Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (7 page)

“Milady,” Robert frowned his disapproval, “I hardly think—”

“We could teach him our ways, introduce him into English society, be kind to him. We could make him want to stay, couldn’t we?”

“Milady, I don’t believe the man will want to stay anywhere tied—”

“Then we will untie him, but watch him carefully.”

“Milady, the man is Indian. He is a savage, a wild man. And as such, there are items of interest within our room that he could use as a weapon and still escape. It would be much too dangerous.”

“But necessary. See if you can bribe the two trappers who brought him to us, or anyone else with experience, into making the trip down the Missouri with us. They could help us guard the man.”

“Milady, might I remind you that those trappers are renowned for being untrustworthy.”

“Then don’t use them. Find someone else. Surely there are people for hire here who will do nothing more than watch a man in a locked room and keep him from escaping.”

“Milady, I must protest—”

“Robert, please. I am desperate.” She paused dramatically before looking over toward her servant, until at last she said, “You know that.”

Robert sighed. He looked away, clearly unwilling to give in too easily, though at last he said, “Yes, milady,” letting out his breath as he said it. “I will see what I can find at this early hour of the morning, though please do not expect much. I fear most of the trappers will be too busy sleeping off the effects of last night’s whiskey to clearly understand what it is that I ask.”

Genevieve looked toward her servant, an expression of gratitude in her gaze. She smiled at the man. “Thank you, Robert,” she said. “I realize you do not wish to do this, and I am once again in your debt. I could not ask for a better friend than you.”

Robert shrugged, letting the compliment flow over him as though he were stone and it a mere puff of wind—although Lady Genevieve could have sworn, as she watched him back away, that there might have been, if only for an instant, a glimpse of happiness there within the glint of her servant’s eye.

The room was too small, much too small.

And it didn’t help to remember her resolve of only a short while ago: that she couldn’t face this Indian any time soon for fear of what he might do, what she might do…

She stopped her train of thought. She
had
to be here now, she
had
to watch over the man while Robert went ashore to recruit more help. It was only for a little while longer, and then she could escape. But by Jove, these close quarters heightened the effect this man had on her.

Genevieve tried to glance away from the Indian, to look anywhere but at this very real man who stood not more than a few feet away from her. She shifted uncomfortably, aware that she had dressed too quickly in her haste to get to this room while her manservant went ashore. She had failed to don her shift beneath her dress, and the knowledge made her feel vulnerable, almost naked.

Naked. She glanced at the nearly nude man who stood before her. He wore only a breechcloth, moccasins, and a necklace. She studied the strings of bone beads that hung down over the man’s chest in a series of loops, creating a breastplate of sorts. Fascinating.

She continued to look, unaware of exactly when her attention turned from the necklace to the man’s chest, all bronzed skin and muscle. Without full awareness of what she did, she allowed her gaze to inspect the man everywhere, her glance traveling down to his stomach, flat with defined, hard muscles. Lower still she stared, downward toward his breechcloth, toward his…

She pulled her glance up short, admonishing herself, forcing herself to gaze away from the man.

It was too late. Already her stomach, her nerve endings, her heartbeat fluttered out of control, and Genevieve’s knees buckled under her, forcing her to take a seat in the only chair available in the room—a chair, of course, closer to
him.

She gulped and looked anywhere in the room but at
him,
certain she could make herself realize that it wasn’t the Indian who made her feel all weak and giddy inside. It was only natural that she would have such a reaction toward him, she told herself. After all, he
was
handsome, and she was a young, healthy woman. What woman wouldn’t swoon at seeing so much of a man’s body exposed?

You see?
she scolded herself mentally.
It’s not the Indian at all.

He moved then, and Lady Genevieve, despite herself, couldn’t control her gasp or the shiver of reaction that raced over her skin.

She looked away. “I won’t harm you,” she spoke at last, breaking the silence of the room. “I promise,” she said, not daring to bring her gaze back to survey the man.

The Indian didn’t say a word in response, and she chanced a quick glance at him. She gasped. Such hatred emanated from him that it made her pause. With a shake of her head, she said, “I promise you that I will return you to your people at the end of a few months’ time—at the most, a year—and I will do all that I can to see that no abuse befalls you.”

The Indian didn’t utter a thing, looking away from her as though he had lost all interest in her, in his situation.

“I promise.”

He turned his head back toward her sharply. But still he didn’t speak, just glared at her.

“Truly, I do.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his expression saying more clearly than words could have what he thought of her and any promises she might make.

“I know you understand me, and I know you are angry with me, but isn’t there anything I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable? I cannot let you go. Believe me, if I could, I would.”

No response whatsoever, just a glare.

She shook her head, raising her chin. “What more do you want from me? Haven’t I just promised to care for you, to ensure your comfort and your safety? I cannot change the reasons why I must take you back with me. If I could, I would. Can’t you just make the best of it?”

Again nothing, no response.

“Please,” she said after a moment. “Won’t you speak to me? I know that you can. I honestly mean you no harm, and I do promise to protect you in any way that I can until this incident is behind us.” She paused. “Please?”

She heard a quick intake of breath then, and raising her gaze to his, she saw him frown at her. It seemed to take forever, though at last, still glaring at her, he said, “Do I look like a woman, that I need your protection? Rather, I would be harmed than remain here…” he raised his wrists, “tied.”

She didn’t say anything back to him right away. What could she say? That he certainly didn’t look like a woman? That she’d had no trouble realizing his gender? That she meant to untie him later?

Yes, she did mean to give him more freedom later. But not now. There was no one else here to prevent this man’s escape. And she was afraid that if she told him this now, somehow she would find him gone within so short a span of time that she would be left wondering exactly what had happened.

And so she did nothing, merely looked over toward him, until at length she said, “Thank you for speaking…I think.”

He grunted, his only response.

A moment passed, then another, Genevieve feeling more awkward than she could ever remember feeling. At length, though, she asked, “How is it that you know English?”

The Indian squinted his eyes, his lips pursed as he scowled at her. He didn’t say a word.

She continued, “Did you learn it from the traders? I wasn’t aware they had been in your country for long. At least not long enough for you to learn the language so well.”

Again his look pierced hers, the venom in that glance a very real, palpable thing.

But she chose to ignore it, feeling a safety in the knowledge that he was tied and could do little about it. Besides, she never looked at him directly, happy to stare somewhere between his collarbone and his chin. So she carried on. “Or have missionaries been in your country? Or perhaps the French, although they would speak French, wouldn’t they? Maybe the English? Oh, well, that would be quite impossible, wouldn’t it? Maybe you learned it from—”

“The Black Robe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Beg,
okamanii
,”
he said, no expression whatsoever on his face. “I would like to see you beg.”

“Humph!” She threw a lock of auburn-red hair over her shoulder, the action reminding her that she wore neither hat nor headgear of any kind as would have befitted her station. “You misunderstand,” she said, daring to look toward him, though her gaze didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I did not mean that I will actually beg you. ’Tis merely an expression that says ‘I did not understand what you said; could you please explain it more fully?’ You see, I did not comprehend what you said about the black robe, and so when I said ‘I beg your pardon,’ what I was—”

“Ha’
! I know what the white woman means. I understood it then.” His dark gaze cut into her own. “Still, I would like to see my own enemy, the white woman, beg.” A corner of his lips turned upward. “It would bring me pleasure to see this.”

Genevieve sat in silence for a moment, her glance finally encompassing the whole of the man who stood before her. “I am not your enemy.” It was all she could think to say.

His smile at her, or rather his smirk, widened. “
Saa
, no,” he said, “your race of people does not call it this, as I recall. Yet, with my people, anyone who forces another into an act against his own will is an enemy to that person. You may call it ‘lovemaking,’ what you intend to do to me, but I will never see it as that. I am not willingly here. You might make my body respond to you, as you did earlier when I kissed you, but
I
will never respond to you—not willingly—ever.”

Genevieve choked, her face filling with a deep red color that she had no way of controlling. She opened her mouth and closed it several times, able to do no more than sputter, “You…think…that…I…” She couldn’t finish it. Her head suddenly reeled as though she had spun around the room several times, and she came to her feet, where she swayed before she was able to back away from him, her movement toward the door.

Whatever was wrong with the man? How could he suggest such a thing?

She brought a hand to her chest, trying to still the throbbing of her heart, endeavoring to prevent herself from collapsing.

Where was Robert with the other men who might help watch over the savage? She wouldn’t stay here any longer; she couldn’t, she mustn’t…

She had to.

Her back against the door, she darted a look over toward the Indian, her gaze inspecting him as she had never done to anyone else. What, she wondered, possessed the man to say such a thing to her? He was a savage indeed.

She instantly felt contrite that she had once thought him good-looking and worthy of attention. Well, no more. She would spare him not more than another moment’s thought—as soon as she left here.

Why then, she wondered, couldn’t her body agree with her? Why was her body reacting to his words as though the man had suddenly declared his undying love for her? Why, for goodness sake, did she feel warm all over?

She wanted to leave. Yes, that was what she wanted to do…what she had to do. Her hand fell to the doorknob. She turned it. She wanted to; she had to… She dared not. The man might escape.

At last, realizing she had no choice but to remain where she was for the moment, she took strength from somewhere within and, looking straight at the Indian, she said, “You again misunderstand.” Her voice was quiet, soft, so barely audible that even she could hardly hear it.

He smiled a cold, unmerciful grin. “I think not,” he said slowly. “Your intentions were made more than clear to me.”

She swallowed. “No, it’s not true. I only bring you to my father, who is completing a work on the cultures and languages of the American Indians. We lack a study of your tribe. That is all we need. That is all I am doing. Nothing more. When the study is done, we will return you to your people. I promise you.”

The Indian shrugged and gazed away.

“Did you hear me?” she asked, his lack of response causing her to grow angry. She sighed. “I promise you, I am doing no more than taking you to my father…that is all.”

Again, the Indian shrugged.

She grimaced. “Sir, Mr… what is your name?”

“
Ha’
! Do you now request that I give you a part of me?”

“No, I…” Her mouth fell open. “I ask only your name, that I might address you properly.”

“Haiya,
how is it,” he asked, “that you want to learn about my people’s culture, and yet you do not know what you ask of me?”

“I…have I somehow insulted you? If I have done something wrong, could you tell me?”

He jerked his head to the left, and, looking away from her, he sighed. “How is it you do not know these things?” He seemed to address the wall as he spoke. “How can it be that you do not know that if I tell you my name, I give you a part of all that I am, a part of me that your people call the soul,
ksissta’pssi
?
Is that what you want, white woman of no honor? Do you wish to own my soul?”

“No, I…I… You are right. I did not know. It is not that way in my culture. In my society, a name designates your family; that is all the meaning we attach to it, and beyond that, a name has little significance to us, except perhaps for its beauty.”