Her Cheyenne Warrior (Harlequin Historical)

by Lauri Robinson

  “I do not wonder, Poeso, I know.” His gaze went back to the moon. “If we had survived, as many did not, we would be on the reservation, with few resources to feed and clothe our family. It is because you entered our village that The Horse Band survived and has land for the next generation. We have much to be thankful for.”

  She laid her head against his chest. Upon returning to his village from the fort all those years ago, she’d told him what Elliot had told her about the government, the reservations, the wars that were coming. He hadn’t been surprised and had willingly listened to her suggestions. Others, though, had not. Black Horse had held many Tribal Councils with leaders of several bands and tribes, had tried to persuade everyone to follow their example, but many had chosen differently.

  In the end, only members of his band had followed them to Montana that fall, where her uncles had arranged the purchase of twenty thousand acres of land.

  Just as Elliot had predicted, the army had attacked many bands that year, and in the years that followed, herded Indians down to Oklahoma like cattle. Others had been sent to small reservations in Colorado and Montana, on land that wasn’t rich enough to provide sustenance for so many lives.

  It had been hard to hear what had become of so many they’d known and loved, but never once had Black Horse blamed her, nor had he complained about the changes to their life. Instead, he had put all his efforts into making it successful. He’d accomplished that beyond her expectations, and he was as generous as ever. Over the years they had purchased more acreage, and had deeded it over to extended family members as well as their children.

  In the beginning, they had only sold the horses they raised to Uncle Elliot, for Wells Fargo, which, with all their stagecoaches, had been enough, but as time went on others wanted the superior horses raised at The Cheyenne Moon Ranch. Black Horse and his horsemanship skills were now widely renowned even beyond the shores of America.

  Part of that could be due to the many books her long-time friend Betty had written. Lorna had read every one of them, and though she questioned Betty’s memory of a few events, she never told her friend that. Betty’s efforts and her books had made a difference in the treatment of Indians nationwide, and for that, Lorna was grateful.

  The other women she’d started this magnificent journey with were still two of her closest friends. Tillie had stayed in California, married a man Uncle Elliot knew, and acted as if Lorna’s grandchildren living out there were her very own. She often traveled with them to visit. Meg, however, was close by. She had married Stands Tall and lived on a neighboring ranch—land Black Horse had deeded them. Meg also had her sister nearby. Little One and Silver Fox were on another nearby ranch.

  Black Horse kissed the top of her head. “It is done.”

  Lorna stepped back to look at him. “What is?”

  “The century has arrived,” he said. “It is now nineteen hundred.”

  “I didn’t hear—” She stopped as the chimes of the mantel clocked echoed from inside the house. “You’ll never need a clock, will you?”

  “I have no need.”

  She stepped closer again and pressed up against him. Nipping at an earlobe, she whispered, “I know something you need.”

  He grasped both her hips, holding her firmly against him. “I need, or you need?”

  Kissing his neck, she said, “I think it’s mutual.”

  “Epeva’e.” He spun around then. “Come, my wife, I will show you how a great leader treats his woman.”

  She laughed. “I think you mean that I’ll show you how a great leader bows to the woman he loves.”

  He shook his head. “It’s fortunate you are a good lover, because you will never make a good translator.”

  Marching past him through the open doorway, she replied, “Only because I never wanted to be a translator.” As he shut the door, she pivoted about and looped her arms around his neck. “I only ever wanted to be your wife, and that I am very good at.”

  “Heehe’e,” he answered, and then kissed her as if they were back in his lodge, or under the waterfall, or in the hayloft, or...

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss these other great reads from Lauri Robinson:

  THE WRONG COWBOY

  A FORTUNE FOR THE OUTLAW’S DAUGHTER

  SAVING MARINA

  And for a taste of the 1920s, try her rip-roaring DAUGHTERS OF THE ROARING TWENTIES

  miniseries!

  THE RUNAWAY DAUGHTER (UNDONE!)

  THE BOOTLEGGER’S DAUGHTER

  THE REBEL DAUGHTER

  THE FORGOTTEN DAUGHTER

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE OFFICER’S TEMPTATION by Marguerite Kaye, book one of SCANDAL AT THE MIDSUMMER BALL.

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  The Officer's Temptation

  by Marguerite Kaye

  BOOK ONE OF SCANDAL AT THE MIDSUMMER BALL

  Chapter One

  Saturday June 14th, 1817

  Brockmore Manor House Party

  Programme of Events

  Welcoming Party in the Drawing Room

  Exhibition by the World-Famous

  Russian Acrobat Troupe

  The Flying Vengarovs in the Ballroom

  The drawing room of Brockmore Manor faced due west, looking out over the extensive formal gardens of the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s country estate. The heady scent emanating from the nearby rose arbour wafted in through the open windows on the faintest of breezes. A veritable cornucopia of English roses both inside and without, Colonel Fergus Kennedy of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot thought wryly, eyeing the fluttering groups of ladies, their pale afternoon gowns in stark contrast to the vibrant cobalt blue of the heavy painted silk wall hangings that gave the room the appearance of an underwater cave. The marine theme was continued on the blue damask sofas which lined the drawing room walls, where naked mermaids and grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs. Similar creatures were carved into the white Italian marble fireplace, and the works of art which adorned the walls had a maritime theme.

  Fergus tugged at his starched neckcloth and edged closer to the open window. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was unseasonably hot. It seemed his host, who had a formidable reputation for scheming and machinations, had also organised the weather. He envied the ladies their light muslin gowns, so much more suited to the heat than his silk waistcoat and heavy d
ark-blue coat, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that he had correctly interpreted the ‘informal’ dress code stipulated for this welcoming party as being ‘London-smart.’

  Fergus was not particularly in the frame of mind to be welcomed. In fact, the prospect was distinctly unwelcome. The truth was, Fergus was beginning to have some reservations as to the wisdom of accepting this invitation and the potential consequences.

  ‘I have made a small wager with myself that you are Colonel Kennedy. May I pat myself on the back and preen indulgently?’

  The man who stood before him was of indeterminate age. Clad in what looked to Fergus like an emerald-green silk dressing gown emblazoned with gold-and-scarlet dragons, he carried a similarly painted fan. His skin was powdered, but he had a disconcertingly determined chin, and the pale-blue eyes which shone beneath the perfectly plucked arched brows were piercing.

  ‘You may do both if you so wish, though attempting them simultaneously may prove problematic. Fergus Kennedy, at your service. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.’

  The thin mouth formed into a delighted smile. ‘I knew it! One look at those shoulders and that ramrod straight back, and I knew you must be a military man. What a shame you decided against wearing your regimentals, Colonel, the ladies do love a Red Coat. I’m rather partial myself. But where are my manners! Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Timothy Farthingale, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘How do you do.’ Farthingale’s exotic appearance was decidedly at odds with his firm handshake, Fergus noted. ‘May I ask if you are acquainted with our hosts? I have not yet introduced myself to them.’

  ‘Never fear, they will make an appearance directly,’ Sir Timothy responded with an airy wave. ‘Marcus and Alicia always choreograph their grand entrances carefully, and I believe we are still several guests short of a party. You have been based in London since Waterloo, I believe?’

  ‘I am, at the War Office, on Horse Guards.’ Fergus winced inwardly. How he hated that blasted desk in that poky office. Tedious did not begin to describe his administrative duties. Someone had to keep track of supplies and equipment but why did it have to be him? It had been bad enough when he was recuperating from the injury he’d sustained at Waterloo, but he’d been fighting fit for at least eighteen months now.

  ‘I am surprised our paths have not crossed before now, Colonel,’ Sir Timothy said, ‘I know everyone who is anyone. It cannot be a lack of invitations which keeps you squirrelled away, for I understood you to be one of Wellington’s brightest protégés.’

  As had Fergus, though his belief had waned, as request after request for a transfer to active duties had been refused, and Wellington’s vague promises of saving him for the right appointment had remained unfulfilled. Until now. ‘You seem uncommonly well informed about a man you have never met,’ Fergus said.

  Sir Timothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be well informed, Colonel. One never knows when the information may prove useful. That man over there, for example, the one who is dressed like a vicar with the face of a cadaver, is Desmond Falkner. A very rich fish indeed, though he reeks of the city. I might—or I might not—choose to dangle a little business proposition in front of him. The three young bucks standing beside him are Douglas Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, Jessamy Addington and Jeremy Giltner. Now, they are the duke’s ideal pawns—personable, popular, not too bright, not too dim, well connected and, I am sorry to say, utterly interchangeable.’ Sir Timothy smiled archly. ‘No doubt Brockmore has plans to match each of them up with one of the gaggle of young ladies over by the fireplace. They make a pretty picture, do they not? And don’t they know it!’

  Fergus, who himself was required to have a particular interest in one as yet unidentified young lady, eyed the group with a mixture of dread and anticipation, though he made sure to keep a neutral expression, having quickly deduced that the apparently eccentric Sir Timothy was as sharp as the proverbial tack. ‘Your knowledge of our fellow guests is positively encyclopaedic,’ he said, knowing full well that the man would be unable to resist rising to the bait, thus providing him with much-needed intelligence.

  He was rewarded with an indulgent smile. ‘But I have barely scratched the surface. The buxom blondes are, needless to say, the Kilmun twins, Cecily and Cynthia. Anything you wish to know about anyone—provided you cannot locate me—you will glean from them. The demure-looking lady in white over by the windows is Florence Canby. Don’t be fooled by those innocent doe eyes of hers, Colonel Kennedy. A kissing miss, who never misses a kiss, if you take my meaning?’

  Fergus shifted uncomfortably. Sir Timothy tittered. ‘I see you do. I see also that one of the most lovely of the ladies has not yet arrived. Miss Zara Titus, are you acquainted? No? She is indeed a true beauty but, I regret to say, a jilt. Quite a scandal, our Miss Titus caused less than a month ago. I will wager you any amount that her mother will bag a husband for her before the week is out. There are a few candidates, though she would do well to ignore that tall, rather intimidating gentleman who has just joined the young bucks. That is Mr Kael Gage. I am not at all sure why he is here, but it is certainly not to make a match. I wonder, Colonel, if you could possibly be a candidate for Miss Titus’s hand?’

  ‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.

  ‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’

  Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.

  And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.

  He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’

  Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without the other—and on this, his commander-in-chief was implacable.
‘Such prestigious postings as this come up very rarely, Colonel. You may have to wait two, three, perhaps even four or five years before another becomes available. Do you really enjoy counting muskets that much?’

  The Duke of Wellington’s smile this time had been thin. The threat was barely veiled. Sixteen years, Fergus had served obediently in the army. Now he must march to a different drum, or he might never march again. It stuck in his craw to be manoeuvred in this way, but if he was to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his service, he’d likely die of boredom. A wife, an apparently beautiful, accomplished and well-born wife, was a small price to pay for such an exciting posting. Egypt—that was the thing he had to keep in mind. Egypt and escape from drudgery. Though now he was here...

  Now he was here, he’d better stop wasting his time wishing that he were not. Whatever doubts he might harbour about this arranged marriage, he had no doubts at all about Wellington’s judgement. If he said that his friend’s niece would suit Fergus ‘admirably’ then it was up to Fergus to make sure that she did, because the consequences, if he failed to make a match of it, were unthinkable.

  The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore were now only a few feet away. Fergus braced himself. Looking across the room, he saw Sir Timothy Farthingale deep in conversation with a statuesque flame-haired woman of about thirty, clad in a scarlet dress which clung in all the right places to her voluptuous figure. Sir Timothy, he noticed with an inward smile, was having to work very hard to keep his eyes from that magnificent bosom. Maintaining an act was hard work, it seemed.

  ‘Colonel Kennedy, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard a great deal about you from my friend, Wellington. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Brockmore, and my niece, Lady Verity Fairholme?’

  Fergus bowed first to the duke, then to the duchess, and then to the niece. Lady Verity’s hand was limp in his. While they made the usual introductory small talk her eyes glazed over and her gaze drifted to the painting behind his head. Suppressing his irritation, he nodded and smiled, responding automatically to the duchess’s remarks about the weather, the duke’s enquiries as to Wellington’s health. Lady Verity’s eyes continued to drift around the room. She fluttered her fan in the direction of the Kilmun twins. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to no one in particular, then turned her back, making for a large footstool in the middle of the room, where she ensconced herself, and was immediately joined by the twins.