Judith E. French (16 page)

“These people have treated me decently,” she said. “I can practice medicine here. It’s all I’ve ever wanted out of life.”

“Ye could practice yer healin’ at Bennett Springs. They’s not enough of us t’ call a town, ‘bout a dozen families. We ain’t never had no doctor. Ye think on it, miss. We’re plain folk, but ye’d be welcome. Every summer a priest comes t’ say real Mass, to bless the dead and christen young’uns.”

“I’ve a husband here among the Shawnee.”

“Ye could have a husband at Bennett Springs. White women is scarce as hens’ teeth, west of the Chesapeake. A real husband.” O‘Brian pulled her close. “I’d stand afore the priest wi’ ye, Miss Fiona. And I’d never throw up t’ ye what ye done before ye slipped my ring on yer finger. I’ve got a boy needs a mother, and I’d do right by ye.”

“It’s an honor, you asking,” Fiona said, “but I—”

“Think on it, miss,” he said, releasing her and stepping back. “I’ll be comin’ again for the council fire in the summer. Do ye change yer mind, Timothy O’Brian’s yer man. And the offer stands whether ye’re breedin’ or not.”

Fiona exhaled softly. “You’re a good man, Timothy O’Brian, and if I didn’t already have a husband, I might just take you up on that.”

He reached into a leather bag hanging from his belt and removed a small flintlock pistol, along with shot and a powder container. “I want ye t’ have this,” he said. “Keep it near ye. Have ye ever fired a pistol?” She nodded. “It may save yer life in this . wilderness.”

Fiona accepted the weapon. “Thank you, and thank you for the offer of your protection.”

His ruddy face showed his struggle for the right words. “ ’Twas not made out of pity, Miss Fiona. Best ye know that. Ye’re kind and clean, and ye’re Irish. I like the way ye walk and the way ye hold her chin, proud-like and scared o’ nothin’ and nobody. We could make it—ye and me. Ye think on it. ”

Outside the wigwam a horse whinnied, and Fiona heard Cameron Stewart’s voice. She brushed past Timothy O’Brian and ducked outside.

Her father sat astride a prancing bay gelding, his back straight, his eyes fixed on Wolf Shadow. “I mean to speak with her. I’ll have that much,” Cameron insisted.

Wolf Shadow stood inches from the nervous horse, his features impassive. “My wife is a free woman,” he replied. “If she doesn’t want to see you, she doesn’t have to.”

The shaman’s fierce gaze never left Cameron’s face, but Fiona knew he saw her come out of the wigwam, and she knew he saw O’Brian follow. “It’s all right,” she said, walking to stand at Wolf Shadow’s side. She drew herself up to her full height and stared at her father. “I’ve nothing more to say to you, sir.”

“I was there when you were born,” Cameron said. “I wanted to call a midwife, but Eileen begged me not to. I caught you with my own hands, and I cut you from your mother. I loved Eileen,” he declared softly, “and I loved you. I promised her I’d marry you to a prince when you were grown.” He saluted Wolf Shadow with a faint nod. “You’ve found your own prince, daughter, and I wish you happiness with him.”

“Good day to you, Lord Dunnkell,” she answered haughtily. “God speed your journey away from here.”

Cameron’s eyes filled. “God go with you, daughter,” he replied huskily. “May we meet again soon under better circumstances.”

O’Brian swung up on his own horse and murmured farewell to Fiona, and they both wheeled their mounts and rode across the camp to the rest of their party.

Wolf Shadow glanced down at her. “I meant what I said. You are a free woman. If you want to go with them, I’ll not raise a hand to prevent you from leaving.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I gave you my word, and I’ll be after keeping it. Where you go, I shall go, and your people shall be my people.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and gazed down at her. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. Fiona read his heart’s message in his dark, liquid eyes.

 

They slept that night under the open sky, with pine boughs for a mattress and a thousand glittering stars for a roof. Twice they made love, and twice more Fiona was transported beyond the bounds of time and space into a realm of physical and mental abandon.

Wolf Shadow was a tender lover, patiently leading her step by step to shared ecstasy, always keeping his fiery passion in check, waiting for her to find fulfillment before he reached his own powerful climax.

Afterward they laughed together and bathed naked in the icy water of the river. He led her, teeth chattering, from the riverbank and wrapped her in a furry bearskin until her cheeks glowed with warmth and joy.

“You are my gift, Irish Fiona,” he murmured. “You are the one person I have searched the earth to find. I will never let you go.”

She laughed and snuggled against him. “You told me I could go,” she reminded him. “You said I was a free woman.”

“That was the voice of the shaman,” he answered. “He has to be fair. My inner wolf spirit knows nothing but his mate. You’re mine, and I’ll rip apart any man or beast who tries to take you from me.”

“And me? What of me?” she’d teased, secretly thrilled by his savage threats. “If I willingly ran away? Would you rip me limb from limb and devour me?”

He took her small hand in his and laid it over his heart. “Never,” he promised. “Never will I harm you, my
lehelecheu
... my breath. Sooner would I cut out my own heart.”

“Lehelecheu
... my breath,” she repeated, thinking how poetic the endearment was. She lay close to him, her cheek against his broad chest, and listened in utter contentment to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. She fit against him perfectly, like a kidskin glove fits a hand, and for the first time in her life she felt content.

Each day’s travel took them farther from the Shawnee camp and deeper into a wilderness that Wolf Shadow said was uninhabited. It seemed to Fiona that the trees were larger here, the grass a more vivid green, and the sky a richer blue.

In the early morning, when the grass was heavy with dew and crystalline drops hung like diamonds from the wild grape vines, Wolf Shadow showed Fiona where to find heartweed and moccasin flower and rattlesnake root. He taught her the names and uses of the downy yellow and bird’s foot violet, and he explained how to make a clear syrup of wood sorrel for stanching blood and curing mouth ulcers. “Used carefully in tea, the Delaware believe it is a strong aphrodisiac,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. “When I am old and can no longer satisfy you, you can add it to my morning mush and save our marriage.”

She laughed and twirled around like a giddy girl, filling her lap with purple violets and musing of a time when they might grow old and gray together. Teasingly, she braided a wreath of flowers and hung it around his neck. And he pressed her back into the sweet spring grass and covered his mouth with hers, and they made hot, fervid love in the bright sunlight amid the rising scent of violets.

Fiona’s days were full of laughter and her nights were full of passion; and if the sound of Stewart’s plea for forgiveness sometimes crept into her mind, it was a faint plea, and one easily pushed aside. Her father’s proud, anguished face contorted with pain as she’d last seen him was not so easy to forget. Her answer was to wipe Ireland and Fiona O’Neal from her mind—to become Sweet Medicine Woman, a Shawnee squaw alone in the forest with her lover.

Sweet Medicine Woman had no past, only a future. She had no need to worry about whether her marriage was a true one; she had only to drink her overfilling cup of happiness and revel in the strong arms of her husband.

Each morning Fiona would open her eyes and stare into Wolf Shadow’s face. Until she saw him looking back at her with love, until she smelled his clean, minty breath and felt his lips on hers, she was afraid it was all a dream. She was desperately afraid she would wake under the eaves of Jacob Clough’s dank cabin and find that her life lay in ashes once more.

But the days piled upon one another until they became weeks, and she lost track of how many mornings they had laughed and whispered love words into each other’s ears. Each dawn began with his smile, and each night ended with the feel of his arms around her until Fiona O’Neal and her sadness seemed almost another woman, long dead and buried. She was happy—truly happy—so long as she closed her mind to everything that had happened before Wolf Shadow had taught her to love.

O
range ribbons of light spilled across the eastern sky as Fiona followed Wolf Shadow along a faint deer trail in the early mist of a fresh May dawn. Around them, the forest was coming to life. From a pine bough overhead, Fiona heard the incessant scratching of a gray squirrel, seconds before it scampered out on a swaying limb and chattered angrily at her.

“An ee-wah, ”
she said, pointing up at him.

Wolf Shadow nodded.
“An eek wah
... squirrel. Your Shawnee is improving.”

She repeated the word, trying to imitate his pronunciation exactly, although she’d heard no difference at all between what she’d said and what he’d said.

He motioned her to a halt and pointed at a pattern of vee-shaped track in the damp earth.
“P’sek see.”
He held up two fingers. “They passed here only a short time ago.”

Deer. She knew the word. She’d watched him skin and dress a yearling buck only a few days before. They’d enjoyed the rich meat, then salted the rest and hung it high in a tree to keep scavengers away until they could finish it.

The Shawnee wasted nothing of the animals they hunted. The deerhide would be sewn for clothing or used as a blanket; the horn became eating utensils, fish hooks, and ornaments. The hooves were boiled down to make glue to hold arrowheads tightly on their shafts. Even the brain was put to use in tanning the hide.

“There is a sacred bond between hunter and hunted,” Wolf Shadow had explained when he’d burned tobacco to appease the dead buck’s spirit. “From the death of the deer, I take life. I eat of his flesh, and when I die, my flesh will return to the earth. Grass will grow over my grave, and the deer will eat.” He’d said a prayer for the deer’s soul, and danced in celebration. “Life is a circle, my Fiona—a circle of life.” The first piece of roasted venison had been consigned to the flames in an offering. “So long as we take only what we need, the Great Spirit will provide for us. But if I scorn the deer, if I insult his spirit, if I am greedy and shoot too many, the deer will vanish from this place and I will know hunger.”

He’d caught her hand, and they’d danced together in the moonlight, keeping step to the cadences of the silvery night, intoxicated by the pulse of life through their veins.

He’ll make a savage of me yet, Fiona mused now as she stepped carefully over the deer’s spoor. For some strange reason, she was reluctant to disturb the perfect pattern of the tracks with her own passing. Or perhaps ... She smiled. Perhaps the Irish are not so far from being barbarians themselves. Or mystics ...

What was it Wolf Shadow had said about life being a pattern? No ... not a pattern, but an intricate dance. “We are but dancers in a great celebration,” he had said. “The earth is our dance floor. . . the spirits watchers. If we miss a step, or break the pattern, we cause the spirits pain.”

Fiona glanced up at Wolf Shadow, striding ahead of her with feline grace, and shivers of pride made her want to shout out her joy in the morning hush.

His back was as straight as a surveyor’s line, his tightly muscled buttocks and hard thighs a sight to set a woman’s blood racing. His narrow loincloth covered only a finger’s width of waist and little more between his cheeks.

If ever a man was made to wear so little, he was that man, she thought. It was all she could do to keep from running to catch up with him and cupping one of those lean buttocks in her hand. Just looking at him made her feel as if butterflies were tumbling inside her.

I’m shameless, she decided without the slightest guilt. A wanton born. She moistened her lips and smiled as she remembered their passionate lovemaking the night before.

Nothing had prepared her for a man like Wolf Shadow. No one had ever told her there were so many ways for a man and woman to pleasure each other. She was an able pupil, but it seemed to her that before she could perfect one new position or delight, he revealed a new one.

Fiona laughed out loud, and he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her. “Do you like my sister’s gift?” he asked.

She looked down at her fringed skirt and blushed. Her legs were nearly as unclothed as his—the doeskin fringes barely covered her thighs. And her vest ... Holy Saint Anne! The residents of Dublin would be scandalized. Her sleeveless white vest dipped low at the neckline and stopped inches beneath her breasts. Three rawhide laces held the garment together, but she knew Wolf Shadow could catch glimpses of her breasts when she moved.

“At home I would be put in the stocks for dressing like a whore,” she answered. “But I must admit, it’s cool, and I’ve never felt so free.”

Free ... She did feel free. Without petticoats to smother her legs and drag her down, she found she could walk all day without tiring. The soft spring breezes tickled her bare midriff, and the sun tanned her legs. “Next you’ll have me wearing eagle feathers and bear claws,” she teased.

“A woman doesn’t wear eagle feathers—at least most women don’t,” he replied. “Eagle feathers must be earned.”

Just then a sharp-shinned hawk screeched and dove down through the canopy of interlaced foliage and plunged between the trees in pursuit of an unseen victim. Wolf Shadow stopped short and stared after the bird, then murmured something in Algonquian.

“What’s wrong?” Fiona asked. “It’s just a hawk.”

He nodded, but something in his bearing made her certain that the bird’s appearance troubled him. They continued on their way in silence until they reached a small clearing where Wolf Shadow had pointed out a lightning-killed beech tree a few days earlier.

“There’s a beehive in there. I’ll steal you some honey to sweeten your mint tea,” he had promised.

Since they’d left Moonfeather’s village a month ago, they’d survived on wild game and spring greens. What little cornmeal and beans they’d brought with them had been used up, and Fiona longed for bread and jam and a cup of real tea. Last night they’d dined on grilled trout and wild strawberries. Wolf Shadow had done the cooking. What skill she possessed lay in baking scones or preparing a hearty soup. Making edible meals over an open campfire was beyond her ability.

Before they’d left their campsite this morning, Wolf Shadow had rubbed his chest and face with the crushed leaves of fleabane. “In fall, I’d smoke the bees,” he’d explained, “but they are weak after winter. We need only a little honey, so I’ll depend on my charm to steal it without getting stung.”

Fiona settled onto the grass and watched with apprehension as he approached the hollow tree. He’d assured her that he could take a few combs of honey without being attacked by the bees, but it was difficult to believe.

When he was within three yards of the tree, he began to sing, a slow, deep, repetitive strain. He continued moving toward the hive, but he moved so slowly that Fiona had to stare to be certain he hadn’t frozen in place.

Minutes passed. The hot, bright morning sun warmed her, and she stretched out on her stomach in the thick new clover. Birdsong and the hum of bees filled the air. Fiona noticed the bees all around her, sipping nectar from the clover blossoms and circling overhead. She leaned her chin on her hands and let her eyes close, enjoying the warmth of the earth and the sweet smell of the air.

Without meaning to, she drifted off to sleep.

 

Something warm and wet dripped onto the center of Fiona’s lower back. “Oh,” she murmured, then felt the same sensation in the hollow behind her left knee. “What-”

Wolf Shadow’s deep laughter rumbled close to her ear. He seized her and rolled her over in the soft grass. When he kissed her, his mouth was sweet with the taste of wild honey.

“What are you doing?”

His sticky fingers fumbled with the laces on her vest. “I promised you honey,” he said.

She giggled and threaded her fingers through his thick hair. She loved his hair. She never tired of touching it, of brushing it down his back or feeling it slide over her skin. “Did you get it?” she asked. He kissed her again, answering the question without words.

“Shut your eyes,” he ordered.

She did.

He parted her vest, and she giggled again as she felt the warm drops on her bare breasts.

“What are you doing?” She touched the sticky spot and brought her index finger to her mouth. “You’re dripping honey on me,” she squealed.

“Mmm.” His tongue was warmer than the honey.

“Oh ...” She opened her eyes.

“No,” he commanded. “You must keep them shut. This is an important part of the bee tree ceremony.” She laughed again. “This is very serious,” he insisted. “I am the shaman. You’re only the assistant. You must obey my instructions without question.”

She opened one eye a crack.

“No peeking.”

His tongue traced her lower lip; then he gently sucked her upper lip. His breathing deepened as he took her in his arms and trailed damp, hot kisses down her neck to the hollow between her breasts.

Joy curled in Fiona’s stomach and sent sweet sensations to her knees. “Ummm,” she murmured, keeping her eyes tightly shut. “I hear and obey your words, oh, great shaman.”

Chuckling, he slipped her vest off one shoulder and then the other, leaving her bare to the sun’s rays. “The great shaman has a beautiful assistant,” he murmured, “with skin as white as dew and breasts like mountain peaks.” He laid her back in the grass and stretched out beside her.

Fiona giggled as she felt more honey drip over her breasts and belly. She was acutely aware of a growing warmth in her loins that had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with this great husband of hers doing delicious things to her body.

His lips found her nipple, and she gasped. “Ohhh ... that’s nice,” she whispered.

“Very nice,” he agreed. His fingers were sticky with honey as he brushed her other nipple lightly, then teased it to a hard, erect peak with the pad of his thumb. A warm tingling flowed down her breast and caused an urgent throb between her thighs.

She ran her hand along the curves of his sinewy shoulder, thrilling to the feel of his hard, corded muscles rippling beneath his copper skin. Then she moaned with pleasure and gripped him, her nails digging into his flesh, as he suckled her swollen nipple until it ached with sweet fire. “Oh, don’t stop,” she murmured. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

He kissed her other breast in the same ardent way, and her desire flared as he slipped a hand under her skirt. “And shall I keep on doing this too?” he demanded.

She made a tiny sound in her throat as he used both hands to undo her belt and slide her skirt down over her bare legs. “Wolf Shadow ...”

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s all part of the ceremony.”

His soft chuckle sent excitement down her spine. She wore nothing but her woman’s loincloth and moccasins. In seconds he’d removed them as well and tossed them aside.

His hands were everywhere on her body ... moving over her ... touching ... caressing ... teasing.

Fiona’s chest felt tight and her head giddy. She knew that she should protest. What decent woman would let a man strip her stark naked in a meadow in broad daylight? But she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to go on touching her ... and she wanted to touch him in return. “Is this allowed?” she asked mischievously as she slid her fingers down his chest. “May a shaman’s assistant do this?”

“It’s imperative,” he assured her, capturing her hand in his and moving it lower. “And so is this.”

She shivered with delight as she touched the proof of his desire, then laughed as she felt more warm drops on her belly and thighs. “Stop ...” she protested, opening her eyes, but they both knew she was enjoying the game as much as he was.

He pressed his body against her and wrapped his long, muscular legs around hers. His dark hair swept over her cheek as he nuzzled her neck and planted warm, damp kisses behind her ear.

She trembled with desire. “Wolf Shadow,” she whispered, “I do love you.” Taking his chin in her hands, she raised his face. His ebony eyes were heavy-lidded with passion.

“And I love you, my Fiona.”

She traced the line of his cheekbone with a fingertip. How beautiful he is, she thought. When Eve first opened her eyes in the Garden of Eden, Adam must have looked like this.

Desire shook his body. “Sweet Medicine Woman,” he whispered huskily.

She moistened her lips. “Kiss me,” she begged.

This time his kiss was no longer playful, but hard and demanding. His tongue filled her mouth, and his powerful arms crushed her against him. She met his passion with her own fire, giving him kiss for kiss and touch for touch.

“The most important part of the ceremony,” he managed, between long, hot, deep kisses, “is that every drop of honey must be licked off.”

“No matter where it is?” she asked.

“No matter where.”

She arched against him, reveling in the tumescent length of him, thrilling in anticipation to what she knew must come. “Even ...” She whispered into his ear.