Judith E. French (21 page)

Fiona dropped to her knees beside Cameron and laid her gleaming gold amulet over his heart. “Please ...” she whispered. “My wish is that this man will live.”

At that instant, the first war whoop came from the woods surrounding the tower. There was a smattering. of gunfire and the angry cries of men storming the house.

 

Matiassu was running. Branches lashed his face and clawed at his hair. His breath was coming in strangled gasps. He had never run away in his life, but he was running now. And close on his heels he could hear the slavering snarls of the ghost wolves ... beasts larger and fiercer than any born of flesh and blood . . . ghost wolves with the eyes of haunted men.

The fog covered the ground at his feet; it sucked at his strength and blinded his eyes. His hearing was distorted, his mind confused. Was the howling behind him? In front of him? Should he turn left or right?

His foot sank into soft earth and he fell, sprawling. A jagged offshoot from a lightning-scarred stump dug a furrow in Matiassu’s cheek, but he didn’t feel the pain. He struggled up, fighting the tightness in his chest, and plunged through a green brier thicket. The thorns tore at his skin and tangled around his legs, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was fleeing the fiends of darkness that pursued him.

He had lost all sense of direction. His weapons were gone, dropped somewhere in the fog. White-hot bands of steel crushed his chest; each breath was a torment. His ears rang with the echoes of the howling and the relentless pad of furred paws on the damp earth behind him.

The next time he fell, he could not muster the strength to rise. Weeping, he crawled on hands and knees into a small clearing. Here the fog was lifting, and he looked around, realizing with horror that he had come full circle. He was back at the spot where he’d heard the first wolf howl.

Exhausted, he fell flat, his face in the wet leaves. The forest around him was silent, so silent that not a single bird call broke the stillness. He pushed himself up on his hands and stared into the eyes of a massive wolf.

The fiery pain in Matiassu’s chest became a molten ball of agony that radiated down his left arm.

Hackles rose along the gray wolf’s back, and the beast’s cold, black eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until the force of that inhuman gaze sucked the strangled breath from the war chief’s throat.

Matiassu screamed once as the wolf bared ivory teeth, then the dying man pitched forward into a dark abyss, where the only sound was the wind rushing past his falling body.

Wolf Shadow knelt beside his enemy and rolled him onto his back. Matiassu’s eyes were open wide, his mouth distorted in a silent shriek. “I did not touch you, brother,” the shaman said. “Whatever weapon killed you came from your own quiver.”

His fingers closed on the medicine bag that hung around the war chief’s neck. With a twist of his wrist, he broke the rawhide tie and snatched it free. “You have no need of spirit magic where you’re going,” Wolf Shadow murmured, but then he remembered his own words to Fiona about hate. He placed the unopened medicine bag in Matiassu’s left hand and squeezed it shut. “But on the chance that it will make you a wiser man in your next life, take it with you.”

Then, leaving Matiassu’s body where it lay, Wolf Shadow turned away and began to run back toward Heatherfield and the sounds of gunfire.

 

Fiona wiped her father’s forehead with a clean, wet cloth and tried not to flinch every time a musket fired over her head. She had no idea of how much time had passed since she had pleaded for Cameron’s life. She only knew that bright sunshine filtered through the narrow window slits, and that he was still alive.

The terrible bleeding had stopped. It had slowed a little at a time, so that she couldn’t be certain if her skill as a doctor or her wish had made the difference.

Cameron’s eyes were closed. He was sleeping, but it was no longer the profound unconsciousness of a man slipping away from life; it was a deep, healing sleep. His breathing had become more regular. His heartbeat had slowed to normal.

If Fiona believed in miracles, she would have believed that one had occurred here in the midst of savagery.

Moonfeather had gone above to stand beside Ross and the other men, and shoot at the attackers. Cami rocked Anne’s infant while the mother slept. Fiona was left alone to worry about the man she loved. Sweet Mary and Jesus, she prayed. One miracle isn’t enough for me. I need another. I need Wolf Shadow to walk unharmed out of that hailstorm of fire and shot.

She closed her eyes and summoned his lean, dark face in her’mind’s eye. Where are you? she cried silently. Are you safe? I need you. I don’t want to be safe behind these thick stone walls if you aren’t.

“Fiona.”

She opened her eyes and looked into Cameron’s faded blue ones.

“Fiona,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Shhh.” She leaned over him. “I’m here.”

“I have to . . .”

“Don’t try to talk,” she said.

“I must. You . . . you have to know. I’ve never claimed to be a saint . . . but I’m not the man you believe me to be. I didn’t betray my marriage vows in your mother’s arms. My wife knew . . . she knew, and she didn’t care.”

“Not now,” Fiona said. “Later . . . when you’re stronger. We’ll talk of this matter then.”

“Hellfire and damnation, girl. There may be no
later
for me. You . . . and your sisters have to know the truth.” He swallowed and licked his dry lips. “I wed my ... my English wife, Margaret, when she was thirty.” His eyes pleaded for understanding. “I was sixteen, lass.”

Fiona raised his head and gave him a sip of water. He seemed almost too weak to drink. “You need to rest,” she said.

“I’ll have rest enough in hell,” he rasped.

“You’re not going to hell or heaven yet. I’ll not let you,” she said stubbornly. “You’re going to live, probably long enough to break some other woman’s heart.”

Sweat beaded his forehead, and Fiona wiped it away. “Margaret married me to gain her freedom,” he said. “A marriage of convenience for us both. Margaret’s parents were ambitious. The family had acquired great wealth in commerce, and they wanted a title for their only child. Margaret never wanted to marry, but she agreed to wed me because she thought a boy husband would be little threat to her.”

“And you? Why did you marry her?” Fiona asked.

He forced a wry smile. “I had inherited the title of earl, but we were dirt poor, poorer than crofters. I had a widowed mother to support.” He exhaled softly, and his burr thickened. “The Stewarts ... the Stewarts have always married heiresses. Fortune hunters, the lot of us.”

“There’s no need to tell me,” Fiona insisted.

“Damn me, but you’re like your mother. There is a need. Our marriage was an arrangement, Fiona, a contract between two families. We each got what we wanted. I ... I got the use of Margaret’s unlimited funds, and she was a countess until the day she died.”

His eyes drifted shut. For a moment he rested, then he looked at her again. “We were friends, Fiona. Never more. Margaret was bright and caring. I liked her, despite her . . . her peculiarities. I even bedded her.”

“Don’t do this,” Fiona said.

“It was part of the bargain, you see,” he went on. “Margaret loved children, and she wanted one of her own. She’d been such a disappointment to her family that she felt she owed them that, at least.” His blue eyes clouded with pain. “I gave her bairns ... but they never lived long enough to draw breath. Blue, shriveled, stillborn creatures. One after another . . . She never . . . never carried one to term, and she suffered more with each pregnancy. Then her physician told me that there could be no more. Another pregnancy would kill her.”

Cameron reached for Fiona’s hand and clasped it tightly. “I wept for our dead little boys,” he whispered. “But I was only twenty when they said we could never sleep together again. Twenty, girl, twenty and full of life.”

“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I didn’t know.”

“Margaret was a good woman. I always respected her. We laughed together, but we never loved like a man and wife should love. Margaret wanted a child, but she never cared for the getting of them. She was glad when that was over between us.”

“Shhh, it’s all right,” she repeated. “Rest now.”

“Margaret had her own pleasures, and I had mine. We made a pact never to interfere in each other’s lives. She liked to travel to Paris and to Italy. She had her own companions . . . women companions.” His gaze became hard. “Do you understand, lass? My wife was a woman who preferred the caress of another woman to that of a man.”

“You mean, she—”

“I didn’t hold it against her. Margaret was what she was. We got on well enough.
Never shame me publicly, so long as I live,
she said, and I never did. So long as we were husband and wife in name, she could hold her head up in society. She could entertain and be entertained in the highest circles. I kept her secret as long as she lived.” He squeezed Fiona’s hand. “Margaret and I lived our separate lives. I wasn’t betraying her when I fell in love with your mother. Margaret wouldn’t have cared if I brought you to. England . . . not so long as I did it discreetly.”

Fiona was too drained of emotion to speak.

“Your mother knew we couldn’t marry in the Church, but we were handfasted. I loved Moonfeather’s mother . . . but I loved yours most of all.”

“She loved you more than anything.”

“I searched for you, girl . . . I swear it. I offered a reward . . . for you and your mother. I never quit ... searching ...”

Fiona swallowed hard. “I believe you,” she said.

“On my soul, I swear it. I would never have left her. I loved her. I still love her.” He grasped Fiona’s hand. “I know it’s too late . . . too late to be a father to you.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered. “Maybe we can try.”

Cameron offered her a wan smile, then closed his eyes. In a few minutes he’d drifted off to sleep again. Fiona bent over Anne to satisfy herself that she was sleeping peacefully, taking care not to touch Anne with her hands.

I am adopting Indian ways, Fiona thought wryly. Wolf Shadow had insisted that she not touch one patient after another without going through the entire purifying ritual again. He’d said it was taboo—an insult to the healing spirits. He wasn’t even present to reprimand her now, and still she was following his odd instructions.

Fiona looked down at her hands and clothing. Cameron’s blood spotted the simple skirt and bodice Greer had brought her when they had reached the house. She shrugged. All she’d ever wanted to be was a doctor. No woman doctor could be fashionable . . . or a lady, for that matter. She chuckled out loud. A lady? Fiona O’Neal? Living in the wilderness of America and wife to a savage medicine man ... What would her grandfather say? Still smiling, she climbed the winding stairs to the third floor.

“Keep down,” Ross cautioned when she appeared at the top of the steps. A broken arrow lay on the floor near one of the gaping windows. “They’re still firing at us, but not as much as they were.” He gazed out over the back of the house toward the trees. “Three warriors made it over the garden wall.”

Fiona counted a half dozen men at the windows, some in servants’ dress, others in rough buckskins. One of them turned and grinned at Fiona. “Them red devils lay where they fell, mistress.”

“Timothy O’Brian. What are you doing here?”

“Workin’ fer Cameron Stewart, as usual. It’s good t’ see ye alive, Miss Fiona.” He snatched off his coonskin hat and nodded to her. “Are ye well?”

“I’m fine.” Timothy was staring at her in an intense way that made her feel uncomfortable.

A volley of shots came from the woods, and Timothy ducked low. Bits of stone and lead showered around them. “God rot their festerin’ bowels,” he swore. “No offense, ma’am.” He stood and snapped off a quick shot. “Take that ye whoreson!” He bit the cap off his powder horn and measured powder into the pan with swift efficiency, then glanced back at Fiona. “I trust ye’ve not forgotten the offer I made ye?”

“No, but I’m content where I am.” The thought crossed her mind that it might be Wolf Shadow he was shooting at, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. “How can you tell friendly Indians from the attackers?”

Timothy grinned. “Musket balls ain’t particular, but I trust Ross’s Delaware kin ain’t shootin’ at us.”

Moonfeather was watching them.

Fiona looked at her sister. “All this shooting, and none of you here have been hurt?”

“Nay so much as a scratch. If there are any French out there with big guns, I’ve not seen them.”

Fiona stooped low and moved across the room to sit on the floor next to Moonfeather as another enemy musket ball ricocheted off the stone blocks. “I don’t understand,” Fiona said. “Why didn’t they attack the front of the house?”

“They did,” Ross answered. “But I’ve men at the upstairs windows. Not many, but it doesn’t take many. My father built this house to be defended, and I’ve arms and powder enough.”

“Enough to stand off the whole French army if need be,” Moonfeather said. She took careful aim and fired her musket. A cry of pain rose from the trees. “One less Seneca,” she boasted. “That’s two for me.”

“I didn’t see him fall,” Ross protested. “They don’t count unless I see them go down.”

Fiona looked from one to the other. “How can you joke about this? Wolf Shadow’s out there somewhere, and so is little Royal. This isn’t a game.”

Moonfeather smiled. “As I said, little sister, you have much to learn of us.”

“Get down,” Ross shouted, then swore a foul oath as a flaming arrow flew through the window and struck the wall behind the stairs. “Tend that fire, will ye, hinney,” he ordered Fiona.

Moonfeather pointed to a wooden tub of water with a dipper hanging on the side. Fiona crawled across the stone floor, scooped up a dipperful, and doused the burning pitch on the end of the arrow.