White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2

by Karen Kay

  Truly, it did appear that unless White Eagle and his friends guided these men, the marquess and his servants would have nowhere to sleep this night.

  But Katrina spared them little more thought. In truth, she winced slightly as she watched White Eagle saunter away. She should not have burdened him with her problems.

  She sighed. She would seek out the marquess again soon, and she would tell him all she needed to say.

  It only remained to be seen how the marquess would react, what he would do.

  She hoped it would be favorable.

  She stared at White Eagle from across the fading embers of a peaceful fire. With no liquor to be had or party to attend, the Englishmen had abandoned their usual nightly habits of staying awake until the wee hours of the morning and were now sleeping soundly.

  But she remained awake, she and White Eagle.

  She peered at him now, uncertain if he were aware of her scrutiny. She couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone so handsome or desirable, and, despite where she was and with whom, not to mention the scandal that would follow, she wished White Eagle would hold her in his arms.

  Oh, how she longed for that.

  But it could not be. Certainly not now, and she wasn’t even sure she could permit such an association in the future.

  After all, where would a romance with White Eagle lead, even if her fiancé agreed to break off their engagement? She could not envision herself as an Indian, nor could she visualize White Eagle as…a dandy. Where would they live? What would they do? How would they survive?

  Still, here beneath the light of a million stars and a radiant moon, here, within the glow of a dying fire, she could not deny that the man looked so…sexual, so intent, so desirable.

  Was it her imagination, or did his chest seem broader than any other man’s of her acquaintance? His muscles harder? His male nipples, darker, more appealing than she’d ever thought possible. She wanted so much to touch them…him. And she wondered how his bare skin would feel beneath the feel of her fingers, and how it would taste…

  Her thoughts were erotic, all out of proportion, and she felt herself grow impatient, plus…something else was happening to her, some tingling sensation, a wetness…down there at the junction of her legs. She felt a yearning, a need…

  She sighed and brought her glance up to White Eagle’s face. His cheekbones were high, as she had noted before, on numerous occasions; his eyes were as dark as the blackened sky above them, and his foreign appearance of chest, hoop necklace and beaded hair ornaments was fast becoming a familiar and beautiful sight to her.

  He looked so different from any man she had ever known and yet he also appeared more masculine.

  And she realized for the first time that it wasn’t his appearance alone which pulled her to him, there was a quality about him—perhaps a sense of strength, of unwavering loyalty—that made her want to draw in more closely toward him.

  She sighed. In truth, an affinity for this entire place was beginning to take hold within her, a circumstance she had never fathomed would happen. Yet, as she brought her gaze up to look at the starlit sky overhead, she felt as though a part of her reached out toward it.

  What was happening to her? What was it about this wild country that gently seeped under one’s skin? What was it that made a person feel…more alive?

  She took a deep breath, and at once, the nightly scents of grass and smoky fire enveloped her. The constant winds had lessened to soft breezes, and off in the distance a wolf howled, the sound reminding her, not of anything frightening, but rather of the song of a lover.

  Odd.

  White Eagle made a slight movement at that moment, and she looked up to catch his steady regard of her. Had he been watching her, too? Her heart instantly responded to the thought, her pulse leaping to life.

  What was that she espied there, in White Eagle’s gaze? Passion? Hunger?

  For her?

  Her stomach dropped, the thought, stimulating, erotic…wonderful.

  Just what was this Indian doing to her?

  What was it that caused her heart to beat so erratically? What was it that had her yearning for this man’s touch, that made her want to surrender herself to his embrace? In truth, she could think of little else that would make her happier at the moment than lying beside him, his arms wrapped securely around her.

  Never in her life could she remember such a longing for another person. Never had another captured her attention so thoroughly, and she began to wonder if perhaps there were something the matter with her.

  Although conversely, perhaps she worried for nothing. Whatever this feeling was, it felt too good to be wrong. Mayhap she should not try to analyze it.

  She threw off the coverlet of the blanket that she had wrapped around her. She felt restless, in need of…what?

  She didn’t know. All she knew at the moment was that she had to walk, she had to get some exercise; she was too restless to sleep.

  She sat up; so, too, did White Eagle.

  She was fully dressed; he wore almost nothing, only breechcloth—she assumed. From her position, she could not see it, and she began to wonder…

  He arose, and her imagination stilled. He wore breechcloth and moccasins.

  He nodded in a direction toward the far side of camp and as he turned around to stride toward it, she came fully to her feet and followed him.

  He led her toward a cluster of trees which skirted the stream beside their camp.

  He didn’t say a word as she came up beside him. Instead, he turned to her, taking her into his arms almost at once.

  “Moonlight,” he murmured, and she wondered if he spoke her name or referred to the night.

  But it didn’t matter. Soon, his lips were on hers, and she had as much chance of thinking as she did of capturing that moon.

  She melted against him. How she had longed for this. Until he had wrapped her in his arms, she had not realized the full extent of her desire.

  And she kissed him back. She couldn’t help herself.

  “I want you, Little Moonlight.”

  She collapsed against him. “And I want you. Oh, White Eagle, whatever am I to do?”

  A growl sounded from the back of his throat, the tone of it greatly resembling that of a wolf, and, womanlike, she rejoiced in that noise.

  His hands were kneading the muscles of her back, up and down, over her spine, downward toward her buttocks, and then, over them, caressing her, pulling her closer toward him.

  She felt the hardness of his body next to hers, all rigid muscle and…

  The evidence of his desire for her, stiff and swollen, pushed in against her stomach, and she sighed.

  “Let me love you,” he murmured against her ear.

  She nodded in answer, seemingly incapable of speech.

  “Let me love you so that you will belong to me. It is one way to handle the Englishman.”

  At that moment the marquess snored in his sleep, and Katrina was reminded of exactly what kind of betrayal that would be.

  How would she feel if she were in the marquess’s place and he made love to another without telling her about it first?

  She moaned; indeed, she almost cried out, so unfair did the truth seem.

  She wanted White Eagle, this man who held her in his arms, this man who made her feel so wonderful, not the Englishman, who appeared to prefer the company of his servants to that of her own.

  White Eagle said, “Do not leave me. Let me solve this the easy way. We will steal away and be married. There will be nothing more the Englishman can do about it.”

  “We could,” Katrina said, “but how would I feel if the marquess did the same thing to me?”

  “What makes you think that he hasn’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  White Eagle sighed. “Have you observed the Englishman and how he is with those around him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what have you seen?”

  “That he has an odd sense of humor, that
he appears to prefer the company of his dogs and his men to my own.”

  “Then you know.”

  “Know what?”

  White Eagle didn’t say a word. He looked at her, nothing more, until, after some moments, he said, “Have you decided when you will speak to him.”

  “Tomorrow morning, before we break camp, I will tell him.”

  White Eagle nodded.

  “I…I must return to my place by the campfire now, and try to get some sleep.” She shook off White Eagle’s embrace and turned her back on him.

  But he bridged the distance between them, coming up behind her, and, taking her in his arms, he sighed, his breath sweet and fragrant against her cheek as he said, “If you must go, you must,” he said, “but try not to be gone long from my embrace.”

  “But, White Eagle, I cannot promise that—”

  “Shhh.”

  At that moment she knew exactly what he meant. If they didn’t put an end to their need tonight, there would be tomorrow night, or the night after, or the one after that. But it was not going to go away, this feeling, nor was it something they could long ignore.

  She had to do something about it, and she would.

  “Tomorrow,” was all she whispered.

  A groan was the simple acknowledgment she received from White Eagle.

  When at last she felt she could leave, she said, “Come, walk back to camp with me.”

  But he said nothing in response to her and when she glanced at him from over her shoulder, she could see that he smiled at her—a grim sort of a look.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Saa, no,” he said, “only that I had better take a good cold swim before I return to my sleeping robes.”

  She gave White Eagle a quizzical look and turned slightly toward him. “Swim? At this time of the night?”

  Again, he just grinned at her. “Aa, yes, and unless I do this soon, I may get no sleep this night whatsoever. In truth”—one side of his mouth turned up into an even fuller grin as he added—“I may still get no sleep.”

  It seemed to her that the man spoke in riddles.

  But then, she thought this appeared to be a most common occurrence for him.

  And so, with no more than a swift “Good night,” she retraced her steps to her blanket, her footsteps accompanied by several successions of splashes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Now, what is it, m’dear?” The marquess had managed to dress this day in his finest redingote, with silk trim and velvet cravat. Brown-checked trousers and a blue gros de Naples waistcoat completed the outfit. And on his head he wore a Neapolitan hat. He looked as though he expected to take a turn through Hyde Park, not traverse the wilderness of the American Northwest. Katrina glanced away, as was proper etiquette.

  “I must speak with you, my lord.”

  The marquess sighed and looked around him, as though searching for any excuse to forestall a meeting with her. Finding none, he returned his gaze to Katrina. “Very well,” he said, raising his arm and presenting her with the cuff of his sleeve, “shall we take a stroll over by the water?”

  She placed her gloved hand upon his elbow.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Katrina had, this day, donned herself in green riding habit, embroidered with silken white flowers. She had replaced her bonnet with a hat of white silk, and her hair had been swept upwards and secured into braided ringlets.

  The two of them, the marquess and Katrina, made an odd-looking pair as they strolled down toward the creek, appearing as though they had stepped out from the pages of the Petit Courier des Dames, rather than having just arisen from a makeshift encampment in the wild, Northwest Territory of America.

  The marquess drew a deep breath. “What is it that is so important now?”

  Katrina swallowed nervously. “My lord,” she began, giving him a quick sideways glance. “I have been thinking about our engagement.”

  “You have? I am most happy to hear that, m’dear. Are you considering your wedding dress? Is that what this is all about?” He gave her a quick scan, up and down. “I must say, I rather envision you in a gown of satin…no, silk…silk brocade, with a veil of…let me see…lace? No, no. I think silk might be better, or—”

  “My lord, no, please, I have not been contemplating a wedding dress.”

  “Oh? Pity.”

  She hesitated. “My lord, I…I fear I have a bit of bad news for you.”

  The marquess cocked his head to the side. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” She stared straight in front of her as she spoke, occasionally looking down toward the ground. She took a deep breath, and then, gaining courage, she said, “I fear that I believe we have a problem.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, my lord, you see, I have discovered that I…do not love you, and because of this I believe that we might need to cancel our engagement.”

  She let out her breath, unaware she’d been holding it. There, she had said it.

  But she hadn’t counted on the marquess’s reaction.

  After only a moment’s pause, he huffed himself up and fairly bellowed, “What was that you said?”

  Katrina almost jumped, so loudly did the marquess speak, but she merely blinked and settled herself, sending the marquess a quick glance.

  “My lord, I—”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “Then, my lord,” she murmured, “might I caution you to keep your voice down so that only the two of us—”

  “Why, what a little twit you have become—”

  “My lord!”

  “Rubbish, I’ll have you know that I—” They had stopped strolling almost by mutual consent, but suddenly the marquess stumbled forward, as though propelled. “What?”

  Katrina looked over her shoulder. An Indian pony had come up behind them and was even now nudging the marquess.

  Katrina gasped and then, unable to control herself, she grinned, turning her face away so that the marquess wouldn’t have to bear witness to her amusement.

  “My dear,” the marquess was continuing to speak, “might I remind you that we have a contract?” The pony again nuzzled the marquess, and the man fought off the unwanted attention, trying to shoo the animal away. The critter merely whinnied.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Katrina, having collected herself into solemnity, “I realize that we have a contract, but I do not think that we are quite…suited to one another since I have discovered that I—”

  “Suited?” The marquess shouted the word, and the pony, as though in response, prodded the marquess forward yet again, the Englishman trying unsuccessfully to elbow the animal away. After a time, however, the marquess continued, saying, “What has ‘being suited to one another’ or ‘love,’ for that matter, to do with marriage?”

  Katrina faltered. She hadn’t really thought much beyond the telling of her feelings to the marquess, that alone taking most of her deliberation. What could she say? That, when compared to White Eagle, the marquess looked to be quite a foolish fop. That would most certainly be hurtful. She glanced over quickly toward the Englishman before finally deciding to say, “My lord, while I do not profess to be an expert on the subject of marriage, it has occurred to me that two people should, perhaps, share common interests, love—”

  “Rubbish, m’dear. Marriage is an institution that combines two estates for the common purpose of fairer wealth to both parties. Nothing more, don’t you see? Might I add that you are fortunate that I have even taken an interest in you, a colonial?”

  “A colonial?”

  He nodded. “M’dear,” he said, “you do think a rather bit too often, do you not?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I am forever pondering this or that. I am quite forthright and—”

  “It is not a womanly thing now, is it? Not womanly at all. We’ll have to see that this is discouraged, won’t we?”

  “But, my lord, I do not think that—”

  “There, there, m’dear.” He patted her hand. “I am sur
e after we are married for a time, you will lose this streak of independence. But not to worry. We have enough in common with our desire to share our…wealth, don’t you agree?

  And if either one of us wants more than this, there is nothing to keep us from seeking further liaison…” he coughed, “…outside the marriage convention.”

  “M’lord!”

  “I have shocked you, I can see that, but then, you may be unaware that I have noticed certain…shall we say…details about you?”

  She didn’t respond, except to lift her chin.

  “Did you think I would not observe that the Indian gave you my hat and wig at the race the other day? A hat and wig you have yet to return to me?”

  “My lord, I had nothing to do with that—”

  “Or that I have seen you together with the savage, talking?”

  She shook back her head and glared at the marquess from down the end of her nose. She declared, “Is that a crime, my lord?”

  He coughed. “A crime? Of course not, but it wouldn’t take too much effort on my part, mind you, to drop your name in association with that of the Indian’s. Not too much effort at all, I daresay.”

  Katrina felt as though the marquess had taken one of his gloves to her and slapped her. And this, despite the man’s clever smile at her. She said, “Do you threaten me?”

  “Threaten? What an ugly word. Let us just say that, if you do not start behaving as I expect that you should, I shall be forced to let it be known throughout New York—all the best social circles, you understand—that I had to cancel our betrothal due to your immoral behavior.”

  “My lord!”

  “There, you see, such ugly business, this is.”

  “But that is not true.”

  “Is it not?”

  “You know that it is not.”

  He tsked, tsked. “What proper sort of young lady speaks with Indians?”

  “The man is my uncle’s guide.”

  “That may be, m’dear, that may be. Still, the savage is quite a good-looking fellow and…” The marquess suddenly coughed. “No mind, I am certain you will see the way of things when presented with them in the correct manner. Now, don’t you?”