Read Online Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 by Jennifer Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Blake
Tags: Romance
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scream.
They had crossed a clear-running creek lined with white sand at the bottom and overhung by dark green moss and ferns that had not yet felt the blight of frost. On the opposite bank they stopped to rest. Elise sat down against a tree and began to dry her feet on the tail of her habit. She shook out a stocking and slipped it over her foot, slapping in idle irritation at a mosquito before smoothing it up over her calf, tying a garter in place, and then rolling the stocking and fastening it over the garter just below her knee. Reaching for her other stocking, she surveyed the hole beginning to show in the heel with rueful dismay. There was nothing to be done except to put it on, however.
She was smoothing it upward with her skirts bunched just above her knees when an odd self-consciousness moved over her. She glanced up to see Reynaud leaning against a tree a short distance away, his gray eyes shuttered as he watched her. His gaze followed the slender turn of her ankle, the gentle swell of her calf. She was still for a moment as she felt the rise of hot color. She did not like the sensation. Setting her teeth, she lowered her eyes and, with a great pretense of unconcern, continued with what she was doing. She was fervently glad when she could roll and knot her stocking above her knee and lower her skirts, however, and there was unnecessary violence in the slap she used to kill the next mosquito that landed on her wrist.
Reynaud pushed away from the tree. He moved to one of the packs that had been piled by the group. Loosening it, he rummaged inside, then stood with a small clay pot in his hand. He came toward her, dropping to one knee as he held out the pot.
“What is it?” Elise asked, making no move to take it.
“Bear grease. It will discourage the mosquitoes.”
Elise frowned, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t doubt it, but, no, I thank you.”
“It isn’t as bad as you think.”
“I’ve smelled rancid bear grease before and I don’t think it’s something I want to put up with all day.”
“This is fresh. I’m wearing it now.”
His voice was quiet, without inflection, and yet that very lack of expression was both a reminder that she had once accused him of being malodorous and a challenge to her to say the same again. A chill rippled over her skin, followed by a flush so intense that she felt sick with it. Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes, but she could not make a sound.
“In any case,” he said easily, “it was not a suggestion, but an order. The medicine woman of the Natchez claims that the bite of the mosquito can cause illness and she may be right.”
He dipped one finger into the grease, whitish, semiliquid with the day’s warmth, not unlike olive oil, and reached out to draw it down the soft curve of her cheek. She flinched, snapping her head back, her embarrassment turning quickly to defiant anger.
“You can do it, or I will.”
The words were no less of a threat for being softly spoken. Elise held his gaze for a moment longer, then reached to snatch the small pot from his hand. He inclined his head, then his lithe muscles flexed as he got to his feet. Moving away, he said over his shoulder, “When you are done, give it to Madame Doucet and the others.”
She did not answer, but then he did not expect it. It was an effort not to turn and watch her as she smoothed the bear grease into her skin. He had allowed himself to be distracted by her too often: by the white flash of her calves beneath her tucked-up skirt; by the swing of her hips; by the lift of her breasts as she reached to push a hanging limb aside or stretched aching muscles. He felt torn between the urge to stay at her side helping her over obstacles, as much for the sake of touching her as to aid her, and the necessity to range ahead of the group breaking the trail or to let them pass, lingering behind on the alert for danger. Though she hardly seemed aware that he was there, he knew every moment where she was
They had crossed a clear-running creek lined with white sand at the bottom and overhung by dark green moss and ferns that had not yet felt the blight of frost. On the opposite bank they stopped to rest. Elise sat down against a tree and began to dry her feet on the tail of her habit. She shook out a stocking and slipped it over her foot, slapping in idle irritation at a mosquito before smoothing it up over her calf, tying a garter in place, and then rolling the stocking and fastening it over the garter just below her knee. Reaching for her other stocking, she surveyed the hole beginning to show in the heel with rueful dismay. There was nothing to be done except to put it on, however.
She was smoothing it upward with her skirts bunched just above her knees when an odd self-consciousness moved over her. She glanced up to see Reynaud leaning against a tree a short distance away, his gray eyes shuttered as he watched her. His gaze followed the slender turn of her ankle, the gentle swell of her calf. She was still for a moment as she felt the rise of hot color. She did not like the sensation. Setting her teeth, she lowered her eyes and, with a great pretense of unconcern, continued with what she was doing. She was fervently glad when she could roll and knot her stocking above her knee and lower her skirts, however, and there was unnecessary violence in the slap she used to kill the next mosquito that landed on her wrist.
Reynaud pushed away from the tree. He moved to one of the packs that had been piled by the group. Loosening it, he rummaged inside, then stood with a small clay pot in his hand. He came toward her, dropping to one knee as he held out the pot.
“What is it?” Elise asked, making no move to take it.
“Bear grease. It will discourage the mosquitoes.”
Elise frowned, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t doubt it, but, no, I thank you.”
“It isn’t as bad as you think.”
“I’ve smelled rancid bear grease before and I don’t think it’s something I want to put up with all day.”
“This is fresh. I’m wearing it now.”
His voice was quiet, without inflection, and yet that very lack of expression was both a reminder that she had once accused him of being malodorous and a challenge to her to say the same again. A chill rippled over her skin, followed by a flush so intense that she felt sick with it. Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes, but she could not make a sound.
“In any case,” he said easily, “it was not a suggestion, but an order. The medicine woman of the Natchez claims that the bite of the mosquito can cause illness and she may be right.”
He dipped one finger into the grease, whitish, semiliquid with the day’s warmth, not unlike olive oil, and reached out to draw it down the soft curve of her cheek. She flinched, snapping her head back, her embarrassment turning quickly to defiant anger.
“You can do it, or I will.”
The words were no less of a threat for being softly spoken. Elise held his gaze for a moment longer, then reached to snatch the small pot from his hand. He inclined his head, then his lithe muscles flexed as he got to his feet. Moving away, he said over his shoulder, “When you are done, give it to Madame Doucet and the others.”
She did not answer, but then he did not expect it. It was an effort not to turn and watch her as she smoothed the bear grease into her skin. He had allowed himself to be distracted by her too often: by the white flash of her calves beneath her tucked-up skirt; by the swing of her hips; by the lift of her breasts as she reached to push a hanging limb aside or stretched aching muscles. He felt torn between the urge to stay at her side helping her over obstacles, as much for the sake of touching her as to aid her, and the necessity to range ahead of the group breaking the trail or to let them pass, lingering behind on the alert for danger. Though she hardly seemed aware that he was there, he knew every moment where she was
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