Judith E. French (11 page)

The hot, wet tip of Wolf Shadow’s tongue teased her lower lip, while the hand that no longer held her shoulder captive crept around to rub small, delicious circles on her back.

Desire flooded through her, and she kissed him with a fierce yearning that drove everything from her mind but the sweet, wild sensations of his fiery caress. His hands were moving over her body, touching her in intimate ways no man had ever done before. Small sounds of pleasure escaped her throat, and she heard his breathing quicken to match her own.

“Sweet
equiwa,”
he murmured. He reached out and pulled the rawhide thong from her hair, running his fingers through the heavy mass of her red-gold tresses and letting them fall free around her shoulders. “You are my wife,” he insisted. “And I will never let you go.”

She opened her mouth to argue, and he kissed her again. The feeling was so wonderful that she couldn’t think straight. She wanted to tell him that this was no place for such behavior. They weren’t alone—Matiassu could return at any moment. She wanted to argue that it was broad daylight, and no decent woman would engage in such lustful behavior. Instead, she welcomed his deepening kisses and thrilled to his whispered love words in her ear.

Tremors of passion rocked her as Wolf Shadow pulled her full length against him and cupped the fullness of her breast through her thin woolen bodice. She took his face between her hands and let her fingers run over the smooth bronzed skin . . . let them trace the outline of his craggy brows and tangle in his long, night-black hair.

His tongue filled her mouth, and her heart beat faster. She clung to him, forgetting where she was, forgetting all danger. Forgetting everything but the magic of this moment.

Fiona slipped her hand under his deerskin vest and ran her tremulous fingers over his hard-muscled chest. She touched the edge of a bandage and parted his vest to kiss his salt-tinged skin. “You taste like the sea,” she whispered, then doubts rose to trouble her. Was she behaving like a common jade? She raised her head to look into his deep-set, liquid eyes. “Is it wrong to kiss you like this?” she asked. “I’ve never done anything like—”

“Ki-te-hi ... my heart . . . my sweeting. Kiss me anywhere you like.” His deep voice was husky with tenderness. “I want you to touch me and kiss me ... as I kiss you.” He slid his hand down her hip and lower until he could reach beneath her skirts. “I love you,” he murmured. “I’ve never known anyone like you, my Irish Fiona, and I never will.”

“We shouldn’t be doing . . .” She sighed with pleasure as Wolf Shadow ran his warm hand possessively up her leg, sending shivers of delight to the tips of her toes. Unable to remain motionless, she squirmed against him. Her breasts felt tight and swollen; her nipples throbbed with a restless aching.

“Yes, we should,” he said. He lowered his head and nuzzled against her breasts. “I want to taste you,” he murmured. “I want to taste your sweet, rosy buds.” He pressed his lips to her throat, and her stomach knotted as she imagined his lips, his tongue on her hard, aching nipples.

“Please,” she whispered, not certain if she was begging him to stop or continue. The pressure of his stroking fingers under her shift was making her giddy; she felt an unfamiliar wetness between her loins. “Please ...”

Somehow her bodice had come untied. Between kisses he slid it over her head. His tongue darted out, flicking, teasing the rise of her breasts at the neckline of her linen shift. She leaned closer, and one strap slipped off her shoulder.

“Fiona,” he said hoarsely, “my Fiona.” Gently, he trailed feather-light kisses across the taut skin of her breasts, and she moaned softly. His hot, wet tongue brushed her swollen nipple, sending threads of molten fire spilling through her veins.

“Ohhh!” she cried.

His breath was warm on her naked flesh as he circled her rosy areola with his moist tongue and drew her nipple into his mouth. Fiona dug her nails into his shoulders as eddies of desire rocked her; shamelessly, she pushed aside her shift to offer her other breast.

The throbbing spread like wildfire down through her chest to the pit of her stomach. Wolf Shadow moaned and pressed full length against her as his seeking fingers delved into her secret place. “You will like being a wife,” he murmured. “You are a woman born for joy.”

She arched back to give him access to her breasts again, and the rising flames within her fanned hotter and hotter until suddenly, without warning, it seemed the earth rocked, and she was tumbling through a bottomless void of exploding stars. She cried out, and then fell back limply in his arms.

Fiona’s breath came in gasps as though she’d been running. “What . . .” she stammered. “I . . . What . . .”

He chuckled softly and brushed his lips against hers in a tender kiss. “A taste of that joy, my
ki-te-hi.”

She hid her face in his shoulder as a rosy tint infused her features. “I’m sorry . . .” she began in bewilderment. “I ... I didn’t . . .”

“You have much to learn of love, Irish,” he teased, planting warm kisses in her unbound hair. “I shall teach you, but some lessons . . .” He chuckled again. “Some are best left until I regain all my strength.”

Mortified, Fiona clamped her eyes shut and tried to regain her composure. What had she done? How could she have let him touch her in places she scarcely touched herself? Had Wolf Shadow bewitched her to make her behave so wantonly?

Her fingers went to the golden amulet around her neck. Could it be the curse of her necklace that had brought her to this? Could the magic . . . No, it was impossible.

Shaking off her foolish superstitious notions, she pulled away from him and opened her eyes. He was staring at her with such devotion that she flushed to the roots of her hair. No, she decided firmly, what had happened between them was not sorcery. It was the most natural of human urges—the most powerful after the need for survival. She wanted Wolf Shadow to hold her and touch her in the ways no unmarried woman had any right to be touched.

But he said that she was his wife . . .

Fiona took a deep breath and rose to her feet. She wasn’t his wife—she could never be. He was a heathen, and she was a Christian, a Catholic. The only marriage that could ever be binding between them would be a union blessed by a priest of the Church.

She turned her back to him. What was she thinking of? How had the thought of marriage between them ever arisen? True, she had said the words to Matiassu, but she’d not meant them. It was only a ploy to save herself from a fate worse than . . .

Fiona’s eyes clouded with tears, and she blinked them away. She folded her arms over her chest and turned back to him. He was smiling at her with a tender expression that would have touched the heart of a stone gargoyle.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Fiona. You’re innocent of such things between a man and a woman, I know, but—”

“I cannot be your wife.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is it the color of my skin that troubles you?”

Fiona shook her head. “No, Wolf Shadow, I think the color of your skin is beautiful . . . ’Tis not that.”

“Then what? Say what you will, we are husband and wife, according to the laws of my people. You declared twice before witnesses that you were my wife. That makes us married.”

“And according to the laws of my people, we’re not.”

He sat up and began to rise, but she waved him back. “No, don’t. If you stand, you may tear loose my stitches.”

“It’s time.” He stood and steadied himself with one hand on a sapling used for framework in the shelter. “I don’t care what gods you worship, Irish. If you and I suit each other, what does it matter? You may teach our children anything you please, and I shall teach them Shawnee ways.”

“I am a Catholic. Do you understand what that means?”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“Would you be willing to forsake your . . . your Indian gods to become a Christian? Would you accept my Catholic faith as your own?”

His features hardened. “My gods, as you call them, are doubtless the same as yours. There is one Creator of all, Fiona. We may use different names, and we may speak to Him in different languages, but there can be only one.”

“I cannot marry you if you won’t become a Catholic.”

“You already have.”

“I haven’t. I’m not your wife and . . .” The words seemed to stick in her throat. Why was it so hard to make him understand? “Your people . . . the Shawnee are totally different from anything I’ve ever known. This isn’t my world. I don’t belong here.”

He took hold of her shoulders. “Look into your heart, woman,” he urged. “There is no way we could meet; yet we did. I should hate you for the color of your skin—I should find you ugly. Instead ...” He leaned forward and brushed her forehead with his lips. “Instead, I find you the most desirable woman I’ve ever known.” He pulled her against him and wrapped his arms tightly around her. “We were destined to be together, you and I.” He stroked her hair gently. “Do as you will, Fiona. Fight, scream, kick . . . If it is written in the stars, then we will be together.” He released her and stepped back, wincing slightly against the pain of his wounds. “It was you who said you were my wife.”

“You know why I did that,” she protested. “It was only to keep Matiassu from doing something horrible to me.”

“So.” He looked pensive. “You would be my wife if I became a Catholic?”

“I ... I don’t know. Maybe.” She covered her face with her hands. “So much has happened to me so quickly. I’m confused and . . .”. She dropped her hands. “I think I would marry you. There’s no logic to it. It would be madness but . . . I think I would.”

“And if I refuse to take your religion as my own?”

“There could be no marriage. Any children we had would be bastards, born in shame.” A lump rose in her throat. “As I was,” she murmured softly. “I could never bring a babe of mine into the world to be the same.”

“Ask anything else, Fiona. This thing I cannot do. I am a shaman of the people. I cannot turn my back on the way of my mother, and her mother, and her mother before her. I cannot turn my back on Wishemenetoo.”

“Then we have our answer, don’t we? Take me to this Ross Campbell and ask him to help me. It’s best for us both if I return to my own kind.”

“I will not hold you against your will, Fiona, but if you do this thing, if you leave me, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Maybe I will,” she admitted, “but it’s what I have to do.” Turning away from him, she ducked through the entranceway.

Outside, she stopped and looked around. The camp was strangely deserted. Several of the shelters were stripped of their hide coverings. Only skeletons of peeled saplings remained. There was not a voice sound to be heard, only the
rat-ta-tat-tat
of a woodpecker in a tree across the clearing. “Wolf Shadow,” she called. “Wolf Shadow, come out here.”

“Where is everyone?” she asked him when he joined her. “Where have they gone?”

He glanced around and smiled thinly. “It seems that Matiassu no longer cares for our company,” he said. “He’s taken his followers and gone.”

“Without a sound?”

“Yes, my innocent, without a sound. The Shawnee do not crash through the forest like Englishmen driving ale wagons. My camp is larger than this one, and we can move as quickly and as silently as if we need to.”

Unconsciously, she moved nearer to him. “What do we do now?”

“Now I will try to find Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy, and I will take you with me to Tuk-o-see-yah’s camp. If it isn’t too late, I’ll try to complete the mission I was on before you ran away.”

“Maybe Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy just left me and went back to camp.”

Wolf Shadow shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Willow told me that they’d promised to deliver you safely to a white settlement. I’m afraid Matiassu did something to them.”

“Killed them?”

“So. And if he has . . .” His forehead creased in a frown. “If Matiassu has killed Shawnee, then he has crossed a boundary that cannot be recrossed. Shawnee does not kill Shawnee. It is the greatest of all evils.”

“And if he did kill them?”

“Then it is my duty to see that Matiassu pays the price. And the price will be very high . . . very high indeed.”

T
wo weeks later, Fiona followed Wolf Shadow and his sister, Willow, into Tuk-o-see-yah’s large camp. Dozens of bark-covered wigwams, nearly identical to those in Wolf Shadow’s village, were clustered at the edge of a river surrounded by virgin forest. There seemed to be about twice as many houses here, but it was difficult for Fiona to judge because some were built in the shadows of the trees. In the center of the village was a large clearing of hard-packed earth.

Wolf Shadow, Fiona, and Willow were accompanied by Yellow Elk, Two Crows, and a dozen other warriors as well as several women, all dressed in their finest clothing. Wolf Shadow had explained to Fiona that Yellow Elk was the acting chief of the Alwameke Shawnee.

“He was elected by the council of elders after the death of our last chief, Yellow Elk’s older brother. He must serve for two years before he is a full chief, but even then, a majority village council vote can remove him from office.”

Yellow Elk walked ahead of the Alwameke in haughty splendor. The graying chief wore beaded, white buckskin leggings and a copper breastplate that Fiona could have sworn was part of an antique Spanish suit of armor. Yellow Elk’s hair was plaited into two long braids and intertwined with dozens of elk teeth. He carried no weapons other than the knife at his waist, but his son Snowshoe and another warrior kept pace beside him. Each of them was heavily armed with a musket, tomahawk, and flintlock pistol.

The shaman’s attire was even more awe-inspiring. If Fiona had created a savage witch doctor from her wildest imagination, nothing could have equaled Wolf Shadow’s barbaric regalia.

Head high and dark eyes smoldering beneath the fierce wolf’s head cape, Wolf Shadow strode along with the fluid grace of a Persian prince. Mica chips that had been stitched into the beast’s eye sockets glittered in the bright sunlight. The shaman was taller than most of his companions, and his broad, muscular chest was bare except for a silver gorget and a string of puma claws.

High quill-worked moccasins covered his muscular calves, reaching up over hard, sinewy thighs to brush the fringes of his white leather loincloth. His hair was loose and long, hanging over his shoulders and down his chest in glossy ripples. Earrings of panther teeth and eagle plumage dangled from his ears.

Fiona could not help the thrill in her breast as she watched him make his entrance into the Shawnee village. By Mary’s robe, he was a heathen savage. But devil take her soul if Fiona had ever seen a man to match him.

Tuk-o-see-yah’s people flocked out to welcome them. Men waved and shouted; women called excitedly, and dogs and children ran in circles around the visitors. Dogs barked, babies cried and squealed, and four older women began to dance and chant to the accompaniment of a drum.

Fiona pushed back her shawl to get a better view of the encampment. She wore a borrowed deerskin dress of Willow’s with her own shawl over her head to cover her hair. “Not to hide the fact that you are white,” Willow had advised, “but to prevent too many questions when we first arrive at Tuk-o-see-yah’s camp. Many Shawnee have light skin, but none have hair like a forest fire.”

Their stately procession faltered as a gray-haired matron hugged Yellow Elk, and some of the warriors dropped out of place to greet friends and relatives. Willow waved to a round-faced, heavyset woman. “Amookas!” she called. “Amookas.” Willow tugged at Fiona’s sleeve. “That my cousin,” she explained. “Butterfly Woman—Amookas.” The woman grinned and shouted something, and Willow glanced at Fiona. “Will you be all right?” she asked. “I—”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Go see your cousin,” Fiona said quickly. Willow had gone out of her way to be kind since Wolf Shadow had brought her back to the village, and she’d even suffered verbal abuse from her brother for her part in Fiona’s escape attempt. Fiona didn’t want to do anything to cause Willow further problems. “Go ahead,” she urged. Willow hurried to embrace the smiling Amookas.

Fiona understood enough Algonquian now to make out some of what was being said. Two small boys peered curiously from the doorway of a round bark-covered wigwam. “Look,” the bigger one cried. “It is the shaman.”

“It’s Wolf Shadow,” a handsome boy in his early teens declared.

An old man leaned on a staff and called the traditional greeting in a loud voice.
“Ili kleheleche?”
Do you draw breath yet?

Fiona smiled, proud of her ability to understand, and certain what Wolf Shadow’s reply would be.

“In truth, Grandfather, I do,” the shaman returned. “And do you draw breath?” The old man’s reply was beyond her comprehension, but it drew laughter from the women around him.

“Ntschu!”
Two Crows lifted his musket in salute. Fiona smiled again as she caught the Algonquian word for
friend.

More Indians joined the group around them, and it grew too noisy for Fiona to make out anything more. A second drummer joined the first, and other women and children began to dance with the four matrons. A dog yapped and, from somewhere beyond the wigwams, Fiona heard a horse whinny.

Suddenly she felt uneasy . . . a feeling her mother had always described as a goose walking over her grave. Snapping her head around, Fiona looked directly into the eyes of a white man wearing buckskins and a red knit cap.

“Mam’zelle,” he said, touching his hat. His loose-lipped smile and knowing gaze made her feel dirty.

Fiona averted her eyes and quickened her step, narrowing the distance between her and Wolf Shadow. When she glanced back a minute later, Redcap was gone.

Wolf Shadow stopped and Fiona almost bumped into him. His attention was fixed on a slender, petite Indian woman emerging from a wigwam.

“Wolf Shadow. Welcome,” she said in soft, bell-like Algonquian. Her heart-shaped face creased in a smile that made her large eyes shine like stars. A lovely child, a smaller version of the exquisite woman, appeared at her side.

The little girl noticed Fiona and smiled at her. To Fiona’s surprise, the Indian child’s eyes were a bright, clear blue.

“Nibeeshu Meekwon,” Wolf Shadow said. “Greetings to the illustrious peace woman,” he continued in English. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Fiona.” He turned back and took her arm. “This is Fiona,” he explained. “She is my wife. Fiona, this is the peace woman I told you about, Nibeeshu Meekwon—Moonfeather, in English.”

The child’s eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Moonfeather’s expression remained serene. She nodded slightly and gestured toward the wigwam.

“It’s good to see you,” Wolf Shadow said, leading Fiona toward the hut. “Is Ross Campbell here?”

“Nay. He was, but he had to return to Wanishish-eyun.” She glanced at Fiona and smiled. “Fort Campbell, the English call it. His wife, Anne, is with child and she isn’t strong.” Moonfeather stood aside for Wolf Shadow and Fiona to enter the wigwam, then she and the child joined them inside. “Cameron Stewart is here, though. He says he’ll take word of our alliance, do we make one, to the Maryland and Virginia governors.”

Fiona couldn’t keep her eyes off the Shawnee peace woman. The beautiful Indian’s English was as plain as her own, but Moonfeather spoke with a decidedly Scottish accent.

Moonfeather motioned Fiona to a place on the women’s side of the fire. “Ye honor my house,” she said sincerely. Then she spoke rapidly in Algonquian to Wolf Shadow. “An Englishwoman?” she demanded. “What are you thinking of?”

“Your husband’s skin is white,” the shaman answered mildly.

“Ptahh! I’m not the one who’s been telling the tribes to cast out the Europeans. I’m only a peace woman—and a woman whose father came from across the sea.” Moonfeather shook her head. “You’re out of your mind, Shadow. You’re moon sick. When the tribal leaders learn that you’ve taken a white wife, they’ll laugh behind their hands. This is no time for you to grow woodenheaded over a woman—not if you want the vote to go your way.”

Wolf Shadow shrugged. “I didn’t plan Fiona—she just happened. Now that she’s mine, I’ll not give her up, and if the people won’t accept her . . .”

“You’re risking all you’ve worked for these many years,” the peace woman warned. “Tuk-o-see-yah seems inclined to listen, despite his grandson Matiassu. He’s here, you know. He arrived last night with his warriors.”

“I didn’t suppose he’d miss it. Roquette too?” Moonfeather nodded. “May the ground sink under his feet and his seed wither,” Wolf Shadow swore. “As for Fiona, I love her and I believe she loves me. I was hoping someone would adopt her. It would be easier if she became a Shawnee.”

Moonfeather sniffed. “And that someone wouldn’t be me, would it?” she asked suspiciously. She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be the first time you tried to drag me into one of your games.” She rolled her eyes and mocked him softly. “Oh, illustrious shaman.”

He refused to take offense. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Aye, we have,” she answered, returning to her accented English. “I be your friend, and I shall be yours, too, Fiona, do ye wish me to be.”

“I’d like that,” Fiona replied. The conversation had been too difficult for her to follow, but she’d heard the word
wife,
and she suspected she had been at least part of the subject. “Wolf Shadow believes that he’s my husband, but he’s mistaken. We were hoping that this Ross . . . Ross Campbell could help me return to the English settlements.”

“If ye truly want to return, I may be able to help you,” Moonfeather said. “I was once far from my home and badly in need of a friend.” She looked across the wigwam at the little girl. “This is my daughter, Cami Sh’Kotai. She speaks English well enough—for all she prefers the tongue of the People.”

“Hello, Cami,” Fiona said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

The child regarded Fiona solemnly. “Are you really the shaman’s wife?” she asked shyly.

“No,” Fiona replied.

“Yes, she is,” Wolf Shadow said at the same time. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve grown into a fine young woman, Cami, since I’ve last seen you. I hope you do your mother proud.”

“Thank you, shaman,” Cami murmured.

“Does she study hard?” Wolf Shadow asked Moonfeather.

“She does.”

“I try, shaman,” the child added.

“Good, you’ll make a fine peace woman yourself one day and you—” Wolf Shadow paused and stared at Cami’s left ear. “What’s that?” The child looked puzzled as he drew closer. “What’s that in your ear?” he asked seriously. Reaching out, the shaman appeared to produce a string of shell beads from behind Cami’s ear. “Whatever are you doing with these?” he demanded.

The little girl giggled with delight.

“Is this a new fashion, Moonfeather?” he asked her mother. He dangled the pink shells in front of Cami’s nose with one hand while the other hand plucked a pair of matching earrings from under her chin.

Fiona joined the laughter. Wolf Shadow’s sleight-of-hand was so skillful, she’d not seen the earrings until they appeared as if by magic between his fingers.

“Thank you, shaman,” the child said, slipping the necklace over her head. “They have beautiful.”

“Aye, they are beautiful,” Moonfeather corrected gently. “And now, Cami, I think it’s time you sought out your grandsire’s company. Tell him that Wolf Shadow has arrived, and we’ll all meet later at the council fire.” The child nodded, thanked Wolf Shadow again, and left the wigwam.

“She’s a daughter to be proud of,” Wolf Shadow said.

“Aye, so lovely her father fears for her safety,” Moonfeather replied thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of world she’ll inherit. Looking at her, it’s hard for me to remember that most of the blood that flows through her is Englishmanake. ”

Wolf Shadow smiled. “You need have no fear on that account. Her soul is Shawnee. She’s very like you.”

“And verra like her father.”

“I didn’t know you did magic tricks,” Fiona put in. “You’re good. You could easily make your fortune in London.”

“Aye,” Moonfeather agreed, “he could, couldn’t he? There was one old faker that sold water of life in front of Saint Paul’s—”

“You know Saint Paul’s? You’ve been to London?” Fiona asked. It was difficult for her to believe that here in the wilds of America were
two
natives who both spoke wonderful English and had traveled across the sea to London. She’d only been there once, when she was fourteen. Her grandfather had taken her with him when he went to London to purchase medical supplies.

Moonfeather laughed. “Aye, I’ve been there. ’Tis a long story indeed, but one ye might enjoy if we’re ever snowed in long enough to hear it.” She sobered. “I’ve been to England. I spent more time there than I care to remember. Cami’s father is English.”

“Is he here?” Fiona asked, then instantly regretted her rash tongue. She had no business interrogating this gracious woman about her personal life. Doubtless, her child was born out of wedlock and the rascally father was far away. Fiona averted her eyes and felt the cursed heat rise in her face again. Ever since she was a child, blushing had been her bane. Her red hair and fair complexion assured that she couldn’t tell a lie or even see one hound sniff another’s backside without flushing crimson as a beet—revealing her most private thoughts for all the world to see. “I’m sorry,” she murmured apologetically. “It was rude of me to ask.”