Shawnee Bride (8 page)

She felt goose bumps tighten on her skin as she stared down into the pool, which suddenly looked very small and very faraway. No, she was not ready for such a plunge. And since she planned to escape on the morrow, she likely never would be. She would go back into the thicket, put on her clothes and take the coward’s way down to the water.

“Clarissa?” The deep masculine voice, ringing out through the trees, was Wolf Heart’s. Her pulse lurched as she heard the faint rustle of the underbrush, its cadence matching the familiar rhythm of his stride, coming closer and closer.

“Clarissa?”

There was no time to grab her clothes, no time to lunge for the shelter of the thicket. As he stepped into sight, Clarissa did the only thing she could think of doing.

She jumped off the ledge.

C
larissa froze at the base of the tree, torn between running, pleading for mercy, and trying to bluff her way out of danger. The morning light cast Wolf Heart’s tall form into silhouette. Her sun-dazzled eyes could not see the expression on his face, but her imagination filled in a mask of cold fury. For the first time since that long-ago beginning of her captivity, she was afraid of him.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, forcing the words through a throat so tight that she seemed to be strangling.

“I might ask the same question of you.” The words could have been carved in stone for all the expression they carried. “Were you looking for this?”

Still blocked against the sun, he held something out to her. Clarissa’s breath caught as she realized it was the parfleche. “Yes,” she said, realizing it would be useless to lie. “That’s what I was looking for.”

“And this is the answer you would give to Swan Feather?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me last night.” Anger still darkened his voice.

“And what would you have done?” she demanded, glaring up at him. “Would you have let me go? Or would you have tied me up like something you owned?”

“I don’t own you.”

“Swan Feather does!”

“It is her wish to change that.”

“Then why didn’t she ask me how I felt?” She flung the question at him. “Why was it left to you?”

“Because it never occurred to her that you would be anything but pleased and honored,” Wolf Heart answered quietly.

“So what are you going to do with me now?” She scrambled to her feet and stood quivering as she faced him, all defiance.

In answer, he glanced back over his shoulder. Only then did Clarissa notice the horse, a small but sturdylooking buckskin, grazing in a stand of hickory behind him. “The mare you have taken belongs to Hunts-atNight,” he said. “It is his wife’s favorite mount and they would both be unhappy to find it gone. I’ve brought you a different horse, one of my own.”

Clarissa’s hand went to her throat. She stared at him, feeling as if the ground had just been jerked out from under her feet, leaving her to fall into a deep pit of her own making. “You’re saying I can go?” she whispered, unable to believe her own ears.

“Would it make any difference if I tried to stop you?” He turned slightly, changing the angle of the light, and now at last she saw his face in full detail, saw the tightly reined anguish etched in every line of his features.

“Would you try to stop me?” she challenged him, knowing suddenly that having him stop her was exactly what she wanted. It was what she had wanted all along-a life with this man, whatever kind of life that might be.
But he would have to speak, or at least give some sign that he wanted her. Otherwise she would have no choice except to leave.

“There’s the horse,” he said. “Take it and go. You’re free.”

“And Swan Feather?” She hesitated, waiting, hoping.

“Swan Feather would not hold you against your will. I will explain and she will understand—in time.”

In time.
Clarissa turned slowly away and moved toward the buckskin horse. Every step was weighted by a despair so black that she felt as if she would carry it for the rest of her life. She was free. But she could not thank him. She could not even say goodbye. One more word and she would shatter like unfired clay.

“Clarissa.”

At the sound of her name, she spun back toward him. Her heart leaped, then dropped like a stone as she saw that he was holding the parfleche, extending it toward her with both hands.

Fighting tears of anguish, she walked slowly back toward him. His face was in full sunlight now, the jaw set, the eyes narrowed against the glare. What colossal, stubborn pride he had! If only he would speak, or even look at her…

She reached out to take the rawhide case and their fingers happened to brush. The light contact of skin to skin blazed like a flash of gunpowder through her body. The parfleche dropped from between their hands. Struck by the sudden searing heat in his eyes, Clarissa let it fall.

In the next instant he had caught her in his arms.

All barriers between them—pride, distrust, conflict-vanished as he kissed her. Clarissa melted against him, her fingers furrowing his long black hair, her mouth opening, her wanton hips moving, pressing, seeking the
wonderful hardness that lay beneath his breechcloth. His breathing deepened, and she knew there would be no stopping this time, no restraint, no guilt. She would give herself to him fully and completely, and he would make her his woman.

With a low moan, he swept her up against his chest, his arms clasping her thighs and shoulders. She clung to him, hearing the wild drumming of his heart as he carried her through the trees to a hidden glade overhung by willows, cushioned with soft spring moss and dotted with tiny white flowers. It was a perfect wedding place, she thought as he lowered her to the ground, more beautiful than any church she had ever seen. She thought of saying so, but as he leaned above her, his eyes hot and fierce and tender, Clarissa knew that the time for talk was long past. They needed no words, she and Wolf Heart. They needed nothing more than here and now, nothing more than what they could give to each other.

Her hand moved upward to caress his face, fingers trembling down the chiseled hollow of his long cheek and over the rugged line of his jaw. His throat moved as she clasped the back of his neck and pulled his head down to her breasts, every part of her wanting him, needing him.

She whimpered out loud as his lips nuzzled aside the flimsy fabric of her bodice and she felt the heaven of his mouth on her sensitive skin, nibbling, tasting, licking. His teeth captured the dark circle of her aureole, nipping lightly while his tongue circled the throbbing, puckered nipple, igniting waves that shimmered out and down, cascading like shooting stars through her body.

His hard belly lay against her hips. Wanting more of him, all of him, she arched upward, seeking the sweet familiar pressure that had all but driven her mad before.
But this time it was his hand that answered, stroking downward, finding her through the ragged tangle of skirts, his fingertips cool against the hot wet core of her need.

“Wolf Heart—” She pushed against him, feverish with yearning. Her urgent fingers groped and tugged, all but ripping away his breechcloth. She gasped as her fingertips found naked flesh. His manhood was as hard and smooth as polished marble, as exquisitely fashioned as a flower. She clasped him with one trembling hand and heard him groan. The rough need in his voice stirred her blood and touched her heart. Yes, she had been born for him, Clarissa thought. Born for this man, for this moment.

She lay open and waiting as he poised himself above her. For the space of a long breath his gaze held hers, fiercely tender and full of promise. Then, as longing burst in them both, she arched to meet his thrust. There was a small burst of pain, then the sensation of sliding into a spiral of ecstasy as he began to move inside her, flesh cloaked in flesh. Marble sheathed in silk. She closed her eyes and lost herself in their motion, in the sweet raw newness of their love as the singing grew deep inside her, swelling, filling every joyous part of her.

As they soared and burst together, Clarissa knew there would be no escape, no return to Baltimore. She belonged with this man, Wolf Heart or Seth Johnson or whatever he might choose to call himself. He was her love, her life.

Spent, they lay together on the carpet of blossoms. Even now she could not get enough of him. She curled against his side, savoring the hard-muscled smoothness of his body and the rich masculine aroma of his skin.

Through the bower of overhanging willows, the sun
cast dappled patterns of light and shadow over their bodies. Next time, she thought, drowsy with contentment, they would make love by the light of the moon. Kokomthena, their grandmother, who had fashioned men and women to enjoy each other’s bodies, would be very pleased.

Clarissa’s adoption took place the following afternoon. Wolf Heart had refused to tell her about the ceremony, saying only that it was forbidden for her to know the details ahead of time. With no reason to believe otherwise, she had assumed it would be a simple affair—an exchange of words, perhaps, or small gifts. She could not have been more wrong.

The food for the banquet was simmering over the cook fires—built with wood she had helped the women gather—when the drums called the people to assemble in the council house. Everyone—men, women and children—put aside their tasks and came.

Clarissa had never been inside the mysterious log building before. As she stood beside Swan Feather, her gaze explored the cavernous space, the massive roof beams, the battle trophies hung upon the walls—shields, lances, even scalps. This, then, was the heart of the village, the center of Wolf Heart’s world, and now her own.

The council house was large enough to hold all the people in the village. Although they entered smiling and chatting through the wide doorway hung with buffalo hides, even the children fell into respectful silence as they arranged themselves in rows on the hard-packed earthen floor. Light streamed in through the windows to glisten on their sleek black hair and coppery bodies.

Wolf Heart strode in and quietly took a seat on her left, his eyes betraying nothing. They had agreed to remain
apart until her adoption, after which he could ask Swan Feather for her hand in the proper way by presenting the old woman with gifts. How much did the village know about what had happened between them? she wondered, glancing furtively around her. Was it possible to keep any kind of secret in this place?

Hunts-at-Night, with an air of great dignity, stepped before the gathered listeners and began to speak. His sonorous voice related the history of the Shawnee as a people, how they had come as wanderers to this, the valley of the Beautiful River. The recitation droned on for so long that Clarissa, seated cross-legged on the floor like the others, began to feel cramped and fidgety.

Her gaze shifted to Wolf Heart’s craggy profile. How majestic he looked today, with silver ornaments gleaming at his earlobes, his black hair twisted at the scalp lock and held by a small silver clasp, from which twin eagle feathers rose. Today he had added a handsome silver breastplate engraved with his symbol, the wolf. Beside him, she looked as drab and tattered as an old muskrat skin thrown out for the dogs to worry. If this was to be such a grand occasion, why had no one offered her anything to wear?

She was almost caught off guard when Hunts-at-Night asked her to stand. Reminding herself that the adoption was supposed to be a surprise, she scrambled to her feet and prepared herself to look astonished.

“You have lived among us and seen our ways.” The chief’s scar-slashed face was stern but his voice was kind. “Is it your wish to join with the Shawnee as the daughter of Swan Feather?”

Clarissa glanced down at the old woman’s beaming countenance. Moments ago she’d thought she would have to feign emotion, but now, as she felt everyone’s gaze
on her, the throbbing lump that rose in her throat was all too real. These people who possessed so little were offering her everything they had—their kinship, their support, even their love. Unshed tears blurred her eyes as she nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

The chiefs grim features broke into a smile. “So let it be done,” he said. Without another word, he turned away and down the long center aisle toward the door. There was a stirring in the lodge as all the boys and men, including Wolf Heart, rose and followed him outside, leaving only the women and girls, who edged forward expectantly.

Clarissa stood before them, wondering what to do next. Swan Feather’s wrinkled face wore a gap-toothed grin. Some of the younger girls had begun to giggle. The unsettling tightness in Clarissa’s stomach was quelled only a little when White Moon stepped forward, beaming.

“Now we will make you Shawnee,” she said.

As if triggered by some silent signal, a half-dozen senior women sprinted forward, surrounded Clarissa and began pulling at her clothes. Only White Moon’s reassuring smile kept Clarissa from bolting out of the lodge as the worn fabric began to rip and tear. First the skirt went, then the petticoat and the bodice of the gown. Buttons popped off and rolled across the floor to be snatched up by eager hands. The watchers laughed, hooted and shouted encouragement as fabric strained and ripped.

Clarissa gasped as rough fingers split her chemise down the back and jerked it off her arms, leaving her bare from the waist up. “Stop—” she pleaded, clasping her arms over her exposed chest as the hall resounded with laughter. But even she knew where this rough-andtumble was going. When her underdrawers were ripped away, the stained muslin so threadbare that it offered little
resistance, she stood naked and trembling before the gathered women, her hands too small to conceal her body from their curious eyes. To be sure, few of them had ever seen red hair down
there.
But did they have to stare at her so openly?

At a nod from White Moon, four younger women hurried forward, each of them carrying a small earthenware pot. Only when the first of them dipped her fingers into the pot and began smearing a thick white liquid clay onto Clarissa’s bare shoulder did she realize what was happening.

They were going to paint her, all of her, from head to toe!

She forced herself to stand still as the women’s hands rubbed paint onto her skin. The watchers in the hall had begun to chant—a high-pitched blood-stirring song—accompanied by clapping hands and the throb of an unseen drum. By the time the song was finished, the white paint had been spread over Clarissa’s entire body. Her face, her hair, her breasts and her genitals, were covered. Even the bottoms of her feet had not been missed.

Clarissa stared down at the paint-spattered earthen floor, her nerves silently screaming. Only the calm presence of White Moon and her whispered reassurances kept her from bolting out of the council house in a fit of panic. When she’d expressed her willingness to become a Shawnee, she’d had no idea what that consent would entail. But if this was the price of Wolf Heart’s love, she would endure it, Clarissa reminded herself. For him, she would endure anything.