by Karen Kay
He stared down at her, and Genevieve wondered how it seemed that his head had come so much closer to her own. She looked away.
“Then set me free, white woman of no honor—”
“Do not call me that.” She brought her gaze back to him. “And I cannot let you go. For all that I regret doing this to you, I need you. But I promise you that if you let me attend to you now, there will be no further harm to you.” She was more than aware, as she gazed back up at him, that during her speech his face was no more than a few inches from her.
She should back away. She tried to make herself do it; she couldn’t. His head gradually descended toward her. And her reaction? She leaned in closer.
Then it happened. His head came fully down to hers. She didn’t even have a chance to think before all at once his lips crushed down on hers, and in that moment Genevieve thought her world might surely end.
It was a savage kiss…and yet it wasn’t.
Her stomach twisted in response to him; her limbs refused to move, and she couldn’t think to question why this Indian would be kissing her.
In truth, there were a thousand things she should have done, a hundred things she should have uttered. She neither said nor did any of them. Instead, she stepped in closer toward the Indian, and if anything, he leaned farther down.
The kiss deepened, going from savage to sensual, and Genevieve became unable to think of anything else but those lips on her own, their feel, their warmth, their…arousal. She responded in an odd way, too, as though she had known this man all her life, as though this man were some titled English gent, as though this man belonged to her and she had every right to—
He broke off the kiss, and Lady Genevieve stood still for a moment, not able to move, not able to produce one coherent thought.
She noted that somehow her hands had found their way onto his chest, that somehow she had drawn in even closer to him, that—
“You see,” the Indian broke into her thoughts, “I was right. This white woman is a woman with no honor.”
She stared at him for several moments. It was a long time before she could speak, and then she only uttered, “Oh!”
She backed up then, but her gaze never left him, and she wondered what she should do. She felt suddenly as though she should return the insult with cutting words of her own or, failing that, at least shove him away. But she did neither.
Glancing down, Lady Genevieve lifted the hem of her dressing gown. Taking one step back, she pivoted away, fleeing the cabin in a fluidity of motion that would have rivaled the swift descent of a hawk, the swish of her dressing gown the only echo of her distress.
But one thought kept coming back to haunt her as she fled down the steamship’s corridor: she had never been more excited in her life.
Not in all of her twenty years so far on this earth had she ever felt more exhilarated, more alive. And she was terribly afraid it all had something to do with the Indian. In truth, she was certain of it.
Chapter Three
It was embarrassing.
That was all it was. Certainly nothing more. To think she had actually allowed that Indian to kiss her. She held her fingertips up to her lips, intent on wiping away the trace of him. But she didn’t. Instead she found herself closing her eyes, remembering the feel of him, the taste of him, the…
She pulled her thoughts up short. What was wrong with her?
She wouldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t allow it. It was embarrassing. That was all. Period.
She paced back and forth within the perimeter of her small quarters on the steamship, her emotions unsettled.
Male—a man…she and Robert had stolen away a man. Never had she imagined that they might take back a male member of the Blackfoot tribe. She’d always reckoned it would be a woman, or mayhap a child. But a man…
What was she to do with him?
She had thought to help her father by starting his studies for him on the journey home, by beginning a communication process with the person, by learning the Blackfoot language, by teaching the other person her own. But now?
It would be impossible. How could she go back into that man’s presence again? After tonight? Besides, he already knew English, which raised another question. How did he know it?
“Yes?” She answered the knock at her door.
“Milady?” It was Robert.
“You may enter, Robert.”
Her servant opened the door, stepping in only far enough to close the door behind him. He didn’t say a word, awaiting her question to him first. But Genevieve found it difficult to do more than stare at the man, and at length, Robert, perhaps sensing her mood, said, “What is it you wish me to do with the Indian? There is still time for me to take him back to his people.”
“And replace him with another?”
Silence. Robert didn’t utter a word, and it was his reservation more than anything else that bothered her.
“You see,” she said after a while. “There isn’t time to get someone else. We will have to keep him.”
“Milady, surely there is another way. I suspect the man will be trouble.”
“Yes,” she said, “I believe you are right. The man will be trouble. But what other choice do we have? The ship is due to sail in a few hours, and the Blackfoot people are, themselves, leaving as soon as day breaks.”
“I understand, milady, but how can we keep him? We would not even dare to take him on deck at any time during the journey for fear that he might jump overboard and swim ashore, tied or not.” He paused. “Did you know I found him practically untied after you left?”
“Did you?”
The servant sighed. “I believe he may require more effort than either you or I can handle.”
She nodded. “I agree, but what can we do? There must be some way to keep him here.”
“Milady, it is a three-month journey back to St. Louis, and as you might remember, there can be delays due to storms, sandbars, even floods. It would be easy for the man to escape, and I fear we may not have him long anyway.” Robert paused. “The man does not wish to be here. He will find a way to escape.”
Genevieve turned away, the dim light from the candles that lit the room silhouetting her profile as she did so. She paced toward the porthole at the other end of the room, then back, her nervousness almost a tangible thing. She chanced a glance up toward Robert before saying, “Perhaps we could make him want to stay?”
“Milady,” Robert frowned his disapproval, “I hardly think—”
“We could teach him our ways, introduce him into English society, be kind to him. We could make him want to stay, couldn’t we?”
“Milady, I don’t believe the man will want to stay anywhere tied—”
“Then we will untie him, but watch him carefully.”
“Milady, the man is Indian. He is a savage, a wild man. And as such, there are items of interest within our room that he could use as a weapon and still escape. It would be much too dangerous.”
“But necessary. See if you can bribe the two trappers who brought him to us, or anyone else with experience, into making the trip down the Missouri with us. They could help us guard the man.”
“Milady, might I remind you that those trappers are renowned for being untrustworthy.”
“Then don’t use them. Find someone else. Surely there are people for hire here who will do nothing more than watch a man in a locked room and keep him from escaping.”
“Milady, I must protest—”
“Robert, please. I am desperate.” She paused dramatically before looking over toward her servant, until at last she said, “You know that.”
Robert sighed. He looked away, clearly unwilling to give in too easily, though at last he said, “Yes, milady,” letting out his breath as he said it. “I will see what I can find at this early hour of the morning, though please do not expect much. I fear most of the trappers will be too busy sleeping off the effects of last night’s whiskey to clearly understand what it is that I ask.”
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Genevieve looked toward her servant, an expression of gratitude in her gaze. She smiled at the man. “Thank you, Robert,” she said. “I realize you do not wish to do this, and I am once again in your debt. I could not ask for a better friend than you.”
Robert shrugged, letting the compliment flow over him as though he were stone and it a mere puff of wind—although Lady Genevieve could have sworn, as she watched him back away, that there might have been, if only for an instant, a glimpse of happiness there within the glint of her servant’s eye.
The room was too small, much too small.
And it didn’t help to remember her resolve of only a short while ago: that she couldn’t face this Indian any time soon for fear of what he might do, what she might do…
She stopped her train of thought. She had to be here now, she had to watch over the man while Robert went ashore to recruit more help. It was only for a little while longer, and then she could escape. But by Jove, these close quarters heightened the effect this man had on her.
Genevieve tried to glance away from the Indian, to look anywhere but at this very real man who stood not more than a few feet away from her. She shifted uncomfortably, aware that she had dressed too quickly in her haste to get to this room while her manservant went ashore. She had failed to don her shift beneath her dress, and the knowledge made her feel vulnerable, almost naked.
Naked. She glanced at the nearly nude man who stood before her. He wore only a breechcloth, moccasins, and a necklace. She studied the strings of bone beads that hung down over the man’s chest in a series of loops, creating a breastplate of sorts. Fascinating.
She continued to look, unaware of exactly when her attention turned from the necklace to the man’s chest, all bronzed skin and muscle. Without full awareness of what she did, she allowed her gaze to inspect the man everywhere, her glance traveling down to his stomach, flat with defined, hard muscles. Lower still she stared, downward toward his breechcloth, toward his…
She pulled her glance up short, admonishing herself, forcing herself to gaze away from the man.
It was too late. Already her stomach, her nerve endings, her heartbeat fluttered out of control, and Genevieve’s knees buckled under her, forcing her to take a seat in the only chair available in the room—a chair, of course, closer to him.
She gulped and looked anywhere in the room but at him, certain she could make herself realize that it wasn’t the Indian who made her feel all weak and giddy inside. It was only natural that she would have such a reaction toward him, she told herself. After all, he was handsome, and she was a young, healthy woman. What woman wouldn’t swoon at seeing so much of a man’s body exposed?
You see? she scolded herself mentally. It’s not the Indian at all.
He moved then, and Lady Genevieve, despite herself, couldn’t control her gasp or the shiver of reaction that raced over her skin.
She looked away. “I won’t harm you,” she spoke at last, breaking the silence of the room. “I promise,” she said, not daring to bring her gaze back to survey the man.
The Indian didn’t say a word in response, and she chanced a quick glance at him. She gasped. Such hatred emanated from him that it made her pause. With a shake of her head, she said, “I promise you that I will return you to your people at the end of a few months’ time—at the most, a year—and I will do all that I can to see that no abuse befalls you.”
The Indian didn’t utter a thing, looking away from her as though he had lost all interest in her, in his situation.
“I promise.”
He turned his head back toward her sharply. But still he didn’t speak, just glared at her.
“Truly, I do.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, his expression saying more clearly than words could have what he thought of her and any promises she might make.
“I know you understand me, and I know you are angry with me, but isn’t there anything I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable? I cannot let you go. Believe me, if I could, I would.”
No response whatsoever, just a glare.
She shook her head, raising her chin. “What more do you want from me? Haven’t I just promised to care for you, to ensure your comfort and your safety? I cannot change the reasons why I must take you back with me. If I could, I would. Can’t you just make the best of it?”
Again nothing, no response.
“Please,” she said after a moment. “Won’t you speak to me? I know that you can. I honestly mean you no harm, and I do promise to protect you in any way that I can until this incident is behind us.” She paused. “Please?”
She heard a quick intake of breath then, and raising her gaze to his, she saw him frown at her. It seemed to take forever, though at last, still glaring at her, he said, “Do I look like a woman, that I need your protection? Rather, I would be harmed than remain here…” he raised his wrists, “tied.”
She didn’t say anything back to him right away. What could she say? That he certainly didn’t look like a woman? That she’d had no trouble realizing his gender? That she meant to untie him later?
Yes, she did mean to give him more freedom later. But not now. There was no one else here to prevent this man’s escape. And she was afraid that if she told him this now, somehow she would find him gone within so short a span of time that she would be left wondering exactly what had happened.
And so she did nothing, merely looked over toward him, until at length she said, “Thank you for speaking…I think.”
He grunted, his only response.
A moment passed, then another, Genevieve feeling more awkward than she could ever remember feeling. At length, though, she asked, “How is it that you know English?”
The Indian squinted his eyes, his lips pursed as he scowled at her. He didn’t say a word.
She continued, “Did you learn it from the traders? I wasn’t aware they had been in your country for long. At least not long enough for you to learn the language so well.”
Again his look pierced hers, the venom in that glance a very real, palpable thing.
But she chose to ignore it, feeling a safety in the knowledge that he was tied and could do little about it. Besides, she never looked at him directly, happy to stare somewhere between his collarbone and his chin. So she carried on. “Or have missionaries been in your country? Or perhaps the French, although they would speak French, wouldn’t they? Maybe the English? Oh, well, that would be quite impossible, wouldn’t it? Maybe you learned it from—”
“The Black Robe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Beg, okamanii,” he said, no expression whatsoever on his face. “I would like to see you beg.”
“Humph!” She threw a lock of auburn-red hair over her shoulder, the action reminding her that she wore neither hat nor headgear of any kind as would have befitted her station. “You misunderstand,” she said, daring to look toward him, though her gaze didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I did not mean that I will actually beg you. ’Tis merely an expression that says ‘I did not understand what you said; could you please explain it more fully?’ You see, I did not comprehend what you said about the black robe, and so when I said ‘I beg your pardon,’ what I was—”
“Ha’! I know what the white woman means. I understood it then.” His dark gaze cut into her own. “Still, I would like to see my own enemy, the white woman, beg.” A corner of his lips turned upward. “It would bring me pleasure to see this.”
Genevieve sat in silence for a moment, her glance finally encompassing the whole of the man who stood before her. “I am not your enemy.” It was all she could think to say.
His smile at her, or rather his smirk, widened. “Saa, no,” he said, “your race of people does not call it this, as I recall. Yet, with my people, anyone who forces another into an act against his own will is an enemy to that person. You may call it ‘lovemaking,’ what you intend to do to me, but I will never see i
t as that. I am not willingly here. You might make my body respond to you, as you did earlier when I kissed you, but I will never respond to you—not willingly—ever.”
Genevieve choked, her face filling with a deep red color that she had no way of controlling. She opened her mouth and closed it several times, able to do no more than sputter, “You…think…that…I…” She couldn’t finish it. Her head suddenly reeled as though she had spun around the room several times, and she came to her feet, where she swayed before she was able to back away from him, her movement toward the door.
Whatever was wrong with the man? How could he suggest such a thing?
She brought a hand to her chest, trying to still the throbbing of her heart, endeavoring to prevent herself from collapsing.
Where was Robert with the other men who might help watch over the savage? She wouldn’t stay here any longer; she couldn’t, she mustn’t…
She had to.
Her back against the door, she darted a look over toward the Indian, her gaze inspecting him as she had never done to anyone else. What, she wondered, possessed the man to say such a thing to her? He was a savage indeed.
She instantly felt contrite that she had once thought him good-looking and worthy of attention. Well, no more. She would spare him not more than another moment’s thought—as soon as she left here.
Why then, she wondered, couldn’t her body agree with her? Why was her body reacting to his words as though the man had suddenly declared his undying love for her? Why, for goodness sake, did she feel warm all over?
She wanted to leave. Yes, that was what she wanted to do…what she had to do. Her hand fell to the doorknob. She turned it. She wanted to; she had to… She dared not. The man might escape.
At last, realizing she had no choice but to remain where she was for the moment, she took strength from somewhere within and, looking straight at the Indian, she said, “You again misunderstand.” Her voice was quiet, soft, so barely audible that even she could hardly hear it.