As the events of the morning unfolded, Marisa at last managed to influence Black Eagle into readying one of the horses to carry her and Sarah’s trunks. Except for food, their trunks were, from her viewpoint, the only articles worth taking. Once she had narrowed her choices to them alone, all that had been required to win Black Eagle to her cause had been a smile.
Their party, which consisted of herself, Sarah, Richard Thompson and Black Eagle, had left the Rathburn estate much later than originally anticipated. It was almost noon before they were away.
Much of the delay, she admitted, was due to her own desire to speak to her guardian. However, it had been to no avail. John Rathburn had not, would not, leave his apartments…not even when Marisa had sent him a written note asking to see him.
True, he was brooding, but his indifference stung. Alas, it had brought her to tears. But in the end, outside of storming his room and forcing him to talk to her, there was little she or anyone else could do. As Sarah had once observed, one couldn’t force another to love them, since, if it were so, all the dreaded tyrants of the world would be beloved instead of loathed.
Thank goodness for Sarah’s presence in her life. As Marisa glanced toward her friend, her heart stirred. The cuts on Sarah’s face were clean, but they served to strengthen Marisa’s determination to see Sarah safely settled. After all, for so many years, Sarah had been forced to endure living within the house of the man who had caused her much grief. And now James was added to that list. Sarah deserved better.
When Black Eagle had first seen Sarah, he had stared at her bruises openly. Then he had looked away and had not said a word. It left Marisa wondering if he were fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Marisa took a deep breath and leaned sideways in her saddle. She was tired, having received no sleep the previous night. But the notion of dozing while on the trail was lost to her, due to the magnificence of the land surrounding them, as well as to Black Eagle, whose unusual way of dressing was having an effect on her pulse rate.
Gone were the black tunic and black leggings from last night and early this morning. In their place, Black Eagle wore a dark blue tunic belted at the waist. The tips of a buckskin breechcloth, which fell between his legs, were barely visible beneath his tunic, while tight-fitting leggings came up high on his thighs to tie to a belt under his shirt. Red-beaded garters were tied around those leggings, just under the knee. That this style of dress left an occasional glimpse of his upper thigh and buttocks was heart-stopping from the feminine perspective, and Marisa found herself gazing at him more often than she thought she ought.
A beaded red blanket lay draped over his left shoulder. It was brought in close to his body and held there by his belt. Also worn crisscross over his chest were straps that held attached to them pouches for ammunition, as well as a powder horn. A tomahawk was tucked securely in his belt, and he carried a musket cradled in his arm. Around his neck was a silver gorget as well as a knife case, and silver armbands encircled each arm.
She sighed. His was a slender figure, yet if memory served her correctly, there was solid muscle beneath his clothing, and as her gaze caught again on the red blanket draped over his shoulder, a vision of that same blanket, which had been laid out beneath her body last night, came vividly to mind. Despite herself, she felt the blood rush to her face, and to avert her attention from him and the memories he invoked, she gazed out into the woodland environment.
The trail was flanked on both sides by deep growth and tall trees so numerous that at times they seemed to overpower the sun. At present, both Marisa and Sarah were riding sidesaddle, while the third horse carried their supplies. It was not visible to her at the moment, since Thompson led the animal, and he was pulling up their rear.
Sarah was lagging behind, Marisa noticed, and reining in her mount, she sent a glance back over her shoulder. “Sarah, are you all right?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered, and brought her horse toward Marisa. “I fear I have been taking too much time admiring the woods. It’s beautiful country, yet it is quite frightening as well. I keep imagining unknown Indians behind every tree.”
“I too.” As Marisa waited, she gazed upward, taking in the cloudless blue sky. To her right and left were trees of maple, elm, birch and more, and they seemed to go on forever.
None of this territory was entirely new to Marisa, since she had grown up in the woodlands of upper New York State. However, the forest was so beautiful at this time of year, that its charm quite outweighed its terror, at least in her view of it.
When Sarah caught up with her, Marisa said, “I think that you should not lag too far behind. Perhaps we should make a pact to stay close to one another. Then if something happens, we will each one be there for the other.”
“Yes. I’m certain you are right. And I wish I could enjoy it without fear, for it holds much charm.”
“Yes, I agree.” Marisa smiled. “The woods are beautiful. Perhaps the longer we are on the trail, the more you might come to admire it without fear. Look there, the reds of the maple trees, the oranges of the oaks, the yellows and the greens; they are so vibrant at this time of year. And there are so many of them, that it seems as if the whole forest is afire with color. And overhead”—she gestured upward—“is the bluest of skies.”
Sarah nodded. “It almost seems as if the hills themselves are alive.”
“Exactly.”
By mutual consent, the two women nudged their mounts forward, following after Black Eagle. Within a moment, Marisa was content to continue in the same line of thought. “Even the air is different from Albany. It has a slight fragrance of pine. Have you noticed?”
“I have. It is, indeed, most invigorating.”
A westerly wind brushed against Marisa’s backside, imparting with it a sense of security, and off to the eastern side of the trail, the sound of a rushing brook lent the atmosphere an ongoing sort of music. Moisture from the stream cooled the air and made it sit more easily on the lungs.
Black Eagle, who was in the lead, was by now far ahead of them. In fact, Richard Thompson, who normally lagged far behind, was almost upon the two women.
“Come, Sarah, let us catch up to Sir Eagle. It wouldn’t do to have him outdistance our horses.”
Sarah nodded, and as they set their mounts into a faster walk, the two women fell silent.
The path they were following was well traveled, and since it took little attention to steer the animal, Marisa let her attention slip back in time, to a few hours previous.
After Marisa had left Black Eagle in the livery, she had discovered that Richard Thompson was awaiting her at the Rathburn mansion. She had said nothing to the man, not even to admonish him for the lateness of his arrival.
Instead she had gone straight to James. It had been a difficult thing to do, particularly since the only communication she desired with the man was one best done with a firearm. However, she’d had no choice, since he had stood between herself and her guardian.
After admonishing James for his behavior with Sarah and threatening him with the Albany authorities, Marisa had demanded to speak to her guardian. Now she wished she hadn’t even done that. There had been no visible result because of it, and it had required her to speak to a man she now abhorred.
She had finally written Rathburn a note. Putting her feelings into words had been most agonizing, her shame deepening when her guardian had refused to acknowledge her.
In her note, she had offered her step-uncle an olive branch, had apologized for her “crime” of upsetting him, had even gone on to explain why she had felt it necessary to assert her independence. She had also assured him that he need not worry about her, for she would be well protected on the journey to New Hampshire.
The last part of her letter caused her to cringe in remembrance. She now wished she could take back the words:
Step-uncle, I beg you to come down and see me off on this journey. Let us put the last few days behind us and renew our liking for one another. I beseech you not to let me go without so much as a fare thee well.
But her pleading had been for nothing. John Rathburn had remained adamant in his condemnation of her. She supposed that to his way of thinking, her independence had wronged him, and there was nothing she could do to repair the damage done.
Marisa sighed, and turning her attention to the spectacular sights of the beauty surrounding her, she tried to set her mind to other things. But like a dark cloud that followed and vexed her, her step-uncle’s rejection was not to be put so lightly aside.
The sign read:
WILTON’S TAVERN
Last Chance for Rum in the Adirondacks
Established 1679
The hut was situated about twenty-five miles north of Albany, on the eastern side of the trail. Built of crude logs, the tavern seemed to be an oasis, and Marisa thought that it might very well be the last trace of civilization to be found, at least until they arrived in New Hampshire. Positioned on the far right side of the trail, with its front facing toward the road, it was an unusual place in that its back was built downward, extending out toward a fast-flowing stream. Even from a distance, Marisa could see there were logs cut out for stools, as well as crude tables, which were scattered out back of the tavern. Plus, because the inn was situated on slightly higher ground than the stream, there was a swinging footbridge that extended over the water.
At present, no one was taking enjoyment of the picnic area, and Marisa wondered if the fault were that of the establishment itself, or if the men who might frequent the place felt more at home inside. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to her. After several hours on the road, it looked to be a little bit of heaven.
Black Eagle, who was at the lead of their party, had paused here, awaiting the women and Thompson, the latter very far to their rear. When Sarah and Marisa drew rein in front of the tavern, they found Black Eagle deep in conversation with the man who might be the tavern keeper.
Upon seeing the women arrive, Black Eagle finished his exchange with the man, and both men turned to walk toward the women. Taking hold of their horses’ reins, Black Eagle led the animals to a wooden post erected in front of the tavern, while the innkeeper followed.
As Black Eagle tied the reins to the post, he said, “The innkeeper says there is a room you could rent for the night and venison stew for supper. It might be wise to take advantage of the room and the food, rather than exhaust our own supply.”
“I think you are right.” Marisa accepted the innkeeper’s helping hand down.
“Injuns,” commented the man under his breath. “Don’t rightly know why they feel it beneath them to help a lady down from her mount. Just ’tain’t in their manners, I guess. Welcome, ladies.”
Marisa smiled at the man. “Thank you. Am I right in assuming you might be Mr. Wilton?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Wilton was my grandpappy. My name’s Stiler. Matt Stiler.”
“Well, hello, Mr. Stiler. I am Marisa Jameson, and this is my companion and friend, Sarah Strong. We are en route to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to visit the Appletons, who own property there and who are good friends of my family.”
“The Appletons, eh?” Mr. Stiler rubbed his stubbled chin. “Don’t think I know of ’em, Miss Jameson, but don’t make no difference. You and your maid are welcome to stay here for the night. No charge. ’Tain’t often we have a lady such as yourself stay with us.” Stiler paced toward Sarah’s mount, whereupon he helped Sarah down from her seating.
“I wouldn’t hear of imposing on your hospitality without paying sufficient coin.” Marisa opened her purse and offered the man two gold coins. “Both Sarah and I understand the inconvenience of guests, though I can assure you we appreciate your offer.”
“Thank you, miss.” Stiler pocketed the coins. “Now if you’ll both come this way, I’ll introduce you to my missus.”
Marisa nodded, and upon taking hold of Sarah’s arm, they followed the innkeeper, leaving Black Eagle to await Thompson.
Thompson was drunk, no doubt. His slurred voice, along with a few others, was raised in singing a ditty or two, with one song following right after the other. But the good Lord be praised, Thompson was at least keeping himself holed up inside the tavern and hadn’t ventured out into the back, where Marisa and Sarah were seated.
Both the young women were surrounded by the log stools and carved tables, which were fashioned picnic style, in back of the tavern. About ten feet away ran the shallow, quick-rushing stream, its splashing against the rocks and the shoreline a welcome backdrop to the rustling of the wind through the trees. Crickets and other nightly creatures were beginning their serenade, while within her line of vision Marisa could discern the figure of Black Eagle, who stood sentry off in the distance.
He was leaning on his musket, and although Marisa was more than a little leery of him, there was one aspect of the man she could not deny: He cut a handsome figure. Though she could barely make out the blue of his tunic, the remembrance of how the style of his leggings allowed for a clear view of masculine thighs and buttocks remained etched upon her mind.
Evening was falling over the land, the last rays of the sun coloring the golds, reds and oranges of the leaves with the pinks and corals of sunset. Even the brown bark of the trees and the dry grass mirrored the sky, allowing a pinkish glow to settle over the landscape. It was an extraordinary sight.
Above her, the clouds were lit with the same intense color, while closer to hand their fire was mirrored in the luster of the wood from the crude-cut tables and stools. There were trees everywhere—pine, oak, elm, maple and white birch. They surrounded this place, and they sheltered and hid the two women. The scent of smoke, barbecued venison and stewing meat permeated the air, and combined with the fragrance of the last vestiges of fall, it induced a feeling of well-being within Marisa.
Odd that such a feeling should come over her in this rough and untamed place. Yet she couldn’t deny that something here moved her. It was as though she were awakening from a slumber of mind and soul, as though something within her were being coaxed to life.
She inhaled deeply, recognizing the scent of pine mixed within the other fragrances pervading the air.
“Are you tired?” asked Sarah.
“No.” Marisa gave Sarah a critical look. Sarah’s color was good; however Marisa feared only time would heal the cut to her lip, as well as the gash that extended from her eye to her nose. “Are you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I am very tired. Indeed, I am looking forward to that bed in the inn. In fact, I think I might enjoy it all the more since it may be the last true bed we’ll be seeing for many a night.”
“I believe you are right. Are you thinking of retiring, then?”
Sarah yawned. “The thought has crossed my mind.” She smiled. “What of you? Are you ready to go to bed?”
“Not yet I think. But please, don’t stand on ceremony. I beg you to seek your bed and rest. It has been an unusual as well as a long day.”
“But are you not tired? You have had little to no sleep.”
“No, perhaps I should be tired, but I am not. For the moment, my mind is racing, and I fear I would find little sleep if I sought my bed so soon.”
Sarah nodded, although she could barely stifle another yawn. “Perhaps it is the food that makes me so sleepy. It was delicious.”
“Yes, it was.” Marisa’s glance at Sarah was again studious. “Should I take you to the inn and tuck you in?”
Sarah grinned. “No, but the idea has some merit. Still, I’m not accustomed to going to bed before you do.”
“That very well may be, yet I see no harm, and a great deal of good, in your retiring now. I think you need the rest.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you afraid I’ll be assaulted if you leave?”
“The thought has occurred to me. We are, after all, surrounded by men, many of whom appear to be intoxicated.”
“True, but if the men in the tavern get too rowdy, I can appeal to Sir Eagle, who seems to be standing guard over there.” Marisa nodded toward him.
“Mayhap that is the reason I should stay.” There was a twinkle in Sarah’s eye.
“I wouldn’t hear of it, Sarah. I’ll be fine.”
Sarah leaned forward to place her arms on the table. “Marisa, tell me. Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
“Of course.”
“And are you falling in love with him?”
“Who?”
“Sir Eagle.”
“Of course not.” A muscle twitched briefly in Marisa’s cheek. “You know my opinion regarding love and marriage. Just because I favored him with a night of pleasure does not mean that I grace him with the idea of love. Indeed, not. Besides, he did tell me that marriage between us could never be. Something about his people and his grandmother’s warning about women…”
Sarah paused. “What if people’s attitudes were different?”
“But that is an impossible question. Their attitude is not different. ’Tis bad enough that the one time I decide to step out of character I am unable to hide the occurrence from one and all. ’Twas my fault, I admit, but…”
“Ah, I see, when taken as a whole, it would be easier had no one known?”
“Indeed. But I had little time to consider such matters. As you might recall, it all happened quickly. Looking back on it now, I can hardly credit what came over me. There I was at the dance, glancing over to see my guardian’s disapproval of me by the look on his face, and all simply because I was talking to someone he believed was beneath me.”
“’Tis a bad character trait when a man feels superior to another, regardless of the reason why.”
“True, but there was more. For whatever reason, while there at the ball, I recalled that time long ago, when my step-uncle called me to his study and made his plans for my future marriage well known to me. I had forgotten.”
“So had I,” said Sarah.
“He also struck me. I had buried that in my memory most of all.”
Sarah gasped.
“And then there was James. I swear that man has no leave to think bad thoughts of me, yet he too scowled at me for associating with someone he considered beneath me, and he made a move toward me, as if to stop me. Had I not done what I did…”
“You would have been made over into a slave to your step-uncle’s whims,” said Sarah. “I see it now. If you were to be true to yourself, you literally had no choice but to rebel against your step-uncle.”
Marisa frowned but said nothing.
“And so here you are,” continued Sarah, “on a journey with a man upon whom you conferred your favor, thinking to never have the pleasure of his company again.”
“Yes. And I fear that each time I see him, I am not only reminded of my folly, but I recall again the satisfaction of his embrace. And, Sarah, I cannot do it again. Not ever. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Sarah frowned.
“’Tis one matter to do it once in an act of rebellion,” Marisa continued, “to then try to put your fall from grace behind you, and to settle down and endeavor to become respectable. It is quite another to continually commit the act that should be confined to only those who are married, or to those who make their living by it.”
“And of course you can and would never marry him, thus to continue the affair would put you in the class of the latter.”
“Exactly.” Marisa paused. Then wistfully, she murmured, “He most definitely should have told me who he was.”
Sarah sat silently for some time, then cleared her throat. “Did you and he talk of what might happen if there were to be a child?”
“No. But I should have thought of it. It was sheer madness on my part. A pleasant madness, I confess. But madness, nonetheless.”
Sarah looked hesitant. “Well, since this is to be your only induction into a real romance, I should hope that he showered you with love, even if neither of you meant it.”
Marisa smiled. “He did.”
“You could simply refuse to return to Albany,” suggested Sarah. “Once we are in New Hampshire, you could find a new life for yourself there.”
“I have considered that in light of all that has happened. But I fear that this might not be an option for me. Whatever else my step-uncle might be, he also ensured my upbringing, and for that I owe him at least my loyalty.”
“Yes, I suppose I can understand why you would think so. And yet, I can hardly keep from observing that if a man does not have your best interest at heart, do you truly owe him your allegiance? If a man raised you, yet wished to kill you, would you let him do so?”
“I hardly think he wishes to kill me.”
“No, of course he doesn’t. However, the point still remains.”
“And it is a matter I cannot consider. John Rathburn may be all kinds of vile things. But he took me in and raised me. I would hardly be worthy of being human if I didn’t wish to give back to him, would I?”
Sarah touched Marisa’s hand. “You are one of the sweetest people I have ever known. Perhaps too good for the likes of John Rathburn.”
“If I am so, then it is your making.” Marisa sighed, and extracting her hand from beneath Sarah’s, she placed her hands in her lap.
“’Tis too bad that cultures are what they are. Your Sir Eagle is a fine figure of a man, and very devoted to you, I think.”
“Perhaps. This I know. I will take the memory of our night to the grave. But I am who I am.”
Sarah nodded. “And he is who he is.”
“Yes.”
“I fear that the Iroquois Indians are right in one regard.”
“Oh?” said Marisa. “And what is that?”
“A person should be sovereign,” said Sarah. “Perhaps because God in Heaven created human beings in his own image, a person, then, is meant to rule his own life.”
Marisa frowned. “Is that what the Indians believe?”
“Yes, I do believe they do. Though I know only bits and pieces about them, of course. But as a governess, I have studied their beliefs a little, and I am aware that they have a form of government that owes its allegiance not to itself, but to the people.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. ’Tis a far cry from England, I must say, where the people are expected to support and give allegiance to the king regardless of what he does, right or wrong.”
“Are the Indians similar to the Greeks then?” asked Marisa. “Have they managed to carve out a republic here in the wilderness?”
“I truly don’t know. But I would say that ’tis not so unusual that you would rebel against the ironclad hand of your guardian. Such sentiments seem to be caught upon the wind of late.”
“Yes,” said Marisa. “Thank you for trying to make sense of it. I’m glad that at least one person on the face of the earth understands.”
“’Tis very easy to understand. Do you wish me to protect you against your knight, so that your heart remains untouched?”
“No.” Marisa looked away. “Maybe. Yes.”
“Then I will do so.”
“Thank you, Sarah. You are the best friend I have ever had. But now, I think you can safely seek your bed. I shall join you shortly. I fear I’m still too overwrought to come to bed yet.”
“Yes, I understand. Yet it is my duty to stay here, not do things to suit myself.”
“It is also your duty to take care of yourself. My darling Sarah, you look exhausted. Now go. I’ll be fine. It won’t be long before I, too, will seek my bed.”
Sarah stifled another yawn. “If you are certain.”
“Please.” Marisa shooed her off with the flick of her hand. “Go. I promise you I will be fine.”
Sarah nodded, and rising slightly, she placed her hand atop Marisa’s shoulder. “The making of one more memory should not scandalize you overly much, but I would caution you to make it one more memory alone.”
Marisa frowned. “I have no intention of seeking Sir Eagle out in order to make one more memory. He has given me his word that he will not seduce me. I should return the favor.”
“Very well.” Sarah smiled. “After tonight, I will guard you well. Good night.”
“Good night, Sarah.” Marisa glanced in Black Eagle’s direction and wondered if perhaps she should follow Sarah’s example and go to her bed this very minute.
It might be safer. However, for the moment, her bed would remain cold.