Judith E. French (23 page)

She glanced up and waved at a handsome white man with blond hair who was embracing Moonfeather near the big campfire. “Brandon!” she called. “Welcome to Wanishish-eyun, darling.” She leaned close to Fiona. “That’s Moonfeather’s husband, Lord Kentington to be exact. He used to be Viscount Brandon before his father passed away, and I’ve never gotten used to the change. He’ll always be Brandon to me. Of course, our sister’s Christian name is Leah, although few enough of us use it. Ross said Brandon was going to try and be here for the Grand Council. God knows how he manages without her. They made a bargain, you know, when they married. Very romantic it was, too. She was to spend half her time with the Shawnee and half with him. An odd way to run a marriage, I’d say, but it does suit them. Brandon says that our sister is a handful and”—she chuckled—“he says that their marriage never grows dull. When they are together, it’s as though they’re still on their honeymoon.”

Another mature Delaware woman offered a welcome in Algonquian, then Moonfeather led a group of girls—including Cami—in the first dance. Both mother and daughter were decked in their finest doeskin dresses with long fringes and beautiful quillwork designs.

“Isn’t she precious?” Anne confided, “I love Cami like my own daughter. So far, she’s the only girl.” Anne touched her own amulet, strung on a golden chain around her slender throat. “Father says that if neither of us has a girl, we must leave our amulets to Cami—that’s short for Cameron, you know. Moonfeather named her after Father. Father said he cut the Eye of Mist into four pieces. You and Moonfeather and I each have a piece. Father has the other—at least I think he does. I’ve never seen him wear it. But if there’s a daughter, the necklace is supposed to be passed on to her. It’s only right—don’t you agree?”

Fiona nodded, too caught up in her own thoughts to pay much attention to Anne’s chattering. She’d been going over and over in her mind the argument she’d had earlier with her husband.

Wolf Shadow had been wrong—absolutely, positively wrong. He’d been acting like a jealous fool, and she didn’t like it. He’d deserved the wetting she’d given him.

Still, the argument troubled her. She’d dressed in Indian garb tonight to please him, refusing the lovely sky-blue silk gown Anne had offered in favor of this soft buff doeskin dress and moccasins. She’d left her hair loose, as he liked it, and she’d woven flowers into the tresses at the sides of her face, pulling them together at the back of her head. Anne had given her beautiful pearl earrings set in gold and a gold bracelet from India so heavy that Fiona was conscious of it whenever she moved her arm.

“Nonsense,” Anne had said when Fiona had protested accepting the jewelry. “I’m disgustingly rich, and there’s nowhere to spend it. You saved my life and my baby’s. Please accept my gifts, not as payment but in return for the gift you gave us.”

Fiona rolled the bracelet absently on her wrist. One of the reasons she’d never wished to marry was the possessiveness of men. She’d never wanted to be controlled by a husband, owned like a donkey or a cow. She hadn’t been sure whether she wanted to go to Annapolis before, but now that Wolf Shadow had all but forbidden the trip, she’d go or die. She didn’t want to risk what they had together, but if he couldn’t trust her out of his sight, what kind of marriage would they have?

Indian men were carrying infants onto the dance ground. One by one, they filed forward, and three elderly women examined the children and then called out something in Algonquian.

“They’re naming the children,” Anne said. “It’s considered good luck for a child to receive an official ‘baby name’ at a Grand Council fire. See!” She pointed out Ross, a head taller than the other warriors, with his own baby son in his arms. “We’re naming him Geoffry Angus, but his Indian name will be N’mamentschi—Rejoice, in English.” She laughed. “My mother would be horrified, but that’s what the old women picked. I’m so happy to have him alive and well. They could have called him Little Skunk for all I care.”

Ross turned and held the infant boy high for Anne to see, and she dapped loudly. There were general calls of approval from the onlookers, and Ross strode toward Anne, grinning broadly.

Fiona murmured her own congratulations and took the opportunity to leave. She wanted to look for Wolf Shadow, to try and have a moment alone with him to settle their disagreement.

“Wait,” Yellow Elk called in his own tongue. He stepped into the firelit circle. “Another comes to receive a name this night.” The crowd grew silent. “A child has died,” Yellow Elk continued. Moans and cries of sympathy flowed around the assembly. “But ...” The people listened eagerly. “But the child did not really die to his mother.”

Fiona moved closer to the circle, not certain she understood the words. Was the child dead or not? And whose child was it?

“He was the son of our peace woman, Nibeeshu Meekwon, who the English call Moonfeather,” Yellow Elk proclaimed. Moonfeather joined him and fell on her knees, then began to wail in mourning.

Fiona stared at her sister in bewilderment. Yellow Elk had just said that Kitate was dead, but Moonfeather wasn’t acting as though she’d lost a child. The mourning was plainly a charade.

“A mother has lost her only son,” Yellow Elk went on. “And in his place stands a warrior of the Shawnee nation!”

The throng leaped to their feet and began cheering as Wolf Shadow led Kitate into the circle. Both the man and the boy were stripped to loincloths and moccasins; both wore their hair long and unadorned. Their skin had been rubbed with oil until it shone in the firelight, and they walked slowly with the pride of princes.

Wolf Shadow took Kitate’s hand and lifted it high, bringing a roar of approval from the spectators. Then the boy turned and went to Moonfeather. He took her by the hands and raised her up. For an instant he knelt before her, to honor her above all people, then he stood and returned to the shaman’s side.

Moonfeather joined Fiona at the edge of the circle. Her face glowed with joy, and she grabbed Fiona’s hand and squeezed it.

“I’m so glad he’s safe,” Fiona whispered to her sister. “He’s a fine boy.” The words sounded trite to her ears as she spoke them, but Moonfeather smiled back with tear-filled eyes.

Yellow Elk made a great show of saluting Kitate, then he too left the circle and blended with the multitude.

“Kitate the boy is dead,” Wolf Shadow said in his deep, resounding voice. “Here in his place stands the man.” Kitate kept his eyes on the ground, his stance humble. “I, Wolf Shadow, shaman of the—”

“No!” A shrill voice broke through the moon dancer’s oration. “I say you have no right to address the Shawnee. I say you are no true shaman. You have broken the laws of the people. I, Tuk-o-see-yah, say this.” Men and women cleared a path for the old man as he limped feebly into the circle and pointed a painted stick at Wolf Shadow.

“Ahhh ...” someone exclaimed.

“What is this?” called a Menominee brave.

“What can our shaman have done?” asked another man.

“It is the white woman,” an old squaw croaked. “Wolf Shadow sinned when he took an enemy woman to wife.”

Kitate’s eyes dilated in astonishment, but he rye-mained standing where he was and kept silent.

“You are not fit to stand in this circle,” Tuk-o-see-yah said. “You cannot speak to us of forming a Shawnee Nation. You cannot speak to this council at all. You have no right to walk among the true men. You should be buried alive so that your evil cannot live after you.”

Wolf Shadow looked at the old chief without anger. “Why do you speak so, Tuk-o-see-yah? Why do you accuse me in this sacred circle?”

Fiona’s heart leaped in her breast. She wanted to run to Wolf Shadow. Never had he seemed so handsome, so magnificent as he was now with the firelight gleaming on his oiled skin, with his great black eyes full of compassion for an old man. Only Moonfeather’s tight grip on her hand held her back. “Wolf Shadow,” Fiona murmured, and suddenly she was afraid for him. Could his people turn on him for her sake? What would she do if they demanded he give her up?

“You have broken the law, Wolf Shadow,” Tuk-o-see-yah said, shaking the feathered stick again. “You murdered my grandson Matiassu. You broke the law of the People when you killed a brother Shawnee, and you broke the greater law of the moon dancers when you used your spirit power to do evil.”

“I did not lay a hand on Matiassu,” Wolf Shadow replied. “His death was his own doing.”

“You command the spirits!” Tuk-o-see-yah shrieked. “You ordered his death. It is the same as if you drove your knife into his heart.”

“Matiassu stood outside tribal law,” Wolf Shadow said. “He lost the right to be sheltered by that law when he caused the death of Beaver Tooth and my sister, Willow.”

“You lie!” the old man roared. “Prove that Matiassu killed your sister.” He turned to the crowd for support. “This moon dancer—this bad shaman-has accused my grandson of killing Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy. He!” He shook the stick at Wolf Shadow’s chest. “He claims that my grandson was an evil man, but where is the proof that Matiassu killed anyone?”

“The proof is here,” Kitate said.

Wolf Shadow cupped his hands over his mouth and gave the cry of the great horned owl, and the warrior Fat Boy stepped from the shadows. Cries of joy rose from the onlookers as the Shawnee brave joined Wolf Shadow and Kitate in the circle.

“It is Fat Boy!.” shouted a woman.

“It can’t be, he’s dead,” a brave argued.

“I know him,” insisted another. “It’s Fat Boy, all right.”

“Where has he been?”

“That’s my brother,” yelled a young warrior. “Fat Boy, I’m here.”

Fat Boy raised his hands for quiet. “I am the proof of Matiassu’s sin,” he shouted. “I saw Beaver Tooth fall with Matiassu’s knife in his heart. I saw Matiassu take his scalp.” He lifted a matted piece of hair high in the air. “This is the scalp of our friend and brother Beaver Tooth.”

“I sent Kitate to the Seneca to steal a dance mask,” Wolf Shadow said. “Instead, he stole away a Seneca captive.”

The Shawnee were shouting so loudly that it was hard for Fiona to hear her husband’s words.

“Kitate rescued Fat Boy from the Seneca,” Wolf Shadow proclaimed. “Matiassu murdered Beaver Tooth and traded Fat Boy to our enemy as a slave. What say you to this, Tuk-o-see-yah?”

Dejected and broken, the old chief turned and walked weeping from the circle. Men, women, and children spilled onto the dance ground shouting Wolf Shadow’s name and pounding both Kitate and Fat Boy on the back. Shouting and singing, two husky braves lifted Wolf Shadow onto their shoulders and carried him triumphantly around the fire.

T
he moon had risen to its highest peak over the Wanishish-eyun by the time the council members had finished talking and the night had been given over to the younger people. Seasoned warriors had demonstrated their skills and boasted of their exploits in hunting and in war, and the newest braves had shown off their physiques and mastery of the most difficult dance steps. Old women with gray hair, their eyes bright with excitement, had shuffled around the fires while girl-children looked on enviously.

The Grand Council discussion would go on for days, but for now the Shawnee would forget political matters and dance and laugh together.

White men and women, Shawnee, Delaware, and Iroquois, all had eaten well. Kitate, whose warrior name was Sh’Kotai Olamaalsu, had been praised and showered with gifts by the tribesmen, and he in turn had given them all away to friends and relatives. The central fire had burned to a bed of glowing coals, and the children and elderly had found their beds.

The drums still sounded in the darkness, but their message was not the same as it had been earlier in the evening. At moonrise the drums had called all the people to the council circle. Now their muffled beat offered a more subtle invitation.

Fiona lingered by the edge of the clearing as Shawnee and Delaware squaws—blankets draped over their folded arms—formed a line and began a slow, stately dance. Onlookers, both male and female, began to chant softly. “Hih-yah, hih-yah, hih-Yah.”

“Come, little sister,” Moonfeather whispered, pushing a red blanket into Fiona’s hands. “Ye maun join in the Blanket Dance. It be for wives . . .” She chuckled. “And sometimes those who seek a husband.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Just do what this one does,” Moonfeather insisted. “But be certain the man you choose is your husband.”

“What?”

Moonfeather laughed again. “Come. Ye will like it, I promise.”

Reluctantly, Fiona followed her sister to the end of the line. The slow, shuffling step was easy enough to follow, and after a few circles of the campfire Fiona could repeat it without thinking.

“Hih-yah, hih-yah, hih-yah,” the dancers sang, and the cadence of the drums echoed through the moonlit forest.

Fiona became caught up in the repetitive rhythm. She lost her self-consciousness and began to enjoy the unity of the dance. The words were meaningless to her, but in some strange, inexplicable way, they filled her with an inner satisfaction.

Round and round the line of dancers snaked, weaving into the darkness and back into the light. A breeze brought the scent of honeysuckle, and that sweet smell mingled with the odor of burning cherry logs and the bite of tobacco.

A bone whistle joined the drums, followed by a reed flute and the rattle of shells. The women kept step as the cadence quickened and took on a frolicsome air.

The woman at the head of the line shook out her blanket and threw it around her shoulders. One after another, the other dancers followed her lead. Fiona shivered despite the warmth of the summer night and the nearness of the fire. Figures of men moved in the shadows, and it seemed to Fiona as if she could smell the clean, musky scent of them.

The teasing voice of a reed flute rose above the drums. Across the dance ground, another flute took up the melody. The braves edged into he clearing, naked but for their minuscule breechcloths, their bodies oiled and muscles glistening.

The line of dancers snaked close to the men, so close that Fiona could see the outline of their craggy features and hear the rasp of their breathing. Then without warning, a man reached out and grabbed her. She gasped in surprise and would have broken step, but he tightened his arm around her and kept her place in line.

“Wolf Shadow.” She swallowed and breathed a sigh of relief as shivers ran up and down her spine. He hadn’t spoken to her all evening. “I didn’t—”

“Hih-yah, hih-yah, hih-yah,” he sang. His deep, rich voice made her feel weak inside.

Other couples were forming. As each of the woman dancers pointed out her chosen partner, the man joined her, and they unfolded the blanket and spread it around both of them. Fiona saw Moonfeather point to her tall, yellow-haired English husband. Laughing, he came to her, and they pulled her blanket over their heads.

Wolf Shadow took hold of Fiona’s blanket and tossed it away into the darkness. Her breathing came faster as he led her out of the line of dancers and into the center of the circle.

“I thought the woman was supposed to pick her partner,” she whispered to him.

Mischief lit his dark eyes. He smiled a wolfish grin. “I was afraid you’d pick another.” He held her lightly, fingertips to fingertips, but his gaze gripped her like an invisible ribbon of steel.

His moccasined feet moved to the beat of the drum, his hips and shoulders swayed sensually in the firelight, and all the while, he made white-hot love to her with his ebony eyes.

They circled the fire, inside the ring of chanting couples . . . within the dance yet apart from it.

His hair hung long and loose over his bare back, and his copper earrings jingled. His armband caught the glow of the coals and reflected their red-orange light. His bronze skin was a thin layer of satin over corded, iron thews.

She couldn’t keep her eyes from the scrap of scarlet wool that barely covered his bulging loins. His flat stomach tapered to vanish beneath that bit of cloth, but the material did nothing to hide his smooth, hard thighs or his tight, well-shaped buttocks.

Fiona’s body followed the steps of the dance, but her mind tantalized her with carnal desires. Her skin was acutely sensitive to the moisture in the warm night air. Her breasts felt tight and achy against the bodice of her doeskin dress; with every move she made, the soft leather scraped her swollen nipples. Shivers made gooseflesh rise on her neck, but she wasn’t cold. She was so hot that trickles of sweat ran down between her breasts.

Wolf Shadow’s fingertips seemed to be on fire. Her fingers burned where they touched his, and the flames shot down her arm to kindle a blaze in the pit of her stomach.

Wolf Shadow leaned close and brushed her neck with his lips. “You were right to be angry with me,” he murmured. “I was a jealous fool.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She was trembling with anticipation, and all she wanted was to be alone with him. Anywhere . . . Anywhere that she could fill the rising hunger that burned within her.

“I had no right to tell you that you could not go with your father,” he continued. “The choice is yours, Fiona. And if you go, I will wait for you, until you tell me that you want me no more.”

Laughing couples were slipping away from the dance circle. She was vaguely aware of Moonfeather’s departure, and the knowledge of what her sister and brother-in-law would soon be doing made her burn all the hotter.

“Will you forgive me?” he asked.

She nodded, light-headed with wantonness. She still could not speak. In answer, she undid the clasp at the back of her neck and stood on tiptoe to fasten her amulet around his throat.

His nostrils flared, and she saw his throat constrict. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to make hot, sweet love to you.” He placed his hands on her hips, and she felt the heat of him sear through her dress.

She drew in a strangled breath. “Yes,” she managed. “I want you.” And her knees went weak as he picked her up and strode from the dance ground with her cradled in his arms.

When they reached the shadows, he kissed her and she moaned with desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. His bare chest was molten silk against her skin.

She lowered her head and closed her lips around his nipple, thrilling at the salt taste of him, reveling in the texture of his skin. He groaned as she tugged at his nipple with her teeth and nipped him until she felt him tremble.

Fiona arched against him, shaken by waves of fierce desire that brought a familiar wetness between her thighs. She wanted him as she had never wanted him before.

She told him so.

He kissed her again, filling her mouth with his hard, thrusting tongue, crushing her to him. Her heart thudded wildly as the inferno set her blood ablaze.

They made it only as far as the orchard.

He dropped to his knees in the clover and laid her back in the sweet-smelling grass. “Let me love you, Fiona,” he begged.

“Yes . . . yes.”

Not far away she could hear the moans of another couple locked in raw consummation, and the sounds of their passion inflamed her own. Whimpering with eagerness, she slid her dress up past her hips. He pulled it over her head and dropped it into the grass.

“Touch me,” he dared.

Her fingers trembled as she unfastened his loincloth and let it fall.

His pulsating shaft thrust out boldly, huge in the moonlight.

“Touch me,” he repeated.

Weeping and laughing all at once, she went down on her knees and took his smooth length between her hands. Her fingers stroked him lightly, and she marveled at his size and silken texture. He was tight and hard, swollen with proof of his desire for her. Shyly, she lowered her head and kissed him.

Wolf Shadow shuddered with pleasure.

Her confidence increased by leaps and bounds. She kissed him again, then cautiously tasted him with the tip of her tongue.

He groaned.

She chuckled and brazenly flicked her tongue against the taut skin of his swollen shaft.

“Yes,” he managed. “Don’t stop. That feels so good.”

Instinctively, she drew as much of him into her mouth as she could take and sucked gently. He threaded his fingers through her hair and moaned.

“No more,” he cautioned, breathlessly. He pulled her up and kissed her mouth, then nibbled a scalding path of kisses down her throat to her breast.

Her knees went weak as he circled her nipple with his tongue and tugged hard with his lips. Threads of golden joy spilled through her. “Now,” she urged. “I want you now.”

They sank together in the lush, soft grass, and he drove his turgid rod deep into her willing flesh. She met him thrust for thrust, entwining her legs with his and crying out with wild abandon.

They took and gave each other pleasure long into the warm summer night. And when at last they lay sated in each other’s arms, Fiona was content. Her doubts were gone. For with the last barrier of their intimacy behind them, she knew that whatever adversity the future brought, she would rather face it with this man beside her than with anyone else in the world.

 

The first rays of the new sun had tinted the heavens a rosy purple in the east when Fiona and Wolf Shadow walked, hand in hand, back to their cabin to sleep. It seemed to Fiona that they had been unconscious for only a few minutes when a man’s voice called Wolf Shadow from his bed.

She sat up sleepily and hastily pulled her deerskin dress over her head. Still barefooted, she walked out into the early morning light to see her husband talking with an Indian brave she didn’t know.

“Seeg-o-nah wants to see me right away,” Wolf Shadow explained, unsheathing his knife and handing it to her.

Fiona recognized the name as one of the Shawnee chiefs with a large group of followers. “But why—” she began.

“Seeg-o-nah’s wigwam is within the council area. “I may not carry any weapon capable of killing a man.” He indicated the Shawnee brave. “This is Tek-ee. He says that Tuk-o-see-yah has changed his mind and will urge his people to vote for the establishment of a Shawnee Nation. Seeg-o-nah is one of those who hates the English. His family was massacred by British soldiers. Seeg-o-nah has not forgiven me for taking a white wife. Now he is willing to listen again to what I have to say.”

Fiona rubbed her eyes and nodded a greeting to the grizzled old warrior, Tek-ee. “But what can you tell him at this time of the morning that you didn’t say before?”

Wolf Shadow smiled at her. “I can say that I was wrong—that my own pride made me blind to the truth of my own mission.” He took a step closer to Fiona, and his voice grew tender. “I can say that knowing you has made me realize that the Shawnee cannot reject all things European and go back to the way our grandfathers lived. We must take the best that your people have to offer.” He exhaled slowly. “Liquor must be forbidden, for it is the curse of the Indian. But if we judge men by the color of their skin or the amount of Indian blood in their veins, we are no better than the English.” He glanced at Tek-ee. “All men and women who are willing to live by Shawnee law must be welcome among us, if their skin is as fair as my Fiona’s or as black as charcoal. We must judge men and women by their hearts, not the place of their birth. We must educate our children in the white man’s reading and writing, as I have been educated, and we must welcome their religion—not to renounce our own, but to add to what we know of the Creator.” Lightly with two fingers he touched Fiona’s amulet, which now hung around his own neck. “This is the message I will give Seeg-o-nah, and I will tell him that even a moon dancer can learn wisdom from a small woman, if he is willing to listen.”