by Janet Dailey
"Blade." The intense ache in her voice almost brought him to her side.
But he stepped back, his jaw clenched, and stripped off the rest of his clothes beneath her heated gaze. Her eyes were drawn to the bronzed contours of his chest, the masculine flatness of his belly, and the muscled tautness of his buttocks. Enthralled by the beauty of his body, Temple longed to touch his firm flesh, explore its hardness, and feel it against her own skin.
She had one very brief thought of Eliza Hall and her foolish sense of modesty, but when The Blade came to join her on the bed, her former teacher was the last thing on her mind. She went into his arms as naturally as if she had been there countless times before.
His kisses bathed her in pleasurable sensation as he nipped deliciously at her throat and ear while his fingers plucked the confining pins from her hair and combed it free. Her own hands, greedy for the feel of his body, stroked the tapering length of his back, the sinewed leanness of his shoulders, and the solidness of his flesh. As he laid her back on the bed, she was acutely aware of the responses he aroused in her.
His hands, lips, and tongue seemed to be everywhere, tracing every curve and hollow of her body, tasting her breasts and arousing her totally. Unable to remain still, she writhed against him, inviting him closer, urging him with her hands, her hips, and her body. She tried to return the caresses and excite him as wildly and as rawly as he did her. When his fingers slid between her thighs and explored the wetness of her opening, his touch intensified the throbbing ache she felt inside.
"Please," she moaned.
Maneuvering himself above her, The Blade moved between her thighs, then paused to look down on her, noting the cascading black silk of her hair, the kiss-bruised pout of her lips, and the stain of passion on her cheeks.
Steeling himself to keep control, he slid a hand under her bottom and positioned her to receive him. He found her easily, her body arching to accept him into her tight sheath. As he probed deeper, encountering her barrier, he felt her stiffen and try to strain away from him. He firmly held her hips in position and made one quick, sure thrust, cutting off her sharp cry with a kiss.
He remained buried inside her and forced his hips not to move as they wanted to, as his whole body desperately wanted them to. Instead, he concentrated his attention on her body, kissing her slowly and deeply, caressing the hardened points of her breasts, and waiting for the pain to subside and the tense resistance to leave.
Gradually, he felt her start to relax and respond tentatively to his manipulating hands. He began to move inside her, holding himself to gentle, undulating strokes. His patience was soon rewarded as her hips were no longer still beneath him. She met and matched his rhythm. Her hands glided over him, curling into his hair and splaying over his buttocks, urging and demanding in their exhortations. Again, moans of pleasure, like the throaty purrings of a cat, came from her lips.
The tempo increased with the mounting pressure that clamored for release. His driving thrusts became deeper and harder. He barely noticed the poised stillness that briefly had Temple straining against him, but he was aware of rippling tightness that seemed to draw him deeper inside her. For a split second he was shaken by the sensation that he was being swallowed whole. Then it didn't matter as a series of spiraling shudders swept him above and beyond.
Later, lying contentedly in his arms, Temple gazed at her husband's face, admiring its lean, strong lines. Idly, she traced the white scar above his left cheekbone with her fingertips.
He took her hand and carried it to his mouth, pressing a kiss in its palm. "You have left your mark on me as well, Temple."
"Have I?"
"Such innocence from a woman who arouses me with her touch," he mocked, making her suddenly aware of the growing hardness against her leg. Then he was kissing her, blotting everything else from her mind except the sensation of his body loving hers.
The next time Eliza saw Temple, nearly a week after the wedding, she was struck by her radiance. Temple glowed with a maturity and a confidence that was new. She was a wife now, the mistress of her own household, a woman who had known a man's passion. It showed in her eyes, her face, and her bearing.
Eliza found it impossible to regard Temple as a former pupil. They were two women, conversing as adults. When Temple inquired about the latest news of Reverend Cole, Eliza was surprised to hear herself confiding her concerns.
In all, eleven whites, most of them missionaries, had been arrested by the Georgia Guard. They had been marched—chained like slaves and prodded by bayonets—some sixty miles over marsh and mountain to the jail at Camp Gilmer, where they were being held in poody ventilated cells, without even the smallest of comforts. The commander of the Guard had refused them permission to conduct religious services for the other inmates, stating that they had been arrested to "curtail their activities, not to promote them." A judge was scheduled to hear their case at the end of the month.
On the twenty-third of July, the judge of the superior court for Gwinnette County indicted all the missionaries and released them on bond pending their September trial. Nathan was temporarily free but denied permission to return to Cherokee lands within the boundaries of Georgia. He wrote to Eliza from Alabama, expressing his fears that the coming trial was a mere formality. Georgia intended to convict them and sentence them to the fullest penalty: four years' hard labor in the penitentiary at Milledgeville.
"If I am in prison, how can I provide spiritual comfort to the Cherokees at a time when they need it so desperately?" he wrote. Reading between the lines, Eliza knew he regretted his decision to defy Georgia by refusing to swear allegiance to her.
She wrote back reminding him of the growing swell of sympathetic public opinion from as far away as Boston and Baltimore and as close as Georgia itself. If the worst happened and he were imprisoned, the injustice of it could only advance the Cherokee cause.
But as Nathan had predicted, the September trial was a travesty. The judge declared that it was "the duty of every Christian to submit to civil authority." This the missionaries had failed to do. On those grounds, he found them guilty and sentenced them to a term of four years of hard labor at the Milledgeville penitentiary.
Three days after he was scheduled to begin serving his term, Nathan arrived at Gordon Glen, thinner and paler from his ordeal. Haltingly, he explained that a pardon had been offered to all the prisoners on the condition that they either take the oath of allegiance to the State of Georgia or leave the state entirely. Nathan chose the former so he could return to the people who needed him.
"The others agreed to the conditions," he said at the dinner table. "All of them, that is, except Samuel Worcester and Elizur Butler. They refused to do either. The warden argued with them for hours, trying to persuade them to change their minds. All the while the prison guards kept opening and shutting the gate. I can still hear the grating of the hinges when it swung open, and that loud ominous clang when it shut." He paused, his expression haunted. "The last time I saw them, they were wearing prison clothes."
Vividly, Eliza pictured the scene he described. Her heart went out to those two brave missionaries who had chosen the martyrdom of imprisonment rather than bow to their oppressors. By the same token, she was disappointed in Nathan. She would have had much more respect for him if he had stood beside Samuel Worcester and Elizur Butler.
Later, when she and Nathan went for a walk by the creek alone, he seemed to sense her disapproval and tried to justify himself. But Eliza had heard it all before. "I know, 'render unto Caesar.'"
"It is that and more, Eliza," he insisted. "It is the whole issue of the separation of church and state. We have religious freedom because of that very precept. How can I disobey the civil laws?"
"But you were innocent." She didn't understand why he couldn't see that. "You violated no Cherokee law. And Georgia doesn't legally have jurisdiction here." When she saw his pained and tormented look, Eliza instantly regretted her sharp condemnation of him. "I am sorry, Nathan. I know you d
id what you thought was best, regardless of how others may perceive it—including myself. I admire you for that."
He took her hand and held it tightly in his. "Thank you, Eliza. If you had thought ill of me, I would have found that very difficult to bear."
There was something very appealing in his woebegone look. Eliza wished she had initially been more charitable. She felt guilty that she had even briefly harbored an unkind opinion.
The stand taken by the two missionaries accomplished two very important things for the Cherokee people, as Eliza had instinctively known it would. Their act of courage became a symbol for the rest of the Nation. That they would endure the injustice of false imprisonment had renewed the resolution of the Cherokees and provided them with a source of strength.
But Eliza hadn't guessed their imprisonment would give the Nation's attorneys another case to take to the Supreme Court of the United States, a case that gave the Court jurisdiction. Two white citizens were bringing suit against the State of Georgia to test the validity of Georgia laws over the Cherokee domain.
When Benjamin F. Currey, the new superintendent of Indian removal appointed by Jackson, arrived in the fall to pay any family who would voluntarily emigrate to the West, only a few accepted his offer. Adversity had united them. They would not be induced or driven from the land of the fathers.
Although the leaders considered it expedient to hold their annual October council meeting at a site in Alabama rather than risk a certain confrontation with the Georgia Guard by holding it in New Echota in defiance of the law, to meet at all was regarded as a moral victory.
The message that came from the October council was the same as all previous ones: the Cherokees were of one mind; they would not remove. A delegation was appointed to carry their messages once again to Washington City. This time, The Blade Stuart, the son of the highly respected chieftain Shawano Stuart, was to accompany his father-in-law, Will Gordon, John Ridge, and the other delegates to the federal capital.
When Temple learned of his appointment, she insisted on going with him. She had never seen any of the American cities others talked about. The Blade gave in to her demands and agreed to take her with him.
Temple immediately realized her wardrobe was inadequate for the trip. With Eliza, she pored over the latest periodicals in an attempt to determine the fashion in traveling clothes, day dresses, and evening attire. Eliza was concerned that Temple's preoccupation with fashionable dress exhibited an unbecoming vanity. But Temple's point was inarguable. She would represent Cherokee womanhood. Therefore, it was important that she look not only presentable but fashionable as well.
Styles were chosen, fabrics and colors were selected from the best store in Augusta. Thus armed, Temple set her Negro seamstress to work on her new clothes.
15
Washington City
December 1831
After checking their wraps at the cloakroom of a popular hostelry in Washington City, Temple and The Blade proceeded to the large reception hall decorated with mistletoe and pine garlands. When they paused inside the doorway, The Blade noticed the way heads turned to admire the woman at his side, stunning in an off-the-shoulder gown of white satin shot with gold threads.
"Do you see my father?" Temple asked.
The Blade spotted him on the fringes of a large group in a corner. "This way." He guided her toward Will Gordon, keeping a firm and possessive hand on her all the way.
Observing their approach, Will Gordon smiled a welcome. "I didn't see you arrive," he remarked as the man with him turned to view the newcomers. "Did you have difficulty hiring a hack?"
"Fortunately, no," The Blade replied.
"This stunning woman cannot be your daughter, Will," Payton Fletcher declared.
"Indeed it is," Will replied proudly. "Temple, I would like you to finally meet my old and dear friend from Massachusetts, Pay-ton Fletcher. Payton, my daughter, Temple Gor—Stuart."
"I have long wished to meet you, Mr. Fletcher. My father has spoken of you often."
"My dear Temple, forgive me. I am speechless." With an elaborate show of gallantry, he kissed her hand. 'Your father has often mentioned you as well, but I discounted much of what he said as a father's boasting. Now I see that he exaggerated not one whit."
"Nor did he exaggerate about your gift for words, Mr. Fletcher." A smile dimpled the outer corners of her mouth.
"Wit as well as beauty—I am in awe."
"And I believe you met my son-in-law, The Blade Stuart, earlier today," Will inserted.
"Yes, briefly. It is good to see you again, Mr. Stuart." A hearty smile once again ringed his face as Payton Fletcher shook hands with The Blade. "I don't need to tell you how lucky you are to be married to such a lovely woman. Your wife will be the talk—no, the toast of Washington City."
The Blade smiled in response, but none too warmly. He was well aware of the stir his wife was creating, and his feelings about it were mixed.
"Isn't that a delegate from the western Cherokees?" Will indicated a man entering the room.
"I believe it is," Payton Fletcher confirmed, then turned back to them, arching one eyebrow in grim resignation. "We aren't the only ones courting support."
"Unfortunately, it is our removal they seek so that they may gain more land in the West and a larger annuity," Will murmured.
Temple knew that twenty-three years earlier, in 1808, a band of some twelve hundred Cherokees, led by their chieftain, Tahlonteskee, had voluntarily migrated to lands west of the Mississippi River. A year before that, Tahlonteskee and Doublehead had accepted bribes from the federal government in return for ceding a large section of Cherokee land, a violation of the Blood Law. Doublehead had subsequently been executed for his role in the treaty, and Tahlonteskee, fearing the same fate, had chosen to leave his homeland with some of his people. Since then, they had called themselves the western band of the Cherokees.
"I doubt that they will have much success in acquiring more land," Payton said, then noticed someone in the crowd. "There's a young man here I want you to meet, Will." He raised a hand. "Jed. Jed! Over here." After gaining the man's attention, he said to Will, "Jed is my godson. He graduated from the military academy at West Point this past summer, and he has been assigned duty here in Washington."
His reference to the military instantly brought the Georgia Guard to Temple's mind. But the young, square-shouldered man in dress uniform who joined them bore no resemblance to those rough men. His hair was darkly golden, like tobacco leaves curing in the sheds. There was a freshly scrubbed look to his handsome, clean-shaven features, and his eyes were a clear, friendly blue.
"Will, may I present my godson, Lieutenant Jedediah Parmelee, late of Boston, Massachusetts, and now of Washington City. Jed, this is a very dear friend of mine, Mr. Will Gordon."
"How do you do, sir." With military precision, Jed Parmelee extended a hand to the man who towered over him by a good five inches, but he remembered nothing after that. His gaze was fixed on the incredibly beautiful woman next to Will Gordon.
He had thought such beauty existed only in paintings—or a man's imagination. The blackness of her hair, the creaminess of her skin, and her eyes—so darkly mysterious, yet so alive. They seemed almost boldly curious. An instant later he realized her gaze was aimed at him.
"And this ravishing young lady," he heard Payton say, "is his wife, Temple Stuart."
Wife. The word splintered through him, shattering his hopes, dreams, and desires before they could fully take shape.
"This is an honor, Mrs. Stuart." He bowed stiffly, not completely trusting himself to do more. He wondered which one was her husband. It had to be the one with the scar, the one staring at him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking—it had to be him. For one stormy moment, Jed wanted to challenge him to a duel. Pistols at ten paces.
But the reason and discipline that had been drilled into him at the academy led to cooler thinking. He smiled at her. "I was on my way to the refreshment table. May I brin
g you something, Mrs. Stuart?"
"The refreshment table?"
Her gaze roved over the crowded room as if seeking its location. Jed sensed her curiosity. "Perhaps you would prefer to peruse the fare for yourself. The table is on the far side of the room ... where the guests are the thickest. I would be happy to escort you there," he offered.
"An excellent idea, Jed." Payton immediately voiced his approval. "I have a few things I want to discuss with Will and The Blade, and I am certain Temple would find them quite boring."
"I doubt that, Mr. Fletcher," she replied. "But my husband has already explained to me that you Americans are uncomfortable discussing political matters in front of a woman. Excuse me, gentlemen, while I accompany Lieutenant Parmelee to the refreshment table."
When she took his arm, her husband looked none too pleased, but he made no objection. Not that Jed took that much notice of him. He was still puzzling over Temple's remark about Americans.
"Where did you say you were from, Mrs. Stuart?" He found it difficult to keep his glance from straying to the low neckline of her gown.
"Our plantation is about an hour's ride from New Echota... in the Cherokee Nation," she added.
"The Cherokee Nation?" He frowned, then suddenly remembered his godfather talking about his Indian friend Will Gordon. "Then you are..."
"Cherokee? Yes, I am."
"I'm sorry ..."
"That I am Cherokee?"
"No." He stopped. "You must forgive me for putting this so badly. I apologize if I offended you, Mrs. Stuart. It was not my intent."
"That is quite all right, Lieutenant." Her eyes smiled up at him, all dark and glowing. "Your reaction is typical of others I have encountered recently. I should have ignored it. Please accept my apologies for my poor manners and for deliberately embarrassing you."
"I deserved it." He couldn't help but admire her pride, although he still found it difficult to believe that this enchantingly beautiful woman was of Indian extraction. The black hair and eyes, yes, but her skin was as smooth and pale as his mother's best porcelain.
