by Andrea Jones
“What can I do?”
Slowly, White Bear rose from his haunches and stood before her. Refusing to look in his eyes, Raven remained seated and focused on the sinews of his wrist, the wrist bearing her sister’s marriage bracelet. As he had done before, only to meet rejection, he approached her with his hand. This time she allowed him to settle it on her upper arm. With the smallest movement, Raven flinched. Inclining her body ever so slightly to the side, she tried not to pull away from his touch.
White Bear tensed as she shied. His grip on her arm tightened, and he growled the answer to her question.
“Woman: you will grow your hair. You will be guided by my judgment. When the sun deserts the sky, you will be permitted to lie upon the furs I provide you, in the tepee I have made.”
Raven’s gaze rose gratefully to his face, her arm relaxing beneath his grasp. Then her muscles clenched, for with a look in his eyes as inescapable as Lean Wolf’s pursuit, White Bear continued.
“And this night, you will not turn from me.”
CHAPTER 6
Knowing the Foe
The picnic hamper lay pillaged, overturned. A few drops of claret dampened the dirt at the mouth of the bottle where it lay, making heady mud for the bees beginning to buzz around it. Only a scant patch of mud could form, however, as another tiny being beat the bees to it, lapping up the wine. Jewel leaned against the bottle’s mouth, her elbows up as she thrust her face in, her iridescent wings of peacock blue folded for the moment, but ready to flare in flight. She didn’t hear Peter descend to the grass beside her. Above the roar of the waterfall, lesser sounds were hard to heed.
“Here I am, Jewel. I’ve been following you.”
Jumping backward, the fairy jingled. When she saw that the speaker was Peter, she smiled slyly; it was she who had performed the ‘following,’ but the bottle and its contents had lured her from the cover of the woods. Remembering her mission, she shot a quick glance toward the water.
Peter’s foot righted the hamper and he rummaged inside it. “Nothing left.” His eyes narrowed and shifted to study the waterfall. He spied the weapons and clothing on a high, dry rock close beside it. Resentful, he said, “Red-Handed Jill must be showing Hook our secret spot.” The river that poured from above fell heavily onto an outcropping, then flowed in a glossy green sheath, a perfect panel until it stumbled over another shelf of rock. From there it fell crazily in a froth of billowing white, plunging to the pond. Behind the curtain of rushing water, as Peter knew very well, a cave opened in which the rivulets pooled like a bath, warmed earlier on the mountain above, where the river basked in sunshine. His bold voice puzzled, “But how did Hook get up there? Even I can’t climb behind the waterfall, and I have two hands. Too steep and slippery, unless you’re flying.”
Jewel had drunk up another drop of wine as he talked, and the mention of her master spurred her to duty. Quickly, she darted into the underbrush, beckoning Peter to follow. Her plumage struck a brilliant blue, vivid against the green of the forest, reflecting her anxiety to ensconce Peter in its safety.
“No, Jewel! I haven’t gotten a proper look at Hook yet. The mermaids say he promoted himself. Commodore! Ha!” Peter kicked the grass. “He thinks a big title and another ship full of men might make me fear him.”
Jewel frowned through the purple stain on her lips. Grasping Peter’s belt, she heaved, signaling her urgency with her music, but he wouldn’t budge. True to form, Peter relished this peril.
“I don’t hide from Hook.” Peter’s green eyes flashed as he patted his sword. “If he wants to come out and fight, I’m ready for him. Right now I’m scouting before laying plans for attack. I left Chip and the others at the Lagoon.”
Jewel interrupted her impatient reply, spinning to scan the woods. She thought she had caught a movement at the corner of her eye, the stealthy slinking of an animal. Flitting up and down, she searched, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Listening, she heard only the crash of the waterfall. Then she turned to Peter, stern, and crossed her arms. Her music box language held a note of irritation.
“Jewel, we’ve been waiting all this time for Hook and Jill to sail back to the Island. I promised Chip, Bertie, and Bingo a tangle with pirates. My boys are eager for action! The sooner the better.”
A shrewd look passed over Jewel’s face. She’d learned how to handle her boy. Her luxurious wings stroked as she hovered over Peter’s shoulder and dropped to settle there. His muscles were firm and strong, but not as developed as those upon which she had reclined this morning. Peter was Jewel’s boy— but Jewel’s man, after long months, had returned to her.
Her task this time was much the same as before. Jewel was commanded to repeat to her master all that happened on the Island in his absence. Next she was instructed to keep an eye on Peter. Hook had honored his word to Jewel last time, and today he promised he would endeavor not to harm her boy; it stood to reason that he needed to spy on Peter’s plans and whereabouts. Jewel understood. The more the commodore knew of Peter, the better he could preserve him. Jewel never doubted her master’s intentions. He had taken the Wendy away. He had given Peter back to her. She was Hook’s creature and, willingly, she gave to him all that he asked. Even Peter’s secrets.
And in return, Hook granted his affection. Peter was just a boy. He could never understand how to handle a female, much less a fairy. Jewel remembered the striving she’d witnessed as the Wendy attempted to ensnare him. A girl’s needs were negligent compared to a fairy’s, but Peter hadn’t responded even to requirements as elementary as the Wendy’s. Thanks to her master, Jewel didn’t have to hope any longer that Peter would discover her mysteries. The commodore knew them all, and, of all humans, his fingers alone delivered the touch his creature craved— the long, light caresses that lit up her wings and made her body sing. Through Hook’s tutelage, Jewel had banished the bitterness of her jealousy. With the expulsion of such an enormous emotion, her heart made room for two kinds of love— the companionship she felt for Peter, and the passion that burned for her master. Unless Peter blundered beyond expectation, Jewel would never have to choose between them.
The Wendy had had to choose, and now she was Hook’s woman, Red-Handed Jill. But in Jewel’s opinion she was far more acceptable these days, thanks to the master’s influence. This morning Jewel carefully applied her thistle, brushing out her flaxen hair to a fine-spun cloud, then slipping on her greenest, gauziest dress. She had even scented her throat with a drop of lily of the valley, straight from the stalk. When she twinkled through the great cabin’s doorway, Jill had greeted her warmly, even treated her to tea. After that, the lady set off for the Clearing, leaving the commodore and his fairy to commune in private. Hook had poured a honeyed nectar in a thimble and, with tenderness, laid his fairy upon her velvet cushion. Jewel’s cheeks had glowed pink as he caressed her. Her pulse beat heat through her veins, her wings burst into radiance unrivaled by the brightest gem in Hook’s coffers. Reliving the strokes of his fingers, she understood why Jill preferred sailing on the Roger to her old life in the hideout under the ground.
But Jewel was more practical. Peter lived in the woodlands, and the woodlands were Jewel’s home. Much as she hated to admit it, some of the Wendy’s carefulness had rubbed off on her; where before Peter had adventured at will, Jewel now took upon herself the responsibility of guiding him from risk. And despite the fact that Hook had already wreaked his vengeance on Peter, he warned Jewel this morning: for Peter, pirates remained a danger. Her master trusted that, for her own happiness’ sake, she would outwit her clever boy. As she nestled now on Peter’s shoulder, she followed the sensible course and executed her scheme.
Kneeling near his ear, she chimed a reminder.
Peter’s brow wrinkled as he considered. “But Wendy was different from Chip and the others. She was a girl.”
With newfound patience, Jewel waited for her idea to become Peter’s.
“But…Nibs and Tootles were boys…and they’re pirates now…jus
t like Wendy!” With a shocked expression, Peter pivoted. Jewel took to her wings, floating as he faced her. “They were my boys, and they learned all the glories of piracy— from me!”
Sympathetically, Jewel wagged her head.
“I can’t let that happen again. What if Chip—” Here a look of horror struck his face. After a moment, Peter straightened. He squared his shoulders. “No. I have to protect my family.” Peter jumped up to hang in the air above the picnic hamper. “Well, hurry up, Jewel! We have to get to the Lagoon. I’ve got to guard my boys against pirates.”
With a smug smile, Jewel made to fly after him, but Peter had come to a halt. Hovering, he stared over her shoulder. Jewel registered the look of wide-eyed surprise on his face, then whirled to follow his gaze.
Commodore Hook had emerged from the cavern. He stood on the ledge before the falls with the water foaming at his feet. Having walked through the downpour, his body dripped and shone with moisture. Jewel soon understood why Peter’s face, usually confident, even arrogant when observing his nemesis, now displayed confusion.
Hook stood poised against the background of the green, glassy falls. His hair hung thick against his head and chest, the curl dragged down but unconquered by the weight of the water. A man who typically dressed in formal attire, the commodore devoid of clothing cast an equally elegant impression, his tall frame fleshed and honed— except for his wound. The infamous hook was absent, leaving his stump and his scarring exposed. As he raised his arms to stretch, the wrist Peter had mutilated glided in the air, looking not so much part of a human body as it looked like a serpent. The ink of an intricate tattoo stained the forearm all around it, increasing the likeness to scales on a snake. Peter’s face contorted as he observed. Although he himself had inflicted this wound, it repelled him. But it wasn’t the wrist on which his gaze fastened, in the end.
Through his revulsion, Peter laughed aloud. Then he shouted, “Hook!”
Instantly, the man found him. Hook’s eyes glittered as he stared, and his relaxed pose of a moment ago vanished in a battle-ready stance. Hook held no weapon, yet in the sheer shape of his naked body, he waxed fierce.
Peter’s face looked baffled, his voice incredulous. “You…” He used the only words he could find to express his meaning. “You’re pointing the wrong way.” He gaped, then forced his laugh to ring out again. “You must have a terrible time in the privy!” Amused at his witticism, Peter clutched his middle to roll in the air, hooting with mirth.
Jewel drew closer to the boy, sending a look of apology toward her master. Her light flickered in uncertainty, and she was relieved to see Hook remain impassive.
He called back to Peter, “Your ignorance is charming, boy, if not your wit.” Striding to the dry side of the falls, Hook snatched up his sword. “Shall I sharpen it for you?”
Jewel was tugging at Peter’s hair now, willing him away. He brushed her off. “Now I see how deformed you are.” He smirked. “Jill must like you better after dark.”
“A lucky guess, Pan. I’ll not bother to enlighten you. Begone now, and see to your boys before the mermaids turn them to men,” Hook looked down toward his well-primed privates, then rolled his gaze upward again. “Like me.” With an ironic smile, he waved Jewel off.
Peter stopped grinning and turned toward the west. He didn’t demand to know how Hook knew the whereabouts of his boys. Jewel surmised that he was preoccupied with the grown-up doom of Nibs and Tootles again and sensing the threat to Chip, for without ceremony he called, “Come on, Jewel. You know how aggressive those mergirls can be.” With no further banter with the enemy, Peter sped away.
Watched from the waterfall, Jewel tagged behind the blur of Peter’s trail. Before slipping out of sight she turned, raised her fingers to her lips, and flung her hand toward her master. Hook bent his head in a graceful bow, saluting her with his sword. He replaced it by his clothing; Jewel indulged in one last eyeful and a long, satisfied sigh, and then she blazed after Peter, toward the Mermaids’ Lagoon. Neither master nor servant was aware of the eyes that observed them.
Eyes black as coal, that kindled when the object of their search appeared at the cavern mouth. Merely a wavy haze behind the water at first, Red-Handed Jill stepped through the downpour into the commodore’s arms, and a silent hunter came to attention behind his tree.
Like the Black Chief’s, Jill’s hair was drenched. It parted into long, sleek ropes. The dampness made it darker, the shade of buckskin. Lean Wolf had never touched hair that color except to seize and slay an enemy. Never had he reached out to stroke this hue in peaceable acts of attraction. And this woman’s coloring differed in other ways. Even from his hiding place, the hawk eyes of the predator spotted the blood on her hand. The sign intrigued him. He wondered what it symbolized, but, knowing her band to be brutal, Lean Wolf held little doubt. That kind of paint meant the mystery of initiation. A double intrigue, signifying both birthing and murder. Clearly she was marked by the headman. A woman with a red hand matched a Black Chief with only one.
Also unlike the native women, this European wore a delicate undergarment. But Lean Wolf wondered why. The saturated clothing only served to enhance her nakedness, clinging to her curves in a manner more provocative than bare flesh. Her pink skin glowed through the garment. Lean Wolf saw the indentation of her waist, the cleft between her buttocks. Restless, he waited, watching her lover’s single hand rove up and down her backside. His stomach sickened to see the tattooed stump of the other wrist roam her body too, in a parody of its partner’s embraces. Lean Wolf’s lips twisted.
What kind of female wouldn’t flinch at that disfigurement? Clearly this pirate woman wasn’t squeamish. Quite the opposite, she pressed against her lover, and when they drew apart her fingers pulled his hand— and the mutilation that was his wrist— to her lips. Even as he shuddered, Lean Wolf felt a respect for the woman from the sea. Her crimson hand spoke truth. She must indeed own the courage the stories attributed to her.
Lean Wolf speculated whether the other wild men had possessed this pretty piece. The thought reminded him of his runaway wife, outcast at the Clearing and delivering herself into their arms. As he imagined it, a shock of outrage shot through his body. Perhaps Red Fawn also accepted the damaged Black Chief as her lover. Had she felt his grotesque touch? Had she taken payment to endure him? Disgust entered Lean Wolf’s soul, leaving a taste of rancor in his throat. Twisting the marriage bracelet that wrapped around his wrist, he mastered the rage. Surely, with a woman like this in his power, a woman of his own people with skin like the blush of the rising moon, the Black Chief had no need to dally with pass-around women. The gossip of the tribeswomen claimed that the Outcasts were no such thing, but to Lean Wolf’s mind, they were little better. He swallowed the bitterness and returned his thoughts to the vision before him.
The couple had stepped back into the waterfall. It fell full upon them as they embraced, the water rolling off his head, off her upturned face. The lovers broke apart to smile up into it, drew the droplets into their mouths and kissed again, greedily. Then, turning Lean Wolf’s direction, the woman clasped the man’s arm and pulled him along the ledge where their clothing lay waiting by their weapons on a dry, quiet rock. Water coursed from her hair and her underskirt, her smiling face looked radiant. Her shift hugged her body like the skin of a grape— barely containing the lusciousness of her fruit. Lean Wolf found this fallacy of fabric maddening to watch. He wanted to rip that cover away, to expose the pulp and devour her goodness, from her rigid tips to her rounded breasts. He could taste her sweetness as he imagined it. Salivating, he licked his lips. Once more, and much more urgently, he hungered for this woman.
So strong was his compulsion for her that he turned away. Had White Bear not denied his suit, Lean Wolf would have run to Raven now, claimed her by betrothal and the strength of his arms to carry her to his trysting place. But as yet, without her consent and in the sight of the People, he held no rights to Raven. As he still hoped to wed her one da
y, he must make at least a show of respect toward Raven’s provider. White Bear was an old friend. A foolish friend, to be so obstinate over a sister-in-law he didn’t relish. Lean Wolf had turned his back on tradition, but he was grounded in it enough to long for the comforts of a wife, and to understand that, as a suitor, he must keep his distance. Nor would it be fitting at this point to couple with either of the willing women he’d already preyed upon, for to persuade the council to counter White Bear’s protection, he must be discreet. Tales of dalliance would fly like larks to Raven’s ears. And even if he got past the Men of the Clearing, waylaying Red Fawn was out of the question for the time being. The tribe would hear of that kind of connection, too. Silent Hunter could do nothing to satisfy this craving until he got the cause of it— the sea woman— alone.
Stealing back through the woods, Lean Wolf trotted toward his hidden lair. The caves were only an arrow’s journey from the falls. He followed a path up an incline toward the honeycombed hills, each with its own hollow. Some of these caverns were unsuitable, some unsafe, occupied by bats or by beasts. Lean Wolf hiked over the gravel that prickled through the soles of his moccasins until he came to the rock that marked his own entrance. No other animals made this cavern their home. The boulder kept them out, and kept Lean Wolf’s secrets in.
He hunkered down and, with the remarkable strength of his arms, pressed the boulder. He grunted, his biceps corded, and gradually it budged, then it rolled under the pressure of his muscles, crunching over the pebbles. Once he’d opened a slot large enough for his body to thread, he crawled in and flung himself down on a bed of furs. Here he settled under phosphorescent moss in the tomblike silence, inhaling its earthen smell. Envisioning the woman from the sea, he lay feeling the fiery touch of her blood-red hand, stoking his lust for her with visions of the future.
