by Karen Kay
No, she would not allow herself to fail.
“Milady.” Robert materialized at her side, his large frame blocking out the light as he bent down toward her. “Mr. Kenneth McKenzie says the Indians are preparing to leave on a buffalo hunt and will most likely be gone by tomorrow. I have taken the liberty of arranging for the two trappers that you seek to come here to see you.” Robert seemed to hesitate; then, “Milady, might I offer a word of caution?” he asked, though he went on without awaiting her reply. “The two men that you seek are known to be scoundrels. It has also been said of them that they have often been dishonest in their dealings with the trading post here as well as with Indians. It is my opinion that you would do well to—”
“What else am I to do?” Lady Genevieve interrupted, though she spoke quietly. “Robert,” she said, not even looking at him, “you know the dire circumstances of this venture. How can I possibly go back to St. Louis with nothing to show for my journey? And worse, how could I ever face my father again? You know that his condition is even more delicate now. If I were to fail…”
“But, milady, surely there must be another way besides dealing with these trappers.”
Genevieve raised her chin. Focusing her gaze upon Robert, she said, “Name one.”
Robert opened his mouth, but when he didn’t speak, Genevieve once again glanced away.
“You see,” she said, “even you know it is true, though you won’t say it. There is no other way. Mr. Chouteau keeps telling me that the steamship is to leave tomorrow or the next day. I must be on it, and I must have an Indian on board, too. I wish it were different. I truly wish it were. You must know that if I could change things, if I could make them different, I would.” She paused. “I cannot.”
Robert stared at her for a moment before he finally shook his head, but he offered no other advice.
Genevieve said, “I will see the two gentlemen as soon as they arrive. Please ensure, then, that they are shown to me immediately.”
“Yes, milady,” Robert said, rising. He stood up straight, and as Genevieve glanced toward him, she was certain that her trusted bodyguard stared over at the Indian, that one Indian man.
But the Indian’s menacing black gaze didn’t acknowledge Robert at all. Not in the least. No, the Indian stared at her. Only at her.
Genevieve rose to her feet, averting her eyes from the Indian, although in her peripheral vision she noted every detail of the man. She shook her head, intent to shift her attention away.
And then it happened. Despite herself, she turned her head. Despite herself, she slowly, so very leisurely, lifted her gaze toward his.
Her stomach fell at once, and the two of them stared at one another through the panes of glass for innumerable seconds.
She knew she should look away, but she couldn’t. She watched the man as though she wished to memorize his every feature, as though she needed the memory for some time distant, to be brought to mind again and again. And as Genevieve kept the man’s steady gaze, she felt her breathing quicken.
Suddenly he smiled at her, a simple gesture. It should have had no effect on her whatsoever.
But it did, and Genevieve felt herself go limp.
All at once, as though caught in a storm, her senses exploded. Her heartbeat pounded furiously, making her bring her hand up to her chest.
And even as she felt herself beginning to swoon, she wondered why she was reacting so. One would think she had never before caught a man’s smile, had never before seized the attention of one simple man.
She heard Robert calling her name, and she breathed out a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption. She shut her eyes, which proved to be her only means of defense, and, taking as many deep breaths as she could, she tried to steady the beating of her heart.
“Lady Genevieve.” She heard Robert call to her again.
“Yes, Robert, I’ll be right there.” Her voice sounded steady, though she hadn’t been certain that she would be able to speak at all.
She opened her eyes, but she didn’t dare glance at the Indian again. She couldn’t risk meeting his gaze even one more time. And so she turned away from him, walking as swiftly as possible from the spot where she had been so recently seated, her silky gown of lace and chiffon whispering over the crude wooden floor as though it alone protested her departure.
She would never see the man again, never think of him again; of this she was certain. But even as this thought materialized, another one struck her with an even greater force: she fooled herself.
She would think of him, perhaps too often, over and over again, and in the not-too-distant future. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.
She knew it. Truly the Indian was a magnificent specimen of man. Yes, that was the right word. Impressive, splendid.
Utterly, completely and without question magnificent.
“Whatever Indian you convince to return with you will not come to harm in any way because of this, do you understand?”
“By thunder, Genny-girl, ’course we understand.”
Ignoring the trapper’s crude form of address, Lady Genevieve nodded and took a step backward, if only to escape the stench of the two men who stood before her. She said, “You will receive your money only when I am assured that the deed is done, and not before then. Do you have any questions about this?”
Neither man made a sound.
“You are certain you understand what to do?”
“That we do, Genny-girl, that we do.”
Genevieve didn’t like what she heard, didn’t like what she saw and certainly didn’t want to acknowledge what she feared about these men, but she had no other choice than to hire them. None.
For good or for bad, she had committed herself to this.
She raised her chin and, in the haughtiest voice she could muster, said, nodding to her bodyguard who stood at her side, “Robert, my manservant, will be there on the steamship waiting for you. When he tells me that you have met your side of our bargain, then I will pay you—and only then. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good then,” she said, and turning away, dismissed the two men, who left unhurriedly, though Genevieve spared them no further attention.
She wished she could put aside her doubts of what she was about to do, and she hoped for the umpteenth time that what she did was the right thing.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. It had to be right. It just had to be.
Somehow, in some way, she would make it work. She had to. If she failed, not only would her father face ostracism and ruin, so too would she.
Genevieve let out her breath. If she could only convince herself that her course of action was justified, she might sleep better.
Oh, well. Squaring back her shoulders, she set about packing up the belongings she had brought with her to Fort Union, preparing to board the Yellow Stone for the long journey back to St. Louis. And though the memory of a certain pair of dark, intense eyes haunted her every thought, she chose to ignore it, to ignore them, though at the thought of him, nothing could quite still the rapid fluttering of her heart.
Chapter Two
The Northwest Territory
Aboard the Steamship Yellow Stone
Mid-June 1832
“Milady, they have an Indian.”
Lady Genevieve grabbed her dressing gown from the foot of her bunk aboard the steamship. “Take me to her, Robert. Is she all right? She isn’t scared, is she? I’ll go and sit with her so that she knows we mean her no harm.”
“Milady, I…I don’t believe that will be necessary. I will attend to the matter—”
“Nonsense!”
“Milady, I—”
He didn’t have a chance to say more. Genevieve had hurriedly wrapped her dressing gown around her, had already opened the door of her compartment and was even now scurrying down the steamship’s companionway.
“Milady, don’t—”
Genevieve didn’t seem to hear him. She had
already flung open the other cabin door, had already stepped inside, had already—
He heard her ladyship’s gasp and, casting a quick glance to the heavens, set out after his mistress, if only to protect her. And the Lord knew she would need that protection now.
It was a mistake. It had to be.
It was the only thought that came to mind, and Genevieve gasped, drawing back closer to the cabin door.
This was no Indian maid. This was…
A human growl sounded from the interior of the room.
Genevieve, her hand clutching her throat, jumped backward.
“As you can see, milady.” Robert’s voice sounded from behind her. “It is no Indian maiden here. I will return this man first thing in the morning.”
Genevieve paused, several minutes ticking by as she struggled to find her voice. At last she said, “There is no time. It is the middle of the night, and we both know the Yellow Stone sails in no more than a few hours. We… I—”
“What is it you require me to do, milady?”
“I…I don’t know yet, Robert. Leave me for now. I wish to speak to the—”
“Milady, I must protest!”
Genevieve shook her head, the movement causing the locks of her hair to sway and fall downward toward her waist, the mane of it appearing more a cascade of spun copper than human hair.
“Leave me,” she said. “I wish to speak to the Indian alone. But Robert,” she threw a quick glance over her shoulder, “stay by the door, please.”
“Yes, milady. I will remain here. You have only to call if you need me.”
“I know that, Robert. And thank you. Now, leave me with the Indian. I guess he will have to do, don’t you suppose?”
“I don’t suppose anything,” Robert said, taking up a stand just outside the cabin door. “And if you want my opinion—”
“I shall ask for it,” Lady Genevieve said, though in truth, she spared her servant little more of her attention. How could she do otherwise? What lay before her compelled her to move forward into the room, her whole being engulfed by the magnetism she felt inside.
She left the door open, if only for the security of knowing that Robert stood close at hand.
The Indian was tied standing up, his hands held at his sides, his feet bound. The man couldn’t really hurt her. Still…
She stared at the Indian in the darkness of the cabin, her gaze guided only by a small stream of moonlight shining in through the porthole. She tried to scan the man’s features, but it was impossible. He looked more phantom than real being at this moment, the silvery light from outside casting an unearthly glow all around him.
Was he the one? The thought kept recurring to her as she stood in place, reluctant to move any closer. Was he the one from the fort, the one who had captured her attention?
It couldn’t be, and yet… Surely fate wouldn’t deal her such a wicked lot as to bring that same man into her presence now. Surely…
She didn’t want to think about it. That Indian at the fort, that man she had seen there, had stirred to life something deep within her, something… She sighed.
She couldn’t quite place it. She didn’t know what had happened back there; she only knew she did not wish to explore such matters now.
Was he the one?
She was almost certain it was so.
She began to pace toward him slowly, one careful step after another, until at last she stood not more than a few feet away from him.
Instantly the savage allure of him, a uniqueness that was part American Indian, part male, set her senses to spinning, and Genevieve, unused to such intense sensation, took a deep breath. At once the musky scent in the air engulfed her, making her feel as though she stood in a silken cocoon, and she recognized the pleasant aroma of buckskin and sage…and something else…some other scent not quite…
A candle lay on a table next to her, and she picked it up, lighting the wick of it quickly.
She held up the small flame toward him. She looked into his face, he into her eyes. All at once, Genevieve sucked in her breath.
He was the one.
Their gazes held. Something elusive passed between them, an emotion that Genevieve could hardly explain.
Excitement? Was that it? Excitement combined with what? Fascination?
Puff…
He blew out the candle.
Genevieve let out her breath and closed her eyes, feeling as though she might swoon at any moment. What was happening to her? Why did she suddenly feel so giddy, so light-headed?
She would have to relight the candle, for her own sanity as well as for the more practical reasons. She would have to talk with this Indian. And that required light, since she would have to communicate to him via the Indian sign language she had been learning.
She began to move her hand toward the table when—
“If white woman had only let me know what she wished, she could have obtained what she required from me without abduction. I might have been willing…then—”
“You speak English?”
“Have I not proven just now that I do?”
“But how is that possible?”
The Indian didn’t reply, only looked away, and Genevieve was immediately presented with his profile: strong, foreign, handsome. She drew in her breath as a shiver raced over her skin, and she wondered, was she frightened, or…?
Her breasts swelled against the chiffon material of the gown that she wore beneath her robe, and Genevieve was reminded that she was hardly dressed to receive a man—even if that man was American Indian.
She gazed up at him, and at once a tremor swept over her, bringing with it with an unusual sensation all over her body, especially there in the junction between her legs.
Genevieve shifted her weight uncomfortably. What was happening to her? Why did she feel this way? What was it about this man that brought on excitement, this feeling of…craving?
Briefly she pondered such questions. None of this made any sense.
This man was hardly what she would call a man, someone she could physically crave. He was an American Indian—a savage, a person reported by the best authorities to be more animal than human. Such “people” were beneath her. Weren’t they?
Hadn’t the whole of her education so far taught her this? It was true, wasn’t it?
Or was it?
Her body didn’t seem to think so. Her body responded to the Indian as any other twenty-year-old woman might when in the presence of a handsome, half-naked and virile man. Genevieve felt her stomach twist. She whispered, “You are not hurt, are you?”
The Indian swung his gaze back toward her. “Hurt?” he repeated, his stare, or rather his leer, never leaving her. “And where would I feel this hurt? In my heart, which weeps to learn that the white woman has no honor? Or in my spirit, which promises the white woman revenge? Or do you mean my flesh?” He paused. “It is nothing.”
“You are hurt!” So that was the other scent she had smelled earlier…blood.
The Indian lifted his chin, and though he stared at her as if she were small quarry he stalked, he said nothing.
“If you are hurt,” she said, “I will attend to your wounds at once.”
“You will not.” The Indian raised his chin another notch. “I will not have your touch upon me. The white woman’s medicine is tainted. I will have a medicine man, if I require anyone at all.” He paused; then, barely over a whisper, he ordered, “Now.”
Lady Genevieve ignored the order. “There is no one else.” Her voice, too, seemed to be strangely quiet, though authoritative.
He raised his wrists, the rope around them halting the movement halfway up. He stared down into her curious gaze. “Release me and I will find a medicine man.”
“I can’t do that,” she murmured. “Where are you hurt?”
The Indian looked away from her as though he could spare no further conversation with her, while she took a dangerous step forward.
“I could help,” she said, her m
otion bringing her ever closer. “Please believe me. I intend you no harm. Truly.” She gained yet another step in his direction.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He might have been as unmovable as stone.
She paced forward, each step as treacherous as if she were crossing a swift stream.
She gazed up at him, studying him while his attention was diverted. So close was she, she could smell the combination of sweat and blood mixed with the musk-sweet scent of sage. She could see the sweat upon his brow. She lowered her inspection of him to his chest, noting the moisture that covered him there, the blood all over his side. Blood?
She surveyed his chest as best she could while standing here in the dim, silvery light. Vaguely she noted the strong chest and upper-arm muscles, the slim, tapering stomach, the gash to his side…gash? She stared at it. She reached out a hand toward it. “How did you get this?”
She touched his skin above the wound, her fingertips seeking out the warmth of his skin. All at once he shivered, and she had no more than registered the fact when a heated charge tore up her arm.
She pulled her hand back as though to escape, but it was too late. The damage had been done. She was more than aware of him, of his physical, male appeal, and the air fairly crackled with the knowledge.
He swung his attention back toward her, eyeing her as if she were prey rather than a woman of flesh and blood. And though Genevieve knew she should move away from him as far as she could, she couldn’t make her body respond to the command to do so.
Slowly, feeling caught in a trap, she positioned her body closer to his.
“How is it,” he asked, his voice oddly soft, “that the white woman with no honor does not know how I came to be hurt? Was not she the one who commanded this? Was not she the one who wished me into this state? She who wanted to see me again, she who had me practically stripped, she who plans to use me for her own ends?”
“No.”
“White man lies easily. So do his women. Look at me when you deny this so that I might see the truth or lies of your words.”
She sighed, though dutifully she brought her gaze up to meet his. “Truly,” she said after a moment, “I did not know something like this might happen. I only meant to take someone from your tribe for a short while. I would treat them well and return them to the tribe as soon as possible. No injury, no stripping, no degradation. None of that was commanded by me. I’m so very sorry.”
