Black Eagle (9 page)

Though her steps in time to the music had not faltered, Marisa was shaken. She had truly forgotten the incident. In essence, at the time, so embarrassed had she been over her seeming inadequacy, she had not even had the courage to relay the details of the incident to Sarah. Marisa had instead cried until there had been no more tears left to be shed. Even then she had hiccupped through most the night.

By the next morning, however, the entire occurrence had seemed to wash away, to trouble her no more. Or so it had appeared. However, it looked as if the incident had in fact receded into the dark recesses of her memory, where it had remained buried and unheeded until now.

But why was she recalling it now?

As Marisa looked up, her gaze fastened onto the silhouette of a man who stood amongst the guests, there toward the back wall of the ballroom. Yet he might have been directly in front of her for all that her attention clung to him.

It was he, the Mohawk Indian. The one who had so impressed her with his oratory and admiration. Her stomach somersaulted.

Step forward, step back, turn, swing up and exchange places, step up, step back, promenade. It was as though her feet knew the dance, for her mind was far away from the minuet's requirements.

Her handsome young partner coughed, bringing her attention back to him. The cough was soon followed by another in kind, then a bout of hacking. Putting a hand to his throat, he coughed again and said, “So sorry. Would you please excuse me? ”

“By all means.” She nodded. He retreated, and she was ready to step out of line, as well, when his place was suddenly filled by another man. She gazed forward. Her eyes rounded.

“You!” It was the Mohawk.

“
Nyoh
, yes, 'tis I. Forgive me,” he replied in his deeply baritone voice, “but I can hardly be expected to remain long as a spectator when the most beautiful creature in the hall has need of a partner. Would that I fill that role.”

“Sir!” She might have protested, but being swept up in the rhythm of the dance, whatever she might have said perished on her lips. Clasp hands, swing forward, step back, then advance, exchange places. She couldn't fail to note that, though he were Mohawk, his knowledge of the dance was without fault.

“Once again,” she said as they promenaded, “you dazzle me with your knowledge of our English manners and culture. Pray, tell me, did you also learn dancing from the monks?”

He smiled at her. “English traders,” he said simply. “And perhaps the influence of William Johnson who insisted that one day I would need the skill.”

“Yes, William Johnson,” she said. “I have heard of him. He has been quite influential amongst the Iroquois, I believe.”

“He has,” said the Mohawk.

Though he was obviously dressed in his best, the Indian was an odd man out here in this hall, she noted, where the powdered wigs, the
justaucorps
and waistcoats of the Englishmen were the rule. By comparison, the Mohawk was wearing black from head to foot, though a streak of white appeared at his neck. His apparel seemed to consist of a tunic, belted at the waist, that looked to be a combination shirt and kilt. Skin-tight black leggings and high-topped moccasins completed the outfit. Over one shoulder, worn Roman-style, and draped around his waist, was a red blanket, heavily adorned with shell beads of white.

“Have you met him? ” asked the Mohawk.

“Who? William Johnson? Yes, he was a guest here at Rathburn Hall once.”

With their hands still clasped, the Indian stepped toward her, she followed suit. They both stepped back, forward again, then they turned round, clasping hands once more.

The music softened, ending in a long drawn out chord that allowed the dancers to bow and curtsy to one another. A round of applause followed. However, while the others were engaged in the act of clapping, Marisa faced the Mohawk instead, and she asked, “Have you a name? ”

“Black Eagle,” he supplied.

She nodded. “I thank you, Sir Eagle, for coming to my rescue on the dance floor.” She smiled at him before saying, “And now I must leave you.” She spun around to step away from him, only to find that he had laid a hand at her elbow, there where her sleeve ended in lace. Her nerves there tingled.

“A moment of your time, please. There is something I would say to you, something I would ask, if you would permit me.”

Whether she had it in her mind to agree or protest was a moot point: He had placed his other hand upon the small of her back and was leading her toward a set of French doors that opened up onto a veranda, overlooking a parklike reserve of the Rathburn estate.

“Sir,” she managed to utter at last. “I must protest. I am without a chaperone.”

“It is not my intention to take you away from your party or those who would protect you. In truth, I have come here tonight in search of the man known as Thompson.”

“He is not here.”

He nodded. “Then might it not be possible to find a quiet spot along the side of the room where we might engage in a moment's talk? There is a matter of concern that I must relate to you.”

Marisa shook her head. “I'm afraid that I . . .” She paused and glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom, looking to her right, to her left. Although her step-uncle was not to be seen at present, her gaze found and centered on his henchman, James. The butler's frown at her spoke adequately for him, and Marisa knew she was being warned to act in a manner befitting her position. Moreover, if she didn't perform as expected, James would, indeed, carry tales.

Something within her rebelled. As a little girl, Marisa might have once submitted to the butler's unspoken threat. But she was a woman, full grown. Perhaps it was the memory tonight that caused her to resist, maybe not. But it is perhaps well to observe that there is not a being alive who will not, from time to time, protest the bars of his or her imprisonment. For Marisa, that time was now.

Tilting her chin upward, she stared at James, though she spoke to the Indian, when she said, “There is a path through the garden, Sir Eagle, that is quiet and will serve us better than trying to raise our voices above the noise of the ballroom. Shall I show that path to you? ”

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.

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.