by Shawnee Moon
The Iroquois longhouses were much bigger than the Shawnee wigwams, one room wide and four or five long. Moonfeather had told her that among the Iroquois, families of the same clan shared a house, each individual group living in one compartment around a separate hearth. When she’d been led to Sterling before, she’d had to thread her way through piles of tanned hides, stacked baskets, metal kettles, and other stored household belongings. In the dark, it was difficult to find her way without tripping over something, but she was heartened by the knowledge that each step took her farther from the guard at the door and nearer to Sterling. Twice, she brushed against a protruding wall and tangled in a mass of cobwebs; once, she nearly walked into a center post.
Just a wee bit farther, she told herself. Then, she heard the faint rattle of a chain ahead and guessed Sterling must be awake. He didn’t call out, but she sensed that he was aware he was no longer alone in the longhouse. She froze, straining to see in the blackness.
“Cailin?” He whispered her name. “I know it’s you. I can smell your hair.”
She didn’t hesitate. She ran to him and slipped under his manacled wrists into the circle of his arms. He moaned softly and squeezed her against him.
“Cailin, Cailin, what are you doing here?”
Moonfeather had told her not to speak. She was afraid that if she did, the spell would break, and they’d be discovered. She answered him with her lips, her touch, her body molded to his.
He groaned and lowered his head.
His kiss was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.
“This is madness,” he protested. But he kissed her again, and she dung to him.
“Woman, what will I do with you?” He uttered a sound of despair, but he kept kissing her until the feel and scent of him made her giddy and she forgot where she was and what was to come.
“Do you realize what you risk to come here?” he rasped.
She didn’t care what he said. She knew that he needed her here in his arms. She parted her lips and allowed his tongue to slide deep into her mouth.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked her later when they were both breathless.
She put three fingers over his lips.
“Damn it, I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll always love you. Remember that ...”
She turned, still inside the circle of his arms, and leaned back against him. Taking hold of his right hand, she lifted it to kiss the place where the iron manacle bit into his flesh.
He clenched and unclenched his fingers.
“Speak to me,” he begged her.
Her tears fell on his bruised flesh. She opened his hand and turned it to kiss the callused underside of his palm.
“Don’t,” he said. “Do you know how it rips my gut to have you see me chained to a post like an animal?” He made a sound that could have been a sob. “You can’t think about me, Cailin. I’m a dead man. You’ve got to survive.”
Sterling! Sterling! She shouted his name in her heart, but no sound issued from her throat. It didn’t matter. She was here—with him. She twisted around to face him, stroked his hair, ran her fingers down his cheek, and traced the lines of his mouth and nose. She wanted to memorize every inch of him, to brand his image on her soul so that no matter what happened, she could never forget him.
His hands were bound with cruel fetters of iron, but hers were free. Free to caress his neck and shoulders ... to brush his nipples and follow the contours of every scar and bulge on his chest ... to blaze a trail of scorching kisses down his bare skin.
“Cailin,” he gasped. “Don’t ...”
She paid him no heed.
Always before, it had been Sterling’s touch that had set her desire aflame. Now it was her own.
She wanted to tell him that she was his, that nothing would ever part them. She wanted to press his hands against her womb ... to let him know of the gift she sheltered there.
Instead, she let passion fill her with languid warmth and a boldness that was almost. wanton. Shamelessly, she ran her fingers over his flat stomach and narrow hips, lingering only briefly on the swell of his loincloth before following the hard muscles of his buttocks and thighs.
“Woman ...” He drew in a strangled breath. “What are you—”
She silenced him by kneeling at his feet and resting her cheek against his swelling member. She hugged his leg, massaging the knotted sinew of his calf, before retracing her path to do the same at his thigh. And as she leaned against him, she felt him tremble.
His manacled hands tangled in her hair. He rubbed the nape of her neck with his fingers, making slow, sensual circles that made her skin tingle and her nipples pucker to hard, sensitive buds.
Gently, tenderly, she placed kisses on his most vulnerable spot, adding her own fervent excitement to his.
He let out a long sigh of longing.
It was a simple matter for Cailin to undo his rawhide belt and let his loincloth fall away ... to cup his sacks in her hands and lift their weight ... to explore the fullness of his straining shaft.
How can this be a sin? she wondered. He is my God-given husband. The warmth in her loins had become waves of white-hot heat. She no longer felt the cool air, only the fevered pulse of her blood.
A smile played over her lips as she explored his length, marveling at the smooth texture of his skin and the throbbing power beneath her fingertips.
Groaning, he arched against her.
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.
Chapter 25
Cailin 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.
Ster
ling 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?”