Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (19 page)

“I shall try harder,” she finally said, only to watch him shake his grizzled head.

“It will be easy when it happens,
Adan’ta Woman
.” He turned his hands, enveloping hers, giving them a squeeze before letting them go. His serious demeanor evaporated into a smile that made his face a maze of wrinkles. “I have asked you here to speak of the ceremony of
Ah,tawh,hung,nah
. It is the people’s time of purifying ourselves and beginning anew.”

“The black drink.” Rachel grimaced. She hadn’t meant to say anything but concern over this aspect of the ritual hadn’t strayed far from her thoughts.

“Who told you of the drink?”

“Logan. He said it was a... Well, he explained it to me.”

“I do not believe you need take it.”

“You don’t?” Rachel’s spirits brightened. “Oh, I shall if you wish me to, of course. But if you don’t think I should, then that is fine, too. And you don’t think I should.” Rachel realized she rambled and clamped her mouth shut.

“There is one custom I think you have need of.”

Before she could ask what he meant, the Adawehis called out. The two women from yesterday entered the Council House. They carried a garment made of animal skin.

“I think you could use a new dress,
Adan’ta Woman
.”

Rachel glanced down at the gown she’d worn since the night she drowned. It was torn and burned in spots, dirty nearly beyond recognition. Yet she hesitated to give it up. It was a part of her other life. And it seemed as if she was slowly losing that life. It frightened her. She was going to have to save Logan MacQuaid quickly and return... before there was nothing left.

But common sense and an ingrained desire to look her best dictated she abandon the shredded ball gown. Rachel accepted the folded dress with a smile.

The leather was white, softer than the finest silk, and decorated with beads and quills. “It’s lovely.”

“Go
Adan’ta Woman
. Bathe in the river and put on your new gown. And tonight you will dance with the other women.”

“But I don’t know how.” She was proficient at the minuet and the quadrille, but this... Visions of last night, of the firelight illuminating the slender bodies of the maidens as they moved to the pulsing drumbeat, of Logan, flashed through her mind.

“Move with your heart,
Adan’ta Woman
,” was all the Adawehis said before she left.

~ ~ ~

Rachel felt like a new woman.

Perhaps what the Cherokee said about
Ah,tuwh,hung,nah
was true. People did need to begin over upon occasion. At any rate they needed new clothes. But Rachel admitted the transformation she underwent consisted of more than simply a Cherokee gown.

She had washed in the river and brushed her hair dry until it shone. Her blond hair had always been one of her best features but now it seemed almost alive with golden color... sparkling near as bright as the diamonds at her throat and ears. She couldn’t help wondering what Logan would think when he saw her.

He seemed to have few ill effects from his earlier game playing. Rachel saw him once that afternoon carrying furnishings from one of the cabins. In the village square he and several other men piled the benches and chairs into a giant heap which they then set ablaze.

This was another way the Cherokee celebrated starting life anew, Rachel was told. To burn your old possessions meant to fully embrace your new life.

Rachel nodded her understanding when the old woman explained it to her. But she did not burn her blue and silver gown.

By the time darkness enveloped the town most of the work associated with the festival was complete. Houses and winter
asi
were swept clean, the furnishings burned and new ones set in place. The Council House shone white in the firelight, boasting a fresh covering of clay.

It seemed many of the villagers had even partaken of the black drink, purifying their bodies inside as well as out. As a consequence not much emphasis was put on cooking for the day. Although Rachel did manage to make a few corn cakes without burning them. She ate one herself, gave three to Henry who followed his meal with a nap, and left the remaining three for Logan.

Then she went in search of her friends. That afternoon they taught her a few steps of the dances for tonight. The older woman was too ancient to dance, she said with a laugh, but the younger, Nakawisi, would. With the combination of signals and words they used to communicate, Nakawisi assured Rachel she would stay by her side.

Even so, Rachel was nervous when the drums began their hypnotic beat just as last night, a bonfire flamed in the center of the square, shooting ribbons of fire toward the heavens. The evening was cool, with a hint of winter in the breeze that ruffled the fringe on her dress. But there seemed to be a heat generated inside her that kept her skin warm and her face flushed.

There would be several dances tonight. The first representing The Beginning started when Rachel followed the other women to form a circle around the bonfire. Then the men joined the dancers.

But not Logan.

Rachel noticed his absence immediately. She imitated Nakawisi’s steps and she searched the onlookers for him, finally spotting him near the edge of the group. Unlike most of the Cherokee who sat beneath the canopied shelters, he stood, arms folded, one ankle crossing the other. It was a casual stance, but there was nothing casual about his expression.

His green stare seemed to burn into her as she danced, swaying with the rhythm. He stayed, leaning against a supporting pole, not moving except for the eyes that followed her everywhere.

At first she found it disconcerting for him to watch her so intently. She looked toward her feet, trying to concentrate on the steps, only to lift her lashes and meet his gaze. Warmth flooded through her body.

Blood pounded in her ears.

The cadence changed, the dance steps quickened. This part portrayed Friendship. For a time Rachel was caught up in the complex weaving about she did. But each time she glanced around it was Logan she saw. He seemed to pull her toward him, an allure she couldn’t understand. And didn’t want to.

Her pulse raced.

Rachel knew what was coming. What the third dance would be. Her body felt fluid and sensual, like the Cherokee people. Their ideas were so different from hers yet at this moment she embraced them. She lifted her arms, sighing as the buttery soft leather skimmed down her skin.

The third dance was the Rounding.

Intimacy.

Rachel would have known what it depicted even if she hadn’t been told. The dancers moved with a new energy, a new passion. There was a general pairing, a subtle shift that melded each man and woman into a single unit.

Except for Rachel.

She continued to move to the pulsating beat of the drums, the rattling gourds, but her attention was not on another dancer.

She only had eyes for Logan.

He stood, as immovable as before, but she could feel the music flow between them in an invisible stream. An indestructible stream. Rachel swayed, her body undulating, stepping back and forth, as the crescendo built.

She danced for him.

Never before had she been more aware of herself as a woman. Of him as a man. Hair brushed her shoulders, swirling about her body and the sensation was enticing. Her flesh quivered and her breasts swelled. Rachel wet her suddenly dry lips and could taste him.

And deep within her an ache began, built as steadily as the tempo of the music.

She had flirted before, but never seduced.

Now she practiced that beguiling allure as if she were created for it. As if the Sirens had taken control of her body. From the heart, the Adawehis said, and she complied.

She teased, she tantalized, she enticed. And through it all, the force of her desire escalated.

A sheen of perspiration covered her skin and still she danced, faster and faster as the pounding soared. The pace was nearly frenzied now as she swayed toward him, imagined he swayed toward her.

And then it was over, ending abruptly as the drummers ceased their beating and the dancers their movements.

She’d imagined his movement toward her before. But not this time. With masculine grace he pushed away from the pole and strode toward her. Rachel could barely breathe as he reached for her, his long fingers encircling her wrist.

He said nothing, but then the time for talking was past. And they both knew it. She followed without a backward glance as he led her toward the cabin.

“Take heed lest passions sway

The judgement to do aught, which else free will

Would not admit.”

— Milton

Paradise Lost

His mouth covered hers before the door slammed shut.

Rachel thought she knew passion before but that was a poor substitute for the fire exploding through her now. Her hands shot around his neck, tangled with his hair, clutching compulsively. She couldn’t stop trembling. It was as if her body suddenly grew too large for her skin and wanted out.

Wanted.

And oh, her skin. It burned and shivered at the same time.

“Rachel.” He tore his lips from hers only long enough to breathe her name and then he was back, marauding, devouring, filling her with his tongue. His hands bracketed her face, holding her still for his onslaught. Deeper and deeper he plunged as the maelstrom in his blood pounded, flattening her against the door with the power of his body.

She couldn’t stop squirming, rubbing herself along the length of him. Her breasts filled, stimulated by the feel of his hard chest. And deep within her an ache grew, blossoming outward till her entire body throbbed.

When his hands pressed down over her collarbone, she moaned. When they blazed lower, kneading her flesh, her knees folded. If not for the rough door behind and the power of his body she would have fallen to the floor.

And then he was yanking the deerskin dress up and over her head, tossing it aside with a flick of his strong wrist. Except for the jewels at her neck she stood naked before him, naked and unashamed, her body glowing in the soft, rosy glow of the logs in the hearth.

It struck Rachel suddenly that she had fed the fire before leaving the cabin and that she was glad. Without the light it offered she wouldn’t have seen the smoldering appreciation as his eyes skimmed down her. Her flesh burned wherever he looked, wherever his gaze lingered. She seemed to pout toward him, her nipples puckered, her womanhood dewy with desire.

She expected him to touch her then, to skim his long fingers down her. She craved it with an intensity that frightened her. But it was not his hands but his moist mouth that forged a path of fire.

Rachel called out when he suckled the pebbly tip of her breast. Her fingers clawed into his muscled shoulders, finding the opening in his shirt, seeking the hot, slick skin beneath.

She could barely breathe, air coming in ragged gasps, as he attacked her other nipple, nipping and sucking, swirling his tongue over the straining tip. Rachel hadn’t known there was such pleasure on earth; didn’t think anything could surpass it. But then his mouth inched aggressively lower.

His stubble-roughened chin abraded the creamy flesh of her stomach, and she quivered. When he dropped to his knees in front of her she pressed back, some dark recess of her brain realizing what he was about. But though the splintery wood was hard against her back she could not escape him.

And from the moment his tongue, wet and insistent, probed the secrets of her womanhood she had no desire to.

His strong hands clasped her thighs, supporting her, spreading her wide for his invasion.

He probed.

He plundered.

Attacking her with no mercy.

Rachel’s fingers thrust into his hair, gripping the back of his head and holding him to her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel. The sensations so strong, so overpowering, it seemed she would die.

A pounding drummed through her head, beating louder and louder till she could no longer bear it. And still his tongue ravished.

“Logan!” His name escaped her lips on a scream as the whole of her seemed to shatter into a thousand shiny pieces. She soared, sailing above the confines of earth, to float in heavenly ecstasy.

For one brief moment lucid thought struggled to control her mind and she wondered if this was the way back, the trip of spiraling colors and dazzling light she’d longed to take. Was she on her way home, back to the place of angels or the palace in London? And why did the possibility hold such little appeal?

But when she opened her eyes it was Logan that she saw. His eyes that bore into her. He bent down, swooping her into his arms, holding her high against his chest. Her head fell against his shoulder and the thumping of his heart vibrated through her.

And then he was lowering her to the mat and his gaze was searing her flesh and she reached for him and the wild abandon clutched her again.

Logan hesitated long enough to yank off his shirt and leggings. But even those simple tasks were interrupted by the need to touch her, to see her eyes flash with desire when he did. She tore at his loincloth, as eager as he for their joining.