by Gen Bailey
He nodded. “If it be your pleasure, I would be most honored.”
Still holding onto James’s stare, Marisa placed her gloved hand atop the Indian’s. “This way, please,” she said.
Five
The moon was full, with no cloud cover to eclipse its glow, which by comparison caused the stars overhead to dim their brilliance. The moonlight was ethereal, a mere airy reflection of light that cast a shimmering, silvery glow over everything it touched, the trees, the grasses, the landscape . . . him. Odd how handsome he appeared beneath the misty beams of moonlight.
She studied him for a moment. The night and the misty beams were said to be a woman’s territory. However, an exception should be made for this man, she thought.
His features were strong, yet pleasing; his cheekbones high, his lips full and sensual. Glancing at him now, an odd feeling washed over her. He was handsome, yes, but there was also an indefinable quality about him that made her feel as though she were safe, protected.
Unlike most Mohawk men, his head was not bald. Instead, he wore his hair cropped close. True, the ever-present strip of longer hair sat atop his head in true Mohawk fashion, but it was tempered by the outline of his natural hairline. And in back, a section of his hair was kept long, flowing over his shoulders.
His manner of dress was unusual, and it occurred to her that he was most likely clothed in his very best. His tunic, belted in at his waist, fell to midthigh, resembling a kilt, and it was black with only a hint of white peeking out from beneath it, there at his neck. Perhaps it was because of this tunic, but his manner of dress reminded her of the Scots, except that in this man’s case, his leggings reached high up beneath that kilt. The blanket draped around his shoulders did not detract from or hide his strength, rather it emphasized his shoulder’s width.
Her gaze dipped lower, toward his waist where a wide belt held an assortment of weapons. She looked lower still, toward the apex of his legs, and realizing where her thoughts were leading her, her glance skipped off of him, coming to rest on the deciduous trees of maple, oak and elm, which lined the pathway.
She inhaled, and the musky scents of autumn flooded her senses, magnified in the cool, evening air. It brought to mind the pleasant images of corn husks, pumpkins and apple pie. Dry leaves, crunching beneath their footfalls, scattered over the hard-packed earthen track where they trod.
Overhead a dove cooed, accentuating the serenade of the crickets and the locust. So, too, did the soft music of the violins provide a welcome backdrop. The wind, which blew from behind them, ushered in other sounds, the sighing of the trees beneath Nature’s breath, a nighthawk’s squawk, high in the sky.
“Sir Eagle,” she said at length, as she turned toward him to come directly to the point, “you mentioned that there is a something specific that you wish to say to me.”
“Nyoh—”
“What does that word mean? ”
“Yes,” he answered. “It means yes. There is a matter of some concern that I need to say. Yet, even while I know I should speak of it, I am distracted from my duty by the moon and the starlight. If I had thought you beautiful in the light of day—and I have—it pales in comparison to how you look under the influence of the moonlight.”
She sighed. Beneath his compliment, which seemed to be quite sincere, she softened. It would not do, she thought, to take out her frustration with James and her step-uncle on this Mohawk man, who seemed to continually lift her spirits. She said, “Again you are most flattering to me.”
“No flattery. I speak but the truth.”
She held up a hand, as though to hold back whatever else he might take into his mind to say. “Sir Eagle,” she said, “although I have chosen to bring you away from the party, I cannot be long gone. I would ask that you come to the point.”
“Very well.” He nodded. “Your journey northward—”
“You know of that? ”
“Is it not common knowledge? Is it not the reason for this ball? ”
“I suppose you are right. Yes, about my journey . . . Oh, look!” She pointed toward the sky. “Did you see it? ”
He shook his head. “I did not. I fear my eyes see only you.”
She smiled, her gaze skirting away from his. “ ’Twas a shooting star,” she replied. “ ’Tis said that when a body sees a shooting star, he should make a wish, for it will certainly come true.”
“And did you make a wish? ”
“No, but let me do so now.” She paused, then glanced back toward the evening sky.
“I wonder,” he said, “what is the wish of someone as fair as you? She, who would seem to have most everything? ”
“Oh, my wish ’twas not for myself, rather, ’twas for my friend, Sarah.”
“For your friend. Nyoh, now I understand. As well as beauty, you are a woman of honor.”
She shook her head at him. “I fear that you do me more justice than I might deserve. ’Tis no merit that I simply wish a good life for my friend and companion.”
Black Eagle didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned toward her, pointing to the night sky. “Do you see that group of stars? There in the north sky? ”
“I do.” She nodded. “We call that constellation the Big Dipper.”
“Nyoh, I know. My people, the Ka-nin-ke-a-ka, call it the hunters and the Great Sky Bear.”
“The hunters and the Great Sky Bear,” she repeated. “Does it have a legend? ”
He paused. Then, looking again toward the sky, he said, “Nyoh, it is a legend.”
She smiled at him. “Will you tell it to me? ”
“Nyoh, it would be my pleasure. It is told amongst my people that long ago a great bear terrorized us. The people were starving because none dared go out into the woods to hunt for food or to work the fields.” He glanced back toward her, his look at her soft, yet passionate. “At that time, there were four hunters,” he continued, “and they were the best hunters we have ever known. It is said that they would never give up a trail once they had set out upon it.
“They determined to kill this bear. But it could not be done easily. Each time the hunters tried to trap the bear, he escaped them, always climbing higher and higher into the white snows of the mountains. But the hunters were determined. With the help of their dog, Four-Eyes, they tracked the Great Sky Bear, heading always higher and higher into the mountains, until they finally found him and killed him. But once it was done, and they had feasted on his flesh, the bones of the animal reappeared and the great bear grew up again, and ran away, escaping them.
“Because the hunters could not afford to let the bear loose upon their people, they followed him. They continue to do so to this very day, so that he would not ever disturb our people again. Do you see the four stars there? ”
She nodded.
“Your people say that is the bowl of the dipper, but to my people, that is the Great Sky Bear. And the handle is the hunters. If you look closely, you can barely see the small star, there. That is their dog. With each season, the constellation appears differently in the sky, showing my people the way of the chase. Now, because it is autumn, the great bear reappears in the sky and the hunters begin their chase all over again. Of course, they find him, and kill him. And so it is his blood, dripping down from the heavens, that colors the leaves of the maple trees at this time of year. And the fat that drips from his meat is what makes the grass white.”
He glanced back up at the sky, and Marisa followed his gaze. Silence fell between them, until at last she said, “I believe that I like your story of how that constellation came into being better than the American version that originates from my own culture.”
He nodded. “I, too.”
As Black Eagle had related his tale, they had stopped at the side of a great oak tree. It was a large tree, and one she had always admired. Holding up the ends of her silken skirt, she stepped off the path, treading toward the tree, where, coming up close to it, she leaned back against it and turned toward him.
She bit her
lip and exhaled. Moonlight, indeed, was this man’s friend. As the silvery beams outlined the rises and falls of his face, she thought he was perhaps more handsome than any man had a right to be. He was tall, proud, incredibly male, and, the good Lord help her, she had never felt more female.
Sadly, he was also the exact sort of person her step-uncle would forbid her from.
Perhaps it was this that triggered that latent spark of rebellion, and she asked, “Sir Eagle, tell me. Do Indians kiss? ”
If he were startled by her question, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped toward her. He answered calmly, “Of course.”
“But I mean, do they kiss, lips to lips, like the English do? ”
“I believe” he muttered, as he placed his arm against the tree, “that the English cannot claim complete ownership over something so common as a kiss. All human beings enjoy much the same thing.”
As he spoke, his head had descended so closely to hers, that she realized she could read his thoughts; it was an unbelievably intimate feeling, as though he had become a part of her. He wanted to kiss her. She knew it as surely as the fact that she wanted to be kissed.
Yet, he didn’t do it.
It was wrong of her, so very wrong, considering who she was and who he was, yet she found herself lifting her face up toward his, and she murmured, “I have never been kissed.”
He didn’t utter a word in response to her. Instead, he bent the fraction of an inch required, and gently touched his lips to hers.
Ah! At his touch, fire washed through her, the warmth of the sensation centering in on her lower abdomen. She swooned slightly, and her stomach lightened, then fell, as if butterflies had come to roost there.
The kiss deepened and she could feel her heartbeat race, not only within her chest, but high up in her throat as well. As the fresh scent of him filled her nostrils, her lips clung to his, and she thought she would never forget the clean and woodsy taste of him.
His embrace affected her strangely, causing her to feel as if she had come home; as if she had discovered a bit of heaven, and as every nerve within her clamored for more of something she could not put a name to, she realized she had never felt more alive than she did at this moment. She swayed forward against him, only to have him catch her in his arms.
Placing one of his hands against the small of her back, he urged her in even farther toward him, as close as her skirts would allow. And as his lips made a feast of her, he brought up his other hand to trail his fingers over her cheeks, her eyes and eyebrows, even around to each of her ears. Though his fingers were calloused, she realized that it didn’t necessarily follow that his touch was any less gentle or that she objected.
Unexpectedly, his fingers trailed down over her exposed shoulders, and she moaned. She couldn’t help it. It felt so good.
As if encouraged, his lips met hers again and again, and as his tongue slid into the wet recesses of her mouth, she felt as though her body were ablaze. She sighed, the soft sound of her voice high-pitched against his lips. In response, he shuddered against her, and she wondered if she were having as great an effect on him as he was creating on her.
She wanted him closer, and although his body was pressed up against hers as tightly as possible, he still seemed too far away. In truth, had there been a way to crawl into his skin, she thought she would have gladly done so.
As though inspired by her response, he lifted her up, her feet leaving the ground, and he pressed her back against the tree. His tongue played with hers, foraging deeper into her mouth, then more shallowly. Deeper again, then withdrawing, over and over.
She moaned. She could barely help herself, and she murmured, “What are you doing to me? ”
“I am kissing you,” he answered, as he lowered her, allowing her feet to touch the ground again. “It is nothing more than a kiss.”
“I think you understate the experience,” she said. “Why has no one ever revealed to me that to kiss is to find . . . a little bit of happiness? ”
He didn’t answer at once, but her words seem to animate him, because his arms came around her, and he hugged her tightly. “Perhaps not everyone,” he said, “finds paradise in each and every kiss.”
However, as though to dispute his words, he touched his lips to hers again, and she found herself surrendering once more to his passion.
She whispered, “If you mean by that statement, that you do not feel the quickening of your heart the same as I do, pray do not tell me so.”
“Neh, I was speaking of others, not of you and me. I feel plenty. Perhaps a little too much.”
“Too much? Is there such a thing? ”
He shrugged, and despite her most sincere hopes, he backed up slightly. He said, “It is hard to know. But one matter is certain: There is a delicate balance between desire and control, and when a man is with a woman, he must be in full possession of himself.”
“Indeed? And are you in control now? ”
“Neh. The truth is, I barely have any control left.” He backed up a little farther.
She followed him, however, leaning forward and into his embrace. “Do not go away,” she complained softly. “I fear you are not close enough to satisfy me.”
He groaned. “I know,” he said. He was holding her with one arm and massaging her cheeks and her face with his other hand. Yet, he kept a slight distance between them as he continued speaking, saying, “But since this is your first kiss, I fear to provide you with what it is that I know we both desire.”
“Do not fear me,” she said.
“It is not you that I fear, it is the possible harm I might do you if I give you what it is you seek.”
“And do you know what it is that I seek? ”
“Is it not obvious? You are a woman. I am a man, and though our paths are surely different in this life, I think that desire between two people, once it touches them, respects no boundaries.”
“You speak of desire . . . ? ”
He nodded. “It knows nothing of cultures or the problems that might be created because two people who should not want one another . . . do . . .”
She brought up her white-gloved hand to press it along his shoulder. “Then you admit that you want me? ”
He nodded. “I do. But it is forbidden. We both know it. Therefore, one of us should think logically, and perhaps I am the best person to do so.”
“Yes. Yes.” She straightened. “Of course. I am certain you are right.”
He inclined his head.
“Yet,” her golden brown eyes sought out the dark brown of his, as she continued, “I ask for no more than one more kiss. Is it so very much to ask? ”
For a moment, he appeared tormented, but the look was quickly gone, replaced by a countenance that showed nothing as he said, “There is a danger in committing too many kisses. Perhaps you do not understand that danger, since this is your first experience. But I know what it is that may follow. Know that I am not immune to you. As you may remember, my admiration of you is great.”
“But, pray, you have already kissed me. Surely one more . . .”
He moaned. He leaned forward. She closed her eyes.
“Miss Marisa!”
The call, though spoken no louder than the cry of an eagle, was still blaring enough to shock Marisa. She inhaled deeply. Why did the world have to intrude? And at such a time? Wrenching her glance away from Black Eagle’s, she looked back toward the house.
It was Sarah, who was hurrying down the path toward them. With the dry leaves scurrying hither and thither, and her skirts flaring out behind her, she presented an odd image, as though Sarah were running away, instead of toward them.
Marisa took one more deep breath, and answered, “I am here, Sarah. By the large oak tree, the same one you and I have sat beneath on many a summer day.”
Black Eagle stepped to Marisa’s side.
“Ah, yes, I see you now.” Sarah slowed her pace as she approached them. Briefly her glance took in Black Eagle’s appearance, which she studi
ed for a moment before she addressed Marisa. “I fear that your step-uncle is furious,” Sarah said. “He has sent me here to seek you out and bid you to come back into the ballroom posthaste.”
“I see.”
When Marisa said nothing further, Sarah, still eyeing Black Eagle, went on to add, “However, if you would prefer to stay here, I can pretend I could not find you.”
“And have you incur my step-uncle’s wrath in my place? ”
“It will not be the first time your uncle has shown me the edge of his tongue.”
“Step-uncle,” Marisa corrected.
“You are right, of course.”
Marisa swallowed hard. “However, I suspect that it will do little harm if the three of us return to the party.” Marisa took a tentative step toward Sarah. But Black Eagle didn’t follow, and Marisa found herself gazing over her shoulder at him. “Sir Eagle,” she said, “will you not escort us back into the hall? ”
He didn’t answer at once, and it took a few moments before he said, “Neh, no, I think not. Permit me to take my leave of you here.”
Her eyes sought out his, clung to his, and she said, “I am afraid we did not discuss the matter that was most pressing to you.”
“It will keep until we meet again.”
“And do you suppose that we will meet again? ”
“I believe that we shall.”
She glanced down, then back up at him. “I am not certain that I agree with you, sir, on that regard. You see, I leave Albany in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Ah, yes. So you have said.”
“It is about your journey that I—”
“If you will await me here,” she interrupted, “I will try to determine what it is my step-uncle seeks, and then, since you had little time to tell me what is in your mind, I would return here and hear you out.”
“Would that I could stay and await you,” he said. “But I, too, must leave. There is much preparation I must attend to.”