Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (18 page)

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 the 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

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 away.

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.