Wind Dancer by Jamie Carie Page A

he?”
    Samuel grinned, looking at her mouth. “I won’t let him torture you.”
    â€œHmph. That’s not likely, in any case.”
    â€œDo you fear nothing?” he asked in a soft whisper.
    â€œI heard what he said. He wants peace. And … and freedom.” She smiled at him, her voice lowering. “There is only one thing I fear.”
    â€œWhat is that?”
    She debated, staring into his eyes, wanting him to read the answer inside hers, to see her hopes and fears where he was concerned.
    She was saved from having to answer by Clark walking in the door and chuckling. “Am I interrupting something, Samuel?”
    Samuel turned and gave his colonel a slow smile. “Would that you were.” Bringing Isabelle forward, her waist in his grasp, he introduced her. “This is Isabelle Renoir. From Vincennes.”
    Interest lit Clark’s eyes. “And what is the lovely lady doing in Kaskaskia?”
    Isabelle swallowed past the lump in her throat and chose to answer for herself. “I’m on an errand of books, sir. My priest sent me and my brother to fetch them from Father Gibault.”
    â€œHmm. A good man, Father Gibault, I think.” He looked thoughtful as if no longer in the room with them. Then his gaze suddenly locked with Isabelle’s. “How is it, miss, that you remained armed when my men checked the houses for weapons?”
    Isabelle shrugged, unable to help the smile that curved her lips. “I doubt they checked the priest’s house.” She paused, looking to Samuel. “Besides, I sleep with my rifle. They wouldn’t check a lone woman’s bed, would they?”
    Clark laughed, and Samuel scowled. “A worthy quality in a wife, I’d say. I think you might consider making it permanent.”
    Samuel ignored the comment. “She and her brother plan to leave with the books for Vincennes tomorrow. I’m thinking of accompanying them.”
    Clark nodded, thoughtful. “A worthy ruse.”
    Isabelle took a step forward. “You’ll not use my brother and me again for spying. Do you intend to go after Vincennes next?”
    Samuel put his hand on his hip. “Have no fear. We will not travel as a married couple this time. I will merely be your guide.”
    â€œWe can take care of ourselves.”
    Clark smiled. “Perhaps.” He nodded, looking out the far window of the house, looking lost in sudden, intense thought. Then he turned his gaze back to her, so blue and reading every nuance of her response. “But can you be trusted with such knowledge? Do you understand what we are about here, Miss Renoir?” Clark’s face was suddenly grave and intense.
    â€œI will not be detained, sir. I am on a mission of old and musty books, nothing else. I will speak of nothing else.” Shepaused, looking into these two faces, bold and daring, sure and strong … and something else—something that told her this was important, that something vast and beyond her understanding was happening. She gripped her skirt by both sides, imbuing her words with passion. “But no, to answer your question, I don’t really know what the Long Knives want with our little towns.”
    Clark walked over, poured her a drink of water from a pitcher, and bade her sit down. “Mayhap I can enlighten you.”
    That he was taking the time and effort to explain it to her, a woman, and not even a citizen of this place, had her sinking into a chair, grasping the water glass in a tight fist, looking up into the colonel’s taut face as he told her about the Americans and their fight for freedom. As he explained it in his eloquent way, she found herself engulfed, overcome with emotions that she had not known she’d suppressed. This man, George Rogers Clark, spoke of a new land where any cost for this vision of freedom was small and light. He spoke of it like a deliverance, from monarch on foreign soil, from