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and her arm claimed and firmly held close to his body. She felt a shivering awareness of muscle under his coat, muscle and sinew that he kept firmly restrained in the stultifying atmosphere of London. He hinted that he had not been in England for a very long time, which perhaps explained the aura of wildness that clung to him.
    "So, Mr. Westhaven, have you been to India?" Perhaps he was some rich nabob, and if not tided, had deep pockets nevertheless. That would explain his uncouth manner, yet apparent acceptability in the ballrooms of London.
    "No, I have never been there. Not much of a one for tropical climes."
    "But you said that you have not been in England for a long time. The West Indies, perhaps? But no, you do not like tropical climes." Arabella nodded to another couple who strolled by, sipping champagne.
    Westhaven directed her to a bench and they sat. But he did not let go of her arm. She was starting to feel suffocated, but whether it was from the cloying humidity of the conservatory, or the overpowering nearness of Mr. Westhaven, she could not have said.
    Finally he released her arm, but laid his own along the back of the bench. His naked fingers—no evening gloves, shocking breach of manners!—caressed her bare shoulder, and the touch of his callused hand felt as intimate as a kiss. She shivered.
    "No, I do not like tropical climates, or I do not think I would, anyway. I have been in the Canadas these last years."
    "Canada!" Arabella felt a true stirring of interest beyond the polite social chitchat one engaged in. She gazed up at him avidly. "Have you ever met an Indian?"
    "If you mean a native of that Continent, yes. You know, it is merely a silly mistake that has us calling them Indians. There is no reason in fact or fancy for that appellation. Yes, I have met them. I lived among them for a time."
    Arabella stared at him in disbelief. "And they did not kill you?"
    Westhaven put back his head and his uninhibited roar of laughter vibrated through the glass conservatory; Arabella felt that the very windows were rattling, and she was confused. Had she said something so dreadfully funny?
    "Did you know that they fought on our side in the recent war—not the continental war, but the war with America? One of their great chiefs, Tecumseh, was a hero of that effort. Died a hero, as a matter of fact. He was called, among our army, the Indian Wellington,' though I think the compliment was really to Wellington. Brilliant strategist was Tecumseh, and a truly great man."
    He gazed at her kindly, the smile still on his lips, and caressed her shoulder briefly. "They are not butchers, my dear girl. They are just people; they might have different habits and culture than we do, but they have families that they care about, and they work hard to provide for them, and they have disagreements that cause them to go to war, and they sometimes settle their differences without war, with treaties and agreements. They are just people. '*
    Arabella bit her lip. She felt foolish, and she hated feeling foolish. She stiffened and moved away from the heat that radiated from the large man at her side.
    Westhaven looked down at her, and his expression became more serious. As if he were reading her mind, he said, "Do not feel stupid. Nine out of ten people I meet think that the natives of North America are 'savages,' inhuman, somehow. It is just ignorance, but you cannot know what you have not been taught and so there is no shame, my dear." He shifted to move closer to her again. "In fact some explorers added to that belief with their reports of native culture. What they did not understand, they labelled 'savage.' I have studied history; it does not seem to me that the worst crimes ever laid at the feet of native North Americans rival some of our own barbarisms, even up to the present day and the hangman's noose. In fact, one of the most civilized men I have ever met is a native gentleman by the name of George Two Feathers."
    She assimilated