A woman on the run…a warrior’s vow…an assassin on their trail. The Warriors of the Iroquois, Book 1 With the English and the French at each other’s throats, struggling for control of the North American continent, the battle lines have been drawn. But Marisa Jameson is witness to treachery closer to home. After she overhears her uncle’s plot to destroy a Dutch town for his own gain, she threatens to expose him-and is forced to run for her life. When the mesmerizing beauty says she needs a guide to visit a friend, Mohawk warrior Black Eagle volunteers. He knows the wild forests of New England like the back of his hand, but soon senses danger is dogging their heels and suspects there’s more to Marisa’s anxiety to move swiftly than her eagerness to “visit a friend”. Caught in the crossfire of a war and with a deadly assassin hot on their trail, Marisa and Black Eagle discover that trusting each other is the only way to outrun the enemy-and that love may be the only way to survive. This book has been previously published under the author’s pseudonym of Gen Bailey, but has been substantially revised and expanded. Warning: May cause one to fall in love with that special someone all over again.
Black Eagle couldn’t help but notice the exquisite creature who had ventured into the bustle of the kitchen.
“Mrs. Stanton?” The beauty’s voice was delicate, barely audible, yet the cook gave the young woman immediate notice.
“Mrs. Stanton, my maid, Sarah, is quite ill, and I beg you to see if we might have some baking soda or other remedy that might settle her stomach.”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Stanton. “A moment please.”
As the elegant creature waited, she turned halfway around so that Black Eagle was presented with her profile. Her jawline was strong, her cheekbones delicate, her nose dainty, and the outline of her lips was full. All at once, and without any warning, Black Eagle’s stomach plummeted, and his body reacted in a strong and distinct, male fashion.
She was beautiful, she was delicate, the sort of creature a man would treasure his whole life through, if he could but have her. Moreover, there was a quality about her that would cause a man to wish to please her, if only to see the glory of her smile.
A desire to jest with her, to witness the wonder of her favor, overtook him. But he suppressed the longing. They were of two different worlds, worlds that held almost nothing in common. Besides, always in the back of his mind was the caution his grandmother had trained in him from even a young age; a woman from another tribe of people weakened a man’s spirit.
Black Eagle gazed away from the temptress. Soon, Mrs. Stanton approached the young lady.
“I have some freshly made chicken broth,” said the cook. “Shall I take it to her?”
“Yes, please,” agreed the dainty creature. “She is in her room. Do you know of it?”
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Stanton took hold of a pot of stew and immediately left the kitchen.
The beauty turned in full toward him. She did not acknowledge him. It appeared she was searching for something and did not even see him. Perhaps pride was to blame for his next action. Certainly reason should have caused him to hold his tongue. Yet Black Eagle found he could little resist the impulse to make himself known to her, perhaps to see if he could cause the enchantress to smile.
He said, “Rarely have I seen a woman who could with a mere glance make a man’s heart sing.”
The beauty’s gaze rose to take in Black Eagle’s measure. Though her look was less than complimentary, she did reply to him. “Did you speak to me, sir?”
“I did, but you must forgive me for doing so. I may never again have the honor of looking upon you, and the desire to witness your smile might make a man forget all else.”
Under his compliment, the beauty’s lips twitched, but she turned away from him, only to swing back to say, “Did you tell me that your heart sang?”
“I did. Upon taking a mere look at you, my heart told me that all the grace there was to be found was possessed here, in this delicate figure of a woman.”
“Perhaps, if I were a white man, I might never put this observation into words. But I am not a white man.”
“Indeed.” Her glance again took in his countenance. “Your English is very good for an Indian.”
He inclined his head. “A result of various black robes.”
She nodded briefly. “You are the first Indian who has ever spoken to me, though I have lived here most of my life through.”
“Have you? I regret I am only now making your acquaintance. And I apologize for my people.”
Again her lips twitched, but no full smile was to be witnessed. “Excuse me. I must bid you farewell, for a friend awaits me.”
Black Eagle sighed. However, as she turned away, he found he couldn’t let her go yet, and he called out, “Miss?”
“Yes?” She bestowed upon him yet another look that took in his appearance.
“Could you not spare this poor heart of mine a tiny smile? Something I could take with me to recall during times that might be less than pleasant? After all, the countryside is at war.”
Her glance at him was considering. “You speak very elegantly.”
“A result of practice, I fear, since a man must express himself well if he is to counsel his people and sway them to the right course.”
“Are you a chief?”
“I am. A Pine Tree Chief.”
“A Pine Tree Chief? I believe that is the first time I have heard of this kind of chief.”
“That is to be regretted, for they are important amongst my people. And now I beg you, could you not spare me a smile?”
She turned away from him. “I could not.” She made to pass by him.
“You! Indian! This way!” It was Coleman, come to get him.
Black Eagle nodded at Coleman, but addressed the lady. “A brief smile from you would help this weeping heart of mine, and it would cost you little.”
“Has this man been bothering you, milady?” asked Coleman.
“I am sorry to hear that, milady,” replied Coleman. “Shall I take him to task for you?”
“Oh no. That won’t be necessary.” The enchantress turned slightly toward Black Eagle and smiled at him, showing delicate white teeth. “I hope this will spare your heart the expense of breaking.”