Free Distant Fires by D.A. Woodward Page A

down the top of her décolletage, laughing.  
    How enchanting it is, to see in her this change , thought Helene, with more than mild curiosity. It was not merely that the strength of the sun had, in her past week of travel, left an attractive glow on her otherwise pale skin, but something in her easy smile and unselfconscious manner—much hidden in former times—so startled her hostess, causing no end to speculation in her mind. Was she expecting a child?  Could it be the warmth and well-being of the season?  Perhaps a change in scenery from life in the capitol?    
    Then...there was the possibility...no. An improbable notion.  Louise did not seem to be the type of woman to involve herself in...an intrigue?  But then, the difference in her was striking...  
    That she was an undeniably attractive woman had never been at question.  But, it was an allure of the remote, the unobtainable, rather than this playful, almost lusty, air of appeal. Whenever they had been thrust together, at public events and private functions, their conversation invariably centred on the periphery of life; charities, fashion, safe topics, which found Louise skillfully avoiding any allusion to the personal.    
    Still, Helene liked her, and felt that, had Louise been less reserved and in closer proximity, a true and abiding friendship might have formed. But, since her arrival the day before, that rigidly private persona seemed to have loosened in both speech and comport, and Helene was very anxious to learn the origin of this change.  
    I shall give her time , she thought with amused interest, gesturing to her gardener for assistance with the flower cuttings. I have an understanding ear, and a generous heart.  I trust that, ere long, she will have need of both .  
     
                                               ………..  
     
    Testing the water temperature with her palm, Louise lowered herself, with the help of her maid, into the milky bath; her flimsy bathing undergarments clinging to the round swell of her breasts, which buoyed like bobbing apples to the surface.  
    Almost at once, the perspiration began to bead and trickle, in slow tendrils, along the sides of her face and throat, as she closed her eyes and languorously surrendered to the enveloping essence of the moment. It seemed a very long time since she had arrived in Montreal and actually been alone, to collect her thoughts and wonder at having reached a personal rapprochement.  
    Little more than a week ago, she was far from calmly reconciled with her sullen conscience. Looking back to the days that followed that sinful night of awakened passion, she had adroitly managed to avoid contact with Armand, while he, too, either by intent or circumstance, kept to his own society. But by the morning of embarkation, it was with renewed consternation she beheld his majestic good looks, and felt the heat of his furtive glance fuel the raging conflict within.  
    Their Galiote, a craft which was to be exchanged for Batteaux during the brief stopover in Montreal, was a medium-sized vehicle propelled by sails as well as oars, with a crew of fourteen, and had been simply outfitted by a former Governor with two cabins and a silk awning, under which they ate their meals.  
    Knowing that it was to be a cramped, five day journey—made worse by the addition of several members of their personal entourage—it was decided that nights would be spent in the comfortable lodgings of the Seigneurs, or landowners, who lived enroute.  
    With Louise and her maid confined by choice to her cabin, activity was limited to playing cards, needlepoint and reading, and although mealtimes inevitably brought her into contact with Armand, she steeled herself, with supreme effort, to remain unaffectedly genial.                                                      
    The first few nights passed uneventfully, in the manor