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friend. I will reserve judgment myself until I know you better. She rode in your travoi-on-wheels. You did not protect her well.”
    The Duke actually smiled, then said, “You are wise for such a young man. So be it.”
    The Indian nodded before turning to sweep Estrela into his arms, taking her full weight upon himself. His steps followed behind the Duke, and though his glance swept over her briefly, he kept his gaze on the Duke as he said to her, not even a smile on his face, “Was easy to find you.”

Chapter Three
    Estrela sat poised in a grand room, her arm resting on the polished wood table. Carvings of flowers and angels adorned the table’s legs and fine trim, each of the ten matching chairs echoing the same ornate designs. Fresh flowers in the center of the table scented the air with delicate fragrance while their beauty brightened the room. Two tall candles stood on each side of the flowers, their silver casings polished until they glowed almost as brightly as the few rays of sunlight sneaking into the room from the five-foot windows.
    An intricately woven, multicolored Chinese rug spread over the floor from one end of the room to the other and Estrela watched as Mato Sapa, Black Bear, examined first it, the table, then each painting that nearly covered each wall.
    Estrela sighed and tried to take her gaze away from him, but she couldn’t. And though she knew it was impolite to stare in both the Indian and the English societies, it mattered little. He looked too handsome, too potent, too…
    She hadn’t seen the wild, Indian garb for years and, as though she were starved, she stared and she stared.
    He looked magnificent, dressed in buckskin shirt, leggings and breechcloth, each one beaded and quilled in designs of blue, red, yellow, and white. He stood erect and tall, his shoulders broad, his head thrown back. His hair was long and unencumbered, falling well below his shoulders. He wore two eagle feathers at the side of his head, tied with buckskin and hanging down, there to flow in with his hair. His eyes were black, his cheekbones high, and his nose bore all the traits of his pure American-Indian heritage. He looked exotic, handsome…and dear.
    And she could not look away.
    She watched him now as he paced back and forth before her. She knew, from being herself with the Indians, that in addition to memorizing every article in the room, Mato Sapa watched the physician who sat next to Estrela. He did not trust the man. It was plain to see.
    “What does he do?” the Indian asked in Lakota.
    Estrela paused only a moment. “He dresses the wound, though don’t tell him,” she spoke in Lakota, “but he mutters about this not being a physician’s work.”
    “Then why is he here? I could do a better job of it.” The Indian looked annoyed, but only for a moment. Quickly he masked the look before saying, “But we leave the point.” Again in Lakota. “I know he is ‘dressing’ the wound, but that is not what I need to know. What I am asking is what sort of poultice he applies, and why does he keep bleeding the wound? He looks to be doing you more harm than good.”
    “It is their way.”
    Mato Sapa cast a doubtful glance at the physician, then at his work over Estrela’s arm. The Indian tread over to them, centered himself between them and glowered down at the doctor.
    “Why do you allow this man to touch you like this?”
    Estrela lowered her gaze, deferring at last to proper Indian etiquette. And though she longed to reach out and touch Mato Sapa, Black Bear, as he stood so closely to her, all she said was, “The sick and injured here in England are attended to by the men.” She paused, then, “Women have no place in the sickroom.”
    Though she perceived that he listened to this statement with something akin to shock, his features revealed nothing. Instead he said, “Were I this man, I would have had this done and you wrapped in a buffalo robe, resting. You may yet grow warm with fever. Has he no