by Karen Kay
So when his hand reached up, under her nightgown, there to smooth over the calves of her legs, up higher to her knees, her thighs, she only sighed, welcoming the embrace.
He took off her robe and pushed at her nightgown, up over her legs, up further.
She almost cried out. How was this possible? She had never felt these overwhelming sensations, never realized they existed.
The strength of her emotions intensified. He lifted the gown over her hips, touching her in that place most intimate to her.
She swooned.
Soon he left off his caress, taking her gown and sending it upwards further, up and over her head, until she sat before him as vulnerable as the day on which she had come into this world…naked.
And he just gazed at her. He didn’t touch her, he just stared, as though he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him was true.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, and immediately, a warmth began to spread all through her.
He didn’t undress himself, as she’d thought he might; instead he bent toward her, taking one of her rosy nipples into his mouth.
This was too much for her. Did he know what he was doing to her? And dramatically, she wondered if she might not survive the headiness of so much excitement, such overpowering warmth.
Still he went on. Over toward her other nipple, downward, to her navel.
And she ran her hands through his long hair.
“I can’t stand it,” she said at last, unable to account for the feeling building up within her. “I want…I want…”
Was she going to die? Never had she felt such overwhelming intensity.
“What is happening to me?” she asked him, certain he would know the way to release her from this.
He glanced up at her, his gaze full of…what? Desire? Craving? She almost collapsed at the thought. And then, with his palm kneading her breast, he answered, “What is happening to you…to us, is…hunger…for one another, passion. It is good.”
“Is it?”
“Aa, yes.”
“Is it always like this between a man and a woman?”
“Have you never felt this until now?”
She shook her head and, as she did so, she was almost certain she saw him smile.
“Saa, no, it is not always this good between a man and a woman…only when the two people feel strongly for one another. Do you know what this says about us?”
Again, she shook her head.
“It means that we belong to each other, I think.” She wanted so much to believe him, but if what he said were true, where did that leave her relationship with the marquess?
The marquess!
Good Lord, what was the matter with her? How could she have forgotten so easily that she was engaged?
She wasn’t the kind of woman who would cheat on a man…was she? She didn’t think so.
She groaned, but this time not in passion.
It would have been better, she thought, if White Eagle had remained silent, if he had just continued what he was doing without giving her a chance to think.
At least then she wouldn’t have remembered until it was too late.
But it was not to be.
The image of the Englishman had already interposed itself between her and the Indian.
White Eagle did not appear to realize what was taking place within her, for he continued to nuzzle her breast.
“White Eagle,” she said, pushing back her shoulders in order to more fully realize this passion, if only for a tiny moment more. And she could just barely think when she said again, “White Eagle, you must stop.”
He seemed slow to accept what she said, what was happening, until at last, he lifted his head and asked, “Tsa, what?”
She could barely breathe as she gazed at him. “We must stop.”
“Mao’k, why?”
“Because I…I am still engaged to another man and I shouldn’t be here…I shouldn’t be doing this.”
At her words, White Eagle merely shrugged his shoulders and bent back toward her, saying, “He is no man for you.”
She pushed him up and away from her, saying, “That may very well be,” she responded, “and he may not be the right man for me, but until I do something about our engagement—if I do something about it—I remain his fiancée, and I… It is not right that we…that I…”
She glanced down and was reminded that she sat naked before this man and, suddenly feeling shy, she reached her hand out to see if she could find her gown. White Eagle caught her hand.
“Saa, no,” he said, stilling her hand. “Let me gaze upon you a little longer.”
She swallowed. “This is not right.”
“Saa, no,” he said, “what is between us is good, is full of promise. It is your vow to this Englishman that is in error.”
She gulped. “I am not in a position to…” She stole a glance up at White Eagle and sighed. “Yes,” she said, “for me to find myself in this sort of predicament, means that you could be right. Still, I…”
“Could be right? That is all?”
“Yes, well, most likely you are correct, however I…” Her shyness growing steadily within her, she reached out her hand once again for her gown.
“Here.” He picked up the article of clothing for her, pushing it into her hands. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Humph!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I have…pushed you too far into passion, when you are uncertain of your feelings.”
“Then you do understand?”
“Saa, no, not too much. You do not love this man you have decided to marry. And to not love him will cause you trouble, like you have tonight. Do you think you can just hide your passion without causing problems? In all life, there is a magic between the sexes, which causes them to mate. Where this does not exist, no union should take place.”
“But you said that marriages without love take place even in your society.”
“Yes, and they always cause problems and bad feelings between people. You must think on this, and you must think on this well. You have the chance to marry for love.”
“Do I?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he kissed her, the caress reminiscent of the tormented embrace of a lover, his tongue sweeping into the sweet recesses of her mouth, there to tease and torment her. And gradually he lifted his head to say, “Remember this kiss when you awaken in the morning to find yourself still engaged to a man who neither loves nor desires you.”
And then he rose and pushed himself away from her, turning his back upon her, to give her a measure of privacy. He continued to speak to her, saying, “What is between you and this Englishman is as false as the trader’s word of honor. I would ask that you watch this man you say you are to marry, and that you observe this man well, and be willing to see the truth that is there before you.”
She had pulled on her gown and fastened her robe back around her as she listened. And as she stood, she noted that she could barely keep her balance, so carried away was she. Still, she came up behind White Eagle and placed her hand upon his shoulder. She said, “I will try to do this. I promise. But please, White Eagle, try to understand what I do, too?”
He turned around, then, to face her, but he didn’t smile at her as she had hoped that he might; nor did he show any emotion at all as he said, “I do.”
Then, sauntering away from her, he motioned to her as he said, “Come, I will take you back to the white man’s house. We will leave at first light.”
And she nodded agreement as she responded, “First light.”
Chapter Twelve
They left at noon.
The marquess hadn’t been ready. He had tried to stall, had tried to evade their party by pretending illness. But in the end, he’d had little choice, it being understood that because of the race and its outcome, he would have to go. Besides, Katrina had made it clear that she would not fund any more of his excursions in her abse
nce.
She had bought a buggy for the trip, or rather a “buckboard,” a multipurpose wagon and open carryall, painted black, even to the wheels. In the back of the buckboard she had been able to stow her Saratoga containing her dresses and underclothes, as well as those of her maid’s, but the majority of the wagon’s rear space was taken up, not by her or her maid’s things…but by the hats, the waistcoats, the particulars, even the wigs of the marquess.
The marquess…she had done quite a bit of thinking about him, about their engagement, after she had returned to her room last night, and she had finally decided that she needed to speak with the man.
It was better to be truthful, she had decided, than to try to live her life with a lie. Better she tell the marquess now that she did not love him than after several years of marriage.
She could see the wisdom of what White Eagle had told her. If she did not act now, she could cause problems in the future, for herself, for others.
It wasn’t that she had changed her mind about the Indian way of life or about this land. After all, she had grown up accustomed to luxury, where every whim or desire had been hers. She couldn’t just transplant herself elsewhere, away from all she had known, and expect to be happy. Nor could she expect White Eagle to do so.
Checkmate.
Yet, she had decided she must speak with the marquess. It was the only way to be fair to herself, to him.
And so she had tried to seek out the marquess several times this day, only to be repelled by him. The marquess had too many other things to do, it would seem, than to spend any time speaking to her.
And in some ways she was glad to be able to put the business aside for the moment, so distasteful did it seem.
“What do you mean that you think I should not have brought my dogs?”
Katrina glanced up to survey the marquess and the area around her. Their party—the four Indians, the marquess, his hounds and his men, along with Katrina and her maid—had set forth from the fort shortly before the noonday meal, and they had been journeying in a westerly direction all afternoon.
They had stopped to set up camp less than an hour ago, but it was becoming obvious to Katrina that neither the marquess, nor his two men, were accustomed to so much activity.
Katrina studied the marquess’s men for a moment with dubious humor. That these men were supposed to be setting up their camp, that they were failing miserably, was beginning to take on the aspects of a comedy, and she found herself suppressing a grin.
“My good man,” the marquess was continuing, “I came here to hunt, and hunt I shall do. Now.” The marquess, clearly upset, brushed aside one of his men as though he were of no account. When next the marquess spoke, he addressed White Eagle, who sat on the ground carving an arrowhead. The marquess had come to stand directly in front of the Indian, the tips of his boots landing only inches away from White Eagle’s hands. White Eagle, however, didn’t acknowledge the marquess even as the Englishman said in a loud, bellowing voice, “Now, Indian, what is all this nonsense I hear about savages and dogs?”
White Eagle continued working over the arrowhead, not even glancing upward toward where the Englishman stood. And without so much as a pause in his work, White Eagle asked, “Nonsense?”
“Yes”—the marquess waved a hanky in the air, while he maneuvered one hand onto his hip—“something about how Indians love their dogs. One of my men was simply going on and on about it. Do tell, won’t you? What is all this commotion about?”
White Eagle shrugged and, still without looking up, he said, “Indians love their dogs…”
“There, see.” The marquess waved his hanky at one of the men.
“Taste good.”
The marquess became quiet, suddenly quiet, and it might well have been Sunday and this a house of worship so hushed did it become. And for some moments, the marquess seemed incapable of any speech at all. But at length, the Englishman appeared to take some stock of himself, although his mouth remained open and his hanky fell to the ground. “Taste good?”
White Eagle nodded and rubbed his tummy. “Mmmmm…”
The marquess backed away, one hand to his chest, the other to his forehead. He said, “Surely you don’t mean to tell me that you heathens eat innocent animals, do you? You wouldn’t… You couldn’t…”
“You eat dog and see. Taste good.”
“My good man, I say…I simply won’t have this. I—”
“My lord, is something the matter?” Katrina had come to stand behind the marquess.
But the marquess seemed incapable of saying another word.
Holding on to his belly, the Marquess of Leicester rushed from the encampment and hurried to a nearby creek, where the Englishman proceeded to lose the contents of his stomach.
Katrina stared after the marquess for some moments before she glanced down at White Eagle. “What did you say to him?”
White Eagle didn’t look up at her. And when he spoke, all he said was, “I only discussed dinner with your fiancé. That is all.” With this, White Eagle rose to his feet where he stood, towering over her.
She asked, “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
She paused. “Actually, I overheard what was said. Do Indians really eat dogs?”
White Eagle shrugged. “The Crees do, as do the Lakota and the Gros Ventres.”
She made a face.
“It is an honoring ceremony and a sacred feast.”
She shuddered. “Well, I don’t care for it.”
And he grinned. “Nor do I, nor any of my people. We do not eat the dog. He is our friend.”
“Then why did you tell him—”
“If he was not smart enough to learn all that he could about the people he was to travel with, rather than running his dogs all over the prairie…” White Eagle shrugged, “…then he is not worthy enough for consideration.”
“But White Eagle…”
“Why do you defend this man who has not shown you any care?”
“Because he…” She stopped. Why was she? Because of his title? Because proper English etiquette demanded that she do so? Somehow all of this faded in importance out here.
She changed the subject. “Tell me, White Eagle,” she said, “if you do not believe the dog should be treated so badly, why do you allow your Indian neighbors to…to…?”
“To what? To eat the dog? Do you think I should tell another man how to live?”
“Well…yes.”
“Sooner I would try to lasso the wind.”
She gave him a look.
He crossed his hands over his chest, straightened to his full height, and stared down at her. “A man, if he is to be of any use to his tribe, must be free to think and to do as he pleases so long as he does not harm his friends or the tribe. A tribe needs all of its men able to act quickly, independent of one another. How can that be brought about when one constantly questions the thoughts and actions of another? Better it is to respect the beliefs and practices of another as long as they bring no great harm. Only in this way can a man be made wise.”
Silence. She didn’t know what to say. After a while, however, she remarked, “I…I guess I never stopped to…” She glanced up at him quickly. “Tell me, do all Indians believe as you do?”
He shrugged. “I can only speak for myself. But I can tell you this, it is well-known amongst my people that if one wants to make a good man, a man who is a defender of his tribe, one must treat him well, too.”
“I…I suppose that makes sense.”
He smiled. “Aa, yes. And if it is true, tell me then, why the white man makes other men slaves? What does he intend for those people?”
“I…”
“You do not have to answer.” He lifted up his gaze then to glance around him. “Have you yet decided,” he asked, “what you are going to do about this Englishman?”
“I… Yes, I have decided I will be truthful with him.”
White Eagle nodded. “This is always a good decision. So you
are going to tell him you can no longer be engaged to him?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Is that not the truth?”
“I don’t know, White Eagle. I thought I would just simply tell him that I do not love him, that I never have, and let him decide what to do.”
“And you think this will matter to him, that you do not love him?”
“I don’t know. It may, it may not. At any rate, he will know the way I feel, and if he decides he still wishes to marry me, then I am obligated to continue the engagement.”
“You are not.”
“I am. I gave the man my word of honor. What else do I have if I do not have my pride?”
“Happiness,” he answered, and Katrina straightened back her shoulders, so greatly did that simple statement disturb her.
He took one step closer to her, and there was a look in his eye which was clearly erotic as he remarked, “Should I remind you of how happy you could be if you made another decision?”
“White Eagle, please.”
He smiled, while his hand gently rose to stroke a wayward curl, the light in his eye clearly teasing.
But she didn’t see it. She swiped his hand away, although her body rebelliously swayed in closer to him.
And he said, “Know this, Shines Like Moonlight, there is one decision I cannot make for you, and that is whether you remain engaged to this man. You must not leave this choice to the Englishman, for he will not break his hold on you, so much does he wish your money, I think.”
“Then what am I to do? I have given him my word.”
He stared at her for some moments before he finally said, “Perhaps you will need some help. I will have to think on this.”
“I don’t need your help, I…”
But she spoke to no one, for White Eagle had already turned away from her, leaving Katrina to watch him while he paced down toward the marquess’s friends, where the two men still tried to set up a tent.
Those men looked so strange, she thought, in this setting, their usually immaculate clothing torn and hanging about them in tatters as they attempted to set up camp, one man holding several stakes and looking puzzled, while the other studied a rope in his hand.