Fire Dancer

by Colleen French

  Okonsa gripped Fire Dancer's shoulder. "All will be well, you will see. You would be better to turn your thoughts to your own hearth. I hear that your wife-to-be is not pleased with your impending marriage." He cupped his testicles beneath his loincloth and re-adjusted them. "Perhaps her affections lie elsewhere, eh?" He laughed and walked away, surrounded by men who had no doubt cast a short stick in the vote.

  Fire Dancer walked into the starry night, but instead of heading toward his wigwam, he walked toward the stream. On the one hand he felt a need to feel Mackenzie's arms around him. On the other, he did not want to be near her when he was in such a foul mood. He needed some time to think and cool his anger.

  Not far from the place where the Shawnee bathed, Fire Dancer found his favorite sitting rock. This was where he liked to come when he needed to think. He climbed up on the rock, folded his legs beneath him and leaned his back against a tree. The warmth of the day's sun still radiated from the granite. It was peaceful here with the chirp of the night insects, the rustle of falling leaves, and the gurgle of the water.

  A twig snapped behind Fire Dancer and he slid his hand to his knife. "Who goes there?" he called softly in Shawnee. All he could think of was that the British had found the village and they were all about to die.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fire Dancer rose, the moonlight reflecting off the blade of his skinning knife. He stared into the darkness and silently chastised himself for allowing someone to get so near to him undetected. What kind of Shawnee warrior was he? Before he had gone to Fort Belvadere, before he had met Mackenzie, this would never have happened. He had grown soft.

  "Identify yourself," he said quietly in Shawnee.

  "Fire Dancer?"

  He recognized the voice immediately and relaxed his arm, lowering the knife against his thigh. "Mack-en-zie? What do you do here so late at night without escort? Do you understand the danger—" He stepped around the tree to find her standing in the moonlight . . . the knife he had given her drawn.

  He smiled. She was a vision of beauty in her doeskin dress with the dangling seashells and a fur tied around her shoulders for warmth. She had braided two strips of her long red hair and tied them with leather straps as was the Shawnee custom. She wore his gift-moccasins.

  Fire Dancer's chest swelled with pride. Her skin was not red. She was not born of a line of Shawnee who had walked this land for more than three thousand years . . . but she had the heart of a Shawnee. Here was where she belonged.

  "You can sheathe your knife," he said with a grin. "I will not harm you, I swear it." He raised his hands in surrender. "I am yours to do with as you please."

  She laughed as she slid the knife into its sheath on her waist. "The scary thing is, I believe I'd have used it if you'd been one of those Hurons."

  He caught one of her braids and give it a tug. "This man believes you would." She fixed her green-eyed gaze on him. "Laughing Woman told me I might find you here."

  "Ah, on my rock." He climbed back up on the granite slab and patted the place beside him. "Will you join this man?" He offered his hand to assist her.

  She climbed up beside him and rested her head beside his against the tree trunk. "Laughing Woman also told me what the council decided." She slipped her hand into his. "Which makes what is between us more difficult."

  "Ah." Her warm hand comforted him. "I believe it is the wrong choice, but it is the village's decision. Do you understand this man's words?"

  She squeezed his hand. "I understand, Fire Dancer. It's not necessarily your choice to fight us . . . the British. And I don't blame you." She sighed. "Hell's bells, none of this makes any sense to me any more. Choosing sides, fighting over land. The English, my people, came here and took what belonged to you. The French did the same. Now they fight over which patches of land belong to whom, when you and I both know it belongs to neither." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I can't blame your people for siding with the French, Fire Dancer. I won't"

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. It was peaceful here in the forest. It felt so good to sit beside Mackenzie and feel the heat of her body beside his.

  This would be a good time to tell her about her father , he thought. About what happened and why . He glanced sideways at her beautiful face with its speckled sun spots and vibrant green eyes. He loved her so deeply that he despised the idea of hurting her, even indirectly. But the truth had to be told—

  "Fire Dancer?" She interrupted his thoughts before he had a chance to speak.

  "Yes?"

  "Tell me the truth. Do you want to marry me? I mean do you really want me to be your wife, or are you just willing to have me because it's best for the village?"

  Fire Dancer thought for a moment before he replied because he wanted to answer honestly. If Mackenzie had the courage to ask this question, he had to have the courage to answer. Of course, he already knew deep in his heart what that answer was. "If this man could make a choice of the woman he would live the rest of his days with, the woman who would give him the gift of a child, Tapalamawatah willing, it would be Mack-en-zie Daniels of the English manake . If this man could have one person to love and be loved by, it would be you."

  She smiled that smile that made his heart sing. "Fire Dancer of the Thunder Sky, did you just ask me to marry you?"

  "No."

  Her brow creased. "No?"

  He climbed over her and leaped off the rock. He went down on one knee, as he would to honor a great chief or Shaman, and took her hand and lowered his head submissively. The moonlight fell across her face in a halo of gold.

  "Mack-en-zie, now this man humbly asks you to wed him. Will you allow our hearts, our souls, our bodies to be bound forever more, not just in this life but in the life hereafter? This man begs you—be his wife . . ."

  Still seated on the rock, she clasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. She laced her fingers through his and stared at him, her eyes shining with tears. "I'll be your wife," she whispered.

  Fire Dancer wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheekbones, the tip of her nose. His heart sang with joy. Mackenzie would be his wife. She loved him. With her love, he could fight the British, if he had to. He could fight the world.

  Mackenzie returned his kisses, her hand warm on his bare chest beneath his vest. She nuzzled his neck and all thoughts of discussing her father's death blew away with the falling leaves. Now was not the time, he told himself as he lowered her to the mossy bank. His need to possess her burgeoned beneath his leggings. She was so happy they were to be wed. How could he ruin that happiness?

  Tomorrow, he would tell her . . . or if not tomorrow, the next day.

  Two weeks later, on a warm fall morning, Mackenzie sat on her knees in the rear of the dugout and dragged her fingers through the spray as the boat cut smoothly through the water. The sun shone brightly on Fire Dancer's bare back. With each stroke the muscles of his powerful shoulders and biceps flexed and the dugout canoe gained a length on the river.

  Married , Mackenzie thought as she watched Fire Dancer paddle. I'm married to an Indian . The extraordinary thing was that it didn't seem so extraordinary. It seemed right. When Mackenzie looked back on her life it was as if every moment up until now had been directed toward this event . . . toward him.

  The wedding this morning had been simple and poignant. Mackenzie had dressed in her white doeskin dress and Fire Dancer had looked so handsome in his white tunic embellished with sea shells and porcupine quilling, his hair flowing freely down his back. The sight of him had brought tears to her eyes. Who could have thought a groom in knee-moccasins could have been so striking?

  The entire village had gathered to witness the ceremony that took place just as the sun rose over the mountain ridge to the east. Snake Dancer had performed the ceremony in Shawnee to the beat of a single drum. He bound Mackenzie and Fire Dancer's hands together with a beaded holy cloth. Fire Dancer had explained in a whisper that the binding of the cloth symbolized the bind
ing of their souls. Now she had a right to possess a part of him.

  With a few waves of a turtle shell incense-pot the ceremony was over and under God's clear sky, Mackenzie was bound in marriage to Fire Dancer forever.

  Mackenzie had feared that, without a vicar, she wouldn't feel truly married, but as the holy man had chanted his words and Fire Dancer had gazed into her eyes, Mackenzie had known in her heart that the marriage would always be true. In the name of God, before his mother and the entire village Fire Dancer had vowed to care for and love her. With a solitary ah , Mackenzie had vowed the same. What difference was there between that and being wed by a circuit rider in her father's public room?

  "Penno , look." Fire Dancer interrupted Mackenzie's dreamy thoughts. "There." He pointed.

  She spotted a doe and her twins drinking water at the riverbank. As the dugout swept by, the deer glanced up. When Mackenzie turned in the canoe, they were drinking water again.

  "They were beautiful," she said softly, hating to break the peaceful sounds of the river by her human voice.

  "They were beautiful." Fire Dancer glanced at her over his bronze shoulder, the paddle poised over the resplendent water. "As are you, nee wah."

  Wife. He called her wife. She was learning the Shawnee language quickly. "Wai see yah," she answered with a smile. Husband.

  He pursed his lips and kissed the air, a kiss meant for her. Then he turned to face forward again and sliced the water with the paddle.

  They rode down the river for more than two hours. Fire Dancer pointed out animals to her as the dugout glided downstream as much a part of the river as the otters or the mud turtles. There were foxes and deer, squirrels and even a wildcat. The air was filled with birds and fluttering fall leaves. It was a magical morning. Mackenzie and Fire Dancer talked some, but mostly, they enjoyed each other's silent company and the beauty of the day.

  When the sun rose directly overhead Fire Dancer angled his canoe toward the western bank. "If I was a proper husband," he said, "if it was not a time of war, this man would take you on a long trip down the river. We would spend time alone together in the forest, making love under the treetops and gather ing flowers. We would visit other villages and share our joy with our neighbors and cousins."

  "It's all right," she assured him. "Just one night alone with you away from the village and all your concerns is enough for me." She stroked his bare arm, marveling at the iron-hard muscles. "There will be plenty of time later. A lifetime."

  "Ah , lifetime, Mack-en-zie."

  He pulled the paddle through the water and lifted it high as they rode up the muddy bank, onto the grass. Jumping out, he dragged the dugout farther out of the water and then put his arm out to her.

  Mackenzie took his hand to jump out, but he swept her feet out from under her and lifted her in his powerful arms. She laughed and looped her arms around his neck. "Is it the Shawnee way for a man to carry his wife everywhere?" she asked, pressing a kiss to his lips.

  Still holding her in his arms, he yanked a deerskin from the bottom of the dugout and climbed the bank. "It is the Shawnee way that a man should make love to his wife at least three times on their wedding day." He kissed her mouth. "Look the sun rises high in the sky. This man has fallen in his duty to his wife."

  She giggled, already feeling the heat of her desire for him pulsing in her veins. "Three times, eh?" She nuzzled his neck. "Then I supposed we should begin our work."

  Under the canopy of a weeping willow tree he lowered her to her feet and spread out the deerskin. "I have thought of nothing since I woke this morning," he whispered in her ear, "but of touching you." He ran his hands over her arms, down her hips and inward to her thighs. "Smelling you." He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. "Tasting you."

  His tongue flicked out to tickle Mackenzie's lower lip and she sighed with pleasure. "Me, too," she whispered. "There I was standing before your mother listening to the solemn words of the holy man and all I could think of was . . ." She blushed and whispered in his ear.

  He chuckled, his breath husky with desire. "This man will have to teach you the Shawnee word for that."

  She gazed into his ebony eyes, their laughter mingling. "I suppose you will."

  He teased her lower lip with his tongue, taunting her, making her want to kiss him. Then at last his mouth met hers, his lips parted, and their tongues twisted open-mouthed.

  He kissed her until she was breathless and then he kissed her again. "Will you be warm enough or should this man get another skin?" He lowered her in his arms to the bed of deerskin and soft grass beneath it.

  "I think I'll be warm enough without it." She smoothed his cheek with her hand and kissed him. As their lips met she felt his hand glance over her hip and down her thigh.

  The canopy of tree limbs overhead seemed to spin in the gleaming sunshine as Fire Dancer stroked her. He took his time, undressing her slowly as he caressed her arms, her legs, her face. The chill of the fall air made goose bumps on Mackenzie's skin but it only seemed to heighten the feel of his hot, wet mouth on her hot, damp flesh.

  As they rolled on the deerhide blanket she couldn't help thinking of what her wedding day would have been at home. If she'd married Josh, she'd have worn a stiff new gown and married under her father's roof. There would have been no white doeskin dress or the rising sun. The consummation of the marriage would have taken place in her own rope bed beneath the eaves on the third floor attic of her father's tavern. There would have been no open skies, no bird song, no breeze.

  Mackenzie rolled on top of Fire Dancer and sat up. He had removed her dress and moccasins, but she still wore her leggings. Sitting on his lap, barebreasted while he lay beneath her gave her an odd sense of power. She caught his hands with her own and pinned them to the ground. Slowly, her gaze locked with his, she lowered her head until her lips met the nub of his male nipple.

  Fire Dancer's nipple immediately puckered and he moaned. A sensual laugh bubbled from her throat as she took his nipple between her teeth and tugged gently just as he had done to her only a moment before.

  He ran his fingers through her loose hair and moaned. Mac kenzie licked his nipple and dragged her tongue across his bare chest to the other. She could feel him growing hard beneath her, the evidence of his desire feeding her own.

  Mackenzie tugged on his nipple with her lips and then moved downward, painting imaginary lines with the tip of her tongue on his warm, sun-baked skin.

  "Kitehi," he whispered.

  She kissed his ribs and the flat plane of his stomach, dipping her tongue into his navel. "What does it mean?" she whispered. "Kitehi?"

  "Kitehi . . . my heart . . . my soul."

  "It's beautiful," she breathed as she lowered her head to kiss the tender flesh just above the waistband of his loincloth.

  Fire Dancer groaned and stopped her. "Not yet, my love."

  "Mahtah?" She lifted one eyebrow teasingly.

  "No."

  Before Mackenzie realized what he was doing, he grabbed her shoulders and flipped her over onto her back. She struggled, laughing and pushing him as he climbed on top of her, bare skin against bare skin. "There is something I have thought of all morning," he whispered in her ear. His tongue flickered out to tease her lobe. "A taste as sweet as honey, as magical as a holy man's powders."

  Their mouths met and she threaded her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. She loved the way his long hair tickled her when it fell across her breasts. "Here in the light of day?" she murmured.

  He sat up and tugged at the leather ties of her leggings. "Where better to see the fire of those red curls?"

  Fire Dancer slipped his hands beneath the doeskin leggings and Mackenzie let her eyes drift shut. There was nothing better on this earth than the feel of his touch.

  She arched her back and lifted her hips to meet his fingers. He yanked the leather leggings down and she give a kick helping him. Despite the chill of the autumn breeze, she felt only the warmth of his touch and her own bui
lding desire.

  She moaned as his fingers found the warm, damp folds of her womanhood. He always knew how to touch her just right, how to stroke her until she cried out with want of him. She ground her hips against his hand and when he lowered his head, she wound her fingers through his hair, guiding him.

  The first sweep of his tongue took her breath away.

  No matter how many times he touched her like this, she would never cease to be amazed by the depth of the pleasure. The rustle of the trees and the bird song faded, until she heard nothing but the sound of his breathing and her own moans of pleasure.

  Again and again, he brought her to the precipice of ultimate ecstasy only to draw her back. She laughed, she cried a tear or two . . . she had never been so happy. Finally, when every inch of her flesh ached for him, they joined as one. Once, twice, three times he lead her over the cliff before he finally drove home and collapsed beside her.

  In the early afternoon sun, he covered them both with a soft deerhide and they slept. When Mackenzie woke, he was gone, but she found him on the bank fishing. They shared a late lunch of blackened fish, honeyed corn cakes and icy river water and then went for a walk.

  As evening fell, Fire Dancer prepared for the night. Mackenzie sat on a rock and sketched the tree line and the riverbank with a charred stick on flat white rock. He built up the campfire and fashioned a shelter from saplings and some of the animal hides they carried in their canoe.

  "It is very good," he said as he leaned over her shoulder to wrap her in an otter cape.

  She glanced up. "It's all right, but it doesn't feel right." She glanced back at the sketch. "I guess I'm just a portraitist at heart."

  He kissed the top of her head and walked away. "This man is certain you will find a way to meet the needs of your heart and those of the Shawnee."

  She watched him toss a piece wood onto the campfire where a squirrel sizzled on a spit. "That's an odd thing to say. What do you mean?"