Black Eagle (13 page)

As Marisa stepped nearer to the Rathburn mansion, she feared to look too closely behind the trees, afraid that she might find some agent of her step-uncle's there. Interestingly, she was not overly concerned over the enormous step into womanhood she had taken—there would be time to explore that later. Rather her mind was awash with reasons and excuses that she could forward to her guardian as a justification for her actions.

What was that? Was it a twig cracking beneath someone's foot? Although her eyes were well adjusted to the night, she felt momentarily blinded by fright, and she stopped, glancing to the right and to the left. But when nothing materialized to attack her, she stepped forward again, and within moments, broke into a run, the sound of her slippers echoing like a phantom over the ground of the forest.

The hour was late. Perhaps John Rathburn would have retired. Was she being silly to hope that she might escape his wrath?

If only . . .

She, however, expected no mercy. Chances were that her guardian or one of his henchmen would be in attendance in the mansion's corridors, watching for her return like a hawk might anticipate a mouse.

As she ran farther, she at last burst out of the woods, and as soon as her footfalls fell upon the well-beaten path, her steps slowed. Her mind, however, raced. A consideration she hadn't ventured until this moment, came to the fore of her mind, and it was haunting her: Might her actions tonight endanger Sarah's chances of leaving?

Though Marisa had certainly obtained John Rathburn's agreement to release Sarah, might he not change his mind? It would certainly be in character for him to heap his wrath, not on the person responsible for his anger, but rather onto some other poor soul.

Marisa frowned, and was mentally preparing herself a defense for this newly assumed injustice when all at once, the Rathburn mansion loomed largely in front of her. Swallowing hard, she opened the doors of the ballroom's veranda and as quietly as possible, slipped into the house.

Expecting to be halted and upbraided at any moment, she was more than a little concerned when the opposite happened. No one accosted her.

Indeed, she even attained the third floor landing of her wing of the house, and let herself into her own quarters without being stopped or questioned. How strange it was, even eerie. Perhaps it was a symbol of good luck?

But she feared she was being overly optimistic, since it would be out of character for John Rathburn to ignore an opportunity to bring his step-niece to task. Perhaps he would await her at breakfast.

Marisa sighed, realizing that it did absolutely no good to ponder details that hadn't presented themselves. She would learn soon enough what her guardian intended.

Lighting a candle, she immediately set to work. There was much to be done if they were to leave at first light, which from all indications was only hours away.

Should she seek out Sarah's quarters and awaken her?

No. Sarah was the dependable one. She was probably ready to leave, and had been so for many days.

Dragging her trunk out to the middle of the floor, Marisa opened it only to find that it was already packed. Sarah's doing, of course.

Rummaging through the clothing, Marisa pulled out a clean chemise, as well as fresh petticoats. Her dress would need a change, and she opted for an ivory silk brocade with a patterned, floral design. It was cool to the touch, its silky texture sliding against her fingers.

Her body would require a wash, as well, but first, closing the lid, she sat down on the trunk, whereupon she allowed her thoughts to drift to other matters. For the first time since leaving Black Eagle's embrace, she took a moment to consider what she had done.

Was she sorry? No.

Would she commit the deed again, if the opportunity presented itself? Most likely.

Her actions had been, in effect, a declaration of her independence, though perhaps this had been accomplished with some naivety, since only now did she consider that there might be a price to pay—in the form of a child.

A child . . . The thought was extraordinarily pleasant, and she sighed. However, if a pregnancy did occur, she supposed her guardian would whisk her into a speedy marriage of convenience, one that would be, of course, financially prudent for him.

However, upon further thought, she doubted that a child had been formed from this union tonight. Due to Sarah's confidences, Marisa had taken to keeping track of the rhythm of her monthly cycle, and she was certain she had a fragment of protection.

No, all things considered, Marisa was not sorry for her actions. Indeed, it was likely the opposite: This night would be imprinted on her consciousness for the rest of her life.

She would never forget what had happened; she would never forget him. Perhaps now she could marry as her station in life, as well as her step-uncle, mandated was necessary.

A gentle knock came at her door, and she sighed. Time to come back to the world as she knew it.

“Come in,” she called softly as Sarah opened the door.

Sarah entered tentatively. “Are you all right? ”

“I am well,” said Marisa. “I am very well, though tired.” Looking up, Marisa started to smile, but the look quickly froze on her face. “Sarah,” she said, rising, “what has happened to you? ”

Sarah bit her lip, looked away from Marisa, then winced. Her lip was swollen and there was a jagged line of red running from her eye to her nose, as though she had been slapped, or perhaps hit. There were also tears in her eyes and, upon close inspection, there was a rip in her dress.

“Sarah? ”

“I have been waiting for you, Miss Marisa. I've been hiding.”

“Hiding?” Marisa gulped. “From what? Or from whom?”

Sarah didn't answer.

“Sarah, who did this to you? ”

“I . . . I escaped,” she said, taking a step forward only to collapse onto Marisa's trunk.

Marisa followed her and knelt down in front of her. “Was it my step-uncle who did this to you? Did he try to . . . ? ”

Sarah shook her head. “'Twas not your guardian. 'Twas . . . someone else.”

“Someone else? Someone close to my step-uncle? Who could it . . .” Marisa gasped. “Was it James? ”

Sarah nodded. “It seems that James took it into his mind to punish me for what he thinks was a wrong that I committed against your . . .”

“Yes? ” asked Marisa. “Against my . . . step-uncle? ”

Sarah nodded.

Marisa reached up to run her fingers over the rip in Sarah's dress. “Did he . . . did he . . . I have always known that James was a bully, as well as a very bad butler, but . . . He didn't manage to . . . Sarah, did he defile you? ”

Sarah shook her head. “He tried to. He did have a whip, but no, I got away.” For a brief moment, Sarah gave the semblance of a grin. “I'm afraid the whip scared me and I bit him.”

“Oh, my dear, dear, Sarah!” Sitting up onto her knees, Marisa took Sarah into her arms, and despite the ten year difference in their ages, for an instant, Marisa felt the older of the two. “Has anyone tended to your bruises? ”

Sarah shook her head. “No. I've been hiding, waiting for you to come home.”

“I see. Can you rise? If so, let us get closer to the candle-light, so I can assess the damage to you. And do not fear. After I have settled you a little, and ensured your safety, I will go to my step-uncle and—”

“No! Please! I fear your guardian worse than I fear James.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Marisa shook her head frowning. “But James should be punished or he might be likely to do something like this again.”

“True. However, are we not leaving soon? ”

Marisa nodded. “Yes, we are. Perhaps we should go from here at once without any fanfare or ‘well thee do.' Let's mend your wounds, change your clothes, and as soon as you've rested a little, we will leave here. I swear, Sarah, once we are away, you needn't ever return. I have obtained my guardian's signature on a document that effectively makes this so.”

“You have? But when? ”

“Days and days ago.”

“But why did you not tell me? ”

“I was hoping to make it a present to you, as well as a surprise.”

Sarah attempted another smile, but the effort communicated itself more as a gasp. She murmured, “You are too good to me.”

“No, 'tis you who have been good to me. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a mother, or perhaps an older sister. All the good of the world as I know it is because of you. Now, come, I'll take you to your room where you can rest, if only for an hour or so.

“No,” said Sarah at once. “I don't need to rest. In truth, I also fear going to my quarters for anything, whether it would be to dress or to rest.”

“Yes, of course. Then you shall stay here until we are set and ready to go. Now, can you remain seated while I bring the pitcher of water and bowl over here so that I can dress your wounds? ”

Sarah nodded, and Marisa, arising, stepped across the room to her dresser, there to seize hold of pitcher and bowl.

What a strange night this was, she thought as she picked up the items needed, which included a bit of muslin to use in washing. First she had acted out of character, then James. Even Sarah had reversed roles, going from being the strong, outspoken nursemaid, to the one needing nursing.

Somehow Marisa couldn't help wondering, was anything else yet to happen tonight?

She hoped not. She sincerely hoped not.

 

 

There were already bruise marks forming over Sarah's arms, and they were almost too numerous to count. Marisa frowned. There were tears in Sarah's chemise and petticoats, and even a bruise already forming on her hip. Worse, that particular marking had all the stampings of a whip.

How had that happened? As Marisa pressed the area gently with a cloth, she noticed that Sarah flinched.

“Did James use a whip on you? ” she asked Sarah, as she touched the area more gently.

“A little. He tried to put me over his lap, as though to spank me, but I resisted.”

“Oh Sarah, 'tis like a nightmare, except that it is wretchedly real. Thank heaven we leave here at daybreak.”

“Yes. Thank heaven.” Sarah paused as she sighed. After a moment, however, she asked, “And you, Marisa? With all of my adventures tonight, we have not discussed what has happened to you. Do you wish to tell me about your exploits tonight? ”

Marisa exhaled slowly while she held a cloth to one of Sarah's wounds. Luckily, except for the red welt on Sarah's face, there had only been one place on her upper arm where the skin had been broken.

Slowly at first, Marisa said, “Yes, I do wish to tell you about it. But not now, I think. We have little time to finish the preparations for our journey, and I fear that the telling of it might take hours and hours.” Setting down the cloth, Marisa placed her hand over the top of Sarah's and smiled at her friend. “There will be time enough on the trail. For now it is enough to hold the events close to my heart.”

“To your heart? Do you love him then? ”

“Not love, I think,” answered Marisa. “I mean, would I not be a fool to give my love and devotion to a man I could never marry? ”

Sarah nodded. “Perhaps. But one cannot always dictate matters of the heart.”

Marisa paused. Was she in love? No, it could not be and she would not allow it to be. She understood her role in life, and it was certainly not to become the squaw of some Indian brave.

Glancing up at Sarah, she said gently, “Dear Sarah, now that your bruises are attended to, and you are properly dressed, I should like you to lie down while I set to work on the details of our leaving. Tell me,” Marisa continued, arising, “what is left to do to allow us to depart? ”

“There is little more that needs being done, I think, except for you to ensure that all the things you wish to bring are packed in the trunk. Then, after you change your dress—you may have forgotten that you need to do that—we have nothing more to do other than to pack our things onto the horses, have a bite of breakfast and be on our way.”

“Good,” said Marisa. “By the way, did my step-uncle have much to say after I left? ”

“Strangely, he did not. He was furious. That much was obvious. But he said nothing to me, nor to anyone else. Instead he retired to his own quarters for the rest of the evening.”

“How strange,” said Marisa, frowning. “This has, indeed, been an evening of odd occurrences, wouldn't you agree? Do you suppose that my guardian will come down from his apartments early enough to wish me a farewell? ”