“Waste Ho Win.”
Estrela sat up straight and glanced into the crowd.
What was that? The wind blew by her and seemed to whisper. What? No. It could not be. It couldn’t be her name—her Indian name.
She listened; nothing more. She gazed back around and stared at members of the Royal Guard as they lined the streets of Pall Mall. Dressed in red jackets and tall, black hats, the Guard reminded her that she was, indeed, in England. Crowds of the English populous had lined up behind the military for a view of their royalty, the parade being in honor of the adjournment of Parliament. There was nothing here to make her think of the American West. Nothing Indian. Nothing at all.
“Waste Ho Win, where are you?”
Estrela caught her breath. She’d heard Lakota words. There in the wind. It wasn’t possible and yet…
She stared around her. She sat alone, perched up high in the back of a grand, mahogany coach. The Duke and Duchess of Colchester, along with their two daughters, reclined in the main coach, their seats facing one another. Two drivers, dressed in red jackets and black hats, sat in front, controlling a team of four horses.
A faint breeze of humid air rushed past her and Estrela strained to hear more words the wind might carry to her, for any sort of explanation.
Yet there was nothing more. No scent. No memories.
She brushed a hand over her forehead.
Did the breeze know something?
She thought she’d heard him. His whispered words, carried on the wind. She shook her head as though to clear it.
At that same moment the drums began to beat, fifes to play, the Guard, straight ahead of her, began to march. And as her own coach pulled out into the street, behind the Guard, the noise of the horses, the crowd, the military should have blocked out any further sound.
“I look for you.”
Estrela gasped. It was him. She would recognize his deep, baritone voice even a thousand years into the future; she would recognize him. How was this possible?
Could it be that the wind carried his voice all the way from the Americas?
It is said in Indian culture that wind goes everywhere, sees everything. And spirit wind, she remembered, will speak to you.
“Mato Sapa?” she thought to herself.
“It is I,” the voice returned.
“Are you comfortable, Lady Estrela?”
Estrela’s eyelids flew open and she gaped at the Duke, who had just spoken to her. She smiled, though surprise kept her silent, until at last she managed to say, “I am fine.”
The Duke smiled back at her and she sighed.
The Duke of Colchester had been kind to her, going so far as to present her to King William even though the King, being ill, had barely noticed her, leaving it to Queen Adelaide to smile a welcome to her.
There was something odd there, Estrela thought as she remembered it now. The Queen had stood surrounded by her court, and Estrela remembered feeling as though eyes watched her, followed her, too closely…
“Waste Ho.”
Why wouldn’t the wind leave her alone? Not only did she hear his voice, now an image caught at the corner of her vision—there in the crowd.
It couldn’t be.
It was impossible…and yet…
She shouldn’t have thought of him today. She should have left his memory in the past. Wasn’t that where it belonged? This was no good. She seemed to hear him, see him everywhere. She must not think of him, she…
She strained forward in her seat despite her thoughts, and peered into the crowd, around the people, to the right, to the left. She saw nothing more.
What was that? She shifted in her seat, but whatever had caught her eye was gone as surely as if it had been a phantom.
Was she losing her mind? Or had she really seen a buckskin jacket? A jacket with beaded designs and porcupine quills? A jacket that only an Indian would wear?
She muttered a curse, deciding the winds, the very spirits themselves were conspiring against her.
What good was this doing her?
She brought her head up, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead, unaware that a man dressed in colorfully designed buckskin shirt and leggings with a buffalo robe thrown over his shoulder followed her, followed her carriage.
A cool, humid breeze brushed at her hair, releasing blond tendrils from her coiffure.
“Look at me.”
Estrela bit her lip. Don’t listen to it, she told herself. Don’t look. Don’t… She moaned, glancing into the crowd despite herself, catching a glimpse of long, black hair flowing back against the wind.
No! It couldn’t be. And yet… She saw him there in the crowd.
She gasped.
A shot split the air.
Estrela screamed, instinctively ducking down, realizing with horror that blood streamed down her own arm.
Was someone shooting at her or…?
Another shot exploded, barely missing her. Another.
She fell to her knees then, her head down, her hands sheltering her face. Bells rang outside, women on the street screamed and men yelled. The Duchess of Colchester cried, the Duke shouted orders to the driver, the horses reared. So much noise was there, that she didn’t hear the high-pitched whooping of a warrior’s voice; she didn’t see the flash of bronzed skin as a man ran toward her, didn’t even feel the carriage tip as it gave under the weight of a lone, single man who had leaped from the streets, to her side.
She sobbed, she cried, making so much noise herself, that she didn’t hear anything, didn’t sense anything until strong arms encircled her, lifting her out of the carriage. Only then did she catch a faint scent of familiar masculinity, but with so much motion bursting around her, she only registered confusion.
Another shot fired.
Horses reared, more people screamed and scattered. Soldiers fell out of order and were suddenly everywhere. Another shot exploded and Estrela felt her rescuer dodge the deadly bullet. Estrela opened her eyes and looking up, saw for the first time the man who held her. And had she been at all fainthearted, she would have swooned.
Had the wind been foreshadowing his presence, or was she delirious? Not only was this man Indian, he was… Her mind swam and her senses spun.
What was happening?
Another gunshot fired and Estrela abandoned all conscious thought, reacting in league with her rescuer. The Indian, however, remained in control, and dodging between people, he ran, Estrela held in his arms. No one stopped him, she noted, and he paused now and again in the crowd, looking around, as though hunting for sanctuary. Estrela, glancing up at him, understood, despite her confusion, that his only defense lay in taking shelter among the crowd, until he had either outrun his assailant or found safe refuge. Estrela wondered at her own encumbrance to him in his flight, then dismissed the thought, remembering that the American Indian was accustomed to such maneuvers.
The Royal Guard, with their red jackets glaring within the crowd, burst forward, dispersing the people everywhere, and oddly enough pursuing the Indian as though he were the one who had fired the shots. They raced after him through the crowd, shouting at him, ordering him to stop. But the Indian refused to relent and without seeming to exert much effort, he outmaneuvered the guards, changing directions without breaking stride, running between people, animals, buildings; he carried his charge as though she weighed no more than the quiver full of arrows upon his back.
Still, it was only a matter of time before the Royal Guard caught him, greatly outnumbering him and being themselves on their own territory; soon, caught, cornered, nowhere to go, the Indian stopped before a building. Penned in he took up a stance, determined, it would seem, to fight the entire Guard.
The Indian, a knife his only weapon, set Estrela behind him, protecting her with his body, while he faced his opponents, crouched, ready to respond.
And she noted, even though she wasn’t fully convinced this was more than a dream, that he stood before the Guard, outmanned, only one against
many. Yet he stood, proudly, his prize held behind him, his body her shield.
That’s when she heard them, his growls, and she wondered, was this real or was spirit wind playing tricks on her still, bringing visions to her?
As if in answer, she heard his war cry—the sound terrible. And she realized, as she reached a hand out to touch the long mass of his hair that this was real. He was real. He was here. He had saved her life.
She almost collapsed.
Except that he held her with one arm behind him, and she had no choice but to watch as Mato Sapa, Lakota warrior, held off a hundred, red-coated Royal Guard.
Lisbon
Lynne Connolly
They can escape winter’s cold, but their nemesis has a long, icy reach.
Richard and Rose, Book 8
On a ship bound for Portugal with her children and the man she loves, Rose should be blissfully happy. Except Richard treats her like she’s made of porcelain. She’s recovered from the childbed fever that nearly killed her, yet he won’t share her bed and it’s driving her mad.
To win him back body and soul, she resolves to use every wicked, seductive trick he’s taught her. Until a possible attempted murder on board puts them both on alert for the trouble that seems to dog their every move.
Richard is almost relieved to have something to investigate. He loves Rose too much to risk losing her—which is exactly what could happen if he gets her pregnant again. When it becomes clear a series of accidents is no such thing, they realize an old enemy has caught up with them.
It’s imperative for Richard and Rose to work together to defeat this foe, but their new distance could prove their undoing. Especially when Mother Nature conspires to make them endure one last, desperate test of their love…
Warning: The earth is moving for Richard and Rose, but this time it’s not entirely their fault.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Lisbon
Copyright © 2012 by Lynne Connolly
ISBN: 978-1-60928-879-2
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Kim Killion
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Look for these titles by Lynne Connolly
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Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 Page 25
