Lakota Princess

by Karen Kay

  She’d wanted him. It had been that simple. The rest, her anger, his teasing, her defense, were nothing but excuses.

  She had wanted him. That simple.

  In truth, she had little defense against him, and what bit of it she possessed had been battered down by his needling, his sensuality and her love, her love of him.

  But it couldn’t go on. She had to make what had happened between them a one-night incident.

  She had given her vow to a friend on his deathbed.

  Estrela frowned. Why did it matter so much to her?

  Why couldn’t she just take Black Bear and pretend the rest of this didn’t matter? It didn’t really—did it?

  She sighed.

  It shouldn’t matter and yet it did. Why?

  Honor? Trust? Duty?

  The Lakota had taught her the value of these virtues, and now one of their own made her question her belief in them.

  Estrela moaned and relaxed back into the bed.

  These virtues were everything. No matter what she did, she had to live with herself. Yes, the Indians had instilled in her the importance of keeping her word, the value of trust. But there was more to it than just this; it was an ingrained sense of duty that was all her own. A feeling deep inside that her self-worth depended upon her ability to keep faith, to stand by her word, no matter the consequences.

  She almost cried. To break her word would be as to break herself.

  Could she do it? It was a testimony to the amount of devotion she felt for Black Bear that at this moment she even considered it. It would mean a lessening of herself in her own estimation.

  Should she do it?

  She gazed at Black Bear as he slept. He looked strangely vulnerable in sleep, and it was more than Estrela could do not to touch him, an action that would assuredly weaken her resolve further, since it would awaken him.

  But she reached out a hand anyway, needing to feel his long, dark hair where it lay against the silken sheets of her bed.

  She shouldn’t do it. She shouldn’t.

  It didn’t matter. She touched a dark strand of his hair anyway, glorying in the sensation of such a simple action. She inhaled the musky scent of him, this early morning, the fragrance enticing and all his own.

  She shut her eyes.

  She could never remember such intense feeling for another person. Never.

  What was she to do?

  Black Bear would consider that she was his now. He would not understand her withdrawal. He would resent it and her.

  But what choice did she have?

  She grimaced. She shouldn’t have done it. Hadn’t she just told him via her story of the Trickster that he should leave—and that he had even agreed? Didn’t she truly think this was best for him?

  But Estrela, with a surprising insight, realized that maybe it was this that had caused her to do it. Much as she said she wanted him to leave, much as she encouraged him to do so, she also knew that if he left, so would end her happiness.

  But wasn’t that selfish of her? What could she offer him, after all?

  An affair?

  It would never work, one reason being that Black Bear would never allow it. Another being that she simply couldn’t do it to him.

  He deserved more. He deserved a wife who loved him and a family.

  Something she couldn’t give him.

  Unless…

  What if she found Sir Connie? What if he were already married? What if he granted her a divorce?

  Yes, and what if he demanded the marriage be consummated?

  Estrela caught her breath. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t risk it.

  At least living alone was better than living with a man she didn’t love.

  Oh, what was she to do?

  Her doors still stood open from last night, and a cool breeze filtered inside, calling to her, begging her to come outside.

  Perhaps she should.

  Perhaps she should go outside for a walk…or for her early-morning ride.

  She stared out the doors into the new day, and though it was still dark outside, the pale shades of dawn were beginning to brighten the eastern sky.

  Why not?

  Why not go for her ride now? Yes, it was a little earlier than her customary morning ride, but what did that matter? Perhaps the exercise would clear her thoughts enough that she might see a solution to her troubles, which now eluded her.

  She wouldn’t be missed.

  Black Bear still lay asleep, and it would be several hours before Anna would invade Estrela’s rooms, since most ladies in the country did not arise much before eleven o’clock.

  Yes, that was it. She would go for a ride.

  Her mind made up, Estrela arose silently, and pulling the nightgown over her head, she prepared to go out into the new day.

  The view from Edgehill, which was only a short ride from Shelburne Hall, was spectacular.

  It was early September, and everywhere around her she sniffed the unmistakable scent of fall, the air crisp with the smell of fallen leaves and cut hay, the haystacks rolled and standing golden in most every field within her vision.

  The sky was blue, the fields a mixture of different hues of browns, greens and golds. The hedge in front of her stood heavy with blackberries, and to her right were bright, red rowanberries. The leaves were brown, golden or red depending on the bush, and as Estrela looked out over the land of little rises and valleys, slopes and ridges, she felt alone and suddenly very strange.

  She had traversed over the countryside this morning, keeping away from the narrow roads and lanes, passing by small hamlets and sleepy villages, her journey on horseback always onward, seeking escape from her thoughts and, if she were truthful, for a solution.

  She sat sidesaddle now, and as she looked out over the landscape, a cold wind suddenly whistled and swept by her, spooking her mount and leaving her with a feeling of being haunted. And Estrela, as she calmed her horse, tried to remember what she had been told of this place, Edgehill, of the battle that had occurred here almost two hundred years ago, but she could remember little about it, except that it had been a civil war between King and Parliament.

  It is said of most battlefields that they are haunted, and Estrela realized that this one was no exception. For she felt alone all at once, and yet in company, an odd feeling. And as she continued to gaze out over Edgehill, she thought that she could see the armies, hear the panicked whinnying of horses, the commands from officers yelled about the field, and the moans from the wounded, the dying.

  She shook her head to escape the mood and gazed instead at the sky, the deep blue increasing by the moment and wispy clouds beginning to scatter.

  It was then that she felt her saddle slip.

  Startled, Estrela grabbed for her horse’s neck. The saddle slipped farther, and Estrela realized with horror that her feet were caught in the stirrup.

  She tried to ease her feet out, but she slid farther down, and two things happened all at once. Her feet kicked her mount and her arms flailed backward, hitting the horse on the other side.

  And her animal, already spooked, leaped forward, Estrela barely astride.

  Estrela screamed, gripping the horse around the neck. She held on tightly, too tightly, for the strength it required only exhausted her arms. But she realized that her grip was her only salvation. With her feet trapped, if she let go she would either fall forward to be dragged by the animal, or she would fall under the horse.

  Either way, she was doomed.

  It was a dire realization. It was also a fact and Estrela, unable to do more than hold on, screamed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Black Bear tossed within the confines of the silken sheets.

  He dreamed now and he couldn’t awaken himself, so intense was the dream.

  Nightingale lay dying, in pain, an object beside her that Black Bear had no way to identify. Small, the thing an earthen mixture of clay, it stood beside her, unrelenting, imposing, filled with…a potion.

  A
nd Eagle soared above her, unable to help her, unable to do more than look at her.

  She implored him to help and he—

  Black Bear awakened, automatically reaching for his weapons.

  Something was wrong. Something had awakened him; a voice, the feel of a hand on his shoulder. Something.

  He shot out of bed, glancing around, but he saw nothing. No one was here, and yet, he felt a presence in the room.

  Spirit. A spirit had awakened him.

  What was wrong?

  He tied his breechcloth on around him and slid his feet into his moccasins in one swift motion.

  He glanced at the bed; no surprise. He’d known she wasn’t there.

  Waste Ho was in trouble.

  He heard her voice. At that very moment, he heard her screams as though she were right beside him.

  He panicked. Somewhere out there, Waste Ho was in trouble—now.

  He knew it. He didn’t have to dream it. He didn’t have to picture it. He knew it with utter certainty.

  He was Indian. These awarenesses were not something he could ignore.

  Her life was in danger and he had to find her—or lose her.

  Terror filled him. Terror at the knowledge he carried; terror that he might be too late.

  He panicked at first, rushing around the room, trying to think, and it was with tremendous effort that Black Bear forced himself to remember the grandfathers’ teachings.

  He must calm himself. He must think clearly. He must track her.

  Track her. Where had she gone? Where would she go first thing in the morning? Think like a white man.

  Riding.

  Waste Ho had gone riding. Again certainty came to him.

  Black Bear burst from the room, tearing through the house and blazing out into the stables.

  He didn’t ask for a horse, he knew at a glance which animal was the best and, ignoring the groom, he jumped onto it, trotting the horse out into the yard where, picking up Waste Ho’s tracks, he shot the animal across the lawns and fields of Shelburne Hall.

  And a thought occurred to him as he tore over the landscape, the enemy stayed within Shelburne Hall.

  Both he and the Duke of Colchester had sought to escape all danger by coming into the country.

  Instead, they had carried it with them.

  Whoever tried to kill Waste Ho knew the movements of the family. And Black Bear, putting into action his decision to think as the English, realized that the enemy came either from the Duke’s own household or the aristocracy itself.

  Nowhere they went would be safe from the assassin.

  It was a sobering realization.

  Waste Ho was clearly out for a leisurely morning ride. And lucky for him, she had avoided the major intersections and paths.

  Her trail was as easy to follow as if she had purposely led him here.

  He came upon Edgehill and he shuddered, feeling the spirits of an age long past. A battle had taken place here. He could feel it. Ghosts haunted the grounds.

  Was it a ghost that had spooked her horse? Was that what had happened to her?

  He read all the signs of what had happened. She had sat here awhile, but something had happened. He slipped off his horse’s back to study the hoofprints in the grass.

  Those prints, he looked at the ground, were barely discernable in the grasses, while those a little farther on were deeper and farther apart, the horse at a run.

  Something had startled her horse.

  He knelt down to feel the clues left behind.

  They were fresh. He might be in time.

  And as Black Bear mounted, urging his horse across the fields, following her obvious trail, he wondered why he worried. Waste Ho was an excellent rider. She would never panic over this. She would easily bring the animal under control.

  Why hadn’t she done that?

  It was then that Black Bear saw it, as though he had been there at the time. Her saddle slipping, Waste Ho trapped by her stirrups, holding on to the horse’s side.

  It was an odd phenomena, this knowing exactly what had happened, this being able to read the impressions left behind on the landscape. Yet he did it as easily as another might read a newspaper.

  He spurted his horse onward, into a frenzied run over the countryside while he sent a prayer to Wakan Tanka, willing Waste Ho to hold on.

  And with every ounce of his being, he tried to endow her with strength from afar.

  Estrela slipped farther and farther down the horse until she was practically standing in the stirrups alongside her mount. Closing her eyes had somehow given her more strength to hold on, but the effort was almost too much. Already her arms shook under the burden of her own weight.

  She didn’t even bother to scream anymore, all her attention was caught up in holding on.

  I can’t do it. And she felt her arms slipping.

  She cried, knowing the disastrous result of letting go, and though her arms shook and her strength ebbed, something wouldn’t let her give up. She couldn’t.

  Her horse leaped across something—a stream. Up, up in the air; down, down, hard.

  She lost her grip. She screamed, thrown into the air. But as she came down, she lunged forward, catching the horse’s mane in one hand. It was all she had. She’d slid down on the horse even farther.

  Hold on. I am not far away.

  What was that?

  Was she hearing things?

  Hold on.

  “Black Bear.” She actually said it through her sobs, then, “Black Bear?”

  She heard another horse.

  Was it Black Bear’s?

  She heard someone riding up beside her, she felt someone touch her, but the touch soon left her.

  She heard a voice, Black Bear’s. She felt the wind from his own mount at her side; she felt her horse begin to slow.

  It was minimal at first, but gradually, her animal’s pace eased into a canter, down into a trot, and finally the animal fell into a walk. And Estrela sobbed with relief.

  She couldn’t let go, though. And with her eyes tightly closed, even when she knew the horse no longer moved, she could not let go, her hands seemingly frozen into position.

  But he touched her. He spoke to her in soothing tones. He complimented her, and Estrela finally mustered the courage to let go.

  It was a traumatic thing. She had to will her hands to open and when she did, she fell into Black Bear’s arms.

  He held her closely to him, and she sobbed, she pummeled his chest, she laughed and then she sobbed again. And Black Bear did no more than stand there, holding her, whispering to her in his own language, in her own language, until at last, Estrela fell into a quiet cry against his shoulder.

  She’d heard him. When she’d needed strength, he’d been there. He’d saved her life. And she? What did she plan to give him in return? She cried all the more.

  She couldn’t do it and yet she had to. And this fear, added to the other trauma, could have been her undoing, but Black Bear shushed her, whispering to her in her ear, his grip on her ever tighter and tighter. Until gradually, so very slowly she didn’t at first notice, her tears fell away.

  She simply stood within his arms.

  They made an unusual sight on this early morning in September. The dark, handsome Indian holding the pale blond beauty.

  And as Black Bear held her body against his, he realized that he had received help from a highly unlikely place. From the very spirits themselves.

  He smiled. So this was not a cursed battlefield filled with demons. Ghosts, yes. But certainly not demons.

  And Black Bear, always one to acknowledge the actions of another, murmured a prayer of thanks.

  She felt just right in his arms.

  He shivered, but whether from the coolness in the air or from the yearning to possess her, Black Bear could not be certain.

  He had almost lost her.

  He didn’t know why it was affecting him in this way. Since he had arrived in England, he’d “saved” her twice alread
y, but this time…this time he knew her intimately and the thought of losing her…

  It was not even a concept he wished to explore.

  He felt her now as he embraced her. Her slight body fit into the grooves of his own hard contours, her velvet riding habit warm and soft against his skin. Her hair smelled fresh, clean, and as crisp as the autumn air; her skin, where she lay her cheek against his chest, felt smooth, and delicate, her breath sweet, her tears a welcome distraction.

  He breathed in deeply, relishing the scent of her hair, her skin, her perfume.

  He loved her. He intended to have her.

  He’d not told her in words; he wouldn’t, but every action he took, every movement he made expressed his devotion to her more clearly than words ever could.

  They stood on a rise overlooking green and golden fields and ripe hedgerows. Concealed beneath the trees, they had a view of the red-gold landscape below and anything that might happen there, while they remained, themselves, hidden and unnoticed.

  The horses, tethered, grazed off to the side.

  Black Bear pulled her in, if possible, more closely toward him.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her back, lower still over her buttocks. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck, sweeping his tongue over every bit of skin there.

  She tasted sweet, like nectar, and his head reeled with the intoxication of her.

  He lifted his head to caress her cheek with his own and then slowly, as though they stood outside of time, he brought his lips to hers, gently, a tender exploration.

  At first.

  But she was so responsive to his caress, Black Bear could not contain himself.

  He deepened the kiss at once, his tongue invading the dizzying warmth of her mouth, and she returned his passion, meeting his every overture.

  It was almost his undoing, but he held back.

  He bent down slightly to rub her buttocks more fully and in doing so pulled her off her feet.

  He held her with one hand while the other groped over the unfamiliar material of her dress, seeking buttons, ties, anything that would allow him access to her skin, before he became too frustated and thought to rip the material.

  But she pulled away, still caught in his embrace, her feet off the ground.