No one in the competition seemed immune to violence. It took only possession of the deerhide ball to make one a target. There was kicking and punching, tripping, without so much as a blinked eye from anyone who might be refereeing. But no one attacked as fiercely as Logan’s enemy.
His long, webbed stick became his weapon of choice. And he didn’t care if Logan had the ball or not.
Rachel tried to call out warnings, but she knew no one could hear her. The crowd was too noisy. They all appeared drawn up in a frenzy of excitement. The gentle people who she’d come to think of as warm and friendly were now caught up in the spirit of bloodletting. She spotted the two sweet ladies of the day before, and saw that they, too, were yelling, shaking their fists in the air at some real or imagined transgression.
Only the Adawehis remained calm. And his very composure amid all the turmoil was disconcerting. It was almost as if he knew what might happen and was powerless to act.
And Rachel knew just how he felt.
She touched her face and realized tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. The warrior was pounding toward Logan, stick raised as if it were a club, and she stood motionless on the sidelines, unable to help. A scream was futile. The Adawehis’s strong fingers still dug into her shoulders. Nothing she could do.
Logan.
It was as if energy flowed from her body. She actually felt it connect with him, knew that in the next moment she would feel the pain as the webbed stick crashed down over his head.
Except it didn’t happen.
At the last moment Logan twisted about, ignoring the play of the ball and facing his foe.
She heard the stick’s clash and wondered briefly why neither shattered as Logan blocked his assailant’s blow.
“Hit him. Hit him. Hit him.” It wasn’t until she realized he didn’t, that Rachel heard the litany she sent Logan’s way. Was the blood lust of the crowd contagious? Or did she know that simply warding off an attack would not be enough. The warrior would only try again.
Rachel had no idea how long she stood there, surrounded by strangers, her eyes following every move Logan made. Someone explained to her once in her other life that knights in their armor needed someone to watch their back. She was that someone for Logan.
When the “play” ended the throng surged onto the field. Though she hadn’t kept track of the score, it was obvious the home team had won. In the confusion she lost sight of Logan, and tried to jump into the melee to find him.
But the Adawehis still held her firmly. “Return to your cabin, Adan’ta Woman and he will come to you.”
“But the warrior will not stop merely because the game ended.”
“That is true. Ostenaco has a blood vengeance for our friend and even though he tried to tell me otherwise it is still strong.”
“Then I must go to him.”
“No. MacQuaid would not want that. Ostenaco will not act now. They are both sore and tired. It will not happen at this time.”
She wanted to argue and scream, pound the old man’s narrow chest and insist he do something. But irrational as his words seemed, Rachel believed them. She did as he said, fighting her way against the stream of joyous spectators to the cabin.
It seemed to take forever for him to come to her.
When he appeared in the doorway, soaking wet, Rachel ran to him. Her arms wrapped around his waist and she pressed her head to his chest, breathing in the scent of him. He held her a moment, clasping her to him, his body seeming to swell as he did. Then he dug his fingers through her hair, pulling her face away, looking into her eyes.
His kiss was rough, tasting of the victory he’d help win. For that moment in time Rachel lost her fear for him. She opened her mouth, kissing him back as she clung to his sleek flesh.
His tongue taunted hers and she responded in kind. Teasing, but not really. Joining the foray with an ardor she didn’t know she possessed.
She could feel him, hard against her lower body, and she pressed against his manhood, gyrated her body in unison with his. All the sensations from her dreams flooded over her, but stronger, more powerful than she ever imagined they could be. She was being swept away and she didn’t care. Possessed. Yet wanting nothing more.
And then her greedy hands slid down his ribs and she felt him stiffen in her arms. It was just for an instant, but she felt it, felt his pain.
Rachel tore her mouth from his. Her breath was ragged and she noticed when he bent his head to recapture her lip, his was as well.
“You’re hurt.”
“’Tis nothing.” His tongue burned a path along her jaw when she turned her cheek aside. Unbidden by her, her head lolled back, giving him greater access to her neck as he continued his delicious torment.
Her knees felt weak, as if at any moment she would sink to the floor and beg him to assuage the ache inside her. She sucked in her breath and flattened her palms against the hair-roughened skin of his chest. “No, please. Stop.”
He did, immediately, as if he’d been drifting about in a fog and her words suddenly made everything crystal clear. His hands dropped to his side and he took a step back like he found being near her repugnant.
“I do beg your forgiveness, Your Highness.”
“Stop it. Stop it this instant. I won’t have you calling me that anymore. I’m not the queen, nor even a royal princess and you know it.”
She never sounded or looked more like one, Logan thought, with her head held high and that haughty expression stamped on her beautiful features. But he kept his tongue. Partly because she now was leading him toward the bench. It was as if the heated exchange at the door never happened. Except he knew it had. His body was still hard from wanting her. And she knew it had, too. Logan would bet his soul on it.
But for now she acted the ministering nurse, tsking over a cut here, a bruise there.
“I can’t believe you let that man do this to you.” She gingerly touched a scraped spot on Logan’s chest, pulling back quickly when he winced. Gritting her teeth she dipped a bit of cloth in water and brushed it across his skin.
“I didn’t exactly let him.”
“Certainly you knew who he was.”
“Aye.” Logan watched her through lowered lids. “The question is, how did you?”
She slanted him a look that spoke volumes, though Logan couldn’t quite decipher it. “Is he going to come here after you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt?” Her voice grew shrill. “You doubt it.” She tore a strip of petticoat—that she could ill afford to lose—with a vengeance. Then none too gently wrapped it around his chest.
“Ouch, damnit, Rachel. That hurts.”
“It should hurt.” She tied the strip off only to watch the bandage slip down his ribs to pool at his waist. He saw it, too, and when he raised his eyes to hers she was nearly in tears. Couldn’t she do anything right?
Tossing the rag in the bowl of water, heedless of the diamondlike droplets that splashed up, Rachel jerked away. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through trying to save you?” She looked back at him and this time her blue eyes were dry. “Do you?”
“How in the hell am I supposed to answer that? For God’s sake, you plop into my life and nearly kill me in the process—”
“I saved you. You were going to jump.”
“The hell I was. Though the way things are going it might have been easier than putting up with you constantly hovering about me.”
He shocked her. Logan almost reached up to lift her jaw—she kept her mouth open for so long. Then it slammed shut into a tight, annoyed line. Finally she lifted her freckle-dusted aristocratic nose, and stared at him as if he was something his lazy dog dragged in.
“I do not hover. I was sent here to protect you, though why shall remain one of the great mysteries of our time. And I shall continue to do it until...” Her gaze seemed to search the cabin’s rafters. “Until my task is complete.”
That said she folded her arms and, with a huff, turned a
way.
Logan was quiet a moment, his gaze tracing the outline of her outthrust chin and slender neck. He could see the pulse beating beneath the delicate white skin. “Aren’t you going to finish ministering to my wounds?”
“No, I am not.”
With a shrug Logan reached for the cloth floating in the bowl of water only to have her swirl around and grab it from him. Without wringing it out she pressed it to the bleeding cut on his shoulder.
“If it hurts it’s only what you deserve, getting yourself into a game like that and with someone who wants to kill you.”
“Ostenaco didn’t seriously want me dead. At least he wasn’t willing to do it with the entire town looking on.”
“That’s not how I saw it. Oh, heavens, I can’t get it to stop bleeding.”
“Press your hand against it.” His covered hers. “Aye. Like that.”
“I think we should leave. Today. Right now.”
“And miss the festival?”
“I’m frightened for you.” She stepped closer, between the V of his muscled thighs. “Today I could do nothing. What if that happens again?”
Logan had to bend his head back to see her. She was looking down at him with genuine concern. Whatever her state of mind, she sincerely believed it was her duty to save his life.
The thought scared him.
~ ~ ~
She didn’t like leaving him.
But a summons from the Adawehis was not to be ignored. At least that’s what Logan told her when the young man appeared at the door.
“But I can’t simply leave you here alone.”
Logan had assured her she could, standing and nearly shooing her out of the cabin. She left, hurrying across the square where but a few hours ago the men had enjoyed their game.
Lone Dove was alone when she entered the Council House. He sat in his usual position near the small fire, his body seemingly shriveled beneath the weight of his turkey-feather robe. Rachel wondered again at the strength he demonstrated earlier, keeping her from running toward Logan. Looking at him now it would seem that a strong wind would knock him over.
“I see you have calmed yourself Adan’ta Woman.”
Rachel settled onto the bench near him that he indicated. “To my mind I had reason to be upset.” She still was.
“Perhaps you see with the eyes of a woman.”
“I am a woman.” When he simply stared at her with those dark, knowing eyes, Rachel lowered hers. “I am,” she repeated, her voice low. She tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. Rachel knew he continued to stare at her, but it was her own state of mind that bothered her more.
What was happening to her?
She felt like a woman, like the person she was before in her other life. But it wasn’t her other life, not really. It was her life, period. What was happening now, the emotions she felt, weren’t real. For she wasn’t real.
Yet her passions seemed to stir her more deeply than ever before.
Rachel swallowed, then lifted her lashes. “You told me I must seek with my heart.”
“That is true. There is no understanding without compassion.”
“And I am trying to understand.” She reached toward him, taking his hands in hers. An old man’s hands, frail, the skin withered and thin. Strong hands. “There are those I seem able to know. To really know. It is as you say, that I can see into their hearts. Two women who befriended me.” Her shoulders rounded.
“But it is not so with the man you must save.”
“Logan is complex.” When she realized a smile curved her lips, Rachel sobered her expression. Her gaze flew up to meet his and she wondered if the Adawehis could read her thoughts. She hoped not.
Sharing memories of his kisses, of the heat of his embrace was not something she wished to do.
“I shall try harder,” she finally said, only to watch him shake his grizzled head.
“It will be easy when it happens, Adan’ta Woman.” He turned his hands, enveloping hers, giving them a squeeze before letting them go. His serious demeanor evaporated into a smile that made his face a maze of wrinkles. “I have asked you here to speak of the ceremony of Ah,tawh,hung,nah. It is the people’s time of purifying ourselves and beginning anew.”
“The black drink.” Rachel grimaced. She hadn’t meant to say anything but concern over this aspect of the ritual hadn’t strayed far from her thoughts.
“Who told you of the drink?”
“Logan. He said it was a... Well, he explained it to me.”
“I do not believe you need take it.”
“You don’t?” Rachel’s spirits brightened. “Oh, I shall if you wish me to, of course. But if you don’t think I should, then that is fine, too. And you don’t think I should.” Rachel realized she rambled and clamped her mouth shut.
“There is one custom I think you have need of.”
Before she could ask what he meant, the Adawehis called out. The two women from yesterday entered the Council House. They carried a garment made of animal skin.
“I think you could use a new dress, Adan’ta Woman.”
Rachel glanced down at the gown she’d worn since the night she drowned. It was torn and burned in spots, dirty nearly beyond recognition. Yet she hesitated to give it up. It was a part of her other life. And it seemed as if she was slowly losing that life. It frightened her. She was going to have to save Logan MacQuaid quickly and return... before there was nothing left.
But common sense and an ingrained desire to look her best dictated she abandon the shredded ball gown. Rachel accepted the folded dress with a smile.
The leather was white, softer than the finest silk, and decorated with beads and quills. “It’s lovely.”
“Go Adan’ta Woman. Bathe in the river and put on your new gown. And tonight you will dance with the other women.”
“But I don’t know how.” She was proficient at the minuet and the quadrille, but this... Visions of last night, of the firelight illuminating the slender bodies of the maidens as they moved to the pulsing drumbeat, of Logan, flashed through her mind.
“Move with your heart, Adan’ta Woman,” was all the Adawehis said before she left.
~ ~ ~
Rachel felt like a new woman.
Perhaps what the Cherokee said about Ah,tuwh,hung,nah was true. People did need to begin over upon occasion. At any rate they needed new clothes. But Rachel admitted the transformation she underwent consisted of more than simply a Cherokee gown.
She had washed in the river and brushed her hair dry until it shone. Her blond hair had always been one of her best features but now it seemed almost alive with golden color... sparkling near as bright as the diamonds at her throat and ears. She couldn’t help wondering what Logan would think when he saw her.
He seemed to have few ill effects from his earlier game playing. Rachel saw him once that afternoon carrying furnishings from one of the cabins. In the village square he and several other men piled the benches and chairs into a giant heap which they then set ablaze.
This was another way the Cherokee celebrated starting life anew, Rachel was told. To burn your old possessions meant to fully embrace your new life.
Rachel nodded her understanding when the old woman explained it to her. But she did not burn her blue and silver gown.
By the time darkness enveloped the town most of the work associated with the festival was complete. Houses and winter asi were swept clean, the furnishings burned and new ones set in place. The Council House shone white in the firelight, boasting a fresh covering of clay.
It seemed many of the villagers had even partaken of the black drink, purifying their bodies inside as well as out. As a consequence not much emphasis was put on cooking for the day. Although Rachel did manage to make a few corn cakes without burning them. She ate one herself, gave three to Henry who followed his meal with a nap, and left the remaining three for Logan.
Then she went in search of her friends. That afternoon they taught her a few steps of the dances for
tonight. The older woman was too ancient to dance, she said with a laugh, but the younger, Nakawisi, would. With the combination of signals and words they used to communicate, Nakawisi assured Rachel she would stay by her side.
Even so, Rachel was nervous when the drums began their hypnotic beat just as last night, a bonfire flamed in the center of the square, shooting ribbons of fire toward the heavens. The evening was cool, with a hint of winter in the breeze that ruffled the fringe on her dress. But there seemed to be a heat generated inside her that kept her skin warm and her face flushed.
There would be several dances tonight. The first representing The Beginning started when Rachel followed the other women to form a circle around the bonfire. Then the men joined the dancers.
But not Logan.
Rachel noticed his absence immediately. She imitated Nakawisi’s steps and she searched the onlookers for him, finally spotting him near the edge of the group. Unlike most of the Cherokee who sat beneath the canopied shelters, he stood, arms folded, one ankle crossing the other. It was a casual stance, but there was nothing casual about his expression.
His green stare seemed to burn into her as she danced, swaying with the rhythm. He stayed, leaning against a supporting pole, not moving except for the eyes that followed her everywhere.
At first she found it disconcerting for him to watch her so intently. She looked toward her feet, trying to concentrate on the steps, only to lift her lashes and meet his gaze. Warmth flooded through her body.
Blood pounded in her ears.
The cadence changed, the dance steps quickened. This part portrayed Friendship. For a time Rachel was caught up in the complex weaving about she did. But each time she glanced around it was Logan she saw. He seemed to pull her toward him, an allure she couldn’t understand. And didn’t want to.
Her pulse raced.
Rachel knew what was coming. What the third dance would be. Her body felt fluid and sensual, like the Cherokee people. Their ideas were so different from hers yet at this moment she embraced them. She lifted her arms, sighing as the buttery soft leather skimmed down her skin.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 14
