by Karen Kay
“Dear Lord,” she moaned. Incapable of saying more for the moment, she simply uttered, “Dear Lord,” again.
But it wasn’t over. He had come up over her, his lips immediately finding hers in an all-out, consuming kiss.
“Are you ready for all of me?” he asked.
She nodded. “Oh, yes, please.”
Again, he growled, the sound so incredibly masculine, she thought she might melt. At last he became a part of her; it felt right, so very, very right. He bent down toward her to whisper into her ear, “Did you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy it?” she repeated. “Do you tease me? How could I not enjoy it? Indeed, sir, I am uncertain that word adequately describes what I have experienced this night.”
She felt his smile as he bent his head against her neck. He murmured, “I am glad.”
Without further conversation, they were repeating the act of love all over again, he bringing her up once more to that place where all was right with the world. He rocked against her, and she met his every thrust, moving with him with all the adoration she had to give.
Over and over he bore up within her, she meeting his thrusts and contributing to their spiraling frenzy. His face was only inches from her own, and though it was too dark to see well within their tiny shelter, she looked up at him, admiration in her gaze as she said, “I love you!”
His response was not verbal. Instead his exertions became fast and furious. There was that fine-tuned sensation again, a fire, an excruciating happiness building up within her, its location centered at the junction of her legs. Exquisite excitement filled her, and as she spiraled into the realm of pure pleasure, he released his seed within her.
Her moans echoed his low-pitched groans. His body came down over her, and yet now and again, he shuddered. At last he lay atop her while a few more higher-pitched moans escaped her lips. Inadvertently, she tightened her muscles, there where she still held him inside her, the action eliciting a further groan from him.
He said, “That feels good.”
“Yes.”
“We will marry. In this spot and at this time. Do you agree?”
She nodded. “Yes.” There was nothing else to say. Indeed, for all practical purposes, they already were married.
As he’d said, this was her life now, her new life.
“Yes,” she repeated, loving the sound of the word, loving him. Log cabin or manor house, it mattered not. She belonged to this man. And although their marriage might end too soon, she would always be his.
Chapter Eighteen
Days passed. Days of wonder, of excitement. Days that were consumed with searching for Sarah, but they were also spent making love in the cool evenings, walking hand in hand through the multicolored forests of the Adirondacks, learning new facts about trees and herbs and plants, spotting and admiring deer, moose, elk. Never had Marisa appreciated nature so fully. Never had she given so much thought to the miracles she witnessed about her.
There was a dark cloud, however, that hung over her regardless of any happiness she found in her new husband. They could not find Sarah, and Marisa’s desperation to find her friend—or at least some trace of her—worried her.
Still, the sun shone, the rains fell and each day was a new day to love and to look for her friend. Sometimes Marisa discovered some new and awe-inspiring detail about the land that she had, up to this time, taken for granted. At these moments, she found solace in the happiness of Black Eagle’s arms, but also in the wonder of Nature all around them. It was almost perfect.
Eventually, the world could no longer hold off its reality, however, and as though making up for its negligence, the intrusion into their paradise came too soon for Marisa.
On this day, Black Eagle had been up, awake and away, as usual. He had left Marisa in their shelter, her task being one of defense. She was to clean and reload their weapons, sharpen their knives and hatchets and see to any other tool they might utilize for their protection. Black Eagle had left to go in search of Sarah, but before he’d gone, he had given her explicit instructions: remain quiet. If an enemy approached, she was to first go perfectly still, while using her mind to plot an escape. Then, as soon as she had formed a plan, she was to take fast and furious action.
There was to be no going to and from their lean-to while he was away. He’d instructed further, no singing, no talking to herself, nothing.
Marisa wasn’t about to disobey. Besides, she’d discovered that when Black Eagle wasn’t with her, her courage waned. Indeed, she would have been hard-pressed to leave their hideaway on any account.
But this was an unusual day. The first moment she sensed all was not as it ought to be was with the mere crack of a twig, like the sound made beneath a footfall. Immediately, she went still, as Black Eagle had instructed.
She waited.
If it were Black Eagle, he would soon make himself known to her with the special call they’d arranged between them. Minutes passed, and still there was nothing, no indication that whoever was out there was Black Eagle.
Instinct warred with Black Eagle’s instructions to her, and she wished to speak out, to query and discover the identity of her intruder. But wisely she kept her silence.
What if it were a bear? A mountain lion? A wolf? Worse, what if it were one of the Ottawa warriors returned?
On this last thought, her stomach somersaulted. Had Black Eagle erased their tracks from their previous day’s wanderings? What was it he’d said about constructing their shelter? That it was one thing to fool a white man—it was quite another to trick an enemy scout.
To add to her worry, she was more than aware of the unusual abilities of these Indian scouts. They were uncommon, these scouts. From the telling of it, it seemed to her as if they operated in a world that was half real, half spiritual. If whoever was out there were a scout, would he be able to sense her presence? Would he be able to hear her breathe?
Crack!
The sound split the air in two. Again, she froze. The noise had been closer to her this time. Was this to be her last day upon this earth? Her heart raced. In truth, so frightened was she, she barely dared breathe.
Then it happened. Looking up through one of the cracks in their bark walls, she beheld the red-painted face of an enemy warrior. He was awful. He was big, bulky and ugly.
Was he one of the Ottawa? If so, it didn’t escape her consideration that if he found her, he would kill her. Terror shot through her, and she almost gasped aloud, catching herself just in time.
Had the warrior sensed her thoughts? Sensed the life on the other side of those logs? What did he see? What did he hear? Could he sense her breathing? Her heartbeat? Could he smell her scent or the remnants of the small fire they’d built last night? The gunpowder she’d been handling?
He reached toward their shelter, as if he knew it was there somewhere. His hand grasped hold of one the sticks Black Eagle had constructed as part of the structure’s deception. All he needed to do was pull on that stick and their lean-to would be revealed.
She waited for it to happen.
But all at once, the warrior paused and looked off as though he had caught sight of something or was listening to some noise. He straightened.
What did he see? What did he hear? Marisa listened closely, but she could distinguish nothing over the pounding of her heart.
Through the tiny crack in the bark, she watched as the warrior stood up straighter, his eyes fixed on a thing in the distance. And then, as silently as he had come, he disappeared out of her view.
Was he still there? Or had he left the valley?
She waited, and she waited. Coming silently up onto her knees, she took a position beside the crack in their walls, staring out through it. Ah, there he was, off in the distance, leaving their valley in a crouched-over run. Marisa sat perfectly still, in thought. She didn’t know whether to be glad of his departure or worri
ed because of it.
What had caused him to go? Were there more warriors that he had gone to meet? Had he gone to get reinforcements? Or had Black Eagle come back somehow? Had he seen the warrior and managed to distract him?
And if Black Eagle had, was he now in danger?
A disturbing thought occurred to her. What would she do if something happened to Black Eagle?
Since coming to this valley, he had been gone from her many times, but she hadn’t worried about him. Perhaps she should have been. How would she know if something did happen to him? If he didn’t return, should she try to find him?
And if she did leave to attempt to discover his whereabouts, how was she to do it? She had no sense of direction, no way to know how to locate him or how to find his trail, let alone how to survive in the wilderness alone.
But on that thought came another. If something had happened to him, what would she do? Besides her own fate, how would she react to his loss?
Marisa’s thoughts overwhelmed her. It was simply too much calamity for her consideration. First Sarah, and now this.
So she sat and did nothing. Worried, frantic, she contemplated her life now and in the future. It wasn’t at all surprising, therefore, that hours later, she was still sitting in the same spot, aware that she was alone and very worried. Worse, tears fell over her cheeks. She hadn’t even been aware of crying.
Something was wrong. Darkness was approaching. Moreover, Black Eagle hadn’t returned.
What to do? Should she stay here? Go look for him?
Anything seemed better than nothing. To stay here when there was the possibility that Black Eagle was hurt or in danger didn’t feel right. And yet, what good would she be to him?
Despondent, she gazed down at the weapons she’d been cleaning. Weapons… She’d forgotten about them.
That was when she recognized a truth: she had weapons. With these tools lying here in her lap, she could be a force to be reckoned with.
That was all it took to decide her. Picking up a knife and its case, she strung it around her neck where she would have easy access to it. She then bent forward to grasp hold of the musket. At last she rose from the position she’d been keeping for hours and hours.
At first her leg muscles protested, but then, as she stepped out of the shelter and into the dim light of evening, she realized she was glad. Glad to be here. Glad to be well armed and ready to protect her man, if need be.
She didn’t know what direction to take, but again, anything was better than nothing.
Black Eagle couldn’t be certain what had caused him to sense the presence of the enemy. Perhaps it was a disturbance in the air. Maybe it was the lack of the normal sounds of the forest, for there should have been birds singing or an occasional sighting of an animal.
He frowned. He had left their shelter early in the morning, had been en route to the rapids, there to search another section of the river for Miss Sarah. But suddenly, he had stopped short.
There was another being in the forest. It didn’t matter how he knew it, the point being that he did know it.
Meticulous attention to detail helped him find the enemy’s trail, but it had taken him much time to discover it. With the necessity of backtracking and erasing his own tracks, it had been well into the afternoon before he’d come upon the distinctive markings of an Ottawa warrior. Black Eagle’s heart lurched.
Bending down, he studied the tracks, for they would tell a history of his enemy.
He was a heavy man, perhaps fifty years of age. It was possible, thought Black Eagle, that one of his victims had been this man’s son. Such would make sense, because the frenzy that Black Eagle could read in the tracks spoke of an unstable mind. Indeed, the bad mind was at work within this warrior; it was a mind filled with revenge. This knowledge was all there to be read in the different markings of the tracks.
There was only the one track, however, which was unusual and equally dangerous, since a warrior seldom struck out on the warpath alone. To have done so might indicate, again, an instability, a man who would do anything.
It wasn’t until Black Eagle beheld that the tracks were leading to the valley where he had set up camp that his heart shot into his throat. Ahweyoh!
Black Eagle immediately set out at a run, his speed picking up pace quickly as he raced toward the valley, jumping over obstacles, knocking over branches and bushes in his way. Gone from his mind was the need to backtrack and cover his own ground.
He pulled up in the woods, just short of the clearing where he had set up camp. It was all he could do to keep himself from rushing full force at the enemy and engaging the man in hand-to-hand combat. To do so, however, would be folly. The Ottawa could kill Ahweyoh first, then turn and kill him.
Alert, Black Eagle watched as the man crept toward the hideaway. He was at the ready when that same enemy reached down to pull back the branches Black Eagle had scattered around their shelter to hide it.
At any minute, the warrior would discover Ahweyoh. Would Black Eagle be fast enough to avert a disaster?
Quickly, Black Eagle tried to put the knowledge he had gained from reading the man’s tracks to some plan that would defeat him. There was one detail that might do it: This enemy warrior was not altogether in his right mind. It was possible this man had tried to convince his friends to stay on the trail with him, but they, sensing the warrior’s madness, had left him alone, going home to their own fires or to rejoin the French.
Could it be that the Ottawa expected his friends to have a change of heart? To join him in his quest for revenge? If that were the case, Black Eagle might be able to distract the man with a sign, some signal the Ottawa might expect from his friends.
Shimmying up a tree to about its midpoint, Black Eagle imitated the mother’s call of the dove, a common signal amongst tribes. He repeated the call once.
At last the warrior stood away from the shelter. He looked off to his right, to his left, scanning the horizon.
Black Eagle repeated the call.
The Ottawa warrior retreated, angling back into the woods in the direction from where the call had originated. But the danger wasn’t past. Far from it.
Black Eagle would follow the man, if only to ensure his own peace of mind and to make certain the warrior posed no further threat.
This had been a mistake.
Marisa was the first to admit it. She should have stayed where she was. She would be of no use to anyone as she was. She was lost. Worse, she was terrified.
Every sigh of the wind, every branch that rubbed against another had her jumping.
What was that? A footfall? Dear Lord, it was pitch-black in this forest. She could see nothing but black shapes in the trees. Was she alone, or was she being stalked?
If she were being stalked, was it some deer, elk or bear? Worse, was it the Ottawa warrior?
There it was again. The crack of a twig. A footfall.
It couldn’t be Black Eagle. Surely, if it were he, he would make himself known to her.
She knew she shouldn’t, that she should remain as quiet as possible. But she was beyond fright. She called out, “Black Eagle, is that you?”
No response.
She inhaled, brought up the musket to chest level, and spoke again, “Who is it that follows me? Show yourself.”
Nothing. At least not at first.
But then came the singing. It was a man’s voice, and the words were indistinguishable. The key was minor. It was an Indian song. But dear Lord, it couldn’t be Black Eagle.
The verse was repeated, but this time, it came in English:
“I have found an English foe. I will kill her.
I have found an English foe. I will kill her.
She shall pay for my son’s death.
She shall pay for my son’s death.
I will kill her. Slowly, slowly.
&n
bsp; She will beg for mercy.
I swear to you, my son, that she will beg for mercy.”
This had definitely been a mistake. Involuntarily, a warmth ran down her leg, and she realized this might surely be the last breath she would ever take. It was really too bad, because despite her own misgivings, she had finally found love. Dear Lord, she wanted to live.
But she was no match for an Indian warrior, and certainly not one who had been trained for war all his life.
However, if this were to be her last stand upon this earth, the least she could do would be to show resistance. Why make it easy for the beast?
Perhaps it was this last thought that sparked a remnant of courage within her. She was frightened, and she could barely stand up straight, but raising her musket to shoulder level and pointing it in the direction of the shadows, she called out, “If you mean to kill me, sir, then come and do it. It must be easy to make war on a woman, since you have little to fear from me.”
Had that really been her voice? Had she truly challenged an Indian warrior?
Apparently she had, for the man stepped forward into an opening in the trees. She could barely make out his shape, but of one thing she was certain: she was no physical match for him. In one of his hands was a tomahawk and in his other was a musket. He was big, he was burly, and it was useless to believe she would ever be the winner against him.
Still, if she were going to go down, she had best do it in a blaze. “How is it you would prefer to die, sir?”
A knife flew toward her, finding the fullness of her skirt. It caught there, then dropped to the ground.
In reaction, she took careful aim with the musket and fired. But the man had moved out of range, and her shot hit nothing better than the bark of a tree.