by Karen Kay
Black Eagle frowned. Both men seemed to hold the other in contempt. Perhaps within their own ranks, the English were not as invincible as one might suppose.
Black Eagle remained silent, alert.
“How is it that Johnson is almost well?” Governor Shirley asked as he eyed Black Eagle as though the bearer of the news were to blame. But to blame for what? For Johnson’s speedy recovery? Black Eagle quietly noted another peculiarity that did not fit the general picture the English liked to present to the Mohawk sachems.
However, all Black Eagle said was, “The Water-that-runs-swift is healing.”
“Is it?” Governor Shirley’s look at Black Eagle was skeptical. With a note of condescension, he added, “I thank you for delivering these papers to me. I suppose I am indebted to you, and so I ask, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
“Some food and water would be welcome.”
Governor Shirley might be many things, but it was obvious to Black Eagle that Shirley dared not break with the convention of giving aid to one who has executed a service.
“It will be done. Mr. Coleman?” he called to his aide.
“Yes, sir?”
“Take this scout to the kitchen and see that he has a good meal.”
Coleman saluted. “Yes, sir.” Barely missing a beat, Coleman turned to Black Eagle. “This way.”
Black Eagle acknowledged Shirley with a nod and followed Coleman out the door.
The delicious aroma of food being cooked announced the kitchen long before Coleman and Black Eagle attained its inner sanctum. With every footfall, the air surrounding them became warm and filled with an enticing fragrance.
There was a feel in this area of the house that boasted of the best that the white civilization had to offer, and as Black Eagle stepped into the kitchen’s inner chamber, he was surrounded by the bustle of several different women. The moist heat radiating throughout the place, which he supposed was created by the various stews cooking over the fire, was pleasant. He relaxed.
“Stay here,” said Coleman as though he addressed an idiot instead of a grown man. He left Black Eagle standing at the room’s wide entrance, while he treaded farther into the room. Black Eagle could see the Englishman trying to capture the attention of one of the cooks and noted with pleasure that Coleman was not having an easy task of it. Black Eagle breathed in deeply and took in the scene before him more fully.
A few of the women had hiked up their skirts to tie around their waists, although several of the younger women wore no more than a simple shift of white, most likely to avoid accidents from the fire. Two windows served as lighting for the room, while several tables boasted various brass pans, funnels, wooden bowls, many skillets and kettles. Many dressers against the walls held dishes, and adorning those walls were pans, which were all sorted by their different shapes.
It was a busy environment, and Black Eagle felt as though he were intruding on an exclusively feminine domain. For a moment he experienced a notion of being ill at ease, until someone brushed past him, leaving in their wake an arousing scent of the fresh outdoors and femininity.
Black Eagle’s attention was caught at once, and he gazed at the back of the exquisite creature who had ventured into the bustle of the kitchen. Her dress was different than that of the other women. The dress was made of an elaborately decorated material and was full, particularly at the sides of the waist, a style Black Eagle had disdained when he had first seen it on a white woman.
But on this creature, it was impeccable. The dress was fashioned in a soft shade of aqua, a color the women of his village valued. The young woman’s hair was piled high on top of her head, while silky ringlets of reddish-colored curls fell down over one shoulder.
“Mrs. Stanton?” The beauty’s voice was delicate, barely audible, yet the cook acted as though the woman had shouted, for she immediately stopped what she was doing to give attention to the young lady.
“Yes, miss?” said Cook.
“Mrs. Stanton, my maid, Sarah, is quite ill, and I beg you to see if we might have some baking soda or other remedy that might settle her stomach.”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Stanton. “One moment, miss.”
“Of course.” As the elegant creature waited, she turned halfway around so that Black Eagle was presented with her profile. Her jawline was strong, her cheekbones delicate, her nose dainty and not overly long, and the outline of her lips was full. All at once, and without any warning, Black Eagle’s stomach plummeted, and his body reacted in a strong and distinct, yet entirely male fashion.
She was beautiful, she was delicate, the sort of creature a man would treasure his whole life through, if he could but have her. Moreover, there was a quality about her that would cause a man to wish to please her, if only to see the glory of her smile. A smile that was at present missing from her countenance.
A desire to jest with her, to witness the wonder of her favor, overtook him. But he suppressed the longing. There was no reason to speak to her in any manner whatsoever, since little would come of it. They were of two different worlds, worlds that held almost nothing in common. Besides, always in the back of his mind was the caution his grandmother had trained in him from even a young age; a woman from another tribe of people weakened a man’s spirit; that to seek an alliance from such a one could cause a man to become a traitor to his own people.
Black Eagle gazed away from the temptress, but only for a moment. Soon, Mrs. Stanton approached the young lady.
“I have some freshly made chicken broth,” said the cook, “which has been cooked almost the day through. If anything will settle Miss Strong’s stomach, it will be my broth. Shall I take it to her?”
“Yes, please,” agreed the dainty creature. “She is in her room. Do you know of it?”
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Stanton, who was an older and heavy woman, took hold of a pot of stew and immediately left the kitchen.
The beauty turned in full toward him. She did not acknowledge him. It appeared she was searching for something and did not even see him. Perhaps pride was to blame for his next action. Certainly reason should have caused him to hold his tongue. Yet Black Eagle found himself unable to resist the impulse to make himself known to her, perhaps to see if he could cause the enchantress to smile. Surely a mild flirtation could do no harm.
Addressing her, he said, “Rarely have I seen a woman who could with a mere glance make a man’s heart sing.”
The beauty’s gaze rose to take in Black Eagle’s measure. Though her look was less than complimentary, she did reply to him. “Did you speak to me, sir? And without an introduction?”
“I did, but you must forgive me for doing so. I may never again have the honor of looking upon you, and the desire to witness your smile might make a man forget all else.”
Under his compliment, the beauty’s lips twitched, but she turned away from him, only to swing back to say, “Did you tell me that your heart sang?”
“I did. Upon taking a mere look at you, my heart told me that all the grace there was to be found was possessed here, in this delicate figure of a woman.”
“Sir!”
“Perhaps, if I were a white man, I might never put this observation into words. But I am not a white man.”
“Indeed.” Her glance again took in his countenance. “Your English is very good for an Indian.”
He inclined his head. “A result of various black robes and the Scotsman, who is an English trader, Sir William Johnson.”
She nodded briefly. “You are the first Indian who has ever spoken to me, though I have lived here most of my life through.”
“Have you? I regret I am only now making your acquaintance. And I apologize for my people.”
Again her lips twitched, but no full smile was to be witnessed. “Excuse me. I must bid you farewell, for a friend awaits me.”
Black Eag
le sighed. However, as she turned away, he found he couldn’t let her go yet, and he called out, “Miss?” repeating the form of greeting that Mrs. Stanton had used with her.
“Yes?” She bestowed upon him yet another look that took in his appearance.
“Could you not spare this poor heart of mine a tiny smile? Something I could take with me, to recall at leisure, or perhaps during times that are less than pleasant? After all, the countryside is at war and a man never knows what might become of him upon the morrow.”
Her glance at him was considering. “You speak very elegantly.”
“A result of practice, I fear, since a man must express himself well if he is to counsel his people and sway them to the right course.”
“Are you a chief?”
“I am. A Pine Tree Chief.”
“A Pine Tree Chief? I believe that is the first time I have heard of this kind of chief.”
“That is to be regretted, for they are important amongst my people. And now I beg you, could you not spare me a smile?”
She turned away from him. “I could not.” She made to pass by him.
“You! Indian!” It was Coleman vying for Black Eagle’s attention. “I have your breakfast prepared. This way!”
Black Eagle nodded at Coleman, then addressed the lady. “A brief smile from you would help this weeping heart of mine, and it would cost you little.”
“Has this man been bothering you, milady?” asked Coleman as he approached Black Eagle and the goddess.
“He has,” said the vision.
“I am sorry to hear that, milady,” replied Coleman. “Shall I take him to task for you?”
“Oh no. That won’t be necessary.” The enchantress turned slightly toward Black Eagle and smiled at him, showing delicate white teeth. “I hope this will spare your heart the expense of breaking.”
Before Black Eagle could grin back at her, she swept away, leaving the kitchen and Black Eagle behind her.
He watched her departing figure until he could see her no more. Coleman grabbed hold of him, but Black Eagle made no motion to extricate himself from Coleman’s grip.
“Come along,” said Coleman gruffly. “You are lucky that Lady Marisa chose to spare you. For what you have done, you could easily be punished.”
“Is that her name? Lady Marisa?”
Coleman was silent.
But Black Eagle was beyond reproach. Brief though it was, he had caused her to smile. He beamed happily, and only then did he allow Coleman to lead the way to the promised meal.
Marisa shook her head slightly as she made her way toward Sarah’s quarters. Savage though he was, that Indian was dangerous. The young man possessed a golden tongue, something that could prove to be disastrous to a feminine heart, if a lady desired to take his words at face value.
No doubt, the women of his village vied with one another for his favor. And why not? He was certainly a handsome man, his figure slim yet commanding.
Tall, but not too tall, his body was well formed and strong. He had worn leggings and a long shirt, which had tied in the middle, the entire effect creating a short kilt of white. A red blanket, decorated delicately with beads, had been thrown over one of his shoulders and held there Roman-style. The typical breechcloth of which the Indians were fond had been worn between his legs, and upon his feet had been moccasins, which had been decorated as well.
He had been heavily armed. Ammunition pouches had been thrown on a strap that was supported over his shoulder. On a belt around his waist had hung a powder horn with a tomahawk tucked into that belt. In one of his hands, he had held a musket.
Yet, though heavily equipped and a stranger to her, he had not frightened her. Indeed, fear was not an emotion one might entertain when considering the young man.
In essence, she decided, warming to her thoughts, his was a handsome countenance, despite the fact he wore his hair cropped close, with only a tuft of longer hair sitting atop his head in a style her fellow Englishmen called a Mohawk. Personally, she preferred the longer-haired silhouette of a gentleman. But there was definitely something to be said for the Mohawk kind of hairstyle, with long hair falling over his shoulders. At least it was so on this particular young man.
An odd feeling of excitement swept over her, and without consciously willing it to be so, her step became a little livelier. A thrill of awareness rushed through her veins, reminding her he had not been the only one impressed. Her breath caught in her bosom. Indeed. She feared she liked the man.
No doubt it was due to the young man’s compliments. What woman’s head wouldn’t be turned?
Smiling and shaking her head, as though to dislodge the man’s image from it, she hurried along the corridor. Sarah awaited her.
Chapter Three
Sarah was not well.
Marisa smoothed back Sarah’s blonde hair and removed the wet rag from her forehead. Gingerly, she touched her friend’s face. Her skin was hot, much too hot. Biting her lip, Marisa dipped the sopping rag into cold water and reapplied it to Sarah’s forehead.
As a feeling of helplessness overtook her, she wondered what else she could do. As the day had worn on, Sarah had gradually become worse, and Marisa, in her worry, had forgotten all about the Indian with the golden tongue.
Marisa had sent a servant in search of the family physician, asking the man to hurry to the house. But the doctor had given little advice, saying only that Marisa should keep Sarah quiet and warm. As if Marisa hadn’t already been doing exactly that.
At present, Sarah was sleeping, though that sleep was fraught with whimperings and stirrings.
Marisa frowned. There must be more that she could do. But what? This was Sarah, after all. Sarah, her friend and confidant. Sarah, who had never wavered in her devotion to Marisa. Sarah, who had taught her, schooled her, laughed with her, befriended her.
“No, do not leave me! Do not go in there!” Sarah sat up all at once. Her eyes were wide, yet unseeing, except perhaps for whatever was in her mind’s eye. “Mother! Stay with me! Do not leave me!”
Marisa dropped to her knees beside Sarah’s bed and gently coaxed Sarah back into a supine position, but Sarah fought to be free and sat up again. “No, Mother, do not leave!”
Marisa hardly knew what to do, thus she did the only thing that seemed natural. She took Sarah’s hand into her own and rubbed it.
How could Sarah have lived all these years with such pent-up emotion? And within terribly close quarters to the man who had caused her grief?
But until today, Sarah had not known that it was John Rathburn who was to blame, not only for Sarah’s servitude, but for the deaths of her parents. Problem was, now that she knew or at least suspected the truth, how was Sarah to endure these next six years? Would not forced proximity to the man responsible keep the wound continually open?
“Mother! No!”
Instinctively aware that it was wrong to say too much around a person so ill, Marisa did no more than take Sarah into her arms, urging her back against the mattress and pillow. Tears, mirrored in Sarah’s eyes, clouded her own.
It was unfair, nay it was terribly wrong, that Sarah should have to remain here, locked into a debt that was not of her own making, and to a man who had most likely caused the entire matter. Sarah’s circumstance needed to change. But how?
Marisa had never had cause to give thought to concerns such as this. The only rule of law she had ever known was the cold neglect of John Rathburn. Surely there was something she could do.
Perhaps there might be a sympathetic ear within Albany’s administration of justice. Mayhap Sarah’s servitude could be reversed. Who would speak for Sarah?
Certainly there were no witnesses from fourteen years ago who could come forward to accuse John Rathburn of wrongdoing. And even if such people did exist, what magistrate would believe them when pitted against the Rathburn wealth and reput
ation?
Only someone as wealthy as he could stand for Sarah. Only a person whose reputation was as well thought of as his…
As realization dawned, Marisa sat back on her heels. There was such a person. One person, who alone might be able to persuade John Rathburn to give Sarah her freedom.
That person was she, Marisa.
For a moment, Marisa considered her position. Not only might she hold sway over John Rathburn, she held an ace. Had she not last night heard him plotting the ruin and demise of an entire village of people? Was this not only unjust, but illegal?
“No!” Sarah cried, interrupting Marisa’s thoughts. “Not my mother, my father! No, it cannot be!”
Marisa closed her eyes, letting a tear fall down over her cheek. Dutifully she pressed Sarah back against the pillow, and bending, she dipped the rag that had been made hot by Sarah’s feverish forehead back into cold water. Quickly, she replaced the rag over Sarah’s brow. Picking up Sarah’s hand yet again, Marisa plotted exactly what she would do, and what she might say to her guardian, John Rathburn.
She had much time in which to plan her strategy, for it was well into the night when Sarah at last drifted into a restful sleep. Rising onto her feet, Marisa knew what she would do, and she would do it yet this night.
Taking hold of the bucket of water, which by this time was warm, Marisa exited Sarah’s room, glancing back once at Sarah before she gently shut the door.
Richard Thompson was proud that he was not a man of honor. Quite the contrary, he was little more than a hired assassin, and in his business, this was a financially sound frame of mind. He knew he was an imposing man, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Some might have argued that his mousey-brown, tangled hair, thick jowls, yellow, broken teeth and breath that might stagger the most stouthearted of men was not the sort of image to endear a man to high finance. And yet, those who needed his services were only too happy to pay his price.