Judith E. French (12 page)

Moonfeather laughed again—a merry sound like water bubbling over a rocky streambed. “Nay, do not apologize to me. Living with an English husband for ten years has taught me that the Shawnee and the Europeans have quite different ideas about what is proper and what is not. I be not so easily offended as once I was.”

She poured cider from a small cask into a pewter tankard and handed it to Fiona. “Drink,” she said. “Make yourself at home. This wigwam has been prepared for our mighty shaman and his ... his family.” She poured a second tankard for Wolf Shadow. “My English husband has a plantation near the Chesapeake in Maryland. We made a bargain many years ago, my flaxen-haired
Englishmanake
and this one . . . a bargain copied from Greek mythology. For half the year, I live with him, and for half the year, I remain with the Shawnee.” She spread her small hands expressively. “My Brandon has suffered in the bargain, I fear, for when the times are difficult for the Shawnee, I am needed here.”

Fiona glanced around the large hut, realizing for the first time how luxurious it was. Not only was there a copper kettle on an iron grate over the fire, but there were woolen blankets hanging on the walls and stacked on the sleeping platforms. There was even a wooden chair—the folding kind carried by the military for use by their officers. She regarded Moonfeather with new respect, surprised at the status she must have with these people to be able to show her guests such hospitality.

“Willow and I are not on the best of terms at the moment,” Wolf Shadow said. “She told me she would be staying with your aunt, Amookas, but Fiona and I will be very comfortable here. Thank you.”

Fiona couldn’t help grimacing. “If you think to have me cook for you,” she said, “you’ll be disappointed. I’ve no skill whatsoever in that direction.”

Moonfeather smiled. “Nay, there’s no need.’Tis considered an honor among the women to see who can prepare the best dishes for a visiting shaman. You’ll have more than enough to eat, I promise ye.”

“I should go and see Tuk-o-see-yah. If you’d keep Fiona company—”

“Go on,” Moonfeather urged. “He has need of your services. He broke a back tooth eating his newest wife’s walnut bread, and he’s been in pain for two days. I offered to pull it for him, but he wouldn’t let me touch it—you know how he is about his teeth.” She glanced at Fiona. “Our esteemed chief has seen many winters, and he prizes each tooth in his head. I suspect he’s afraid of the pain, but ...” She chuckled. “Tuk-o-see-yah survived an Iroquois gauntlet without making a sound, and he cut a French bullet out of his own leg. How can a woman accuse such a brave man of being frightened of having a tooth pulled?”

“Would he let me see him?” Fiona asked. “I have a special instrument in my kit for tooth drawing.”

“She is a medicine woman, this Irish of mine,” Wolf Shadow explained. “She’s skillful—for an English
equiwa.”

“I have a lot of experience at pulling teeth,” she assured them, “and I could give him laudanum for the pain.”

Wolf Shadow moved toward the entrance. “I’ll ask him.” He winked at Moonfeather. “I’d certainly let her pull my tooth, if I needed one out—wouldn’t you, peace woman?”

“Go on with ye,” the Indian woman said, waving toward the doorway. “Tuk-o-see-yah’s feelings will be hurt if you don’t pay your respects at once. I’m certain Roquette and Matiassu are there.”

Wolf Shadow frowned. “Two of my friends-Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy—have vanished. Matiassu says they left his camp alive ...”

Moonfeather laid a hand on his arm. “It wouldn’t be the first time Matiassu has been accused of the death of a fellow Shawnee. My uncle still believes he killed my cousin.”

“We sent out scouts to search for them. No trace ... no trail and no bodies.”

“You know the old Shawnee saying about luck,” Moonfeather said.

“Even the luck of the wisest fox runs out in time,” he supplied. “If I find out Matiassu was responsible for harming them, I’ll—”

Moonfeather stopped him with a finger to her lips. “Nay, dinna speak promises I might have to try to prevent. My way be not violence, shaman. Some things it’s best I dinna ken.”

“Stay here, Fiona,” Wolf Shadow said, glancing toward her. “I won’t be long. When I come back, I’ll show you-”

“Tell the chief I would be happy to look at his tooth,” Fiona reminded him. “I can even give him laudanum first, if he wants.”

“All right, I will.” Wolf Shadow left the wigwam, and the deerskin hanging fell behind him.

Moonfeather turned to Fiona. “I have English tea, if ye’d like some.”

“For sure?” Fiona’s mouth watered at the thought. “I’d love it.”

“No milk, I’m afraid, but I can offer you sugar.”

Fiona sighed with contentment as she watched the petite Indian woman measure tea leaves into a pot. Fiona hadn’t tasted tea since she’d left Philadelphia, and then only rarely. Tea was expensive, and not something served regularly to bondwomen.

“I’ve known Wolf Shadow since I was a wee bairn,” Moonfeather began. “He’s a good man, but he can be exasperating at times.” When the tea had steeped, she took Fiona’s pewter mug, rinsed it, and poured her tea. She continued talking, making Fiona feel at ease.

Despite her usual reticence, Fiona found herself telling Moonfeather how Wolf Shadow had saved her from the white trappers, and why he kept saying that they were married. “I said he was my husband to keep Matiassu from selling me to the French. It’s no true marriage—it can never be, no matter what he says. We are of different worlds, Wolf Shadow and I.”

“Ye ken his mission?” Moonfeather asked. Fiona nodded. “He’s told me that he wants to form an Indian nation to stand against the Europeans.”

“Then ye see why the two of ye canna be together.” The dark-haired woman sighed. “Wolf Shadow has always put the good of his people ahead of his own needs. Ye are wise to see that having a white wife would hurt his cause.”

“I do care for him,” Fiona admitted.
You love him,
her inner voice cried.
You love him more than you have ever loved another human being.
“But I want no husband, red or white. Loving a man brought my mother sorrow.”

Moonfeather raised her head and stared directly into Fiona’s eyes for a long minute. “We have much in common, perhaps more than ye ken.”

Fiona’s throat constricted. What was it about this woman that made her feel as though they had known each other for a lifetime? “Will you help me?” she implored.

“I—” Moonfeather broke off as the door cover was pushed aside and the shaman’s form appeared in the opening. “Wolf Shadow . . .”

“Fiona.” He motioned to her. “Bring your box, and come with me. Tuk-o-see-yah says he’ll try your white medicine. He let me take a look, and half the tooth’s broken off at the gum line.”

Fiona got to her feet and picked up her box, casting a final glance at Moonfeather. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said sincerely.

“We’ll talk again later.”

“We’d be best not to keep Tuk-o-see-yah waiting,” Wolf Shadow said. Fiona nodded and followed him outside and through the camp to the chief’s wigwam.

 

Fiona couldn’t suppress a smile when they left Tuk-o-see-yah’s hut an hour later. The tooth pulling had gone off without a hitch, and the elderly chief was sound asleep, snoring loudly. With luck, he’d sleep the afternoon away, and when he woke, his pain would be gone. Wolf Shadow had insisted that she pack the chief’s empty socket with powdered charcoal from white cedar, once the bleeding from the extraction had slowed, but otherwise the shaman had let her treat the patient by herself.

“You have good hands,” he said, as they made their way back across the camp. “People trust you.”

“Despite my skin color?”

His eyes narrowed. “You could heal Shawnee if you stayed with us. Does it matter to you if a hurt child is red or white?”

“Can you never leave it alone?” she snapped. God knows she wanted to stay with him ... wanted to feel his arms around her every night and see his face when she opened her eyes in the morning. But experience had taught her that a woman who listened to her heart instead of her head was a fool.

There were too many odds against them. If she lived with him out of wedlock—without a Christian marriage—she’d never know peace, and she’d dread the coming of children that should be every woman’s blessing. And if real war broke out between the English and the Shawnee, they would be on opposite sides.

He touched her hair. “Your words burn as brightly as your hair,” he said, “but you fight a battle you cannot win. We were born to be together.”

She stepped away from him. “You promised you would help me return to my own people. Was it a lie?”

His face paled beneath his coppery tan. “No man would call me a liar and live.”

Hot anger made her lash back at him. “Is that a threat? Kill me, then! But, by God, if you don’t, I’ll get free of you!”

“Fiona O’Neal!”

Fiona whirled toward the sound of her name. A dozen rough-looking white men armed with muskets strode toward her. Among them was the red-capped man she’d seen staring at her earlier . . . and the fur trader, Jacob Clough! “Jacob.” The word came out a whisper. She took another step backward as steel bands seemed to constrict her chest. Jacob, here? Fear washed through her, and she clutched her surgical kit tightly. Had he come to take her back to the fur trapper?

The tall, sleek man on Jacob’s right, obviously the leader of the group, wore a tailored red and white French military jacket and buckskin leggings with dark grace. His yellow-blond hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his small, pale eyes scrutinized her insolently from beneath a high jutting forehead. A neatly cut yellow beard covered his chin, and part of a thin scar ran upward to crease his bottom lip.

A lion, Fiona thought crazily. He looks like a lion. “Woman?” he rasped. “Are you Fiona O’Neal?” His gravelly voice bore a heavy French accent.

“That’s her, right enough,” Clough said. He spat on the ground at Fiona’s feet. “Thought ye’d find yerself a red buck and run outa yer lawful indenture, didn’t ye?” He reached out to grab her arm, but she jerked away from him.

“Touch my wife and you’re a dead man,” Wolf Shadow said quietly.

Fiona’s heart pounded against her chest. Her mouth went dry, and the tension in the air was so sharp she could taste it. From the corner of her eye, she saw Matiassu move into the clearing. Most of the Indian braves crowding around were his men, she realized with sudden dread.

“Are you Fiona O’Neal?” the yellow-haired lion man repeated.

“Yes, I am, but—”

Wolf Shadow stepped protectively in front of Fiona. “My wife is none of your concern, Roquette.” Fiona shivered at the deadly warning in his soft tone.

“Ah, the shaman, isn’t it?” Roquette sneered.

Jacob Clough grinned, exposing rotting teeth. One of the other white men guffawed.

Roquette nodded, and Jacob Clough lowered his musket until the muzzle pointed at the center of Wolf Shadow’s chest. “It’s you who must stand aside, shaman,” the Frenchman said. “She’s my property. Bought and paid for.”

Wolf Shadow met the Frenchman’s gaze without blinking. “Fiona is a free woman.”

“Afraid not, medicine man.” Roquette reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a folded parchment. “I just bought her indenture from her rightful owner, Jacob Clough. I paid hard silver for her, and I intend to take possession here and now.”

“No . . .” Fiona murmured to Wolf Shadow. “Don’t risk your life for me. I’ll go with him.”

“Give her to Roquette,” Matiassu called in English, pushing his way through the crowd. “You’ve no need to steal a white woman. If you want a wife to warm your blankets, I’ll give you mine.”

“Get out of the way, shaman,” the Frenchman said, “or suffer the consequences.” He glanced at Clough, and the trader eased back the hammer on his musket.

“You must take her over my body,” Wolf Shadow replied.

“No!” Fiona cried. “I won’t-”

“Have it your way,” Roquette snarled. “Shoot him.”

Fiona screamed as Jacob Clough pulled the trigger.

W
olf Shadow twisted and threw himself over Fiona, knocking her to the ground, as the explosion deafened the onlookers. Instinctively, the Shadow covered his head with his hands as fragments of wood and steel rained down around them.

“Merde,
” Roquette exclaimed.

Someone was screaming—crying out for his mother in French. Another throat emitted strangled, choking moans and then ceased to make any noise at all. For long seconds there was only the sound of one man’s agony, then Shawnee and whites broke into pandemonium.

Wolf Shadow rose and pulled Fiona up with him, turning her face against his chest so that she couldn’t see. She was sobbing, and he soothed her with his touch rather than with words.

A few yards away, Jacob Clough lay sprawled on his side, his mangled face mercifully turned to the blood-soaked earth. The remains of his shattered musket, the barrel twisted and gaping, lay beside him. A haze of blue-gray smoke hung over his shocked companions, including the Frenchman in the red cap who continued to howl and clutch his throat.

“Sorcier, ”
muttered the white trapper bending over him.

Roquette trembled with anger as he fingered the bloody gouge running down his right cheek. “You’re a dead man, shaman,” he said.

Wolf Shadow nodded imperceptibly. “But not today, and not by your hand.”

Angry grumbling rose from Roquette’s crew. The Shawnee crowded around, staring at the dead man and the ruined musket. “He tried to shoot the shaman, and Wolf Shadow witched him,” an old woman cried.

“Wolf Shadow killed the white man without touching him,” a gaunt brave agreed.

Yellow Elk and Two Crows, both heavily armed, pushed their way through the throng to Wolf Shadow’s side. “Are you all right?” Two Crows asked.

“Take care of my wife,” Shadow instructed his friends in their own tongue. “Fiona,” he said, switching to English. “Go with Yellow Elk. You’ll be safe with them, I promise.”

Fiona’s green eyes were dazed, her face smudged with dirt. “What happened?”

“Jacob Clough’s musket blew up when he tried to fire. Go on with Yellow Elk.” Shadow gently pushed her away, fighting the urge to wipe her dirty face. “Take her,” he repeated.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Roquette protested as Yellow Elk led Fiona away. “She’s still my property .”

“What’s wrong with all of you?” Matiassu demanded brusquely of the crowd. “The trader’s gun exploded. It was an accident—something that could happen to anyone who was careless with the black powder. There’s no sorcery here. Give the woman to Roquette, I say.”

Instantly, there were answering cries of “No! No! The spirits have spoken.”

“They tried to murder our shaman! Kill them all!” a hothead shouted in Algonquian.

“Kill Roquette! Kill the Hair Buyer!” a youth urged.

Wolf Shadow held up his hand. “There will be no killing. We have come to talk, not dip our spears in the blood of whites. Since when do the Shawnee murder their guests?”

A wrinkled old crone shook her bony fist. “Roquette deserves to die!”

As the villagers’ mood turned ugly, the Frenchmen gathered in a knot, back to back, weapons ready. The red-capped man still crouched on his haunches, rocking, trying to stem the flow of blood from his wounds.

Pity for the injured man tugged at Wolf Shadow’s conscience. His physician’s mind was already gauging the extent of blood loss. “I say we will not harm these men so long as they do not fire on us,” the shaman said. “Matiassu is right. Jacob Clough died because of his own foolishness.” His fiery gaze raked the crowd, lingering on the faces of the agitators. “You know what I think of Roquette. But what we do here in council is more important than Roquette’s death. He has come to talk in peace, and he can go in peace.”

“So says your shaman.” Moonfeather came to stand in front of Roquette. Her clear voice carried through the hushed crowd. “So also says your peace woman.” She glanced at Roquette and pinched her nose in a gesture that told the Shawnee what she thought of the Frenchman. Then, she clasped her hands together and nodded to Wolf Shadow in respect. “You have all seen what happened here today. Matiassu says that Jacob Clough died of carelessness. I agree. Jacob Clough lived a fool and he died a fool. He tried to meet Wolf Shadow’s magic with powder and shot.”

Cheers rose from the onlookers. Even Matiassu’s Seneca nodded agreement with the peace woman’s words.

“Each man and each woman must decide what happened and why,” Moonfeather continued. “It is the Shawnee way.” She smiled faintly. “But there can be no doubt who Wishemenetoo favors.”

Loud cries of “Whoo! Whoo!” and “Ay! Ay!” signaled the group’s support for her words.

The peace woman waited until they were quiet before completing her speech. “The woman, Fiona, is a free woman,” Moonfeather declared. “She is wife to our shaman—to our mighty moon dancer-Wolf Shadow! So say I, Nibeeshu Meekwon, Leah Moonfeather Stewart of the Wolf Clan.”

The resounding answer of a hundred throats echoed approval. Wolf Shadow threw one final glance of contempt at the French renegade and his followers, and strode away to find Fiona.

 

Yellow Elk and Two Crows escorted Fiona through the large camp to a European-style military tent of gray canvas. Several white men in buckskins squatted before a fire near the entrance; they stood as the three approached, and Yellow Elk spoke to one of them in the Indian tongue. Fiona waited, casting apprehensive glances back the way they had come.

She hoped Wolf Shadow wasn’t in danger for her sake. She didn’t know who these white men were, or why Yellow Elk had brought her here. Suspicion that Wolf Shadow had betrayed her and was handing her over to the French after all rose in her mind, but she pushed the thought away. He wouldn’t do that; she knew he wouldn’t. Impatiently, she tapped her foot.

Yellow Elk and the frontiersman seemed to come to some agreement, and the shaggy blond yanked off his fur hat and nodded respectfully to Fiona.

“Timothy O‘Brian at yer service, ma’am. Best ye go inside. Ye’ll be safe there—as safe as any of us be,” he added wryly.

He walked toward the tent. “Come along, ma‘am. Sure’n ye’ll be safe wi’ Mr. Stewart—his lordship, the Earl of Dunnkell, to give him his proper due. But ye needn’t worry. Cameron Stewart’s a fine gentleman and a regular chap. He don’t hold by no fancy titles out here in the woods. If ye’ll bide here fer the blink of an eye, I’ll tell Mr. Stewart a lady has come to visit.” He flashed a charming grin and ducked inside the tent.

Homesickness filled Fiona at the sound of Timothy O’Brian’s Irish accent. She wondered how such a good Irish lad had ever ended up in this wilderness.

Timothy was back in a minute, still shyly twisting his coonskin cap between his big fists, telling her that Cameron Stewart would be pleased to receive her. They exchanged smiles again before Fiona hesitantly entered the tent. She stopped inside and gave her attention to the elegantly dressed middle-aged man seated at a folding desk. Immediately he rose, replaced his writing quill in the ink bottle, and smiled graciously at her.

“Good afternoon, mistress,” he said, coming forward. “I’m Cameron Stewart, Earl of Dunnkell. How may I be of service to you?” His words were softly polite, but he was staring at her as though she had two heads.

Fiona flushed under his intense scrutiny, swallowed back her nervousness, and matched him stare for stare, taking in the powdered wig, the spotless woolen coat and breeches, the crisp white shirt and shiny boots. He was in his fifties, she guessed, but his handsome face was only slightly lined, and he still had straight white teeth. His blue eyes were faded, shrewd but kindly, and his square chin bore a tiny scar—doubtless from some long-ago fencing accident. Cameron Stewart’s shoulders filled the elegant coat, and his hands were tanned and lean-not lily-white as those of most of his class. And in his cultured tone she detected a trace of the Highlands.

“Sir.” She nodded, but offered him no curtsy. This was America—was it not? In Ireland, she’d have had to give way on the street and bow her head. Not here. Not if it cost her her life. She’d shown all the forced servility to powdered lordlings she ever intended to.

“Please.” He waved her to a chair. “Forgive me for staring at you, but you startled me. You look very like someone I knew a long time ago.”

“We’ve not met, sir,” she said coolly.

“No . . .” He shook his head. “I’d remember such a lovely face if I’d seen it before. ’Tis fey . . . just an old man’s silly notion that you remind me of a lady I knew long ago. You’re Irish, are you not?”

“Aye.” She was oddly reluctant to give him her name. He’d find out soon enough that she was nothing but a runaway bondwoman.

He chuckled. “The woman I knew . . . she was Irish, too.”

“We do count women among our kind.”

Cameron Stewart shook his head again. “It’s the weather, I fear—and the circumstances. I meant no discourtesy. It’s just that . . . you do look so very like her.”

“If your acquaintance had red hair, there is no mystery. I’m told often that we all look alike.”

“Nay.” A charming smile spread across his handsome face. “I have never seen two women who I thought looked so alike . . . until today. Your eyes are quite an unusual shade of green, you know.”

“It wasn’t my idea to seek shelter with you,” she said, her anger flaring. “If I disturb you, there’s no need for me to remain.”

“I have offended you.”

Fiona felt instantly ashamed. What was wrong with her, to be so churlish to a gentleman who’d offered her only kindness? He hadn’t even demanded her name. “You haven’t offended me. I have no complaint,” she said, calming. “But it’s been my experience as an Irishwoman, Lord Dunnkell, that the English, especially those of your class, have done little to warrant friendly feelings between us.”

“I do not use my title in Indian country. My given name is Cameron Stewart. And I’m a Scot, not an Englishman.” His husky voice took on an edge of polished steel.

Fiona couldn’t help but feel amused. So, she thought, the lordly Cameron Stewart is a Scot, and he does have a temper hidden beneath that smooth exterior. Her estimate of him rose several notches.

“This is America,” he continued. “Whatever political disagreements exist between our people might best be left beyond the sea. If the Irish have reason to complain, so do the Scots. But I’m a practical man, and I see no sense in raking up old coals. Like it or not,
we
have an English king.” He raised one auburn brow. “Or German, if one wishes to be exact.”

Fiona looked down at her beaded moccasins peeking out from under her patched and ragged skirt. Stewart was obviously a rich and powerful man; what must he think of her—a white woman here among the Indians? She peered up at him through her lashes. He was treating her like an equal. Surely he didn’t believe she was quality? “I am naught but a plain woman of no significance,” she said with some heat. “You’ve no need to—”

Stewart laughed. “The wife of Wolf Shadow?” He pursed his lips and shook his head once more. “Fie, m’lady. Being wife to the great moon dancer places you as high in Ohio Country as one can go.”

Her green eyes sparked flecks of hot gold. Was Stewart taunting her, amusing himself at her expense? “I’m not his wife,” she protested.

“But you are his ...” Stewart searched for a gentle word. “The shaman believes you to be his wife.”

Fiona pursed her lips and nodded.

“That complicates things a great deal,” he said. “I’ve explicit instructions from Governor Calvert of Maryland not to offend Wolf Shadow or the Shawnee in any way. Many lives may depend on our working out a peace treaty with these tribes.”

“I can tell ye I ain’t bound by no sech folderol,” Timothy O’Brian declared.

Both Fiona and Stewart regarded the frontiersman in surprise. They’d been so engrossed in their conversation, neither had noticed him enter the tent.

“Beggin’ yer pardon fer stickin’ my oar in yer affairs, ma’am, but as we’re both Irish, I figure we’re kin. Ye say this heathen’s not your husband?”

“I have no husband,” she stated firmly. “I never had one and I never intend to.”

“There ye have it, yer lordship. No white woman should be abandoned to the Injuns just ’cause ye can’t afford to offend a painted medicine man.” Timothy’s tone became heated. “Could ye rest easy back on the Tidewater if a child of yourn was left at the mercy of these savages?”

Stewart’s expression hardened. “The Shawnee are different from whites, but they’re not savages. If ye believe otherwise, you’re more a fool than I judged you, O’Brian.”

“No insult meant to your daughter Lady Kentington, sir. You know we count her different than these others, but—”

Stewart’s eyes grew cold. “My daughter Leah, Lady Kentington, is Shawnee. I’ll not have her or her people insulted. I’ll not have her children insulted.”