Judith E. French (26 page)

She moistened her lips and then tasted him. Salt ... and something more. Her breasts tingled and grew heavy.

It all comes down to this, she thought. Not even fear of death could stop the overwhelming drive to mate with him—to seal their love in primitive abandon.

She stroked him tenderly, and his intense reaction made her bold. Teasingly, she flicked her tongue along his engorged flesh, then took him into her mouth. Delicately. Provocatively.

Sterling’s taut body shuddered.

And her own body would no longer be denied.

He could not lie down because of the short bonds that held his manacles to the post ... but he could kneel. And though his wrists were chained ... his mouth ... his lips ... his tongue were not.

And she was free.

Her seduction became a mutual loving, an act of union that swept them from the confines of this dark prison to a world of their own making.

Yet, even in the throes of ecstasy, she did not speak, did not need to speak as he fulfilled her wildest fantasies and healed the wounds in her heart that had ached for so long.

Hours later, satiated with lovemaking, exhausted and at peace, Cailin rested her head against his bare chest. She knew that time was passing ... that she must leave, but she could not.

This might be the last time he could hold her, the last time she could hear him whisper love words into her ear.

“Love of my life,” he said. “Do you know how many times I cursed you?” His chuckle warmed her heart. “It was your image that appeared during my manhood trial. I didn’t want it. I tried to deny you, but I couldn’t. I wanted an animal guardian spirit—a bear, a mountain lion, even an otter. The other boys boasted of their spirits, and all I had to tell about was the image of a white woman with red hair.”

She closed her eyes and snuggled closer, trying to imagine Sterling as a slim, uncertain youth waiting for a vision.

“I tried to forget you, but it was impossible,” he continued. “After my father took me to England, I never stopped searching for you,” he murmured. “I never passed a woman on the street that I didn’t look into her face. And when I saw you on the battlefield, I knew I couldn’t let you escape me again.”

She sighed. Dawn would be there soon. She wondered if it would be better to stay and be caught so that they could die together.

“I wanted a guide, and the spirits gave me you.”

She laid her open hand over his heart and felt the strong throb of his life’s blood.

“Half a lifetime it took me to recognize a gift when I had it in the palm of my hand.”

She wanted to ask him how he could believe such superstitious nonsense, but she was afraid of breaking the spell of silence. And then she nearly laughed aloud as she realized that the spell she was weaving at that moment would make any witch nod in approval.

“I have accepted Christianity,” he said, “but I can’t cast out the old ways of my mother’s people. And I can’t believe that all of them are bad. After all, they brought you to me.”

He leaned down and kissed her love-bruised lips.

“The old ones say you can’t escape the path the spirits have chosen for you,” he said.

Perhaps not, she thought. With an aching heart, she kissed him a final time and hurried from the longhouse in the first purple flush of dawn.

She hadn’t forgotten that Sterling might die today and that she might die as well, but the realization that she was truly loved by a good man erased her fear for her own safety.

If Sterling met death at the hands of the Mohawk, she would survive as best she could for the sake of the child she was certain that she carried. She would live out the days of her life, doing her duty to Sterling’s son or daughter and all those who depended on her. But all the while, she would know in her heart that Sterling waited ... and no power under heaven could part them. Not even death could destroy a love as strong as theirs or keep them from spending an eternity in each other’s arms.

But ... Oh, how could she stand the nights between now and then? How could she bear the emptiness of the days, once she’d buried her heart and soul with the only man she’d ever love ... a man she’d once believed was her mortal enemy.

When Cailin reached the safety of the log ceremonial house without being seen, Moonfeather pulled her, smiling, into her arms. And for a brief time, both women wept, unashamed.

C
ailin thought the day was the longest of her entire life. After she returned from meeting Sterling, she slept fitfully until mid-morning, when Moonfeather bade her rise and come to the river to bathe. Escorted by a bevy of giggling girls, Cameron and the Shawnee, Moonfeather and Cailin retraced their steps to the outside of the walled town.

The men turned their backs while Moonfeather and Cailin entered the river to wash. The water was cold and bracing; it cleared Cailin’s head but did nothing to ease her worry for Sterling. After a short time, one of the Mohawk girls led the two women to a private spot near the wall to see to their personal needs.

Once the group returned to the ceremonial longhouse inside the palisade, there was more waiting before they were finally summoned by the council to an afternoon of talk and feasting. Cailin had little appetite despite the lavish spread of smoked fish, eels, duck, elk, corn, succotash, squash, beans, berries, and all manner of flat cakes baked from corn flour. Her stomach was queasy; she could think of nothing but Sterling and his coming fight with Ohneya, the Mohawk she still thought of as Skull Face.

What hunger she did have fled when she saw that the main course consisted of roasted dog with the head left intact. Moonfeather and Cameron ate the repulsive flesh, but it was all Cailin could do to keep from being sick. She drank water and nibbled listlessly on a corn cake while the Mohawk chief droned on in his own tongue.

The sun was hot, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The villagers crowded so close that she could smell the bear grease on their bodies. They smelled different than the Shawnee, she thought, and almost laughed. Had she been with Moonfeather’s people so long that she was beginning to think herself one of them?

Greenhead flies buzzed around Cailin’s head. A dog wandered too dose to the food, and someone smacked it with a wooden ladle. The dog yipped and ran, tail between its legs. Bear Dancer stopped talking when his voice became hoarse, and he sat down. Another gray-haired Mohawk wearing a silver nose ring took his place.

Hours passed, and still the speeches continued. Cameron was seated across from her between two Mohawk elders. Moonfeather was concentrating on the speakers. Cailin wanted to scream. If she sat here any longer, she’d shame herself and the Shawnee by becoming hysterical.

Then, before she could completely lose control, the last Mohawk orator extended a hand toward Moonfeather, and she rose. She looked very small to Cailin in the midst of the hardened Mohawk warriors and grizzled old council members.

Moonfeather looked at each of the dignitaries and saluted them in their native Iroquoian. Cameron repeated her words in English so that Cailin could understand what was being said. It soon became evident that Moonfeather had no intention of rambling on as the others had done.

“... a peace between the Shawnee and the Iroquois, a peace that we all vowed to keep,” Moonfeather said softly. Her voice was not as loud as those of the previous speakers, but Cailin could see that the Mohawk were listening intently.

“Ohneya and his war party broke that peace,” Moonfeather continued. “No one could have blamed the Shawnee if they dug up the black-feathered tomahawk and sought vengeance against the Iroquois League. But the Shawnee are not so quick to turn their backs on a promise. Instead, this woman has come to offer gifts for the return of the white Shawnee, Warrior Heart. He is a brave man, a man who ran the Mohawk gauntlet, a man worthy of being set free.”

The medicine man leaped to his feet and shouted opposition. Immediately, there was an outcry from his supporters. Bear Dancer glared at the shaman, but the little man would not be silenced. He shook his raven staff at the chief and returned a volley of angry words.

Cameron stood and began to translate the medicine man’s tirade into English. “Our sachem promised that the prisoner must fight Ohneya! Can a man remain high chief who lies to his own people? I say he cannot. I say that it is time Ohneya took his rightful place as the head of this village.”

Bear Dancer’s lined face darkened to puce. He rose and made an angry chopping motion with the flat of his hand. The crowd went wild.

Cailin looked back at Cameron, but he shook his head. She didn’t need his words to know that the old chief was giving in to the shaman.

Men began to push and shove. Someone raised a clenched fist and trilled a Mohawk war cry. Moonfeather’s Shawnee closed a wall of protection around her. She called out in Algonquian, and Lachpi motioned to Cailin.

Cailin couldn’t move. On the far side of the town square, she saw two Mohawk braves enter the compound clearing with Sterling between them. Panic seized her as she watched them drag him toward the charred wooden post.

Cameron grabbed Cailin’s arm. “There’s nothing more we can do,” he said. Quickly, he hustled her into the circle of Shawnee to Moonfeather’s side.

Ululations rent the air. The booming of the big drum added to the clamor of the whooping Mohawks. Ohneya stepped forward and raised his hands over his head. Cheers pierced the drumming. Excited women began to gather up the trays and bowls of food; children ran shrieking, and the village dog pack added to the uproar with howls and frenzied yapping.

Within minutes, the center of the clearing was empty. The masked shaman drew a wide circle in the dust with the butt of his staff. Sterling’s guards shoved him into the open space, and Cailin gasped as she got a good look at his swollen face.

“He’s hurt. He’s in no condition to—” she began, but Moonfeather cut her off.

“No,” the peace woman admonished. “You can do nothing for him now. He must fight. Do not show him a wailing woman. Give him heart. Show him that you believe he will win.”

Cailin pushed between Joseph and Ake. The Mohawks gave way to let her reach the edge of the circle. Sterling looked up and saw her. For an instant, they stared intently into each other’s eyes. Hot tears threatened to overwhelm Cailin, but she forced them back, grinned and waved at him, and cried, “Give him hell, Sassenach!”

A Mohawk warrior laughed, and then another shouted good-naturedly Murmurs of approval rippled through the throng. Vaguely, Cailin was aware of her father coming to stand at her right side and Moonfeather at her left.

Sterling surveyed the audience with the haughty composure of a Roman gladiator. When Ohneya stepped into the dusty circle, Sterling raised his middle finger in a crude gesture of defiance.

Ohneya screamed in fury. He thrust out a hand, and his wife put a knife into it. He opened his other fist and took a double-edged tomahawk. Chanting fiercely, he began to dance, working himself into a fervor of bloodlust.

Lachpi shouldered his way onto the field and handed Sterling his skinning knife and tomahawk. Sterling lifted both high and gave a Shawnee war whoop.

Other drummers joined the beat of the first. Women called out to Ohneya and raised their children to see him. The masked shaman climbed on top of a large, flat boulder and shook his rattle at Sterling. Then the medicine man began to sing a wordless high-pitched whine of gibberish.

Sterling and Ohneya drew closer to each other. Both wore moccasins and loincloths and were near in size. Ohneya was a few fingers’ width taller and at least a stone’s weight heavier, Cailin guessed. Ohneya’s head was shaved except for a scalp lock wrapped in red cloth, while Sterling’s hair hung uncombed around his shoulders.

The Mohawk war chief’s face had been hastily painted; the outline of his skull features were slightly crooked, and one eye ring drooped at the corner. Still, Ohneya was a formidable sight as he thrust out his muscular chest and taunted Sterling in Iroquoian.

“You don’t have to witness this,” Cameron whispered to Cailin. “It could be very bloody.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t bear to stand here and watch, but hiding would be worse. Whatever happened to Sterling, she had to know. “I’ll be all right,” she answered.

“You’re tough, like your mother.”

She took her eyes off Sterling to glare at her father. “I’m nothing like her.”

“Don’t be so sure. You young ones are quick to judge. Whatever she did, she loved her children. She always cared for you, didn’t she?”

“How would you know?” The words were out of her mouth before she could think.

Instantly, Cameron’s faded eyes registered hurt. Then, he hid his feelings with a wry chuckle. “I can’t argue that, lass,” he admitted.

Cailin glanced back at Sterling. He crouched motionless, waiting, a weapon in each hand. Ohneya didn’t disappoint him. He dashed at Sterling, whirling his hatchet in a wide arc over his head. Sterling feinted right, then ducked to the left as the Mohawk swung at his face. Cailin saw only a blur as Sterling’s arm moved, but it was all too fast to comprehend.

Ohneya spun around and faced Sterling again. A thin red line opened along the war chief’s right hip. Cailin was puzzled. Had Sterling cut the Mohawk with his knife?

The Indian charged again. This time, Sterling didn’t dodge away. He blocked the blow from Ohneya’s tomahawk with his own and slashed at the Mohawk with his knife.

The mob roared as the two slammed together and locked, sinews straining, steel weapons flashing in the sun. Sterling’s back was to Cailin. Cords of muscle stood out across his shoulders and back, and down his thighs. Sweat poured off both men, and Sterling’s night-black hair clung to his damp skin.

Cailin’s blood turned cold. Unconsciously, she fingered the amulet around her neck.

“Don’t be afraid to use it,” Cameron urged her. “The power of the Eye of Mist is real. It can save his life if you call on it.”

Cailin dropped the pendant as if it had burned her. Such talk was superstitious nonsense, as foolish as Moonfeather’s story about a ghost wolf. She’d not let herself believe it.

She’d tried before—when her mother lay dying. She’d tried and failed, and the bitter taste of failure and loss had never left her.

No, she’d not make that mistake again. Sterling must live or die by his own strength. All her love and prayers were as useless to save him as this heavy gold pendant.

A roar went up from the onlookers as Sterling went down with Ohneya on top of him. The Mohawk drove the ax into the earth inches from Sterling’s skull. Then Sterling’s knife cut a gash across Ohneya’s forearm. There was a brief, violent struggle, and the two sprang apart to rise and face each other with hate-filled eyes.

Blood caked with dirt smeared Sterling’s forehead. Cailin had been certain that the tomahawk had missed him, yet a thick red path continued to slide down the left side of his temple. Ohneya’s wounds were bleeding as well, and the sight of blood aroused the crowd to a fevered pitch. Stamping and yelling, they pressed closer, constricting the area of combat.

Ohneya hurled his tomahawk. Sterling ducked, straightened, and threw his. Neither weapon found its mark, and the Mohawk threw his knife at Sterling and pounced on Sterling’s tomahawk. In the split second he took to pry it from the dirt, Sterling buried his knife in Ohneya’s right upper arm.

Ohneya stumbled to his knees and seized the blade to pull it out. Sterling darted forward and drove his weight into the war chief’s back. Ohneya fell with Sterling straddling his prone body.

Cailin clapped a hand over her mouth.

Somehow, in the midst of his attack, Sterling had seized the tomahawk. He raised it over Ohneya’s head with his right hand and pinned Ohneya to the ground with his left. The Mohawk onlookers fell silent, waiting for the death blow to fall.

“Kill him!” Lachpi urged.

“Finish it!” cried Kitate in Algonquian. “Finish him now!”

Sterling glanced toward Bear Dancer and the council. “I claim this life!” he shouted in the same language. “And I trade his life for that of my wife.”

Ohneya’s woman shrieked in lamentation and crawled toward Bear Dancer on hands and knees. “Give me my husband’s life,” she begged. “The father of your grandchildren. Spare him.”

Bear Dancer nodded. “We will release the white woman unharmed.”

Sterling got up cautiously and stepped back, tomahawk ready in case of any trickery on Ohneya’s part. The Indian’s wife scrambled out of the dust and ran to him. Sterling backed away and threw down the tomahawk.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Cameron whispered hoarsely.

Cailin could stand still no longer. She rushed toward Sterling, but before she could reach him, a brave tossed Ohneya a lance. Cailin screamed as the Mohawk raised his arm to cast the spear at Sterling’s back.

Time seemed to stop for her. She could feel the agony of her own scream, see the confusion in Sterling’s eyes, and smell the stench of death. She extended her hand, but the motion was so slow that it was unreal.

Then she heard the long, drawn-out howl of a wolf. Not far off, but here in the midst of the crowd. Sterling heard it. She could read the knowledge in his face.

And Ohneya heard the wolf as well. His white-rimmed eyes widened with fear. The lance fell from his fingers. He clutched his throat and staggered back.

The medicine man cried out. “The Shawnee witch has proved his courage! Burn him!”

Suddenly, everything was happening at once. Cailin watched stunned as the Mohawks surrounded Sterling. She could no longer see Ohneya. She tried to get to Sterling through the throng, but Cameron caught her and yanked her back. “Don’t shame him, or yourself,” he told her.

She struggled against him. “Let me go to Sterling,” she insisted. “Let me go to him.”

“No.” Pulling her against his chest, he forced her back to where Moonfeather stood watching impassively.

“Stop them!” Cailin said. “You must stop them!” Signaling to her men, Moonfeather ordered them to clear a path for her to the rock where the medicine man stood. With brawn and nerve, and the butts of their long rifles, they did as she asked. Kitate grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the natural platform.