Heaven in His Arms Read Online Free PDF

bedtime stories. Savages ruled these woods, they told her, men of bronze skin and painted faces, men of unimagined cruelty. And the winters grew so cold, they said, that the trees exploded from it. She'd already known a place like that, in the heart of the civilized world. A curl twisted her lips, cracking the skin. No place, no matter how raw, could be worse than the streets of Paris.
    It was over now, Genevieve thought, letting the past fade like the brightness of the sky. She had won. Now nothing—nothing and no one—could ever thwart her dreams again.
    Then she crumpled into a heap on the deck.

Chapter 2
    Andre stepped out of the inn and collided with a Cartful of eels. Limp black fish lolled over the edge and licked his wide skirts, streaking them with slime. Waving the profuse apologies of the fisherman away, he absently scoured the stain with one gloved hand and stomped sullenly through the mud.
    Good, he thought as he noticed the black streak marring his clothing. He was wearing his best French outfit, an ensemble he had bought in Paris for the sole purpose of appearing in front of the officials responsible for holding back his inheritance. But the damned green coat fitted too tightly, the silver buttons were nothing but nuisances, and the seams dug into his skin and itched. The matching breeches strangled his legs at the knees, where they were gathered and gartered with a frivolous spray of emerald ribbons—the least feminine of his options at the time. He wanted nothing more than to toss his tight shoes, his wretched coat, and his damned breeches in the St. Lawrence River. Now, he thought, as he slid a slime-coated, gloved finger between his neck and the linen edge of his cravat, he would have an excuse to do it after today's deed was done.
    He splattered out into the middle of the street, his red-heeled boots sucking deep into the mud, and headed toward Madame Jean Bourdon's house. A tepid breeze wove through the buildings clustered in the lower town of Quebec, carrying the tart scent of a recent rain. The sun glittered off the towering granite mass of the Cap aux Diamants , the cliff that thrust abruptly from the earth to form a backdrop to the town at its foot. Several warehouses nestled close to its base, and in and out of these flowed a line of settlers with the local currency—beaver skins— strapped across their backs. High above, in the upper town, the churchbells gonged for the first Mass of the day.
    Andre clutched the bulge straining out between the second and third buttons of his coat, pulling on it so the ties dug into his neck. Damn Indian magic. Where's the rain? The thunder? The lightning? A good Ojibwa shaman could read signs of a man's future in the wind and the weather, but Andre didn't need Indian wisdom to know what a blue sky and bright sun portended. A fool he was to believe in such things. The sun had no reason to shine on this black day.
    He knew which house belonged to Madame Bourdon the moment he turned the corner onto her street. A crowd of men swarmed around the door like bees scenting nectar. Several officers milled on the outskirts. One Frenchman, dressed in a brilliant silk doublet and breeches festooned with ribbons and lace, stood apart from the swarm.
    "Andre!"
    Andre lifted his plumed, wide-brimmed hat to shade his eyes from the glare of the morning. The sunlight glinted off Philippe's fair corkscrew curls. Christ, look at this, will you?" Andre said as Philippe stopped at his side. "Rutting season in Quebec."
    "Last batch of the king's girls for the season." Philippe tucked his hat under his arm and snapped a familiar slip of paper out of his pocket. "Though I'm pleased you finally came to your senses, Andre, you could have decided earlier in the season to send me this message and saved my heart the strain. I was sure I'd see you swinging by the neck before year's end."
    Andre slid his gloved fingers under his cravat and yanked. "Can't you see the noose?"
    Andre glowered at