Free The Pelican Bride by Beth White Page A

office on the island, the commissioner had pored over the parchments, clicking his tongue as he ran an ink-stained finger over each detail.
    “The Indians are lying to Bienville. The settlement would better be located on the lower bluff.” He adjusted his wig in that nervous way of his. “I suppose they would have their own reasons for wanting the fort higher up the river.”
    “I’m afraid you’re right,” Tristan sighed. “But I can’t prove it.”
    “We’ll just have to make a good case. He can’t be that bullheaded.”
    But, as Tristan knew all too well, Bienville could and would insist on his own way. The fort had been built to Bienville’s specifications at the upper location, while La Salle dug in like a particularly vicious flea under the commander’s collar.
    It had been a mistake, Tristan now realized, to press La Salle’s support. So here he was, cramming supplies onto a too-small boat in preparation for another long season of isolation, while his only brother remained in service to the executor of his exile.
    Consoling himself that he no longer had to listen to their sniping and conspiracies, Tristan jumped onto the warped pier that spanned the marsh below the bluff. Wearily he climbed the wooden steps that staggered up from the pier to the landing at the top of the bluff.
    There he paused long enough to button his shirt and scrape the mud from his boots. Exile or no, he could pass for civilized whenhe tried. He almost removed the leather thong that tied his hair back at his nape, but opting for coolness over fashion, he set off at a brisk pace for the fort’s main gate, set a scant quarter mile back from the landing.
    It was odd to approach the stockade without bracing himself for disaster. The hole in his heart where Sholani had lived seemed to be shrinking to bearable size. Never would he forget her, nor could he forgive those who had taken her. But the hard-won return of sanity had brought with it a watchfulness that would surely protect him from the soft, insidious disease of affection.
    At the gate, Tristan saluted a young cadet named Lafleur, who responded with an insolent stare as the gate swung open. Everyone here knew him as Marc-Antoine Lanier’s brother and the commander’s nemesis. He wasn’t sure which gave him the most notoriety.
    Whistling, he strode toward the dining hall adjacent to the warehouse, where he found his brother wolfing down a plate full of fried eggs mopped up with a chunk of bread. Marc-Antoine hailed him with a tankard of ale and gestured toward the bench opposite him. “Thought you would be miles downstream by this time, my brother.”
    “Soon.” Tristan straddled the bench and accepted a tankard from a passing adjutant. He grinned as Marc-Antoine stuffed the remainder of the bread into his mouth and blissfully chewed. “I see Mademoiselle Gaillain has been sowing her talents abroad. I hope she hasn’t sold off what she promised to me.”
    Marc-Antoine’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “If I’d known she was for sale, I might have put in an earlier bid. Are you taking home a bride after all?”
    “Just her bread. And keep your voice down.” He looked around and found the handful of men there addressing their food with apparent absorption. “Where is she?” He lifted the tankard to his mouth.
    “Who?” Marc-Antoine’s expression was innocent.
    Tristan cuffed him. “Don’t be stupid.”
    Marc-Antoine laughed. “She’s in the kitchen harassing Roy. He can’t quite admit that a woman makes better bread than he does.”
    “It wouldn’t take much.” Tristan eyed the doorway into the kitchen. If he sought her out, she might assume too much. But he could hardly sit here all day, hoping for a glimpse of the woman. He should have arranged for someone to deliver the bread to his boat. He glanced at his brother, who was openly grinning. “What are your duties today?” he asked, summoning his dignity.
    “Translating for some Chickasaw envoys who want