The Fierce Loving

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 blushed 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.

“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.”

“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.”

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.”