by Karen Kay
She sighed. “Please. We keep leaving the subject that is uppermost in my mind. We must leave here at once and begin our journey with the belongings that my maid and I will need.”
“You do not need these possessions. They will only hamper us.”
“I will not bend on this.”
“Nor will I.”
She sighed. “We must leave. And we must leave as I have said…without you. Oh, I wish there were time to hire another—”
“To ease your mind, I have said I will give you my word to keep away from you as much as possible.”
“I’m not certain I would trust your word.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Let us speak plainly. If we were to be friends…and more, as you say, and I allowed you to lead us, do you mean to say that we could be friends and lovers? Without marriage?”
He swallowed hard. Yes, that was what he’d meant, but he hesitated to say it plainly, because put like that it seemed cold-hearted. So he uttered, “A man can always hope.”
“And if we were to do that, what of children? They would be born out of wedlock.”
He paused. “There are ways of ensuring that you do not conceive. If that would ever be what you wanted, we would have to be careful.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It is impossible.”
“Yes, almost.”
“I am willing to be friends. No more. Is that clear? Friends only. If I would allow you to lead us, there will not be anything else but friendship between us from this point forward.”
He didn’t speak. Did she realize she was issuing him a challenge?
“But I am uncertain it is wise to spend more time in your company. And so I find myself in the unlucky position of having to inquire of you if you know of another who might be willing to lead us.”
He shook his head. “If you must go today, then there is no one else to take you but me. I could ask my people if there is another who could do it, as you suggest. But know this. It is already the end of the Harvest Moon. Soon the Falling Moon and the Hunting Moon will be upon this land, and no Mohawk will wish to be away from his people when he should be hunting food for the coming winter.”
She hunched her shoulders, and he went on to say, “Besides, I would be close to you, if possible. It is a difficult and dangerous journey you are seeking to make, made more so by the war which has come to this country. I would see that you would be safe until you arrive at your destination.”
Still she remained silent, her head bowed.
He proffered, “I offer you my oath again to not seduce you, unless you wish such devotion from me and release me from it.”
“No, you still don’t understand. It is not you I fear. It is myself. You might remember that it is I who lured you.”
He was amazed she would admit the fact, since it showed a weakness. Sadly his admiration for her increased because of the concession. “I do believe that it took both of us to make love. Still, if that be the case and you feel you cannot trust yourself, then I will have to beware of you, also.” He wanted to smile, but he knew he dared not.
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
He nodded.
“And were we to journey together, I would also like to bring more of my things than what you are allowing.”
He shook his head. “Nature will provide all you will ever need. To take more than this could prove to be a disaster. As it is, I am not in favor of bringing the horses—they are too easy to track. Take only what you alone can carry.”
“You would have me walk, then?”
“It is the safest way to travel through the woods. Perhaps we will be able to go by canoe from time to time. But to do otherwise is to court trouble. I would have you safe.”
She sighed, and he took the few necessary steps to close the distance between them. Reaching out, he gathered her into his arms. “Come, let us forget our disagreements and share one more kiss before you accept my oath for good.” He placed a hand around her waist at her back and drew her close.
“This is madness.” She backed out of his embrace.
But he was not to be put aside so easily. He followed her and took her in his arms once more, and when she provided no resistance, his body reacted in the age-old male way. At first he held her; he simply held her. And then he kissed her, his lips, his tongue tasting hers. She swayed in toward him, and she kissed him back with all the passion he desired.
Oh, that she weren’t English. He pulled her in close to him, close enough so that he knew she could feel his swollen member. And then he sighed. Enough.
Bringing his lips to her ear, he kissed her there, then whispered, “And so begins my troth. Go collect your belongings. Bring only what you can easily carry. Though one might hope that it will never be, there may yet come a time when you will be glad to have brought so little. Let us leave here at once.”
She sighed. “You are certainly a unique man. Perhaps the most unusual man I have ever known.”
“I am not unusual.”
“I beg to disagree. Here I have come to you to either persuade you into doing my bidding or to fire you, and instead I find myself persuaded.”
“Persuaded to be friends, and more?”
She shook her head. “No, but I will let you lead our party. Especially since I feel you are right about Thompson. He might only get us thoroughly lost.”
“Indeed. It has long been an observation amongst my people that without a Mohawk by their side, the English are as lost in the forest as a child. I would have one more kiss before you go.”
“Yes,” she said, and he did not hesitate to provide her with what they both wanted.
It was several minutes later before he set her from him. “Go now, Ahweyoh. Get your things. I am prepared to leave here at once.”
“Ahweyoh?”
“It is what I have decided to call you. It is a good name, and someday I will tell you a story about Ahweyoh, for the two of you have much in common, I think.”
“Ahweyoh,” she repeated. “What does it mean?”
“Water Lily.”
As her light brown eyes sought his own, she smiled. It was endearing, especially when she proceeded to do the unexpected. She did exactly as he said.
Chapter Nine
As the events of the morning unfolded, Marisa at last managed to influence Black Eagle into readying one of the horses to carry her and Sarah’s trunks. Except for food, their trunks were, from her viewpoint, the only articles worth taking. Once she had narrowed her choices to them alone, all that had been required to win Black Eagle to her cause had been a smile.
Their party, which consisted of herself, Sarah, Richard Thompson and Black Eagle, had left the Rathburn estate much later than originally anticipated. It was almost noon before they were away.
Much of the delay, she admitted, was due to her own desire to speak to her guardian. However, it had been to no avail. John Rathburn had not, would not, leave his apartments…not even when Marisa had sent him a written note asking to see him.
True, he was brooding, but his indifference stung. Alas, it had brought her to tears. But in the end, outside of storming his room and forcing him to talk to her, there was little she or anyone else could do. As Sarah had once observed, one couldn’t force another to love them, since, if it were so, all the dreaded tyrants of the world would be beloved instead of loathed.
Thank goodness for Sarah’s presence in her life. As Marisa glanced toward her friend, her heart stirred. The cuts on Sarah’s face were clean, but they served to strengthen Marisa’s determination to see Sarah safely settled. After all, for so many years, Sarah had been forced to endure living within the house of the man who had caused her much grief. And now James was added to that list. Sarah deserved better.
When Black Eagle had first seen Sarah, he had stared at her bruises openly. Then he had looked away and had not said
a word. It left Marisa wondering if he were fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Marisa took a deep breath and leaned sideways in her saddle. She was tired, having received no sleep the previous night. But the notion of dozing while on the trail was lost to her, due to the magnificence of the land surrounding them, as well as to Black Eagle, whose unusual way of dressing was having an effect on her pulse rate.
Gone were the black tunic and black leggings from last night and early this morning. In their place, Black Eagle wore a dark blue tunic belted at the waist. The tips of a buckskin breechcloth, which fell between his legs, were barely visible beneath his tunic, while tight-fitting leggings came up high on his thighs to tie to a belt under his shirt. Red-beaded garters were tied around those leggings, just under the knee. That this style of dress left an occasional glimpse of his upper thigh and buttocks was heart-stopping from the feminine perspective, and Marisa found herself gazing at him more often than she thought she ought.
A beaded red blanket lay draped over his left shoulder. It was brought in close to his body and held there by his belt. Also worn crisscross over his chest were straps that held attached to them pouches for ammunition, as well as a powder horn. A tomahawk was tucked securely in his belt, and he carried a musket cradled in his arm. Around his neck was a silver gorget as well as a knife case, and silver armbands encircled each arm.
She sighed. His was a slender figure, yet if memory served her correctly, there was solid muscle beneath his clothing, and as her gaze caught again on the red blanket draped over his shoulder, a vision of that same blanket, which had been laid out beneath her body last night, came vividly to mind. Despite herself, she felt the blood rush to her face, and to avert her attention from him and the memories he invoked, she gazed out into the woodland environment.
The trail was flanked on both sides by deep growth and tall trees so numerous that at times they seemed to overpower the sun. At present, both Marisa and Sarah were riding sidesaddle, while the third horse carried their supplies. It was not visible to her at the moment, since Thompson led the animal, and he was pulling up their rear.
Sarah was lagging behind, Marisa noticed, and reining in her mount, she sent a glance back over her shoulder. “Sarah, are you all right?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered, and brought her horse toward Marisa. “I fear I have been taking too much time admiring the woods. It’s beautiful country, yet it is quite frightening as well. I keep imagining unknown Indians behind every tree.”
“I too.” As Marisa waited, she gazed upward, taking in the cloudless blue sky. To her right and left were trees of maple, elm, birch and more, and they seemed to go on forever.
None of this territory was entirely new to Marisa, since she had grown up in the woodlands of upper New York State. However, the forest was so beautiful at this time of year, that its charm quite outweighed its terror, at least in her view of it.
When Sarah caught up with her, Marisa said, “I think that you should not lag too far behind. Perhaps we should make a pact to stay close to one another. Then if something happens, we will each one be there for the other.”
“Yes. I’m certain you are right. And I wish I could enjoy it without fear, for it holds much charm.”
“Yes, I agree.” Marisa smiled. “The woods are beautiful. Perhaps the longer we are on the trail, the more you might come to admire it without fear. Look there, the reds of the maple trees, the oranges of the oaks, the yellows and the greens; they are so vibrant at this time of year. And there are so many of them, that it seems as if the whole forest is afire with color. And overhead”—she gestured upward—“is the bluest of skies.”
Sarah nodded. “It almost seems as if the hills themselves are alive.”
“Exactly.”
By mutual consent, the two women nudged their mounts forward, following after Black Eagle. Within a moment, Marisa was content to continue in the same line of thought. “Even the air is different from Albany. It has a slight fragrance of pine. Have you noticed?”
“I have. It is, indeed, most invigorating.”
A westerly wind brushed against Marisa’s backside, imparting with it a sense of security, and off to the eastern side of the trail, the sound of a rushing brook lent the atmosphere an ongoing sort of music. Moisture from the stream cooled the air and made it sit more easily on the lungs.
Black Eagle, who was in the lead, was by now far ahead of them. In fact, Richard Thompson, who normally lagged far behind, was almost upon the two women.
“Come, Sarah, let us catch up to Sir Eagle. It wouldn’t do to have him outdistance our horses.”
Sarah nodded, and as they set their mounts into a faster walk, the two women fell silent.
The path they were following was well traveled, and since it took little attention to steer the animal, Marisa let her attention slip back in time, to a few hours previous.
After Marisa had left Black Eagle in the livery, she had discovered that Richard Thompson was awaiting her at the Rathburn mansion. She had said nothing to the man, not even to admonish him for the lateness of his arrival.
Instead she had gone straight to James. It had been a difficult thing to do, particularly since the only communication she desired with the man was one best done with a firearm. However, she’d had no choice, since he had stood between herself and her guardian.
After admonishing James for his behavior with Sarah and threatening him with the Albany authorities, Marisa had demanded to speak to her guardian. Now she wished she hadn’t even done that. There had been no visible result because of it, and it had required her to speak to a man she now abhorred.
She had finally written Rathburn a note. Putting her feelings into words had been most agonizing, her shame deepening when her guardian had refused to acknowledge her.
In her note, she had offered her step-uncle an olive branch, had apologized for her “crime” of upsetting him, had even gone on to explain why she had felt it necessary to assert her independence. She had also assured him that he need not worry about her, for she would be well protected on the journey to New Hampshire.
The last part of her letter caused her to cringe in remembrance. She now wished she could take back the words:
Step-uncle, I beg you to come down and see me off on this journey. Let us put the last few days behind us and renew our liking for one another. I beseech you not to let me go without so much as a fare thee well.
But her pleading had been for nothing. John Rathburn had remained adamant in his condemnation of her. She supposed that to his way of thinking, her independence had wronged him, and there was nothing she could do to repair the damage done.
Marisa sighed, and turning her attention to the spectacular sights of the beauty surrounding her, she tried to set her mind to other things. But like a dark cloud that followed and vexed her, her step-uncle’s rejection was not to be put so lightly aside.
The sign read:
WILTON’S TAVERN
Last Chance for Rum in the Adirondacks
Established 1679
The hut was situated about twenty-five miles north of Albany, on the eastern side of the trail. Built of crude logs, the tavern seemed to be an oasis, and Marisa thought that it might very well be the last trace of civilization to be found, at least until they arrived in New Hampshire. Positioned on the far right side of the trail, with its front facing toward the road, it was an unusual place in that its back was built downward, extending out toward a fast-flowing stream. Even from a distance, Marisa could see there were logs cut out for stools, as well as crude tables, which were scattered out back of the tavern. Plus, because the inn was situated on slightly higher ground than the stream, there was a swinging footbridge that extended over the water.
At present, no one was taking enjoyment of the picnic area, and Marisa wondered if the fault were that of the establishment itself, or if the men who might freq
uent the place felt more at home inside. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to her. After several hours on the road, it looked to be a little bit of heaven.
Black Eagle, who was at the lead of their party, had paused here, awaiting the women and Thompson, the latter very far to their rear. When Sarah and Marisa drew rein in front of the tavern, they found Black Eagle deep in conversation with the man who might be the tavern keeper.
Upon seeing the women arrive, Black Eagle finished his exchange with the man, and both men turned to walk toward the women. Taking hold of their horses’ reins, Black Eagle led the animals to a wooden post erected in front of the tavern, while the innkeeper followed.
As Black Eagle tied the reins to the post, he said, “The innkeeper says there is a room you could rent for the night and venison stew for supper. It might be wise to take advantage of the room and the food, rather than exhaust our own supply.”
“I think you are right.” Marisa accepted the innkeeper’s helping hand down.
“Injuns,” commented the man under his breath. “Don’t rightly know why they feel it beneath them to help a lady down from her mount. Just ’tain’t in their manners, I guess. Welcome, ladies.”
Marisa smiled at the man. “Thank you. Am I right in assuming you might be Mr. Wilton?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Wilton was my grandpappy. My name’s Stiler. Matt Stiler.”
“Well, hello, Mr. Stiler. I am Marisa Jameson, and this is my companion and friend, Sarah Strong. We are en route to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to visit the Appletons, who own property there and who are good friends of my family.”
“The Appletons, eh?” Mr. Stiler rubbed his stubbled chin. “Don’t think I know of ’em, Miss Jameson, but don’t make no difference. You and your maid are welcome to stay here for the night. No charge. ’Tain’t often we have a lady such as yourself stay with us.” Stiler paced toward Sarah’s mount, whereupon he helped Sarah down from her seating.