Red Bird's Song (9 page)

His question touched a raw chord. “No. The McLeod's took me in after my older brother Craig died. I adored him,” she added, unsure why she was confiding in Wicomechee.

"This is the reason you want me for your brother?"

"I suppose so."

"I have no wish to be your brother."

"I would feel so much easier with you if you did."

"Can you not feel easy with a man who is not your kin?"

She shivered in the wind. “You are not just a man."

"No. I am the man in your dream, but you will not say.” Without waiting for her stammered reply, he continued. “You grow cold. I will take you from here."

"Wait. Before you do, where is my home?"

He pointed to the east. “There."

She searched the rippling ocean of ridges for a final glimpse of the lush green valley called Shenandoah, Daughter of the Stars. “Will I ever see the valley again?"

A sweep of his arm encompassed the western sky. Lavender and rose streaked the golden rim of the ruggedly beautiful Alleghenies. “Your home lies that way, beyond the mountains. You belong to Shawnee now."

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Chapter Six

Wicomechee sought shelter in the fast-descending darkness. These ridges would be cold tonight and Charity was especially vulnerable to the chill. A wolf loosed a long thin howl above the wind crying through the trees.

She jostled against him. “Mechee—a wolf."

"Brother Wolf will not harm you."

"How can you call that beast your brother?"

"He is clever. Shawnee respect him.” Wicomechee guided her through the dusky light to the cluster of evergreens. A rocky mound on the windward side of the trees offered additional cover. He paused before the dim outline of the thickly branched evergreen. “Go under."

She crawled beneath the sweeping boughs and hunched on the layer of needles. He slid in beside her. The force of the wind instantly lessened and he kept her in the innermost recess of their hideaway. He laid his musket down and slipped the shot pouch and powder horn from his shoulder, barely discerning their shapes in the gloom. His tomahawk joined the others at arm's length. The knife remained at his waist. Like trusted friends, he kept his weapons close.

The lone wolf inspired others and their chorus swelled in the wind-tossed night. Charity burrowed against him. “The whole pack's coming for us!"

"
Petweowas
will not come,” he assured her.

How quickly she'd gone from regarding him as her greatest threat to her protector. Though he doubted she realized it.

"I wish we could have a fire to keep them at bay."

"We would burn all the trees in this wind. If Long Knives are near they will see the flames.” He wrapped the wool blanket around them both then took slices of the ham from the pouch at his waist. “Here is food, eat. Gain strength. Tomorrow we will leave with the sun."

"Just now, I'm more concerned about surviving the night."

Breaks in the tossing boughs revealed the round white moon rising above the trees and the first stars glittered. “The moon is bright this night. If I must I will fire by its light. If a wolf comes near, he will die."

"A second one may attack before you have time to reload."

"I have other weapons.
Sedikoni
, eat."

She stayed as she was, her soft warmth pressed against his side, her face tucked in his shoulder. “Charity, have I been eaten by the wolf? Lost an arm or leg to his hunger?"

"No. But he may prefer me,” she reasoned, her voice muffled against him.

Wicomechee smiled. “You will taste better?"

"Women might."

He chuckled. “You are foolish."

"Maybe so. But I'm not used to sleeping with wolves."

"I am. Eat, and I will give you a gift,” he bargained.

She lifted her head. “What?"

He'd captured her attention. “First eat.” He handed her a slice of the smoked meat. She chewed that while he ate six times as much and was still hungry. “Do you want more?"

"No. Give me what you promised."

He withdrew a handful of tiny berries from his pouch, poured his find into her open palm and popped a few berries into her waiting mouth. She chewed with enthusiasm.

"I love these. Craig used to gather partridgeberries for me when he was hunting. They taste of wintergreen. He brought me hard candy once that tasted very much like them."

Wicomechee crunched several berries and the taste she'd declared wintergreen flavored his mouth. “Tell me of your brother."

"Oh, Craig was the best of brothers and far cleverer than the wolf you claim kin with."

Wicomechee smiled. “Who cared for you before Craig?"

"Papa. Mama died when I was three. I don't remember her, but Craig said she was nothing like Aunt Mary, and Papa told me I looked like my mother."

"Beautiful, then."

"If you say so."

She seemed embarrassed by his praise, yet pleased, which only charmed him all the more. “Why did your father not find a woman to care for you?"

"He did, after a bit. Aunt Mary wanted to take me, but Papa took on an indentured servant from England to tend me."

"Did your father never marry again?"

"No. He was too grieved and said he would be with Mama again in heaven. But he loved me. Aunt Mary vows he and Craig spoiled me entirely."

Wicomechee weighed Charity's disclosures. “You are not accustomed to doing as another says."

"Is it wrong to run free? To fly?” she asked, with more than a trace of wistfulness.

He popped the last berries in her mouth. “You would be snatched by a hawk. You must learn caution and obedience."

"And you think to be the one to teach me, I suppose?"

He had no doubt.

"I may try your patience. I gave Aunt Mary fits."

"Do you think to frighten me? I possess more determination than you."

"More strength anyway. I don't expect you to indulge me as Craig did, but in some small way you remind me of him."

Her concession touched him, though it wasn't at all what he wanted. “This does not make me your brother."

"You would make a good big brother,” she attempted.

"No."

"Why?"

It was as much of a plea as a question. Rather than another futile reply, he pushed back her hood and cupped his fingers around her chilled cheeks. Without a word, he tilted her face toward him.

"Mechee—” she balked, suddenly wary.

"Shhhh...” Mindful of her timidity, he lowered his head and gently covered her uncertain lips with his. From the first light touch, a wealth of sensations flowed into him like the headiest brew he'd ever tasted. The dewiest berry in the forest couldn't compare to the deliciousness of her lips...as though he'd truly captured an elusive spirit of the trees and held her now, claiming her mouth.

All else faded from his mind, the incessant warfare between their people, her deep-seated fear...there was only Charity and her melting sweetness. Desire surged through him with startling force, but he guarded this powerful urge.

She didn't try to pull back as he'd expected after her initial shock faded. If she had, he would have released her as he was resolved to do. Rather than fright, she relaxed against him...breathless, unresisting.

Manito
had smiled upon him. He slid one hand to her smooth throat and felt her heart pulse beneath his fingers. As though unaware of what she did, she circled her arm around his neck and her lips parted. In that moment, he knew.

His own heart pounded like the beating of many drums. He'd never felt this inflamed when he'd kissed any other woman. Not even when—but no, he wouldn't think of her now. Charity was seductive without the least intention of being so, or the faintest knowledge of how to go about rendering a man speechless, witless, wanting only her. His loins throbbed with need, but he could never abuse such purity. With a will hammered from the fires of rigorous training, he restrained himself and slowly released her mouth.

She sighed near his ear, her warm breath intoxicating. The quiver running through her drew him like a fox scenting a hare. “Is this the kiss of a brother?” he whispered. “Your lips did not answer mine as a sister's."

"I didn't mean to answer you at all."

"Yet you did."

"I don't understand. I never even kissed Rob. He tried, but I ran away."

Her bewilderment amused Wicomechee. “No kiss for the great hunter."

"Nor for any man."

"None? What of the man in your dream?"

She hesitated. “Only him, until now. But you can't be that man, Mechee. You just can't."

"No?” He covered her protesting mouth with his and poured all the tender passion he possessed into a wondrous washing wave that engulfed them both. Almost as breathless as she, he pulled back slightly. “Tell me why I am not him?"

She sank, panting, against his shoulder. “That's not fair. You know I can't answer. But I can't stay with you."

He trailed his fingers through her glorious hair and felt her tremble at his touch. “Charity, when I first saw you at the river, you were sad, angry. You wished to run away."

"So you carried me off? What if I'd been happy?"

"I would have taken you anyway. I knew I would make you
newah
, my wife."

She jerked up her head. “Of a warrior? I couldn't possibly."

"It's simple. I choose you, you agree. We give each other our pledge."

"I can't believe you're saying this."

"You wish me to say I hate you? We are enemies?"

"No. But we are.” She seemed to come to an abrupt awareness. “How can I wed someone who killed my father?"

"When did I do this?"

"Not you, exactly. Papa was killed by the Shawnee and their Indian allies at the defeat of General Braddock during the battle over Fort Duquesne. Fort Pitt now."

He thought back, her nearness distracting to the extreme. “Ah yes, I heard of this battle from returning warriors. I was fourteen years old, too young to fight."

"I was ten. Not too young to remember. Terror struck every settler's heart."

"That was a great victory for us. We had much feasting and dancing after."

"It was terrible. Hundreds of men died."

How different her memory was from his. “British Redcoats fought poorly. Many did not fight at all. They ran from our warriors in fear. Yet I am told the Virginia Long Knives fought with much courage.".

"I don't doubt Papa fought bravely, but he never came home. Oh—you don't understand. You live to fight."

"No. I must fight to live."

She said nothing more and he grew still, their silence broken by the wind and the distant wolves. Finally, he spoke. “I know what it is to lose both mother and father. When I was a child, I lost them both."

"What happened?” she asked, sympathy warming her voice.

"My mother died after giving birth, her baby girl also."

"How sad. What of your father?"

He'd known she would ask, and the mere mention of that man sent painful venom coursing through him. “I cannot say."

"Why not?"

"I do not wish to speak his name, or anything regarding him,” he said, fighting to conceal his virulent emotion.

She seemed mystified, but let it pass. “Who raised you?"

"My Grandfather. His English name is easier for you to speak. He is called Eyes of the Wolf."

"What a unique name. Is he the same grandfather who adopted Colin—I mean, Waupee?"

Wicomechee spoke with admiration and affection, so unlike his poisoned feelings for his father. “Yes. Eyes of the Wolf has much wisdom. I will take you to his
wickon
, his lodge, as my wife. Through me you will be adopted into the tribe."

She sucked in her breath. “No, Mechee. I'm frightened to death of Shawnee. I don't want to be one."

"You will come to accept us as Waupee did. He saved my life at the battle of Bushy Run, struck down the Long Knife who ran at me as I lay wounded. Because of him, I live. We both bear the scar from joining our blood. Here.” Wicomechee placed her fingers on his wrist to feel the small scar.

She traced the raised line. “No wonder you are such good friends. Did Colin teach you to speak English?"

"More, yes. Some I already knew. I taught him our tongue and to become a great warrior."

"But how can he forget his own people?"

"Waupee has some regret, but he cannot return. Now that he has recovered his woman he will be content. He will never surrender her. And I will not let the Long Knives take you. When Captain Buchanan and his men come, we will be ready."

"I don't want you to kill them."

"I will kill who I must,” he said gruffly.

"What if they kill you?” she asked with a new fearfulness in her tone.

"Have you had another of your warnings?"

"Not exactly."

He slid his fingers beneath her cloak and up under her sleeve. Goosebumps flushed over her arm. “The thought of my death troubles you?"

"A bit,” she conceded with a hitch in her voice.

He untied her cloak and pressed his lips over the curve of her neck...like swans’ down. “You feel some fondness for me? Before, you said I am only your enemy."

"You are. I'm just—having difficulty remembering."

He laughed. “You said your father was English, your mother Scottish. This made them enemies when they wed, yes?"

"No. That was entirely different."

"How?” he breathed out.

"It just is—I can't think when you do that."

He chuckled. Dragging his mouth from her smooth neck, he pulled her down onto the forest floor. The cloak cushioned her beneath and he covered them with the blanket. Stars glittered through openings in the boughs and the moon silvered the trees. He lay on his side, tucking her in his arms. “You belong to me.
Manito
gave you to me."

"Who on earth is
Manito
?"

"The Great Spirit of the Shawnee."

"For pity's sake, how can you expect me to become the wife of a man who isn't even Christian?"

"This Christian you speak of, I think many Englishmen are not."

"That's beside the point. You certainly aren't."