"Put your hair into a chignon."

"No."

Uncas bemusedly surveyed the terse exchange between his wife, Alice, and eighteen-year-old daughter, Mikayla. His 22-year-old son, Ichante, sitting next to him on the velvet couch, absently twirled a dagger in his right hand, looking exasperatedly at his errant sister. His niece, Magena, older than Mikayla by a couple of years, simply rolled her eyes. His youngest child, Aylen, had abandoned the bedroom long ago to check out what the cook was baking in the kitchen for supper. Smart boy.

The family was in London for Mika's debutante ball. Magena had wanted to tag along to see what such an event entailed and Uncas had gladly welcomed her company. She regularly helped reined in Mika and her madcap schemes… to a certain extent. Uncas came to the conclusion long ago his daughter was beyond control once she set her mind on something.

Uncas watched as Alice marched over to the vanity table where a maid was helplessly running a comb through Mika's ash blond hair, at a loss whether to listen to her older or younger mistress. Mika sat sulkily in front of the gilded mirror, dressed in a spangled, silver gown a few shades darker than her own mane. While Alice's own hair was ruler straight, her daughter's hair had natural waves shot through with a riotous mix of platinum and darker blond highlights, thanks to all the hours in the sun growing up on the frontier. While her English mother retained her milky, porcelain complexion, Mika had an all-over light honeyed golden tan, which had earned her many stares as she walked the streets of London.

Alice grabbed Mika's hair at the nape and pulled it up towards the crown, "This gown will look so much prettier if you… oh heavens, what is this?" Uncas honed his gaze on Mika's neck and bit back a groan – a freshly inked tattoo snaked down the length of her slender nape, an intricate linear network of symbols. His eyebrow raised slightly when he deduced its meaning. He was not a hundred percent certain but he suspected he was right.

Alice pressed her fingers to her throbbing temple. She was not against her children getting tattoos but discovering a new one right smack in the middle of Mika's neck just hours before her debutante ball was ludicrous. The girl already had two other tattoos – one on her hip and another on her ankle. All painstakingly inked by her indulgent older brother…

Alice spun around to glare accusingly at her eldest child, who replied calmly, "She wanted one across her collarbone but I convinced her to put it there instead." "Which is why I don't think it's a good idea to put my hair up. Anyway, my head hurts when they are too many pins stuck into it," Mika chimed in quickly, shaking her head so that the silvery strands tumbled down her back in a silky disarray.

Alice huffed and swept out of the room without another backward glance. Uncas lazily unfurled himself from the couch, intending to go after Alice to establish some damage control ahead of the evening ball. He paused behind his daughter, gently sweeping her hair out of the way to study the tattoo closer. "Angel in the wind…" Uncas murmured, enunciating aloud as he traced it with one finger. Mika flushed but stubbornly remained mute. Magena shot her uncle a flustered look while Ichante observed his father warily. Uncas released Mika's hair and squeezed her shoulder, "My angel seems to have found her warrior who can lift her higher than she can fly by herself." He threw a stern smile at Ichante, "I hope your beloved friend appreciates your sister's devotion to him." Uncas strolled out of the room, a vision of a tall, forbidding young warrior with midnight hair and amber eyes flashing across his mind. Knoton. Ichante's best friend back in America. His name meant "wind".

Knoton brooded as he skipped stones across the surface of the pond. "Wonder how Ichante is doing," A voice spoke up behind him. It was Honon, cousin to Ichante – the three of them had been inseparable since Knoton arrived at the Delaware camp twelve years ago to live among his maternal grandmother's people. Knoton figured he was drawn to the two boys since they were like him – they were not full-blooded Indian.

Knoton's father was Dutch and had fallen in love with his mother whom he had chanced upon while he was trading silver with her tribe. They had Knoton one year later and when he was twelve, his father decided the family should move back to his homeland. Knoton had not wanted to leave and his parents stated that if he wanted to stay, he had to live with his maternal grandmother. His maternal grandfather had been from another tribe but had passed away when his mother was a baby, and his grandmother went back to her family. Knoton agreed to the condition and he got to stay. His parents visited every other year so he still got to see them. He was now twenty-four summers and had never once regretted his decision to be apart from his parents. He simply could not forsake his Indian roots and the rugged beauty of the frontier. Plus, he adored his grandmother to death.

But now his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of a blond girl with a voice of an angel, and a steely gaze that could turn water into ice. Mika. He recalled the first time he saw – and heard – her when he arrived at the Delaware camp all those years ago. She had been singing at a campfire for her grandfather and other elders, her voice so clear and piercing it could shatter glass. He later found out that the Delaware people nicknamed the white girl who they have grown to love as their own, "Angel". Giving himself a mental shake, Knoton answered Honon dismissively, "He'll be fine. It isn't his first time in England."

"Wonder whether he'll meet a woman there?" Honon grinned cheekily as he chewed on a blade of grass. Knoton did not reply, his mind faraway. I wonder whether Mika will meet a man there…

God. She hated the ball. Mikayla nodded with curt courtesy at yet another guest that had come up to greet her grandaunt, Harriet Munro, who was her chaperone for the evening. She wished she was at the country manor instead, riding horses across the vast, remote fields. Anywhere but here at his darned soiree, with fancy ladies seeking out a husband. "Smile, sister. You look like you are being held hostage instead of celebrating your introduction into society," Ichante murmured from her side.

Despite her black mood, Mikayla admitted her older brother looked devastatingly handsome in his sharp evening clothes, his long hair immaculately pulled back at the crown. No one really knew what to make of him since Alice had never formally announced or denounced her firstborn's true parentage. Those startling silver eyes of his and bronzed-streaked hair did not help either. People were thrown off and intrigued by his exotic colouring and looks.

Mikayla eyed her brother balefully, "I am being held hostage. What was Mama thinking to make me attend this ball when I have no intention of staying, or marrying anyone in London?" "She was thinking of Papa, you know that. She wants the family name to be held in esteem in England. You debuting at this ball will serve that purpose." Ichante responded sharply, even as his gaze roved curiously over the crowded ballroom. Mikayla took a deep breath and pasted a bright smile on her face. Ichante was right. She would do this for Papa. "Where is Magena?" Ichante inquired, noting his cousin had vanished from his sister's side. Magena had accompanied them to the ball, too. "She went to the terrace to get some air. She was becoming nauseated with all the different perfumes swirling around," Mikayla grumbled.

"Oh my, he is wondrous as Thunder," Catriona Murray whispered dramatically to her brother, who was bored to tears behind her. Ross Murray, Viscount Stormont to the Scottish peerage but Earl Mansfield to the English, drawled, "I do not think the Earl of Craven will appreciate you likening him to your horse." His younger sister ignored him and resumed, "His sister is quite a goddess, is she not? Her skin looks like it has been dusted with gold. I was in the powder room and the ladies were gossiping Lady Mikayla may be the genuine heir to the title…"

"What rubbish. Au contraire, it is said the late earl never denounced his firstborn as the gossipmongers choose to believe. As for Lady Mikayla, I believe her healthy love for the outdoors bestowed her that… tawny complexion. You should get some sun, too, dear Catriona," Ross said.

"Do stop your needless teasing when you obviously know I will remain as pale as milk even if I circle the sun daily at an arm's length, "Catriona snapped impatiently, her green eyes sparking with ire. Ross could not resist tousling her heavy chestnut tresses, "Control that temper of yours or you will never get yourself a husband." With that, Ross sauntered off to the terrace. He needed a reprieve of all the simpering matchmakers in the room.

Mikayla collapsed in the powder room, grateful that it was empty at the moment. Her feet hurt, so did her head from all that nodding and smiling. She figured her debut could be considered a success since she had not tripped over her skirts or waltzed into a mirror yet. She could not wait to return to America… to her aunt, uncle, grandfather, cousins, the cabin… and Knoton.

"My angel seems to have found her warrior who can lift her higher than she can fly by herself." Father was as discerning and astute as usual – he missed nothing, even his daughter falling hopelessly in love with his son's best friend. Knoton. An image of the warrior riding his horse as his drew his bow and arrow… his bluish-black hair flying in the wind, his amber eyes glittering with resolve. Mikayla reached back and outlined her new tattoo with her finger. However, her last memory of him, their last conversation before she had left for her journey to America had been less that pleasant.

A few months earlier

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

Knoton stiffened at the sound of Mikayla's voice, which rankled with accusation. He remained seated at the clifftop, his legs dangling over the edge.

"You have been busy preparing for your trip." He reminded her shortly as she settled down next to him.

"I'm not going to marry some Englishman and stay in London forever."

"You could."

"If I do, what will happen to you?"

Knoton's jaw tensed. He did not like where this conversation was heading. "Nothing is going to happen to me. My life will go on. I'll eventually find a woman and settle down."

"Why can't I be that woman?"

Mikayla's question hung in the air between them. Her subsequent question caused his heart to kick against his ribs.

"Don't you want me to be your woman?"

"Mika, you belong to two worlds. Things are not as simple as it seems."

"You are of two worlds, too," Mikayla rebutted churlishly, her ice-blue eyes glinting with displeasure.

"But I have made my choice to make this my world. You, on the other hand, have not experienced your English world enough to make a proper decision."

"Are you suggesting I get acquainted with all the Englishmen in London before making a decision?"

A lump formed in Knoton's throat at the thought of Mikayla in another man's arms. He pictured those intelligent, glacial eyes gazing at another man in keen fascination, her silvery strands tickling another man's cheek… and acid threatened to burn his insides.

He turned to look at her, his eyes shuttered, "If you must." He struggled not to pull her into his arms, and bury his face into her silky hair.

She looked as if he had physically slapped her across her face but pride prevented her from contradicting him. Pride also prevented her from showing the warrior her new tattoo.

Mikayla got to her feet, "Then I shall."

Present

Mikayla groaned and covered her cheeks with her hands. She wanted to kick herself. She had left Knoton with those spiteful last words and departed from America. Deep inside, she knew how Knoton felt for her. She was well acquainted with silent, stubborn men. Chingachcook, Uncas and Ichante were the epitome of that male variety but Mikayla was aware how acutely they were in touch with their emotions. She knew the immense wealth of love they had towards Alice, towards her, without having to vocalise their feelings.

Knoton was cut from the same cloth. Why had she treated him such? Because you were hurt that he didn't discourage you from being friendly with other men, a traitorous voice snickered in her head. A horrible thought struck her. What if Knoton was currently sidling up to other women back in America? Honon was a renowned flirt and without Ichante to act as a buffer, surely Knoton would be influenced by her cousin's cavorting ways…

"Damn you, Knot, "Mikayla swore vehemently under her breath. She was relieved her mother was not beside her or she would have earned herself a reproachful glare. "Ladies do not swear," a singsong voice chided above her. Mikayla jerked her head up, all ready to unleash a tongue lashing on the intruder when the person in question winked conspiratorially, "At least not out loud in public. Swearing in your heart and mind does not count since no one else can hear." Mikayla decided on the spot she liked the stunning brunette posed in front of her, wearing a figure-hugging sapphire blue gown. "I am Catriona Murray," the girl introduced herself warmly.

Mikayla rose to her feet quickly, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am – " "Mikayla Nicholson, daughter of the late Earl Craven, and you hail from the American Colonies," Catriona finished for her smoothly. At Mikayla's startled expression, Catriona continued nonchalantly, "You and your brother are quite the talk of the town." Mikayla snorted derisively, "Ichante is popular no matter where he is. Back home, women from Albany to the Delaware camp fight to touch a single strand of his braid." Catriona frowned at that piece of strangely-worded information as she asked confusedly, "Your brother's name is Callum, is it not?" Mikayla shrugged, causing her silvery mane to ripple down her back, "He goes by both names." She suddenly turned to Catriona, "You seem to know much about my brother. Would you like me to introduce you to him?"

Ross stepped onto the terrace and took in a huge gulp of fresh air. He could not wait for the evening to end. Despite his comments to Catriona, he knew his sister would amass a fair amount of suitors by the time she made her grand exit. She was blessed with extraordinary good looks, wealthy and came from aristocracy. No one would dare dispute her worthiness as a bride. Ross pitied the poor man who was going to be bound in matrimony to his wilful sibling. A soft, feminine sigh interrupted his reverie and he glanced in its direction. He was not alone on the terrace. There was a woman leaning over the balustrade, peering at the full moon. As if she sensed his presence, she wheeled around to face him.

Ross blinked as the dark-haired woman returned his gaze boldly. He blinked again when it dawned on him she was quite, quite beautiful. Rich auburn waves framed a delicate heart-shaped face and those eyes staring back at him shone hazel. She was of medium height and build, and her skin had a rosy tinge. Her violet off-shoulder gown exposed slim, toned arms and a trim waist.

Ross sauntered towards her and bowed deeply, "My sincere apologies for disrupting your privacy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ross Murray." She nodded politely in response, "Pleased to meet you. I am Magena Poe." "You have an unusual name, Miss Poe. And quite an unusual accent, too," Ross commented. "I'm from America, sir, "Magena quipped. "And?" he prodded. Magena divulged, "I'm here with my cousins, Mikayla and Callum Nicholson." Ross' cocked his head, "Ah, so you are Craven's cousin. That means you are the niece of Lady Alice Munro." "My mother is her older sister," Magena supplied genially. "Fascinating," Ross murmured appreciatively, "Very fascinating indeed."

Ichante shifted his weight subtly as he sipped from his flute of champagne. He wondered for the hundredth time how his mother could have endured attending dozens of these kind of parties in her younger days when she had been so painfully shy. His mind wandered to Uncas' earlier comment, "I hope your beloved friend appreciates your sister's devotion to him." Ichante had not been too surprised when Mika asked him to ink the tattoo for her – his sister, despite her headstrong ways, was head over heels in love with his best friend. He was certain no duke or marquess or earl was going to win Mika's heart. Knot, on the other hand, could be unreadable at times. Ichante knew he dallied with women occasionally but had not been seriously involved with anyone.

"Brother, may I present you Miss Catriona Murray?" Ichante snapped out his reverie at the sound of Mika's tinkling, amused voice. She stood in front of him, with a young lady beside her who looked of similar age. Mika's companion greeted him, "My lord." Ichante could barely hold back a grimace at the reference to his title. He would never get used to being addressed as such. Miss Murray was quite a beauty, with dark brown hair and emerald green eyes, which flashed and sparkled with playful defiance. A contrast to his sister, who was glacial and an ice queen personified most of the time. Ichante surmised she would probably get along well with Mika – fire and ice. Ichante replied in kind, "How do you, Miss Murray." "Call me Catriona, please." She insisted with a small smile.

Before they could continue the conversation, a male voice drawled, "My dear sister, I see you have met the cousins of my new acquaintance. " A tall gentleman drew up to them, with Magena at his side. "Ross Murray at your service. Craven, it is my pleasure to finally meet you," the man clipped neutrally, extending his hand.

Ichante perused the other man stoically. He had dutifully studied whatever Alice has thrown to him about the peerage and he knew the man in front of himwas not simply "Ross Murray", but Viscount Stormont of Scotland, also known as Earl Mansfield in England. Catriona Murray was his younger sister and the siblings were scions of the one of the wealthiest families in Scotland. Plus, he had called Ichante by his title, which proved Ross acknowledged him as his peer without question.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mansfield," Ichante returned with equal measure and shook the other man's hand. Ichante noted it was almost as callused as his own. He also noticed the way Magena was stealing admiring peeks at the strapping Scottish viscount who boasted the same chestnut hair and green eyes as his sister, and it was apparent good looks ran in the family. Ichante's gaze slid back to his sister and his eyes clashed with Catriona on the way, who stared at him with open interest and cool challenge. Mika arched a blond eyebrow at her brother, silently inquiring what he thought of Catriona.

His parents had been wise to make the decision to stay at home. Ichante could imagine them snuggled up in the sitting room of their London townhouse, chatting quietly over warmed whisky.

He cast a surreptitious eye over the little group that had formed around him, with guests starting to notice them. Ichante suddenly wished fervently he was with his parents.

It was going to be a long night.

Author's note

This most likely would be either a two- or three- parter. I wrote this on a whim since a few commented it would be interesting to know a little how Ichante and Mikayla would be like when they grew up. You guys made me curious about my own characters so there you are... our favourite siblings at the brink of adulthood with much to see, feel and experience. Enjoy! :)

P.S Don't worry. I am working on the second chapter of To Believe. Just took a mini sidetrack. ;)