The Pelican Bride (44 page)

Aimée had heard enough. Feeling as if a blindfold had been snatched from her eyes, she slid to the damp floor of the gallery under the window of La Salle’s office.

Her first reaction was outrage at Julien’s duplicity. Or perhaps one might more accurately call it triplicity. Until tonight, he had been her ardent suitor, the man who called her
cherie
and
belle
, and other lovely words, as if she were a princess straight out of a castle.
Then
he had called her
common born
and
stupid
. She shivered a little, remembering his threat to deal with her later.

Then there was Julien the trickster, who had talked her into defying her sister’s wishes, encouraging her to go through Geneviève’s trunk and snoop out the Bible with its damning letter from Jean Cavalier. Julien would never have known about Cavalier if Aimée hadn’t babbled to him like a child in her hurt feelings. Then to use her words to pin a charge of treason on Ginette, when Aimée knew in her heart of hearts that her sister simply wanted to be left alone to worship God as her conscience dictated. Almost as bad was this Machiavellian turn on Monsieur Bienville. The commander might be less than tactful at times, but he had seemed to trust and like Julien. So why had Julien betrayed him to the men inside that room? Offered to help them take up arms against Bienville and his officers?

Worst of all . . . Raindrop had seen evidence of his brutality with
her own eyes, the killing of that Indian in cowardly fashion. And he had not denied it! In fact, she was quite certain that Julien had poisoned Ginette’s bread with the intention of murdering Tristan Lanier rather than that poor Indian boy.

Truth.

She almost gagged on it. She sat under the window, forcing herself to inhale and then exhale, one lungful at a time, until she could formulate her next move. A princess, she supposed, would simply expire from fear, hurt, betrayal,
stupidity
, while she waited for some prince to rescue her.

But she was a common-born wench. And she was not as stupid as Geneviève feared and Julien assumed she was. Fully aware now of the depth of selfishness to which she had descended—traipsing along like a child in a garden, giddy with release from the fear of dying in a fire or rape and execution at the hands of the dragoons—she found herself awake, sober of mind, determined to right the wrongs she had committed.

How? What could she do? It was almost too late. The men in that room were set to take over the arms and ammunition of the fort, usurp the commander’s authority, and hunt down and attack the Indians of the upper river villages.

What could one frightened and shamed young girl accomplish, especially one who had tied her own reputation to the biggest liar and villain on two continents?

Geneviève supposed the time must be somewhere past two o’clock—though it was hard to tell, as the night sky was as hard and black as the bottom of a cauldron. She and Nika had left the fort through the outer door of the headquarters building, crossing the gallery and descending its steps without a light and then slip-sliding down the muddy glacis and over the flooded moat. On this side of the stockade, water stood knee deep in some places,
the darkness terrifying beyond description. Geneviève shuddered, still feeling the panic of standing on her cot, waiting in the water for Tristan to come for her and Ysabeau.

She prayed that Ysabeau hadn’t gotten herself trapped in another dangerous place. No one seemed to know where she’d gone after she left the guardhouse. The commander had sent Foussé to look for her, but he hadn’t as yet returned.

Her sister was her main worry now. Aimée’s last known location had been outside the L’Anglois home, but Raindrop seemed to think she would be heading for the small riverside warehouse. Geneviève and Nika had almost split up to look for her but decided to stay together for safety. Neither carried a weapon—at least Geneviève did not. Nika likely had a knife somewhere about her person.

“So Dufresne was behind the attack on our men?” Geneviève whispered, following Nika, who was feeling her way along the stockade toward the gate. “Why? What would he accomplish with such a crime?”

“Probably to provoke retaliation against the Koasati.” Nika stopped and crouched, pulling Geneviève down with her. “Shh! I think I hear someone coming!”

Geneviève listened, heard nothing, then whispered, “But Raindrop said Mitannu was supposed to attack Tristan Lanier. That Dufresne wouldn’t pay him because he shot Marc-Antoine instead.”

“What?” Nika’s grip on her arm tightened, her whisper intense. “That doesn’t make sense. She is mistaken!”

Geneviève shook her head. “It doesn’t make much sense either way.”

Nika was silent so long Geneviève thought she might not answer. At last the Indian woman drew a breath. “There is an explanation, if Marc-Antoine was Mitannu’s target. I knew your husband’s brother many years ago. We were both very young and—became lovers. I did not tell Mitannu this for fear of what he would do.”

Geneviève tried to hide her shock as several events and chance remarks came together. She had noticed the European cast to the twins’ eyes, their light hair. “Are you saying your boys . . .”

Nika’s silence told the truth.

“If Dufresne knew this, he wouldn’t be above using Mitannu’s jealousy for his own ends. . . . Perhaps he thought your lover had been Tristan instead of Marc-Antoine. Their features are similar.”

“Yes. I am grieved that so many died and were wounded because of my foolish choices.”

Geneviève touched Nika’s arm. “You aren’t to blame for your husband’s wickedness.”

“I tell myself this. But my heart does not believe it.” Nika sighed. “Wait, I hear that noise again.”

Then Geneviève heard it, a muffled scream. “That’s my sister!” She tried to lunge to her feet, but Nika restrained her.

“Wait!” Nika repeated. “We will not help her by rushing in. Follow my lead.” She crawled toward the gate, which seemed to be abandoned by the usual sentry.

Geneviève followed on hands and knees. Two women alone. They should have waited. She should have insisted that Tristan listen to her. Almost she stood up to run back into the fort. But Aimée was in trouble, and there was no Jean Cavalier or Father Mathieu to rescue them.

Crouching, Nika slipped through the gate, Geneviève behind her, and then they were outside the fort, standing on the shallow strip of land between stockade and bluff. Nothingness lay beyond the sudden dropoff, blackness so dense that Geneviève felt, bizarrely, she could have stood on it. Panicked, she backed against the stockade. To her left loomed the vague outline of the Le Moyne warehouse, where she had once or twice purchased supplies for Burelle’s kitchen.

“Quiet,” Nika whispered, “and follow me. Our advantage is surprise.”

Geneviève could hear noise of a struggle somewhere beyond the warehouse, noises that sent curdled excitement through her veins. It was the same sort of rush that had given her the courage to pick up a hunting rifle and follow uniformed brutes dragging her father to his execution.

Nika edged along the stockade, and Geneviève lost her grip when she tripped over a fallen pike from the stockade. She bent to move it, then picked it up. It was sharp at the top, splintered and uncomfortable to carry, but not as heavy as she had expected. A weapon.

“Stay close,” Nika whispered, then darted across the space between the stockade and the warehouse, Geneviève behind her with the pike.

She prayed they were far enough from the edge of the bluff so as not to slip over.

Nika jerked to a halt with a grunt, and Geneviève slammed into her. “What is it?”

Nika was looking down, both hands over her mouth. A moment later she let out a shaky breath. “It’s Mitannu.”

Geneviève peered around her. The outline of a muscular body lay sprawled against the warehouse wall. She gripped Nika’s shoulder, felt her shivers. They stood that way for a frozen moment before Nika jerked into motion.

Geneviève’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see that the wriggling form toward which Nika had been moving was actually two men, locked together in violent struggle. Judging by the grunts and muffled curses, one of them was trying to subdue the other, who was gagged but not bound.

Confused, she touched Nika’s elbow and hissed in her ear, “I thought I heard Aimée. Where is she?”

Nika laughed softly. “That’s her. She just kicked Dufresne.”

But Dufresne wasn’t so easily vanquished. He snarled curses at Aimée as he grabbed her by the hair and slung her toward the edge of the bluff.

In her terror, Geneviève ran toward him with the pike aimed like a battering ram. “Nika!” she shrieked. “Get Aimée and pull her back!” At the last moment she whirled the pike overhead. The soft rotten wood thunked against the side of Dufresne’s head. He dropped. Geneviève jumped over his inert body, wobbling as the softened ground gave way beneath her feet.

24

N
ika barely gave the prostrate Du-Fren a glance as she jumped over him to grab Jon-a-Vev’s hand and haul her back from the edge of the bluff. Collapsing, the two of them sat hugging each other and shaking, while Ah-meh pulled off her gag, gathered herself, and crawled over to join them.

Ah-Meh sat up and looked over her shoulder at the still form of the French officer. “Is he dead?”

“I hope so.” Unable to produce the least concern for such a liar and murderer, Nika wiped her tear-wet face.

Jon-a-Vev got up and walked over to him. She stooped down and laid two fingers against the pulse point under his jaw. “He’s alive.” Her voice was flat, but revulsion laced the words. “We have to go for help.” She stood up and looked at her sister. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you?”

“Just my pride. And he pulled out some of my hair. But I’m alive. Thank you, Ginette. And thank you . . .” Ah-Meh looked at Nika, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know your name.”

“I am Nika. Jon-a-Vev, we have to tie him up, or he will sneak away like the cur that he is. I will watch him while you go back to
the warehouse for rope. Little Sister can go back to tell Mah-Kah-Twah and Tree-Stah what we have done.”

Jon-a-Vev nodded. “That is a good plan. Come, Ah-Meh, we need to hurry.”

Yes, they needed to hurry. She was suddenly desperate to hold Chazeh and Tonaw tight in her arms.

She watched the two Frenchwomen disappear into the darkness beyond the warehouse. With the unconscious Du-Fren sprawled nearby, and Jon-a-Vev’s pike across her lap in case he stirred before they returned, Nika had little to do but stare across the river, where a bank of clouds had split to reveal a corner of the crescent moon.

Mah-Kah-Twah had left her without a glance, to hold conference with his brother and the commander. Of course she was a strong woman, who had survived for many years without a man to care for her. She did not really need him.

From his earliest memory Tristan had understood that his destiny lay outside established boundaries. If his father had been a more forgiving man, perhaps he might have been reluctant to leap into that destiny. But choices, once acted upon, could rarely be undone.

With Bienville waiting for his answer, he sat looking at the scars across the backs of his hands. Symbols of independence, of sacrifice, of manhood, they reminded him to think before acting.

Almost a year ago to the day, he had made the choice to leave Fort Louis and service to his King. Now Bienville was giving him the chance to come back.

Come back? Leave his plantation? Condemn Geneviève to live in His Majesty’s Catholic colony, where she could never openly practice her faith? Yoke himself once more to the vicissitudes of Bienville’s decisions?

If he refused, there would be no more offers of grace. He would once more cut himself off from his brother, who needed him perhaps more than ever.

He clenched his hands, widening the scars to silvery bands. He was not the first man to suffer for the decision to stand alone. Yet not alone, for there was a beautiful woman ready to go with him. And the God who had brought her to him.

He looked up at Bienville. “I’ll pray about this decision and give you my answer in two days’ time.”