Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl (20 page)

“The last thing in the world I want to do is harm Claude. He is a dear friend of mine. We grew up together. I’ve found myself in a bit of a pickle, and I need his help is all. I know he’s not far from here. Can you please just help me down and point us in the right direction?” A bird called from somewhere off to the left. The tall man cupped one hand over his mouth and repeated the cry perfectly; then she heard someone running from that direction toward them. Marguerite’s heart almost burst with excitement.

More natives! I mean, Iroquois! If only they don’t kill us, this will be the best day of my life!
Another man, slightly shorter than the first, appeared in the clearing. After staring for a moment, he raised his eyebrows at the first man. Marguerite could only imagine what it must look like to see a woman in a man’s uniform hanging from a tree and a bot with a tiny pistol pointed at them. The two men exchanged a few words in their language. The second man, also carrying a very modern gun, took a battle stance and pointed his own gun at Outil, then motioned for her to lower her own.

The first man swung his gun to his back and walked toward the tree, climbing the trunk like he did it every day of his life. As he reached the branch above Marguerite where her chute was tangled, he spoke. “I will help you down, and I will take you to Monsieur Claude, and he will decide what to do with you.” He pulled a huge knife out of his belt and sliced through the harness with one swift movement. Marguerite fell into Outil’s waiting arms, and the man scaled back down the tree without a sound, her chute in hand. He said something to his companion and then motioned for Outil and Marguerite to follow the smaller man through the woods.

Outil set Marguerite down carefully, and they did as they were told. The man behind them reached over his shoulder and grabbed the gun from his back, then used it to poke Marguerite from behind. She turned on him, surprised and angry at the rough treatment. “Is that really necessary? I am walking as you said.”

“Give me your packs, and that gun.” He poked Marguerite again.

“You really needn’t do that.” She gladly peeled off the heavy pack and handed it to him. Outil did the same with hers.

“That was for what you said about Madame Claude. She is a lovely woman with many gifts. He is lucky to have her.”

Marguerite scowled. Suddenly the man didn’t look as handsome as before, now that he was looking down on her with such disapproval. “I’m sure she is just wonderful,” she replied.

“She is. And she doesn’t get stuck in trees either.” He poked her side with his gun, indicating it was time to move on. Marguerite swatted the barrel away and stomped after Outil and the other stranger. It hurt to stomp, but she did it anyway. Her whole body hurt. She needed a hot bath and a real bed. Also, real food would be very, very nice. Whatever kind of woman Claude had married, Marguerite hoped she was, at least, a good cook.

Eventually, they came to a clearing and a trail of sorts. Two strange contraptions sat off to one side, almost concealed by bushes, but the chrome and brass work sparkled, giving away their position. The first man pulled on a handle and rolled one machine out into the clearing. Now that Marguerite could see it more clearly, she realized it was like a mini autocart, but with only two wheels and a long seat connecting them. The smaller man swung a leg over the seat and straddled it like a horse. He pushed a few levers and slid his goggles into place as a small motor came to life, coughing steam.

“What is that?” Marguerite admired the fine workmanship and brass details.

It’s a steamcycle. Get on,” the first man said as he pointed Outil toward the machine. “Ride quietly and we’ll get there quickly.” Outil looked a bit taken aback. She turned to Marguerite, who nodded. They really didn’t have any choice but to do as the men said and hope that they were telling the truth. The bot climbed on behind the first man, awkward and unsure of the movements. Marguerite had never considered that her bot hadn’t been programmed to ride anything but an autocart or carriage. She’d have to talk to Claude about some sort of equine programming. It would be handy should they ever wish to ride horses, or these amazing machines again. The first man pulled his own matching machine from the bushes and pointed for Marguerite to get on first. “I’m sorry; I have no idea how to operate this thing,” she said.

“You’re not going to drive. I just want to keep my eye on you.” His face was stone cold serious. Marguerite was suddenly grateful for her flight suit as she threw a leg over the contraption and looked for a place to hold on. The Iroquois man did the same, one hand on the steering handles and one wrapped around her waist.

“Oh!” she cried as he pressed close to her back. He was so warm, it felt so good, but it was so improper. “This isn’t exactly …” she started. But he flipped a few switches, and the machine roared to life. He pulled his goggles down, and they took off, moving faster than Marguerite had ever traveled over land in her life.

The trail before them was narrow enough that she could have reached out and struck a tree on either side of them, but they flew by so quickly she didn’t dare for fear of losing an arm altogether. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the strong hand holding her ribs, or the fact that the only thing she had to hold onto was that arm, or the fact that his clothes were handmade leather and so soft she didn’t want to let them go. She also tried not to think about how warm the man was or the fact that he smelled amazing—an earthy smell mixed with strong spices and herbs she couldn’t identify.

Jacques. Must think about Jacques,
she chided herself. The night wore on for quite awhile. Eventually, the trail opened up onto a road, and as best she could tell, they were heading farther away from the city and deeper into the northwestern wilds of New France. If she remembered correctly from his letters, this was the general direction to Claude’s settlement. She had never been there, so she didn’t know for certain. Eventually, she got brave and turned her head to ask, “How far is it?”

Unfortunately, when he leaned down to hear her over the engine noise, his ear and goggle strap brushed Marguerite’s lips. His thick hair, flying in the wind, wrapped around her head and she was engulfed in his amazing smell. Marguerite’s heart fluttered and swelled in her chest. She tried to stop from thoroughly enjoying herself, but she couldn’t help it. Luckily the wind blew cold and fast in her face, keeping her from completely forgetting herself. His reply did not help her at all.

“We will arrive before the moon is set. You should rest your eyes. I will not let you fall.”

Marguerite’s heart fluttered. It had been so long since she and Jacques had been this close. And even then, they were never this close for so long. She reminded herself that she did not know this stranger at all. He could be one of those horrid scalp stealers she’d read about on the open plains or a mercenary with no conscience. What she really wished right now, more than anything, was that he was Jacques. That they were safe together on this amazing machine, flying away to explore some remote area of New France. She squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a prayer for his safety. He had to be alive; he just had to. And she would find him, no matter what it took. She turned back to the man’s ear, her lips ready for the close contact this time; her heart steeled against unfaithful thoughts. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Otetiani,” he answered.

“Pleased to meet you.” Her manners kicked in out of habit.

“We shall see,” his voice rumbled low through the noise of the steamcycle. Marguerite closed her eyes, pretended like it was Jacques holding her, and let exhaustion have its way. The steamcycle came to a sudden stop. Marguerite’s eyes burst open, and she sat up, instantly aware of her proximity to Otetiani. The Iroquois man sat back and released her waist, then climbed off the cycle, balancing it with one hand. They were at a settlement. A modest single story home sat in front of a modest barn, and a rickety fence held a goat and a horse in the side yard. The door to the home opened, and an autolight appeared to illuminate the night. Outil climbed off the back of the other cycle immediately and walked up to the light. A familiar voice called out.

“Outil, what are you doing here?”

Marguerite jumped from the cycle as delicately as she could and ran to the light. “Claude!”

Claude gathered Outil into one arm and Marguerite into the other. “Marguerite! How do you know Otetiani, and what are you doing here in the middle of the night? Is everything alright?” Marguerite was so tired and travel weary; she almost began to sob, but she remembered herself and took a deep breath.

“I only just met Monsieur Otetiani. Thanks to your reputation, he was kind enough to cut me out of a tree and give me a ride here.” She nodded to the tall, dark man.

“These women were trespassing on the north shore. They claimed to be looking for you and seemed to be in a bit of trouble,” Otetiani said. “I see it is true that you know them.”

“Yes, thank you so much for bringing them here. Outil is my first sentient autobot, and Marguerite is my oldest friend. But, what has happened to your face? And your hair?” He held the light up to Marguerite and gazed at her rough red skin and matted hair with wonder. Marguerite touched her cheek in embarrassment and then tried to smooth back her wild tresses.

“It is a very long story. Suffice it to say, Outil and I can’t stay very long, but we need a great favor.”

Claude nodded, his face furrowed with concern. “Let’s get you inside out of the cold and we can talk there.” Marguerite realized he was right. It was freezing. She’d been cold for a week straight now, and the thought of a warm fire in a snug little home was very welcome.

“Make yourself at home. Louisa is sleeping, but I’ll be in shortly. Let me take care of these gentlemen.” She looked at the two natives and tried to match them with the word gentlemen. It was a stretch, but Claude using the word to describe them brought them up a few pegs in her mind. If he called them gentlemen, then there was no way they were scalp stealers or mercenaries. She wondered what her father, or any of the upper classes of France, would say if she walked into a ball with Otetiani on her arm. My, but he was handsome.

Outil put an arm around her mistress and gently coaxed her toward the front door of Claude’s home. “Come, Lady Vadnay, Master Claude is right. You need to get out of the cold.”

She took a few steps with Outil, then stopped and turned around. Claude was shaking arms heartily with Otetiani and his companion. They spoke in low tones, some in French, some in what Marguerite guessed was Iroquois. She walked up to the three men and curtsied low.

“Thank you, Monsieur Otetiani, for your service and kindness. It will not be forgotten.” She smiled as prettily as she could and tried not to think about the state of her face, hair, and clothes. She was a Lady of France, and no matter how many court marshals she faced, she would still behave like one in good company.

“It was my pleasure to serve any friend of Monsieur Claude’s, Lady Vadnay.” His somber face broke into a crooked smile, and Marguerite knew it was time for her to leave before she swooned again. She nodded to his companion who nodded back, then she turned on a dime and marched herself into Claude’s home.

The main room was bigger than she expected. The kitchen, sitting room, and dining room were all one large space. A fire was dying in the hearth of a rock fireplace that sat in the middle of the room. Outil immediately grabbed a few logs from a stack on the floor and stoked it back to life. Marguerite let her eyes wander over the simple, sparse furnishings. She noticed a rocking chair in one corner that looked more comfortable than anything else. Nothing was upholstered. Everything was handmade; she suspected by Claude.

She was correct; the chair was comfortable even though it wasn’t soft. And the fire roared to life quickly. She heard a clicking sound and a whir from somewhere in the chimney. She got up to investigate and found a fan of sorts attached to the stone wall. A small box next to it was rigged with some sort of wiring and a thermometer. “Brilliant, as usual,” Marguerite said.

“What is it?” Outil asked.

“Claude has rigged a thermostat and a fan into this fireplace so that it will blow the warm air back out into the room when it reaches a certain temperature. What will he do next?” The front door opened, and Claude walked in with his lamp. Marguerite heard the steam cycles roar to life outside and then recede into the distance. She couldn’t help it. She made her way back to his side and hugged him again.

“Oh, Claude! It’s so good to see you! I swear you’ve grown taller,” she whispered in excitement. He was still the same height, but his face was tanned a deep brown, and his clothes were shabby and worn. He had the look of a man who spent many, many hours working out of doors. Of course, he’d grown up working outside, putting in long hours, but he still had the carefree smile of youth.

“It is good to see you too, Marguerite. But I swear you are much dirtier!” he teased. He smiled down at her, but as a voice came from the back of the house, his expression turned dark, and he immediately let his arms fall from about Marguerite’s slim frame.