White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2

by Karen Kay

  The color drained from her face as she turned toward him and said, “You do threaten me.”

  The marquess straightened out the cuffs of his shirt. “I prefer to believe that I am making you see sense, before you have to…recompense.” He snickered. “How clever that was, do you see? It rhymed.”

  Katrina didn’t laugh, and her expression grew serious. “My lord, I hardly believe that I have done anything that would cause you to—”

  He held up his hand. “Does it matter? The fact remains that we have an agreement. And do remember that you would be ruined, my dear, utterly ruined, if I attach your name to that of the Indian’s, and I would not hesitate to…” The pony that had disturbed them earlier suddenly reappeared and whinnied, pushing up against the marquess, forcing him to trip. The Englishman righted himself and tried to shoo the animal away, but to no avail. “Where has this bloody pony come from?”

  Katrina didn’t answer.

  “Bloody nuisance.”

  “Please, my lord.”

  “Oh, do forgive me and my choice of words. But now, you do understand me, don’t you, m’dear?

  Never assumed you did love me, as I certainly do not love you. Nothing to do with marriage, I say, quite.”

  “But I—”

  “I will not let you break this marriage contract. Look at all the trouble I have gone to in order to obtain it! Do you think I would just walk away from this?”

  Katrina remained silent.

  “Good, now that we understand one another and have this all settled, shall we return to the others?”

  “Please, my lord, one final question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How would you propose to scandalize me if I never return to New York?”

  “Never return, m’dear?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I shall be forced to sue you for breach of contract.”

  “Impossible.”

  “We made an agreement. We drew up a contract. I expect you to honor it, and if you do not, there are always the courts, which, I believe, would greatly favor me. But enough of this. I, for one, have had enough of this terrible talk. I think that we understand each other well enough. Now, let us return to the others and pretend that this conversation never occurred, shall we?” Again, the Englishman stumbled forward, due to the prodding of the pony from behind, but this time the animal also neighed, and pushed at the man more forcefully. “What?”

  “My lord,” said Katrina, “please, is there nothing we can do to settle this? Surely you cannot deny that you seem to take no pleasure in being in my company; in truth, it has appeared to me that you prefer the companionship of your servants to me.”

  The marquess stood up stiffly. “Whatever do you mean? Do you accuse me?”

  “No, my lord, accuse you of what? I am only trying to point out that our…differences make us unsuitable as marriage partners. Would you not agree that it is best that we stop this thing before it is more permanently settled? After all, one could hardly bring children into a marriage such as ours and under such circumstances—”

  “Children? Who said anything about children, rot their bloody souls.”

  “My lord!”

  Another bump from the pony, and the marquess screwed up his face. “Can’t we do anything about this animal?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What? What is that?”

  “My lord?”

  “The Indian. That Indian…” A look of total disbelief crossed the marquess’s face. “That…the Indian is leading my hounds, my precious dogs, away from the encampment. Oh, damn his soul, no! He’s taking them away. He wouldn’t dare to. No, he wouldn’t cook them…”

  Katrina heard little more. The marquess had already departed her company, was even now rushing across the prairie, following after White Eagle, who, it was true, was leading the marquess’s dogs out across the brown-tinted fields.

  Katrina stood shocked, and not because White Eagle led the marquess’s hounds to some unknown purpose.

  It hadn’t gone well.

  And she wondered if the Englishman could really do all that he said he could?

  Could he ruin her? Sue her? Declare her immoral?

  She moaned. Yes, he could and he probably would.

  It was too easy a thing to do, the ruining of a woman’s reputation, a situation which was altogether an unjust circumstance, since a woman’s prestige and dignity were all that she had.

  But it would only require a hint dropped here, a suggestion, there.

  Besides, unbeknownst to the marquess, he would be telling the truth, a fact she would never be able to deny.

  What could she do?

  She didn’t know; she just didn’t know. But of one thing she was certain—she would not marry this man. Not now. Not ever.

  Just then, the Indian pony gently nudged her as she stood there, the wind gently blowing a strand of her hair into her face, and as she reached around behind her to pet the horse, the animal having stuck its nose against her shoulder, she turned slightly, to look at it.

  This was the same mount that had carried White Eagle across the finish line at the fort only a few days previous, the same pony that had appeared intelligent, thinking even before its master guided it.

  It was odd, but suddenly, recalling this, Katrina felt a tiny bit more lighthearted, and gradually, so slightly it would have barely been noticed, she smiled.

  They heard the roar of the river long before they came to it, the rushing stream pounding over rocks and running along its bed as though it possessed some furious purpose and was fast upon it.

  The air here seemed heavier, filled with moisture, as they more closely approached the source of the sounds.

  Katrina looked at the mad, rushing water and then at White Eagle. “Must we cross this?” she asked, their party coming up quickly upon the water. She was riding one of the several mounts which had been brought along with them, while the marquess’s two men drove the wagon.

  Rebecca, seated upon another steed, had positioned herself close to Katrina, while the marquess pulled up the rear of their party, his hounds ever barking, sniffing at the ground and running along beside their master.

  Two of the Indians led their party; Night Thunder, scouting far in advance and White Eagle leading their group, while Good Dancer protected them all from the rear. The Indian woman walked in the middle, alongside her beast of burden, and Katrina thought it odd that not only had she never heard the native woman complain, but the woman seemed quite happy and in full possession of her self.

  “This river,” White Eagle spoke to Katrina, “is fed from the nearby mountains.” He pointed to a range that towered above the landscape to the north, not too far away. “See how quickly this current runs? It will not be an easy crossing, still we must do it.”

  Katrina looked at the water, at the steep bank angling down to it, then back toward the agitated current. “It doesn’t appear to be passable. Is there no better place than this to cross?”

  White Eagle shrugged. “Perhaps, but none so shallow. Wait here.” With little more said, White Eagle left her to ride back toward Good Dancer.

  Katrina watched White Eagle trot toward the rear, and she prepared to wait. He was not gone for long, however. After only a few moments, White Eagle hurried back toward her.

  “We will pause here while we make a bull boat.”

  “A bull boat?”

  White Eagle nodded.

  “What is a bull boat?”

  “A boat that the Mandan Indians make to cross the river. It is very sturdy, and we will copy it. Do not worry.”

  “I do not,” Katrina drawled. “What I was really wondering is, is it necessary to make a boat at all? Can’t we find a place where we can cross without worry? I fear it might take too long to make a boat, when we could better occupy our time trying to find a more suitable passage across.”

  “Humph!” was White Eagle’s response, as he made to move away, but Katrina reached out to catch a
t his arm.

  She questioned, “Now that we are on our way, shouldn’t we make all haste to get to my uncle?”

  White Eagle glanced down at his arm, where her fingers lingered over his skin, then back up at her. He said, “Often it is that I wish you would touch me as you are now when we are in private.” His glance at her was solemn when she looked up at him, although a gleam of humor shone from his eyes.

  “White Eagle, please, you tease me instead of setting my mind at ease by answering my question.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Answer you? A man is held accountable only to his woman. Are you my woman that you put all these questions to me?”

  “White Eagle!”

  This time he grinned at her. “Shines Like Moonlight would make a good wife.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. But, if you doubt it, why do we not find this out ourselves? Tonight, when the moon is low.”

  “White Eagle, please, be serious.”

  “I am.”

  She gave him a look meant to silence him.

  It clearly didn’t work, she noted, as he grinned back at her. “You come to me tonight and I will show you how serious I am.”

  “White Eagle, please…”

  He sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I will tell you why we will build this boat. There is no other crossing that is more shallow than this. And this boat is important.” He spoke to her seriously, though his look at her remained rakish. “Now, there are some people in your party who, like the cougar, will not wish to get wet and”—here he leaned forward over his pony—“like the mountain lion, these few people will claw and scratch, I think, if the Indian does not try to keep them dry.”

  “Oh?” She threw back her head. “Since when did you care?”

  His answer was a shrug.

  “White Eagle?”

  He glanced at her.

  “You are planning something, aren’t you?”

  White Eagle’s countenance became suddenly blank, almost innocent, as he said, “Would I?”

  “Yes, you would.”

  He didn’t smile, he didn’t gloat, he didn’t do anything that might cause her concern, except…

  “We will make the boat,” he said, before he proceeded to move away from her.

  Had she been looking at him carefully, she would have witnessed his grin at her just as he turned away.

  But she didn’t see.

  It took the Indians less than an hour to fabricate the boat, it being scantily constructed of several buffalo hides stretched over a crude framework of willow branches, the willow being the closest wood to hand. A paddle had been made from a few tree limbs, too, and within little time, Katrina observed many of their party’s supplies neatly stowed within the bull boat, although Katrina took note that it was only the marquess’s things.

  White Eagle motioned the marquess forward just as Katrina began to set foot into the boat. But White Eagle motioned her away, despite her protest, making signals to his friends to bring forward the marquess…and his dogs. White Eagle turned to Katrina. “You will ride in the wagon across the river.”

  “But I don’t wish to wet my dress, and I might if I don’t…”

  White Eagle looked sternly at her, and she fell silent, as he clearly had meant her to. She watched as the marquess sauntered toward them.

  “Ah, finally,” the marquess said to White Eagle as he stepped into the boat, “you savages are recognizing your betters. It is about time.”

  “Humph!” was the guttural response from White Eagle as he motioned to his friends, and, at a signal, the marquess’s hounds joined him in the crude structure.

  White Eagle beckoned to Good Dancer to come forward, and after some counseling, Good Dancer strode toward the water, taking the rope of the boat in his hand and leading the craft into the water.

  He began to swim ahead of the boat, tugging the craft out into the swirling currents.

  No sooner had the marquess set out in the boat, when White Eagle directed both Katrina and Rebecca into the wagon.

  The women seated themselves and immediately, upon doing so, the marquess’s two men—who had been driving the wagon—started the horses forward, into the swift-rushing currents. This being done, White Eagle and Night Thunder took hold of the rest of the horses and began guiding those animals, too, across the water.

  No one appeared to notice the bull boat being led farther and farther downstream, away from the main party; not even the marquess, who, it would seem, was busily engaged in gazing at the sky and sipping the wine he had managed to bring with him.

  Trouble hit without warning. One of the ponies pulling the wagon stepped into a pool of quicksand and jerked on his bridle, unseating the drivers and shooting them forward. The horse next to it reared, becoming entrenched, itself, in the mire and only the fast action of the two drivers saved the wagon from the same fate. The men righted themselves and whipped at the ponies, cursing them in a more colorful language than Katrina would have liked to hear, but the driver’s efforts were to no avail; the poor ponies could not extricate themselves, not with their burdens of bridle and harness.

  One of the horses tried to rear again, its action tilting the wagon off kilter. Off slid the marquess’s baggage and particulars as well as her Saratoga, all tossed into the sandy murk of the quicksand and, had the two women not been holding on to their seats, they would have been flung overboard, too.

  Katrina screamed; Rebecca, also.

  The two women held onto one another as readily as they did to the wagon, and Katrina, as the wagon sank deeper and deeper, decided it would be better to jump for freedom, rather than sink into the muck of the sand.

  “We’re going to jump off this wagon,” she yelled above the noise of the ponies and drivers’ cursing.

  “I can’t,” came Rebecca’s reply. “I’m afraid.”

  Katrina took her maid’s hand. “We’ll do it together, all right? It’s better than staying here. Now, ready, one, two, three.”

  The two of them jumped, landing in the sandy marsh instead of sanctuary, their feet sinking quickly into the wash.

  Both women shrieked.

  Suddenly it was over. Strong hands caught hold of Katrina and pulled her out, bringing her up and onto a horse.

  Barely able to hold on to the pony, she looked up into White Eagle’s face. She didn’t say a word, nor did he, as he nestled her against him.

  “Rebecca…is she…?”

  “She is fine. My friend has her. Hold on to me,” he said, and as soon as he ensured she had a firm grip upon him, White Eagle whipped the pony into the fury of the river, forcing the animal to swim against the current and, it would seem, against all odds.

  Onward, across the river, defying the swirling water and eddies, they swam, the pony’s body, except for his head, completely submerged.

  The currents unseated them, and White Eagle barely held on to the pony by its tail, though he never took one arm from around her.

  Soon, the other shoreline beckoned, and, within moments, the pony leapt to its feet, White Eagle able to do the same almost as quickly.

  But he didn’t waste any time. “Wait here,” was the only instruction he gave her as he spun back toward his pony, the animal heaving with exhaustion. Still, White Eagle jumped back onto his mount and guided it once more into the water, Katrina watching him cross over, to the other side.

  Good Dancer and Night Thunder had already rushed to the wagon, Night Thunder having deposited Rebecca safely on solid ground much as White Eagle had done with Katrina but, rather than chance the danger of the river, Night Thunder had settled Rebecca upon the safety of the eastern shore of the river, the opposite shore from where Katrina now stood.

  Katrina looked around her to see if she could find any sign of the bull boat, but there was nothing to be found; as best she could tell, the marquess had not landed upon this same shoreline.

  Yet there stood Good Dancer, trying to extricate the wagon. And he had been the one leading
the bull boat. Where were the Englishman and his dogs? Had they been set adrift?

  Far from being alarming, the thought was…amusing.

  Katrina returned her attention to the ponies and the wagon.

  It took the labors of all three Indians and the marquess’s two men finally to extricate the animals from the quicksand.

  But they did it at last, with the least possible damage to the wagon, the ponies or the men…although much of the marquess’s clothing sank further and further into the sandy wallow.

  The Indians and the two servants sprawled for the moment upon the sandy shore…but on the opposite side of the river. And no one seemed in any hurry to see to the marquess and his concerns, wherever he was.

  Almost an hour passed, an hour during which the Indians sat up and smoked, working over something, while the white men rested. Katrina had tried to communicate to them all by shouting across the distance of the river. But it was almost impossible—nothing could be heard over the noise of the river. The most she learned was that Rebecca remained unhurt.

  Finally, the Indians arose; to go in search of the marquess, she supposed.

  More time passed, White Eagle no longer within sight, and Katrina’s clothes had almost dried upon her by the time the Indians returned, the marquess and his dogs trailing behind them. But what had happened to the marquess? He stood drenched from head to foot, while the Indians, in contrast, remained amazingly dry.

  And then she saw that White Eagle did not return with the others.

  “Where is White Eagle?” Katrina yelled across the stream, but no one could hear her.

  She tried again, “Has something happened to White Eagle?”

  Panic rose up within her. Surely, he wasn’t hurt, was he?

  Without realizing what she did, she started toward the river, more willing to face it than remain in ignorance. She had no more than stepped foot in the water when from behind her, came a voice, saying, “Stay here.”

  She recognized that baritone timbre and she turned.

  “White Eagle,” she breathed out in relief, “you are all right.”

  He nodded. “I am here. I am unhurt.”

  “And the others?”