p. 258 15. When a man wished to visit another man in his lodge, he stopped by the door and called out, "Are you there?" If the friend wanted company, he asked the visitor to come in and set fat meat before him and they smoked and talked together. A woman wishing to visit always lifted up the lodge door and peeped inside. But unless asked to come in, all visitors went about their business, without getting mad over not being invited into lodges.
p. 305 16. A legitimate form of "mutual wife-stealing" (batsu Era u) was practiced by rival warrior societies for a brief period in the beginning of spring.
p. 305 17. Not all women and men took kindly to some of the woman-stealing tactics of certain societies. When one group tried to take the wife of His-Medicine-Is-Bear, she called to her husband for help. He picked up his gun and warned, "There is no one of you who are man enough to take her." Such action was practically unheard of and started a controversy, since accepted behavior restricted a husband from showing any concern. However, this anecdote clearly indicates there were exceptions, as in any society, to custom and mores.
p. 319 18. There are four types of deeds that were generally recognized as meritorious and counted for the title of "chief: the carrying of the pipe, that is, the leadership of a successful war party; the striking of a coup; the taking of an enemy's gun or bow; and the cutting of a horse picketed in the enemy's camp. The principal aim of a leader was to successfully complete a mission, whether horse raiding or war, and bring his own party safely to camp. If some of his people were killed, no credit would follow the feat.
p. 319 19. Individually, a warrior could gain fame, standing, honor, riches, and as much influence over the band as anyone, except two or three leading chiefs. To these offices one could not expect to succeed without having strong family connections, extensive kindredship, and a popularity of a different description from that allotted to outsiders.
p. 324 20. Scalping, though extensively practiced by many of the Plains tribes, was not regarded as a specially creditable deed by the Absarokee and did not count for the chieftaincy. An informant said to Lowie, "You will never hear an Absarokee boast of his scalps when he recites his deeds." And this statement was confirmed by Lowie's experience.
p. 373 21. Madame Restell practiced her operation for three decades in New York and her business flourished so that she could afford to build one of the largest mansions on Fifth Avenue. People called her Madame Killer behind her back and gawked at her when she rode up Fifth Avenue behind a pair of matched greys for a pleasant drive in Central Park. Two men attired in black livery with plum-colored facing on the coat lapels rode on the seat ahead of her. Her dressmaker was the best in town, and she affected a small muff of mink in the cold weather, much as the famous pianists or violinists used to protect their hands from harm. The police knew of her existence but didn't disturb her, for she had threatened again and again to expose some of the fanciest skeletons in New York society if anyone had the temerity to bother her. As a matter of cold truth, Madame Restell could not have existed a month if people hadn't wanted her there. p. 433 22. Two Leggings says the Powder River was named because along its arid banks buffalo and riders churned up great clouds of dust, like ash or powder, while Larocque's memoirs state "… that is the reason they call it Powder River, from the quantity of drifting fine sand set in motion by the coast wind which blinds people and dirtys the water."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important… writing stories is fun.
The magnificent Braddock-Black Dynasty from the national bestsellers and SILVER FLAME
returns in Susan Johnson's next spectacular historical romance.
Countess Angela de Grae seemed to have everything a woman could want: wealth, position, and an exquisite beauty that had once bewitched even the Prince of Wales. But from the moment the dashing American playboy and adventurer Kit Braddock laid eyes on the legendary Countess Angel, he knew she was unlike any of the other rich, jaded blue bloods he'd ever met. For beneath the polish and glitter of her privileged life, he glimpsed a courageous woman tormented by secret heartache. Determined to uncover die real Angela de Grae, what Kit found was a passionate soul mate trapped in a dangerous situation by a desperate man. And in one moment of reckless, stolen pleasure, Kit would pledge his very life to rescue her and give her the one thing she'd forbidden herself: die ecstasy of true love.
Look for BRAZEN in October 1995 from Bantam Books.
Strolling down the carpeted corridor, Kit glanced at the sailing prints lining the walls, thinking Angela might enjoy seeing the Ruysdael he had in his stateroom. The storm-tossed seascape always reminded him of the transience and unpredictability of life. An icon as it were, to his vagabond existence. How pleasant, he reflected, that the countess liked sailing—an unusual interest for a society belle—but then she was an uncommon lady in many ways. As the last framed depiction of a marine scene slipped by, he stopped before the paneled door through which Angela had disappeared. Not pausing to question good manners or gentility—in terms of ladies' boudoirs the rules were flexible he'd learned—he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. The small sitting room was subtly illuminated by silk-shaded lamps, decorated in rococo gilt and pastels and graced with the lovely Countess Angel in dishabille lounging on a chaise, her hair lying loose on her shoulders, her feet bare under the lacy hem of her dressing gown. Clothed in white with her pale hair gleaming, she was a luminous radiance in the shadowed cabinet.
Her voice however had the exacting intonation of reality. "I didn't invite you in," she said, closing the book in her lap and gazing at him with a challenging scrutiny.
"I wasn't sure I had the patience to wait for an invitation," Kit pleasantly said, shutting the door. "Do you really have a headache? If you do, I'm sorry."
"Would you leave if I said yes?"
He looked more powerful framed by the graceful arabesques of the gilded door, she thought, dark, lean, half in shadow against the far wall, a forceful presence in her private rooms.
"Are you going to say yes?" Even leaning casually against the door, he conveyed a bold and potent energy beneath his elegant tailoring, as if a barbaric warrior stood at the gates.
A brief silence passed, the hum of indecision and possibility vibrating in the air.
Would he dare do more than breach the privacy of her solitude?
And how would she react should he try?
But she wasn't a timid ingenue uncertain in masculine company, she reminded herself. She was in fact, more capable than most at keeping men in their place.
Her shoulder lifted in the merest of shrugs. "No, I don't have a headache."
An instant smile creased Kit's tanned cheek. "You just wanted to get away from me."
"You presume too much, Mr. Braddock. I scarcely know you."
"Perhaps we could become better acquainted," he quietly said. Pushing away from the door, he began moving toward a set of embroidered armchairs.
"I don't think so," she evenly replied. "And if you were a gentleman you'd leave."
He stood very still for a moment, his gaze lazily surveying her.' 'Does that usually work?" he murmured, and with-out waiting for a reply, he resumed his course. Reaching a chair, he dropped onto the primrose brocade cushion, settled into a lazy sprawl and gently said, "I'm not a gentleman."
"Look, Mr. Braddock," Angela quietly declared, placing the book in her lap on an adjacent table, "I won't pretend you aren't a fascinating man. Neither of us are disingenuous novices, but—"
"Ah—the iniquitous but…" Kit softly interposed. "Allow me," he murmured with a small smile and a faint inclination of his head, "to define all the debilitating reasons. First we have Charlotte's intention to marry me off to her daughter Priscilla as a major deterrent. Then of course, your sense of friendship and duty as ethical considerations. Are we considering my poaching on the Prince of Wales's territory or is that no longer of consequence? And we mustn't leave out your melancholy over Mr. Manton's recent marriage." When her brows rose in surprise, he went on with a brief smile, "Surely you know, rumor has decreed you quite inconsolable. Have I covered everything?"
"Perfectly." Her voice was calm, as if starkly handsome men bent on seduction were common in her boudoir. "So you see how impossible any further friendship can be."
"Are you always so dispassionate."
"Surely it can't matter much to a man with a traveling harem. You'll forget this sudden impulse of yours in a few hours."
"So cynical about men, my lady."
"I'm not eighteen, Mr. Braddock."
"Perhaps I could change your mind."
Angela smiled for the first time. "Really, Mr. Braddock, that's not very original."
"You've heard that too often."
"I imagine you were very young when I first heard it."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"You were a mere girl when you married de Grae."
A mask seemed to descend over her face, all expression shut away. "I was seventeen," she said, her voice so chill he wondered what the earl had done to her.
He knew they didn't live together, nor had they for years, but he hadn't realized how virulent was her dislike of her husband. "I'm sorry," he said, as if she'd confided all the merciless detail to him.
"There's no need, Mr. Braddock. I'm much more fortunate than most. But you can understand," she softly went on, "why I prefer not involving myself in your affairs. You'll be gone soon I expect, Priscilla is a consideration despite what you say and frankly I can't see any advantage for me."
"You'd have a sailing partner for a time," he said with a grin.
"How clever of you, Mr. Braddock," she replied, her smile suddenly genuine. Had Bertie told him of her passion for sailing?
"Call me Kit."
"Why should I?"
"Your yacht isn't at Cowes this year. I'll take you sailing tomorrow."
"Umm… you know how to tempt me."
The husky purr of her voice stroked his senses, recalling the delectable lady he'd met on the terrace last night. "I'll come for you at eight in the morning."
Swiftly rising from the chaise, she walked to the window in a flurry of white dimity and lace, nervously plucked at the curtain, quickly dropped it again, swiveled round to face him and said, low and abrupt, "I can't."
"I've made no declaration to Priscilla," he placidly said. "Absolutely none. Nor do I intend to in the near future. As for Charlotte's friendship," he added, rising from the chair with a casual grace, "I'm only suggesting a sail on my yacht. In broad daylight. Bring a friend as chaperon if you like." He'd moved across the small distance that separated them as he spoke so he stood very close to her now. "Bring as many friends as you like," he murmured, touching her lightly on the shoulder with his fingertips.
"Please don't do that," she said, her voice no more than a whisper.
"The Desiree can outrun anything on the seas." His breath touched her cheek as he dipped his head close. "Let me show you."
He wasn't speaking exclusively of sailing yachts, she understood, forced back against the window by his nearness, the warmth of his body tangible. "You must leave," she urgently declared, averting her face from his heated eyes.
"Soon," he whispered, cupping her chin in the curve of his fingers, gently forcing her face back, exerting a delicate upward pressure so her mouth lifted to his. "I won't take long," he murmured, his scent filling her senses, fragrant, sensual, heated.