by Andrea Jones
“Please, White Bear, do not be concerned for my well-being. I have made certain of my safety on the voyage. And once I arrive, I will work hard for your family. As your sister-in-law, I will find my place within your tribe.”
Facing the watery way to his homeland, he spoke to her over his shoulder. His voice carried more sadness than wrath as he murmured, “I made you my wife, Raven. No matter what occurs, a good man cares for his family.”
Raven laid one hand on his arm. The tension stretched beneath his flesh, proof that his grief was genuine. “The man I see before me is a good man. With the love this man bears for me, I have gained self-assurance. I am confident, now, that your kinsfolk will care for me, too.”
“This, then, is the reason you once asked me to speak of my people. To teach you of the Other Island.”
“Yes.” Raven spurred her courage again. Turning him to face her, she tried to hold her gaze steady. “I ask you once more. Tell me, please. As my provider, provide me with knowledge.”
“Headstrong woman,” he said, remembering his impatience on the night of which they spoke. Some sense inside him had known, even then, that this woman could never be wholly his own. “The Other Island lies far from this place.” He took her hand in his, and held it to the side of his face, along the curve outlined in paint. “Until the day that you walk on its shore, it lies even farther from my thoughts.”
White Bear kissed her palm, then he lifted Raven up and into his arms, and he cradled her. He pressed his forehead to hers, and he heaved a great sigh of sorrow.
Raven whispered to him, “My yearning, too, is not there, but here. Lay me down, White Bear, and let us follow tradition.”
“I know of no tradition that guides us down the path you propose. It is entirely strange to me.” Yet, lacking another direction to take, White Bear bore her toward the soft, mossy ground and set her down beneath the tree of ardor, the alder.
“Can a husband and wife not craft their own custom?” Raven held his face close to hers. “Can we not love in any manner we declare?”
She kissed him, her lips warm and full, her touch so present and so full of feeling that he felt his heart bound like a stag. Her body was here, was his, seeming in her fervor so far from departing that hope danced within him afresh. But when their kiss ended and she pulled her lips away, he heard her begin her goodbye.
She asked, “Are there no customs for parting?”
“Of course.” Trying to find footing in this strangeness, White Bear relied, as always, upon his reverence for tradition. “When a brave leaves for war, his son will sharpen his weapons. His brother warriors paint his face, and his wife will dress his body and weave ornaments into his headdress.”
“And when a woman’s husband dies and leaves her alone with her memories, may she not observe her loss by cutting her hair?”
Again, he touched her hair. “As I learned from your example, Raven, such is an ancient tradition with the People, so old a practice that it is rarely followed now. My first tribe did not observe this custom. According to the people of the Other Island, for a man, his hair is his fortitude. For a woman, her constancy.”
“You have enlightened me, White Bear. But here is another practice that you do acknowledge. When a woman leaves her tepee for the birthing lodge, does her husband not follow some rite?”
“He cleanses his tepee with the smoke of sweet grass, to welcome the spirits of life. He holds vigil in his doorway until his wife’s return, with his back to darkness and his face open to the sun.”
“We can hold vigil, tonight.” Raven gestured to the sky. “See, it is the proper hour for this rite. The sun, like me, is departing.” Its radiance was lost now, and the shadows of the evergreens stretched across the chalk of the cliff top to cover the lovers.
Reclining together on the earth, they were bedded by the roots of the fire-tree, the alder. The scent of evergreen spiced the air, and they were blessed by the faded rays of day. Water washed the cliff side, singing of the sea.
“This cliff top marks the point where your island and mine lie the closest. Is it not right, then, that we should make our ceremony here?”
“Yes, Wife. All this is right.” As they faced one another, White Bear touched her shoulder. His hand wished to restrain her, tightly, yet he made himself caress her instead. “What is not right is parting. Our hearts are one. If you go, only half a heart remains to each of us.”
“Willow’s heart is whole, and beats solely for you.”
He bowed his head. “Again, Raven, you humble me.”
“It is Willow who humbles us both, by her bounty. What step is next, White Bear, for this rite of passage?”
“Truly, Raven, I do not know. I see only that, in trying to do what is right, I have done what is wrong, for you.” His hurt was etched upon his face, and his copper chest rose and fell with emotion. “Difficult as it is for me, I will allow you to guide me now, just as you guided me through the woods on the day of our union, and today on the path to this parting-place.”
“I thank you…Husband.”
He looked upon her in wonder.
“Yes, White Bear. I do think of you as my husband. This leave-taking is as painful to me as I find it is for you. In order to separate, we must acknowledge, first, that we are one.”
Somberly, Raven rose, and she disrobed her body. Standing with her back to the alder trunk, the dusky half-light rimmed the fullness of her breasts and the dark tint of their points. The curve of her waist led White Bear’s gaze downward, to the swell of her hips, and the black veil before her womb. She reached down to lift him up and, as they stood together by the end of the land and the edge of the sea, they bared his body, too, in preparation for their ceremony.
He slid his hands along the turn of her breasts, and bent to kiss them. He wondered, as he touched his tongue to their tips, if one day soon his own son might feed from this fount. If so, he thought, as he closed his eyes to envision the image, with a mother so thoughtful, so giving, this son must grow strong and wise. When she raised her knee to his, opening her thighs to proffer herself, too, White Bear pulled Raven into his arms. With his branch engorged in longing, he pressed his body to her offering. Her arms received him, her bosom pillowed his, and, pressing toward his man-place, his wife invited him.
White Bear lifted her up. Circling back to their beginning, he made love to her in the manner of their first time. With his hands below her hips, he supported her, pushing up and into her softness, feeling her warmth draw him in and surround him. To steady himself, he pressed her back against the alder. Gentle at first, White Bear moved slowly, trying not to drive her too harshly against the bark. But she urged him with energy, pulling him nearer, rhythmically, as if indulging two sensations— bark at her backside, and the man’s branch working within.
With his teeth, he nipped at her ear. The plumage of her headdress brushed his jaw, and he glimpsed the blue of the jaybird. He almost heard it cry, its caw an admonishment. It was the message Raven herself must be heeding. Run! it seemed to shriek, in a frenzy of feathers.
And White Bear remembered what this ceremony symbolized. As his heart filled with anguish, he reached his crest. Groaning, he gave to his love his emotion. Her body arched and shuddered as she, too, shared her own. Their ardor sparked, burst to flame, and burned beneath the alder. Because this bonding might be the last, it grew all the more vigorous, and even as the fire sank, it seized heat again. Raven’s fingers became brands, pressing like embers on his skin, goading for more and receiving it. Thus they joined, poised on the cliff top— both in pain and both in pleasure— in this coming together that must lead to division. Reluctant to end, they extended the rite, conceiving a bridge of remembrance to share through their lifetimes, a pathway, reaching from this Island paradise out toward the Other.
When at last White Bear laid Raven down beneath the alder, they lay spent. White Bear understood, now, the manner in which this magic worked. As close as they were, physically, they would rema
in in each other’s souls. Their bodies would move forward, to working, and loving, and growing old. The heart they shared would endure, here and in spirit, fixed upon this ghost-white cliff. Their parting was a joining, part of the past, and part of forever.
White Bear held his wife while he might. “Raven,” he murmured, “So that I may keep you, I take leave of you now.”
“Husband; White Bear,” she answered, low, “I take leave of you. And I bear you with me.”
“When you fly from me, Raven, I ask for two things.”
“I will render what I may.”
“I well remember my journey here. The sea between islands is too perilous for a single canoe to venture. I myself undertook the passage as a rite of manhood. As a man now, my obligations are such that I cannot accompany you to see to your acceptance by my people. Allow me to send our Messengers, Rowan and Lightly, as your escorts. They will watch over you, and when you are settled, they will fly back to me, bringing word of your contentment.”
Only a moment’s hesitation delayed her response. “Yes, White Bear. As you wish.”
“And, Raven…you will not slip away in secret. When you find it is time to depart, I will bring you to this place, for our final farewell.”
“It shall be as you say.” Tonight, Raven lay wrapped in his arms. Tomorrow, and in the time left to her here on this Island, she would make her preparations. The first task she dreaded; she must break her news to Willow. After that trial, Raven, too, must make a last entreaty. The need was urgent, the answer a hazard. It was a plea she could not beg of White Bear. Just one man held the power to meet this necessity.
With her mind decided, Raven turned away from tomorrow. She thought not of the challenge that lay before her, but of this hour that she shared, in love, with her husband.
✽ ✽ ✽
The sun had not yet set when boots stamped up the companionway. Hook’s rebuke still rang in Jill’s head, and she leapt up from the daybed. In her agitation, her foot caught the emerald hem of her gown. With a ripping sound, a seam parted at her waist. She ignored it as the door was shoved open. Cecco burst into the cabin, his gypsy ornaments blazing and his temper aflame.
Jill’s chin rose in fury. “How dare you enter in such a manner?”
“I was wrong, Jill.” Cecco slammed the door closed behind him.
“You are wrong, indeed!”
“Raven was not his next victim. But I was not wrong to demand that you have no more to do with him.”
Her eyes flared, bright like the diamonds in her necklace. “Not one of my husbands commands me.”
“Truly?” Cecco sneered. “When you tempt him into that cave again, do you think he will let you escape?”
“Giovanni—”
“And once you manage to kill him, how shall you handle the blood-rage?”
“This will be the last of it.”
“This will be the worst of it.”
“I’ve managed twice before.”
“Your third hunt is more dangerous by far. You do not inflict a wound, this time, simply to symbolize death. Nor do you sacrifice your totem tigress. The life you would steal is a man’s life, Jill. You cannot know how fiercely you will feel it.”
“Hook will help me, if you won’t.”
Cecco struck the knife that hung in his dashing red sash. His bracelets jangled discordantly. “I will slaughter Lean Wolf myself. I will kill him— for you, for Raven, and for Red Fawn.”
“No! I insist that we follow the scheme I’ve begun. Lean Wolf is a crafty adversary, and his strength is uncanny. If any part of this plan goes amiss, we are all three at risk. We may even incite war with the Indians.”
“Jill.” Cecco bunched his fists. “He will not touch a single hair on your head.”
“You are far too late to make that vow, Giovanni. And he will touch me at my invitation.”
Cecco’s brows lowered. His gaze traveled over his wife, down and up. “You wear your wedding gown, and I see that it is torn.” His eyes smoldered as he stared at her, accusing. “Did he rend your dress today, ‘at your invitation’?”
“You overstep your privilege, Giovanni.”
“Then I step again.” He strode closer. “To Hook I grant privilege. But how should the man who raped you receive what your husband is refused?”
Jill backed toward the daybed. “You forget yourself!”
“No. You forget, Amore. You forget that I am the first man you married. It is I who will fight to defend you…” He strode right up to Jill, he seized her waist in his two hands, and he pressed her to his chest. “And I am the man who shall hold you.”
They stood face to face, their jewelry ablaze in the rays of sunset, the woman gazing up to him, the man with his dark, clinging eyes, staring down. His insistence disarmed her, but only for a moment. From his sash, Jill pulled his wicked knife.
Holding it up, she bared her teeth in challenge. Just as quickly, Cecco gripped her wrist, overhanded, dragging her arm out and down. In the same motion, he tugged her forcibly toward his body so that she stumbled against him, and with his other hand he clutched her dress, tightening his hold on her waist.
“Vi maledicono!” he cursed her.
And then he kissed her.
For Jill, who loved her husband, this reminder was too much. The day that was ending had been tumultuous. The tryst with Lean Wolf, his assault on Red Fawn, Hook’s condemnation— all prodded her toward a storm of emotions. Impassioned as she felt, Cecco’s embrace pushed past her limits.
At first, she returned his kiss. She opened her lips, she stood on her toes to press him the harder, wild with the mix of sensations. Only far too late, when her judgment returned, did she yank herself back. As she did so, two more events transpired.
With a shriek of rending cloth, the fold of Jill’s skirt in his hand ripped free from her bodice. At the same time, but silently, the door of the cabin swung open.
Hook stepped into his quarters. He saw his mistress and his rival entangled near his daybed. He observed as Jill struggled, restrained by the arms of her husband. Foreign oaths flowed from Cecco’s throat. In her captive right hand, Jill wielded a weapon, and Cecco’s grip crushed her garment. Through the gap he had torn in her gown, the film of her shift revealed her womanly figure, from the waist down.
Hook stood stiff at the threshold. His lip twitched. After a full observation, his chin lowered, and he turned away.
The click of the bolt in the lock caused the couple to freeze. Aghast, they twisted to blink at the door. The tall, dark form of the commodore confronted them.
Hook sauntered forward, his boots meeting silence on the Oriental carpets. Moving to stand behind Jill, he established himself at her back, and, casually, he lifted the blade from her fingers.
Cecco didn’t trust Jill’s crimson hand with his knife. Only after Hook appropriated it did he dare to let her go. On edge for any action that offered, he watched as Hook flicked the weapon at the wall. It stuck there, angling out of the woodwork, brutish by the brocaded curtains.
Jill stood with her head held high and her back to her lover, her shoulders heaving. She did not deign to draw her gown closed, nor to open the lips she had just shared, so heatedly, with Cecco.
From his stance behind her, Hook peered down at his woman, on the disarray of her golden hair, and the fire of his diamonds. Resting the curve of his hook on her shoulder, he reached his arm round, and slid his hand through the gash in her garment. Beneath the lace, he found the silken skin at her hip. His touch sidled to her thigh, slipped to the inside, then higher, to glide toward her belly. Pulling her back, he made her lean against the pile of his black velvet waistcoat.
“Am I wrong?” he asked, his voice as soft as her satin. “Or are we engaging our ‘unity’?”
CHAPTER 32
Giving Ways
Cecco stood taut but silent, preparing for whatever might happen. With every muscle charged, he waited for Jill to respond. She did react, and dramatically— but not to
Hook’s words. Hook used other weapons instead. One old, and one new.
Hook remained temperate. “Here we stand, all three together.” He manipulated his iron hand as if it were devised not for destruction, but seduction. “You appear uneasy, Jill, but consider.” In delicate motions, he teased at Jill’s sleeves, plucking and shredding them with his barb until he bared her fair shoulders. “Your loveliness cannot hide. Not even from the meanest observer.” Next he toyed with her tresses; “How freely the light plays upon these.” Leaning close, he inhaled her perfume. “The very air shares your scent. Why then, when you charm the world with your presence, should you shy from the two men you love?”
Jill remained silent, as before, but her posture eased a bit. Cecco was struck by the incongruity. The claw that men dreaded seemed to instill a sense of safety in Jill, however dubious. Yet Hook’s conversation posed a challenge to her, and to Cecco as well. As his hackles raised, Cecco noted that, beneath her skirt, Hook’s hand still held her captive, and captivated.
Cecco had expected anything but this beguiling. His foreboding increased, and although witnessing this intimacy between Hook and Jill provoked him, he quelled his impulse to abandon his wife to her innamorato. Instead, he stood on guard for her as she leaned back against Hook’s chest. Cecco sensed she was trusting in both of them. Cecco, though, was more skeptical than she, and when Hook poised his claw at her throat, he balled his fists. This time, however, the commodore employed the hook merely to draw a lock of hair from the scar at her neck.
“We know the pride you feel in this mark of experience, Jill. You must never veil it— not from us.” As he uncovered the scar, he stooped to kiss it.
As his own mouth longed to do the same, Cecco recalled her sensitivity to just such attentions, and how these touches entranced— no— how these touches entrapped her. He himself had once used this very means to enthrall his Jill. In the months since he seduced her, such fondling had not lost its allure for her.