Authors: Karen Kay
Her trail was as easy to follow as if she had purposely led him here.
He came upon Edgehill and he shuddered, feeling the spirits of an age long past. A battle had taken place here. He could feel it. Ghosts haunted the grounds.
Was it a ghost that had spooked her horse? Was that what had happened to her?
He read all the signs of what had happened. She had sat here awhile, but something had happened. He slipped off his horse’s back to study the hoofprints in the grass.
Those prints, he looked at the ground, were barely discernable in the grasses, while those a little farther on were deeper and farther apart, the horse at a run.
Something had startled her horse.
He knelt down to feel the clues left behind.
They were fresh. He might be in time.
And as Black Bear mounted, urging his horse across the fields, following her obvious trail, he wondered why he worried. Waste Ho was an excellent rider. She would never panic over this. She would easily bring the animal under control.
Why hadn’t she done that?
It was then that Black Bear saw it, as though he had been there at the time. Her saddle slipping, Waste Ho trapped by her stirrups, holding on to the horse’s side.
It was an odd phenomena, this knowing exactly what had happened, this being able to read the impressions left behind on the landscape. Yet he did it as easily as another might read a newspaper.
He spurted his horse onward, into a frenzied run over the countryside while he sent a prayer to Wakan Tanka, willing Waste Ho to hold on.
And with every ounce of his being, he tried to endow her with strength from afar.
Estrela slipped farther and farther down the horse until she was practically standing in the stirrups alongside her mount. Closing her eyes had somehow given her more strength to hold on, but the effort was almost too much. Already her arms shook under the burden of her own weight.
She didn’t even bother to scream anymore, all her attention was caught up in holding on.
I can’t do it.
And she felt her arms slipping.
She cried, knowing the disastrous result of letting go, and though her arms shook and her strength ebbed, something wouldn’t let her give up. She couldn’t.
Her horse leaped across something—a stream. Up, up in the air; down, down, hard.
She lost her grip. She screamed, thrown into the air. But as she came down, she lunged forward, catching the horse’s mane in one hand. It was all she had. She’d slid down on the horse even farther.
Hold on. I am not far away.
What was that?
Was she hearing things?
Hold on.
“Black Bear.” She actually said it through her sobs, then, “Black Bear?”
She heard another horse.
Was it Black Bear’s?
She heard someone riding up beside her, she felt someone touch her, but the touch soon left her.
She heard a voice, Black Bear’s. She felt the wind from his own mount at her side; she felt her horse begin to slow.
It was minimal at first, but gradually, her animal’s pace eased into a canter, down into a trot, and finally the animal fell into a walk. And Estrela sobbed with relief.
She couldn’t let go, though. And with her eyes tightly closed, even when she knew the horse no longer moved, she could not let go, her hands seemingly frozen into position.
But he touched her. He spoke to her in soothing tones. He complimented her, and Estrela finally mustered the courage to let go.
It was a traumatic thing. She had to will her hands to open and when she did, she fell into Black Bear’s arms.
He held her closely to him, and she sobbed, she pummeled his chest, she laughed and then she sobbed again. And Black Bear did no more than stand there, holding her, whispering to her in his own language, in her own language, until at last, Estrela fell into a quiet cry against his shoulder.
She’d heard him. When she’d needed strength, he’d been there. He’d saved her life. And she? What did she plan to give him in return? She cried all the more.
She couldn’t do it and yet she had to. And this fear, added to the other trauma, could have been her undoing, but Black Bear shushed her, whispering to her in her ear, his grip on her ever tighter and tighter. Until gradually, so very slowly she didn’t at first notice, her tears fell away.
She simply stood within his arms.
They made an unusual sight on this early morning in September. The dark, handsome Indian holding the pale blond beauty.
And as Black Bear held her body against his, he realized that he had received help from a highly unlikely place. From the very spirits themselves.
He smiled. So this was not a cursed battlefield filled with demons. Ghosts, yes. But certainly not demons.
And Black Bear, always one to acknowledge the actions of another, murmured a prayer of thanks.
She felt just right in his arms.
He shivered, but whether from the coolness in the air or from the yearning to possess her, Black Bear could not be certain.
He had almost lost her.
He didn’t know why it was affecting him in this way. Since he had arrived in England, he’d “saved” her twice already, but this time…this time he knew her intimately and the thought of losing her…
It was not even a concept he wished to explore.
He felt her now as he embraced her. Her slight body fit into the grooves of his own hard contours, her velvet riding habit warm and soft against his skin. Her hair smelled fresh, clean, and as crisp as the autumn air; her skin, where she lay her cheek against his chest, felt smooth, and delicate, her breath sweet, her tears a welcome distraction.
He breathed in deeply, relishing the scent of her hair, her skin, her perfume.
He loved her. He intended to have her.
He’d not told her in words; he wouldn’t, but every action he took, every movement he made expressed his devotion to her more clearly than words ever could.
They stood on a rise overlooking green and golden fields and ripe hedgerows. Concealed beneath the trees, they had a view of the red-gold landscape below and anything that might happen there, while they remained, themselves, hidden and unnoticed.
The horses, tethered, grazed off to the side.
Black Bear pulled her in, if possible, more closely toward him.
He rubbed his hands up and down her back, lower still over her buttocks. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck, sweeping his tongue over every bit of skin there.
She tasted sweet, like nectar, and his head reeled with the intoxication of her.
He lifted his head to caress her cheek with his own and then slowly, as though they stood outside of time, he brought his lips to hers, gently, a tender exploration.
At first.
But she was so responsive to his caress, Black Bear could not contain himself.
He deepened the kiss at once, his tongue invading the dizzying warmth of her mouth, and she returned his passion, meeting his every overture.
It was almost his undoing, but he held back.
He bent down slightly to rub her buttocks more fully and in doing so pulled her off her feet.
He held her with one hand while the other groped over the unfamiliar material of her dress, seeking buttons, ties, anything that would allow him access to her skin, before he became too frustated and thought to rip the material.
But she pulled away, still caught in his embrace, her feet off the ground.
“Oh, Black Bear,” she said. “What do I do?”
Black Bear didn’t understand why she said what she did, but he soon forgot to wonder. She was breathing heavily and her hands, of her own volition, loosened the buttons to her outfit, throwing off her jacket, her skirt, her chemise. Layer after layer, she peeled off clothes and Black Bear, unable to look away, smiled slightly to see the amount of clothing hidden beneath her outer garment.
But at last she stood within his embrace, naked, shivering in the cool, autumn air.
Ah, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips. He set her feet on the ground. And while his one hand cushioned her bottom, holding her tight, his other hand reached upward to caress a ripe breast.
She moaned and threw her head back, and Black Bear almost lost himself. He despaired, wanting her, unsure if he could wait.
But he needn’t have worried.
Waste Ho was ready for him, her hands even now untying the strings that held up his breechcloth until at last, he stood firmly within her grip.
It seemed to excite her and he heard her breathing grow labored.
He pulled her up off
her feet, then, spreading her legs around him and driving himself within her moistened sheath.
Ah, the sweet warmth of her, the overwhelming strength of her response. She twisted her hips against him as he pulled her closer to him.
He didn’t need to talk, to whisper or to coax her. She strained against him, seeking a pleasure to which she was no longer innocent.
And as he held her in his arms, he gazed into her eyes, seeking to witness the desire there in those blue depths.
She looked at him, her glance filled with longing before throwing her head back, exposing her neck to his kiss.
And he did kiss her, he embraced her, he rocked her where she rested on him, at the same time restraining himself, waiting until she had reached her conclusion.
He relished the moist film he felt on her body, he beheld her passion as she twisted against him.
And as she brought her head back upright, he gazed into her eyes.
“You are mine,” he said, watching her heated response, witnessing her pleasure build and build. “You are mine,” he whispered again. “Feel me. Tell me, Waste Ho. Tell me you are mine.”
He heard her moan, he heard her sigh, but she didn’t otherwise utter a word. He listened as her voice grew louder until at last he heard her scream; the silent, autumn atmosphere cushioning the sound. On and on it went, and just as she reached her climax, he whispered, “You belong to me, and Waste Ho, sooner or later you will admit it.”
And as he reached his own pleasure, Black Bear realized that all between them was not yet won. Waste Ho still held back from him.
But he smiled. Little did she know, it was not something he would allow.
It was a vow.
Black Bear gazed at her from over his shoulder. He watched her as she dressed under the cool autumn sunlight, debating whether he should tell her what he’d discovered or not.
At length, he said, “Tell me about the aristocracy.” He glanced at her. “How does it work? Why do some people have so much while others have nothing? And how,” he asked, “can such people have power when they do not share what they have with others?”
Waste Ho, Estrela, looked at him and he stared back. “I am not sure,” she said, at length. “I do know that it has been so ever since they were conquered by the Normans so many years ago. Or perhaps it could be that the English have been conquered so many times by so many different people that they no longer care about one another. All I know is that there is a central group of people who seem to have all the wealth and power and then there are those who cater to them. Why, I do not know.”
Black Bear nodded. He was silent, studying the frayed saddle that he held in his hands, until he asked, “Do you come from the aristocracy?”
She hesitated. “The Duke thinks so.”
“Humph.” Black Bear glanced away. “What would be a good enough reason for someone to want to kill another? Power? Wealth? I do not understand. Are these things alone enough to make someone desire another’s death?”
Waste Ho sent him a concerned look. She gazed at him a long while until finally she asked, “Why?”
He looked back at her. “I understand,” he said, “revenge. I grasp why another would seek revenge if only to settle a wrongdoing. I understand the need to defend what is yours. What I do not understand is why someone would want to kill you.”
He held out the frayed saddle for her inspection. He fingered the leather buckle there, the jagged edges where the leather had been cut. Deliberately.
He glanced over to her. “Your accident here today”—he motioned to the surrounding area, then to the saddle itself—“it was no accident.”
She gasped, looking down, then away.
“Do you have any idea,” he asked again, “who might be doing this and why?”
Waste Ho shook her head. “No.”
He sighed. “Tell me, is power and wealth alone enough to have another want to kill?”
Estrela sent him a startled gaze. “Yes.”
It was then that Black Bear smiled. “Tell me,” he said. “Why?”
And as Estrela began to explain about wealth and land, estates and money, title and power, Black Bear began to understand little by little the thought processes of the English.
He might not agree, but at last he began to understand.
Chapter Seventeen
“You will stay in your room.”
“I will not.”
“You will.”
“You cannot make me.”
“Shall we see?”
Estrela stomped her foot. She knew it was childish, but she couldn’t keep herself from doing it.
“You waste my time,” Black Bear said. “I cannot stay here and guard you. There are others I must speak to this morning. There are other things I must do. Until I am finished, you will stay in your room.”
“So, you do not allow me to go down to breakfast?” she asked. “You do not allow me to visit with friends? And how am I to eat?”
She knew she was being unreasonable. Anna could easily bring her a tray. And in truth; someone, just this morning, had attempted to take her life. She should be grateful to Black Bear.
Perhaps.
No, she supposed she should thank him and yet, why didn’t he
ask
her to stay in her room? Why didn’t he
consult
her, instead of just ordering her?
She gazed over to him where he stood, staring at her—one moment—another. And she looked back, their gazes dueling. Both knew what they were doing. Both knew that in Indian society a stare such as this meant certain insult, for a Lakota Indian will always avert his eyes to show respect.