Black Eagle (8 page)

Black Eagle glanced in the direction where he had last seen the enchantress, but as before, her figure was not to be seen. However, it mattered little. Her image was imprinted on the very recesses of his mind.

To be certain that it was the same person they were both speaking about, Black Eagle questioned, “The one you mentioned, Miss Marisa, and her maid? Who exactly are they? ”

“They are financier John Rathburn's niece and her companion. Why be ye asking? ”

Black Eagle didn't deem to answer the question. Instead, he said, “Have you a map of your destination so that I might determine where it is and estimate the danger involved? ”

“I do. I have it with me here.” The brute reached into the dirty inner workings of his leather coat. From there, he extracted a sheet of parchment, which he extended toward Black Eagle.

Black Eagle nodded, reaching out to accept the document from the man. Briefly, he unrolled the paper and scanned the markings on the map, then said, “What you say is true. Your journey will encroach upon Abenaki territory, and as anyone here will know, they can be a fearsome foe.”

“Aye. Can ye escort us through there without a cost to life? ”

“I can.”

“Ye'll do it, then? ”

Black Eagle nodded. “I will. When do you plan to leave? ”

“In the next few days,” said Thompson. “Can ye be ready? ”

“I am ready now.”

“Good,” said Thompson, grinning. “Good.”

Music from a fiddle, violins and a flute filtered into the Rathburn stables where Black Eagle was preparing the three horses—two roans and a dapple gray—for their journey. Checking over their cinches, to ensure that the leather was strong, Black Eagle was a stern critic, his eye catching perhaps what another might miss.

He was frowning; something was not right. It looked as if . . . Pulling hard against one of the cinches, the leather fell apart in his hand.
Hunh-uh!
He stared at the straps dumbfoundedly. Then he picked up another cinch, making the same experiment, then the third.

Each one was damaged in its own way, and as he studied them, he could only surmise that they had been broken at one time, then sewn and glued back together so cleverly, that the error remained undetectable. Was the white man so negligent, so unaware, that he hadn't seen this?

Or was there another reason for what should have been a simple repair? Certainly the white man could not be so frugal that he could ill afford the best straps available.

He examined the bits of leather, noting that the cuts were not clean, which would make it appear that the damage was due to simple wear. But on all three?

Was it possible that the animals were not regularly used, so that the fault had remained undetectable until now? It was possible. However, Black Eagle's frown deepened.

Laying the damaged cinches aside, Black Eagle's thoughts raced, although outwardly, he set himself to mindless work. Picking up a brush, he began the long process of scrubbing the animals down for the night.

One thing was certain: New cinches would be secured or the horses would stay behind. Either way it mattered little to him, particularly since, from the start, Black Eagle had not been in favor of taking horses. Although it was true that a horse could run faster than a man, the animal could not travel as far as a man in the course of a day, mainly because of the necessity to rest every few hours. Plus, the animal was easy to track, required too much care along the way and announced their position to any enemy.

But, when the English had insisted that their women could not walk the entire journey, and that their “things” had to be transported with them, Black Eagle had given little resistance. It wasn't part of his plan to negate the judgment of the English. Besides, he wasn't altogether adverse to plodding a slower journey. If it meant a few extra days spent in the presence of the beauty, then he would acquiesce.

Again the strains of the music from the big house trickled into the livery and Black Eagle fought a desire to be there, to watch the beauty and mayhap if he were lucky, to speak to her again. But he would not do it. Not because of the peculiarities of the English dances, since he was well acquainted with these. Nor was it fear of criticism from the Englishman's condescending eye. Rather it was because
her
image haunted him.

He was fascinated with her, and this, he knew, would not do. He might admire the young lady, might watch her with longing, but he was well aware that there was no future in the flirtation; their worlds were too dissimilar to permit a union between their respective cultures.

As the wise sachems had often counseled, if marriage were not the intended outcome of an association with a woman, one should not indulge in it. One's heart—and hers—could be held in balance.

Still, as a delicate melody swept into the stable, filling each nook and cranny with the pulse of the English dance, he could little ignore it. The music was in three-quarter time, he noted, and the rhythm affected him in a way he would never have suspected it might. Unbidden, a desire to be there, to see her, to learn more about her, entered into his breast, and he could have sworn his heart ached.

Firmly, he set the matter of the beauty from his mind, but not so the cinches. He would go in search of Thompson and make his demands.

As he finished rubbing down the last of the three animals, he sniffed at the air around him. Was it the stables, or did he reek of horseflesh?

A stream, deep in the forest that skirted the Rathburn property offered a simple and easy solution, and he washed up there, donning the best clothing he had. After all, Thompson might be at the ball.

His other clothing he washed in the stream, hanging them in a hollowed out cavity in a tree. It was a very old and large tree, one he had taken special notice of as he had scouted the Rathburn property.

As he stepped back toward the big house, an airy melody washed over him, and Black Eagle sighed, reminding himself he was not attending the ball, he was looking for Thompson. Unfortunately, he was all too aware of the yearning of his heart.

 

 

As Marisa stepped with her partner in time to the music, she hid a smile. She was happy. Not for herself, of course, but for Sarah. Indeed, Marisa had succeeded; she had bested her step-uncle in a battle of wills. True, it had been a test of spirit, but she had persisted, had made it perfectly clear to her step-uncle that he was in the wrong, not only in regards to his future plans for a particular Pennsylvania Dutch settlement, but also as concerned Sarah's past.

This ball, which Rathburn had arranged in honor of Sarah and Marisa's departure, proved her success. Undoubtedly, the ball was a simple affair in many ways. Necessity had made it so, due in part to the fact that both she and Sarah were leaving forthwith—the very next morning. But, though there were probably no more than fifty guests in attendance this evening, no expense had been spared. Strategically placed torches and candles lit the room, while the scent of burning wax, of food—roast meat and freshly baked bread, cakes and pies—permeated the hall.

Gentlemen and ladies had adorned themselves in their best, causing the interior of the room to be awash in color schemes of pink and coral silks, as well as the hues of blue and gold. White wigs, with the required two curls at each side of the face sat atop the natural color of the hair. The orchestra was a simple affair, as well, a few violins, a cello, bass and flute.

Their music filled the hall now, lending the atmosphere a certain gaiety and a rhythm that kept the guests stepping around the floor to the music of a minuet; sweep, step, step, sweep, step, step, promenade forward, turn to face one another, step up, step back, bow, curtsy.

Her partner coughed, and Marisa smiled at the gentleman whom she had favored with the dance. The young man, who was of medium height, with a wave of sandy hair that peeked out beneath his wig, was most likely the handsomest man in the room tonight. But though he smiled at her adoringly, Marisa was not so easily impressed. Indeed, not.

For years her heart had remained untouched. There was no reason for it to be different tonight. Indeed, for all she knew, it might always be so.

But why? Though there were young men of whom she was fond, her affections had never progressed farther than mere attraction. Truth be known, Marisa had never been kissed; not by a man, a boy, a relative . . . no one.

Again, why?

Was it because she had never met a man to whom she might shower her devotion? Or was it most likely due to the reality that, as she had recently told Sarah, she might likely have no say in the matter of her own marriage?

Marisa frowned. If the latter were the case—and she did suspect it was true—why did she think this?

As if asking the question brought on the memory, a recollection, long looked for, but much forgotten, flashed in her mind. For a moment, she was distracted. She trembled, and daintily smiled at her partner to offset a feeling of being ill at ease. But like a book that once opened, refused to be closed, her mind replayed a scene from her past: