There was something about the music that made her heart pound to the same beat. Watching the half-naked men, watching Fire Dancer, made her breath ragged. She had never seen anything in her life so beautiful . . . so sexual . . . so masculine.
The drums pulsed louder, the beat more urgent as the men danced in a circle, drawing closer and closer to the fire then radiating outward. They swayed their arms and nodded their heads to the rhythm that seemed to come from them rather than the invisible drums. One of the braves danced so closely past her that he brushed her bare arm as he leapt by. Only then did she realize that she recognized him. It was the man with the nose ring who had been so harsh with Mary two days ago and had taken her into the trees only a few moments ago.
His gaze met hers as he danced by again and she remembered his lewd gesture. The next time he danced past her, she averted her gaze, fixing it instead on Fire Dancer. There was something about the one with the nose ring that made her wary. Something in her bones that told her she should steer clear of him.
The dance came to an end with the dancers on their knees, facing the fire, their bronze backs presented to their guests. The soldiers clapped with approval, shouting and passing more ale and whiskey.
Someone began to play a hornpipe and the men, both red and white, began to clap to the lively tune. Instinctively, Mackenzie lifted her leather skirt to tap her boots in the dust. When she realized the men were watching her, clapping and encouraging her, she danced toward the circle, her hands clasped tightly at her sides, her feet moving to the beat.
The Indians hooted and cried out in their strange language, seeming drunker than the soldiers. She whirled and twirled, counting her steps, pounding her feet to the jig. Out of no where, Fire Dancer appeared before her, also dancing. He imitated her steps, whirling and turning in the opposite direction that she did. His body was so close to hers that her boots touched his moccasins in the dirt, and yet he made no attempt to touch her. She wanted him to touch her.
The horn blower played faster and Mackenzie danced faster, caught up in the gaiety of the evening and the closeness of her dance partner. She couldn't take her eyes off him. There was something about him, about the forbidden that made her bold. As Mackenzie turned, drawing up her knees, dancing in a circle, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Mack-en-zie . . ." The men were too loud for her to hear his voice, but she saw his lips move, speaking her name.
"Fire Dancer," she whispered as his movements so matched hers that they seemed to move as one dancer joined by an invisible thread.
A musket shot sounded above the din of the soldiers. The hooting Indians hushed and the music stopped. Mackenzie spun around. "What's happening?" She stood on her tiptoes looking over Fire Dancer's shoulder at the clump of men blocking her view.
An Indian and a soldier burst through the crowd of men, falling to the ground near the fire, locked in a fist fight. One of the other soldiers shouted an obscenity and the Indian with the whiskey bottle hit him over the head with the flask.
Glass shattered everywhere and suddenly they were fighting, too. Mackenzie took a step back as an Indian wearing a soldier's coat drew a knife and one of the soldiers tried to knock it from his hand. The Indian nicked the soldier in the arm, bloodying his white sleeve. Another soldier tried to get between them and struck the knife from his hand with the barrel of a musket. Before Mackenzie knew what was happening, all the soldiers and Indians were fighting.
The merriment of laughing and clapping and dancing had suddenly turned into a brawl.
Fire Dancer grabbed her arm firmly. "No place for you here, Mack-en-zie. Come."
He was obviously angry, but his anger wasn't directed to her. She allowed him to lead her away from the fire and fighting men and toward the fort. "Where's my father? Do you see my father? He'll want to know I'm all right," she shouted above the din.
"Go to your room, Mackenzie. Lock the door. Too much whiskey. Too much ale," he said harshly. "This man should not have let his men drink the fire. Bad medicine for Shawnee. Bad for all redmen! In our village it is not allowed."
He stopped at the gate, calling to his nephew, sleeping in the middle of the yard against a water barrel. "Niipoy! Buumska! Come, Tall Moccasin! Take this woman into the fort. Keep her safe."
Tall Moccasin leaped up and ran across the muddy yard. "Ah , Uncle."
Fire Dancer grabbed her arm as Mackenzie started to walk away. He leaned against her, pressing his lips to her ear. "Leave your window open tonight," he breathed.
She stared into his black eyes. "Why? What do you want?"
"I would not harm you, Mack-en-zie. I would not take advantage of you as any man in this fort would."
For some reason she believed him. "Just talk?" she whispered. He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his skin. The thought of being alone with him tempted her, but she didn't want to make a mistake she would regret. She didn't want to put herself into a dangerous situation, not the way she was feeling tonight . . . about him. Harry had been right. Fire Dancer was dangerous, but not in the way he had meant. "Only talk, you promise?"
"This man swear by his mother's name." He touched his chest with a closed hand. "Only talk."
Before she could say another word, he was gone.
Slowly Mackenzie crossed the yard at Tall Moccasin's side. Leave her window open? Did she dare?
Chapter Five
Fire Dancer stood at the fort wall, staring upward in debate. It would only take him a few seconds to scale the wall undetected. Did he go? Did he follow his heart and take the risk to see her or did he let her go now, before it was too late? Fire Dancer didn't quite understand his attraction to the white woman, but he knew it was dangerous.
He turned and leaned his bare back against the wall, waiting for his burning desire to see her fade away. He stared into the darkness. The fire had died down to nothing but glowing coals. Still, the smell of the roasted venison hung in the air. Fireflies flickered in the trees. Somewhere he heard the rumble of one of his men's voice. Those who had had enough sense not to drink the Colonist's manake firewater were standing watch. The others were sleeping off the foul drink near the campfire.
None of his men or Major Albertson's soldiers had been seriously injured in the brawl, but Fire Dancer was upset by tonight's events. The British were a bad influence on his men. The drink was bad for redman's blood. He had warned them before they arrived. The firewater was not even permitted in their village, but he had let his men make their own choice in the end. For most of them, the choice was not a good one.
He wished that the French commander would return to Fort Belvadere so that the peace talks could continue and therefore come to some end. He was anxious to return to his village and escape from the stupid British manake and their filthy, decadent ways.
Fire Dancer glanced up at the fort wall again, then pressed his back to the wall as a soldier patrolling the palisade walked by high above his head. He liked Major Albertson. He was an honest man, but he was a fool if he thought these walls would keep out the Indians, Algonquian or Iroquois, if they chose to attack.
The soldier walked on and Fire Dancer glanced up again. Would it be a waste of his time to scale the wall? Would Mack-en-zie have barred her window? Would she be hiding beneath her blanket in fear, muttering to her beads as he had seen other white women do?
He smiled in the darkness. No. Not this Mack-en-zie. Most likely, she would be pacing at this very moment, trying to decide whether or not to unlock the window.
He had watched her dance tonight, and she had danced the English dance with him. He knew that she was attracted to him the same as he was attracted to her. When they danced, the differences between them had vanished. They were meaningless. If he held her in his arms, if he made love to her, he wondered, would it be the same?
Of course, that was just a fanciful thought. He had no place in his life for a white woman. When he married, it would be a proper Shawnee wedding. When he chose a wife, it would proba
bly be the widow Laughing Woman from his village. He only wanted to see Mack-en-zie out of curiosity, to ease his boredom here beside this stinking fort.
Fire Dancer whistled softly between his teeth, signaling to his cousin, Okonsa, that he was in charge until Fire Dancer returned. His cousin whistled back from a copse of trees in the distance. Fire Dancer didn't like leaving Okonsa in command for long. The brave hated the British manake and he had a mean streak. But tonight it would safe enough. Most of the soldiers were as drunk as his own men.
Fire Dancer crept back to check the positions of the soldiers on the palisade and then picked up a rope he'd left coiled in the grass. Attached to the end of the rope was a rusty iron hook. It took Fire Dancer only two tosses to secure the rope on the top of the wall. Tugging it tightly, he scaled the wall in the time it took one of the soldiers on the palisade to light his pipe.
On the palisade walkway, Fire Dancer left the rope where it hung and crept along the shadows of the wall. The moon was dim tonight, casting off very little light. On the inner, western wall of the fort, he saw a slice of lantern light falling from a tiny, open window, a beacon in the darkness.
He smiled. So his Mackenzie, with her magical red hair, was not afraid of him.
When he reached the window, he whispered "Mack-en-zie . . ."
Her face appeared immediately in the window, blocking the lantern light. She looked slightly fearful. But he could see that, like him, she was curious.
"What do you want?" she whispered harshly, trying to cover her fear with impatience. "If they catch you here—"
"This man does not come to harm you. Only . . ." Why had he come? "Only to talk."
"Talk? A man wanting to talk with a woman? Talk of what?"
"Could this man come into your room? He swears by his mother's heart that he will not harm you."
"Come in?" She wrinkled her nose with its brown sun-speckles. "You can't fit through that window! It was built small enough so that a man can't fit through it."
Fire Dancer took her jumble of words as a yes, and stuck his head through the window. She climbed off the sleeping platform, backing away from him. He popped one shoulder diagonally through the small hole, then the other. The rest was easy. He tumbled onto the soft mat that smelled of her.
"If my father finds out you're here . . . If the major—"
"You wish this man to leave?" He crawled off the sleeping platform, bouncing to his feet. "Tell me to go and I will go."
She nibbled on her lower lip, studying him. Fire Dancer stared back, letting her see the honesty in his eyes and his body language.
"You want to talk to me?" She frowned. "About what? Surely not about the fact that you've been avoiding coming for your portrait."
Now that he was here, he didn't really know what say. He just wanted to be near her. To see her face. But he knew the white woman wouldn't understand. He didn't quite understand himself. "This man . . . this man was thinking about what Mack-en-zie said about his people worshipping trees and rocks. This man does not like that you should think he prays to rocks. You do not know of me, and I do not know of you."
She crossed her arms over her soft breasts. "You care what I think of you? I don't understand."
He shrugged as he had seen her do so many times in the last few days. It was one of her gestures that fascinated him. "This man thinks that he could learn from you. Learn things to take back to his Shawnee and Lenape people." He looked down at his moccasins and then back up into her blue eyes. "Learn so that we will understand our enemies."
She laughed without humor. "You want me to tell you things so you can massacre us in our sleep?"
"No." He shook his head, not wanting her to misunderstand. "This man, this man's people, do not murder innocents. But the whites come whether we want them to come or no." He made a fist. "We must be ready. We must understand more of you . . . if we are to survive."
She ran her fingers through her bright red tresses that hung loose over her shoulders and for a moment he lost his line of thought. She wasn't beautiful the way Laughing Woman was beautiful, but Mackenzie was attractive in an exotic way. Her skin was so pale that it shone like moonlight. Her hair was the color of the red fox the English manake brought with them to hunt. Her eyes were as blue as the waters of the great bay of the Chesapeake. And her lips . . . her lips were as rosy as fresh strawberries picked in the springtime.
"I see," she finally said. "So we are enemies."
He said nothing as he watched her. She was a graceful woman, powerful, like a doe. She moved with a confidence few women, even Shawnee women, possessed.
She uncovered the painting of Major Albertson. "What do you think?" She stood back to consider it, tucking the cloth behind her back.
He nodded. The moment he saw the likeness, he knew he had made the right decision. The picture was so real that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Staring at the captain's face he could almost hear his laughter. He could smell his roanoke tobacco and the wool of his sweaty redcoat uniform. Fire Dancer turned away. "It looks like him."
She glanced at Fire Dancer. "Well, I would hope so. That is the point." She looked back at the portrait. "I'm anxious to get started on yours. I've already been toying with the red ochre. I want to get the color of your skin perfectly."
He walked to the silver looking glass that hung from a nail and ran his finger over the scrolled handle. He had known the conversation would turn to this matter again sooner or later. Perhaps it would just be better if he told her now. He watched her in the reflection in the mirror. "I will not have my portrait painted, Mack-en-zie."
"Why not? Look, if it's because I'm a woman, I—"
"No man or woman will paint this man's likeness."
She covered the captain's face again with the cloth and he was glad of it. It made him uncomfortable having the major stare at them like that and listen to their conversation.
"What do you mean?" she questioned. "Why not? That was the whole point of my coming. The army has commissioned the peace makers' portraits. If you come to a decision here, your face will hang in history as a great keeper of peace. You'll be famous!"
He gave a snort of derision. "Peace. How can there be peace? How can there ever be peace again now that you and yours have come?"
"And what's that supposed to mean?" She dropped her hand to her shapely hip. "You could learn something from us, you know, if you would just give us a chance."
He paced the tiny room. It was so hot in here that he didn't know how she slept. "Learn what? How to make whis-key? How to sell dark men and women? How to rape? How to murder children and take their scalps? These are the things my people are learning from yours."
She brushed her hair back again, damp at her temples from perspiration. "No! I'm not saying there haven't been bad influences, but there could be good ones, too. You could learn how to read and write. You could take Jesus Christ for your savior," she sputtered. "You could learn how to dress appropriately."
He glanced down at his favorite tunic with the porcupine quilling. He thought it was a handsome tunic. His mother had made it for him. "You do not like my clothing?"
She threw up a hand. "You're half naked, for heaven's sake."
"And this is bad?" He lifted a dark eyebrow, amused.
"It's . . . it's not that it's bad . . . it's just . . . just indecent."
"In-de-sent . I do not know this word. I do not know if my tunic is in-de-sent. This man does know that his tunic is not hot in the summer heat. It does not scratch his skin. It protects him from the burn of the sun and the sting of the wind and rain. This is in-de-sent?"
She let out an exasperated sigh. "It's not that your tunic isn't attractive on your body . . ."
He smiled as her cheeks turned red with embarrassment. He knew from experience that the light-skinned manake were ashamed of their bodies. They covered them up with as much hot, scratchy cloth as they could. When they made love, it was in the dark, under more scratchy cloth.
; He thought for a moment. "I will give you a tunic and then you will see why it is what I wear. The women in my village do not wear tunics in the summer. Only loincloth. They are bare"—he searched for the correct word—"breast . . . bare breasted."
Her eyes grew round with shock, and then realizing he was trying to bait her, she turned away. "I really don't think we want to get into this tonight. Let's get back to the subject of the portrait. You say you won't let me paint it?"
He ran his hand over the white shirt that hung from a nail near the door. It was hers. He remembered seeing her wear it. He crumpled the hem in his hand and brought it to his nose. It smelled of oil paints and forest flowers . . . like her.
She snatched the shirt off the hook and out of his hands. "Do you mind?"
He walked back toward the bed. The light-skinned manake were so possessive of their things. "You will not paint my face. No one will paint this man's face. It is bad medicine."
She took a step after him, the shirt balled in her hands. "What do you mean bad medicine?"
"It is not good to take away a piece of a man's soul and put it on cloth. Then you, too, possess the man's soul."
"Take away your soul?" It was obvious by her tone that she didn't understand. "It's just a picture. I wouldn't be taking anything from you."
He stepped on the sleeping rack to climb back through the window. "You will not paint this man."
"But I've been hired to paint you. You don't understand how important this is to me. It's my first commission, Fire Dancer. I can't fail."
"This man must go. Okonsa stands guard, but he is rash and impatient. If this man does not keep his eye on him, he would shoot his own brother for a Mohawk." He slipped out the tiny window as easily as he slipped in.
She followed him, lifting up her heavy skirt to climb onto the platform. "That's it? You're not going to let me paint you because you think I'll take your soul?"
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