Black Eagle (16 page)

“I beg to disagree. Here I have come to you to either persuade you into doing my bidding or to fire you, and instead, I find myself persuaded.”

“Persuaded to marry me or to let me lead you? ”

She shook her head. “I can never marry you. This will not change. But I will let you lead our party. Especially since I feel you are right about Thompson. He might only get us thoroughly lost.”

“Indeed. It has long been an observation amongst my people that without a Mohawk by their side, the English are as lost in the forest as a child. However, what you say about change is not true. All things change. It is the one thing a man can always depend on. Nothing stays the same.” He kissed her, and though she might object to many things about him, she did not reject his kiss. In truth, it was several minutes later before he set her from him, and he said, “Go now,
Ahweyoh
. Get your things. I am prepared to leave here at once.”

“It is what I have decided to call you. It is a good name, and someday, I will tell you a story about
Ahweyoh
, for the two of you have much in common, I think.”

“
Ahweyoh
,” she repeated. “What does it mean? ”

“Water Lily.”

As her light-brown eyes sought out his own, she smiled. And it was, indeed, endearing, especially when she proceeded to do the unexpected. She did exactly as he said.

As the events of the morning unfolded, Marisa at last managed to influence Black Eagle into readying one of the horses to carry her and Sarah's trunks. Except for food, their trunks were, from her viewpoint, the only articles worth taking. Indeed, once she had narrowed her choices to them alone, all that had been required to win Black Eagle to her cause had been a smile.

Their party, which consisted of herself, Sarah, Richard Thompson and Black Eagle, had left the Rathburn estate much later than originally anticipated. In truth, it was almost noon before they were away.

Much of the delay, she admitted, was due to her own desire to speak to her guardian. However, it had been to no avail. John Rathburn had not, would not, leave his apartments . . . not even when Marisa had sent him a written note asking to see him.

True, he was brooding, but his indifference stung. Alas, it had brought her to tears. But in the end, outside of storming his room and forcing him to talk to her, there was little she or anyone else could do. As Sarah had once observed, one couldn't force another to love them, since, if it were so, all the dreaded tyrants of the world would be beloved instead of loathed.

Thank goodness for Sarah's presence in her life. As Marisa glanced toward her friend, her heart stirred. The cuts on Sarah's face were clean, but they served to strengthen Marisa's determination to see Sarah safely settled. After all, for so many years, Sarah had been forced to endure living within the house of the man who had caused her much grief. And now James was added to that list. Sarah deserved better.

When Black Eagle had first seen Sarah, he had stared at her bruises openly. But then he had looked away and had not said a word. It left Marisa wondering if he were fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.

Marisa took a deep breath and leaned sideways in her saddle. She was tired, having received no sleep the previous night. But the notion of dozing while on the trail was lost to her, due she supposed to the magnificence of the land that surrounded the trail, as well as to Black Eagle, himself, whose unusual way of dressing was having an effect over her pulse rate.

Gone was the black tunic and black leggings from last night and early this morning. In its place, Black Eagle wore a dark blue tunic, belted at the waist. The tips of a buckskin breechcloth, which fell between his legs, were barely visible beneath his tunic, while tight-fitting leggings came up high on his thigh to tie to a belt under his shirt. Red beaded garters were tied around those leggings, just under the knee. That this style of dress left an occasional glimpse of his upper thigh and buttocks was heart-stopping from the feminine perspective, and Marisa found herself gazing at him more often than she thought she ought.

A beaded red blanket laid draped over his left shoulder; it was brought in close to his body and held there by his belt. Also, worn crisscross over his chest were straps that held attached to them pouches for ammunition, as well as a powder horn. There was a tomahawk tucked in securely to his belt and he carried a musket cradled in his arm. Around his neck was a silver gorget as well as a knife case, and there were silver arm bands encircling each arm.

She sighed. His was a slender figure, yet if memory served her correctly, there was solid muscle beneath his clothing, and as her gaze caught again onto the red blanket draped over his shoulder, a vision of that same blanket, which had been laid out beneath her own body last night, came vividly to mind. Despite herself, she felt the blood rush to her face, and to avert her attention away from him and the memories this man invoked, she gazed out into the woodland environment.

The trail was flanked on both sides by deep growth and tall trees so numerous, that at times, they seemed to overpower the sun. At present, both Marisa and Sarah were riding sidesaddle, while the third horse carried their supplies. But it was not visible to her at the moment, since Thompson led the animal, and he was pulling up their rear.

Sarah was lagging behind, Marisa noticed, and reining in her mount, she sent a glance back over her shoulder. She called out, “Sarah, are you all right? ”

“Yes,” Sarah answered, and brought her horse toward Marisa. “I fear I have been taking too much time admiring the woods. It's beautiful country, yet, it is quite frightening, as well. I keep imagining unknown Indians behind every tree.”

“I, too.” As Marisa waited, she gazed upward, her vision taking in the cloudless blue sky. To her right and to her left were trees of maple, elm, birch and more, and they seemed to go on forever.

None of this territory was entirely new to Marisa, however, since she had grown up in the woodlands of upper New York State. However, the forest was so beautiful at this time of year, that its charm quite outweighed its terror, at least in her view of it.

When at length Sarah caught up with her, Marisa said, “I think that you should not lag too far behind, Sarah. Perhaps we should make a pact to stay close to one another. Then if something happens, we will each one be there for the other.”

“Yes,” agreed Sarah. “I'm certain you are right. And I wish I could enjoy it without fear, for it holds much charm.”

“Yes, I agree.” Marisa smiled. “The woods are beautiful. Perhaps the longer we are on the trail, the more you might come to admire it without fear. Look there, the reds of the maple trees, the oranges of the oaks, the yellows and the greens, they are so vibrant at this time of year. And there are so many of them, that it seems as if the whole forest is afire with color. And overhead”—she gestured upward—“is the bluest of skies.”

Sarah nodded. “It almost seems as if the hills themselves are alive.”

“Exactly.”

By mutual consent, the two women nudged their mounts forward, following after Black Eagle. Within a moment, however, Marisa was contented to continue in the same line of thought, and she said, “Even the air is different from Albany. It has a slight fragrance of pine. Have you noticed?”

“I have. It is, indeed, most invigorating.”

At present a westerly wind brushed against Marisa's backside, imparting with it a sense of security, and off to the eastern side of the trail, the sound of a rushing brook lent the air an ongoing sort of music. Moisture from the stream cooled the atmosphere, and made the air sit more easily on the lungs.

Black Eagle, who was in the lead, was by now far ahead of them. In fact, Richard Thompson, who normally lagged far behind, was almost upon the two women.

“Come, Sarah, let us catch up to Sir Eagle. It wouldn't do to have him outdistance our horses.”

Sarah nodded, and as they set their mounts into a faster walk, the two women fell silent.

The path they were following was well traveled, and since it took little attention to steer the animal, Marisa let her attention slip back in time, to a few hours previous.

After Marisa had left Black Eagle in the livery, she had discovered that Richard Thompson was awaiting her at the Rathburn mansion. She, however, had spared the man little regard, not even to admonish him for the lateness of his arrival.

Instead she had gone straight to James. It had been a difficult thing to do, particularly so since the only communication she desired with the man was one that was best done with a firearm. However, she'd had no choice, since he had stood between herself and her guardian.

After admonishing James for his behavior with Sarah, and threatening him with the Albany authorities, Marisa had demanded to speak to her guardian. Now she wished she hadn't even done that. There had been no visible result because of it, and it had required her to speak to a man that she now abhorred.

She had finally written Rathburn a note. Putting her feelings into words had been most agonizing, her shame deepening when her guardian had refused to acknowledge her.

In her note, she had offered her step-uncle an olive branch, had apologized for her “crime” of upsetting him, had even gone on to explain why she had felt it necessary to assert her independence. She had also assured him that he need not worry, for she had every intention of doing her duty by him and, upon her return, would consider marriage.

The last part of her letter, however, caused her to cringe in remembrance; she now wished she could take back the words:

But her pleading had been for nothing. John Rathburn had remained adamant in his condemnation of her. She supposed that to his way of thinking, her independence had wronged him, and there was nothing she could do to repair the damage done.

Marisa sighed, and turning her attention to the spectacular sights of the beauty surrounding her, she tried to set her mind to other things. But like a dark cloud that followed and vexed her, her step-uncle's rejection was not to be put so lightly aside.

 

 

The sign read:

The hut was situated about twenty-five miles north of Albany, on the eastern side of the trail. Built of crude logs, the tavern seemed to be an oasis, and Marisa thought that it might very well be the last trace of civilization to be found, at least until they at last arrived on the eastern seaboard in New Hampshire. Positioned on the far right side of the trail, with its front facing out toward the road, it was an unusual place in that its back was built downward, extending out toward a fast flowing stream. Even from a distance, Marisa could see that there were logs cut out for stools, as well as crude tables, which were scattered out back of the tavern. Plus, because the inn was situated on slightly higher ground than the stream, there was a swinging footbridge that extended over the water.

At present, no one was taking enjoyment of the picnic area, and Marisa wondered if the fault were that of the establishment itself, or if the men who might frequent the place felt more at home inside. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter to her. After several hours on the road, it looked to be a little bit of heaven.

Black Eagle, who was at the lead of their party, had paused here, awaiting the women and Thompson, the latter very far to their rear. When Sarah and Marisa drew rein in front of the tavern, they found Black Eagle deep in conversation with the man who might be the tavern keeper.

Upon seeing the women arrive, Black Eagle finished his exchange with the man, and both men turned to walk toward the women. Taking hold of their horses' reins, Black Eagle led the animals to a wooden post erected in front of the tavern, while the innkeeper followed.

As Black Eagle tied the reins to the post, he said, “The innkeeper says there is a room that you could rent for the night, and venison stew for supper. It might be wise to take advantage of the room and the food, rather than exhaust our own supply.”

“I think you are right,” said Marisa, who accepted the innkeeper's helping hand down.

“Injuns,” commented the man under his breath. “Don't rightly know why they feel it beneath them to help a lady down from her mount. Just tain't in their manners, I guess. Welcome, ladies.”

Marisa smiled at the man. “Thank you. Am I right in assuming that you might be Mr. Wilton? ”