Sarah was not well.
Marisa smoothed back Sarah’s blonde hair and removed the wet rag from her forehead. Gingerly, she touched her friend’s face. Her skin was hot, much too hot. Biting her lip, Marisa dipped the sopping rag into cold water and reapplied it to Sarah’s forehead.
As a feeling of helplessness overtook her, she wondered what else she could do. As the day had worn on, Sarah had gradually become worse, and Marisa, in her worry, had forgotten all about the Indian with the golden tongue.
Marisa had sent a servant in search of the family physician, asking the man to hurry to the house. But the doctor had given little advice, saying only that Marisa should keep Sarah quiet and warm. As if Marisa hadn’t already been doing exactly that.
At present, Sarah was sleeping, though that sleep was fraught with whimperings and stirrings.
Marisa frowned. There must be more that she could do. But what? This was Sarah, after all. Sarah, her friend and confidant. Sarah, who had never wavered in her devotion to Marisa. Sarah, who had taught her, schooled her, laughed with her, befriended her.
“No, do not leave me! Do not go in there!” Sarah sat up all at once. Her eyes were wide, yet unseeing, except perhaps for whatever was in her mind’s eye. “Mother! Stay with me! Do not leave me!”
Marisa dropped to her knees beside Sarah’s bed and gently coaxed Sarah back into a supine position, but Sarah fought to be free and sat up again. “No, Mother, do not leave!”
Marisa hardly knew what to do, thus she did the only thing that seemed natural. She took Sarah’s hand into her own and rubbed it.
How could Sarah have lived all these years with such pent-up emotion? And within terribly close quarters to the man who had caused her grief?
But until today, Sarah had not known that it was John Rathburn who was to blame, not only for Sarah’s servitude, but for the deaths of her parents. Problem was, now that she knew or at least suspected the truth, how was Sarah to endure these next six years? Would not forced proximity to the man responsible keep the wound continually open?
“Mother! No!”
Instinctively aware that it was wrong to say too much around a person so ill, Marisa did no more than take Sarah into her arms, urging her back against the mattress and pillow. Tears, mirrored in Sarah’s eyes, clouded her own.
It was unfair, nay it was terribly wrong, that Sarah should have to remain here, locked into a debt that was not of her own making, and to a man who had most likely caused the entire matter. Sarah’s circumstance needed to change. But how?
Marisa had never had cause to give thought to concerns such as this. The only rule of law she had ever known was the cold neglect of John Rathburn. Surely there was something she could do.
Perhaps there might be a sympathetic ear within Albany’s administration of justice. Mayhap Sarah’s servitude could be reversed. Who would speak for Sarah?
Certainly there were no witnesses from fourteen years ago who could come forward to accuse John Rathburn of wrongdoing. And even if such people did exist, what magistrate would believe them when pitted against the Rathburn wealth and reputation?
Only someone as wealthy as he could stand for Sarah. Only a person whose reputation was as well thought of as his…
As realization dawned, Marisa sat back on her heels. There was such a person. One person, who alone might be able to persuade John Rathburn to give Sarah her freedom.
That person was she, Marisa.
For a moment, Marisa considered her position. Not only might she hold sway over John Rathburn, she held an ace. Had she not last night heard him plotting the ruin and demise of an entire village of people? Was this not only unjust, but illegal?
“No!” Sarah cried, interrupting Marisa’s thoughts. “Not my mother, my father! No, it cannot be!”
Marisa closed her eyes, letting a tear fall down over her cheek. Dutifully she pressed Sarah back against the pillow, and bending, she dipped the rag that had been made hot by Sarah’s feverish forehead back into cold water. Quickly, she replaced the rag over Sarah’s brow. Picking up Sarah’s hand yet again, Marisa plotted exactly what she would do, and what she might say to her guardian, John Rathburn.
She had much time in which to plan her strategy, for it was well into the night when Sarah at last drifted into a restful sleep. Rising onto her feet, Marisa knew what she would do, and she would do it yet this night.
Taking hold of the bucket of water, which by this time was warm, Marisa exited Sarah’s room, glancing back once at Sarah before she gently shut the door.
Richard Thompson was proud that he was not a man of honor. Quite the contrary, he was little more than a hired assassin, and in his business, this was a financially sound frame of mind. He knew he was an imposing man, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Some might have argued that his mousey-brown, tangled hair, thick jowls, yellow, broken teeth and breath that might stagger the most stouthearted of men was not the sort of image to endear a man to high finance. And yet, those who needed his services were only too happy to pay his price.
Although Thompson was aware that he might not be the most intelligent of people, he was bright enough to know when he’d floundered into a good thing.
His enterprise with John Rathburn was, indeed, a good one. Over the years, Thompson had hired out his services to Rathburn for the more delicate occasions when Rathburn required an opponent to be eliminated. True, Thompson knew of his shortcomings, but he was thorough in his work, and most importantly, he operated in complete secrecy.
Bad things were known to happen. It was a rough land here in America, a dangerous environment, a place where accidents were commonplace. And if at times Thompson ensured that accidents did indeed happen, where was the fault?
Though constructed to be sturdy, the wooden steps quivered beneath Thompson’s weight as he made his way to the front door of the Rathburn estate. He was under no illusions as to what was the purpose of Rathburn’s summons. However, little could he have envisioned that on this one occasion, even he was to be startled.
“I’s here to see Rathburn,” he stated to the butler, who answered the ring of the bell.
James, Rathburn’s butler, nodded succinctly. He did not extend his hand to take Thompson’s overcoat as was customary. Instead James backed up, away from Thompson, sniffing indignantly. “Mr. Rathburn is expecting you. This way, please.”
With barely a glance at the butler, Thompson grunted out a response and followed the man into Rathburn’s private office.
“Ah, there ye are, Thompson. Thank ye, James. We will require a bottle of brandy, two glasses and complete privacy. No one, and that includes my niece, is to disturb us. Do ye understand?”
“Clearly, sir,” said James, who left posthaste. He returned shortly thereafter, and set out the liquor and glasses on a table. “Do you wish me to pour, sir?”
“No, James, that will be all.”
James nodded and quit the room so quickly, one might have thought evil lurked there.
His hasty departure left an awkward silence in its wake that was even unnerving to Thompson. To cover the gap, Rathburn slowly poured the brandy into the two glasses and offered one of them to Thompson, who shot down the liquor as though it were no more than a spot of warm tea.
Rathburn seemed to take a longer time in his enjoyment of the brew. After some moments, he said, “Have ye ever considered a bath, Richard?”
“What fer?”
Rathburn didn’t answer, sighed instead, and continued, “I have an unusual task for ye, Thompson.”
Thompson grunted, nodding. “Who is it to be this time, gov’nor?”
Rathburn didn’t hesitate to answer, stating forthwith, “My niece.”
Thompson spat out whatever liquid was left in his mouth. “Come again?”
“The person in question is my niece.”
“Miss Marisa?”
“That’s right.”
“But I’s met Miss Marisa.” Thompson, for all that he might be immune from that deterrent called scruples, was yet taken aback. “She is young and…”
“My ward?”
“Bonny. I was going to say bonny.”
“That she is,” said Rathburn. “She will also be heir to a small fortune, when she comes of age to inherit. A fortune, I might add, that I will lose to some young suitor in the near future, if I cannot convince her to marry the man of my choice.”
“Then ye is jealous of her?”
“No.” Rathburn strode to his desk, where he opened a drawer and removed a pistol. “But I fear she has become much too inquisitive and an embarrassment to me. She has recently confronted me with certain information about my business which she came into possession of in an unusual manner, and that information is…delicate. Further, she made it known to me that she fears me not.” Sitting in a chair pulled up behind his desk, Rathburn studied the pistol, before he proceeded to prime it. “I am afraid that her dangerousness to me has recently exceeded her worth.”
“But have ye not raised her from when she was a small child?” Thompson asked.
“So I have.” Rathburn shrugged, then smirked. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”
“I have never kilt a woman. Could ye not simply send her abroad? Perhaps to the nuns?”
“That I could. But she presses me now, and there is damage she could do to me before I am able to make arrangements to send her overseas. She has threatened me.” He set down his pistol and spread his hands out over the desk.
It did not escape Thompson’s regard that Rathburn’s eyes burned momentarily with a fire of insanity. In reaction, all three hundred pounds of Thompson quivered. Rathburn, however, was continuing. “She plans to take her maid east to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. ’Tis a place where our family has often summered. There are friends there who will welcome her. I believe my niece hopes to find her maid other employment there. However, it is my intention that neither she nor her maid should arrive there…alive.”
Thompson flinched. “The maid too?”
“I am afraid so. It would appear that my dear niece has shared her knowledge with her maid.”
“Two women. Not one, but two. I’ve never kilt a woman afore,” he repeated.
“If ye feel ye cannot to do the job… Of course ye do realize I am paying double for yer services.”
Thompson hesitated. Under his breath, he muttered, “The way through New Hampshire is through woods that are deep in Indian country, the Abenaki.”
“Indeed, it is so,” said Rathburn. “How fortunate. Many accidents could happen along the way.”
Thompson pulled at his collar. “The Abenakis are not friendly to England. Could I not save ye the trouble and expense of a journey, and do the deed here?”
“I should say not. ’Twould be an outrage. Why, the townspeople might question my ability to provide protection, might even doubt my worthiness to guardianship, which of course would include the loss of her fortune, should their doubts prove true. No, indeed, an accident along the path north and east ’tis better.”
Thompson was not convinced, and he stalled further. “What ye need is a scout, and I’s no scout.”
“Ye may have leave to hire one, though I doubt ye’ll need one, since the deed could be done once ye are outside of Albany.”
“But what if a chance to end it quickly does not prove itself in so timely a manner?”
“Then ye will need a map and a guide. An Indian scout would be best since any other might give witness against ye.” Pivoting the pistol in his hand, Rathburn pretended to check its sights. “Of course, if ye decide the task is beyond ye to perform, the assignment is not an obligation.”
Rathburn’s statement was a veiled, unstated threat, and Thompson well understood it. He grimaced. Truth be told, Thompson might be many things—a bully, an executioner, an assassin—but his business was typically conducted with stealth, and always under the cover of darkness. In truth, no threat to himself had ever presented itself to him.
This last was a pointed detail. For there was one particular aspect to Thompson’s character that ruled his existence: He was an unprecedented coward.
He glanced once at the pistol Rathburn so ungraciously handled. He wiped his lips, setting his mind to the fact that his future recommendations in this rather unsavory business would hereafter include two women. Then, said Thompson, “Do ye have that map here?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Oh, look!” Marisa dragged Sarah toward a merchant who was selling one of the largest pumpkins Marisa had ever seen. “I think we should ask Cook to make us a pumpkin pie for our trip.”
Sarah smiled and shook her head. “And how are we to transport a pie?”
Marisa pulled a face. “’Tis a fair point you make, since we will be traveling with only the three horses. Perhaps Cook could bake the pie before we set out upon our journey.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come.” Marisa pulled Sarah with her, threading her way through the crowd.
The Albany marketplace was bustling with humanity on this fine and warm autumn day. Scents of baked cornbread, stewing apples and pumpkin pie had drawn a large crowd to the market, and the ambience surrounding the patrons on this day was delightful, the air brimming with the hum of goodwill and camaraderie. Conversation and laughter buzzed around Marisa and Sarah as they shifted slowly through the crowd, while a young male servant followed in their wake.
To their right, a small crowd had gathered around a juggler, who was quite a handsome gentleman. In the distance straight ahead of them, actors were performing a puppet show, much to the delight of several children.
Both Marisa and Sarah paused to sample the delights of some baked apples and cornbread, sharing their find with the boy who accompanied them. In due time, they approached the pumpkin vendor.
“Are you not excited about our trip?” asked Marisa as they gathered ’round the vendor.
“Very,” said Sarah. “I admit that this journey comes at a fortunate moment, since the urge to leave Albany, if only for a little while, has taken hold of me.”
“Yes, although perhaps we might find the mountains of New Hampshire more to our liking, extending the length of our trip into something more permanent.”
Sarah frowned. “Pardon?”
Marisa’s gaze danced off Sarah. Had she said too much? In an effort to shield Sarah, Marisa had not mentioned her meeting with John Rathburn of a few days previous. Nor did she intend to do so now. Hoping to conceal her error, Marisa rushed on to say, “Which one of the pumpkins do you think we should buy?”
“I think,” replied Sarah, after only a slight hesitation, “that we should purchase two pumpkins. You pick one, and so will I.”
“Yes. A good suggestion. I’ll take that one,” said Marisa, anxious to put the subject of their coming journey behind them. As Marisa handed over the coinage to the merchant, she spied movement out of the corner of her eye. What was that? The image of a man? An Indian?
Her stomach dropped. Was it the savage? The young man who had uttered such golden words to her?
Distracted, Marisa let the servant boy pick up the pumpkin for her, while she glanced to her left to attain a better look. She caught her breath. It was a Mohawk Indian certainly. But it was not he.
The butterflies that had taken flight within her commenced to settle down, and Marisa inhaled deeply. What was wrong with her? Had she lost all sense of propriety? How could she be reacting in such a positive manner to a man who was commonly thought of as beneath her station? Was she bored perhaps?
“I’ll take this one,” said Sarah to the vendor, not noticing that her charge’s attention was devoted elsewhere. “Please…” Sarah motioned the servant boy forward, “…take these back to the cook, ask her to make a pie for this evening, and then return here. I’m certain we’ll have more purchases.” She smiled at him, and the boy, deeply impressed, hurried off to do as bid.
“Sarah,” asked Marisa, “what do you think of the close-cropped hairstyle of the Mohawk Indians?”
Sarah gazed quickly at her charge, then toward the place where Marisa was staring. “As long as it’s closely cropped and not bald, I think ’tis fine.” Sarah smiled. “I must admit that I have a liking for their long hair in back.”
“I too.” Marisa, who was still looking off toward the Indians, asked further, “Why do you think they shave their heads?”
“I really don’t know, nor have I ever given it any real thought. But now that you ask, I’d say that on some of the Indians, the style is attractive. On others…”
Marisa nodded. “Sarah, let me ask you a more personal question, if I may.”
“You may.”
“Do you think, much as the other colonists do, that the Indians are savage?”
Sarah drew her brows together and scowled at Marisa. “The Indians practice torture on some of their captives, and I believe that torture is a savage practice.”
“Yes, indeed, it is. But is our society any better?”
Sarah paused. “Come again?”
“Have we not burned witches? Have we not drawn and quartered our enemies, boiled men and sometimes women in oil?”
“True, but—”
“Should one judge all people in a particular society based on the actions of a few?”
Sarah gave her charge a considering glance. “You are most philosophical today. To what do I owe such uncharacteristic observations?” When Marisa didn’t deign to answer at once, Sarah said, “My dear Marisa, in all these many years, I have never noticed you to be curious about either the Indians or their way of life. Why are you now?”
Marisa shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that I’m curious. It’s simply that… Take William Johnson, for instance, and Johnson Hall. He has made a strong alliance with the Mohawk Indians, and I have heard that the Indians use his property at their ease. I have also gathered from various people that the Indians have made Johnson Hall the center of their government. And it is common knowledge that Johnson himself has taken a Mohawk wife, that the children from that union are strong and able-bodied, and…”
Sarah raised an eyebrow at Marisa. “Has something happened to cause this sudden interest in ideology?”
“No. Well, perhaps. A young Mohawk warrior spoke to me the other day—”
“With or without introduction?”
“Without. But he was so admiring of me that I forgave him. He made me smile.”
“Smile? What did he say?”
“He told me that my beauty had touched his heart.”
“His heart?” Sarah paused, sighing. “Oh, my dear Marisa, beware.”
“Why?”
“Because it appears to me that he might have captured your admiration in a fashion that even your own peers have not. Has he?”
“I am only curious about him.”
Sarah arched a brow. “Do not become too curious. It would not do to become infatuated with such a man as he is, since no earthly good could ever come of it.”
“I speak of mere interest. Nothing more.”
“I do hope so. Though we live side by side with these Mohawk people, one would not seek a husband from amongst them. Such an association could never be.”
“A husband? Oh, Sarah, please. Let me assure you that such a detail is not, and has never been, within my thoughts. You, more than any other person, should know I never intend to marry. Never.”
“Yes, but beware. When a man speaks to you of matters of the heart, he is courting you.”
Wide-eyed, Marisa asked, “Do you believe it may be so? Do you feel he might have been courting me?”
Sarah shook her head, then cast a contemplative glance at the Indians. At length, she returned her attention to Marisa. “Beware, Miss Marisa. It seems to me as though you might favor this man’s attention.”
“Pshaw! Let him court me all he likes. It will not matter to me, since my heart will never to be given to any man.”
“’Tis a child’s decision, Miss Marisa, that you made long ago. But a woman fully grown might entertain other ideas. And if she does, let me warn you that unhappiness lies in the direction of infatuation with an Indian.”
“Yes. However, do you suppose there might be more unhappiness from the Indian than if I were to permit my guardian to choose a mate for me?”
“Most likely not.” Sarah paused and, perhaps more philosophical now, said, “If your uncle has anything to do with it, I fear that you could be forced to wed an old man, who would be soon to die.”
“True. And perhaps that might come to pass if I were to entertain the idea of marriage. But, alas, it will never be for me. What I decided as a child will remain with me all my life. Of that I am certain.”
“I’ve never understood it,” Sarah began slowly. “When you were young, I thought your resolve was a whim that would soon pass. But in all this time, it still remains. Why are you so against marriage to any man, even one of your own choosing?”
Marisa shrugged. “I don’t know, except that I once dreamt that my step-uncle lectured me about marriage. It was not pleasant, and I cried for many days.” She frowned. “That dream stayed with me and threatened me it seemed…” As though her head suddenly hurt, she brought her hands up to it, her brows drawn together.
Sarah’s look was concerned but distant. “Your uncle is who he is, and he is a financier. I fear that within a year, perhaps two, you will be expected to marry…whether you wish it or not.”
“I will never do it.”
“So you say. Still, I fear it. Therefore, although I have great reservation against such advice, I believe it might be well that you seek to have amusement wherever you might find it, be that source Mohawk or English…providing it is innocent, of course.” She nodded toward the Indians. “Shall we go, then, and speak to those young men? Ask them if they know where we might find your Mohawk suitor?”
“Sarah! We shall do no such thing! Why, the idea is vulgar, indeed.”
“Then let us leave here. We have more shopping to do yet this day.” Sarah paused. “Oh, do look over there. Someone has made apple cider. Shall we go and sample their wares?”
“Yes,” said Marisa. “Yes.”
So, with the subject tabled—at least for the moment—the two women picked up the chiffon material of their skirts and headed in the direction of the next vending stand.
“Your grandmother has sent me to you. I carry her message.”
Black Eagle frowned at the young Mohawk runner. The youth was minimally dressed in breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. Though there was little physically to show his stress, Black Eagle was aware that the lad was recently arrived and that he had come this distance as quickly as he could.
That they were standing in the middle of the English marketplace was a disadvantage, for there was little Black Eagle could do to welcome his grandmother’s messenger, as was proper Mohawk courtesy.
“Let us break tradition and allow me hear out this message before we pause to refresh ourselves,” said Black Eagle. “Tell me, what has my grandmother to say that has sent you here so desperately?”
“Your grandmother requests that you travel north to the Queen’s Land, even though the way there is through enemy ground and is dangerous.”
Black Eagle met this news calmly enough, and after a moment, he inquired, “And the reason she asks this?”
“It is said that our brothers, who followed the black robes into the Queen’s North, have joined forces with the French and are fighting against us, brother to brother, since we who remain here have sided with the English and stand with them.”
Black Eagle’s brows drew together in a grimace. “Is my grandmother certain of this?”
“It is the news we received from the north.”
Black Eagle barely acknowledged these words, although the idea that such discord might be occurring was startling. “Have any of our brothers fallen in battle from our own hand?”
“I do not know.”
Black Eagle hesitated while he gathered his thoughts and reined in his alarm. “My grandmother was wise to send you to me. This is, indeed, a terrible danger. Brother against brother. If this be true, it would create a black mark upon us that would follow us into the future. Is there more to the message?”
“She asks me to tell you to go to the Black Robes who have taken our people there and beg them to bring our people back here to our ancestral home. We must stand united as a people and let the French and English fight their own war.”
Black Eagle nodded. “The way is long and through the land of the enemy, the Abenaki, but tell her I will go there. I will talk with the Black Robes.”
“She asks also that you bring your brother, Gray Fox, home, for she fears that if he remains long at the village of Kahnawake in the North, that he too will become an ally to the French, while you remain loyal to the English. She does not wish to see your family split because of different allegiances to these aliens in our land.”
“As always, she is wise. Tell her that it will be done. And now, let us meet with tradition and find refreshment for you.”
The youth nodded.
The youthful runner, properly rejuvenated, was already gone, bearing a return message for Black Eagle’s grandmother. Of course, Black Eagle would go as requested, but the journey might require some thought as to the best way to arrive with his scalp still intact, since the quickest way north was through the territory of the Abenaki.
As he stood within the marketplace, he caught an engaging sight from out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head in that direction. It was she, the beauty he had so recently admired. He gazed at her, and although he knew he should return his attention to the task at hand, he couldn’t bring himself to look away from her. Not yet.
At present, she was strolling through the marketplace, arm in arm with another woman, who was almost, but not quite, as pretty as she.
The two women added to the symmetry of the landscape, and Black Eagle noticed that they were drawing the eye of many a fine young man. That none of those men solicited the women’s attention seemed unnatural to Black Eagle, especially when such pleasure could be drawn from a mere conversation with the object of one’s adoration.
He wondered, was the Englishman too busy with his own business to indulge in more than a passing glance? Or was the reason something else? Were the white women too heavily guarded by their relatives, that one dare not approach?
Most likely it was this last, since no man in his right mind would ignore the opportunity to indulge a moment’s pleasure. That this also included him did not escape his notice. Crossing his arms over his chest, Black Eagle leaned back against a wooden post, that he might let his gaze roam leisurely over the beauty’s figure.
She was small, although perhaps it was her waist that made her appear so, since it looked to be uncannily petite. A green ribbon, placed strategically at her breast, brought emphasis there, although the beauty of her face was not paralleled. Her soft, green dress flowed over her curvy figure, and her reddish-golden hair was caught up in an ivory-colored net in back. A straw hat, complete with another green ribbon tied around it, decorated her head. Although he couldn’t see them from here, he knew her eyes to be a golden brown, and from within their depths a smile could be coaxed.
Once again, the desire to tease the beauty, to witness her smile and to feel her response, overrode the need for urgent planning his impending journey required. He had come away from the post where he had been lingering, deep in thought, and had already taken a step forward, when he stopped short. Something was preventing him from proceeding any farther.
“Did ye hear me, boy?”
Black Eagle looked down at the hand that had taken possession of his own arm. Following that hand up to its owner, Black Eagle grimaced. Where had this man come from? Had he been so out of touch with the environment around him that such a man could sneak up on him?
It should not have been. Especially since the man’s stench alone should have alerted Black Eagle to his presence. Ah, what a woman could do.
“I have spoken to several Indians this day,” said the man whose breath seemed to be worse than his general odor, “and I have discovered from each, in turn, that ye is the best guide to be had in this country. I be goin’ to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, into Abenaki territory, and I have need to hire me a damn good scout, since I intend to keep me scalp. What say ye?”
Black Eagle didn’t even deign to answer. Instead, he gazed again at the place where he had last seen the beauty. He exhaled. She was gone.
Disgruntled, he turned his attention to the man who was so demanding of it. “I am not interested in scouting for you. Seek out someone else.”
“But ye havena even heard how much coinage I aim to be paying ye.”
Black Eagle had already made his decision. He disengaged his arm from the other man’s hold.
“Now see here, ye young savage…”
Black Eagle turned, presenting his back to the man, and made to step away, when the brute, who must have been speaking to himself, said, “I reckon I’ll have to tell Miss Marisa that we be delayed yet again.”
Black Eagle paused. Miss Marisa? Had the beast’s tongue actually spoken the name of the beauty?
Black Eagle turned back. Looking askance at the man, he said, “Miss Marisa? Will there be others traveling with you into Abenaki territory then?”
“Aye. Havena ye been listening to me? I’ll be escorting Miss Marisa and her maid to the northeast, toward the sea. But I’ll be needing a guide to ensure our safe passage. I’m willin’ to pay ye well.”
Black Eagle glanced in the direction where he had last seen the enchantress, but as before, her figure was not to be witnessed. However, it mattered little. Her image was imprinted on the very recesses of his mind.
To be certain it was the same person they were both speaking about, Black Eagle questioned, “The one you mentioned, Miss Marisa, and her maid? Who exactly are they?”
“They are financier John Rathburn’s niece and her companion. Why be ye asking?”
Black Eagle didn’t deem it worthy to answer such a question. Instead he asked, “Have you a map of your destination so I might determine where it is and estimate the danger involved?”
“I do. I have it with me here.” The brute reached into the dirty inner workings of his leather coat. From there, he extracted a sheet of parchment, which he extended toward Black Eagle.
Black Eagle nodded, accepting the document from the man. Briefly, he unrolled the paper and scanned the markings on the map. “What you say is true. Your journey will encroach upon Abenaki territory, and as anyone here will know, they can be a fearsome foe.”
“Aye. Can ye escort us through there without a cost to life?”
“I might. Are the women aware that the countryside is at war? That the journey there might be dangerous for them?”
“That they are. Ye’ll do it, then?”
Black Eagle hesitated. True, he was planning a path through Abenaki country, but to travel east was out of his way. Still, it would require little more than a few weeks to guide Miss Marisa and ensure her safety. Perhaps…
No, a voice within him warned. There was danger here. Not only from the Abenaki, but such a journey could be perilous to his heart.
He should walk away. He should ignore the longing to learn more about the beauty; he should resist the impulse to be close to her. He was already enchanted by her. What would happen to his heart if he allowed more contact with her? For he could never do more than admire.
Yet how could he walk away? She would be defenseless against the Abenaki, and now that he knew Miss Marisa, could he stand aside as she put her life into danger?
“What say ye?”
Black Eagle straightened and nodded his assent. “I will. When do you plan to leave?”
“In the next few days. Can ye be ready?”
“I am ready now.”
“Good.” Thompson grinned. “Good.”