Judith E. French (24 page)

Fiona’s eyes moistened, and she swallowed a lump in her throat as she watched Wolf Shadow and Tek-ee walk away. She had traveled half a world away from Ireland and found a man she could respect and love. They would always argue, she knew that, but their quarrels would be like spice in a rabbit stew, necessary and unavoidable if she wanted a tasty meal.

She was still sleepy, but it was too late to go back to bed. She washed her face and brushed her hair, braiding it neatly in a single plait down her back. She was sweeping out the single room when Timothy O’Brian appeared in the open doorway. He wasn’t carrying his musket, but he had a skinning knife strapped to his belt and a flintlock pistol tucked inside. He looked dressed to travel.

“Miss Fiona, can I speak to you?” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I know what he thinks of me, so I waited ‘til I knew he’d be pow-wowin’ with the chiefs.”

Fiona leaned on her broom. “What is it? I hope you’ve not come to ask me to leave my husband again, because I’m not going to do it.”

O‘Brian’s face fell. “But Mr. Stewart said . . .” His features turned a dark red. “Miss Fiona, ye got to listen t’ reason. What if ye and him ... Well, if ye get in the family way, it will be a mortal sin. Ye’re too good a woman fer that. I offered t’ make an honest woman of ye, and I’m still willin’ t’ do it. I thought if ye were comin’ back with his lordship, then we could get t’ know each other better. I—”

She met his stubborn gaze with one of her own. “I changed my mind, Timothy. I like you, but I love Wolf Shadow.”

“He’s a heathen red nig—”

“Don’t say it. He’s my husband and the finest man I’ve ever met.”

“If that’s the way ye feel, then maybe ye’d best come and tell yer father that.”

“Maybe I will.”

The door slammed open. “Why are you here?” Wolf Shadow demanded. “What do you want of my wife?”

Fiona flushed with embarrassment. “He thought I was going back to Annapolis with my father,” she said, “but I told him I’d changed my mind. I’m staying here with my husband where I belong.”

O‘Brian’s hand moved toward the pistol at his waist. “I want no trouble with ye, shaman. I’m just givin’ the lady another chance to make up her mind.”

Wolf Shadow took two strides and stood beside Fiona. “She is a free woman,” he said softly. “If she tells you that she will not go, you have your answer.”

O‘Brian edged toward the door. “Ye’re riskin’ yer immortal soul, Miss Fiona. Jest ye remember that.”

Warm relief flooded through Fiona. Wolf Shadow had had every reason to fly into a jealous rage, and he hadn’t. He’d believed her without question. “My soul is my own concern,” Fiona answered, taking her husband’s hand and squeezing it tight. “I’ve no need of a heaven where he isn’t welcome.”

“Then there ain’t nothin’ more to say, is there?” O’Brian stalked out of the cabin with Fiona and Wolf Shadow following him. O’Brian stopped short as he confronted four men outside. “Roquette? What are ye—” He reached for his pistol, then uttered a cry of agony as a Seneca warrior buried a steel tomahawk in his head.

Fiona screamed.

O’Brian fell back against the cabin wall, his mouth opening and closing in surprise. He convulsed once and then lay still with blood streaming down the front of his contorted face.

“Get out here, both of you,” Roquette ordered, leveling the muzzle of a pistol at Fiona’s head.

“Are you mad?” Wolf Shadow demanded. “You’ll never escape alive.”

“We’ll see about that. Just keep your hands where I can see them,
sorcier. ”
Another Seneca brave and a white man in a rawhide vest stood on either side of Roquette. Both men held ready muskets. “You have won the council,” Roquette continued, “but you won’t keep the woman as well. She’s still my bond servant.”

“Don’t touch her,” Wolf Shadow said. “She’s mine.”

“Do as I say, or I promise you, I will leave you with only a corpse to fondle.”

“Stay where you are, Fiona,” Wolf Shadow cautioned.

“No. It’s all right,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll go with him.” Her heart thudded against her chest, and she felt as though she was about to vomit. “I won’t risk your life.”

“I paid for you, madame. I’ll not have you warming this savage’s bed.” Roquette motioned with his chin. “Get over here.”

Fiona regarded him with utter contempt. How could such a pitiful specimen of a man be the monster who was causing so much anguish to red men and white on the frontier?

Roquette’s long blond hair was streaked with gray, and his pale eyes were rimmed with red. His once-handsome face was criss-crossed with faint scars and old pockmarks, and his thin nose showed evidence of having been broken and healed. He was freshly shaven, but he’d nicked himself twice in the process. His neck bore rings of grime above the clean linen shirt and blue military coat with wide red cuffs.

“You can’t take me anywhere,” she answered boldly. “I’m Cameron Stewart’s natural daughter. Even you can see the futility of trying to kidnap an English earl’s—”

“Bastard?” he finished. “All the better. Once I fill your belly with my son, your father will pay a great dowry to bribe me to marry you.” He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to see if a lady’s honey is any sweeter than a whore’s.”

Trembling, Fiona took several steps toward him. “My father will see you hang,” she warned.

“Closer, madame.”

Fiona took another step, and Roquette shoved her to the ground, took aim at Wolf Shadow, and pulled the trigger. The pistol spat lead and smoke, and Wolf Shadow fell back with a ball in the center of his chest.

Fiona hit the ground and rolled. The explosion momentarily deafened her, and her mind seemed to be working in slow motion. She turned her head and saw blood well up from her husband’s terrible wound. He’s dead, she thought, and the word echoed through the empty chambers of her anguished soul.
He’s dead . . . dead . . . dead.

Another shot cracked; this one seemed to come from a great distance. She heard a war cry and more shots. She was vaguely aware of a Seneca staggering across her legs and pitching facedown in the grass beside her. Numbly, she looked toward Roquette. The Frenchman was half turned away from her, raising a musket to his shoulder.

She groped in darkness for reality. Wolf Shadow was dead . . . and Roquette had murdered him.

Her grandfather’s mocking words came loud in her head.
Quitter. Weak stock on your father’s side. What more can I expect of an Englishman’s bastard?

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m not a quitter.” Her fingers touched Timothy’s fallen pistol . . . and closed around the grip. The pistol had only one ball. She would have only one chance.

She rose to her knees and held the weapon at arm’s length. She took careful aim at the back of Roquette’s blue coat and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The Frenchman gave a gasp and fell as lifeless as a puppet with broken strings.

Fiona dropped the pistol. She was too blinded by tears to see her father, Brandon, and Ross Campbell come running toward her. She went to where her husband lay and stared down at his blood-covered chest. She cradled his head in her arms and felt his still lips for any sign of breath. There was none.

She closed her eyes and began to croon an old Irish lullaby. Her fingers tightened around her gore-stained amulet. All she could think was that Wolf Shadow was dead, and she had already used up her one wish.

C
ameron held Fiona in his arms as Ross knelt to examine Wolf Shadow’s body. “He’s dead,” she sobbed into her father’s chest. “He’s dead. Roquette shot him through the heart.”

She was cold . . . so cold. A numbness filled her body, her hands, her legs; she felt like a wooden doll. But a doll couldn’t hurt as she did. A doll never felt as though its heart had been torn out . . .

“Why not me?” she cried out. “Why him and not me?”

Cameron’s arms tightened around her. “Shhh, child,” he said hoarsely. “You must have hope.”

“I saw him. I put my fingers in the wound.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “There is no hope. He’s dead.”

Hope was for fools. All her hopes and dreams had died when Roquette’s bullet had smashed into Wolf Shadow’s chest. She’d spent a lifetime watching other people’s loved ones die and comforting them with meaningless words. She had always been a realist. Death was final, and she knew it.

Ross put Fiona’s amulet in her hand and closed her icy fingers around it. The necklace was still warm and sticky with her husband’s lifeblood.

“I’m sorry,” Cameron said. “I’m so damned sorry. If you hadn’t wasted your—” Suddenly he stiffened and pushed her away, gripping her shoulders. “Did ye try, lass? Did ye try the necklace?”

She shook her head. Tears streamed down her face. “No . . . it’s no use. One wish, the legend said. One wish, even unto the power of life and death.”

People crowded around. There were shouts and curses. English voices . . . Algonquian. None of it meant anything to Fiona. Time stood still, and she was locked in a crystal teardrop of grief.

“You must try.” Anne’s soft voice came from behind her.

“Aye,” Moonfeather agreed. She took Fiona’s hand and held it to her own cheek. “Ye maun believe in the Eye of Mist . . . and ye maun try.”

Anne unfastened her own amulet and held it out. “Put mine with yours,” she said. “They can’t all be empty of power.”

“And mine.” Moonfeather yanked her necklace loose, breaking the thin silver chain. “Father? Can ye add your section. If we put the Eye of Mist back together, then maybe . . .”

Cameron shook his head, and his voice took on the lilt of his Scottish childhood. “Nay, lass. I dinna ha’ the last piece. Ye three must try with your own.”

Fiona dashed her tears away with the back of her hand. Was it possible? Could the necklace still retain enough power to save Wolf Shadow’s life? Or was she deceiving herself? Hoping when there was no hope left . . .

“You must believe with all your heart,” Anne said. “Let your love for him outshine death.”

Fiona gripped the golden charms fiercely. Following some inner fey command, she fitted the pieces of the necklace together; first Moonfeather’s triangular section, then Anne’s, and then her own.

“You must say the words,” Anne reminded her.

“Aye, the words,” Moonfeather whispered.

Cameron laid his hand on top of Fiona’s. “Together,” he told them. “The three of ye.”

“Let him live,” Fiona wished aloud. Her sisters’ soft tones blended with her own. “By the power of this necklace and the love of God . . . let him live.”

For long seconds, she waited, then let out her breath slowly. The invisible walls of her crystal prison seemed to evaporate, and she recognized other faces around her. Yellow Elk . . . Amookas ... Royal. She was suddenly aware of the sickly-sweet smell of death and Roquette’s sprawled body.’

She looked into her father’s eyes and read compassion and affection for her in his protective gaze. Her sister Anne, still pale and weak, leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Moonfeather held out her hands in a gesture that needed no translation.

I am loved, Fiona thought. No matter what, I have a family who cares deeply about me.

She sighed and looked down at the amulets in her hand. The familiar tingling sensation warmed the palm of her hand, and a shiver of anticipation ran through her body. And in gazing down, she noticed what she hadn’t before, that Anne’s piece and hers formed the eye at the center of the original amulet. Anne’s charm was perfect, the strange inscriptions as bright as the day they had been carved thousands of years ago.

But her own . . . She glanced up at Moonfeather in confusion. Her own amulet contained a deep gouge. Frantically, Fiona wiped away the last of the blood. Surely, she would have noticed if—

“Fiona.”

Wolf Shadow called to her from beyond the mist. His voice was cracked and husky, but she would have known it anywhere.

“Fiona?”

Her eyes dilated. The earth seemed to move under her feet. Stepping back from her sisters, she spun and dashed toward the spot where her husband lay.

Brandon’s and Ross Campbell’s broad backs formed a wall that hid him from her sight. “Please,” she cried. “Let me see him.”

Ross turned toward her, and she caught a flash of triumph in his eye. “Hist, now, hinney. I’d nay ha’ ye for a doctor if ye canna tell the dead from the living.”

Fiona dropped to her knees beside Wolf Shadow. Her head was spinning, and spots of inky blackness threatened her consciousness. Her stomach turned over, and she gasped for breath.

Wolf Shadow was sitting up. His eyes were open-not glazed in death, but bright and full of pain. “Fiona,” he rasped again. “Do you still draw breath?”

She kissed him. His lips were warm.

“You’re alive?” she demanded. “But how . . .”

“The ball struck your amulet and glanced off,” Ross said. “He’s bleeding like a stuck pig, but there’s no lasting damage done.”

Fiona glanced at Ross in disbelief. “I’m dreaming,” she cried in despair. “God rot your bowels, but this is some terrible dream.” She kissed Wolf Shadow again. “You can’t be alive,” she protested.

Ross’s laugh was a deep rumble. “Damn if she’s not every bit as stubborn as my Anne.”

“And Moonfeather,” Brandon agreed. He pried open Fiona’s left hand and dropped a flattened lead bullet into her palm. “It was lodged under his flesh. So shallow that I could extract it with my fingers.”

She shook her head and laid her face against Wolf Shadow’s chest, heedless of the blood. There was no mistaking the strong, regular beat of his heart. “It isn’t possible,” she murmured. “I know a dead man when I see one.”

“And I know a live one,” Ross said, getting to his feet. “I’d say we don’t even need to carry him to his bed. And good thing, from the size of him.”

“I saw his wound,” Fiona repeated.

“Typical hysterical female,” Brandon remarked as he slid his arm under Wolf Shadow and helped him to his feet.

Wolf Shadow bit back a groan of pain and tried to grin at her. “Will you stop insisting I’m dead and do something to stop this bleeding?” he demanded of Fiona, “Or must I call old Amookas to sew me up?”

She followed him inside to the bed. “And if I am dreaming?”

“Then we must hope it’s a long dream for both our sakes.”

 

Two days later, Wolf Shadow walked unaided to the Grand Council and heard the members vote to create the Shawnee-Delaware Nation he wanted so passionately. And the following day, Alex Mackenzie was elected acting chief of Moonfeather’s home village in place of the aging Tuk-o-see-yah.

“How can he be the chief?” Fiona whispered to her sister, Moonfeather. “He’s a Scotsman.”

“Nay,” her sister replied, “he was a Scotsman. Uncle Alex has lived among my people for half of his life. He married here and fathered children. He has fought beside our warriors in battle and suffered in hard winters when there was little food. Alex Mackenzie may have been born Scot, but he will die a Shawnee.”

“Does that mean that in time the Shawnee will accept me as one of their own?”

Moonfeather chuckled. “They already have, little sister. You have proven your worth by your tender doctoring.”

Fiona grimaced. “Some doctor, if I cannot tell a live man from a dead one.” Her gaze searched the warriors and chiefs gathered on the dance ground until she found the one she sought, and her chest swelled with joy. “It’s not a dream, is it?” Her voice, dropped to a whisper. “He is alive.”

Moonfeather’s eyes lit with understanding. “You and I and Anne share a special secret that none in all the world can know. We know the truth of the necklace. Dinna question, Fiona. Take your happiness and hold it tight. There is little enough in this world. Dinna trouble yourself by asking how or why. Accept each day as it comes.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I will.” Her lips thinned. “I’ve told Cameron. Father . . . that I won’t be going back with him to Annapolis. I think he understands.”

“Aye.” Moonfeather smiled. “Name your first boy after him, and all will be forgiven. It worked for me, and Cami wasn’t even a boy.”

Fiona hesitated, and a question rose in her mind. “You said once that there were four sections to the Eye of the Mist.” Moonfeather nodded, and Fiona went on. “You and I and Anne all have one. Where is Father’s?”

The Indian woman shrugged. “I’m certain he’ll spin a fine tale, if we ever insist upon an explanation.”

“But he valued it so much. Why would—” Fiona broke off as Wolf Shadow came toward her, splendid in his wolfskin cape of office. She ran to him, and he caught her hands and squeezed them tightly.

“We’ve succeeded, Fiona,” he said. “With Mackenzie as chief, his tribe will stand firm for the alliance.”

“In spite of your white-skinned wife?”

“Perhaps because of her.” He smiled. “I hear you’ve won your own victory.”

“Yes. Father says he will set aside a trust for medicine and supplies. Anne wants me to use Wanishish-eyun as a headquarters to provide care for the sick.”

“All by yourself?”

She chuckled. “No, great shaman, not by myself. I still have a lot to learn from you. Perhaps in time we can train Kitate and other young people. Father has heard that a physician in Boston has had success in preventing smallpox. If I can fmd out what he’s doing and how, we could save many Indian lives.”

“So. You will be a gift to the Shawnee after all.” His eyes twinkled. “The spirits do not lie.”

Alex Mackenzie joined them. “Wolf Shadow tells me that ye follow the teachings of Holy Church,” he said in his thick Scottish burr.

“I do,” she replied, “but ...”

“And ye wish t’ be wed t’ this breme heathen by the laws of that faith—knowin’ all the while that once ye swear the oaths, there can be no divorce. None of this Shawnee divorcing whenever it takes your fancy. Ye are wed for so long as ye both live.”

“I know that,” Fiona answered, “but Wolf Shadow is not a Christian—not Catholic. No priest would-”

Alex Mackenzie’s faded eyes narrowed. “This one would,” he said. “If ye still wish it.”

Fiona stared at him in confusion. “How—”

Moonfeather touched Fiona’s arm. “Uncle Alex was once a priest,” her sister explained quietly. “Long ago, before he came to America. He was a Jesuit, and he fought with the British army.”

“Still am a Jesuit,” Mackenzie corrected. “A bad priest I may be, a lost lamb in the Lord’s flock, but I’ve never been stripped of my office. I am mortal flesh—a weak sinner, but the faith is true. And Wolf Shadow is a man that I’d judge fit for God’s heaven, if any of us are.”

A slow smile spread over Fiona’s face. She looked up at Wolf Shadow. “Will you?” she asked. “For me, and for our children to come? Will you pledge your love to me in the eyes of the Church?”

She read the answer in his eyes.

They were married in the Grand Council circle that afternoon before their assembled family and friends and the members of the new Shawnee Nation. Fiona’s father took her arm and led her to stand beside Wolf Shadow.

“I promised your mother when you were born,” he whispered in her ear. “I promised her that I’d see you wed to a prince.” She glanced at him and saw tears fill his blue eyes. “I’m finally keeping that promise.”

She nodded, too full to speak . . . wishing her mother could be here with her, but grateful for her laughing sisters and her father and her many new friends. She reached up and touched her amulet where it hung around her neck once more.

Wolf Shadow had given it back to her before the start of the ceremony. “It belongs to you, Irish,” he’d said only half teasingly. “The magic is too strong for a mere moon dancer. It’s woman’s magic, not man’s.”

The amulet warmed her skin above the plunging neckline of an exquisite, azure silk gown. The dress was a gift from Anne—a bridal gown fit for a princess’s wedding day. And on her head, over her long, loose tresses, Moonfeather had placed a woven crown of wildflowers.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost . . .” Father Alexander intoned. The words flowed together like the days and nights of happiness that she’d known since Wolf Shadow had come into her life.

“Do you, Fiona O’Neal, take this man ...”

She did.