Angelia drew in a deep breath. Well, what was done was done. She couldn’t change it; she couldn’t change Julian. Upon that note, she decided there was little more she could do—at least not at present—and she spun away from the sight of her brother’s retreating back.
Without noticing where she was going, she took a few steps forward…only to ram straight up against a firm—and naked—male chest. Well, it was practically naked.
“Excuse me,” she said, before realizing to whom she was speaking. It was an Indian—a very tall Indian, she was quick to note. And a handsome one—in an exotic sort of way, she decided, as she looked up into the man’s face.
As though beside herself, she became lost in the gaze of this man’s dark, almost black eyes. Worse, as a unique scent of mint, smoke and clean masculinity assailed her, her head spun oddly for a moment.
Goodness, what were these feelings? Was she frightened? Yes, yes, that must be it, for he did appear to be fierce.
But she didn’t really feel scared, did she? Although perhaps she should be so.
Nevertheless, in less time than it takes to tell it, she beheld everything about him. Midnight-black hair fell almost to his waist, and the top section of those dark strands was bound back from his face, gathered together and tied with rawhide and eagle feathers, the latter of which fell down toward the back of his head. A beaded ornament, in a long single strand, drooped forward on each side of his face, and earrings made of pink shells hung from each of his earlobes. A necklace, sporting blue, red and yellow beads with a large pink shell placed in the middle of it, looped around his neck.
The effect was hardly what one might expect of a man who wore earrings. This man was masculine beyond belief. Masculine, hard, ungiving. And at present, he frowned at her.
She ignored his frown and went on with her study of him. His cheekbones were high, his eyebrows defined, tapering ever so slightly. His nose was straight, although a little aquiline, and his lips were full and pouting at her.
In his hand, if she dared look down that far, he carried something—a pipe. And though his chest was bare, it was hardly less decorated. An ornament, which seemed to be a beaded breastplate made of bone and long-sized shells, hung over the wide expanse of the man’s chest, covering but not quite hiding all that hardened flesh.
She wanted to, but knew she mustn’t, study the length of him, since she was afraid of what nudity she might discover there.
To her horror, the thought of exactly what she might find there brought on a dizzying flurry of irrational emotion. Hardly the sort of musings for a well-brought-up young lady, she decided.
Swallowing hard, Angelia gazed back up at the man, realizing for the first time that his countenance was unwelcoming. So it was with some degree of courage that she met the rancor in his eyes with what she pretended was an equal malice of her own.
She didn’t say a word, she simply stared at him, until at last she could stand it no more, and she turned away from the man—at least she almost did so.
And then she wondered, did the Indian speak English? And if he did, had he heard what she and Julian had been discussing?
As one thought followed upon another, it became clear to Angelia that if this man did speak English, and if he had eavesdropped on their discussion, would he carry tales to Colonel Davenport, the commander of this fort?
Drat!
Well, as her father had often said, there was no time like the present for action. Angelia cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir, but how long have you been standing here?” She tried to smile at him girlishly.
If the man was affected by her, he didn’t show it. He simply raised his chin and didn’t utter a sound.
Angelia cleared her throat once more, twisting her shoulders in a self-conscious gesture. “I see,” she said, pretending he had spoken to her. She held on to her smile for a moment longer. “And do you speak English?”
Once again, the man didn’t answer, didn’t grant her the dignity of looking at her. Indeed, he gazed beyond her. Worse, he acted as though it were beneath his respectability to even be seen with her, let alone be caught conversing with her.
“Ah, well, that’s very good, isn’t it?” she remarked, losing any trace of her smile. “And might I wish you a pleasant day too. Such a sociable person, I dare say.”
With a short nod, Angelia picked up her skirts and prepared to leave. She had stepped a foot forward when the Indian spoke up at last. “That man—” He caught her glance as she looked back at him, and he lifted his chin in the general direction where Julian had disappeared. “He is hiding?”
Angelia coughed on something that seemed to be stuck in her throat. As quickly as she could, she regained her poise,smiled prettily, wiggled her hips—if only slightly—before replying, “Of course he’s not hiding. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I do not know what this word ‘business’ is.”
“Good.” She set her lips into a line. “You do not need to know.”
“He is your brother?”
“He is.”
An emotion she could scarcely fathom flitted over the man’s features, and then it was gone. He said, “And you speak to him openly?”
“Of course I speak to him openly.” She frowned. “Why shouldn’t I? He is my brother, after all.”
