BLUE BAYOU ~ Book I (historical): Fleur de Lis by Parris Afton Bonds

Author:Parris Afton Bonds [Bonds, Parris Afton]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Paradise Publishing
Published: 2014-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

§ CHAPTER THIRTEEN §

Large snowflakes floated like puffs of dandelions against the gray winter sky. Shivering, Natalie pulled the shutters closed. “So much for John Law’s tropical paradise,” she muttered.

Nicolas looked up from the shaft of wood he was whittling, the fragrant wood shavings scenting the cabin. His close scrutiny made her nervous. Lately, he watched her as if he expected her to sprout wings suddenly. “St. Denis claimed the winters are usually temperate,” he said mildly.

“That’s because he wants us to become a permanent part of his settlement,” Françoise said. He scowled as he shifted his lower torso on the stool so that he faced the fire. “He’d tell us anything if we’d work with him.” He slapped his thigh just above where the empty pants leg was knotted and said, “Though just what kind of work I could be expected to do is beyond me.”

Nicolas rose and went to hunker before Françoise. He held the wooden shaft next to François’s other leg, measuring. “With a peg, you’ll do just about all you did before, mon ami."

“Ah, yes,” he responded with a cynical smile after Nicolas returned to the bench and his whittling. “Maybe even more. With a peg leg, why I could apply for court jester. Just think of the amusing—”

“Stop it!” Natalie spat. She took the bowl of salve and pine resin she had spent the morning preparing and knelt before Françoise. She looked up at him, her eyes snapping. “I find you a handsome, intelligent, and charming man—when you’re not feeling sorry for yourself. Now let me look at your leg.”

“Leg?” he asked. Beneath the moustache, his mouth twisted in a grotesque smile. “What leg? You mean stump, don’t you, Angelique?”

She still wasn’t accustomed to the name of Angelique, and when she didn’t respond immediately, he said, “Say it. Stump. What an ugly sound the word makes!”

She ignored him and set the bowl on the bench so that she could unknot the empty pants leg.

Embarrassment at what she was about to do mottled his face. “I can take care of myself!” he told her, and slapped her hand away. Her fingers caught the rim of the bowl, and it spun and flipped onto the floor, where the salve oozed onto the rough planks.

She shot to her feet. “Then you clean up the mess yourself.”

She grabbed her cloak, stalked past Nicolas, who silently observed the scene, and flung the door open to storm outside. The air was sharp and crystal-fine. Somewhere in the distance, cane cracked with the cold, sounding like gunshots.

Earlier that winter, Nicolas must have taken pity on the loneliness of her isolation, for he had allowed her to accompany him while he checked his traps. Patiently, he had showed her how to move through the tall cane, as thick as a man’s wrist, backward, so the face was protected from the sharp, wet blades.

Creeping quietly through the bramble bushes, she had dogged his footsteps as he followed his traplines. The first three had been empty, but the next contained a raccoon.

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