The Bride Wore Feathers (10 page)

"Don't be silly." She marched up to him and took his reluctant hand in hers. "All you have to do is hang on to me and go where I go."

She turned with Jacob in tow, as if there was never a question in her mind as to whether he did or did not wish to dance with her. Again grumbling to himself, he allowed her to drag him to the center of the room. But this time, he promised himself, would be the last.

When she stopped walking, Dominique continued to hold one of his hands. Then she positioned his other hand at her waist. After draping her dainty fingers across his shoulder, she began moving and counting in time with the music.

"One, two, three," she sang along, "one, two, three. See how easy this is?"

Her big brown eyes flashed with pleasure as she stared up at him, and Jacob could feel the knot of fear in his gut slowly begin to unravel. She was a ray of sunshine, a breath of fresh air in the crowded building the Long Knives called home. In spite of the danger, he found himself wishing he could have thought of a way to keep her, to make her his own after pulling her from the river—to keep her and teach her to live among
his
people. She would have been worth the risk, he decided too late, definitely worthy of the challenge. Then he thought of the difficulties, the nearly impossible task a man would face in trying to tame one such as her, and Jacob laughed out loud.

"See?" She beamed. "I told you you'd like this dance. It's not hard at all, is it?"

Brought out from under his thoughts, but not her spell, Jacob smiled down at her, and relaxed for the first time since he'd left the Hunkpapa camp. "It is a very nice dance, Miss D-Der—"

"Please, Private," she said with a grin. "My name is Dominique. It's all right with me if you use it."

"Dominique," he whispered, testing the name, loving the sound. Caught by her beauty, her closeness, Jacob thought back to the night in his lodge, to the feel of her flesh beneath him. She was strong and agile, yet soft and yielding, as brave as any warrior and endowed with the vitality of the finest squaw—nothing like the image the Lakota had painted of white women. His eyes darkened, as much with desire as with anger and frustration at his hasty decision to release her when he'd had the chance to make her his.

Aware of Jacob's intense gaze, Dominique glanced up and met those deep blue eyes. Again a sense of intimacy swept through her, and again she was drawn to the past and into the mysterious night shadows of the Sioux's tipi. Her feet continued to move, to dance after a fashion, but the music sounded far off, as faded as the whisper of a summer breeze. The paper lanterns flickered emerald shamrocks against the barracks walls, but they were no match for the explosion of color and the steady glow in her mind. She stared at Jacob's mouth, but saw the lips of a savage named Redfoot. His were the lips, she finally realized, that had kissed her so well. Dominique trembled at the surprising memory, then shivered as hot fingers of desire skittered across her abdomen.

"Dominique?"

She heard a voice in the distance, the song of some delicate bird, yet still she thought of the kiss, of the marvelous hypnotic effect it had on her, and she continued to drift along in her memories. She had not only allowed Redfoot to kiss her, Dominique realized, she'd kissed him back. And quite unashamedly at that. Her mouth had parted easily, and the savage had taken full advantage of her generosity by—

"Dominique."

She tried to open her eyes and look for the person who'd called her name, but her lids felt heavy and languid, weighted somehow. Dominique's ears nagged at her, insisted the sounds of the party were all wrong, and then she realized the problem wasn't the kind of noise, but more the lack of it. The music had stopped. Peering through her lashes, she noticed the other dancers had made their way to the refreshment tables or were standing in clusters talking.

"Dominique—look at me."

Finally recognizing the sound of her chaperon's voice, she turned and focused her eyes on Hazel Swenson's round, motherly features. She was upset. "Is something wrong?"

"I'd like a word with you, if I may."

"Of course." Dominique looked back at Jacob and smiled. "Thank you for the lovely waltz. I hope we'll have another before the night is over."

Jacob bowed. "Thank you for the lovely lesson."

Dominique's invitation had been automatic, a courtesy she had offered to countless young men who hoped for the thrill of another dance with her. Now as she stared into the deep blue of Jacob's eyes, again a shiver skittered throughout her. Surprising herself, she whispered, "I really hope we do get another dance, Jacob."

Again uncertain about what was expected of him, he glanced at the older woman and smiled to acknowledge her presence. Hazel scowled and narrowed her eyes in return. Understanding that he had no place in a conversation between two white women, Jacob clicked his heels together and retreated to a far corner to observe the proceedings.

Keeping her voice low, Dominique repeated, "Is something wrong, Hazel?"

The widow held a finger against a mouth that was cracked and dry from thirty-seven hard years of life and said under her breath, "I have some sage advice. Your behavior is not becoming to a lady of your breeding, and it's definitely unbecoming to a young woman with the Custer name in her background, especially here on an army post."

Dominique blushed, not sure exactly what she'd done, aware only of the vivid memories of her captivity. "I don't really know what I've done. I feel as if I've been sleeping or something."

Hazel pressed her fingertips against her waist and took several shallow breaths. A tight corset strained to harness the extra helpings of potatoes and pie she'd eaten to combat loneliness over the past six years, but still she felt bloated and uncomely, and more than a little faint. Her fingertips moved to her brow as she scolded her young charge. "You were much too close to the private while you were dancing. That was bad enough, but when the song was over, instead of taking your leave like any proper lady, you remained in his arms, staring up at him like a lovesick cow. It won't do, Dominique. It simply isn't proper behavior."

"Oh, Hazel, I'm sorry." Dominique assumed a repentant posture and murmured, "Maybe I'm still feeling the effects of the drugs I was forced to take. I had no idea I was making a display of myself. I'm sorry I got you all upset."

"Oh, don't worry about me, dear." Hazel wiped her brow with the back of her hand and took another breath. "I'm all right, really I am. I think I may have let Mary lace me up too tight."

"Is it all right if I stay and dance some more, then?" Dominique's eyes, bright and full of life, had regained their natural sparkle.

Hazel worked to press her lips together in a show of disapproval, but a smile filtered through in spite of the effort. Envious of the girl's youth and spirited nature, for she had lost her zest for life when her spirit was broken along with her husband's back during a violent storm on Lake Erie, she gave in and said, "Of course you can. Just make sure you choose your partners wisely and dance with them modestly. There are plenty of officers waiting in line for a chance to take a turn with you. Mrs. Custer said you are not to waste any more of your time on common soldiers."

"Oh?" Dominique pursed her lips and glanced around the room. She spotted her aunt chatting with a few of the better-dressed ladies and surmised they were officer's wives. As sweet and lovely as she was, Libbie Custer had definite ideas about the rung she occupied on the social ladder. In her short stay at Fort Lincoln, Dominique had learned that the divisions between rank were clear and on several distinct levels. But why did they have to extend to her, an outsider, a visitor?

Dominique frowned and turned back to Hazel. "Please tell Aunt Libbie you informed me of my breach of protocol and that I will do the best I can to behave from here on out. I will make sure to dance with a wide variety of Uncle Armstrong's men."

Hazel studied her young charge's expression, taking special interest in the mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. "Dominique," she warned, "have a good time, but do remember your manners. I will be making weekly reports to your father, you know."

"Yes, ma'am," she said, properly contrite as she noticed a tall, gaunt soldier approaching them. "Oh, excuse me, Hazel, here comes a suitable partner for me. An officer, if I don't miss my guess. Shall I ask him to dance?"

The older woman looked over her shoulder, then quickly snapped her head around. "Why, ah, yes, he is an officer. I suppose Libbie couldn't object to him."

"What about you?" Dominique's grin was scampish, secretive. "Won't you mind? Or did you think I hadn't noticed you clinging to this particular officer like a spit curl on a lady's brow?"

"Dominique. Your language." Hazel's amber eyes widened, as much with shock as with the realization that Barney Woodhouse was standing directly behind her.

"Sorry," Dominique said through a giggle.

"Miss DuBois," Barney said with a short nod, "Mrs. Swenson. I ain't—'Scuse me, I mean I'm not interrupting you ladies, am I?"

"Goodness, no," Dominique said. "Why, Hazel and I were just talking about what an excellent dancer you are, Lieutenant."

Bright color crawled up Hazel's neck. She tried to spear Dominique with a pointed gaze, but found she'd lost control of her eyes. They darted back and forth between Barney and Dominique as if they couldn't quite decide on which person to land.

"It's Mrs. Swenson who's the excellent dancer, Miss DuBois. She could make a blind man with a peg leg look good on the dance floor."

The blush deepened and crept up past Hazel's cheeks. "Now, Lieutenant, I'm not that proficient."

"Why don't we see if you can prove me wrong?" Barney extended his elbow. "I just asked them to play another reel. Maybe I can show you a thing or two." When Hazel grinned and accepted his arm, Barney nodded to Dominique. "Miss DuBois, have yourself a real good time now, you hear?"

"Oh, I intend to, sir."

Then Dominique Custer DuBois made out an extensive mental dance card, a lineup that would keep her on her toes all night long. She also made damn sure there wasn't one officer on her list.

From across the room, Jacob watched, still fascinated, but no longer uneasy about being in the company of the crazy one. In fact, he thought, pleased and encouraged now that she seemed to believe he and Redfoot were two separate people, he might even find the time to know her better, to taste the tempting delights she so richly displayed. His smile—and his expectations—grew huge as he remembered how quickly her naked flesh had warmed under his touch. Yes, he would make the time, he thought, his loins stirring. He would—

"Evening, Private. You're new here, ain't ya?"

Jacob glanced at the intruder, a woman whose features he gazed on, but didn't see, and said, "Yes, ma'am."

"Got a surprise for ya, then." She laughed, exposing a row of crooked, stained teeth. "Have a swallow—but don't be surprised if it don't taste like coffee, soldier."

Jacob accepted the mug and peered at the contents. "What is this?"

The laundress, aged beyond her years, glanced around the room, then whispered, "Hard cider. Stir it with this and take a sip. It'll warm the cockles of your heart and a lot more."

Jacob accepted the short length of wood, slipped it into the liquid, and stirred the cider. Skeptical, but careful not to offend anyone at this critical period of acceptance into white society, Jacob lifted the mug to his mouth. His senses were assaulted by the sharp scent of heavily spiced yet bitter fruit. He tapped the stick against the edge of the cup, then brought it to his nose. Cinnamon, his memory supplied. He stood there, as if frozen in time, while his mind raced to the past. The woman he once knew as mother had served him apple dumplings. They were sweeter and warmer than the drink he held in his hand, but the aroma was very close to the same, and the scent of the cider evoked vivid images of a life he'd long since ceased thinking about.

Jacob struggled to return to the present, but felt himself slipping back in time, crawling through layers of a past he didn't dare think about. Without warning, his mind's eye supplied the image of a pretty blond woman with sparkling blue eyes. She was humming a tune, reaching out to hug him, smelling of spiced apples. Her name was Christina and she was German like his father, the immigrant Joseph Stoltz. Jacob blinked his eyes and saw his baby sister crawling on the bed of their covered wagon. Then he blinked again and saw the orphaned daughter of a fellow homesteader, a young girl with eyes the color of a stormy day, but whose name escaped him. The girl had made it her personal crusade to tutor Jacob, who spoke in curious and halting sentences comprising both German and English, in the proper use of the King's English. She promised to instruct his awkward fingers to write it one day as well. But before that could happen, a Crow arrow slammed into her throat. And a lance found a home in the heart of the woman who smelled of spiced apples. Mother.

The mug crashed to the wooden floor. Hard cider splashed over Jacob's boots. The laundress cried out as the soldier brought his hand to his temples, his features twisted into a grimace.

Stumbling blindly, pushing his way through startled revelers, Jacob ran from the hall.

* * *

Later that night, Libbie Custer sat at her dressing table going through her nightly routine. "Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty." She rested her arm on the edge of the table and waited for the blood to rush back into her fingertips before picking up the ivory- handled hairbrush and finishing the job. "Eighty-one, eighty-two—"