Fire Dancer

by Colleen French

  Fire Dancer tried to clear his head, forcing himself to concentrate. He had to see Mackenzie. He had to ask her if it really was love that he had seen in her blue eyes. But first he had to escape.

  Fire Dancer focused on his surroundings, and realized he was inside one of the small dependencies built in the fort yard, one used for storage. He breathed deeply, trying to think. He had to be inside the lean-to Mackenzie's father stored his goods in. It had a lock.

  The soldiers had tied him to this support beam and locked him in for good measure. Was there a guard? His first impulse was to call out. If there was a guard, surely he would answer, either by shouting back or perhaps coming inside to club him again.

  No. It would be better if the English didn't know he had regained consciousness. It was better if they did not anticipate his escape.

  Fire Dancer tried to move his hands that were tied behind his back. The bindings were so tight that his fingers tingled. He pressed his spine against the rough, wooden pole and tried to move his feet.

  Lieutenant Burrow had done an excellent job of tying up his prisoner. Fire Dancer blinked; the blood in his eyes stung. An excellent job . Of course, the lieutenant was an Indian hater. After the incident with Tall Moccasin he had made it plain to Fire Dancer that they were enemies.

  So now what? Fire Dancer thought. Okonsa? His cousin would set him free out of family duty. He would probably like nothing more than the excuse to kill a few white men. But Okonsa wasn't expected back until tomorrow. Tomorrow might be too late.

  Fire Dancer closed his eyes. What did he do now? Pray? It was the answer his mother said always worked. He sighed. "So I give myself up to you, Great Father."

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he heard a noise behind him. A noise like wood scraping against wood.

  "Father?" Had the great spirit come for him?

  "Hssst," came a voice. "It is not the Great Father, but a small man."

  Fire Dancer grinned and then winced. His lips were so cracked and bruised that it hurt to smile. "Tall Moccasin, nephew of my heart?" he called softly in Algonquian. It was too good to be believed. Was he hallucinating?

  The wood scraped again, and as if by a holy man's magic, the boy appeared before Fire Dancer. "Hsst, Uncle. We must hurry. There is an English guard, but he has gone to take a piss." Tall Moccasin spoke half in English, half in Shawnee.

  Fire Dancer sighed in relief as the boy cut the bindings at his wrists. He still felt woozy, as if he wasn't quite in control of his mind or body. "How did you get in?"

  Tall Moccasin knelt and cut the leather at Fire Dancer's ankles. "Through the door in the wall my Uncle Okonsa cut so that he could steal the white man's supplies."

  The thought that Okonsa was stealing, even from the white men, concerned Fire Dancer, but this was neither the time nor the place to consider it. "You are a most clever young man." Fire Dancer tousled the boy's hair. Then he gripped the pole as he swayed slightly.

  Tall Moccasin slipped his knife into his sheath and reached up to grab Fire Dancer by his arm. "Are you all right, Uncle? Should I bring another man over the fort wall to help you?"

  "No." Fire Dancer pushed back his hair on his blood-caked forehead. "You did the right thing to come alone. Now show this man how you slipped in under the noses of the British."

  Tall Moccasin led Fire Dancer to the rear of the lean-to. Moonlight shone in through a square hole at the bottom of the log wall, just the right size for a man to pass though.

  "You see. Easy enough." Tall Moccasin dropped on all fours and crawled through the hole.

  Fire Dancer followed. Once outside, with the night breeze on his face, he felt better. Keeping directly behind the boy, he followed him to the wall. When his hand brushed against the rough bark of the palisade wall, he grasped Tall Moccasin's shoulders and turned the boy to face him. "Listen. You must find your aunt, Little Weaver, and take her over the wall. We must flee before the soldier manake know I have escaped, else all our lives are in danger."

  Tall Moccasin nodded bravely. "This man will escort his aunt over the wall and into the safety of forest."

  "Good. You know the place we said we must meet if ever there was trouble."

  The boy nodded. "I will take my aunt there and wait for you, Uncle. But what of the horses? Most of our horses are inside the fort."

  Fire Dancer smiled in the darkness. He was so proud of his sister's son. "We cannot worry over the horses. They are not important compared to the lives of men. Go and may God protect you."

  "You do not come with me?"

  Fire Dancer thought before he answered. The smartest thing for him to do would be to flee. There was nothing here for him. The peace talks had obviously come to an end. Nothing could come of seeing Mackenzie again. To try and see her, he would be taking great risk. Just over the fort wall lay freedom and life. Here inside the fort walls, he would find only pain and death. Still, he had to see her once more.

  Fire Dancer's gaze met Tall Moccasin's. "I will come right behind you."

  "But why do you not come now, Uncle? You are in great danger. You must escape. They said they would hang you even if the major did not give the word. I heard the one called Burrow say so."

  "Give me your knife, Tall Moccasin, and do as this man tells you." He accepted the knife the boy offered and staring up in the direction of the single window lit by candlelight. "I will catch up to you and Little Weaver. First I must see someone."

  Chapter Eleven

  Mackenzie ripped off her linen shirt and threw it on the floor. It was so hot that she couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. Still fuming, she stepped out of her sprigged calico skirt. She kicked off her boots and peeled off her yarn stockings. That was better. Wearing nothing but her sleeveless cotton shift, she could at least breathe a little easier.

  She stepped over her boots in the middle of the floor and paced. She couldn't beleive her father had done this to her. He'd locked her up as if she were a madwoman when all she'd done was try to defend the man she suspected . . . no, the man she knew she loved.

  The thought of Fire Dancer brought tears to her eyes. How could Harry have allowed the soldiers to treat him so cruelly? She had always had such a great respect for Harry and that respect was gone. How could men be so brutal to other human beings just because their skin color was different? Even her father and Joshua had stood there and permitted the beating to take place without offering a word of protest.

  Mackenzie impatiently wiped her tears away. Crying would do neither her nor Fire Dancer any good. If she was to help him, she'd have to come up with a plan—and quickly. Her father insisted they were leaving in the morning, and from the look in his eyes, she knew she wouldn't be able to stall him even a few hours.

  "Oh, Fire Dancer," she whispered to the hot room. "I'm so sorry this had to happen. I'm so sorry I didn't make love with you when I had the chance."

  Just thinking about the way he had kissed her at the stream today, about the way he had touched her, made her warm and queasy in the pit of her stomach. So this was what desire is , she thought. But it wasn't just desire. It was love she felt for the man so different from herself. A true love that didn't recognize those differences. She walked to her camp cot and knelt. From beneath the bed she slid out the painting of Fire Dancer. It was nearly done and ready to have the background painted in. It was the most perfect piece of work she had ever done in her life. It was the piece artists waited for an entire lifetime to achieve.

  With a bittersweet smile, she traced the outline of his face with her finger. The oil paint was still tacky in places. Closing her eyes, she could see his face laughing, smiling, teasing.

  "I have to get out of here. I have to set you free," she said aloud. She dropped the portrait on the bed. As she rose off the floor she glanced at the window. Of course! Fire Dancer had slipped in and out of the window many times. She was the same size as he. Surely she could—

  Mackenzie heard a sound outside the window and froze. Was someone
outside? Could it be . . . No, impossible, and yet . . .

  Mackenzie bounced up onto the cot. As an afterthought, she tossed the corner of the counterpane over the portrait. She yanked the shutter open, trying not to make any noise. Joshua slept on the other side of the door. She had heard his snoring earlier. She pressed her face to the open window. "Fire Dancer?"

  "Mack-en-zie?"

  Mackenzie put her hand to her heart. "Oh, thank God, you're safe," she whispered. "Where are you? I can't see you."

  His face appeared before hers. In the darkness she couldn't really see him, but she knew it was him. She recognized the scent of his hair and skin, the sound of his voice, the feel of his breath on her cheek.

  "Let this man in," he said softly. "There is not much time, woman of my heart."

  Mackenzie backed off the bed and watched Fire Dancer miraculously appear through the window. He tumbled onto her bed and she flung herself into his arms.

  "Oh, Fire Dancer, I was so afraid for you. I—" She stopped in mid-sentence, horrified by what she saw. It was Fire Dancer, and yet it was not. His face had been beaten so brutally that it was misshapen. His lips were swollen and split in several places. He was covered with blood, in his hair, on his face, down his arms.

  "Oh," she whispered, smoothing his tangled, blood-sticky, hair. "Oh, what have they done to you?"

  "Shhh," he murmured. He pulled her into his arms on the bed. "It's all right, kitehi." He kissed her forehead. "It is not so bad as it looks."

  She touched his face gently with her hands. She feared she would hurt him, but she needed to prove to herself that it really was him. She stared into his black eyes, eyes that said he loved her. "How did you get away?" she whispered. "Why are you here? You have to go! You have to run! If they catch you—"

  He pressed his finger to her lips. "Shhhhh, my heart. There is probably a soldier outside your door. We must speak softly."

  She nodded, her face only inches from his. "My father left Joshua to guard my door, but he's asleep." She went on faster than before. "They've locked me in. We leave in the morning. My father wants to take me far from here, but I don't want to go." She was crying again. "I don't want to leave you, even though I know I must."

  He caught one of her tears with his fingertip. "Do not cry, Mack-en-zie. I came only to say good-bye, not to make you cry."

  She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. "You didn't tell me how you got away."

  "Tall Moccasin."

  She pulled back a little. "Tall Moccasin?"

  "The soldiers had tied me to a pole inside the shed where your father keeps his supplies. My cousin, Okonsa, had been stealing from him through a hole he cut in the wall."

  Mackenzie wasn't surprised, so she said nothing, letting him go on.

  "Tall Moccasin came through the hole in the wall and set me free. He was very brave. He waits for me now in the forest." Fire Dancer added gently, "This man must go."

  "No." She choked back a sob. She had never been the hysterical type, but she felt as if her world was coming to an end. She knew he couldn't stay. She knew she couldn't go. The tragedy of their situation made her heartsick.

  "This man is sorry, but I must go. If the soldiers find me, they will not give me a chance to escape again."

  "I know," she whispered as she stared into his eyes. "At least let me wash the blood from your face. Will you allow me to do that?"

  Fire Dancer glanced at the window as if it beckoned. "Mack-en-zie . . ."

  "Please." She jumped up off the bed and ran to the water bucket. She hurried back to him with fresh water and a small, clean linen towel. She knelt in front of him on the floor. "Just a few more minutes."

  He trapped her between his knees. "Just a few more moments," he agreed, brushing a stray lock of hair off her cheek.

  Mackenzie procured the washrag from the bucket and squeezed it. Water ran between her fingers. As gently as she could, she dabbed at the blood-encrusted gouge that ran from the center of his forehead to his right temple.

  Fire Dancer's eyes drifted shut and he rested his hands on her hips.

  She rinsed the bloody rag again and again, wiping away the blood and perhaps a little of the sting of his wounds. As she washed his face and neck, and bare shoulders, his hand drifted over her body, caressing her through the sheer cotton of her shift.

  "Mack-en-zie," he whispered, his eyes still closed.

  "Fire Dancer." She kissed him gently on his mouth that was still damp from the washrag.

  "This man will never forget you." He kissed her back, harder, and pulled her closer.

  "Never," she answered, lost in the moment.

  He drew her onto his lap and slipped his hand beneath her shift. She made no protest. All she wanted was him. In the desperation of the moment, she wanted nothing but to touch him, to be touched.

  They kissed again and again. Her hot tears mingled with the water on his face. He laid her back on her bed and she sighed and moaned with pleasure, reveling in the feel of his body pressed against hers. Their mouths met; their tongues twisted in one last, hopeless union.

  His hands burned a path on her bare skin.

  Somehow her shift became rolled up around her waist, but she didn't care. Any sense of modesty she might have felt in the past was gone. All that mattered was Fire Dancer and the pulses of pleasure that surged through her veins.

  Fire Dancer kissed the valley between her breasts and pushed her shift up farther. Mackenzie guided his head with her hands. She needed to feel the touch of his mouth on her breast. She groaned with pleasure when his tongue skimmed over her puckered nipple. Instinctively, she arched her back and pressed her hips to his. With nothing but his leather loinskin between his body and hers, she felt his heat as he lowered over her. His hands touched her; his mouth taunted her.

  He kissed her breasts. He sucked with his mouth and licked with his tongue. Her breasts swelled and tingled as her nipples grew harder and more sensitive. Between her thighs she ached. When he lowered his hand over her belly to the bed of red curls, she jerked in surprise.

  "Shhh," he whispered in her ear. "This is what you want, heart of my heart?"

  "Yes, yes," she whispered. She took his hand and guided it back to the damp place. "It's what I want." She opened her eyes, staring into his. "I'll never love another like this. It's my gift to you. All I have to give."

  He kissed her tenderly, the kiss not of a lover, but of a beloved. Then he lowered his body over hers. He pressed flesh against flesh, his hard muscles against her soft, feminine curves.

  He stroked between her thighs with his experienced hand. Instinctively, she moved against his fingers. She rubbed and twisted. He brought his mouth to hers and their tongues twisted in an ancient dance of love. At some point he had removed his loin cloth so that she felt his manhood hard and stiff against her bare thigh. She caressed his back and his firm, bare buttocks.

  Oddly, Mackenzie was not afraid. Even though she knew little more than the basic mechanics of joining, she felt no hesitation. This was what she wanted. She kissed him again and again, breathless, feeling so hopeless and yet so joyful with each stroke, each caress.

  I'll never love again like this , she kept saying over and over in her head.

  She parted her thighs. The ache inside her had grown so strong that she could think of nothing but release. She wasn't even sure how she would find that release; all she knew was that she needed him inside her.

  "Mack-en-zie . . ." He whispered her name in that way that only he spoke it.

  She felt him probing and she lifted her hips. With the aid of one hand, he slipped slowly inside her.

  Mackenzie moaned. It felt so good. The word sin bounced around in her head. To fornicate with an Indian—she would be tainted forever if anyone ever found out. But how could anything that felt so right, so loving, be a sin?

  She parted her thighs further and he slipped in deeper. This was so different than she had been lead to believe. There was no pain, only a sen
se of relief . . . and perfect pleasure. So perfect.

  Inside her, he began to move. He seemed to know just what she wanted, needed, even when she herself didn't understand.

  His strokes came faster . . . harder. She panted, lifting her hips to meet his in a rhythm she instinctively matched.

  Perspiration covered her. She could smell the scent of their lovemaking in the close room.

  She increased the pace of the stroke. There was something she reached for, something—

  Without warning, her world exploded in a surge of unbelievable pleasure and contracting muscles. "Oh," she moaned. "Oh . . ."

  He covered his mouth with hers so that her cries of ecstasy were only murmurs. He moved once more inside her, twice, as she rode the last waves of fulfillment. He thrust once more, hard. She took him deeply. He moaned and fell against her.

  After a moment Fire Dancer rolled off her, onto his side on the edge of the bed and cradled her in his arm. He was still panting. "This man . . . is . . . sorry," he whispered, kissing her damp temple.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Her heart still pounded. Her breath still came in short bursts. "Sorry? Sorry for what?" she whispered, amazed that the sounds of their lovemaking had not brought down the entire fort.

  "Sorry that this man did not last longer." He had an embarrassed grin on his face. "I was in too great a hurry. I did not see to your pleasure as a lover should."

  She giggled and pressed her lips to his bruised ones. "Didn't see to my pleasure? I've never felt anything so wonderful! No one ever told me there was any pleasure for a woman." She slid her hand over his side. "Because my mother was dead, my father had our cook tell me of the relations between a man and a woman. Mostly she mumbled about bees pollinating. All I really got was that it was a wife's duty to her husband. Something to be tolerated." She smiled wickedly. "She said nothing to prepare me for the pleasure I felt, I can assure you."

  He smoothed her damp hair with the palm of his hand. "Among my people, a man is expected to pleasure his woman more than once in a night. To do less would shame him."