Page 16 of The Winter Husband

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The idea pinched like a belt pulled too tight.

“Also…” Philippe looked at him, with accusation. “I can’t imagine how you’re going to keep your hands off her through five months of winter.”

Lucas tightened his jaw. Why did Philippe assume Lucas was keeping his hands off Marie? Had Marie said something to Etta?

“Lucas, you may be able to fool Talon, but you can’t fool me. I know you don’t want a wife.” He tilted his head toward Marie. “I know she doesn’t want a husband, too. You two aren’t behaving like you spent the night in sweaty abandon either.”

Only in my dreams.

Lucas turned back to his wife, who stood by the riverbank, the wind toying with the folds of her skirts. “Should I bind her to a man she doesn’t want, to a world she hates, and a situation she doesn’t yet understand?”

“Ah, so it is true.” Philippe shook his head. “I admire your sense of honor, Lucas…but Etta will be disappointed.”

“She shouldn’t be. I’m giving Marie what she wants.” No use keeping secrets now. “I made Marie a promise. She gets a berth on a ship back to Paris come spring, and I get land without a wife. We both achieve what we want.”

“Good luck keeping that promise, my friend. So,” Philippe said, changing the subject. “I suppose you want me to keep an eye on Landry and Fortin in your absence?”

Lucas nodded, not trusting his words.

“There’s not much they can do over the winter but scheme,” Philippe added, “but I’ll keep ears in the taverns, and I’ll put extra eyes on them during the spring melt when the river opens up.”

Lucas nodded.

“You’re a good man, Lucas.” Philippe gripped his shoulder. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

Lucas bumped shoulders with Philippe and gave him a hearty pat on the back before heading toward Marie. The tip of her long braid peeked out from the hem of a shawl. He came up beside her and saw how she looked askance at the birch-bark canoe.

She said, “It’s made of sticks and bark.”

“It’s watertight. It’ll get us where we need to go.”

And they needed to go right now.

He gripped her by the waist, ignoring her startled squeal. By the saints, he could just touch his thumbs and fingers as he lifted her straight up from the riverbank. Holding her aloft, he splashed ankle-deep into the water and, with one heave, deposited her in the prow of the canoe. Striding deeper, he climbed over the side, shifting his weight with long practice so as to set himself in the middle and not topple the vessel.

She threw out her arms at the canoe’s sudden jerk. “I can’t swim!”

“Then stay out of the water.” He seized the paddle from where it lay in the belly. “If you fall in, the cold will kill you first, so you’d best sit.”

She eased herself down to a crate as he swung the paddle over the edge. He dug it into the river silt, pushing the keel out of the mud until the twelve-foot vessel wobbled to a float. As the canoe shot away from the riverbank, he maneuvered the bow toward the river. She twisted around, watching the settlement recede, her breath visible in the cold.

She’s hurt in the heart.

With a grunt, he set his sights on the open water.

***

Marie gripped the rim of the tree-bark canoe as she watched the wilderness sweep by. Once past the granite promontory of Quebec, she glimpsed a few rude cabins built in small clearings, surrounded by stumps. She saw a field dusted with snow and occasional plumes of wood smoke rising between trees. But as they continued up the river, indications of life became fewer and farther between. The silence of the place hugged her like the snow-fog clinging to the tips of the pines.

Her hands began to cramp from gripping the canoe’s edge. She let go to test her balance. The canoe wobbled with every wiggle, but not as much as she expected, weighed down as it was by crates and sacks and her giant husband in the middle. She summoned up the courage to twist on the crate upon which she sat, seeking a more comfortable position, as well as a chance to steal a look at the brooding, stone-silent hulk paddling behind her.

The faraway look in his gaze suggested he was mulling over something. She had a suspicion it had to do with the knife strapped to her thigh.

“How far is it to the cabin?” she ventured.

“If the snow holds off, we’ll reach it by dark.”

His mouth shut as if not another word would ever come out of it. Did he just not want to talk, or was he waiting to see if she would explain herself? He was so fixed on rowing she couldn’t read him. The roll of his muscles stretched his deerskin shirt as he worked the oar. The breeze of their wake blew his hair from his suntanned face. Overnight, his strong jaw had darkened with the shadow of a beard, making him look rough and unkempt in a handsome kind of way.