Free Black Eagle by Gen Bailey Page B

Over one shoulder, worn Roman-style, and draped around his waist, was a red blanket, heavily adorned with shell beads of white.
    â€œHave you met him? ” asked the Mohawk.
    â€œWho? William Johnson? Yes, he was a guest here at Rathburn Hall once.”
    With their hands still clasped, the Indian stepped toward her, she followed suit. They both stepped back, forward again, then they turned round, clasping hands once more.
    The music softened, ending in a long drawn out chord that allowed the dancers to bow and curtsy to one another. A round of applause followed. However, while the others were engaged in the act of clapping, Marisa faced the Mohawk instead, and she asked, “Have you a name? ”
    â€œBlack Eagle,” he supplied.
    She nodded. “I thank you, Sir Eagle, for coming to my rescue on the dance floor.” She smiled at him before saying, “And now I must leave you.” She spun around to step away from him, only to find that he had laid a hand at her elbow, there where her sleeve ended in lace. Her nerves there tingled.
    â€œA moment of your time, please. There is something I would say to you, something I would ask, if you would permit me.”
    Whether she had it in her mind to agree or protest was a moot point: He had placed his other hand upon the small of her back and was leading her toward a set of French doors that opened up onto a veranda, overlooking a parklike reserve of the Rathburn estate.
    â€œSir,” she managed to utter at last. “I must protest. I am without a chaperone.”
    â€œIt is not my intention to take you away from your party or those who would protect you. In truth, I have come here tonight in search of the man known as Thompson.”
    â€œHe is not here.”
    He nodded. “Then might it not be possible to find a quiet spot along the side of the room where we might engage in a moment’s talk? There is a matter of concern that I must relate to you.”
    Marisa shook her head. “I’m afraid that I . . .” She paused and glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom, looking to her right, to her left. Although her step-uncle was not to be seen at present, her gaze found and centered on his henchman, James. The butler’s frown at her spoke adequately for him, and Marisa knew she was being warned to act in a manner befitting her position. Moreover, if she didn’t perform as expected, James would, indeed, carry tales.
    Something within her rebelled. As a little girl, Marisa might have once submitted to the butler’s unspoken threat. But she was a woman, full grown. Perhaps it was the memory tonight that caused her to resist, maybe not. But it is perhaps well to observe that there is not a being alive who will not, from time to time, protest the bars of his or her imprisonment. For Marisa, that time was now.
    Tilting her chin upward, she stared at James, though she spoke to the Indian, when she said, “There is a path through the garden, Sir Eagle, that is quiet and will serve us better than trying to raise our voices above the noise of the ballroom. Shall I show that path to you? ”
    He nodded. “If it be your pleasure, I would be most honored.”
    Still holding onto James’s stare, Marisa placed her gloved hand atop the Indian’s. “This way, please,” she said.

Five

    The moon was full, with no cloud cover to eclipse its glow, which by comparison caused the stars overhead to dim their brilliance. The moonlight was ethereal, a mere airy reflection of light that cast a shimmering, silvery glow over everything it touched, the trees, the grasses, the landscape . . . him. Odd how handsome he appeared beneath the misty beams of moonlight.
    She studied him for a moment. The night and the misty beams were said to be a woman’s territory. However, an exception should be made for this man, she thought.
    His features were strong, yet pleasing; his cheekbones high, his lips full and sensual.