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demeanor one of pure confidence, a low growl sounding in his throat amid horrible war cries and the Guard wary, uncertain, holding him back, reluctant to advance.
    All at once one of the Guard broke away and rushed forward, his sword drawn, held high above his head.
    “Halt!”
    The well-trained Guard stopped, sword still raised.
    “Go no farther.” The order resounded from within the Guard. “What are you doing here? Are you men mad? Who has ordered this?” The voice came through the crowd of guards who dispersed as one man pushed his way through them. “This man,” the voice said, “is the only one who has acted to avert disaster, and you challenge him?” It was then that the Duke of Colchester broke through the men, and advancing forward, waved the Guard away. “Have you no sense at all? Why do you detain this man when you should be seeking the person responsible for all this shooting? Do you see this man armed with a gun? Of course not. Cease detaining him at once. Now! Go!”
    Each member of the Guard hurled a look toward their Captain who, giving the order, withdrew the entire command.
    Still, even as the soldiers left the scene, the Indian didn’t relent. With one arm held behind him, protecting Estrela, he still crouched, poised, ready to fight.
    Estrela, peeking around her rescuer, saw the Duke of Colchester approach them.
    “Are you harmed, Lady Estrela?” the Duke asked.
    Estrela swallowed, unable to make herself speak.
    “You do not have to answer him,” the Indian pronounced in distinct English, though the accent was purely American—and Indian.
    “I…” Estrela could say no more. Emotion overcame her. But not the emotion of pain. Nor that of shock. Her arm, its wound, the blood staining her dress, even the Duke himself paled into insignificance beside what she felt at this moment.
    He was here—here in England. When she’d needed him most, he was here.
    Blood rushed to her head, and her knees suddenly buckled.
    She felt the Indian’s grip on her strengthen as he held her with one arm, and she knew she stood now simply because he clutched her.
    His wild scent reached back to her, another reminder that he was real flesh.
    “Mato Sapa?” she asked. She grabbed a handful of his long hair and held it between her fingers. She twined the dark mass of it around and around her fingers as though only in this way could she believe what she now knew to be true.
    “It is I.”
    “Lady Estrela.” The Duke of Colchester was not to be put off. “There is blood on your dress, on your arm. If you are injured, we will need to see to the wound.” Then to the Indian. “I am a friend. I will not harm her.”
    The Indian chanced a glance behind him, and Estrela stared back.
    The look he gave her took a mere second, yet in his eyes she noted that his gaze took in everything around him. The people, the buildings, herself, her dress, the blood.
    “Is he friend?” the Indian asked Estrela, though she saw that his gaze held onto the Duke. The Indian asked her as though five years had never elapsed, as though she were still his woman, he her man. And Estrela felt quite shaky.
    “Yes, he is my friend,” she whispered, at last finding her voice.
    Only then did Mato Sapa, Black Bear, brave warrior of the Teton Lakota, Brulé Tribe, relax his position, rising to his full height of six feet, a few inches taller than the Duke, himself.
    “You may take her to mend her wounds,” she heard him say to the Duke. “But she will not leave my sight until I am certain of her safety.”
    “Yes, my friend,” the Duke spoke back, moving forward and extending a hand in welcome to the Indian.
    Mato Sapa drew back, she felt it, felt him reach for his knife with his free hand, though she saw that he didn’t draw it. Estrela could see the Indian’s chin rise and she knew that he was looking down his nose at the Duke at this moment, his glance unwavering. “I only allow this,” Mato Sapa said, “because she says you are