Chapter Eight
Tshingee met Deborah halfway, his arms outstretched. "Deborah," he groaned, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. "Maata-wischasi, my Red Bird. Do not be afraid. I am here."
"I knew you would come," she insisted, choking back a sob. "I knew you wouldn't let them take me away!"
Tshingee kissed her tear-stained cheeks, turning her so that he might cut the leather strips that bound her arms behind her back. Letting the sinew fall to the ground he rubbed her wrists, trying to bring back the circulation. "Shhh," he soothed huskily. "Don't weep, my brave hokkuaa. You are safe, now. Tshingee of the Wolf Clan will never let anyone take you away from him again."
Deborah looped her arms around Tshingee's neck and he drew her against his hard, sinewy chest. He kissed the lobe of her ear, then her partially exposed shoulder. The shift she wore was torn in shreds, exposing much of her left breast and the entire length of her lithe thighs.
Deborah trembled in his arms, holding him tightly. "I'm . . . I'm so thirsty," she whispered.
Tshingee lifted his water skin to her lips and let her drink. "Not too much," he warned. "Some now. Some later."
Panting, she let him draw away the skin. "I feel so dirty, so soiled."
"Can you walk?" He stroked her back, easing the stiff muscles of her quivering shoulders. Tshingee had no desire to take advantage of Deborah, but it seemed natural that he should kiss away the tears, that he should stroke away the fear.
"I . . . I think so," she breathed. She looked up at him and their lips met in a soft kiss of reassurance. When the kiss deepened, Deborah gave no resistance. The taste of him was overpowering, intoxicating. In utter abandon, she wove her fingers through his midnight black hair, straining against him.
Tshingee withdrew breathlessly. He had to keep reminding himself that this was a white woman, not some Lenni Lenape maiden that he could make his own. He studied her face with a dark, steady gaze, leaning to plant a final kiss on the tiny birthmark near her mouth. "There is a river nearby; we can go there and wash," he whispered, not trusting his own voice.
The air was so thick with strained desire that it was palpable. Tshingee could feel her need for him . . . he prayed he could resist. "Can you walk?"
"Yes, yes, I can." She took a deep breath and, clutching his arm, started to walk. She took three steps and tripped before he swept her into his arms. Deborah dared a smile. "I said I can walk," she repeated, resting her hands on his broad shoulders. She made no effort to escape his embrace.
"I know. But I want to carry you. I am sorry for what has happened." He started through the woods. "I am responsible. I should not have left you alone. I should have known the raiding party was so near."
Deborah rested her head on Tshingee's shoulder, listening to the comforting sound of his breathing. "How could you have known?" she defended. She stroked his arm, marveling at the feel of his hard, banded muscles beneath her fingertips.
Tshingee shuddered inwardly. Her innocent caress left his flesh tingling and hot. How much more of this sweet torture could he stand? He wanted this woman like no woman before, and yet he knew he could not have her. Not ever. The safe return of this white woman was his only hope for rescuing his brother.
"They took me from the river."
"I know." Tshingee ducked a low-hanging branch. He cradled her in his arms, enjoying the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him.
"But they didn't . . . they didn't touch me. They hit me a few times, but they didn't hurt me, not like I thought they were going to."
Tshingee nodded in understanding. "It is a white man's custom to rape women. Even Mohawks have morals. To take a woman against her will is terrible bad medicine."
She smiled, reaching out to stroke his bronzed, chiseled cheek. "And it is you we call the savage," she whispered. This time it was Deborah who leaned to kiss Tshingee's mouth.
"Deborah, we cannot do this." The sound of bubbling water filled the air as he stepped through the trees. A narrow branch of some river stretched out before them. "Don't you understand?" He eased her to the ground, but she clung to him.
"All I understand is that no one has ever cared about me like you do. You tell me you are my enemy and yet you have more respect for my well- being than my own father." She lifted her chin to stare into his dark eyes; her hands spanned his bare chest. "All I understand is that no man has ever made me feel like this." She took his hand, pressing it to her left breast.
Tshingee paused, feeling the pounding of her heart beneath his palm. Taking her hand, he laid it over his own heart. "Like this?" he asked.
Deborah's chest rose and fell rapidly. "Kiss me again. I ask for no promises. I know what can and cannot be, but just once in my life I want someone to truly care about me." Tears of sadness and longing welled up in her dark eyes. "I want you to make love to me as Thomas Hogarth, my betrothed, will never be able to."
Deborah's words tore at Tshingee's heart. "You don't know what you offer."
"I offer the only thing that is mine to give."
"But the man you will marry, it is his . . ."
"I was sold to Tom just as surely as False Face would have sold me to his brother when the price was high enough," she interrupted, frowning. "Don't you see, Tshingee? I have never had any control over my own life until now." She glanced toward the river, too unsure of herself to meet his gaze. "I'm afraid I'm in love with you . . ."
Tshingee pulled her hard against him. He ached for her so badly that it was a physical hurt. He could not tell her that he was in love with her; he had to be strong for the both of them. "We've been through much today, Red Bird. Let us bathe."
Deborah looked up at Tshingee with open surprise. Then she looked away. She felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water on her. How could she have been so foolish as to say such a thing? She pulled away from him and walked toward the river. He didn't care for her. What had ever given her the impression that he did? Tshingee was just like all the other men in her life. She was here because he was using her to get his brother back. Nothing more. It was as he had said—she was the enemy.
Lifting her soiled shift over her head, Deborah let it drift to the ground. She didn't care that Tshingee saw her naked. He had turned down her brazen offering; it was obvious he was uninterested in her. She pointed her toes and dove into the cold water.
Tshingee took a deep breath. It was all he could do to force himself to stand still as Deborah removed her clothing. He knew he had hurt her and he was sorry, but he was at a loss as to what to say, what to do. Her words echoed in his mind . . . I'm afraid I'm in love with you. Under any other circumstances her words would have sent his soul soaring. No one had ever touched his heart like his little Red Bird. But he had to be strong, for her, for himself, and for John. It was the only way.
Well after dark Deborah lay stretched out on a hide mat, another pulled on top of her. A campfire crackled and spit emitting a bright orange-red flame. On the other side of the fire sat Tshingee, his legs crossed beneath him, his face solemn. He had said little since the afternoon, and then he had spoken only in short sentences. "We will sleep here. Eat this. Cover yourself with this."
Deborah's head spun in confusion. Now that a little time had passed, she knew Tshingee was right. It was better that they not become emotionally involved. If he made love to her now, she would spend the rest of her life comparing Tom with him. She would spend the rest of her life knowing what true love felt like, but never being able to grasp it again.
A chilling southeasterly breeze blew in off the river and Deborah snuggled deeper beneath the warm hide blanket. An autumn storm seemed to be brewing far in the distance. The forest quivered with the sounds of the night, the rustling of leaves, the call of a distant owl, the creeping footsteps of unidentified nocturnal animals in the underbrush.
"I'm sorry," Deborah suddenly said. "You were right, Tshingee. It was wrong of me to put you in such a position. You've been honest with me since the first day we met."
Tshingee lifted his head and stared at her through the iridescent flames. "No one has offered me a greater gift." There was a husky catch in his voice. "I am only sorry I could not accept."
Deborah sighed. "I wish I hadn't been born Deborah Montague. I wished I'd been born Red Bird, of the Lenni Lenape. Then it would be all right, wouldn't it? If I wasn't English? If I wasn't white?"
A sad smile rose on his face. "You forget that I am part Englishman." He shook his head, poking a stick into the flames of the fire. "It just is not in the stars, Red Bird. We are all here for a purpose. We are not expected to understand God's ways, only accept them."
Deborah rose up off the ground, hugging the hide blanket to her breasts. "God? I thought you were a heathen."
He chuckled. "No more than you. It was my mother's wish as well as my father's that my brother and I be brought up as Christians."
"I knew John believed in Christ but—"
"But because I wear a loinskin and carry a bow and quiver you thought—"
She chuckled, cutting off his words. "It sounds so silly when you say it. It's just that I was always told—"
"You were always told the red man was a filthy, heathen savage," he finished for her.
She laughed aloud, her voice echoing in the trees. A startled bird took flight above her head and fluttered off, its wings beating rhythmically in the air. Once again Deborah was reminded that she had never known a man like Tshingee. He was such a puzzlement! Every hour they were together, another layer of his true self was revealed. She smiled at him through the darkness. "Good night, Tshingee of the Wolf Clan." She lay down and pulled the hide blanket up over her shoulders.
"Good night, my Red Bird," he answered softly.
"Wake up, Deborah." Tshingee shook her gently. "Deborah, you must wake up."
Deborah snuggled deeper beneath the warm pelt, vaguely aware of the tender voice calling her name.
"Red Bird!" He shook her harder.
"Yes." She sighed sleepily.
"You must get up. We have to hurry. A storm . . ."
Deborah blinked, suddenly becoming aware of the howling wind and the rustle of tree limbs above. The morning air was cold on her face. "A storm?" She looked up at Tshingee kneeling over her. The sky was dark and ominous.
"We have to find shelter."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Shelter? Where?" Now fully awake, she could feel the change in the pressure in the air. The wind was coming from the southeast, strong and blustering. The smell of rain was thick and cloying.
"An abandoned Shawnee village, but we must hurry." He handed her the moccasins and tunic he had picked up off the riverbank the evening the Mohawks had taken her. "It is many miles to the village."
Pushing aside the pelt, Deborah shivered. She quickly donned the leather tunic over her tattered shift. She hopped on one foot and then the other to put on the moccasins. Her teethed chattered and she rubbed her bare arms briskly. "It's c-cold out here."
"Wrap the hide around your shoulders." He looked up from where he knelt packing his bag of cooking utensils. "One corner will have a tie. Slip it through the hole in the opposite corner."
"That's better," Deborah answered, tying the hide tightly around her shoulders. "What can I do to help?'
"Take the water skins and fill them both." He began to roll up his sleeping hide.
Picking up Tshingee's water bag and one that had belonged to one of the dead Mohawks, she ran down to the river. Getting her footing on a flat rock, she filled the skins quickly. The river was already beginning to run faster, churning white and frothy as it gained momentum. Deborah raced back to Tshingee. "I'm ready," she declared, slipping the Mohawk's water bag over her shoulder.
"Let's go." Tshingee led the way and Deborah followed.
The two headed northwest, leaving the river behind. The wind beat at their backs, blowing brush and loose branches in their path. When the rain finally came, it was hard and pelting, stinging Deborah's face. The trees bent and swayed beneath the southeasterly gusts, and leaves were stripped from their branches and sent sailing into the air.
Tshingee caught Deborah's arm and walked beside her when the gusts became stronger. They had been walking nearly an hour.
"How far?" Deborah shouted above the howl of the wind. "It's gaining on us!"
She didn't use the word hurricane. She saw no need. It was obvious to her that Tshingee already knew what they were up against. If they didn't get to shelter before the eye of the storm reached them, they didn't stand a chance of surviving. She had seen too many hurricanes on the Chesepeake. She knew what they could do. Livestock was carried off, roofs from barns and homes were lifted and hurled into the air to splinter into a million shards of flying debris.
"It's been many years since I've been here. Not since I was a young buck."
She leaned to speak into his ear. "You mean you don't know?"
"Not far," he shouted with confidence.
"But if I can't see anything, you can't see anything!"
"My moccasins will lead the way!"
Deborah lowered her head, stiffening her back to remain upright as the wind pushed her from behind. She was so cold and wet that her teeth chattered and her hands shook. A fallen branch sailed over her head, nearly striking them both before it hit a tree and fell to the ground.
Tshingee wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Keep walking," he shouted as more objects hurled through the air. "I recognize that tree."
Deborah was skeptical, but she kept moving, the warmth of Tshingee's arm around her giving her the strength. The minutes turned to hours as they plodded forward. The rain was coming down so heavily that she could barely see a step ahead of her. She relied on Tshingee to guide her.
"There!" he shouted, pointing into the darkness.
Deborah squinted. She still couldn't see anything, then suddenly a dome-shaped structure loomed ahead of them.
"Hurry!" Tshingee shouted. "Step down inside!"
Running beside him, Deborah held tightly to his waist. When he lifted a door flap, she ducked in, stepping down a good foot and a half. She fell to the hard dirt floor, panting. Tshingee came in behind her, slamming the door flap behind him.
"The tie from your cloak! Give it to me!"
She fumbled in the darkness with the sinew tie. "Here!
Taking it, Tshingee tied the door tightly to the frame. "There." He slid to the ground, out of breath. "We will be safe here," he panted.
"Are you sure?" She looked at the wooden structure above her head doubtfully. The house had been built of saplings bent and tied to make a dome frame with bark attached in shingle style.
"This wigwam has withstood many a September storm. It will stand many more." He brushed at a lock of wet hair plastered to her cheek. "You are cold. I will build a fire."
"H—how?" she chattered.
He crawled past her to the far wall. "When we leave a village, we always leave our homes stocked for travelers' use." He picked up a bundle of dry kindling. "When we leave, we will replenish."
Deborah squinted in the darkness, watching Tshingee as he took his tinderbox from his bag and began to layer the faggots carefully. From his pack he brought out a lump of dry moss. In seconds he had a small flame flickering in the pit in the center of the wigwam. He added several more sticks, carefully nurturing the fire until it blazed.
Deborah smiled, looking up at him. The gold and yellow flames cast shadows across his handsome face, illuminating the curve of his lips and the lines of his cheekbones and forehead.
"Take off the cloak," he told her. "It is wet and will only make you colder." Deborah fumbled with the wet hide, but he came to her, lifting the burden from her shoulders. He hung it high on a peg in the ceiling. "Your tunic. Give that to me too. Then roll out the dry hide in my pack."
Without hesitation, Deborah got to her knees and removed the garment. She rolled out the deer hide from Tshingee's pack and sat down on it. Her torn shift was damp too, but it was thin enough that it was already drying from the heat of the campfire in the firepit.
Deborah watched with fascination as Tshingee removed his leather leggings, his tunic, and knee-high moccasins. He sat down beside her wearing nothing but a leather loincloth. "Your moccasins, take them off too," he told her, reaching down to untie the laces.
When he removed the sodden foot coverings, she wiggled her toes, enjoying the heat of the fire. The wind howled in full force outside the small wigwam, but here she was safe and warm.
Deborah leaned forward, her toes pointed as she stretched to warm her hands. She watched as Tshingee added a small log to the fire and then sat down beside her again. The smoke rose up in a straight line and escaped from the dome-shaped house by way of a hole in the center of the roof.
"Thank you," she murmured, staring into the flames.
"There is no need to thank me." His bare arm brushed hers. "I told you, as long as you are with me, you are my responsibility. No harm will come to you again if it is in my power to stop it."
Deborah leaned back, enjoying the feel of his sinewy arm brushing hers. Seated so close like this, she could feel the heat his body radiated. She could smell that odd, woodsy scent that clung to him, making her senses reel.
Deborah could feel Tshingee watching her. Slowly she turned to face him. Her hand found his. It was obvious to Deborah that he wanted her . . . as much as she wanted him. With slow deliberateness she leaned to kiss his mouth.
Tshingee was suddenly powerless, his self-control gone. He accepted her advance hungrily, sampling the sweet honey of her lips. The pounding of the rain outside blended with the pounding of his own heart. John was forgotten for the moment. All that mattered was the two of them here in this dark, warm wigwam. All that was important was that he was in love with this white woman and he wanted to show her what it was to love.
Deborah settled her hands on his bare shoulders. "You're not going to tell me no this time, are you?" she asked, planting innocent kisses down the length of his neck.
He groaned aloud. "I know no good can—"
"Shhhh," she hushed, pressing her finger to his lips. "Don't be so gallant, Tshingee. Just love me . . ."
Gently, he lowered her onto her back. "You are so beautiful, ki-ti-hi," he murmured, his breath hot in her ear. "You are the light in this man's darkness."
Deborah smiled, peering up at him, her fingers laced through his ebony hair. "Are you to woo me, too?" she whispered.
His reply was a deep, satisfying, lingering kiss.
A heavy-limbed aching filled Deborah's being as Tshingee's hot, probing tongue invaded the cavern of her mouth. He stroked her pale shoulders, ripping the remains of her shift until he freed her of the constricting garment. She gasped in surprise when his fingertips first met the hard, erect peaks of her breasts. Moaning softly, she caressed the breadth of his back and shoulders as he brought his mouth down to the arched fullness of her breast.
A surge of molten throbbing joy raced through Deborah's limbs and she arched her back in encouragement. "Mmmm, that's wonderful," she breathed, lifting her dark lashes to watch Tshingee suckle her breast.
Rolling onto his side, Tshingee buried his face in the valley between her breasts, his hands spanning the width of her flat stomach. He played her with his fingertips, caressing her hipbones and inner thighs with a touch so feather-light that Deborah wondered if she was imagining the subtle waves of desire that gave way to a burning deep within her.
Her breath coming ragged, she reached out to stroke the bulge beneath his loinskin, but he caught her hand, kissing her palm. "Lie back," he whispered. He kissed her cheekbones, her eyelids, the soft curve of her lips. "Lie back and enjoy my gift, ki-ti-hi. The first time must always be special."
Relaxing on the mat, Deborah's eyes drifted shut. Her entire body quaked with a consuming fire as he kissed her deeply, stroking the mounds of her breasts. Leaving a trail of smoldering want, Tshingee kissed his way down the length of her neck, nibbling at her collar bone. He stroked her arms, massaging her fingertips. "Relax," he murmured in her ear. "Relax and enjoy. This is a time of rejoicing."
With a tantalizing exactness Tshingee made his way down the length of her body, caressing every inch of her pale, quivering flesh. He stroked her thighs, her knees, the tips of her toes.
Then, slipping off his loinskin, Tshingee lowered his body over Deborah's. Her eyes drifted open, a languid smile on her lips. She lowered her hands to his hard, muscular buttocks, massaging them with a steady hand as she moved beneath him, guided by some unknown rhythm.
"I've never felt so . . . I . . . I don't know."
Tshingee kissed her damp brow. "Shhh, no talking, just ride the sea of pleasure," he whispered hoarsely.
Closing her eyes, Deborah continued to lift her hips, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of his hard maleness nestled between her thighs. She was warm and wet, caught in a tide of intense, undeniable sensation. Moving faster, she moaned softly, wanting, needing . . . something mysteriously unknown.
Gently, Tshingee parted her thighs with his knee. Catching her mouth with his, he delved deep within her in one long thrust. Deborah rose up in shock, in relief, taking time only to catch her breath before she began to move beneath him.
Laughing with relief, she hugged him tightly, letting him carry her over one rise then the next. Higher and higher they climbed, her body flaming with an all-encompassing passion. Then suddenly, her breath caught in her throat and she cried wildly in utter surprise. Gripping Tshingee's shoulders, spasm after spasm of sweet ecstasy consumed her. She was so alive with startling sensation that she was barely aware as Tshingee drove home with one final thrust and collapsed in fulfillment.
Gasping for breath, Deborah caught his head between her palms, lifting his face to peer into his dark eyes. "That," she panted, "is the most wonderful thing I've ever felt in my life!"
Tshingee laughed, his voice still husky and strained. "You are the most wonderful thing this man has ever felt in his life." He kissed her mouth, rolling off her to rest at her side. He flung his arm over her bare breasts, brushing his lips against her dewy shoulder. "It's not supposed to be that good the first time, my Red Bird."
Deborah laughed, flinging herself back onto the pelt. "You mean it gets better?"