White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2 Read online

  Did she rise above these men because she had bullied them into submission with the same womanly harping and angry tongue that she had shown to him? Or was she merely stronger-willed than they?

  Whatever the reason, White Eagle despaired of the intervening years since he had last seen her.

  If he reminded her of it, would she remember?

  It was doubtful. She had been before the age when a child comes into its senses, and he had been no more than a young boy. He’d kept a lonely girl company during those times when her father and uncle had journeyed to his tribe on trading excursions.

  If he told her what he knew of her, of her family, would any good come from it?

  He did not think so. This person he had observed today had been as someone alien to him, certainly not the girl he had remembered…had once known.

  In truth, he had caught her looking upon him with not only a womanly sort of attention, but with contempt, the same sort of foreign attitude that White Eagle had witnessed upon the countenance of other white men.

  He didn’t like it.

  No, it was better that he keep what he knew of her to himself. It was apparent she did not recall her life before the white man’s world, and he was certain she would not care to hear what he had to say to her.

  So be it.

  He entered the fort, taking his place amongst his friends. Good Dancer’s wife had already started setting up their camping lodges in the area surrounding the fort’s flagpole. One for himself and Night Thunder, the other for herself and her husband, Good Dancer. That Good Dancer’s new wife had demanded to accompany them on their journey did not bother White Eagle, nor did it seem strange to him.

  The young couple had just been married, after an unusually long courtship. Of course they would want to be together now. Such was to be understood. Such were the ways of married people.

  Besides, he’d wanted a woman along to keep Shines Like Moonlight company and to provide her with a chaperone.

  White Eagle grimaced as he adjusted his breechcloth, certain Shines Like Moonlight would need that chaperone.

  He glanced around him, at his place within the fort. He had noticed, when he had first come here, that several half-breed hunters resided within the tepees around the flagpole. This seemed only right to White Eagle; that these half-white, half-Indian men chose to live not in the square, wooden houses of the white man, but rather in the more comfortable lodges of his own people.

  At least this is how it appeared to White Eagle.

  He could not know, nor would he understand that to some within the fort, the mixed-bloods were not on an equal footing with the more European breed of men, that such would not be allowed the right to live in the square, wooden houses.

  And so, not knowing, White Eagle settled down, content for the moment, beginning to initiate the necessary chores needed for the return journey to Fort McKenzie, passing the time fashioning arrowheads, making a new shield and manufacturing a new spear.

  He was certain that Shines Like Moonlight would delay a meeting with him for as long as she was able.

  This didn’t bother him. Why should it? Time was not an enemy to him, and White Eagle was full-blooded Indian; he was a patient man.

  He smiled. Perhaps here was something else he could admire about this woman: She had a stubborn strength of character. And this was good.

  She would not be one to come a cropper in an emergency. Such people were few. Such people were valuable.

  He shrugged. Whatever the case, his next few days within this fort promised to be far from dull.

  Chapter Five

  “Miss Wellington, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I—”

  “You are not. I can see that for myself.”

  “Now, Rebecca, I—”

  “There has been something wrong these past few days. I’ve noticed something odd about you since we first arrived here.”

  “Please, Rebecca, I—”

  “I don’t carry tales, miss. I know that some servants do, but I can assure you that I have never been one to repeat a story told to me and I—”

  “It’s not that, Rebecca, it’s only…” Katrina’s voice trailed away. What could she say? That a lifetime of dealing with servants, with their censure of her, their habit of gossiping at the least occurrence, made her reluctant to speak?

  She glanced up at Rebecca now, through the looking glass on her vanity. It was late morning and, having just awakened, Rebecca was seeing to the task of Katrina’s morning toilet.

  “It has to do with that Indian, doesn’t it, miss?”

  “What?”

  “I saw the way he looked at you that first day when the steamship came to the fort. And I—”

  “An Indian, Rebecca? Really, I—”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Katrina sighed. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose that you do. Still, it’s neither the Indian, nor the way he looked at me that is bothering me, Rebecca.”

  “Is it not?”

  “No, it’s…it’s my uncle.”

  “Your uncle, miss?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he died?”

  “No.”

  “Taken ill?”

  “No.”

  “Been taken captive?”

  “No.” Katrina grimaced. “No, none of those, although sometimes I…”

  “I truly would do no more than listen, mistress.”

  “I…” Katrina sighed. “No, my uncle has simply failed to meet me here. He was supposed to welcome me, that is, but instead of doing so, he has sent Indian guides in his place.”

  “That was kind of him.”

  “Kind?” Katrina’s glance flew upward to meet with her maid’s in the looking glass. “My uncle is hardly kind. Not when the man is demanding that my fiancé travel into the wilderness to meet him in an even wilder and more foreign place than this.”

  “Excuse me, mistress, I didn’t know.”

  “Indians,” Katrina wailed. “He sent Indians here to escort an English marquess…a marquess. My uncle could not have insulted me more had he sent the very devil.”

  Rebecca hesitated in the task of pushing a brush through her mistress’s hair. She said, “But Miss Wellington, perhaps these Indians were the only people your uncle could trust with the task.

  I have heard that no white man can get through Blackfoot territory. Besides, there is probably no one who knows this land better than the Indians. Maybe your uncle feels your fiancé will be safer with them.”

  Katrina didn’t respond. After all, what could she say? That she felt her uncle was doing this only to spite her? That she suspected her uncle had formulated some fantastic scheme to thwart her?

  Somehow she knew Rebecca wouldn’t believe her, anyway. She would find something good to say about the man. It was a facet of Rebecca’s personality that Katrina had begun to bear silently: the girl’s insufferable good nature.

  Katrina sighed. “Perhaps you are right, and my uncle does have good reason to have done what he has,” she said. “But it little matters to me why my uncle has chosen to act this way.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No.”

  “But, Miss Wellington, it seems to me that you do care.”

  Katrina glanced away, annoyed. “Well, I don’t. Now, Rebecca, I was thinking that maybe I should wear that yellow dress today that—”

  “This has something to do with that Indian.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Then—”

  “No, Rebecca, I am upset about the Indians being guides only because I will have to make the journey too.”

  Rebecca’s hand stopped mid-brushstroke, hairbrush clenched firmly in hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I plan to travel to see my uncle.”

  “With the Indians?”

  “I don’t know. I might accompany Prince Maximilian, if he will allow it, since he is making the same trip.”

  “But mistress, why? Why must you g
o?”

  “I have to.”

  “Surely not. You—”

  “Now, see here, Rebecca, this is none of your affair and—”

  “You are right.” Rebecca glanced down. “I forget myself sometimes; I neglect my proper station. Please, Miss Wellington, forgive me. It will not happen again.”

  Katrina hesitated, glancing at her servant in the mirror. “Rebecca, it’s not that, and don’t feel so bad; it’s only that…I don’t think my fiancé will travel further into the wilderness without me. And it is vitally important to me that I bring him to meet my uncle. Much of my life is dependent upon this meeting. And so you see, there is nothing for it. I must go. Do you understand?”

  Rebecca cocked her head. “I’m not certain, miss. Much of your life depends upon this?”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. “If that is so, then I can see why you would worry, miss. And I agree with you about your fiancé. I cannot imagine the marquess traveling anywhere without you…or”—she made a face—“without his hounds.”

  Katrina sighed.

  “But, mistress, to travel through the wilderness yourself would be most unheard of. I know of no instance of a white woman venturing into the interior of this country.”

  Katrina sighed. “Yes, I know. I may be the first.”

  “But Miss Wellington—”

  “This is, unfortunately, something I must do, whether I am the first or no. I fear that my fiancé, though he undoubtedly can hold a conversation in Russian and French as well as in English, has little of the adventurer’s stamina to recommend him for this sort of journey.”

  Rebecca merely nodded and glanced downward.

  “But I am not marrying the marquess for his adventurous spirit, am I?”

  Rebecca remained silent; at length, however, with her gaze still respectfully downcast, Rebecca inquired, “Beg pardon, miss, but why are you marrying the marquess?”

  Katrina paused, her stare at the young maid more than a little startled.

  “Forgive me, mistress.” Rebecca went on to say, “Do you see why it is that I have been hard-pressed to keep a servant’s position? ’Tis a fault of mine, I fear, to speak out whatever is on my mind.”

  “I see, but in truth, Rebecca, I find many of your thoughts refreshing, and I am happy that you feel free to voice them.” Katrina closed her eyes for a moment. “And I don’t mind answering your questions, not really. I have very exact reasons for marrying the marquess, but, I must say, one of them as we have established is not for his adventurous nature.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Silence, until Rebecca blurted out, “Then you are marrying the marquess because you have fallen in love with him?”

  “Good heavens; no.” Katrina replied, opening her eyes. “Rebecca, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “It is the only reason I can envision.”

  “Rebecca, don’t tell me you believe in love?”

  “Well, yes, miss, I do.”

  Katrina shook her head in dismay. “Rebecca, how can this be? Do you not know that there is truly no such emotion? It exists only in cheap literature and silly poetry.”

  Rebecca made a face. “Do you mean, then, that you would marry the marquess only for his title and his aristocratic upbringing?”

  Katrina stopped, her glance seeking out her maid’s in the mirror. “Why does the arrangement sound so distasteful when said like that?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “And the marquess? He sees your union in the same way…?”

  “The marquess marries me in order to obtain my dowry. Do you understand now?”

  “Yes…and no.” Rebecca paused. “Mistress, may I speak freely?”

  “Of course.”

  Rebecca hesitated, until at last, she said, “I am afraid you make a mistake.”

  “Rebecca!”

  “There goes my tongue again. Pardon me, mistress.”

  “Certainly, but why do you think I make a mistake?”

  “It is because,” Rebecca went on quickly, “I don’t see how two people, without love, can make a happy life together. May I ask what you will do if you finally find yourself in love, be there such an emotion, or not? And there you will be, married?”

  Katrina made a face in the mirror. “I will not find that sort of devotion. Not in my lifetime. I am certain of it.”

  Rebecca sighed. “Very well, miss, but I, too, have some experience with this, and I know that there is such a thing as love. I think I should tell you that when you find it, you will see that it is just as beautiful as anything a poet would have you believe.”

  Katrina smiled. “And how do you know such things, Rebecca? You can’t be much older than I, and I am only nineteen years of age.”

  “I am twenty, Miss Wellington.”

  “And yet you profess to have knowledge of such things?”

  “Yes, miss. I understand it because I have loved another…and I have been loved.”

  “Have you, now? And what happened to this love of yours?”

  “I… We were to be married. It was only one more sea voyage he was to make. He was earning the money to start our life together, by going out to sea.”

  “And he found another? Is that it?”

  “No, miss. He…he perished off the coast of North Carolina…in a storm.”

  Katrina drew in her breath. Much as she had meant to mock the girl for her foolish belief, it had not been a part of Katrina’s intent to hurt her. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How callous of me to have caused you to recall this.”

  “Do not worry, mistress. It is a fact of life that I have learned to accept.” Rebecca threw back a lock of her own dark hair. “Now, I think I should inform you that if you travel into the wilderness, I have decided that I will accompany you.”

  Katrina smiled and shook her head. “No, Rebecca. I would not think of asking you to come with me. Why, you would be putting your life in danger.”

  “As you are.”

  “Yes, but, Rebecca, I must. It will be quite impossible for me to make the voyage back home without seeing my uncle first. Believe me.”

  Rebecca was silent for several moments. At last, though, she repeated, “Then I will accompany you to your uncle.”

  “No. As I said, you will stay here. The journey is too dangerous.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Rebecca’s determination disarmed Katrina.

  “Rebecca, surely you can see that—”

  “I am your servant. How can I be of service to you if I stay here while you journey to this other fort? No, I will accompany you.”

  A rush of conflicting emotions converged upon Katrina without warning. She was on the verge of tears, and, for a moment, Katrina could think of little to say. She silently admonished herself for her weakness, willing any wetness in her eyes to go away.

  What was wrong with her? Rebecca was just ensuring her position. Nothing more. Certainly, it wasn’t out of kindness that Rebecca offered her services, despite that note in the maid’s voice that had intimated as much.

  Besides, Katrina knew better. Hadn’t she had a lifetime of handling servants? Didn’t she know that there could be no true feelings of affinity between mistress and servant?

  Forcing herself to remember this, Katrina said, “You may come with me if you wish, Rebecca. Far be it from me to endanger your position.”

  Rebecca paused, and looked at her mistress through the reflection in the mirror. “It is not for my own security that I offer to accompany you, mistress,” she said.

  Katrina didn’t utter another word, so dismayed was she.

  “You have been kind to me, Miss Wellington.

  That is all, and I wish to repay your kindness.”

  “Me? Kind? Why, I’ll have you know I am not in the least a ‘kind’ person. I have it from good sources, I must tell you, the best of authorities, indeed, that I am something of a brat.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Katrina gave the young girl a
“look” meant to annoy.

  “Besides,” Rebecca continued, oblivious, “throughout our journey aboard the steamship, I have come to think of you as a friend, as well as my mistress. And, you are sorry when you offend me.”

  “It’s only to keep you in my employ, Rebecca; not out of kindness, I can assure you.” Katrina did not even look at the girl. “It was not easy to find a maid willing to make the journey to this land.”

  “That may be, mistress, and yet, you have been kind when there was no need to be.”

  Katrina suddenly arose from her chair. In truth, she moved quicker than a lady of her social status and character should ever have done. And she had barely turned away before a single tear fell over the rise of her cheek.

  How silly. She was mortified at her reaction. What if Rebecca were to witness her distress?

  And so Katrina hurried toward the windowpane in her room, her gaze skipping out toward the fence that surrounded the house. There were tepees out there around the flagpole, tepees and…him.

  Would she see him there now?

  She had watched for him these past few days; had studied him from within the safety of her room, observing him as he worked, as he talked, as he laughed. In actuality, she had stared at him so intensely that she wondered if he didn’t know of it.

  Of course, her interest in the Indian was based upon the fact that she had yet to hear the message from her uncle.

  It had nothing to do with the foreign and strange figure the Indian presented, there, in his animal-skinned clothes, his paint and feathers. And certainly it was not because of any attraction she might feel toward the heathen. After all, he was Indian…and they were…not quite human. That was right, wasn’t it?

  And yet, at times, when she gazed at him, she could swear she glimpsed an unusual intelligence about him…a wisdom all out of place for one so young…and something else…

  She closed her eyes. Perhaps she was being fanciful, attributing qualities to him that just weren’t there. Although he possessed one strong point that she could not deny: The man was extraordinarily good-looking. And this she didn’t expect. She had always thought Indians were old and ugly…beggars…dirty…

  There was not a single whisker to be noticed upon his face, nor upon his chest. And what a broad chest it was…