Chapter Eight
Fire Dancer stood outside the log kitchen and listened to Little Weaver bang her tin pots and dishes. She had cleared away the officers' evening meal, making many trips from the dining room to the kitchen which was a log room separate from the main building. Now she stood inside her hot English kitchen washing the dishes in great wooden tubs. He could see her through the window. He walked in the back door. "Little Weaver." He spoke in their native Shawnee tongue.
She glanced up, then back at the soapy pewter plate in her wet hands. "Mary. This woman called Mary," she answered in English.
"For me, little sister," he replied in Shawnee, "you will always be Little Weaver. You are the woman with the sweet voice, the woman with hands that can make the English loom rattle and produce blankets too pretty for human eyes."
She stared at him with black eyes like Okonsa's. "I am Mary." Stubbornly, she continued to speak in carefully pronounced English. It was obvious she'd been taking speaking lessons from someone and Fire Dancer could guess who.
"The Shawnee girl you knew is gone. Little Weaver gone." She tapped her chest with her soapy hand. "Mary, Mary of the Fort Belvadere kitchen. John Allen's Mary, soon to be wife, this woman hopes."
Fire Dancer leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. It was hot and steamy inside the kitchen as in most other white man's rooms. He could still smell the scent of fried, salty bacon and scouring soap. He switched to English. "This man did not come to argue over this woman's name. I came to speak of a greater matter."
She dunked the plate into a tub of clear water and set it on a huge tree stump that served as her work table in the dirt-floor kitchen. "Why do you come? My brother sent you to tell me I cannot speak to John Allen?" She spoke with a fierce challenge. "That I cannot choose the man to receive my affections?" She grabbed another dirty plate. "This woman is a widow. Her husband is dead and gone to the heavens." She waved her hand and soap suds flew. "This woman is free to do what she wants."
"The matter of the Englishman is between you and your brother—perhaps only between you and the soldier. I come to speak of a more serious matter."
She began to scrub the pewter plate vigorously, keeping her eyes downcast.
Fire Dancer sighed, switching back to Shawnee. It was easier to express his feelings in his own language. "Sister, I know what you did."
Fear shone in her eyes.
"And this man understands why."
Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Thankfully, he saw shame in her face. So at least she had not completely lost what lessons his mother had taught her.
"You took the lieutenant's trinket."
"He had no need of it!" she defended. "He have many shiny boxes, buckles, beads!"
"That does not matter and you know it," Fire Dancer snapped.
Mary went on washing her dishes. She wiped at her teary eyes with the sleeve of her new blue and green calico English dress. A gift from the soldier, no doubt.
"This woman wanted to give her new friend, Mackenzie, a gift," Mary said softly in Shawnee. "And this woman had no gift to give."
"So you became a thief?"
Mary twisted her hands in her English skirt. "You do not understand, you Fire Dancer, who have always had whatever you wanted. You who have always been loved."
He took a step toward her, disturbed by her words. "You are loved, Little Weaver. You are loved by me and by our mother and our sister. Okonsa loves you more than any who walks this earth."
"Okonsa!" she spat. "He does not love this woman as sister. He only wishes to control her. To make her one of his cronies' squaws. To keep her in the village and never let her taste the English sugar, or choc-o-late, or see the pretty glass beads."
"He wants what is best for you, Little Weaver. It's all he's ever wanted. When you came to our village after your mother died, it was Okonsa who carried you on his back. It was Okonsa who got you to eat when our mother could not. It was Okonsa who bathed your face when the white man's small pox came."
She slapped a plate on top of another with a clang. "If Okonsa loved this woman, he would let her go. He would let her be John Allen's wife. He would let her go to Eng-land and live in a fine English stone house and drink tea from glass."
"John Allen has offered his heart to yours in marriage?"
She dried her hands on a ragged linen towel. "Not yet, but he will."
Fire Dancer rested his hands on his hips. "Little Weaver, we have strayed from our conversation. I came to speak of the theft. If the white soldiers had caught you, you could have been hanged until your death, or had your hand cut off. How will you enter the path of the heavens when you die, if you have no hand?"
She turned her back to him, still speaking in their native tongue. "I won't do it again."
"It should not have been done to begin with. You know better. It's not who you are, Little Weaver. You are not a thief."
"No?" She whipped around, her black braids swinging. "Then who am I? The daughter of murdered ghosts? The sister of a brave who hates men for the color of their skin and nothing more? Who am I, but a woman doomed to grind corn in a cornhusk wigwam? I want more, Fire Dancer of the Thunder Sky. This woman will have more. If the Englishman, John Allen, will not give it to her, another white man will."
Fire Dancer ran his hand over his face. He didn't want to be here right now. He didn't want to deal with Little Weaver and her confusion of her own identity. All he wanted to do was see the woman with her bright red head. He wanted to hear her speak his name. He wanted to taste her lips again.
"The trinket has been returned without anyone's knowledge. I will not mention this incident to your brother."
"That is good because he would send me home to the village."
"As he should." He watched her walk across the room with a heavy pot in her hand. "As should I, if I could spare the escort for you."
"Do not trouble yourself with this woman again, Fire Dancer. She will not take what is not hers." She looked at him. "But do not send me home to Mother. Let me stay. Let me catch the white husband, if I can."
Fire Dancer nodded. "We will not speak of this matter of the trinket again. You may stay here until our party returns to our village, but if no marriage is made, this man must take you home. It is his duty to our mother."
She smiled, switching back to English. "John Allen says he loves this woman. He will marry me."
"This man hopes you are right, if that is what you truly want. I must go and find your brother. He is anxious to go elsewhere, but I will bid him stay. They say the French major approaches. We will begin our peace talks again and perhaps come to some conclusion without more bloodshed."
"Good night, Fire Dancer." She followed him to the door and kissed him on the cheek. "This woman thanks you for the goodness of your heart."
He slipped out the kitchen door and into the cover of darkness. Her sisterly kiss made him wish for one of another kind— one as sweet as honeysuckle sprinkled with morning dew. A kiss of passion. Mack-en-zie's kiss.
Fire Dancer walked along the wall, keeping out of sight. He couldn't get Mackenzie out of his mind. At first, he had just been curious about her. He was fascinated by her wit, her intelligence, even her odd looks. He could think of nothing but her. It was almost as if she was beginning to possess a part of him. Fire Dancer knew that it was madness, but it was as if he was unable to control his logic when it came to her.
Right now he was concerned. She ran from him today after they had kissed under the tree boughs. Why, he was not sure. It was obvious to both of them that it was what she had wanted. He would see her tonight and know what was in her head. He had to.
Mackenzie chewed on the tip of her paintbrush. The sketching had gone so quickly that she had brought out her oil paints. She stared at the small portrait. The light of several stinking tallow candles illuminated the room.
Fire Dancer stared back at her.
The portrait was only two hands tall and one wide and easily hidden. That was why she had made the canvas so small. Fire Dancer would never find it in the room.
At first she had intended to paint just his bust, as she had with Major Albertson. But after she'd gotten the idea to paint him in secret, she realized she could not do him justice by merely painting his head. A full view would capture the subject more accurately.
So she had painted him standing proudly, dressed in his loincloth and quilled moccasins with the leather vest he was so proud of. Behind him she would eventually fill in trees and perhaps even part of the jagged palisade wall.
At first Mackenzie had felt guilty about painting Fire Dancer against his wishes. But that was all nonsense about possessing a man's soul, and if he were an educated man, he would know that. She was honestly doing him no harm. He would never know she had painted his likeness. He would leave the fort when the peace talks were over and then she would add his portrait to those of Major Albertson and Major DuBois to the crate to be transported to London. She would get her first commission payment and Fire Dancer would not be hurt in any way, real or imagined.
She leaned forward and added a stroke of black paint to his long, sleek hair. "Take your soul, indeed," she muttered.
Mackenzie had worked all evening on the portrait, even excusing herself from supper. She suddenly had a burning desire to finish it. With Major DuBois riding for the fort, she'd be able to start his likeness next week. She told herself she had to spend as much time on Fire Dancer's portrait as possible, but in truth, she had skipped supper for fear of seeing him.
Mackenzie didn't know how she felt about their kiss today. Well, she did know how she felt. She smiled with giddy pleasure. She felt wonderful.
But her head was what she had to think with, not her emotions or the strange feelings coursing through her veins. The kiss had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to her. It was even better than the Christmas morning her grandfather had given her that first box of paints.
But of course the kiss could lead to nothing. She knew that. He was a heathen savage. She was a colonial woman with a life back on the Tidewater. It was pure sexual attraction, the devil's work. It was her desire to defy her father and Joshua, and the rules of common society that had prompted her to kiss him.
When she thought of it all logically, it made sense. She was just exercising a childish desire to rebel. And maybe she was just a little infatuated with her subject. Surely that happened sometimes to an artist. When an artist stared at a man's face, at his muscular, half-naked body, it was natural that she should think herself attracted to him.
Mackenzie added one more stroke with the black brush and then dropped it into a little can of linseed oil. She checked her pocket watch, one that had once been her grandfather's. It was nearly midnight. Would he come? She hoped not. She hoped so.
Mackenzie picked up the small canvas from the easel. If the English government liked it, perhaps they would even commission her to paint a full-sized one. Perhaps she'd even get to go to England and work on it there, if she was lucky. The possibilities were endless.
Mackenzie kneeled on the floor and slid the portrait under her cot.
"Mack-en-zie . . ."
It was him.
She popped her head up. Her heart suddenly raced the way it had this afternoon at the stream. She wasn't ready for him yet. She wished she had a nightrail to cover herself. She hadn't prepared herself for what she would say to him. She scrambled to her feet and let the counterpane fall to cover the cot and what lay beneath it.
He climbed in through the window. "This man feared you would lock the window this night." He rolled over her cot and then instead of jumping up as he usually did, he stretched out on his side on the bed. He propped his head on his hand.
She turned away, wondering if it was really necessary that he display his body like that. After all, female or not, she was human and of the child bearing age. Even women had certain feelings . . . down there . She was discovering that pretty quickly.
"You do not speak for once, Mack-en-zie? Are you ill?"
She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her breasts, as if she could somehow isolate herself from him. Where were all those logical, reasonable thoughts now that he was here?
But instead of logic, all she could think of was their kiss, and wish that he would kiss her again. "I . . ." Without realizing it, she touched her lips with her fingertips; the memory of his mouth burned on hers. "I . . . I'm just tired, that's all."
"Come." He patted the cot. "Sit. Rest. This man will not stay long."
She stared at the place where his hand rested on her mother's patchwork counterpane.
"This man will not harm you," he said softly. "I would not touch . . . or kiss what is not offered."
This was her chance. If he was going to speak so frankly, so could she. Now was a good time to bid him farewell. She could tell him to leave and not come back again. She could tell him her father was suspicious of him. She . . . she could tell him she was going to marry Josh . . .
She took the three steps to the cot and sat down. Her knees felt weak.
Without hesitation, he slipped his hand to the nape of neck and guided her mouth downward toward his.
She sighed as their lips met. "Fire Dancer," she breathed against his lips. "This . . . this isn't right." But as she spoke, she nipped his lower lip with her teeth. She pressed her mouth against his and slid her hand over his flat, hard stomach.
"There," he said as he raised his mouth from hers.
"There?" She stared down at him as she remained leaning over him, her hand still on his warm skin. "There what?"
"There. We both wanted to kiss. We could think of nothing else. Now we kissed. Now we can speak of what this is between us."
She took her hand from his waist and laid it in her lap. It was too tempting to touch him like that. It made her want to touch him elsewhere. "I don't know what you mean."
He laughed.
"What?" She couldn't help but smile. "Why are you laughing at me?"
"I laugh that you can deny what you feel. You whites, you are all alike in that way."
She crossed her arms on her lap, rubbing at the sienna paint drying on her thumb and forefinger. It was almost exactly the same shade as his skin. ''I don't know what I feel, Fire Dancer." She rose from the cot to pace. "Honestly, I don't."
"It is not what we expected, this passion we feel. No, Mack-en-zie?"
"I would say not. I . . . I'm a colonial woman and you . . . you're . . . you're—"
"A savage?"
She ran her hand over her face and brushed the loose strands of hair back. She was spending too much time painting. She wasn't getting enough sleep. She was having a difficult time collecting the thoughts in her head. "I never called you a savage. It's only that we are so different, you and I."
He sat up. "This is true. This man knows all the reasons why he cannot come here at night in the darkness. The soldiers would hang this man, if they knew." He rose off the cot. "But this man cannot stop coming. He cannot stop thinking of Mack-en-zie," he reached out to touch the hair that fell over her shoulder, "and how she makes him feel inside." He touched his chest with his fist. "Here."
Mackenzie's gaze slid toward him, as if drawn magnetically. Everything she had grown up with and had been taught told her that this was wrong. Yet when he offered his arms, she stepped into them.
Fire Dancer wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her so close they were hip to hip. It was the most intimate position she'd ever been in with a man, and it amazed her how well they fit together.
"Mack-en-zie." He brushed the hair off her neck and kissed her there. "This man will talk to the British and French majors and then he will go home to his people."
"And I will go home with my father to the Chesapeake." Then she said what he hadn't. "And we will never see each other again."
He lowered his mouth again, kissing her harder. Mackenzie wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until their bodies molded as one. "I don't want you to go," she whispered. "I don't want to go."
He smiled sadly. "For this man's whole life he looks for a woman that makes his blood boil and his heart sing and what does he find? A white woman in a British fighting fort."
She rested her cheek on his shoulder. "It could never work. There is no compromise." She meant it as a statement, but a part of her saw it as a question. A remote possibility.
"No, Mack-en-zie. This man cannot join your world. I have a duty to my people. I would never fit in here. I would make you sad."
"And I cannot leave my father. I . . . couldn't be an Indian." She smiled sadly. "Imagine that."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "So, should this man go now? Should the good-byes be said now?" He stroked her bare shoulder and her breasts tingled beneath the linen sleeping gown. "Should we end what cannot be, now, before hearts break?"
Mackenzie couldn't believe this man was saying such things to her. Heartbreak? Was he trying to say that this was love they felt? Her father had always said that true love made no sense. Did true love also see no barriers of race or religion?
"Mack-en-zie?"
She knew he waited for an answer, but she had none. She just knew she didn't want him to leave her.
She drew back a little. "Can't we spend what time we have left like this?"
He stroked her cheek. "You do not want this man to go?"
She smiled up him. "Not now." She took his hand and led him toward her sleeping cot. "Right now, I'm so tired that I don't want to think about it." She plopped down on the edge of the bed. "I just want you to hold me."
He sat down beside her and slid his arm around her waist. "This man can do that for you, Mack-en-zie." He kissed her temple. "He only wishes that he could do more."