Silver Tears

by Weyrich, Becky Lee

  “Sir, I’ll go on with you, even if the others won’t,” young Private Smith offered. “We’re sure to find your wife soon.”

  “I appreciate your optimism, lad. I only wish I could feel certain of that.”

  All day Gunn had been fast losing hope. Scarappi was not well thought of even by his own people. His hatred and mistreatment of whites was legendary and atrocious. To think of his own Alice in that villain’s clutches was almost too much to bear.

  “We’ll all keep searching,” Pegeen’s husband declared. “And when we find the bloody bastards, we’ll skin the hide off them while they beg for mercy. I’ll make harnesses out of them. After what they’ve done to poor Mrs. Gunn, they deserve no better.”

  “Shut up, O’Dare!” Smith warned with a nod toward Gunn. “We don’t know they’ve done anything to the lady.”

  “It’s all right, Smith,” Gunn replied with a weary sigh. “I know the probabilities as well as any man here. All we can do is keep searching and pray we’ll find her in time.”

  As twilight turned to dusk, the search party fanned out, hoping to find some real clue in the gathering darkness. But hope was fading as fast as the light.

  Two things Alice did not know: First, while she had been in her swoon, Scarappi and his men had used the time to their advantage, laying false trails through the woods to mislead her rescuers. Second, Scarappi, wishing to make the other braves envious, had decided to parade his kidnapped beauty before his people. Then he would have his fun with her for all of them to see.

  Now Alice stood in the middle of the same river island village where her husband had been an honored guest only days before. The bride and groom remained in seclusion.

  With great pomp and ceremony Scarappi untied Alice, then pulled the robe from her. Men, women, and children alike rushed forward, exclaiming over her, touching her pale skin, and tugging at her long golden hair. Most of them had never seen a white woman before.

  Alice’s fear grew by the minute, but she hid her feelings well. Squaring her shoulders and setting her chin at a stubborn angle, she met each brave and squaw eye-to-eye.

  Finally she said in a loud voice, “I demand to speak with your chief. I am a subject of the king of England, and I will not be treated in such a shabby manner.”

  She swept her long, white robe about her in regal fashion and strode through the ogling throng. Where she was going, she had no idea, but she refused to stand in one place and be mauled.

  Scarappi, surprised by her grand manner and her sudden movement away from him, caught her arm and whirled her around. Without thinking what she was doing, she slapped him across the face. For a moment he stared at her blankly, unable to believe that any woman would strike him. Then, growling low in his throat, he gripped her arm viciously, twisting it behind her. Alice screamed.

  Hearing the commotion outside his lodge, Baron de Saint Castin rolled away from his voluptuous wife.

  “Can a man have no peace around here, even while he’s bedding his bride?” He leaned over to kiss Mathilde’s breast, then whispered, “I shall return, my darling. Stay just as you are.”

  Nothing could have surprised the Frenchman more than the sight that greeted him. Scarappi stood in the center of the melee, holding a beautiful white woman, who screamed in pain at his cruel treatment.

  The baron had to shout to be heard over the woman’s ear-splitting shrieks. “Release her!” he demanded.

  Silence fell over the crowd. Scarappi only scowled at the Frenchman.

  “I do not issue orders twice,” Castin said quietly.

  In a confusion of Indian, French, and English, Scarappi said, as near as Alice could figure out, that he had taken her as spoils of war after killing all the Englishmen in a raid on a coastal village. She was his now, and he had no intention of giving her up.

  The tall foreigner eyed Alice coolly for a few seconds, then said bluntly, “You are a liar, Scarappi.”

  Alice had no idea who this man was, but she certainly agreed with him. Scarappi kept a firm grip on her arm.

  “Tell me who this woman is,” the baron demanded.

  Scarappi narrowed his eyes, glanced at Alice, then back at his interrogator. “No one,” he evaded. “She is no one of importance.”

  “Fine,” Castin replied, seemingly without interest. “Then I shall go back to my bride, and I’ll see that this ‘no one’ is given proper escort to Quebec, where she’ll bring a handsome profit from some French gentleman.”

  “No!” Scarappi and Alice both shouted the word at the same moment.

  Ignoring Alice, Castin turned to Scarappi and asked, “What else could we possibly do with her? You told me her people were all dead. She’s no one of importance, so she won’t be missed. But she is quite lovely. I have a noble friend in Canada who has been looking for a new bed warmer. She’ll do nicely, and he’ll pay a fortune for her services.”

  Alice gasped in horror at the stranger’s plans for her.

  “She’s mine!” Scarappi shot back. “I took her in war.”

  “He did not!” Alice screamed. “He stole me from my bed.”

  Scarappi ignored Alice’s protests and the baron’s plans, saying, “I mean to keep her.”

  “I think not,” Castin answered. Walking toward Alice, he reached out and touched the robe. “You see, Scarappi, you’ve outwitted yourself this time. You’ve stolen the wrong woman. I know this lady.” Bowing deeply before her, the baron said, “Mrs. Christopher Gunn, I presume.”

  Alice stared at the tall stranger. She’d never seen him before in her life. How could he possibly know who she was?

  Gathering her scattered wits about her, she answered, “Sir, you have me at a grave disadvantage. I’ve no idea to whom I owe my gratitude, but be assured I am most grateful that you’ve come to my rescue.”

  “Were you taken in battle?” he asked her.

  “No. I was kidnapped from my own bed in the middle of the night by these ruffians.”

  A twinkle came into his dark eyes and one brow arched upward. “Christopher Gunn’s bride, in bed alone in the middle of the night? That’s not the man I know, leaving his wife by herself and unloved.”

  Alice cast her gaze down, embarrassed by his words. She was half tempted to admit to him that both she and her husband had been at the time of her kidnapping exhausted by their strenuous day of lovemaking, but she kept her modest silence.

  “No, not like Gunn at all,” the baron mused aloud.

  “Ishani wore him out while he was here!” cried a cackling old crone in the crowd. “He was too weak to ride his wife on his return.”

  Alice’s blood chilled at the woman’s words.

  “Be silent, all of you!” the baron ordered.

  Putting together all the bits and pieces that she knew, Alice ventured, “You must be the Frenchman, Baron de Saint Castin. Chris has spoken of you often.”

  He bowed again and smiled. “I hope he has spoken kindly on most occasions.”

  “He has. But how did you know me?”

  Again he reached out to touch her cloak. “Who would not recognize this wondrous robe? I personally sent it by your husband as a gift for you.”

  Alice hugged the robe more closely. “Oh, yes. I should have guessed. How can I ever thank you properly—for my gift and for saving me?”

  The baron took Alice’s arm and led her away from the others as he explained, “Your husband saved my life once. We are blood brothers, even though we fight on different sides. Come with me now. I’ll see to your comfort for the night, and then…”

  Alice stopped in her tracks. “And then what?” she demanded. “You aren’t going to send me to Canada?”

  He laughed, then whispered for Alice’s ears alone, “Of course not. I only said that to bedevil Scarappi. I’ll see you safely back to your husband.”

  “I can’t go back to him, either, not until I know the truth of all this,” she whispered. “Scarappi said he was a party i
n my abduction.”

  Castin didn’t believe that for a moment, but when he saw Mathilde beckoning to him from their lodge, he decided it was not the time for discussion. He showed Alice to a tent where she could sleep for the night.

  “Rest now,” he told her. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Alice settled gratefully into a soft bed of furs, but sleep refused to come. So many things were battling within her. Granted, Scarappi was a liar and a scoundrel. Why should she believe anything he’d said about Chris being a party to her kidnapping? But where had Chris gone and why had he left her alone and unguarded in the cabin?

  Furthermore, there was the remark made by the old Indian woman. Alice recalled Pegeen’s warning about Abenaki customs. And, too, the baron had sent her a gift—the robe. Had he also given a present to her husband, specifically a beautiful woman with dark eyes and a passionate nature?

  Alice willed herself not to think of Ishani, but there seemed little else she could do. She had married Chris in Boston, a different world from the one they were now forced to share. Could it be that her husband was like some wild animal—tame enough when kept in a domestic setting, but reverting to primitive habits when he returned to the woods?

  All night Alice did battle with herself. By morning she had made her decision. She would stay here, if the baron would allow it. Perhaps she would be able to understand her husband’s odd relationship with these Indians. Also, as long as she was in the camp, she would know for sure that Chris was not with Ishani. She meant to keep a close eye on that woman!

  The baron reluctantly agreed the next morning to allow Alice to stay for a time, but only if she allowed him to send word to her husband that she was alive and well.

  “He’ll come charging in here and demand that I return with him,” Alice argued, frustrated by the Frenchman’s stubbornness. “He’s done it before. I need to sort things out in my mind and heart before I see him again. But he won’t let me have my own way. He’ll force me to leave with him.”

  “He will not. That I can promise you. He knows my word is law here. That’s something you need to learn, too, Alice. If you plan to stay in my domain, you must live by my rules.”

  “Oh, very well,” Alice finally agreed. Then she glanced up at the big man suspiciously, remembering some of the tales she’d heard about Indian women and their responsibilities. “You won’t expect me to do anything odd, will you?”

  He laughed. “I haven’t the vaguest notion what you’re talking about.”

  “You know. I don’t want to be treated like a squaw—fetching firewood, building tents, chewing hides to soften them. After all, I am an English lady.”

  The huge Frenchman bellowed at her haughty tone. “I’ll have some tasks for you, right enough.” At Alice’s stricken look he added, “My wife needs an English tutor. I’ve taught her the correct pronunciation; she can even manage a passable ‘l’ sound now. But she’s having difficulty sorting out the meanings of words and their proper usages. Her English is far from perfect. I’d also like you to teach her how to manage a civilized household. I’m building a mansion near here. Once it’s done, I want everything to run in perfect order. How will these duties suit you?”

  Alice smiled, relieved and delighted. “They will fit me like a lace glove, sir.”

  “Fine. Then let’s both get to work.”

  Not until the baron sat down to write a message to Gunn did one of Scarappi’s men come to tell him of the attack several nights before. The Frenchman frowned as he added a threat to his otherwise friendly letter.

  The baron’s messenger found Christopher Gunn and his search party only an hour’s ride from the village. The young brave approached the weary, haggard men cautiously, under a flag of truce. To the last man they looked as if they might eat a lone Indian for breakfast.

  Gunn took the courier aside to speak with him. “You’ve news of my wife? Where is she?”

  “With our people,” he answered.

  “Thank God!” Gunn was on his feet at once. “We can get to the camp before dark.”

  The brave shook his head. “The Frenchman says you are not to come for her. He sends you this message.”

  Gunn took the thin sheet of birch bark, reading the baron’s explanation as he unrolled it.

  My Brother,

  I send you greetings from the river camp. Have no fear for your Alice. Scarappi did her no harm, and now she is in my personal care. Since I am now a married man, you needn’t worry about that, either.

  I have no idea what problems stand between you, but your wife desires to stay here for a time with my people. I have given her the task of tutoring my Mathilde in English. When she tires of this diversion, I will send for you.

  Oddly enough, Alice seems to believe that you had some part in her kidnapping. Why she thinks this, I’m not certain. But until I can convince her otherwise, it would not be prudent of you to come for her.

  Ishani has kept to herself since your departure. If only your Alice would welcome you with the same open arms and open heart as your Abenaki lover.

  Gunn stopped reading and swore under his breath. Had someone said something to Alice about his night with Ishani? He hadn’t spent the night with her and they hadn’t made love, but Ishani would be the last person on earth to betray that secret. Deep down he knew that Ishani was one of the reasons Alice was now refusing him. He read on:

  We have much to discuss, you and I, when next we meet. I would have punished Scarappi and his men sorely had I not learned that your men broke our truce. Giving you the benefit of the doubt, I allow myself to believe that you had no knowledge of or hand in the recent attack, killing fifteen of my people. Should I discover otherwise, your wife will no longer be my guest, but my prisoner.

  I hope to reunite your family with all possible haste. Go back to the fort to await further word on this situation.

  The missive was signed with a flourish, using the baron’s entire title and his Indian mark of the wolf as well. Gunn rolled up the bark and cursed again.

  “Return to your camp,” he told the messenger. “Tell the Frenchman that I will abide by his wishes, but remind him also that I am not a patient man.”

  The brave rode out, relieved to be away from the group of armed men.

  “Mount up!” Gunn called. “We’re going back to the fort.”

  Gunn was painfully aware as he rode east that every mile was taking him farther away from the only woman he loved. He wanted desperately to turn his horse and race back to the river village, but reason and instinct told him that would be the wrong move. If Alice needed some time, he would give it to her, no matter how difficult that seemed at the moment. Just thinking about her made him ache to hold her again. How could she possibly believe he’d had a part in her kidnapping?

  With slow, careful deliberation, he thought back over their every moment together. Was it all his fault? Had he wronged her so terribly? True, he had loved many women before he met Alice. But since that day when her ship had sailed into his life, he had remained faithful. Perhaps old Lord Geoffrey had known what he was doing after all. What other man would have put up with Alice’s moods and tantrums and still kept himself only to her?

  Gunn smiled at the thought. “Any man with half a mind,” he told himself. His Alice was indeed a prize, and he would do everything in his power to get her back.

  Alice awoke the next morning to find an old woman bending over her. For a moment she thought she was dreaming the lined face and the thatch of unruly gray hair. But when the woman spoke, Alice sat up with a start.

  “Pardon, ’ady A’ice,” the woman said in a deep, almost manly voice, “I did not mean to frighten you. I am Cree, your servant. I bring water for your bath.”

  Alice glanced at the black kettle, steaming over the fire at the center of her tent. “Thank you, Cree.”

  “And a costume for you to wear.” Cree reached out and touched the torn neck of Alice’
s night shift. “You take this off, I fix for you.”

  Clutching the fabric to her, Alice said, “You don’t need to do it. I know how to mend my own things.”

  “I beg you,” Cree murmured, “I am here to serve you. It is my great honor. Do not turn me away. Shame me not.”

  “Very well, Cree,” Alice answered uncertainly, “and thank you.”

  Alice noticed that even as she turned her back on the woman to remove her gown, old Cree averted her eyes. Yet when the tie at the neck tangled in Alice’s hair, the servant’s hands were there in an instant to help her unsnarl the mess.

  Cree left with the gown, allowing Alice privacy for her much-needed bath. By the time the Indian returned with food, Alice had donned the fine buckskin skirt and loose top that the baron’s wife had sent for her. She felt rather strange in Abenaki garb, but it was comfortable enough.

  “Eat,” Cree ordered gently, handing Alice a plate of tender roasted fish, “then I take you to meet my mistress.”

  While Alice devoured her breakfast, Cree set to work, shaking out the colorful woven mats that hung about the walls, taking dead ashes from the fire, and tidying up the tent. Alice noted that the old squaw smiled and hummed as she worked.

  As the two of them walked through the village a short time later, Alice was relieved that no one paid any particular attention to her. She’d been afraid that she’d be mobbed each time she left her tent. Apparently, the Abenaki’s initial curiosity at the sight of a white woman had been satisfied. Cree helped matters by strutting authoritatively ahead of Alice, shooing away anyone who got in their path.

  The lodge where the baron and his bride lived was much larger than any other in the village. It was made of logs rather than bark and hides stretched over poles. Smoke issued from a pair of chimneys, indicating even to Alice’s untrained eyes that here lived a person of some importance.

  Cree knocked at the door with all due ceremony. It was opened by another Indian serving woman.