Judith E. French (8 page)

“Keep your hands off my case,” she said, trying not to alarm the patient. “Do you know what you’ve done with your meddling? That’s all the balsam of life I have. It cost two gold guineas.”

“What else did you intend to give her? Powdered unicorn horn?”

Fiona gritted her teeth. “Nettle tea and ginseng.”

“The tea won’t hurt her. She’s eaten nothing since she began having the pains, and she needs all the liquid she can take.” He motioned toward the fire. “The water in that pot is clean and hot. You can steep your nettle tea in one of those gourds.”

Fiona prepared the medicinal drink in seething silence. When it was ready, Wolf Shadow took it from her, tasted it, then carried it to the patient. Sage drank it slowly and lay back on her bed of furs. It was obvious to Fiona that Sage was still uncomfortable and badly frightened of her.

“What now?” Fiona asked. She wondered if she’d be allowed to remain with the patient, or if Wolf Shadow would send her away again for another session in the sweat house.

“Now we wait,” he said. “Sit over there, beyond the fire, and don’t speak. Not a word, do you understand?”

She obeyed him without answering. The warmth of the small room was beginning to make her sleepy again, but she forced herself to remain alert as Wolf Shadow began to sing in a deep, rich timbre. From a pouch at his waist, he produced a drum no larger than the palm of her hand. The sound of the drum was soft and muffled, almost an echo of his chanting.

A rainbow of colors radiated out from the fire. Fiona blinked. Had Wolf Shadow thrown something into the flames? She hadn’t seen his hands move in that direction, but he was dancing now, a half step, half shuffle in time to the drum.

Clouds of blue smoke swirled up from the fire pit, drowning the rainbow hues. Fiona smiled, thinking Wolf Shadow could have made a fortune selling magic tonic from the back of a peddler’s wagon. The colors in the fire were a trick obviously, but how did he make them?

Fiona’s eyelids closed. Immediately she opened them again. Was she dreaming? The walls of the hut seemed to have vanished. All around her were trees. But . . . She shook her head to clear her senses. The trees were covered with green leaves—the bright green of early summer. The air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle and clover and ... and wild strawberries. She opened her mouth to cry out, and then remembered the shaman’s warning.

She pinched the inside of her elbow hard—hard enough to wake herself from a dream—but the forest didn’t vanish. To her left she could see a rolling meadow, and beyond that a river. Wolf Shadow was still singing, but now she could hear birdsong as well. It was unnerving—impossible.

She shut her eyes tight and opened them again. Now there was no wigwam at all, just towering trees so high and broad, only patches of blue sky were visible through the treetops. She tried to focus on the beech leaves floating around her. She reached out to catch one in her fingers.

This can’t be, she cried inwardly. It’s a hoax—a charlatan’s trick. But if the trees aren’t real, why does the leaf taste and smell like ...

The clouds rose again from the fire pit, and Fiona knew no more until she felt the motion of being carried. The air around her was cold, and when she opened her eyes yet again, she saw the heavens ablaze with stars.

“Put me down,” she said. “I—”

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” Wolf Shadow soothed. “You’re tired.”

“No.” She began to struggle, and he lowered her to her feet. She looked up into the velvet-black heavens. The stars looked close enough to touch. They’d never seemed this bright in Ireland. The snow-covered ground was bitter cold through her moccasins; it crunched under her feet. “It’s still . . . night,” she stammered. Flashes of memory returned, memories too confused to be real. “Sage? What of Sage?”

He steadied her with his arm. “She’s sleeping. The pains have stopped, and her family is with her. We can rest now.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my wigwam. You said you wouldn’t go to Willow’s wigwam, and everyone else in the village is asleep.”

She stepped away from him, shivering in the raw night air. The cold was so intense it hurt her teeth. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she argued.

“You drugged me.”

“You know that’s not true.”

She looked back toward Sage’s wigwam. “Either drugs or witchcraft. What happened in there . . .” She exhaled slowly, and her breath made puffs of steam in the air. “It . . . it was unnatural.”

“I performed a healing ceremony, nothing more.”

“I saw . . .” Fiona shook her head, unwilling to put into words what she had seen . . . what she had smelled. “You
are
a warlock,” she accused. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach. She knew it wasn’t fear that caused the strange sensation; it was something else.

He chuckled. “No, I’m not. What evil I do, I do with my hands like any other man. I value my soul as much as you do, Irish. I practice no black arts.”

“Then how . . .” The cold bit through the leather dress. Fiona was shivering so hard that she could barely speak, but it wasn’t the bitter air that made her tremble. It was the power, the magnetism, of this man.

“You can’t stay here, little one. You’ll freeze.” He took off his wolf’s cape and draped it protectively around her, fur side in. His fingers caressed her bare arm, and she flinched. “I’ve sworn to you that I’ll do you no harm.”

She looked up into his face. Moonlight reflected off his cheekbones, outlined his craggy features, and glittered back at her from his luminous, almond-shaped eyes. He stood there as solid as a granite outcropping, muscles taut, bare-chested in the cold winter wind. Completely alien.

She took a hesitant step toward him. His smoldering gaze sent giddiness through her. She took another step, and her heart skipped a beat as he crushed her against him and covered her mouth with his own.

The heat of his body permeated her as she pressed ever closer, savoring the sweet taste of his lips. How could their lips fit so perfectly together? she wondered ... as though they had always been one. The heady scent of his clean male virility filled her head and turned her knees weak. Breathless, she clung to him, offering no protest when he swept her off her feet and began to carry her again.

Fiona let her head fall back into the crook of his arm and instinctively parted her lips. To her surprise and sudden joy, his warm, wet tongue filled her mouth. “Ohhh,” she murmured. Her eyes dilated with pleasure. The texture of his tongue against hers was a delight, and she returned the favor without hesitation. She threaded her fingers through his night-black hair and pulled him closer, unwilling for the wonderful sensations to end.

Wolf Shadow ducked to enter the doorway to his own wigwam, and Fiona felt the warmth of the fire in the snug dwelling. He sank to his knees and lowered her carefully onto a bearskin rug. “Fiona, I—” he began, but she held out her arms to him, and he left his thought unfinished.

The intensity of his searing kiss shocked her. Her last shreds of fear were washed away by the delicious sensations that thrilled her and made her hungry for more. The tip of his tongue flicked sparks of liquid fire along her upper lip, teasing the corners of her mouth. She sighed and snuggled back against the thick fur, no longer trying to understand what was happening, no longer caring why.

As Wolf Shadow leaned over her, his hair brushed across her cheek like a curtain of ebony silk. His deep voice whispered her name, making her tremble with wanting him. His tender mouth trailed hot, moist kisses down her throat and nuzzled aside her amulet to kiss the sensitive flesh beneath.

Fiona caught his beautiful face between her hands and lifted it so that she could look into his dark eyes. Her pulse quickened as their gazes locked, and she realized instantly that he shared the burning fever that threatened to consume her with desire.

Flushing under his passionate gaze, she moistened her lips and tilted her head to kiss him again. This time, when he thrust his tongue into her willing mouth, she sucked on it, drawing him deep into her . . . reveling in the sensual feel of his hard, stabbing tongue against hers.

Wolf Shadow moaned with desire and ran a hand over the curves of her breasts. Fiona made a small sound of delight as her nipples hardened to tight buds of aching torment. She arched her body against his, wanting to feel the weight and length of him pressed against her, wanting something she dared not give name to.

Her mind whirled. She felt as though she were standing on the edge of a cliff with only air and sea beneath her. One step and she would go over the precipice. One step more and . . . She had been kissed before, but no man had ever caused her to feel such sweet, hot hunger . . . such throbbing, incandescent longing. What madness was this? she wondered. Or had everything that had happened in her life been madness and this was the only sanity?

“I want to look at you,” he whispered. “Look, my Irish Fiona . . . nothing more.”

Her throat constricted.
Stop. Stop before it’s too late,
her inner voice cried.
Will you be like your mother and give yourself to a man without marriage?
But when she opened her mouth to speak, she answered, “Yes.”

He took hold of the hem of her deerskin dress and slid it up her hips. Trembling, she leaned forward to help him pull it over her head. Suddenly shy, Fiona covered her bare breasts with her arms. Her cheeks burned, but when she dared to look at him, he was smiling back at her.

“Only look,” he said huskily. “For I think that you have never been with a man.”

“No . . . never.”

Tears clouded her vision as he took her hands in his and pulled them away from her breasts. Waves of heat flushed her body, but she found the strength to raise her head and meet his scalding gaze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Her braid had come undone, and he lifted a lock of her hair to his lips and kissed the red-gold strands. “I’ve thought of you like this so often . . . since you lay in my arms in the cave . . . I was afraid I’d dreamed you ... but you’re real.”

Tears welled up again in her eyes, and emotion choked her so she couldn’t speak. She swayed as his hungry stare caressed the curve of her hips and lingered intimately on her triangle of bright russet curls. Soundlessly, her lips formed his name, and she reached out to him.

“I never chose you, Irish Fiona,” he whispered huskily. “The spirits chose you for me.” Slowly, he rose on his knees and pulled a red woolen trade blanket from his sleeping platform. He drew in one long, shuddering breath and covered her. “You are untouched, my Irish
equiwa.
As much as I want you, I . . . I can’t.”

“But . . . but . . .” She pushed up on one elbow, her eyes wide with confusion. “You don’t want me?”

He stood and wrapped his wolfskin around his shoulders. “Sleep, Fiona. Tomorrow we will talk of this. If I don’t go now, we will do something we may both regret.”

She stared after him in shocked silence as he pushed aside the deerskin and ducked out through the entrance, leaving Fiona alone with her doubts and tears.

“F
ee-on-nah?”

Fiona opened her eyes to see Willow bending over her. “Oh,” she gasped, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Light was streaming through the open doorway, and Fiona could hear children’s voices outside the wigwam.

“Have no fear, Fee-on-nah. Willow no come for harm you. See, me ... I ... bring you English dress.” She held out Fiona’s own shoes and clothing.

Glancing around first to make certain that they were alone in the hut, Fiona hastily donned her own things. During the night someone had washed them; they were clean and smelled of mint. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. She wondered what Wolf Shadow had told his sister about her, and if Willow suspected she and Wolf Shadow had been intimate. “Is ... is he-”

“This one’s brother not here.”

Fiona suddenly remembered her patient. “Sage? Is she all right?” To her relief, Fiona noted that her grandfather’s precious surgical case lay at the feet of the bearskin where she’d been sleeping. Last night, she’d completely forgotten it and left it in the sick woman’s wigwam.

Willow nodded. “Sage good, no have pain. My brother talks with council.” She frowned. “White woman bad for him. No marry you.” She shook her head vehemently.

“Marry me?” Startled by the outlandish notion, Fiona widened her eyes in astonishment. “God forbid!” She bent to buckle her shoe. The leather was slightly damp, but her woolen socks were dry. “I don’t know where you’d get such an idea. I have no intention of marrying any man, and if I did, it wouldn’t be a Shawnee. Your brother’s safe from me,” she answered firmly. She kept her face averted so that Willow couldn’t see her eyes. Memories of what she had allowed Wolf Shadow to do flooded over her, and she was deeply ashamed. She should have rebuffed him when he had first kissed her, but she hadn’t. She’d welcomed his mouth . . . his hands on her . . . She’d touched him and returned hot caress for caress.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she replayed the scene of their fervent lovemaking in her mind. Merciful Mary! Thank the Lady that Wolf Shadow wasn’t here this morning—she could never have faced him. “All I want is . . . is to return to my own people,” she said.

Fiona knew she had led Wolf Shadow on. She’d offered herself to him like a common whore, and he’d rejected her. He’d turned away in . . . In what? Disgust? Fiona’s stomach churned. How could she have been so weak? Before, she’d held every man at bay. She’d fought tooth and nail to protect her maidenhood. What was there about this wolf-man that had cut through her defenses like a scythe through ripe wheat?

She’d wanted all of him. She still did.

Tears of shame and anger filled her eyes, and she dashed them away. “Your brother saved me,” she continued, trying to maintain her shattered composure. “I’m grateful, but I never asked to be brought here. And I never asked to be his wife.” She glanced up into his sister’s disbelieving face and unconsciously fingered her golden amulet. “I’d . . . I’d sooner be dead,” she lied.

Willow’s exotic features were expressionless. She inclined her head slightly and settled down on the rug. “We talk, Fee-on-nah.”

“Fiona,” she corrected.

“Fiona.” This time, she pronounced her name with only the slightest accent. The Indian woman sighed heavily and produced a wooden bowl of corn pudding and flat corn patties. “Eat,” she instructed. She sat silently while Fiona nibbled the Indian bread and tasted the pudding.

“It’s . . . it’s very good,” Fiona said. Suddenly she was starving. She ate every spoonful of the honey-sweetened porridge and devoured the bread to the last crumb. “Thank you.”

Willow held out a gourd full of clear river water. Gratefully, Fiona accepted it and quenched her thirst. Then the two women sat in silence, watching each other.

Willow broke the standoff. “My brother . . . my brother not like other men,” she began.

“No, he’s not,” Fiona agreed. “He’s a good man, but I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

Willow shook her head. “No . . . not that he be Shawnee with red skin, and you know only white man. Wolf Shadow not same as Indian man either.” She struck her breast lightly with the back of her hand. “Here, in
ki-te-hi
. . . ” She struggled for the English word. “Heart.” She motioned with her hand. “In your tongue, I not talk good,” Willow apologized. “No can—”

“Go on,” Fiona urged. “I understand you perfectly. You’re saying that your brother is different from other men in his heart.”

The Indian woman shook her head impatiently. “Not just heart.” She touched her forehead with a slim finger. “Wolf Shadow in head and heart is different. He is shaman—great shaman—born to save Shawnee people. Since time he is child, he be teached—”

“Taught,” Fiona supplied gently.

“He be taught,” Willow continued. “He taught all Shawnee spirit medicine, healing medicine. But . . .” She raised an index finger. “Not enough. He must be taught
Englishmanake
ways. Elders send him to Philadelphia, to white school-of-church. He taught speak English, taught write, read books of white man. Wolf Shadow no like, come back Shawnee. Council say he is ready. Red Smoke, Shawnee teacher. Red Smoke great medicine man, great moon dancer, greatest all tribes. Red Smoke say Wolf Shadow not ready. He make two winters learn more shaman way of Shawnee, then must go again to white school-of-church.”

“But he told me he’d been to England,” Fiona said. “Across the ocean.”

Willow nodded. “So. Wolf Shadow again go white school-of-church.
Englishmanake
John Parker want make English man of God. John Parker is ... is priest. No.” She shook her head. “Not priest.”

“Minister?”

“So. Min-ister. John Parker want make my brother Wolf Shadow minister—want make him like son. Take him away across salt water to land of Scot.”

“Scotland?”

Again, the Indian woman nodded. “Scotland. France. England. John Parker great chief in own land, much rich. Buy teacher for Wolf Shadow, many teacher. My brother learn ride horse, wear white clothes, shoot gun, fight with long knife.” Willow paused for breath and held up four fingers. “So many winters he be gone. Shawnee fear he no come back. Fear he be eaten by English ways. Willow no afraid. Wolf Shadow promise sister he return, promise Red Smoke he return.”

“Four years he was gone,” Fiona urged, wanting to hear the rest of the story.

Willow nodded. “So. Four years.” A smile lit her eyes. “My brother return to his people. Now he is more . . . more different. Eyes.” She pointed to her own eyes. “Eyes wise. He learns much of English, learns how many English, learns he must stop English or they no stop until every Shawnee dead. English want our land, he say.” An expression of dread passed across Willow’s comely face. “Wolf Shadow says English and French fight over our mother the earth. He say they be greedy children.” She took hold of Fiona’s hand and gripped it tightly. “He say if they can not have the toy, they will crush underfoot.” Willow’s long, feathery lashes fluttered, and her eyes grew wide with apprehension. “Is so, Fiona? Do your people wish to crush us underfoot? Do they want our land?”

Fiona felt her initial dislike for Wolf Shadow’s sister fade. Willow was a good woman. She loved her brother and her tribe, and it was only natural that she’d be resentful of a white-skinned enemy captive. Fiona leaned forward and covered Willow’s slim hand with her own pale one. “It’s not an easy question you ask me. I am not English, I’m Irish. The English are my enemies too.”

Willow’s dark eyes narrowed. “You look English to this one.”

“And you look Iroquois to me,” Fiona replied. “But you aren’t, are you?”

“Pah!” Willow puckered her face in disgust and pulled away. “Iroquois. Drinkers of blood.” She shook her head. “No Iroquois. Iroquois very bad, like English devil. Iroquois cut flesh from prisoner. Eat. Willow not Iroquois—better dead than Iroquois.”

Fiona nodded and moved closer to the fire. A cold February wind whipped around the wigwam and tore at the deerskin flap with icy fingers. Fiona pulled the red blanket around her shoulders and glanced around the hut.

Wolf Shadow had said that this was his wigwam, and it was obvious to Fiona that no woman lived here. There were just as many baskets and bundles hanging overhead from the arched wooden frame as she had seen in Sage’s wigwam, but most of the wall space was taken up with weapons and carved wooden masks. What looked like the stuffed body of an otter was hanging to the right of the doorway, and several pairs of men’s moccasins lay in a heap on the fur rug underneath. A low platform of logs covered with skins ran halfway around the hut, but it was so piled up that no one could have slept on it. The hut wasn’t dirty—the only smells were herbs, tobacco, and furs. Instead, Fiona decided, the shaman’s wigwam was untidy, much as her grandfather’s house had been when she first went to live with him.

“My brother live here by lone,” Willow said, as if reading Fiona’s thoughts. “No time for wife. Many Shawnee
equiwa—
squaw—follow him with their eyes. He be brave warrior, great hunter.” The Indian woman spread her hands, palms up. “He belong to Shawnee. No belong self. No time for wife.”

“What does a shaman do—other than heal the sick?”

Willow’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Spirits.” She motioned toward the sky. “Eyes not see all. Ears not hear all. Hands not touch all. Life is mystery, so?”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. “Life is a mystery.”

“Shaman speak with spirit, listen spirit, touch spirit. Shaman know magic.” She paused. “My brother, Wolf Shadow, he comes to save the Shawnee.” She held up both hands, fingers spread wide, then knotted them into tight fists. “Shawnee, Delaware, Menominee, Ojibwa. Like fingers on hand. Small, weak.” She raised her clenched fists. “My brother make us together—strong. My brother stop English, stop French.”

“He wants to unite your tribes so that they can stand against the Europeans—against the English and French.”

“So.” Willow nodded. “This be our hunting ground. Here we stand or die.” She exhaled softly. “You not answer question. You believe English want Shawnee land?”

“Yes,” Fiona said. “I do. They wanted my land, Ireland. We were small, and once fierce warriors, but the English were many. They came with weapons and many ships. Now my country is a conquered land, where children are forbidden to speak their own tongue or worship God as our grandfathers did.”

“Mmm.” Willow crossed her arms over her breasts and rocked back and forth in an ancient gesture of mourning. “Why is this?” she asked finally. “The Shawnee do not cross the salt sea in canoes to take English land. They not cut down English trees or build walls around English rivers. Why, Fiona? Why English come here?”

“England is an island,” Fiona explained. “A land surrounded by water. It’s small, with too many people. The English are farmers; they must have more land or they will starve. So they take their ships to other lands and drive out the people.”

“Greedy, like crows.”

“Yes, but smart, Willow, very smart. I don’t believe Wolf Shadow will be able to stop them from coming.”

“Wolf Shadow smart.”

“The Irish were smart. Sometimes smart isn’t enough. Now my people must learn to live under English rule. It may be that the Shawnee will have to learn new ways too.”

“You know much about these English.”

Fiona watched as a log flared up and a yellow-orange flame devoured the small sticks Willow added to the fire. “My father was English . . . Scot, really . . . but they are much the same—cousins.”

“As the Delaware and Shawnee be cousins.”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“You loved this English father.”

Fiona’s head snapped up. “I hate him. He used my mother and abandoned her—abandoned me. If I ever find him, I mean to kill him.”

“He must be very bad, this father—as cruel as Seneca.”

“My mother died because of him.”

“So . . .” Willow poked the glowing coals with a green branch. “I think I do not hate you, Irish
equiwa.
I think I see why my brother not hate you.” She sighed. “But you still make trouble for Wolf Shadow. He say to Shawnee, take nothing of English but steel and gun and black powder. Follow old ways of grandfathers. Turn back on English ways.”

“I told you, all I want is to return to the English settlements.”

“I see my brother’s eye on you. I see your eye on my brother. You not see him as enemy. You see him as man.”

“That’s true,” Fiona admitted. “I do see him as a man, but we are not meant for each other. I have my own customs, my own religion. There can never be anything between us. It’s better if I go away quickly, before . . . before . . .” She trailed off, unable to put her fears into words. It was the truth. Wolf Shadow had shown what he’d thought of her when he’d left the wigwam last night. She must get away before she shamed herself any further.

“You mean these words, Fiona?”