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  Instantly, Marisa’s joy had fled, replaced instead by an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Under Rathburn’s censuring glance, she had shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “Stop that!” Rathburn had ordered, but Marisa couldn’t stop. In truth, beneath his anger, her fidgeting became more pronounced.

  “Sit!” Rathburn had said with disgust, gesturing toward a chair that looked to be three times bigger than she was. Marisa had dutifully obeyed the command and had sat back in the seat, her feet out straight in front of her.

  “Yer parents are dead.”

  Marisa gulped and straightened her shoulders at this seeming attack. Did her uncle think she was unaware of that fact?

  “Therefore ye come under my rule. Do ye understand?”

  Marisa nodded.

  “Good. The age of seven deems ye old enough to know of yer duty in this household. And it is yer obligation to me that bids ye to me this day.”

  Marisa had only stared at Rathburn with a wide-eyed look.

  “Now, yer first and foremost responsibility is to bring no disgrace to our family name. There’ll be no childish display of emotion in this house. No tantrums, no temper, no anger, and certainly no childish giggles are to echo within these walls. Do ye comprehend this?”

  Marisa nodded yet again. Had she committed some wrong of which she was as yet unaware? In her mind’s eye—perhaps in self-defense—the room and her uncle took on a dreamlike quality.

  “Additionally,” her uncle continued, “ye are to present yerself as calm and poised as long as ye are a part of this household. And though it might seem a trifle early to speak of it, let me detail yer duty in the marriage bed.”

  Marisa gazed down at her lap, embarrassed, but she otherwise remained quiet.

  “Ye have been seen playing with the servant boys, and ’twill never do. Understand now that yer keep is not inexpensive to me. Ye shall repay me when ye are of age, by bringing honor and fortune to the family when ye marry. Bloodline and fortune will have out, and part of the Rathburn familial obligation includes that only the right classes shall be united. So do not be giving yer attention to the servants, lest ye fall in love with a lad unworthy of the Rathburn name. As God is my witness, as repayment for me taking ye in, ye will do yer duty to me when the time comes for yer marriage. Do ye understand?”

  Again, Marisa nodded.

  “Now speak up, lass. I would have yer word on this.”

  Marisa opened her mouth to utter what she realized must be her complete agreement, but though she tried to find her tongue to say the words, her mouth simply refused to do her mind’s bidding.

  Watching her, John Rathburn grunted in revulsion. Marisa was at once shamed. But still she couldn’t speak.

  Arising from behind his desk, Rathburn said, “Ah, ye be too young. If not in age, then in disposition. ’Tis a waste of time, ye are.” Without warning he struck her across the cheek. “Ye will marry as I say, and don’t ye forget it!”

  Marisa reeled back in her chair, cowering.

  He struck her again.

  “Now go,” raged Rathburn. “Leave me at once!”

  Marisa, not needing to be told twice, jumped to the floor, and ignoring Rathburn’s parting words concerning marriage, she ran out the door.

  Oddly, Marisa had always thought her hazy recollection of that night had been a nightmare that she couldn’t quite remember. But it wasn’t. It had been real. Too real for the heart of a seven-year-old.

  Though her steps in time to the music had not faltered, Marisa was shaken. She had truly forgotten the incident. In essence, at the time, so embarrassed had she been over her professed inadequacy and the physical attack that she had not even had the courage to relay the details of the incident to Sarah. Marisa had instead cried until there had been no more tears left to be shed. Even then she had hiccupped through most of the night.

  By the next morning, however, the entire occurrence had washed away, to trouble her no more. Or so it had appeared. However, it looked as if the incident had in fact receded into the dark recesses of her memory, where it had remained buried and unheeded.

  But why was she recalling it now?

  As Marisa looked up, her gaze fastened onto the silhouette of a man who stood amongst the guests, there toward the back wall of the ballroom. Yet he might have been directly in front of her for all that her attention clung to him.

  It was he, the Mohawk Indian. The one who had so impressed her with his oratory and admiration. Her stomach somersaulted.

  Step forward, step back, turn, swing up and exchange places, step up, step back, promenade. It was as though her feet knew the dance, for her mind was far away from the minuet’s requirements.

  Her handsome young partner coughed, bringing her attention back to him. The cough was soon followed by another in kind, then a bout of hacking. Putting a hand to his throat, he coughed again and said, “So sorry. Would you please excuse me?”

  “By all means.” She nodded. He retreated, and she was ready to step out of line as well, when his place was suddenly filled by another man. She gazed forward. Her eyes rounded.

  “You!” It was the Mohawk.

  “Nyoh, yes, ’tis I. Forgive me,” he replied in his baritone voice, “but I can hardly be expected to remain long as a spectator when the most beautiful creature in the hall has need of a partner. Would that I fill that role.”

  “Sir!” She might have protested, but being swept up in the rhythm of the dance, whatever she might have said perished on her lips. Clasp hands, swing forward, step back, then advance, exchange places. She couldn’t fail to note that, though he was Mohawk, his knowledge of the dance was without fault.

  “Once again,” she said as they promenaded, “you dazzle me with your knowledge of our English manners and culture. Pray, tell me, did you also learn dancing from the monks?”

  He smiled at her. “English traders. And perhaps the influence of William Johnson who insisted that one day I would need the skill.”

  “Yes, William Johnson. I have heard of him. He has been quite influential amongst the Iroquois, I believe.”

  “He has,” said the Mohawk.

  Though he was obviously dressed in his best, the Indian was an odd man out here in this hall, where the powdered wigs, the justaucorps and waistcoats of the Englishmen were the rule. By comparison, the Mohawk was wearing black from head to foot, except for a streak of white that appeared at his neck, and a red blanket, which was heavily adorned with shell beads of white and thrown over his shoulder Roman style. His apparel seemed to consist of a tunic, belted at the waist, that looked to be a combination shirt and kilt. Skintight black leggings and high-topped moccasins completed the outfit.

  “Have you met him?” asked the Mohawk.

  “Who? William Johnson? Yes, he was a guest here at Rathburn Hall once.”

  With their hands still clasped, the Indian stepped toward her, and she followed suit. They both stepped back, forward again, then they turned round, clasping hands once more.

  The music softened, ending in a long, drawn-out chord that allowed the dancers to bow and curtsy to one another. A round of applause followed. While the others were engaged in the act of clapping, Marisa faced the Mohawk instead. “Have you a name?”

  “Black Eagle,” he supplied.

  She nodded. “I thank you, Sir Eagle, for coming to my rescue on the dance floor.” She smiled at him before saying, “And now I must leave you.” She spun around to step away from him, only to find that he had laid a hand at her elbow, there where her sleeve ended in lace. Her nerves there tingled.

  “A moment of your time, please. There is something I would say to you, something I would ask, if you would permit me.”

  Whether she had it in her mind to agree or protest was a moot point. He had placed his other hand upon the small of her back and was leading her towar
d a set of French doors that opened onto a veranda, overlooking a park-like reserve of the Rathburn estate.

  “Sir,” she managed to utter at last. “I must protest. I am without a chaperone.”

  “It is not my intention to take you away from your party or those who would protect you. In truth, I have come here tonight in search of the man known as Thompson.”

  “He is not here.”

  He nodded. “Then might it not be possible to find a quiet spot along the side of the room where we might engage in a moment’s talk? There is a matter of concern that I must relate to you.”

  Marisa shook her head. “I’m afraid that I…” She paused and glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom, looking to her right, to her left. Although her step-uncle was not to be seen at present, her gaze found and centered on his henchman, James. The butler’s frown at her spoke adequately for him, and Marisa knew she was being warned to act in a manner befitting her position. Moreover, if she didn’t perform as expected, James would, indeed, carry tales.

  Something within her rebelled. As a little girl, Marisa might have once submitted to the butler’s unspoken threat. But she was a woman, full grown. Perhaps it was the memory tonight that caused her to resist, maybe not. Whatever it was, she would not be so easily intimidated.

  Tilting her chin upward, she stared at James, though she spoke to the Indian when she said, “There is a path through the garden, Sir Eagle, that is quiet and will serve us better than trying to raise our voices above the noise of the ballroom. Shall I show that path to you?”

  He nodded. “If it be your pleasure, I would be most honored.”

  Still holding on to James’s stare, Marisa placed her gloved hand atop the Indian’s. “This way, please.”

  Chapter Five

  The moon was full, with no cloud cover to eclipse its splendor, which by comparison caused the stars overhead to dim their brilliance. The moonlight was ethereal, a mere airy reflection of light that cast a shimmering, silvery glow over everything it touched—the trees, the grasses, the landscape…him. Odd how handsome he appeared beneath the misty beams of glistening light.

  She studied him for a moment. The night and the celestial atmosphere were said to be a woman’s territory. However, an exception should be made for this man.

  His features were strong, yet pleasing, his cheekbones high, his lips full and sensual. As she glanced at him now, an odd feeling washed over her. He was handsome, yes, but there was also an indefinable quality about him that made her feel as though she were safe, protected.

  Unlike most Mohawk men, his head was not bald. Instead, he wore his hair cropped close. True, the ever-present strip of longer hair sat atop his head in true Mohawk fashion, but it was tempered by the outline of his natural hairline. And in back, a section of his hair was kept long, flowing over his shoulders.

  His manner of dress was unusual, and it occurred to her he was most likely clothed in his very best. Perhaps it was because of his tunic, but his style reminded her of the Scots, except that in this man’s case, his leggings reached high up beneath that kilt. The blanket draped around his shoulders did not detract from or hide his strength; rather it emphasized his shoulders’ width.

  Her gaze dipped lower, toward his waist, where a wide belt held an assortment of weapons. She looked lower still, toward the apex of his legs, and realizing where her thoughts were leading her, she skipped her glance off him, coming to rest on the deciduous trees of maple, oak and elm, which lined the pathway.

  She inhaled, and the musky scents of autumn flooded her senses, magnified in the cool evening air. It brought to mind the pleasant images of cornhusks, pumpkins and apple pie. Dry leaves, crunching beneath their footfalls, scattered over the hard-packed earthen track where they treaded.

  Overhead a dove cooed, accentuating the serenade of the crickets and the locust. So, too, did the soft music of the violins provide a welcome backdrop. The wind, which blew from behind them, ushered in other sounds: the sighing of the trees beneath Nature’s breath and a nighthawk’s squawk, high in the sky.

  “Sir Eagle,” she said, as she turned toward him to come directly to the point, “you mentioned there is something specific you wish to say to me.”

  “Nyoh—”

  “What does that word mean?”

  “Yes. It means yes. There is a matter of some concern I need to say. Yet, even while I know I should speak of it, I am distracted from my duty by the moon and the starlight. If I had thought you beautiful in the light of day—and I have—it pales in comparison to how you look under the influence of the moonlight.”

  She sighed. Beneath his compliment, which seemed to be quite sincere, she softened. It would not do to take out her frustration with James and her step-uncle on this Mohawk man, who seemed to continually lift her spirits. “Again you are most flattering to me.”

  “No flattery. I speak but the truth.”

  She held up a hand to hold back whatever else he might take into his mind to say. “Sir Eagle, although I have chosen to bring you away from the party, I cannot be long gone. I would ask that you come to the point.”

  “Very well.” He nodded. “Your journey northward—”

  “You know of that?”

  “Is it not common knowledge? Is it not the reason for this ball?”

  “I suppose you are right. Yes, about my journey… Oh, look!” She pointed toward the sky. “Did you see it?”

  He shook his head. “I did not. I fear my eyes see only you.”

  She smiled, her gaze skirting away from his. “’Twas a shooting star. ’Tis said that when a body sees a shooting star, he should make a wish, for it will certainly come true.”

  “And did you make a wish?”

  “No, but let me do so now.” She paused, then glanced back toward the evening sky.

  “I wonder. What is the wish of someone as fair as you? She, who would seem to have most everything?”

  “Oh, my wish ’twas not for myself, rather ’twas for my friend, Sarah.”

  “For your friend. Nyoh, now I understand. As well as beauty, you are a woman of honor.”

  She shook her head at him. “I fear you do me more justice than I might deserve. ’Tis no merit that I simply wish a good life for my friend and companion.”

  Black Eagle leaned toward her, pointing to the night sky. “Do you see that group of stars? There in the north sky?”

  “I do.” She nodded. “We call that constellation the Big Dipper.”

  “I know. My people, the Ka-nin-ke-a-ka, call it the hunters and the Great Sky Bear.”

  “The hunters and the Great Sky Bear,” she repeated. “Does it have a legend?”

  He paused then looked again toward the sky. “Nyoh, it is a legend.”

  She smiled at him. “Will you tell it to me?”

  “Nyoh, it would be my pleasure. It is told amongst my people that long ago a great bear terrorized us. The people were starving because none dared go out into the woods to hunt for food or to work the fields.” He glanced back toward her, his look at her soft yet passionate. “At that time there were four hunters, and they were the best hunters we have ever known. It is said they would never give up a trail once they had set out upon it.

  “They determined to kill this bear. But it could not be done easily. Each time the hunters tried to trap the bear, he escaped them, always climbing higher and higher into the white snows of the mountains. But the hunters were determined. With the help of their dog, Four-Eyes, they tracked the Great Sky Bear, heading always higher and higher into the mountains, until they finally found him and killed him. But once it was done and they had feasted on his flesh, the bones of the animal reappeared, and the great bear grew up again and ran away, escaping them.

  “Because the hunters could not afford to let the bear loose upon their people, they followed him. They continue to do so to this very day,
so that he would not ever disturb our people again. Do you see the four stars there?”

  She nodded.

  “Your people say that is the bowl of the dipper, but to my people, that is the Great Sky Bear. And the handle is the hunters. If you look closely, you can barely see the small star, there. That is their dog. With each season, the constellation appears differently in the sky, showing my people the way of the chase. Now, because it is autumn, the great bear reappears in the sky, and the hunters begin their chase all over again. Of course, they find him and kill him. And so it is his blood, dripping down from the heavens, that colors the leaves of the maple trees at this time of year. And the fat that drips from his meat is what makes the grass white.”

  He glanced back up at the sky, and Marisa followed his gaze. Silence fell between them, until at last she said, “I believe that I like your story of how that constellation came into being better than the American version that originates from my own culture.”

  He nodded. “I too.”

  As Black Eagle had related his tale, they had stopped at the side of a great oak tree. It was a large tree, and one she had always admired. Holding up the ends of her silken skirt, she stepped off the path, treading toward the tree, where she leaned back against it and turned toward him.

  She bit her lip and exhaled. Moonlight, indeed, was this man’s friend. As the soft beams outlined the rises and falls of his face, she thought he was perhaps more handsome than any man had a right to be. He was tall, proud, incredibly male, and, the good Lord help her, she had never felt more female.

  Could a mild flirtation with him be so bad? Of course her step-uncle would disapprove.