Return of the Pale Feather

by E. B. Brown

  “On a bluff overlooking the valley, near where I buried the Bloodstones you left.”

  Marcus sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Why did ye bury them?”

  “The Pale Witch said The Red Woman would come, a Time Walker that I would fail to kill. I meant to break the curse, to keep it from happening. I wanted no part of that magic, nor of any Time Walkers.”

  “That surely dinna work,” Marcus replied with a half-choked snort. “Instead ye put them right in her path. The bluff over the valley? That’s where we lived in the future. We had a farm on that same spot. It’s the same place the Bloodstone took her from.”

  “You just leave Bloodstones lying around in your future?” Winn asked. Winn swallowed down another swig of mead, watching his father’s face turn from amused to something else. The man lifted his head, looking out over the crowed room before he answered.

  “No. Ye buried the stones. Whoever built the house dug them up and used them, not knowing what they were. Maybe ye meant to keep the Red Woman away, but it’s because of you she’s here, all the same. She and I would both still be in the future if ye had not buried the bloody things.”

  “You would have left Benjamin here in the past?” Winn said, surprised at the confession Marcus spoke. His father’s shoulders sagged and he uttered a deep sigh.

  “I dinna know where he was, until I found the note from Maggie. Benjamin was just a lad when he disappeared. I thought his blasted mother took him, but I knew nothing fer sure. It could have been magic, or she could have just left with him. When Maggie was taken, I took a shovel to the barn floor. I found the stones, and the letter your wife left in a pewter flask. That’s when I knew I had to come find ye.”

  “That was near two years past. Why did you wait?”

  “To prepare. To look for clues. I searched records and deeds, every church log I could find. It’s different in the future, Winn. Some of us disappear from history, some remain. Marriage contracts, court logs. Birth records…death records. I found nothing of the Norse I left behind. I thought if any survived, they tried to return to Vinland. But I found enough to track ye down. ”

  Winn’s chest tightened.

  “Death records?” Winn said.

  Marcus nodded, his lips tight in a thin line.

  “There’s much I know about how things will go,” his father said quietly. “Best we leave it at that, don’t ye think, lad? It’s enough now to be here, with my kin once more. I thought they were all lost to me.”

  Winn remained silent. His thoughts scattered, lost in how it all happened. As an angry young man he had buried the cursed Bloodstones to prevent the Red Woman from using them. Instead, it was because of his actions that Maggie ended up in the past. He would not change it, even if he could, that selfish voice down deep in his blood making itself known. She belonged to him, to his time, and no other.

  “She’s a rare one, that Maggie is. Ye know I raised her as my own,” Marcus said.

  Winn eyed him, gazing square at blue eyes so like his own.

  “I know this.”

  “Yer uncle waged war on us. All these men here,” he said, waving one arm out to encompass the table. “I thought all these men dead, or gone into hiding. Opechancanough told me he had killed them, and their women. Even my right hand, Erich, who sits here with us. I did what I must to protect the rest—Malcolm, Helgrid, and Maggie’s young mother, Esa. It was my duty to protect Esa and her unborn babe. I knew nothing of ye, you must understand.”

  “Would it have mattered, even if you knew of me?”

  Marcus hesitated before he spoke.

  “Yes, it would have mattered. But still, I would have gone.”

  Winn clenched his tankard, and then made the effort to loosen his grip as he slowly released it. He waited for Marcus to explain himself further before he responded, staring into his cup as his father struggled to explain.

  “Yer mother was a good woman, but she wanted Pepamhu, even then. Yer uncle and my mother arranged our marriage as a means to prevent more bloodshed, but it failed. Pepamhu helped us escape when it all went bad. I left knowing he would take her to wife. I regret that it pains ye, but that’s the truth of it.”

  Winn let out the breath he held and let the tension recede from his flexed arms. After taking a swallow of the mead and feeling its warmth creep into his belly, he nodded.

  “I thank ye for keeping her safe,” Erich interrupted, reaching across Winn to smash his raised tankard to the horn Marcus held. Erich peered at Winn. “And fer ye, I’m verra pleased to have ye married to my niece. We always planned to see yer son wed to a MacMhaolian, did we not, Dagr?”

  Winn saw the way his father’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased. He suspected his father had a different son in mind, but being he was attempting to understand the man he let that suspicion lie.

  “Aye, that we did,” Marcus agreed. “But she chose just fine without us, and here we are.”

  Erich grinned, nodding along with Marcus.

  “I dinna get the honor of making ye fight fer her. I think her cousin would have given ye good reason to treat her well, right Cormaic?” Erich hollered. The young warrior who had first greeted their party in the woods grinned from his seat at the end of the table, raising his arm amongst the crowd of men surrounding him.

  “Aye, father! A good thrash I’d have given him, for the honor of my pretty cousin’s hand!” Cormaic shouted. The men erupted in hoots and bellows around him. “It is not too late to show the Chief’s son my hammer!”

  “Ach, down with yer fookin lucht talk!” Erich laughed, waving a hand at them. “Save it fer the English whoresons, so ye can end them when we next meet.”

  “What of the English? Do they come to this place, like they do the other villages?” Winn interrupted. He had the uneasy feeling of not quite understanding their humor, with the thick accents they all spoke and the unfamiliar dialect. He could glean enough from their body language, however, so when the topic of Englishmen arose and the younger men stopped laughing, he suspected there was reason for it.

  Marcus looked to Erich, who drained his cup and held it out for more. A younger man quickly refilled it, and Erich resumed drinking as he spoke, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed like jade pebbles.

  “They sent a man here a few days past, just one, and not much of a fighter, that be sure. The Englishman spoke naught of what he was sent fer, so we have no thought as to what they want. I sent a rider to the Nansemond to ask on it, he should return soon.”

  “This Englishman, he said nothing?” Marcus asked. Erich shrugged, lowering his head to his drink.

  “Nay. He said nothing useful before I clouted the lucht.”

  The men roared with laughter, and although his cheeks flushed bright red, Erich grinned.

  “Great. Ye’ve clouted the only man who could give us an answer. Nothing has changed, aye?” Marcus grumbled. “Ye hotheaded MacMhaolian!”

  Winn grinned along with his wife’s uncle, and finished the rest of his drink.

  *****

  The plank door was ajar, and he pushed it further open so he might enter the structure. It was smaller than the Great Long House yet similar in build, with a tall peaked roof topped with a smoke hole. A fire pit along one wall of the single room warmed the space well, sheltering a pile of sleeping furs nearby that lay strewn across a low platform bed. Not that they needed much warmth on such a humid summer night, but he was pleased with the space they had been provided by the Norse.

  Teyas stood with Kwetii on her hip, the child hanging limp with exhaustion. Maggie was shaking her head at Teyas in protest.

  “She can stay here with us, really, Teyas! It’s a strange place, what if she wakes up and needs me?”

  “We are only over there. Take your rest, sister, I will tend her tonight.”

  He frowned. He placed one hand on Maggie’s arm, and waved Teyas to go with the other, grunting a low command in Paspahegh. His sister answered him in kind, and with
a respectful nod, took the sleeping child and left.

  “I wanted her to stay here.”

  He paused before he spoke, unwilling to incite his combative wife any further. He could see she was on the edge of fury, her fists bunched at her sides, trembling under his touch. She simmered like a flame, but he knew her well enough to know it must be doused before she would listen to reason. He caressed the palm of her hand his thumb, making slow circles on her skin, watching her flashing green eyes waver at the connection.

  “She is not far, and you know my sister cares for her well.”

  “I know that. I just wanted her here.”

  He took a chance and pulled her close, kissing her pursed lips until she softened and opened to him. She put one hand on his chest as if to push him away, but he knew her game and caught it instead to his chest, pressing it between their bodies.

  “You want, you want, always what you want,” he teased her. “I should have cut your tongue out long ago.” He circled her neck with the fingers of one hand, pressing lightly as his lips moved downward. He smiled when she moaned. Yes, finally, she would relent.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she whispered.

  “And?”

  “You can’t distract me.”

  “We shall see.”

  He kneeled down in front of her, his hands following the curve of her back, slipping lower on her buttocks as she writhed away from his seeking lips. He slid one hand under her dress, caressing her softness with his calloused hands.

  “Take it off,” he ordered.

  “Winn,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “If you want to wear it again, take it off. Now.” He struggled to keep his words low, feeling his own control slipping away at the sight of her sun-kissed skin. She was thinner than normal, but her hips were round and full, fitting perfectly in his grasp. He caught his breath when she lifted the dress slowly over her head, the doeskin catching on her nipples for a moment before she shed it.

  “Come here,” he said. She offered no resistance when he pulled her to her knees in front of him, only a little gasp when his mouth fell upon her skin. When a strangled moan left her lips his control vanished, and he pushed her down to the bedding platform. Slick flesh collided, heated skin upon skin. So many others suddenly laid claim to his woman, and he did not care for it one bit. Did he only want her, or did he need her, or was it the power of possession like a spoiled youth that drove him? He did not know.

  He could only keep her close and hope it would be enough.

  Chapter 14

  Makedewa

  Makedewa sheathed the new sword on his back, sliding it into the harness Erich had given him. He enjoyed the company of the Norse more than he would admit to his brother, knowing it was a heated topic to broach with Winn. Winn’s kinfolk knew how to make strong weapons, and although they did not possess the firepower that the English had, the strength of their fighting power seemed formidable. He wondered if his brother would wish to settle in the village, as his headstrong wife obviously desired. Only the Creator knew how that decision would play out between his brother and his wife.

  The other men had gathered in the training field, and although he was eager to join them, he decided to check on Rebecca first. She still owed him a reading lesson, and as he thought of collecting on the bargain a smile formed on his lips. Perhaps he might thaw her tender heart a bit with a stolen moment alone. It had been days since he held her in his arms, more than a week, in fact, and the thought of continuing where they left off roared like a slow fire within. Since the day he rescued her from the massacre he had waited patiently to gain her trust. Now that he had tasted what it was like to have a piece of her heart, the only thing he could think of was to have it again.

  She was alone when he found her in Winn’s Long House, dousing the remnants of the fire. He reveled in watching the sweet curve of her backside as she bent to work, her hair strewn over her shoulders in a cascade of coils. Eager to have her in his arms, he closed the door softly and threw the latch with a click, the sound causing her to swing around with a panicked look on her face. Her anxiety eased when she realized it was him, and it sent a surge of heat through his blood to see her smile. He unsheathed his sword and left it propped against the wall.

  “Ye startled me!” she laughed as he crossed the space. He gathered her into his arms, covering her soft mouth with his and stifling the remnants of her exclamation.

  “It’s only me,” he murmured. He glanced toward the door. “You owe me a reading lesson. I’ve come to collect.”

  She let out a nervous laugh and backed away, and he let her go. He sat down on the edge of the bedding platform for want of anywhere else to sit, acutely aware of his growing need for her and of that of his desire to put her at ease.

  “I have no books to teach ye here. Perhaps we should just…talk?” she suggested shyly, her skin flushing pink. He grinned, watching her slow her breaths, knowing that she was just as affected by him as he was her. He took her hands and pulled her close. He kissed each of her clenched fists and looked up into her eyes.

  “Talk? I would hear your answer. I want you as my wife, but you have yet to tell me yes.” His chest clenched when he saw her round eyes fill with tears, and he pulled her onto his lap in a reflexive motion. He wanted to soothe her, to chase away her doubt, yet he was at loss how to show her his intention, especially when the very feel of her skin against his drove him to the point of madness. He had not lain with a woman since he became a man, which had not bothered him so much until he found Rebecca. The last two years spent watching her, cultivating her trust, and dreaming of her when he lay alone at night had felt like a slow torture, yet it was now a torrid burn that distracted his every thought.

  “Oh, Makedewa,” she said softly. He inched back onto the furs, his hands trembling as he pulled her with him. She lay lightly across his chest, looking down, her curls spilling over her shoulders onto his chest. He scarce drew breath as he watched her, thrilled at the weight of her body lying over his, yet afraid she would flee. With a slow measured touch he slipped his hand into her hair and drew her mouth to his, filling his blood with fire when she moaned and settled against him.

  What would please her? What would make her say yes? He moved his lips down her throat, his fingers working the tie of her shift, groaning when she arched up against his hand. Damn her English garments that he had no idea how to remove. Aching to feel her flesh, he ran his hands beneath her skirts up along her soft thighs to settle on her hips, pushing the heap of fabric upward until his breechcloth was the only barrier between them. He let out a strangled moan when she kissed him, and be it the failure of restraint as a man or the pain of wanting her so long, he flipped her deftly onto her back.

  He expected some tension because of her past, but when she wrapped her arms around his neck he was sure it would be fleeting. Her bared breasts pressed against his chest, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He murmured sweet words of love as his lips caressed her skin and his knee parted her thighs.

  “Nouwami,” he whispered. He raised his head to kiss her again, and then the breath left his chest in a painful blow. Her eyes were clenched closed, her throat constricted so much he could see her pulse throbbing beneath her chin. A tear slid down her cheek.

  He rolled onto his side and pulled her into his arms, pressing his face into her soft hair as she trembled against his chest.

  “I cannot be a good wife to ye,” she whispered, her eyes buried away from him. He shifted and grasped her chin, gently turning it upward. Her eyes were puffy, but her tears had stopped.

  “Yes, you will. We can wait for this. I will wait for you,” he insisted. He wanted to tell her that he had waited so long already without assurance she would want him, but now that he knew she cared he at least had that to hold. If only she would accept his pledge, he would give her as long as she needed.

  “I wish ye to hold me like this, so much so it aches,” she said. “But I fear I cannot be a wife to a man.�
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  “If only I may hold you, that is enough for now,” he replied, his voice strained. He had a sickly feeling of what she meant, and he did not want to hear the words.

  “But if that is all I can give ye? Nay. I fear to see anger in your eyes when you look at me.”

  She sat up and gathered her shift to a semblance of decency. He could see her fingers tremble and his frustration rose. Did she think so little of him? Did she truly believe he only wished to share her bed, and that was all being a wife meant to him?

  “You think I am angered now?” he asked. With her back to him he saw her shoulders sag, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a protective manner.

  “I fear to look at ye,” she admitted. “I can tell when ye are fierce. I see yer jaw is hard, and yer eyes are black as coals. I know the look of a man angered.” Despite his agitation, he moved beside her, taking care not to touch her as they sat on the edge of the bedding platform.

  “I am angered at the man who hurt you. I have no anger at you,” he replied. “I would kill any man who harmed you,” he added darkly. He reached for her hand, and sighed when she jerked it away.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “Perhaps we should just…just try again. I will not stop ye.”

  Her suggestion tore through him like a blade, and he jumped to his feet.

  “No. Why do you ask such a thing?” he said, his voice rising despite his effort to contain it. He ran his hands through his hair, then dropped to his knees before her. He laid his head down on her knees, wishing she would put hands on him to give him some semblance of hope, yet her fists remained closed at her sides. “I would never—I could not hurt you that way. When we lay together, it will be because you wish it, not to chase a ghost away.”