Read Online Heaven in His Arms by Lisa Ann Verge - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Ann Verge
Tags: Scan; HR; 17th Century; Colonial French Canada; "filles du roi" (king's girls); mail-order bride
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limits to how companionable he could be with the men he had hired.
Andre pushed away from the window. He yanked his sweat-stained brown silk doublet off his shoulders and tossed it on the floor, where it joined the wig, shoes, and cravat he had discarded the moment he had entered the room. He paced at the foot of the bed in shirttails and breeches, forcing himself to think of the details, anything to take his mind off the walls closing in on him, the flickering of the candlelight off the solid log walls. The cornmeal and peas had been bought and bagged; the hatchets, glass beads, knives, brandy, blankets, and other trading goods had already been packed in tight ninety-pound packages. He had hired and paid out one-third wages to two dozen voyageurs, most of them work-hardened, tough, dependable men. The canoes were pitched and ready to be loaded. All he awaited was the dawn.
Finally. All the bargaining, all the delays, all the unexpected new rules in the colony—they were over now. This was his last night in the settlements. Tomorrow he would put on his well-worn leggings and moccasins and return home to a hard, earthen bed and an open sky.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings. Andre glared at the portal. He had finished his business for the day. The last thing he wanted to do was haggle with a merchant over last-minute prices or argue with the authorities over the behavior of his drunken voyageurs.
The knock came again, more persistent.
"It's open." Andre swept his wig off the floor and jammed it on his head. "And you'd best have a damn good reason for disturbing my peace."
The door swung open. A blur of pink swept in like a gust of wind. The creature suddenly stilled and fixed him with a fiery, green-eyed glare. With a start, he realized that the guest was a woman.
A beautiful woman.
"Andre Lefebvre?"
Surprised into silence, he stared at her. He had expected Tiny with some problem concerning the canoes or the men, or, worse, a merchant with bad news about promised cargo . .. not a woman with green eyes and pouty red lips and copper-colored hair that gleamed in the candlelight, falling in windblown curls over her shoulders and . . . Dieu! Though she was corseted tightly, no amount of boning could crush those curves. His shock abated; his thoughts whirred. He wondered if the innkeeper had sent her up to him, but one look at the fine rose-colored ribbon trimming her pink bodice told him that this was no public woman. Courtesans of this caliber didn't live in New France.
"You must be Andre." She slammed the door behind her. "No other man would be so shocked to see me." She clattered a woven case upon the floor between them, like a nobleman tossing a gauntlet in challenge. "I'm not a ghost, monsieur, but I have come to haunt you."
Haunt, little firebrand. He'd never exorcise such a vision from his bedroom. Who the hell was she? She seemed to think he knew her. Andre peered at her features in the darkness, frantically trying to place a name to a face. When he was last in Montreal, he had spent a few passionate evenings with a young widow before he returned to France. What was her name? . .. Charlotte? Colette? It didn't matter. This couldn't be the widow of Montreal. The woman tapping her foot before him couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty years of age, which meant when he was last in Montreal, she couldn't have been more than sixteen—and he avoided sixteen-year-olds as religiously as he avoided Indian stews.
"Well?" She crossed her arms. Her mass of reddish curls quivered about her face, and the point of her booted foot tapped, lifting the soggy hem of her skirts. "Are you going to stand there and stare all night, or are you going to congratulate me for recovering from my illness?"
His gaze fell to the provocative swelling of her bosom above the straight edge of her bodice, and he decided in an instant to play along. "Congratulations. You appear to be in the full bloom of health."
"How unfortunate for
Andre pushed away from the window. He yanked his sweat-stained brown silk doublet off his shoulders and tossed it on the floor, where it joined the wig, shoes, and cravat he had discarded the moment he had entered the room. He paced at the foot of the bed in shirttails and breeches, forcing himself to think of the details, anything to take his mind off the walls closing in on him, the flickering of the candlelight off the solid log walls. The cornmeal and peas had been bought and bagged; the hatchets, glass beads, knives, brandy, blankets, and other trading goods had already been packed in tight ninety-pound packages. He had hired and paid out one-third wages to two dozen voyageurs, most of them work-hardened, tough, dependable men. The canoes were pitched and ready to be loaded. All he awaited was the dawn.
Finally. All the bargaining, all the delays, all the unexpected new rules in the colony—they were over now. This was his last night in the settlements. Tomorrow he would put on his well-worn leggings and moccasins and return home to a hard, earthen bed and an open sky.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings. Andre glared at the portal. He had finished his business for the day. The last thing he wanted to do was haggle with a merchant over last-minute prices or argue with the authorities over the behavior of his drunken voyageurs.
The knock came again, more persistent.
"It's open." Andre swept his wig off the floor and jammed it on his head. "And you'd best have a damn good reason for disturbing my peace."
The door swung open. A blur of pink swept in like a gust of wind. The creature suddenly stilled and fixed him with a fiery, green-eyed glare. With a start, he realized that the guest was a woman.
A beautiful woman.
"Andre Lefebvre?"
Surprised into silence, he stared at her. He had expected Tiny with some problem concerning the canoes or the men, or, worse, a merchant with bad news about promised cargo . .. not a woman with green eyes and pouty red lips and copper-colored hair that gleamed in the candlelight, falling in windblown curls over her shoulders and . . . Dieu! Though she was corseted tightly, no amount of boning could crush those curves. His shock abated; his thoughts whirred. He wondered if the innkeeper had sent her up to him, but one look at the fine rose-colored ribbon trimming her pink bodice told him that this was no public woman. Courtesans of this caliber didn't live in New France.
"You must be Andre." She slammed the door behind her. "No other man would be so shocked to see me." She clattered a woven case upon the floor between them, like a nobleman tossing a gauntlet in challenge. "I'm not a ghost, monsieur, but I have come to haunt you."
Haunt, little firebrand. He'd never exorcise such a vision from his bedroom. Who the hell was she? She seemed to think he knew her. Andre peered at her features in the darkness, frantically trying to place a name to a face. When he was last in Montreal, he had spent a few passionate evenings with a young widow before he returned to France. What was her name? . .. Charlotte? Colette? It didn't matter. This couldn't be the widow of Montreal. The woman tapping her foot before him couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty years of age, which meant when he was last in Montreal, she couldn't have been more than sixteen—and he avoided sixteen-year-olds as religiously as he avoided Indian stews.
"Well?" She crossed her arms. Her mass of reddish curls quivered about her face, and the point of her booted foot tapped, lifting the soggy hem of her skirts. "Are you going to stand there and stare all night, or are you going to congratulate me for recovering from my illness?"
His gaze fell to the provocative swelling of her bosom above the straight edge of her bodice, and he decided in an instant to play along. "Congratulations. You appear to be in the full bloom of health."
"How unfortunate for
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