Judith E. French (14 page)

For long minutes, there was nothing but the rhythm of the drums. Then faintly, as if from a great distance, came a muffled rattle. A log cracked in the center fire pit, crashing down into the coals and sending a spray of fiery sparks upward into the misty night sky.

Fiona became caught up in the spell of the drums, waiting ... waiting. When the rattle and the drums were joined by the high piercing notes of an eagle bone flute, she smiled. The music was strange, different from any sound she had ever heard, yet she could not stop tears from gathering in her eyes.

From the corner of her vision came a woman, stepping gracefully, weaving in and out of an imaginary ribbon that circled the fire. The dancer’s face was shadowed by a blanket, but when she came close enough, Fiona saw that it was Moonfeather. Fiona’s necklace was tucked under the neckline of her deerskin dress, but it seemed to her as though the peace woman’s dark gaze lingered on the amulet. A shiver ran through Fiona, and involuntarily she covered the charm with her hand. Again Fiona felt a burning sensation from the Eye of Mist, and the hair on her arms prickled.

Three times Moonfeather’s stately shuffle brought her past the place where Fiona sat, and each time Fiona was certain that she felt a reaction from the ancient amulet. As Fiona tensed for the peace woman’s fourth pass, she realized that Moonfeather’s place had been taken by a slim male figure.

Kitate. In each hand, the boy carried a turtleshell rattle. His chest was covered by a breastplate of linked elk bones, and his braided hair was held in place with a band of gleaming copper. Feathers trailed behind him, sewn to his high elkskin moccasins and dangling from the back of his copper headband.

The tempo quickened. Kitate’s steps became faster and more intricate. He bent low to the ground, then straightened in time to the drums and leaned back until his hawk feathers brushed the hard-packed earth. More drums and rattles sounded from different spots around the circle. As the boy danced and danced, the fire collapsed in on itself until the blaze became an orange glow surrounded by mist.

“Drink.”

Fiona started as a strange woman tapped her shoulder.

“Drink.” The squaw held out a wooden bowl.

“No.” Fiona shook her head. “I don’t wish-”

“Drink.”

Fiona saw that other bowls were being passed. Reluctantly, she sipped the pale liquid. It was sweet and tasted faintly of sarsaparilla. When she tried to hand the bowl back, the woman urged her to take more. Fiona drank again, and the woman retrieved the bowl and moved on.

The drums stopped.

A deep sigh, almost as strong as a sudden wind before a thunderstorm, rolled across the assembly. Then there was only silence ... a silence so deep and profound that Fiona was certain she could hear the throb of her own blood pulsing through her veins.

From the east, from a great distance, came the eerie howl of a gray wolf. Fiona’s breath caught in her throat as primeval fear choked her.

Another wolf answered from the west, this one closer, the cry louder. Then a third howled from the north, and finally a fourth sounded to the south. The chilling notes died, then rose again in unison—all four wolves howling together.

A small child whimpered; a woman soothed her. The village dogs began to snarl, raising their hackles and baring their teeth as they heard the challenge of their ancient enemies.

The wolves became silent; the dogs barked and whined, then ceased their clamor. Stillness gripped the air as fog locked the village in a timeless trance.

Suddenly there was a puff of smoke, and the fire flared anew. A tall, caped figure appeared in the haze. Two sets of eyes gleamed, and Fiona stifled a cry of surprise, then realized it was Wolf Shadow in his wolf’s headdress and cloak.

The drums began again, and he danced. Round and round in the firelight, he moved. Beneath the wolfskin, he wore only moccasins and a breechcloth, and his copper-hued body glistened with oil.

Fiona leaned forward, her gaze fixed on his swaying, graceful form. He seemed larger than life, even more magnificent in his pagan glory. His black hair flowed behind him like a river of ebony silk, and his eyes glowed with an inner fire, as fierce and wild as any forest wolf.

The shaman’s movements were astonishing. No European dancer could flow with the drumbeats as Wolf Shadow did. His body bent and twisted; he leaped into the air and spun with the agility of an animal. And as Fiona watched, it seemed to her that he did become one with his wolf totem.

She blinked. There, in the air above the flames, she saw—or thought she saw—a real wolf. Motionless, he crouched, head up, jaws open to reveal savage teeth. Then a spear flew across the fire pit, piercing the image. As suddenly as the wolf had come, it was gone.

Fiona pinched her arm, wondering if she was dreaming. Had she truly seen a wolf? Had she partaken of a drug that dulled her senses or caused her to imagine what wasn’t there?

Wolf Shadow paused and turned. He flung out one superbly muscled arm, and the fire sparked yellow and green. A heavy smoke rose above the fire pit, and from the smoke a wolf appeared once more. That wolf was joined by another, and then another, until it seemed a pack of ghostly beasts ran in silence above their heads.

The shaman extended his other arm, and the vision vanished in a shower of blue stars. Wolf Shadow’s voice broke the stillness as he spoke first in Algonquian, and then again in English. “The one shall fall,” he intoned, “no matter how strong or how valiant. But the wolf pack knows no master. So shall the Shawnee and Delaware know no master if we unite as one.”

There was a general outcry from the audience. People were getting to their feet as the drums began again, pounding out a different rhythm. Painted braves entered the circle and began to dance. Fiona tried to follow Wolf Shadow with her eyes, but he was lost in the chanting, richly clad dancers. A woman stepped in front of Fiona and Fiona got to her feet. She looked around for someone she knew, then decided to try and find Moonfeather’s wigwam again.

She’d not gone more than a few yards from the crowd when a strong hand closed over her shoulder. She spun around to stare into the stern face of Cameron Stewart.

“Come with me, girl,” he said. “I’d have answers to some questions.”

She tried to pull away from him, but he held her firmly. “Let go of me!” she insisted.

“You’ll talk here or in my tent,” Stewart said. “I want to know who you are. I won’t hurt you, but I must know.”

“You’ve no right to lay hands on me.”

He took hold of her other shoulder and pulled her to within inches of his face. “What’s your name? Your whole name?” he asked suspiciously.

“Fiona O’Neal.”

“Moonfeather told me you have something that once belonged to me.”

Fiona struggled against him, but the muscles under Stewart’s white lawn shirt were as hard as rock. “Let go of me! I’m no thief.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Before Fiona could stop him, Stewart released her left shoulder and reached beneath the neckline of her deerskin dress to bring forth her amulet.

“Don’t touch that! It’s mine!” Drawing back her free hand, she balled up her fist and struck the older man squarely on the chin. She followed the blow with a kick to Stewart’s knee, then twisted and tried to run. Despite his surprise at the unexpected attack, he caught her and yanked her against him.

“Not so fast.” His breathing was coming hard, and his features had become tinged with an ashen pallor. “Please ...” he managed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rough with ye. But I have to know. Where did you get this necklace?”

Hot tears rolled down Fiona’s cheeks. “My mother gave it to me,” she cried, “and before that it came from a cowardly son of Satan who called himself my father.”

Stewart released her and staggered back. The imprint of her knuckles was visible on his chin. “That amulet was my mother’s. I gave it to my infant daughter, Fiona, on the day she was born,” he whispered hoarsely. “What was your mother’s name?”

Fiona stared up at him in disbelief. “Eileen O’Neal.”

“Your grandsire’s?”

“James Patrick O’Neal.”

“On what day were you born?”

She backed away. “Saint Anne’s feast day.”

Stewart drew his hand across his forehead. “An impostor could know those things. Are you an impostor? Have ye tracked me here to America to claim the real Fiona O’Neal’s inheritance?”

“God rot your greedy bowels! What makes you think I’d want to soil myself with your money? If you are my father, I want nothing of you but to see you burn in hell!”

She trembled with the force of her white-hot anger. “Are you that man, Cameron Stewart? Are you the fine gentleman, the married man who lured an honest Catholic girl to his bed, got his bastard on her, and then abandoned her?” Fiona balled her hands into tight fists. Her head throbbed as though it were clenched in an iron vise. “She died mourning you—did you know that? But she wouldn’t tell me your name. Not even on her deathbed. She had that much pride, did Eileen O’Neal. She’d not have any daughter of hers run after a Sassenach begging for scraps.”

“Your grandfather swore to me on his father’s soul that both of you were dead. He showed me a fresh grave and said you and Eileen were buried there.”

“Liar! She waited for you ... waited until he threw her out of the house. All the village saw her shame.”

“One woman ... an old woman, Maire Shaughnessy, told me not to believe your grandfather. She said your mother was alive. She said she’d seen her leave the house at night with something wrapped in her shawl. I searched for her for two years. I offered rewards in every county.”

“You didn’t hunt hard enough.”

“I tried, Fiona. I did. I loved her ... I loved you.”

“I’d sooner believe gold guineas grow on plum trees.”

“Maire Shaughnessy was old and senile. After two years without finding a trace, I began to think she’d imagined seeing Eileen run past her door.”

“You didn’t find us because you never tried.”

“In God’s name, Fiona—”

“Don’t blaspheme before me. I despise you. I’ve hated you since I was old enough to dodge rocks and know what bastard meant.”

Cameron Stewart took a step closer. “You’ve family you don’t know about. Not just me but—”

“I’d sooner claim kinship with a spider!”

“Give me a chance to make up the lost years, child. I can take you out of here, give you anything you—”

“No!” She shook her head. “I want nothing from you—nothing.” Behind him in the shadows, she saw Wolf Shadow striding toward them. “My home is here now,” she cried, flinging herself into the shaman’s strong arms. “This is my husband.” She buried her face in Wolf Shadow’s broad chest. “My husband,” she sobbed. “Forever and ever.”

His arms tightened around her. “Forever?”

“Aye,” she agreed. “Forever.”

M
inute later, Fiona was in Wolf Shadow’s arms again—in the privacy of Moonfeather’s wigwam—regretting every impulsive word she’d said.

What have I done? she cried inwardly.

Instantly, her mother’s favorite saying echoed in her head.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Saint Anne, preserve me, Fiona prayed. My sharp tongue has done for me now.

It wasn’t the insults that she’d hurled at Cameron Stewart, or even the fact that she’d punched him in the face, that plagued her. If he was in truth her father, and it looked mightily like he was, he deserved every bitter accusation, and worse. No, she’d take nothing from him—no sops to soothe his guilty conscience. Eileen O’Neal had given her daughter pride, if nothing else.

I’d sooner die unshriven than take his charity, she vowed. No, those weren’t the words that pushed her over the edge and into the coals. It was the promise she’d given Wolf Shadow that would be her downfall.

He is my husband,
she’d shouted for all to hear. And when Wolf Shadow had asked her if she truly meant to stay with him forever, she’d repeated the rash statement.

Forever ...

Doubts crowded her mind. She was Irish, blood and bone. How could she ever be Shawnee? Would she ever be able to look into the eyes of this man who held her with such tenderness and not see a savage? Could she abandon her own religion, endanger her immortal soul and that of her future children ?

Wolf Shadow’s lips touched hers again, and she sighed deeply. She felt safer here than she’d ever felt in her life. But would it be enough? Could she stop thinking long enough to simply exist?

“Your body is here,” he murmured in his deep, husky way, “but your soul flies.” The tip of his damp tongue caressed her bottom lip. “I would have all of you, little wife.”

He raised himself on one elbow, and his loose dark hair brushed against her cheek. “I will send Stewart away if you wish.”

Wolf Shadow was naked except for his loincloth, and she wore only the fringed deerskin garment. Without corset or petticoats, she felt as undressed as he was. He was pressed against her in an intimate manner, so intimate that it was hard for her to think straight. “Why?” She wrenched the painful question from her deepest sorrow. “Why did he come here?”

Wolf Shadow toyed with her amulet. “Some things are beyond understanding. But this I can tell you: it was no accident. The world is wide. To meet here in this time and place ...” He shrugged. “It is easier to turn the wind than to change what is written there.”

“I don’t want him to be my father. I hate my father. He was a monster.”

“And Cameron Stewart is no monster.”

“No.” Her half-whispered reply was full of pain.

“Even good men sometimes do great evil.”

“He abandoned my mother. He left her to ...” Fiona shook her head. “The things I saw ... the things she had to do to keep us alive ...” She turned her grief-stricken face up to him. “All my life I’ve wanted to kill him. God help me, I think I still do.”

“Shall I kill him for you? Shall I bring you his scalp stretched on a willow hoop?”

“No!” Fiona’s stomach turned over. “Don’t say such a horrible thing.”

Wolf Shadow chuckled. “I think your hate is less deeply rooted than you know.” Eddies of warmth flooded through her as his strong fingers traced her collarbone and the hollow of her throat.

“Murder is a mortal sin. I could kill him in anger, but I could never ask you to do it.”

“And if I did it for love of you?”

She shivered. “I could never forgive you.”

He moved his warm hand slowly up the side of her neck and into her hair. The act was soothing, and Fiona felt herself slipping into a heady, languid state. Unconsciously, she moistened her lips and let her eyes drift almost closed.

“You are so wise, my Sweet Medicine Woman, and yet so foolish. You are too full of love to hate.” He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

Fiona felt strangely weak, and the thought that she might be drugged surfaced in the back of her mind. She stared up at him. “What was in that drink?” she demanded. “What I saw ... or thought I saw ...”

His soft laughter was like an evening breeze across a field of heather. “No, Irish. What you saw and what you feel now are real, not illusion. I will not tell you that a moon dancer does not eat or drink of plants that open doorways to other worlds. Of that, it is forbidden for me to talk. But I can tell you that you were given nothing more than honey water and sassafras.”

She clasped her hand around his wrist so tightly that she could feel the strong pulse of his blood. “But I saw a wolf ... wolves.”

“Then for you ...” He lifted a lock of her hair and kissed it. “For you,” he murmured, “the wolves were there.”

Fiona felt his free hand on her midriff; the heat of his callused palm burned through her thin deerskin dress, and she gasped in surprise as tremors of pleasure radiated outward from his touch. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “It was a trick,” she argued. “I know the wolves in the air were only—”

He silenced her protests with a kiss. His mouth covered hers with exquisite sensitivity. Her heartbeat quickened as, once again, she was overwhelmed with the virile scent and taste of him.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for her lips to part and his tongue to play provocatively across the roof of her mouth. She arched against him, and his hand slid up to cup her breast.

“You ask more questions on the sleeping mat than any other woman I’ve ever known,” he teased when the kiss ended.

She clung to him, letting the sweet, unfamiliar sensations drown her doubts until nothing mattered but this moment. The overpowering presence of his naked body, the warmth of the fire and furs were intoxicating. Her mind whirled, and words spilled out that she never meant to say. “Have there been many women?”

“I have not asked you, Irish Fiona. What you did before you were mine means nothing.” His fingers splayed across her thigh.

“I’ve never been with a man ... not like this.” She swallowed again, and tiny fingers of fear and anticipation played over the surface of her skin. Tonight she would not content him with touches and kisses. She had run from Stewart into Wolf Shadow’s arms, and in doing so she’d given up the right to protest his possession of her body. She knew it, and her ingrained sense of honesty would demand nothing less. She owed Wolf Shadow much. She owed him, and she always paid her debts.

It’s not just payment,
her inner voice cried.
You want him. You want to know what it would feel like to have his power fill you ... to be truly a woman.

Her conscience spoke the truth. But knowing it was true did nothing to quell the feeling that she was standing on the edge of the cliffs of Ireland. One step and she would fall into nothingness. And if she fell, she was afraid she’d never stop falling.

He cupped her face in his hand and lowered his mouth to hers. His breath was sweet, his lips firm. This time his kiss demanded more of her, and when his tongue filled her mouth, she sucked on it gently ... savoring the velvet texture as his fingers closed around her swollen nipple.

She moaned as the exquisite sensations intensified, and she became suddenly aware of a moist heat in her loins.

“What passes between a man and a woman causes pain for a woman, the first time,” Wolf Shadow murmured. “The pain is quick and quickly forgotten. You will never suffer it again.”

“What happened . . . before ... when you ...” Waves of heat suffused her skin as she remembered the intimacy she’d permitted, and she shut her eyes tightly. He’d touched ... no, more than touched. He’d teased her to spasms of carnal ecstasy. Even now, she was too embarrassed to speak of it. “Between my legs,” she whispered shyly. “You ...” She felt his burning gaze and forced herself to look into those luminous dark eyes.

“Giving and receiving pleasure is a thing of beauty between two people who love,” he said. “There can be no shame.” His hand closed over hers, and he guided it down to press against his own hot, swollen sex. “I want you to touch me,” he continued, “as I touch you.”

She gasped in shock. At some point, he’d removed his loincloth. Wolf Shadow was stark naked.

For a long moment, fear gripped her. She was no cloistered nun; she’d seen unclothed men before. She’d touched their limp members and washed them with a physician’s professional aloofness. When she was a child, she’d been backed against a wall by a drunken sailor in full sexual arousal.

But she was a child no longer.

Curiosity overcame fear. Trembling, she let her fingers run the length of his tumescent member. Wolf Shadow didn’t move, but she heard his sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Big, she thought. He’s too big. Anything this large could never ... Her own breathing grew tight as she stroked the contours of his silken rod. Instinctively, she caressed the taut, inner skin and the swollen head. He gasped again.

“You learn quickly,” he said.

“I have a good teacher.”

She ran her hands up his flat stomach and over the sinewy muscles of his chest, letting her fingertips linger on his nipples, teasing them until they swelled to hot nubs. Wolf Shadow’s chest was smooth and hairless, totally different from those of most of the Irishmen she’d seen. She marveled at the softness of his coppery skin, satin over marble. For there was nothing soft beneath his skin—his muscles were like coiled steel springs. She liked the feel of him.

“What’s fair is fair,” he said hoarsely. She made no protest when he pulled her loose dress over her head and tossed it away. He kissed her again, and the aching in her loins returned, stronger and more incessant.

He rolled onto his back, and somehow she was astride him, her damp nether curls pressed against the heat of his hard, taut belly. He found her breast with his mouth, and she cried aloud as he took her nipple between his warm, demanding lips.

She wanted more.

She rubbed against him as he caressed her breasts and suckled them. His need became stronger ... his body arched beneath hers, and he moaned deep in his throat. His handsome face became sheened with moisture.

Fiona’s desire flared as she pressed closer, wanting to be part of him ... letting the fevered hunger carry her nearer to the edge of that precipice.

His fingers brushed her woman’s folds and slipped inside. She was wet and hot, and she needed ... she needed ... “I want you,” she whispered. “I want ...”

He lifted her and pressed her back against the heaped furs. His mouth plundered hers while his fingers teased her breasts until she thought she would go mad with the wanting.

He knelt between her legs, and she opened for him.

His huge, pulsing member pressed against her wetness.

“Only this once it will hurt,” he murmured. “And never again.”

He plunged into her, past the thin barrier that barred his way, filling her with his swollen need. She cried aloud at the sensation.

He withdrew and dove again, then lay still as she came to grips with the fullness. He moved yet again, slowly, finding a rhythm. Her discomfort faded, then was gone as she caught his excitement. Her mouth found his, and his kiss gave her courage.

He thrust into her with long, hard strokes, and the fires in her loins flared again, until she forgot the pain and concentrated on the giving and taking.

Something was very close ... She didn’t know what, but she could almost reach .. . “Ohhh,” she cried. “Ohhh.” She had done it. She’d stepped into that empty space. She tumbled through a rainbow of color.

He clasped her to him and whispered her name. She felt his own shuddering release.

They lay listening to the sound of their own breathing with her head tucked into the hollow of his arm and their hair tangled together.

He broke the silence. “Did I hurt you?”

“Only a little.”

“I could wait no longer. I’m sorry, Fiona. I’d never willingly give you pain.”

She averted her eyes. “What ... what happened afterward, I liked that.”

“I know why you came into my arms tonight. You ran from Cameron to me. Was I wrong to make you mine, Fiona? Was it wrong to accept your promise to stay with me forever, when I knew that your words were uttered in a moment of panic?” His voice was raspy with choked emotion.

She waited, unable to answer.

“My little wife.” He held her as though she were made of priceless crystal . . . as though she might suddenly shatter in his hands. “If I did ... if I did, it’s because I have never loved another woman as I love you. And I swear to you, I will never love another.”

“If I die before you do?”

“A wolf mates for life.”

She sighed, and the contentment that enfolded her was sweeter than the joy she’d known only a few minutes before. “I don’t regret my promise, Wolf Shadow,” she murmured. “I did run from Cameron, but I ran to you. It feels right to be here in your arms. It feels very right.”