There was a moment when in unison they stopped staring at her and turned toward each other, saying something in the same language Logan had used with Swift Fox. Of course they didn’t understand English, Rachel thought. How foolish she was.
But before she could dwell on that the two women stepped forward, one reaching for the broom, the other taking Rachel’s hand. She couldn’t understand their words, but their tone was kind. They waited till the dancing motes of dust settled, then showed her where to begin and how to sweep without stirring the dirt. The older of the two handed the broom back to Rachel, smiling to reveal a gap where her front teeth should be and Rachel smiled back.
The women stayed with her, offering direction and words of encouragement and it wasn’t until they left and the cabin was reasonably clean that the reality of what happened hit Rachel.
She understood them.
Not their language, of course. It wasn’t as if she suddenly learned the Cherokee way of speaking or that they began verbalizing in the king’s fine English. They’d communicated through their spirits.
Just as Lone Dove said she must do with Logan.
Rachel couldn’t keep from bouncing on her toes at the idea that she’d actually done it. Oh, there were times when she caught a glimpse of what was in Logan’s spirit, in his heart. But never for any extended length of time. And it was never enough. But now she knew how... or at least had done it.
She was so excited she rushed from the cabin toward the Town House, ignoring the people who were dabbing the outside curved walls with white mud. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. But when they did, Rachel knew she’d done something wrong. She imagined King George’s expression would be as scandalized if she burst into the throne room while he met with his ministers.
Logan sprang to his feet and Rachel had visions of him tossing her across his naked shoulder and hauling her from the building. But before he could do more than take a single step toward her, the Adawehis spoke.
“It is all right if the Adan’ta Woman joins us.”
Tension seemed to drift away like the mountain mist. The circle of brightly painted warriors settled back on their bottoms and Rachel couldn’t help the smirk that crossed her face as she glanced toward Logan. Which she regretted immediately for his expression told her no matter what the Adawehis said, she would answer to him for her disruptive behavior.
~ ~ ~
There would be dancing that night. And a ball game of some sort the next day.
Rachel learned that much from Lone Dove before she was kindly asked if there was something she wanted. Her eyes darted toward Logan, but he stared at the small, smokeless fire burning in the center of the Town House.
“No, I merely came to report that I’d finished the task he gave me this morning.” This did bring his gaze clashing with hers. And she suddenly became aware of how she must appear to him, her hair tangled and layered with dust as if her maid had sprayed it with powder. Her face streaked with grime and her gown nearly in shreds.
Of course he looked no better, his long, dark hair unbound, dressed like a heathen with nothing covering his hard body but a scrap of leather about his waist. Rachel’s mouth went dry and she turned her head, trying to follow what the Adawehis was saying to her.
“The asi?”
“Yes, Adan’ta Woman, it is most kind of you to clean the cabin and the asi, winter home, for your host family.”
“The winter home?” What did he mean? This time when Rachel’s eyes sought Logan’s they were pleading. And his, if not kind, were understanding. He said nothing, but somehow she knew. “Oh, the circular building beside the cabin. Yes, well, I...” she sputtered, not knowing exactly how to say she hadn’t entered, let alone cleaned, the asi.
But it wasn’t necessary that she say anything. The Adawehis spoke again. “We are readying ourselves for the game tomorrow, ‘the little brother to war.’”
“War?”
“It is but a figure of speech, Your Highness.” Rachel’s lips thinned and she refused to look back at Logan.
“It is like my friend says, merely a game. But it is for men only and we must prepare our bodies and spirits.”
“I understand.” Rachel backed toward the small door. Her gaze swept over the dozen or so other warriors who sat on the benches that circled the fire, but none so much as twitched a muscle her way. Rachel wished she could be as invisible as they seemed to find her. But of course she couldn’t just disappear. She had to make her way slowly and ungainly in her broken shoe. Just before she left, Rachel gave Logan a parting look. Finding his gaze on her, she lifted her chin and stared at him down the length of her dust-powdered nose.
~ ~ ~
The inside of the dirt-covered asi made the cabin appear sparkling clean in contrast. The winter house was used only in cold weather and was small and conically shaped, with a high pointed roof. Unlike the main house which was made of wood, the asi appeared to be constructed of a lattice work of saplings strengthened by mud. It was windowless, dark and dreary, and obviously hadn’t been inhabited for months.
Filthy.
Thank goodness she now knew how to clean... or at least sweep.
When she finished Rachel imagined she bore a strong resemblance to a blackamore. The thought made her chuckle and she slid down the outside wall of the asi, too tired to go back to the cabin and sit on the bench.
She was sprawled there, her feet thrust out when she noticed the two women who helped her earlier. The older one reached down, grabbing Rachel’s hand and pulling her up. Though she didn’t feel like going anyplace, Rachel followed, giving a sigh of relief when she saw the river. They led her downstream to where she and the other females of the village bathed this morning.
The women stood as if guarding her while Rachel stripped out of her clothes. Garbed in nothing but her diamonds she stepped into the swirling current. Even though the day had warmed, the water still held the chill of mountain streams and Rachel shivered as the liquid lapped about her thighs. She should have jumped squealing onto shore, or at least hurried to be through with this experience, but she didn’t. For there was something about standing in the river that was not at all unpleasant.
She moved toward deeper water feeling the sensual pull as the liquid inched higher, across her stomach, then to cover her breasts. It was like the tingle that overpowered her body when Logan touched her. Rachel closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like if he were standing there in the current with her.
As naked as she.
The ache that raced through her body made her gasp. She plunged beneath the surface, only to shoot up again and start to briskly wash the dirt from her flesh. Once clean she hurried to shore, accepting the toweling handed to her by one of the women and wrapping it around herself.
She dressed quickly in shift and petticoats. Her corset no longer seemed necessary. So she simply fastened her bodice and added the tattered lace of her overskirt.
The clocked stockings were also a thing of the past, burned and worn into nothing but loosely connected holes. Rachel settled on a flat rock to slip on her shoes, but before she could one of the women touched her hand. When she glanced up the Cherokee held out a pair of soft hide shoes. There were several holes punched in the overlapping tops with a thong woven through.
They looked comfortable and warm, and Rachel wasn’t certain until the woman nudged them closer that they were for her. Then she opened her heart, feeling the woman’s love... returning it.
“They’re lovely.” Rachel’s eyes strayed to the blue satin slippers with their silver threads and buckles and knew a stab of regret. They were once so beautiful. It was hard to believe they were now as useless as her life had been.
Rachel paused, her fingers splayed above her new shoes. What was in her mind to think of her life as worthless. She who was nearly betrothed to Prince William... the king’s brother, for heaven’s sake.
Yet she couldn’t help what silliness flew into her head.
<
br /> Rachel hurriedly pulled on the moccasins, parading around with her skirts lifted to show them off for the two women. They were comfortable.
Rachel ate alone that evening, if you didn’t count Henry who gobbled up Logan’s share of the meal. “You needn’t act as if it’s the best thing you’ve eaten in a sennight.” Rachel stared hard at the dog who chose to push the pottery dish around on the floor rather than comment.
“Oh, perhaps it is good.” Rachel took a bite of a stew thickened with corn. “But I did ask the woman to show me how to make it.” The Cherokee didn’t seem to have a certain time to break their fast or sup. They simply ate from a pot always filled with hearty food whenever they were hungry. Rachel didn’t think she could get used to that concept, but she was grateful that her new friend took pity on her and offered something from her pot.
Especially since Logan was fasting.
And seemed intent upon keeping his distance from her.
She only saw him once after she burst into the Town House. He stopped by after she returned from her bath. Her hair was still damp, the curls only beginning to frizz around her face.
Rachel had turned to him, excited about her new shoes only to have him announce he would not be staying in the cabin with her tonight.
“But why?”
“After the dancing we must prepare ourselves for tomorrow’s games.” He looked at her sheepishly. ’Tis the custom of the Cherokee and as their guest...”
“Of course, you must do as they suggest.”
“You will be all right, then?”
“Yes.” Rachel smiled though she didn’t really feel like it. “The question is, will you?”
“I think I can manage to stay alive for one night.”
Rachel thought back over his words. He’d been teasing her. She knew he didn’t believe anything she told him. With a sigh she scraped the remainder of her stew into Henry’s bowl.
She did her best to comb through her hair, then braided the length of it and twisted it up... all without the aid of a mirror. Then she wandered outside, Henry at her heels, to watch the dancing.
The sun was setting behind the village with a splash of orange and mauve. Already a bonfire burned in the center of town, in front of the Town House. Most of the Cherokee were gathered about, sitting on benches under the covered sheds that surrounded the common area.
Rachel looked, but could not find Logan. She did see her two friends and hurried toward them, thankful she wouldn’t have to be alone. Rachel tried to communicate with the women, asking what was going to happen, but she had to wait until it actually did.
A hush fell over the assemblage when the Adawehis came out of the Council House. He was dressed in his long cape of turkey feathers, looking much as he had the first time Rachel saw him. He spoke in a strong, low voice, continuing on for a very long time about Rachel knew not what. When she tried to open her heart to him she only managed to gather something about how important the coming games were.
When the musicians started, Rachel sat up straighter. There was a large drum, which appeared to be made from a hollowed-out log and covered with animal skin. The sides, stained red with designs, were as colorful as the warrior pounding it. Another man shook a painted rattle.
They had just begun playing when a line of young women, all clothed in decorated white dresses, danced out. Their long black hair shone in the firelight. They sang, their voices pure and sweet as they circled the musicians, their bodies moving in a slow sensual rhythm.
Watching them, their dark, innocent beauty was almost hypnotic. But the spell was broken when a group of warriors, skin glistening, leaped from the Council House. The men were painted, their near naked bodies decorated with silver gorgets and bracelets wrapped around their upper arms.
Rachel’s breath caught when she saw Logan. Except for the fact that he was taller than the Cherokee and had those mesmerizing green eyes, he looked like the other warriors. He danced as they did, no civilized quadrille or even lively folkdance, but a gyration of movements so masculine, so primitive, that Rachel couldn’t look away if she’d wanted to.
She tried to swallow and couldn’t as the pounding drum and the dancer’s feet... Logan’s feet stirred her blood. Her heart seemed to catch the beat, quickening as she watched him, watched his body. And then the young women lined up with the warriors, swaying, a feminine counterpoint to the savage beauty of the males.
And jealousy swept over Rachel so intense there was no mistaking it.
She wanted to leap to her feet. To push aside the woman who dared undulate her nubile body in front of Logan and take her place. To show him that she was woman to his man.
Rachel’s nails dug crescents into her palm’s soft flesh as she watched, as she forced herself to sit through the performance. And when she finally stumbled back to her cabin, alone in the darkness, it was to spend a sleepless night, thinking of him. Wondering if he thought of her.
Chapter Nine
“There is time when fear is good
It must keep its watchful place at the heart’s controls
There is advantage in the wisdom of pain.”
— Aeschylus
Rachel woke with a start. Noise filtered through the closed door and it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t the drums from the night before. Their memory still seemed to pound through her body, pulsing with every beat of her heart. With a groan she sat up, dropping her head into the welcoming cradle of her palms.
Her skin seemed afire, and an ache had settled deep in her body. With another groan the remnants of last night’s dreams swamped over her.
“Oh, no.” How could she even conceive of some of the things she imagined in her sleep? She glanced across the room to see if Logan was there. Would he know by looking at her what tempestuous, what passionate things she did to him in her dreams?
But he wasn’t there. Giving herself a shake to dislodge the sensual haze enveloping her, Rachel pushed to her feet. Of course. This was the day of the games. The day everyone took a hiatus from work to watch two groups of men chase a small deerhide ball down a field of play.
Stretching, Rachel decided she didn’t have time to do more than wash her face and hands and try to tame her wild curls. Even though it was no more than sport she probably should be there to cheer Logan on. If he didn’t already have a champion in the doe-eyed girl from last night.
Her teeth clamped together so hard her jaw hurt. What did she care if Logan MacQuaid had a lover in the Cherokee village? It meant nothing whatsoever to her, or her mission. As long as the woman didn’t plan to kill him, that is. And as often as Rachel herself thought it might be enjoyable to wrap her fingers around his throat and squeeze, she didn’t think the girl last night felt the same. No, the Cherokee maid seemed quite taken by the strapping, sun-bronzed man.
“Blast Logan MacQuaid. Who cares what he does?” Rachel griped at Henry, who only lifted one lazy eyelid and stared at her a moment before settling back to sleep.
Grabbing her hair she quickly divided it into three sections and did her best to braid it. Her fingers stopped only once and that was when the idea hit her that the warriors might have spent the night with the beautiful girls. Perhaps they were the Cherokee version of courtesans, about which she was supposed to know nothing, but did all the same.
What if it was the women’s job to entice the athletes and draw them into their beds before the big game? Rachel braided her hair with a vengeance, tying it off and tossing it over her shoulder before marching to the door. She threw it open.
And was immediately overcome by a feeling of impending doom. Of evil.”
She hurried toward the throng of spectators who stood about the open area, calling out cheers and taunts. Gone was her jealousy, her anger at Logan. She only knew she must find him. Save him.
Her feet gained speed as she reached the wall of people. As she tried to find a way past them. But the frenzy of the night before was still with them and they seemed to swell and sway with the action on t
he field. She heard a collective groan and her breathing quickened. But though she tried to push herself through the men and women she couldn’t.
“Please.” Her voice cracked. “Please, I must see what is happening.” Frantically she searched the row, gasping when she noticed the Adawehis. He was more willing to allow her through and she elbowed her way ignoring his advanced age and lofty station.
“Where is he?” she asked, her eyes on a frenzied search for Logan. She spotted him just as another man swung a long webbed stick at him from behind. She screamed and flung herself forward only to be caught and yanked back by two strong hands.
“What are you doing Adan’ta Woman?”
“Let me go.” Rachel squirmed, unable to believe that the frail old man was as strong as he was. “I have to save him.” She jerked her head around to see Logan running the length of the field, his own webbed stick held high. Through a glaze of tears she saw a bleeding gash on his arm.
“He will not appreciate your interference.”
“I don’t care.” Again Rachel tried to no avail to rid herself of his confining hands. “He will die and then...” She didn’t finish her words or the thought because again an Indian was swinging his stick at Logan. It was the same man as before and though he was new to Rachel, she knew who he was. “That is the Cherokee who wants Logan dead.” Rachel twisted around toward the Adawehis, trying to make him understand. But it was obvious he already did.
“Logan knows.”
“But he will die.”
“I don’t think that will happen.”
She couldn’t watch.
Yet she couldn’t look away.
The game was savage in its intensity. She knew now why Lone Dove had called it “the little brother of war.” Yet war asked for no spectators.
The men thundered down the field, urged on by the screaming fans. There must have been fifty on the field of play, and Rachel was told the other team was not from this village. The object it seemed was to hurl the small ball over goal posts planted at each end of the playing area. When that happened to the north of the field a huge cheer of noise swelled around her
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