Free The Pelican Bride by Beth White Page B

to trade pelts for guns.” The grin faded as Marc-Antoine shook his head. “The Pélican brought Bienville a letter from Pontchartrain, warning him His Majesty is set on protecting the Quebec fur trade. As you said, La Salle watches him like a hawk, but he insists a few pelts here and there can’t hurt.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about Bienville. He enjoys walking in quicksand.”
    Marc-Antoine leaned forward and lowered his voice. “He does. And if anybody understands his weaknesses, I do—but, Tristan, if anything happens to him, this colony will fall apart. Bienville is the only man capable of holding off the British, the Spanish, and the Indians, and keeping the religious from cutting each other’s throats. Do you know he deliberately brought over this Jesuit Father Mathieu as chaplain, over Pontchartrain’s objections? Father Henri is near apoplectic.”
    Tristan steepled his fingers against his chin in thought. “I talked with Father Mathieu on the trip upriver last week. He’s a good man and seems to have no desire to take Father Henri’s place.”
    “Then why choose him to accompany us into Indian territory on the peace mission?”
    “Perhaps because he is neither fat, lame, nor speech deficient.”
    Marc-Antoine choked on his ale. “Could you be a little more forthright, my brother?”
    Tristan shrugged. “You asked.”
    “I did indeed.” Marc-Antoine pushed away from the table. “I just wish you were going with us. Nobody knows the river like you do, and another interpreter wouldn’t go amiss.”
    “Marc-Antoine, I cannot—”
    “I know, I know.” Marc-Antoine stood up. “You have a garden to harvest and cows to milk. But if you change your mind . . .” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “Kiss the pretty bakery queen for me.” He was gone, chuckling, before Tristan could untangle his tongue.
    Tristan got to his feet just as a deafening clamor crashed from the kitchen, followed by a woman’s shriek. He dropped the tankard and took off running.
    Skidding into the kitchen, he found a young Indian wielding a meat cleaver scowling down at a cast-iron kettle lying on its side in front of the fireplace—the obvious source of the crashing noise. The Indian blew on the palm of his free hand as yellowish-white hominy spread in a thick, steaming puddle on the floor.
    Geneviève, backed against the far wall, stared with patent horror at the string of scalps hanging at the brave’s hip. The cook stood between the woman and the Indian, regarding the mess on the floor with an expression of immense disgust.
    Tristan was relieved to see that, for the moment, no one was being murdered. “What’s the trouble, Roy?”
    “Grits pot fell over. Chief here decided to help himself and got in too big a hurry.”
    “Is he going to scalp us?” Geneviève’s voice was high and breathless.
    The cook shook his massive head. “Not if I give him something to eat.” Using a wooden-handled pot hook, he lifted the kettle and set it back over the fire. He jerked a thumb toward the countertop. “You taking this bread off my hands, Lanier? Sooner it’s gone, the better. Can’t keep wandering cadets and savages out of my kitchen.”
    Tristan glanced at the rows of beautiful brown loaves. “Is that mine?”
    Geneviève nodded.
    As the Indian stalked toward Tristan, he returned the murderous obsidian stare. He didn’t recognize the fellow, but the copper bells and yellow leather bands laced into his hair, as well as the design of his breechclout, were Mobilian.
    He extended a civil greeting in the fellow’s native tongue, then added, “If those are Alabama scalps, Bienville will buy them.”
    “It is as you say,” the brave answered in his own language. He cast a contemptuous glance at Geneviève. “Crazy white woman.” Dropping the cleaver onto a table, he snatched a loaf of bread and slipped out the back door.
    Geneviève’s light freckles stood out against her pale cheeks as she sagged against the