White Eagle's Touch (16 page)

“He is…he is…naked…”

“Yes, mistress, I have heard that the Indians wear very little, usually only a breechcloth, when they ride, but—”

“No, Rebecca. White Eagle
is
naked.”

Rebecca turned her head.

“Don’t look.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Katrina looked away, but only for the tiniest fraction of a second. And though she tried to peer at something else she couldn’t help herself. She darted a glance back at White Eagle.

And why not?

She had never before seen a man’s body so completely nude as he was…his body was.

White Eagle glanced over his shoulder, his gaze taking in the crowd, the people, looking as though he searched for something, until all at once, he singled out Katrina.

And then he stopped his search, his gaze lingering over
her.
He turned then, ever so slightly, so that she was presented with the full view of his nude, and his undeniably male, form.

She gulped.

He was. His body was magnificent and oh, so very male…so naked…

Without warning as to what he would do, he suddenly smiled at her and, embarrassed, Katrina averted her gaze, trying her best not to glance back at him.

But it was a difficult thing not to do, especially when she couldn’t stop thinking about what she had just seen, about those tight buttocks, his straight muscular back, his legs, so powerful, so strong, how he looked as he casually stood there.

And his form, as he turned toward her; his…maleness clearly visible to her.

She mustn’t think of it. She mustn’t remember it. And most of all, she mustn’t look over toward him again. Her heartbeat couldn’t stand the erratic racing that the sight of him caused her.

Still, she couldn’t stop herself, and, without willing it, she glanced once again toward him, only to find him still staring at her.

And to her amazement, that part of him which she had never before seen on a man, that part which was completely, utterly, and incredibly male, grew in size, right there as she gazed at him.

Her eyes must have bulged—she genuinely felt as though they did—and she brought her glance up quickly to look at his face, only to find him grinning back at her.

He
knew
he was disturbing her.

Blast the man.

She looked away.

As she fanned herself with one of her gloves, she tried to keep her gaze centered elsewhere.

But, truly, it was quite impossible.

White Eagle had just finished the task of grooming his pony, his robe still wrapped around him for modesty’s sake. Not that he was overly conscious of his body, which was nude beneath that robe. Like all Indians, as a child he had grown up running naked through the villages, never learning that one’s body was something to be ashamed of or hidden. Clothes, to his way of thinking, were something one adorned oneself in for warmth, as well as for beauty.

Still, he acknowledged, that as men and women reached a certain age, it was better to cover over those portions of the body which distinguished the men from the women. There were times that a man could not control the urgings of his body, and it was better to cover himself. But to do so, to wear clothing, didn’t mean he, or any other Indian, was uncomfortable with his naked body; nor was he embarrassed.

In truth, the Indian looked upon nudity as a necessity, since the sun and its radiance were essential parts of life, not unlike food. And it would have been hideous, to the Indian way of thinking, to hide his body from the healing rays of the sun.

That the white man wore so many clothes during the moons when the weather was warm, that the white man chose to block out the indispensable curing power of the sun, seemed as silly to the Indian as denying himself food or drink. And he looked upon the white man as being stupid because of it. In truth, many an Indian thought that it was this, and only this, that caused the white man to be so often sickly and to suffer so many different kinds of diseases.

Further, to wear clothing during a race, or in war, was, to the Indian way of thinking, the height of recklessness. Did the white man not know that so many clothes only hindered one’s ability?

White Eagle shrugged, thinking about it. It made no difference to him.

He threw off his robe.

Immediately, he felt an unusual beam of awareness upon him.

A feminine awareness.

He turned slightly so that he could scan the crowd, but he could find no source for this feeling. Indian men and women took no unusual note of him; the traders, used to the Indian way, spared him little attention. White Eagle turned back toward his horse. Still…

As though guided to her, he slowly glanced over his shoulder, his survey at last coming to alight upon Shines Like Moonlight.

She watched him, her concentration on him clearly feminine and…attentive. True, she pretended to be looking elsewhere, but he caught her watching him out of the corner of her eye.

And he almost whooped aloud, realizing what this could mean.

He then turned around completely, bringing himself fully into her line of vision. And though she tried not to show it, he felt her attention upon him increase. He grinned a little. That is, he smirked until he felt the full effect of her intention, and then he grimaced, not needing to look downward to realize the result her attention was having upon his body.

Haiya,
she was only
looking
at him. He shook his head. This was good; this was very, very good.

However, this was not the state he wished his body to be in to race.

He spun back around, then, and mounted his pony. Best to bring his passion under control
before
the race.

As soon as he was mounted, there was a warning, from the white man with a gun, one more warning that the race was about to begin. And then the shot.

White Eagle whipped his pony forward with his buffalo-hair whip; the white man followed suit.

White Eagle felt himself become attuned to the movement of his pony as the animal galloped over the set track. This horse was his best mount, his buffalo pony, the fleetest animal, trained to obey White Eagle’s slightest command. This was the same pony who would carry him in toward the buffalo during a stampede, the horse coming to within a short distance of the animal, allowing his master a clear shot before turning quickly to rush away.

This animal loved the excitement of buffalo hunting and racing almost as much as his owner. In truth, this animal had one other quality that would be hard to beat: He hated to lose.

Onward the men sped, past the line of people who had gathered around the track, White Eagle’s pony keeping pace just behind the Englishman.

Up the two of them raced, over one of the hills and down, across another, following along the route both the Englishman and the Indian had agreed upon earlier. And soon they were out of view of the spectators and White Eagle saw the Englishman glance behind him. White Eagle caught the look of astonishment upon the other man’s face. Clearly the Englishman had not expected the shorter, more stubby, Indian pony to be able to keep up with the clean lines of the white man’s larger steed.

A grave miscalculation. Though the marquess’s horse was the finest the fort’s stables had to offer, the animal was no match for the Indian’s freer and more excitable buffalo pony.

Onward the two men sped into the grove of trees.

The Englishman caught ahold of a tree branch as he passed it, flicking it violently backwards.

White Eagle’s pony darted away without command, while White Eagle crouched down low over the pony’s neck, easily keeping his seat.

So, thought White Eagle, the Englishman intended to cheat; just as White Eagle had suspected he would when the white man had insisted that the course run out of view of the spectators and into a grove of trees. It was one of the reasons White Eagle rode so unencumbered, with no more than a short-hair bridle passed around the neck of his pony. Unhampered, he could easily outmaneuver the white man.

The Englishman pulled back yet another branch, with another miss, as White Eagle’s buffalo pony neatly stepped around it.

White Eagle suddenly grinned. The Englishman was reacting true to form, which meant that White Eagle was prepared for nefarious actions.

White Eagle would win this race, there was no doubt in his mind and, he would win it honestly. Moreover, he would make himself a trophy of that cap that the white man wore. He promised this to himself.

Through the trees they raced, back in the direction of the hills, the Englishman having gained none but the smallest of leads.

The white man whipped his horse. White Eagle did the same.

Up and over the hills once again, White Eagle gaining speed on the Englishman, coming up onto the man’s right side.

They were just barely in sight of the others.

The Englishman leaned over suddenly, a long tree branch in his hand. He aimed the branch, like a weapon, at White Eagle and tried to unseat him.

But White Eagle had anticipated such a move.

Suddenly White Eagle dropped down on the other side of the pony, his heel all that remained to be seen upon his horse.

Dropping down into the loop of his short-hair bridle, White Eagle leaned his body weight onto his shoulder and hung there within that halter. In this position, from under his pony’s neck, he called out to the Englishman. “You cannot win, no matter how you try to cheat. Do you see this? You try to unseat me and still, I am in the race.”

And then White Eagle laughed, easily restoring himself to an upright position on his pony.

Using his knees, he drove his buffalo pony in closer toward the other man, so close the Englishman made to duck, losing the weapon he’d made of that branch. But White Eagle did not intend to unseat the gentleman. Instead, White Eagle leaned over and grabbed at the Englishman’s cap, more than a little startled and delighted when the man’s mousey brown wig came off at the same time.

With a quick movement of his knees, White Eagle gave the signal for his pony to move, and, quickly, the pony pulled away, gaining distance and taking the lead away from the Englishman, White Eagle proclaiming his deed with a high-pitched trill.

The finish line loomed only a short distance ahead and within seconds White Eagle crossed over that line, leaving the Englishman behind to do nothing more than breathe in the prairie dust kicked up by White Eagle’s pony.

Cheers went up in the crowd for the winner, many people at once collecting payment upon their bet.

But White Eagle hadn’t yet finished.

Singling out Katrina in the crowd, he rode up to her.

She looked so very proper and oh, so beautiful in her white man’s gown of a shiny blue material. Her hat, or what he had heard was referred to as her bonnet, framed her golden curls, and he thought he had never seen anyone or anything so pretty.

Then, without a word passing between them, he offered her the Englishman’s cap and wig.

She hesitated only a moment and then, handing off her purse to her friend who stood beside her, Shines Like Moonlight took a few steps forward and reached up a hand toward him.

And as she did so, she smiled at him.

White Eagle was at once dumbstruck.

It was the first smile that she had ever given him of her own free will and, because of it, White Eagle almost lost his seating upon his mount.

But there was something more.

Her hand, sheathed as it was in a flimsy, white glove, touched his leg where he sat upon his mount and, when she looked up at him, she had at first glanced at his chest, at his loins, but then she gazed straight up at
him.

He tried to read her thoughts, but he couldn’t in all this excitement. However, he could see that she appeared to like what she saw. In truth, she appeared to like
him.

It made him want to whoop and scream all over again just to think of it and, as their hands met, there, as he sat upon his pony, he thought he couldn’t have been happier. And then, without a word passing between them, he passed her the trophy of cap and a brown-colored wig.

She took it, and she touched him.

Instantly, he felt emotion flood his body; instantly, he felt himself stir to life.

It made him want to take her in his arms and make love to her, right here and now, despite where they were, despite all the people who watched them, despite any reason they should not.

Something was changing between him and this woman; perhaps it already had.

Something very good.

He couldn’t help himself, and he let go a war whoop, giving her hand a squeeze.

And as he gazed down at her, he almost said,
tonight, when there are no others to see us, meet me,
but there were other people watching them, and he held himself back from saying it, not wishing to embarrass her in front of others.

He willed her to understand, however. He willed it, hoping she could see into his thoughts.

And then, with one final look at her, he rode his pony off and away, directing it into a run and riding across the prairie, others from his tribe joining in around him and following him until it looked as though he led none other than a victory parade.