This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  “What will we do if Counts comes back?” she whispered languidly. Lying here like this with Talon was all she wanted in the world, all she wished to think about. And if Talon’s friend returned and caught them together, it seemed of little importance.

  That proves how brazen I’ve become, she thought with a low chuckle as she drew lazy circles on Talon’s chest with her finger. I am his woman, and I don’t care who knows it. I don’t care what color he is or what language he speaks—I only know that we belong together.

  “If Counts enters this wigwam, we’ll throw him out into the snow,” Talon threatened.

  She giggled. “Out of his own house?”

  “E-e,” he replied. He lifted a lock of her hair and wrapped it slowly around his finger. “How is it that so many women in your country have hair the color of English foxes?”

  “And how is it that you use so many different words for what I think is the same meaning. Ahikta is yes in Shawnee, isn’t it?”

  “Lenape, or Delaware, my mother’s tongue. I have heard the English call our language Algonquian. Delaware and Shawnee are much the same; some sounds are slightly different. To your untrained ear, you would not know the difference. Any Shawnee can speak and understand the words of a Delaware, a Menominee, a Nanticoke, and the other tribes of these hills and woodlands. Most Shawnee do not speak the tongue of our enemies, the Iroquois, and they do not understand us.”

  “If ahikta is yes, then what is yuho and e-e?” she persisted.

  He chuckled. “Do not forget yuh or bischi, bischihk or kehella la, or the dozen other ways to express what you English—”

  “I am not English,” she reminded him tartly.

  “. . . what your English language,” he corrected, “means when you say yes. There are many ways for a man to agree, some lazy, some angry, and some . . .” He pushed down the fur to expose her bare shoulder and kissed it softly. “We are not people of ink and paper; we are people of deeds.” He lowered the robe and kissed the top curve of her breast. “We have many words for pleasure between a man and a woman. Would you like me to teach—”

  A log in the fire crashed down and the light surged up. Rebecca cut off his offer with a cry of distress. Talon’s face was smeared with blood. Streaks marked his throat and chest and, she saw to her horror, her own hands. “Sweet breath of Saint Patrick! You’re bleeding to death. I’ve killed you.”

  He rose to his knees and held his hands out to the firelight. “It is true,” he said in mock seriousness. “Your blow to my head is doubtless fatal.” He took a firm grip on her hand and stood up, pulling her out of her warm nest.

  She gasped as she looked down at her naked body. Dull red patches marred her breasts and belly; one swathe ran down her thigh. In the heat of their lovemaking and the sleepy lull after, she had completely forgotten hitting him with the piece of firewood. “Mother of God,” she whispered. She could see now that his head was no longer bleeding, but she was so shamed by her act of violence that she felt herself blush from head to toe. “I’m sorry, Talon,” she began. “My temper has always—”

  “You are as fierce as any Mohawk,” he said. “But even a Mohawk must pay for his daring.”

  She blinked in confusion. “I said I was sorry. What more can—”

  “You split my head and made free with my injured body,” he said. “Now, you must make amends. You shall wash me clean.”

  “Of course,” she stammered, realizing that she was standing there naked. She stooped to grab a robe. Where was her dress? “I’ll heat water,” she said, covering her bare breasts. “Lie back, and I’ll—”

  “Not here,” he said. “The river.”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded.

  “Not the river.”

  He smiled.

  “Talon, you wouldn’t. Not again! It’s freezing. There’s ice and . . . No! No, Talon!” Shrieking and kicking, she struggled against him as he dragged her toward the entranceway. “No!”

  Icy wind struck her bottom. Her nipples hardened. “Fiend!” she screamed. “Heartless fiend!” Snowflakes swirled around them as he swept her up in his arms and began to run toward the river. She shut her eyes and burrowed against his chest. Branches tangled in her hair. “No!” she shouted again.

  She was in the air. For an instant, it seemed as though she hung there, suspended in the darkness between dark sky and darker water. Then she hit the water with a splash, and Talon plunged in after her.

  “You’re supposed to bathe me,” he shouted as she sputtered and shook water in his face.

  “I’ll kill you!” She swung her fist at him and he dove under. He grabbed her around the knees and pitched her under again. She gasped for air, but before she could gather her senses, he was carrying her out of the river.

  Her teeth were chattering, and she was shaking so hard she couldn’t speak as he walked back toward the wigwam. When they reached it, Rebecca crawled on hands and knees to the fire. Talon came close behind her. He wrapped her in a robe of white fox, fur side in, and pulled her into his lap.

  “I—I’ll never . . . never forgive . . . never forgive you for that!” Somehow, she was sitting on his loins, bare skin to skin, and the robe had fallen to one side. “You . . . you torturer,” she accused.

  He warmed his hands over the fire and rubbed her feet between his hands. “It is a custom,” he said. “Lovers—”

  “No. I don’t believe anything you say. You’re crazy. You’re trying to kill—” He silenced her with two fingers over her lips. She caught his fingertips between her teeth and bit down, not hard enough to really hurt. He chuckled and twisted under her, so that she fell onto the fur bed. “Cover me,” she said breathlessly.

  He moved so quickly that she couldn’t have escaped if she wanted to . . . and she no longer wanted to. He kissed her full on the mouth and tugged a bearskin to cover them.

  “You’re rotten,” she whispered. It was dark under the robe, but she was beginning to warm up, and his hard, muscular body pressed against her was not altogether unpleasant. “Remind me never to hit you with firewood again.”

  “This man does not believe he will have to.” He nuzzled her neck.

  “Bathing in winter is dangerous to the health,” she teased.

  “Not to mine.”

  “Will you spend the rest of our life together throwing me in some stream?”

  “Sweet Water—”

  “Say it in Shawnee,” she whispered.

  “Weeshob-izzi Kimmiwun.”

  “That’s very long.”

  “Kimmi . . .” He kissed the corner of her mouth and traced the curve of her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. And all the while, his hands were warming her in other places.

  “Why Sweet Water?” she murmured.

  “A man cannot live without it.”

  The growing pressure against her thigh told her that Talon was regaining his strength as well. She snuggled tighter, reveling in the delights of his flesh and the soft furs under her bare skin. “Have you made love to many women like this?” she asked.

  “Only to you, my Sweet Water. Like this, only to you . . . and never again . . . like this . . . to another woman.”

  “Do you mind that my skin is so pale?”

  “I have learned to like pale skin.” He lifted her hand and kissed the underside of her wrist.

  She felt her pulse quicken as desire washed through her again. “And red hair . . . does it offend you?”

  “Red pelts are much rarer than black.” He chuckled, raising her damp hair and kissing the nape of her neck. She squirmed against him and felt her nipples begin to harden. He lowered his head and nuzzled her breast.

  Counts’ voice startled her. “Oh,” she murmured.

  “Go away!” Talon ordered.

  Counts replied in Algonquian, and Rebecca distinctly heard Osage Killer’s gruff laughter outside the doorway.

  “I said go away,” Talon repeated. “I am teaching this new member of the tribe our customs.�
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  Rebecca stifled a giggle.

  “Where would you have this man go?” Counts asked in badly accented English.

  “Jump in the river,” Rebecca suggested.

  With a final indignant remark in his own tongue, Counts dropped the deerskin and stalked away.

  “Satisfied?” Talon asked her.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Then this man will do all he can to make you happy.”

  “And teach me all the customs?”

  “As many as a warrior has vigor for on this night.”

  She awoke to the smell of corn mush, grilled trout, and maple syrup. The wind still howled around the wigwam, but inside, wrapped in her furs, Rebecca was toasty warm. She yawned and stretched, lazily watching Talon prepare breakfast. This morning, he wore only a leather vest, moccasins, and loincloth, and he’d secured his hair in a single braid down the back.

  “You do that as if you’re good at it,” she teased. “I could learn to enjoy having breakfast in bed.”

  He smiled at her and handed her a small bowl of hot liquid. The tantalizing aroma that spiraled up with the steam smelled surprisingly like real tea. She lifted it to her lips.

  “Careful,” he warned her. “It’s hot.”

  She noticed that he still had the lump on his head; it had darkened to a purple-blue bruise, but gave no evidence of further bleeding. “Oh,” she murmured. “It is tea. It’s delicious.” He’d sweetened the fragrant drink with honey, and she drank it slowly, savoring each precious drop. “You spoil me,” she said at last.

  “Last night, before we came together, while you were being reborn as Sweet Water, I spoke to a hunter named Many Snares. He said he camped two nights with The Stranger and a white boy. The boy had hair as dark as a Shawnee, and his eyes were twin blades of obsidian. Many Snares said that there was laughter between The Stranger and the child. This man believes that the boy was your brother.”

  “Did he say—did Many Snares know where The Stranger was taking him?”

  “The Stranger spoke of trapping furs near the English lakes.”

  “How long ago?”

  “When pees ka wa nee kee shoxh wh’, the moon, was full. Two of your weeks.”

  Hope bubbled up in her chest. “If he’s taking Colin north, he may mean to trade him to the French,” she said excitedly. “Simon said that the French buy up as many white captives as they can and sell them back to the English in New York.”

  “Taktani.”

  “English, Talon. I’m just getting yes and no down. If you’re going to teach me to speak Delaware, you’ll have to go slower.”

  “Taktani,” he replied patiently, as he dropped grilled fish onto a wooden slab that served as a plate. “It means I don’t know.” He brought the trout to her. “We have Osage Killer to thank for the fresh fish. He went ice fishing yesterday.”

  “Taktani,” she repeated carefully. “I don’t know.” She looked up at him. “But you must have an opinion. What do you think? Do you think The Stranger will—”

  “This man believes that The Stranger has an honorable heart. He is not a boy-lover or one who carries hate in his heart for all those with white skins. If Colin is with him, he is safe—or as safe as any of us is. But what The Stranger will decide to do with your brother . . .” He shrugged. “It would be an untruth to say different to you.”

  “You promised me—”

  “That this man would try and find him. You have my word. If it is possible, and if The Stranger will give him up, he will be returned to you in the white settlements.”

  The plate slipped from her nerveless fingers. “To me? In the white settlements?” She stared at him in confusion. “What are you talking about? I thought that you and I—”

  Talon’s features hardened. “Do not pretend that you don’t know, Sweet Water. With your own ears, you heard this man tell his people.”

  “No . . .” she stammered. “I don’t know.” Her hands clenched into tight fists. The robe fell away, exposing her naked breasts, and she didn’t even notice. “Tell me again, Talon. What is it I’m supposed to know?”

  “Before the tribe. You heard me. This man translated everything—”

  “No, you didn’t. Not that. You didn’t tell me—”

  “This man must have.” He rose to his feet and looked down at her with eyes as sad as an open grave. “When this man went for his father’s body, he prayed for a vision—a spirit guide—to show him what to do. A vow had been made . . . a vow that this man could not keep.”

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “He was a great shaman, a good man.” Talon exhaled softly. “They threw his body on a dunghill, where animals tore at it. This man carried away what was left of his father, bathed him, and wrapped him in warm blankets. And when the rituals had been completed, this man sat three days by his father’s grave, waiting for a sign.”

  “What sign?”

  “A voice, not heard here,” he touched his ear, “but here.” He laid a bronzed hand over his heart. “The voice explained how Becca Brandt could die and be reborn as a free Shawnee woman. A war chief’s promise could be kept without the loss of a worthy soul. But there was a price . . . Always, from the spirits, there is a price.”

  “What price?” she demanded. “What in the name of God are you talking about?”

  “This man cannot keep you by his side. This man must return you to the English.”

  “You’re crazy. You didn’t tell me that.” She was too stunned for anger—too hurt for tears. “What we did here . . . I did for love. I thought we would be together as man and wife. I thought you wanted me—”

  “At the council fire the words were said,” he insisted. “In Shawnee and again in English—for all to hear and understand.”

  “Not me. I didn’t understand. That last part . . . about sending me back . . . you conveniently left that part untranslated.”

  “Then this man has wronged you again, Sweet Water. But know in your heart that giving you up was the price of your life.”

  “You and your damned Indian logic!” She was screaming at him now—like some dockside fishwife. “If I’m not Rebecca Brandt—if she’s dead-then why are you giving me, a free Shawnee woman called Sweet Water, back to the English?”

  “The white men do not know that you are Sweet Water. They see only the face of a living dead woman. It is not what is true that matters. It is what appears to be true. In my father’s name, to honor his wish for peace between red men and white, you too must pay the price. You must return to the white world and pretend to be She Who No Longer Draws Breath. You must forget this man, and forget what we found together in the shadow of the great bear. You must forget that you ever listened to a turkey bone flute or laughed with a Shawnee warrior under fur robes in the night.”

  “You think I can forget?”

  His voice grew harsh with emotion. “You must try, my fox-haired ki-te-hi, you must try.”

  Chapter 22

  “If I am a free woman, then why can’t I stay with you?” Rebecca asked for the third time that afternoon. “I won’t go back to Simon. No one can make me live with him again.”

  Talon’s only reply was to clench his teeth and stare eastward toward the wooded hills and valleys that marched in misty folds to the horizon. They had paused to rest on a natural lookout, a spill of giant boulders along the lip of a mountain pass. From here the four of them could see farther than they could walk in three days.

  Counts His Scalps and Osage Killer had insisted on coming with him, even though Counts hadn’t fully recovered from his bullet wound. Fox had remained behind in the village, acting in Talon’s stead to direct the braves in safety precautions that were necessary, even in winter. When Iroquois were the only enemy of the people, the time of snow had been relatively secure from warfare, but the battle between French and English had changed all that. Now, attack on a town or a family could come at any time, and danger was a constant companion at every campfire.

  �
�Sweet Water is right,” Counts grumbled to Talon in Algonquian. “This is foolishness. You’ll get us killed to return a woman who doesn’t want to go back, one you don’t want to give up.”

  Talon glared at him. Wishemenetoo knew that they’d gone over and over this. “This is done for my father,” he said tersely. “In his honor, and because it is what my spirit guide ordered.” Had he made the mistake of not translating for her the night she was adopted by the tribe? She insisted he had. And yet . . . he’d been so certain that he’d told her.

  Counts arched an eyebrow cynically. “And you never doubt your interpretations of the spirits’ wishes, do you?”

  Talon didn’t answer. He doubted. What man did not doubt? But a man who agonized too much over what was his will and what came from his guide soon became weak and ineffectual—of no use to himself or to his people.

  Giving up Sweet Water would be the hardest thing he’d ever done—harder than laying his father’s torn body to earth or hearing the news of his mother’s death. This red-haired woman had touched a part of his soul that he’d long believed empty. He had felt the scar tissue in his heart ripping when he’d looked at her, and he’d welcomed the pain. After hating for so many years, it was good to feel love and compassion—to know that he would never again judge a man or woman by the color of their skin.

  That much you have given me, Sky Eyes, he thought . . . that will not be taken from this one. No matter how much distance separates us, that much will lie nestled in my heart. Your laughter . . . yes, and even the way you bite your lower lip when you concentrate on a difficult task . . . that a man will remember.

  Among the whites, Sweet Water would be safe. They would not realize who she really was, and they would treat her kindly. He had told her not to remain on the frontier, but to go to the settlements beside the sea and live there. He would make certain that Simon Brandt never bothered her again. For no one would sleep safely in their beds until he was dead.