“E-e,” a third declared.
Siipu moved to Talon’s side and took hold of his arm. “Ku!” she cried. “No. You cannot do this thing.”
“She must die,” Counts His Scalps called. “A war chief cannot break his word.”
“Chitkwesi!” Fox said.
Rebecca was surprised that she understood. Be quiet! Was Fox taking her side? She hadn’t thought he approved of her. Fox and Siipu had spoken for her. But what would that matter when so many joined the shouts calling for her death?
Talon shrugged off his sister’s clasp and took hold of Rebecca’s shoulders. He leaned close to her, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her face. His black eyes were expressionless. “Know that you die for the sins of Simon Brandt,” he said.
The earth dissolved beneath Rebecca’s feet. She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the scream of terror that rose in her breast. Talon’s lean fingers dug into her arms and her eyes snapped open as rising anger flooded her fear. “Take your hands off me!”
She looked full into his devil eyes, and for the barest instant, something akin to admiration flared. He yanked her against his chest and whispered into her ear.
“Trust me.”
Bewildered, wondering if she’d imagined what she’d heard, she let Talon drag her from the Big House to a cleared area in the center of the village. Too late, she saw the black painted post. Before she could do more than put up a token struggle, three women surged forward and began to tie her to the stake.
“Damn you, Talon!” she screamed. “Damn you to a bottomless hell!”
Other matrons carried armfuls of brush and wood. To Rebecca’s terror, they began to pile it around her legs. Holy Mary, Mother of God, she prayed silently. They meant to burn her at the stake.
Frantically she looked around for someone to come to her aid. She caught sight of Siipu and Fox standing at the far side of the clearing. But they made no move to help her, and her Irish pride rose hot and bright. She would not beg for her life—not for her immortal soul.
Shawnee and Delaware braves streamed into the clearing. Drummers moved to take their places near the post. The beat of the drums changed. No longer steady and mournful, the cadence lit the fires of fury in the hearts of men and women. A warrior shouted a shrill whoop. Another followed. The hair stood up on the back of Rebecca’s neck as Shawnee war cries echoed through the village.
Talon joined in the terrible dance. Feathered trade ax in his hand, he whirled and dipped, flashing steel and calling upon the spirit of his dead father to witness the death of the white hostage.
English. He was singing in English. Rebecca’s eyes narrowed in contempt as she watched him come ever nearer. “I hate you,” she mouthed. But no one heard.
Women with the lower half of their faces blackened with ashes filed into the clearing. Brandishing lit torches of pitch pine, they uttered dreadful shrieks of mourning so spine-chilling that Rebecca clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. The women formed an inner circle that gradually widened to surround the fierce, stomping, twisting warriors. The high keening of the women rose above the fierce war whoops of their savage partners until Rebecca thought they would deafen her with their hellish chorus.
Suddenly, Talon stood over her, tomahawk in hand. “Trust me,” he murmured again. “I will let you come to no harm, Becca.” The acrid scent of ashes filled her head as he smeared her face with the mark of death.
“Go to hell,” she whispered, and closed her eyes to wait for the fatal blow.
Instead, she felt fingers tugging at the ropes that bound her hands. Someone threw a blanket over her head, and she struggled to breathe. Hands shoved her along, half-carrying her over the rough ground. She stumbled and a feminine voice giggled nervously. Strong arms bore her up.
Then she was pushed to her knees, the blanket whisked off her head, and she was thrust through a narrow hole into a hot enclosed area. Before she could regain her senses, a dozen hands stripped off her clothes, leaving her as bare as an egg.
“What are you doing to me?” she shouted in protest.
Siipu’s rasping voice came from the darkness. “Do not fear. You safe.”
“Siipu? Is that you?”
Rebecca reached out and touched the wall. Wood and animal skin. She was in a wigwam of sorts, but what kind. Why was it so hot? Already, sweat had broken out on her face and arms. “What place is this?” she demanded.
Twitters of laughter came from every side. Soft hands touched her, and she felt the smear of something wet. The steamy air smelled of pine boughs and mint. She tried to twist away, but the women were all around her.
“No have fear,” a woman said. “Sweat house. Good. No hurt.”
Siipu took her hand and squeezed it. “Trust,” she said. She tugged expectantly, and Rebecca tried to stand up. “Ku, no stand,” she ordered. “Come.”
On hands and knees, Rebecca followed her. The floor ran downhill to a glowing fire pit of red-hot rocks. Mats of reeds and thin saplings surrounded the hearth. Rebecca sat upright where Siipu indicated, and the other women took their places around the fireplace and began to sing in Algonquian.
Rebecca couldn’t understand the words, but the chanting was no longer sad; it was joyous. The women began to clap, and Siipu guided her hands until she joined them in the rhythm. The one woman threw water on the rocks, and clouds of steam filled the small hut. Rebecca felt as though she was being cooked alive.
Wonderful, she thought. They aren’t going to burn me at the stake. They’re going to boil me for dinner.
“Good,” Siipu said.
Sweat ran off Rebecca’s face, and she felt light-headed. She wasn’t sure what was happening, and she was almost too weak and emotionally drained to care.
Then as the steam began to thin, another woman dumped a second bucket of water onto the hearth. Again the room grew heavy with moisture and the temperature rose even higher.
By the third time, Rebecca felt as though her strength was gone. She didn’t even try to struggle when someone threw a wrap around her shoulders and pushed her back toward the entrance.
When the deerskin flap was pulled away, a crowd of cheering women waited outside with torches. Siipu grabbed Rebecca’s hand and pulled her to her feet. The cold air struck her and she gasped. But Siipu was running, and women were shoving her along. Her bare feet were sinking in the snow, but she was past feeling heat or cold.
Or so she thought.
She changed her mind when Siipu leaped off the riverbank into the ice-encrusted, swiftly flowing water. Rebecca screamed and went under, blanket and all. Gasping for breath, she bobbed up, and someone ducked her again. She came up cursing and swinging her fists, ready to kill anyone who tried to keep her from reaching shore.
But no one tried. The onlookers greeted her with gales of friendly laughter, and a stout woman with shell earrings wrapped her in a dry blanket. Still cheering, the women ushered her to a nearby wigwam where they dressed her from head to toe in new garments of white doeskin. When the stout woman—who Siipu identified as her aunt—laced high, fur-lined moccasins to Rebecca’s knees and draped her shoulders with a beaver skin cloak, she embraced her.
“You daughter of Squash Blossom now,” the tall woman said, and pressed her cheek to Rebecca’s with obvious affection. “Squash Blossom’s firstborn daughter die by hand of white soldier. Born now, this night, you be Weeshob-izzi Kimmiwun, Sweet Water.”
Rebecca looked for Siipu, and then realized with a start that Talon’s sister was standing beside her. The mask that had hidden her face for so long was gone. “Siipu?” she asked.
Squash Blossom laughed. “No Siipu. Siipu die in sweat lodge with wife of Simon Brandt. This woman your sister, Kedata. Squash Blossom have no daughter. Now two.”
Tears glistened in Talon’s sister’s dark eyes. “Siipu go to join mother across the river,” she said.
“Kedata—Otter Girl—have mother here. Have sister.” Hesitantly, she held out her arms, and
Rebecca hugged her tightly.
“Daughters come,” Squash Blossom said. “Council wait. Warriors wait. See new daughters of tribe.”
The women formed a procession with Rebecca and the newly named Kedata in the center. Clapping and chanting, they moved joyously to the clearing where Rebecca had faced death only two hours ago. The men fell silent as they entered the firelight. Large, heavy snowflakes drifted down, covering the black post and the dance ground with a thick white carpet.
Squash Blossom took Kedata’s hand and led her forward. One by one, the council members nodded as the stout woman declared Talon’s sister to be her oldest daughter. A great shout went up from the watching warriors, and they raised their weapons in salute.
When the older woman returned to reach for Rebecca’s hand, Talon stepped forward. His face had been washed clean, and he wore leggings and a vest decorated with porcupine quills. The wolf’s head cloak was gone. An embroidered band of white leather encircled his head, and two eagle feathers dangled from the left side.
“This is my beloved daughter, Weeshob-izzi Kimmiwun,” Squash Blossom said, lifting Rebecca’s cold hand high. Again, the council members nodded and the men shouted. Squash Blossom motioned for Rebecca to stay where she was, and then she returned to the line of women.
Talon moved to stand beside Rebecca. He would have taken her hand in his, but she snatched it back.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed at him.
He looked full into her face. “I know you don’t understand,” he said. “But this was the only way to save your life.” Then he addressed the tribe in a ringing voice. “On this night, my vow has been kept,” he said in Algonquian, and then repeated his words in English for her. “On this night, the wife of Simon Brandt has died. My father’s soul will not walk the earth and cry out for vengeance.”
Then he lifted the string of bear claws from his chest and placed them over her head. “This woman, Sweet Water, is and forever shall be a daughter of the Shawnee. She who faced the bear who walks like a man brings honor to our village no matter where her trail leads.”
“What are you doing?” she whispered to him.
“By this act you are free of Simon Brandt,” he said. “You are a Shawnee woman—a woman who chooses her own path from this day forth.”
“But who will free me from you?” she demanded.
Ignoring her plea, he spoke again to the assembly. Rebecca struggled to understand the Algonquian, but she could grasp only a few words.
“This woman!” Talon proclaimed in his own tongue. “Sweet Water will be offered up to the Red Coats of King George in memory of my father’s lifelong struggle for peace between our two nations. I, Fire Talon, war chief of the Mecate Shawnee, do so vow.”
Chapter 21
“How could you do that to me?” Rebecca demanded. She was so angry that she could hardly look into Talon’s broad face—could barely stand to be in the same wigwam with him. “It was despicable! The act of a monster.”
Outside, the tribesmen and women seemed to pay no heed to the falling snow or the cold. The drums still beat, and dancing and chanting continued in the center of the village. Immediately after Squash Blossom and Talon had named her a Shawnee, many of the women had come forward shyly to offer her baskets of food, jewelry, and blankets. Squash Blossom had given her a bone-handled knife and sheath, and a beautiful fringed belt to hang it from. Siipu was showered with presents as well, so many that it required six matrons to help carry both her gifts and Rebecca’s to Squash Blossom’s wigwam.
Siipu had returned to the dance ground, but Rebecca had lingered behind. Squash Blossom’s hut was crowded and unfamiliar, so when Rebecca thought that no one was watching her, she fled to the comparative safety of Counts His Scalp’s wigwam.
She had no sooner removed her robe and knelt by the fire before Talon had pushed open the deerskin and entered. Seeing him brought back the fury and helplessness she’d felt since Rabbit Running had come to tell her that Talon was demanding her life in exchange for his father’s.
“How dare you come here?” she continued to berate him. “I never want to see you again. Do you know—do you have any idea what you put me through tonight? I thought I was going to die.”
He crouched on the other side of the fire pit and added another log to the coals. The flames caught the dry bark and flared up, lighting his face with a red glow. “I did not wish to frighten you,” he said mildly.
“Didn’t wish to frighten me?” she snapped. She was trembling so badly that she could hardly speak. “Didn’t wish to frighten me? Are you crazy?” Her fingers closed around another piece of kindling. “You scared me half to death, damn your red soul!”
“I am truly sorry for that, Sweet Water.”
“Don’t Sweet Water me! My name is Rebecca. Say it! Rebecca.”
He shook his head. “No. The woman I knew as Becca is dead. You are Sweet Water of the Shawnee.”
“That’s so much sheep dung! You don’t believe it any more than I do.”
His ebony eyes widened in disbelief. “You must accept. It is the truth. I break the custom of my people by even speaking the dead woman’s name.”
“You . . . you . . .” So great was her frustration that when he smiled at her, she lost all composure and hurled the stick at him. It struck his temple hard enough to open a gash.
He winced as blood trickled down his face.
“Oh, Talon,” she cried. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” She wasn’t sure if she circled the fire pit or dashed through it to reach him, but seconds later, she was weeping openly and trying to stop the bleeding. A purple knot was rising on his forehead. Without thinking, she bent to kiss his injury. He tilted his head and her lips brushed down his nose and landed full on his mouth.
His response was a kiss that rocked her to the soles of her feet. She was crying and kissing him back and trying to stop the blood all at once. His hands were moving over her and his smell filled her head.
Together, they fell back onto a thick pile of heaped fur robes. A gust of wind blew through the smoke hole sending sparks billowing up into the room, but neither heard nor saw. With anguished murmurs of pent-up passion and deep shuddering breaths, they touched and kissed and entwined their limbs.
Somehow, Talon managed to push the skirt of her deerskin dress up around her waist. His warm, strong hand caressed her inner thigh even as he filled her mouth with his hot, thrusting tongue. She arched provocatively against him and stroked his bare chest and hard shoulders with fevered urgency. His mouth burned a scorching trail across her skin, and she moaned as the waves of sweet aching that coursed through her loins churned into a storm surge of liquid fire.
“I love you, my blue-eyed lynx,” he whispered huskily. His fingers sought the curls above her woman’s cleft and he planted a damp kiss there and then another.
“Oh.” She gasped at the intensity of the sensations that radiated from his caress. Never had she felt so alive. She could feel the silken texture of the warm furs under her bare skin, hear the whoosh of wind and snow outside the wigwam and the quick throb of Shawnee drums. Outside these snug walls, a winter storm reigned, but here with Talon beside her, she felt the enchantment of spring sunshine, green leaves, and bird song.
His seeking touch invaded her soft folds and found a tight bud of throbbing ecstasy. She threw back her head and closed her eyes, letting the wonder of his tantalizing seduction sweep over her. He led her to the brink of the abyss, and then, when the honied rapture was almost in her grasp, he drew back and tugged the doeskin gown over her head.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, cupping her breast and nuzzling it with his lips and tongue. “So beautiful.” He shrugged off his vest and fumbled with the tie of his loincloth. She could feel his engorged manhood, hot and pulsing, pressed against her bare thigh, and she let her fingers explore the satin flesh.
He groaned with pleasure and kissed her throat and tongued her ear, whispering words of love so daring that she blu
shed and grew more excited just to hear them. He raised his head to look into her eyes and stray tendrils of hair fell across his face. “Kiss me,” he urged. “I want you to kiss me.”
Emboldened by his lovemaking, she pressed her lips against his smooth chest. Inch by inch, she moved down, letting her fingers stray to tease his sinewy thighs and graze the dark tangle of hair above his tumescent sex.
“Touch me,” he said.
He was silken and hard, huge and full, beautiful and frightening. She leaned close, letting her breath and then her cheek touch him. His fingers tangled in her hair, pushing her down. Her lips brushed his straining shaft, and Talon groaned.
“Is this what you want me to do?” she asked.
“Ahikta.”
“And this?”
“Yes . . .”
She marveled at the mystery of his taste and texture, reveled in the sense of power she gained from his shuddering sighs of arousal. This is how it should be between a man and a woman, she thought . . . how it could never have been between her and Simon. “I do love you,” she whispered. “More than my own soul.”
“And I love you, my Sweet Water,” he rasped. He took her shoulders and pulled her up to straddle him. “Now, sit on me,” he ordered. “I want to feel you against me.”
“Like this?” she asked.
“Just like that.”
He kissed first one breast and then the other as she moved slowly against him. Then, with a deep groan, he caught her hips and lifted her out onto his shaft. She cried out as he plunged into her. This was a new sensation for her—to be in control—to take her pleasure as she would, to give and tantalize until his skin took on a sheen of perspiration and his breath grew ragged.
“Enough, woman,” he said. Rolling her over, he mounted her and drove deep inside. Thrust for thrust she met him with equal passion until at last an explosion of sheer ecstasy shattered her longing into a thousand shards of sweet sensation. Seconds later, Talon found his own fulfillment and slumped against her with a long, slow sigh of satisfaction.
For a long time, they lay skin to skin, holding each other, while he whispered words of love in her ear. She drifted into a light sleep, then woke to find her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. Talon’s hand was on her breast, and a fur robe was pulled up to her chin.
This Fierce Loving Page 22