The Bride Wore Feathers (9 page)

Dominique cocked her head as she acknowledged his greeting. Why did he seem so familiar? she wondered, the fine down on her arm rising with foreboding. Had they met somewhere before? Dominique made the mistake of looking up into those riveting blue eyes for the answer, and suddenly she felt naked all over again. Stripped as bare as a winter landscape. But this time she felt no chill. This time her flesh burned with the heat of an August sun.

The stranger accepted her outstretched hand, but instead of lifting it to his lips as the other soldiers had done, he began pumping it in an awkward greeting. Dominique recoiled, stunned as the sensations increased twofold. She knew that touch somehow, felt the warm tingles of another time course through her body and down to her toes. What was happening to her? Were the effects of the Sioux medicine still wreaking havoc on her mind? Or was it something else?

"Nikki?" Custer said, his brow rumpled. "Are you feeling all right?"

The general's words gave her the strength she needed to look away. "I'm sorry, Uncle Armstrong. I was just feeling a little... woozy, I guess, but I'm all right now."

Custer glanced from Dominique to Jacob. "I'm afraid poor Nikki here was drugged by her captors. She's been quite disoriented since her arrival at the fort. Perhaps if you two talk, you can help her sort out the experience. Would you mind, Private?"

Jacob sighed, but realizing he had no choice, he said, "I will do what I can."

"Good. If either of you come up with anything that may be of value in hunting these dogs down," Custer said as he excused himself, "be sure to let me know. For now I had best join Libbie before she comes after me with a buggy whip. Take care of my niece, Private," he added, his expression stern, the warning unmistakable. Then he clicked his heels and took his leave.

An awkward silence settled over the pair as Dominique waited for Jacob to help her sort through her experience. She blinked up at him with her most appealing smile, but still he remained silent. He just stood there staring, looking this way and that, then staring again. His gaze bored into her, but it was unlike any she'd endured since her arrival at the fort. The other cavalrymen openly gawked at her, told her how beautiful she was, made her feel like a queen. This one, apparently shy to the point of embarrassment, was no less open in his appraisal, but his opinion of her wasn't so easily read. His thoughts, whatever they were, seemed dark, obscure... feral somehow.

Her earlier feelings of unrest returned then, growing ever greater. Dominique chanced another look in his eyes and said, "My uncle mentioned you were also a captive of the Sioux. Was it a dreadful experience for you?"

"Yes," he answered in that same flat tone.

"The brute who held me punched me in the face as if I were a man." She lifted her chin and pointed. "See? I still have a bruise. Were you beaten, too?"

"A little," he said, barely controlling the urge to turn and run.

Dominique frowned. She wasn't reaching him. He seemed to be avoiding her for some reason, as if he thought she was somehow unworthy of his attention. And then she remembered the nasty rumors concerning her captivity, the lies she'd heard bandied about the fort. Had he, too, heard that she'd been ravaged by the Indian who abducted her? Did he assume she was spoiled for decent men? Others, mostly the wives of the enlisted soldiers, snickered and pointed behind her back, made rude comments about her virtue when they thought she could not hear. Apparently their vicious gossip had already reached the ears of the Seventh Cavalry's newest recruit.

Dominique inhaled, smoothing the silk skirts of her green and white candy-stripe dress, and flipped a long golden curl across her shoulder. Then she lifted her chin in defiance and said, "Excuse me, Private. I guess the general was mistaken—you and I have absolutely nothing to talk about. Good evening."

"No—wait." Realizing that she was more offended than enlightened, convincing himself that to secure the Long Hair's trust, he must also court the goodwill of his family, Jacob feigned a timidity that was not part of his nature. "I do not know what to say to you. You are very... beautiful."

Words.
They were just words she'd heard a thousand times before, but again those feelings of familiarity raced through Dominique's system, sending her mind back to chaos, leaving her body weak and trembling with something other than fear. She was drawn to him, compelled to remain standing before him whether he spoke another word or not. Eager to understand what these feelings meant, confused as well, she took a long breath and gave him a little pout as she said, "Thank you for the kind words, Private. I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

Jacob faked a sheepish grin, then glanced around the room. He was desperate to be out of her view, terrified her occasional thoughtful glances would suddenly turn to recognition. Soon, he feared, her memory would provide her with answers to the questions he could see in her playful eyes. When that happened, she would look at him and scream. What would he do then? Murder her? Kill himself?

"I realize you are a little shy," she said, determined to get this bashful soldier to open up, "but the least you can do is answer my questions."

Jacob shrugged. "I do not know many women," he offered, hoping that would explain his silence. "I do not know what to say to you,"

Dominique's gaze turned puzzled and introspective. She cocked her head as feather tips tickled the recesses of her mind. Frustrated, she blurted out, "You seem awfully familiar to me, private. Have you and I met before?"

Jacob tensed. "No."

"Are you sure?" As if drawn together by pouch strings, Dominique's eyebrows bunched. "How about your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

As Jacob thought of ways to dissuade her and turn the conversation to her life at the fort, he suddenly saw a glimmer of hope in her final question. With another bashful shrug, he said, "I cannot be sure about my family."

"What?" she said, laughing. "Why wouldn't you know about your own family?"

Settling on a half-truth, he began with an accurate account of his own childhood. "The Sioux came into my life once before. My father and sister were killed by Indians many years ago. I was picking berries in the bushes away from our camp, and so my life was spared." Jacob paused here, surprised at the jolt of pain the memory still drove into his heart. Then he finished with the lie that would best serve his purposes: "My mother was captured by the Sioux. If she survived the ordeal, I could have brothers and sisters I do not know of."

Dominique gasped, "Oh, dear—I'm so sorry to have asked such a personal question." As the implications of what he'd said sank in, she wondered—could she have been saved by a half-breed brother of the man standing before her? Was it possible the reason she thought she knew Jacob was because he reminded her so much of the Sioux warrior who'd rescued her from certain death? The voice inflections, the height and general build—everything about him was too like the Indian to be purely coincidental. It would also help to explain Redfoot's apparent ease in using the English language. But what could she do about it? She glanced up at the private, suddenly burdened by the suspicions she carried in her breast. How could she tell him that which she couldn't substantiate? What purpose would it serve other than to add to his obvious hatred of the Sioux?

Squeaks and groans of fiddles filled the hall as the musicians warmed up for the festivities. Dominique glanced at the band, then back at the soldier, and her shoulders slumped. Jacob's strong wide jaw was taut, and his intense blue eyes were narrow and thoughtful. Riddled with guilt for opening the wounds of his past, she reached across the distance separating them and placed her hand on his forearm.

"I'll bet a high-stepping reel will make us both feel better about our troubles with these savage Indians. What do you say, soldier? Care to dance?"

Jacob allowed her fingers to slip into his palm, too relieved over her apparent acceptance of him as a stranger to understand what she was talking about. As she led him toward the gathering crowd at the center of the room, he shifted his gaze to the end of the hall. The first sergeant was standing among the musicians announcing the beginning of the ball and the opening promenade. Jacob stepped back and shook his head. "I cannot. I do not know how to do this dance."

But Dominique was ready for him. "Private Stoltz," she chided, again slipping her hand in his, "Aunt Libbie warned me about you soldiers. She said it's sometimes difficult to get a man out on the dance floor when all his feet are trained to do is march."

The crazy one tugged at him, making it impossible for him to do anything but follow. Grumbling under his breath, Jacob allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor. He glanced around the room, looking for something, anything, to use as an excuse to leave her side.

But the music started, and Jacob was swept from his thoughts into a swirling cloud of skirts and waving arms. Laughing gaily, singing along with the musicians, the crowd passed him from one woman to another, into a quick embrace or a fast spin, over and over again. Trapped in boots of stiff leather, his feet felt as if they'd been sucked into a bog, and the agile hunter tripped time and time again.

"Oh, turn her to the left and turn her to the right," the fiddler sang. "Twirl your partner all through the night. Turn those pretty pretty girls you were lucky to find, and forget those pretty little girls you left behind." When the music finally ended, Jacob stood confused and off balance.

"Well?" Dominique said with a breathless laugh. "How'd you like that?"

Jacob shrugged, looking for an avenue of escape. "I am not sure."

Dominique's expressive eyes lit up as she laughed and said, "Maybe later we can dance to a waltz. That might be more to your liking."

"'Scuse me, Miss DuBois," a young soldier said from behind. "May I have this next dance with you?"

Vaguely irritated at the intrusion, Dominique whirled around and smiled uncertainly.

"Begging your pardon, Miss DuBois. It's me, Lieutenant Macky—remember me? I found you in the snow and brought you to your uncle?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you—I'd love to." Again she smiled, then turned back to Jacob. "Thanks for the dance, Private Stoltz. Maybe I'll see you later."

And because he had no idea what was expected of him at this juncture, if he should or shouldn't allow the other man to interfere with them, Jacob bit his lip and offered a short nod. Then he averted his gaze, unable somehow to watch the lean soldier take his gift away from him.

Jacob forced his thoughts to the soldiers, to Custer in particular, and tried to regain his focus on the main objective: his mission. He was to listen to the conversations of the officers, ingratiate himself with those in positions of power, and learn whether the Long Knives had made plans for the capture of his people. That done, he and the council could determine how best the Lakota might avoid the soldiers' traps. Jacob was, in essence, the eyes and ears of the entire Lakota nation. Now he toiled to that end, determined to avoid thinking about or even looking at Dominique, but his gaze moved of its own volition, sifting through the crowd until it came to rest on her striking features.

She was dancing with yet another in an endless line of soldiers, this one an officer with many decorations on his dark blue jacket. Clearly the niece of the Long Hair was prized above all the women at the fort. And just as clear was the danger he would face if he allowed his fascination with her to get in the way of his mission. She stirred him and managed to bring emotions and memories to the surface he was better off forgetting—
she
was someone he would be better off forgetting. As Jacob worked to that end, his mouth puckered into a scowl, and dark thoughts shadowed his eyes. Looking for a distraction, he glanced away from the dance floor and made a casual appraisal of the weapons stowed beneath the refreshment table. He was counting the types of rifles when Dominique glided over near him and reached for a glass of punch.

"Whew," she gasped, waving a hanky in front of her face. "I need a rest. What has you in such a state of horrors, Jacob?"

He turned to her and said, "Horrors?"

At the repetition of her word, Dominique clasped her hand across her mouth and looked around for the Custers. They were not within hearing distance. "I'm sorry. That just sort of slipped out. It means you're looking in low spirits, but the way I said it isn't a proper phrase for a young lady to use."

Jacob shrugged. "Then maybe you are not a lady." He meant it in the nicest possible way, but at her gasp and look of indignation, he quickly realized he'd made a blunder. "I mean to say, you are—"

"That's all right, Jacob." She laughed. "You're not the first to make such an observation about my manners, and I suspect you won't be the last." She looked into his eyes and smiled, but her grin faded as she asked, "Have you been standing here beside this punch bowl all night? I haven't seen you out on the dance floor once since you and I danced the reel."

Jacob looked away, pretty sure where this conversation would lead. "I do not like dancing."

"Oh, Jacob," she complained as the chords to one of her favorite tunes, "Suzanne's Waltz," began. "How can you know if you don't try it a few more times? Come with me. This is a beautiful song to dance to and much easier than the reel."

When the crazy one reached for his hand, Jacob stepped back. "I must say no."