Lakota Princess (4 page)

Still, he looked out at the town with interest. At last, he had arrived. At last he would be able to lay claim to that which was his.

It had been a long trip across the sea; a trip filled with strange sights, strange sea animals, new ideas from a foreign race, odd languages and different cultures. But the man had learned it all solemnly; practicing, watching, taking careful note of all around him. He would need it all if he were to succeed in this place. And this man had every intention of success. After all, he’d secured one of the best teachers, a German Prince who had been willing to instruct him, a foreigner, in the intricacies of Continental manners during the endless days at sea.

Yes, it had gone well and now he, this tall, dark man, stood prepared to enter the English society, as he must in order to search for that which filled his dreams, his nightmares. He only hoped he would find all that he desired soon, for already his heart longed for the familiarity of home.

The man continued to gaze out at the strange-looking town, smelling the stench of filthy water and rotten fish. Not a pleasant way to start his search. Not a welcome greeting into this society.

But it didn’t matter. He would find that which he sought—the one whom he sought. And when he found her…

His dark hair shifted in the wind, accentuating his high cheekbones, exposing the bronze color of his face, and all at once the man, an American Indian, knew where he should be, where he would see her, the vision right before him.

He nodded, understanding the insight and turning around, he caught up with the Prince who, along with two other Lakota brothers, were in the process of departing the ship.

But this particular Indian glanced around him once more, feeling the moist freshness of the breeze upon him.

Yes, he knew how to find her, where he would find her.

So be it.

Chapter Two

“Waste Ho Win.”

Estrela sat up straight and glanced into the crowd.

What was that? The wind blew by her and seemed to whisper. What? No. It could not be. It couldn’t be her name—her Indian name.

She listened; nothing more. She gazed back around and stared at members of the Royal Guard as they lined the streets of Pall Mall. Dressed in red jackets and tall, black hats, the Guard reminded her that she was, indeed, in England. Crowds of the English populous had lined up behind the military for a view of their royalty, the parade being in honor of the adjournment of Parliament. There was nothing here to make her think of the American West. Nothing Indian. Nothing at all.

“Waste Ho Win, where are you?”

Estrela caught her breath. She’d heard Lakota words. There in the wind. It wasn’t possible and yet…

She stared around her. She sat alone, perched up high in the back of a grand, mahogany coach. The Duke and Duchess of Colchester, along with their two daughters, reclined in the main coach, their seats facing one another. Two drivers, dressed in red jackets and black hats, sat in front, controlling a team of four horses.

A faint breeze of humid air rushed past her and Estrela strained to hear more words the wind might carry to her, for any sort of explanation.

Yet there was nothing more. No scent. No memories.

She brushed a hand over her forehead.

Did the breeze know something?

She thought she’d heard
him.
His whispered words, carried on the wind. She shook her head as though to clear it.

At that same moment the drums began to beat, fifes to play, the Guard, straight ahead of her, began to march. And as her own coach pulled out into the street, behind the Guard, the noise of the horses, the crowd, the military should have blocked out any further sound.

“I look for you.”

Estrela gasped. It was
him.
She would recognize his deep, baritone voice even a thousand years into the future; she would recognize him. How was this possible?

Could it be that the wind carried his voice all the way from the Americas?

It is said in Indian culture that wind goes everywhere, sees everything. And spirit wind, she remembered, will speak to you.

“Mato Sapa?”
she thought to herself.

“It is I,”
the voice returned.

“Are you comfortable, Lady Estrela?”

Estrela’s eyelids flew open and she gaped at the Duke, who had just spoken to her. She smiled, though surprise kept her silent, until at last she managed to say, “I am fine.”

The Duke smiled back at her and she sighed.

The Duke of Colchester had been kind to her, going so far as to present her to King William even though the King, being ill, had barely noticed her, leaving it to Queen Adelaide to smile a welcome to her.

There was something odd there, Estrela thought as she remembered it now. The Queen had stood surrounded by her court, and Estrela remembered feeling as though eyes watched her, followed her, too closely…

“Waste Ho.”

Why wouldn’t the wind leave her alone? Not only did she hear his voice, now an image caught at the corner of her vision—there in the crowd.

It couldn’t be.

It was impossible…and yet…

She shouldn’t have thought of him today. She should have left his memory in the past. Wasn’t that where it belonged? This was no good. She seemed to hear him, see him everywhere. She must not think of him, she…

She strained forward in her seat despite her thoughts, and peered into the crowd, around the people, to the right, to the left. She saw nothing more.

What was that? She shifted in her seat, but whatever had caught her eye was gone as surely as if it had been a phantom.

Was she losing her mind? Or had she really seen a buckskin jacket? A jacket with beaded designs and porcupine quills? A jacket that only an Indian would wear?

She muttered a curse, deciding the winds, the very spirits themselves were conspiring against her.

What good was this doing her?

She brought her head up, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead, unaware that a man dressed in colorfully designed buckskin shirt and leggings with a buffalo robe thrown over his shoulder followed her, followed her carriage.

A cool, humid breeze brushed at her hair, releasing blond tendrils from her coiffure.

“Look at me.”

Estrela bit her lip. Don’t listen to it, she told herself. Don’t look. Don’t… She moaned, glancing into the crowd despite herself, catching a glimpse of long, black hair flowing back against the wind.

No! It couldn’t be. And yet… She saw him there in the crowd.

She gasped.

A shot split the air.

Estrela screamed, instinctively ducking down, realizing with horror that blood streamed down her own arm.

Was someone shooting at her or…?

Another shot exploded, barely missing her. Another.

She fell to her knees then, her head down, her hands sheltering her face. Bells rang outside, women on the street screamed and men yelled. The Duchess of Colchester cried, the Duke shouted orders to the driver, the horses reared. So much noise was there, that she didn’t hear the high-pitched whooping of a warrior’s voice; she didn’t see the flash of bronzed skin as a man ran toward her, didn’t even feel the carriage tip as it gave under the weight of a lone, single man who had leaped from the streets, to her side.

She sobbed, she cried, making so much noise herself, that she didn’t hear anything, didn’t sense anything until strong arms encircled her, lifting her out of the carriage. Only then did she catch a faint scent of familiar masculinity, but with so much motion bursting around her, she only registered confusion.

Another shot fired.

Horses reared, more people screamed and scattered. Soldiers fell out of order and were suddenly everywhere. Another shot exploded and Estrela felt her rescuer dodge the deadly bullet. Estrela opened her eyes and looking up, saw for the first time the man who held her. And had she been at all fainthearted, she would have swooned.

Had the wind been foreshadowing his presence, or was she delirious? Not only was this man Indian, he was… Her mind swam and her senses spun.

What was happening?

Another gunshot fired and Estrela abandoned all conscious thought, reacting in league with her rescuer. The Indian, however, remained in control, and dodging between people, he ran, Estrela held in his arms. No one stopped him, she noted, and he paused now and again in the crowd, looking around, as though hunting for sanctuary. Estrela, glancing up at him, understood, despite her confusion, that his only defense lay in taking shelter among the crowd, until he had either outrun his assailant or found safe refuge. Estrela wondered at her own encumbrance to him in his flight, then dismissed the thought, remembering that the American Indian was accustomed to such maneuvers.

The Royal Guard, with their red jackets glaring within the crowd, burst forward, dispersing the people everywhere, and oddly enough pursuing the Indian as though he were the one who had fired the shots. They raced after him through the crowd, shouting at him, ordering him to stop. But the Indian refused to relent and without seeming to exert much effort, he outmaneuvered the guards, changing directions without breaking stride, running between people, animals, buildings; he carried his charge as though she weighed no more than the quiver full of arrows upon his back.

Still, it was only a matter of time before the Royal Guard caught him, greatly outnumbering him and being themselves on their own territory; soon, caught, cornered, nowhere to go, the Indian stopped before a building. Penned in he took up a stance, determined, it would seem, to fight the entire Guard.

The Indian, a knife his only weapon, set Estrela behind him, protecting her with his body, while he faced his opponents, crouched, ready to respond.

And she noted, even though she wasn’t fully convinced this was more than a dream, that he stood before the Guard, outmanned, only one against many. Yet he stood, proudly, his prize held behind him, his body her shield.

That’s when she heard them, his growls, and she wondered, was this real or was spirit wind playing tricks on her still, bringing visions to her?

As if in answer, she heard his war cry—the sound terrible. And she realized, as she reached a hand out to touch the long mass of his hair that this was real. He was real. He was here. He had saved her life.

She almost collapsed.

Except that he held her with one arm behind him, and she had no choice but to watch as Mato Sapa, Lakota warrior, held off a hundred, red-coated Royal Guard.

Besides his bow and quiver full of arrows, he possessed only his knife, she noted again, realizing at the same time that it would be ineffective against the Guard’s long swords. Still she took pride in him, much pride. For he showed nothing but courage, and he would not relinquish his position. Instead, he shrieked, he snarled at the Guard, challenging them to do their worst.

No one moved. And whether it was because no one dared to go up against the Indian, or because all stood shocked that he would not surrender, it mattered little. The effect was the same. A standoff, the Indian crouching low, his demeanor one of pure confidence, a low growl sounding in his throat amid horrible war cries and the Guard wary, uncertain, holding him back, reluctant to advance.

All at once one of the Guard broke away and rushed forward, his sword drawn, held high above his head.

“Halt!”

The well-trained Guard stopped, sword still raised.

“Go no farther.” The order resounded from within the Guard. “What are you doing here? Are you men mad? Who has ordered this?” The voice came through the crowd of guards who dispersed as one man pushed his way through them. “This man,” the voice said, “is the only one who has acted to avert disaster, and you challenge him?” It was then that the Duke of Colchester broke through the men, and advancing forward, waved the Guard away. “Have you no sense at all? Why do you detain this man when you should be seeking the person responsible for all this shooting? Do you see this man armed with a gun? Of course not. Cease detaining him at once. Now! Go!”

Each member of the Guard hurled a look toward their Captain who, giving the order, withdrew the entire command.

Still, even as the soldiers left the scene, the Indian didn’t relent. With one arm held behind him, protecting Estrela, he still crouched, poised, ready to fight.

Estrela, peeking around her rescuer, saw the Duke of Colchester approach them.

“Are you harmed, Lady Estrela?” the Duke asked.

Estrela swallowed, unable to make herself speak.

“You do not have to answer him,” the Indian pronounced in distinct English, though the accent was purely American—and Indian.

“I…” Estrela could say no more. Emotion overcame her. But not the emotion of pain. Nor that of shock. Her arm, its wound, the blood staining her dress, even the Duke himself paled into insignificance beside what she felt at this moment.

He was here—here in England. When she’d needed him most, he was here.

Blood rushed to her head, and her knees suddenly buckled.

She felt the Indian’s grip on her strengthen as he held her with one arm, and she knew she stood now simply because he clutched her.

His wild scent reached back to her, another reminder that he was real flesh.

“Mato Sapa?”
she asked. She grabbed a handful of his long hair and held it between her fingers. She twined the dark mass of it around and around her fingers as though only in this way could she believe what she now knew to be true.

“It is I.”

“Lady Estrela.” The Duke of Colchester was not to be put off. “There is blood on your dress, on your arm. If you are injured, we will need to see to the wound.” Then to the Indian. “I am a friend. I will not harm her.”

The Indian chanced a glance behind him, and Estrela stared back.

The look he gave her took a mere second, yet in his eyes she noted that his gaze took in everything around him. The people, the buildings, herself, her dress, the blood.

“Is he friend?” the Indian asked Estrela, though she saw that his gaze held onto the Duke. The Indian asked her as though five years had never elapsed, as though she were still his woman, he her man. And Estrela felt quite shaky.