleading dark eyes, shadowed with pain because of her husband’s cruelty, she had reluctantly nodded. “Though I think it is a waste of time. We should go to my family in the Kaskaskia. You would be safe there, and our medicine men would heal you.” Besides, she still had a message to deliver.

Apparently satisfied that she would obey him, he lay back. “Good. And look for any papers left on the dead. The priest has a book—a journal he kept, with drawings and such. I want it.”