Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  She raised his foot and licked his big toe. "Yes."

  "The new woman. The Rach-ael."

  "No. The fat one." She took his toe in her mouth and sucked it.

  Broken Horn lay back on a pile of skins, moaning softly. He thought of Rach-ael and her perfect unmarred ivory skin and wondered what it would be like to lay with her here in the warmth of his longhouse. He glanced up at Pretty Woman through hooded eyes. She was a good wife; she pleased him well sexually, but she was ugly. Of course that was why he'd married her in the first place. He ran a finger over his scarred face to the place where his ear had been sewn back on. He hated physical perfection in a man or a woman and would not stand for it in his own lodges.

  The white-manake Rach-ael was perfect, as perfect as any woman could be. But of course that could be altered. He smiled. Pretty Woman was now licking the bottom of his foot, tickling him with her pink tongue. He groaned, slipping his hand beneath his loincloth.

  No man would be interested in the white Rach-ael if she was no longer pretty, would they? She would then be Broken Horn's, and his alone. . . .

  Broken Horn signaled to Pretty Woman and she lifted her deerskin skirt and climbed astride him. "Yes," he murmured in her ear as he squeezed her breasts with both hands. "Yes, I think you will have that servant." His eyes fluttered as his wife settled on his manhood. "We will welcome the Rach-ael into our home tomorrow."

  "Gifford!" Rachael whispered loudly. "Gifford, wake up. I have to talk to you!" She watched the camp for any signs of movement, fearful someone would overhear her. She heard nothing but the crackle of campfires and the low murmur of two night sentries as they conversed in the moonlight. Directly behind Rachael, Dory snored.

  All day long Rachael had half sat, half lay in the hot sun watching the Mohawks, trying to figure out how to escape. If she and Gifford didn't get out of here, it would be her fault when they killed him. It was her idea to come along peacefully, so it was her responsibility to get Gifford out of here.

  "Gifford!"

  "Hmmm?" he asked sleepily.

  "Gifford, are you listening to me?"

  There was a moment of silence before he answered. "I'm listening, Rachael, love."

  "Gifford, we have to escape. We have to get away from these people before it's too late!"

  "There's no way to escape," he said tiredly. "We're watched every moment."

  She shook her head, unwilling to take no for an answer. She had to get away from here! She had been plagued all day with thoughts of the gentle-eyed Indian. The sight of him across the compound had made her stomach queasy, her head light. With the coming of darkness, she had realized that she was as terrified by him as by the others. Only for different reasons. Broken Horn, Pretty Woman, the other villagers made her fear for her life, but that other savage, he made her fear for her soul.

  "No, you're wrong, Gifford. There are horses tied in those trees." She indicated the woods behind them with a toss of her chin. If we could get loose, we could take a horse and ride out of here."

  "Ride? You saw the terrain we crossed. The forest is too dense to ride in! We'd not make a mile before those red beasts were on us!"

  "I thought of that. But there were game trails. We crossed hundreds of them! They're wide enough for a single horse. We could just take a horse and ride east. Surely we'd hit civilization in a day or two."

  "I thought you said we shouldn't try to escape." There was a tone of accusation in his voice. "I thought you said Thomas would find us. I thought you said that damned brother of yours would rescue us!"

  "Shhh!" Rachael insisted. "Someone will hear you!" She took a deep breath. "I know what I said, but I . . . I was wrong. We can't wait for Thomas. We have to start out on our own."

  "I just don't see how we can do it, Rachael. I'm weary from lack of food and water. I don't know that I can travel."

  "Gifford, listen to me. We have to try! It's our only chance . . . "

  There was another long silence. Rachael knew he was thinking. Finally his voice came again in the dark. "You say there are horses, but how are we to get to them?"

  "I don't know. One of us will have to get loose and then untie the other." She thought of her Indian and wondered if she could somehow convince him to untie Gifford. Her Indian! Heavenly Father! What was wrong with her to think like that? She forced herself to concentrate on thoughts of escape. "We just have to make it to the horses, Gifford. It's the only way."

  "You two's crazy to be thinkin' that way," Dory whispered.

  Rachael wriggled her fingers until she touched Dory. "You, too, Dory. You have to come too!"

  "Oh, no. Don't be cuttin' me in on any such deals. Word is, the Frenchies will be comin' through in a few days. I aim to get sold to one of them. Once I get closer to white folk, that's when I'll make my move. 'Course you never know," she chuckled good-naturedly, "might get sold to some handsome young Frenchie I could take a likin' to. Bein' a whore to a Frenchman's a sight better than bein' a whore to a fish man!"

  Rachael closed her eyes, resting her head on the pole she was tied to. "I can't leave you here when we go, Dory."

  "Go? You ain't goin' far. Listen to Dory and stay put." She lowered her voice. "One livin' is better than two dyin'. 'Sides, it don't sound to me like you got any love for Fancy Breeches over there. He talks to you more like he would a little sister than a lover."

  Rachael could feel her cheeks burning. At least that was one wise decision she'd made. Gifford had said that because the betrothal papers were signed, he could legally bed her. When she'd refused him he'd offered her an emerald necklace as a gift, in exchange for the gift of her virginity. Rachael had toyed with the idea of giving in and bedding him before they were wed. She had to admit she was curious about the wifely duties her mother had hinted at and the young women at tea had tittered about, but it just hadn't seemed right, the way Gifford had made the offer. It hadn't felt right.

  "Don't you understand, Dory? I have to try to escape. It's my fault Gifford is here."

  "Goose feathers! I say look out for yourself. You don't see him makin' any plans to get you out a' here, do you?"

  Rachael glanced out at the Indian camp as she rolled onto her hip, trying to find a more comfortable position. Perhaps when Pretty Woman untied her and led her into the woods to relieve herself, she could get free then. If she hit the Mohawk woman over the head with something . . . With an exhausted sigh Rachael lay back against the post. Her wrists were raw from the leather bindings, and her feet were all pins and needles from lack of circulation. She had barely been able to stand this evening when Pretty Woman had untied her and taken her into the forest. How in heaven's name was she going to make an escape when she couldn't even walk!

  The melancholy sound of a single bone flute broke the stillness of the night air. Where the flutest stood or who he or she was, Rachael didn't know. It was a magical sound that hung in the silence of the night, seeming to blend with the sway of the trees and the chirp of crickets. The lonely tune drifted through the camp, touching Rachael's heart. A smile crossed her sun-chapped lips. Even in the midst of pain and suffering, there was goodness. God had not abandoned her as Dory suggested. Rachael knew she would somehow survive this ordeal, if by nothing else, than by sheer will.

  Chapter Four

  "Up! Up, English-manake, Rach-ael!" Pretty Woman ordered.

  Rachael blinked in confusion. It was barely dawn. The bright pinks of sunrise were just cresting over the treetops. The Mohawk camp was still quiet. Only a few women were up and about, trying to get a head start on their morning chores.

  "I say, up!" Pretty Woman repeated as she menacingly slipped a knife from the waistband of her short summer skirt.

  Unconsciously, Rachael cringed. But her captor did nothing but slice the bindings that secured Rachael's hands behind her back. "What do you want with me? What are you doing?" Rachael challenged, trying not to sound as fearful as she felt. She rubbed the raw rings the leather had cut into her wrists. Pretty Woman was tak
ing her somewhere. Somewhere the others weren't going.

  "What are you doing?" Dory demanded, awakened by the voices. "Where are you taking her, Pretty Woman?"

  "Get up," Pretty Woman urged, pressing her moccasined foot into Rachael's thigh, left bare by her tattered damask gown. "Get up, English-manake Rach-ael. This woman has need of you."

  "Take me," Dory argued as Rachael stumbled to her feet. "Take me, you harelipped bitch."

  Rachael turned to get her first glimpse of Dory. The woman was heavyset with a thatch of shorn orange hair and wide-set blue eyes. Her face was pockmarked and haggard, but there was a sparkle in those blue eyes, that same sparkle of life that Rachael had heard in her newfound friend's voice.

  "No talk!" Pretty Woman shouted, slapping Dory with the back of her hand. "No talk. You talk, I cut out your tongue and feed it to my dogs!"

  "It's all right," Rachael told Dory as she flexed her legs, trying to get some of the feeling back in them. "I'll be all right." She wanted to reach out and wipe away the trickle of blood that ran from the corner of Dory's mouth, but she knew that would only make Pretty Woman angrier.

  "I say! What's happening here?" Gifford insisted, awakened by the commotion. "Where are you taking my fiancée? I demand to know what you're doing with Rachael!"

  "Hush, Gifford," Rachael snapped under her breath. "Shut up, or you'll have us all killed!" She immediately regretted lashing out at him. He was only trying to protect her, but for heaven's sake, didn't he realize they were at this savage's mercy?

  Pretty Woman gave Rachael a shove forward. "Go! You walk my lodge."

  Rachael threw a fleeting glance over her shoulder at Gifford and Dory and hurried ahead of Pretty Woman. The Mohawk directed her to a longhouse on the end of a row. Painted above the door was the picture of a bear, its mouth gaped wide with ferocious teeth.

  "In!" Pretty Woman ordered gruffly.

  Rachael ducked inside. Built of elm saplings and bark, the house seemed even larger inside than it had from the outside. There were woven baskets and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The lodge smelled faintly of pungent herbs and smoke. Neat piles of animal skins and more baskets lined the long walls, as did eight narrow sleeping platforms. Rachael spotted several children still asleep in their beds. Two platforms down, Broken Horn lay snoring.

  Rachael wondered where the other three wives were that Dory had told her about, but she assumed they were busy outside with their morning chores.

  Pretty Woman slapped a trowel-like wooden tool into Rachael's hand and tapped a bark bucket resting near the cold firepit in the center of the wigwam. "You clean ashes." She pointed in the direction of the door. "Outside. Start fire. Get water." She grasped Rachael's chin with two pinching fingers and brought her face inches from Rachael's. "You work, but no touch man." She indicated Broken Horn who was still sound asleep. "You touch man, my man, I kill you and eat you." Her coal black eyes narrowed dangerously. "You understand this woman's words?"

  Rachael paled. Slowly she nodded her head.

  Pretty Woman gave a nod in return and then started for the door. Just before she ducked outside, she spun around looking back at Rachael. She seemed to be studying her captive's ragged attire. Finally she said, "You take off."

  Rachael's eyes widened, her hand going protectively to her neckline. True, the remains of her damask gown exposed more than it covered, but at least it offered some protection. She eyed Pretty Woman's pendulous breasts, wondering if the woman meant to make her to go half naked like the other savages in the camp. Rachael didn't know that she could do it . . . not in front of Gifford.

  Rachael lifted her dark lashes to meet Pretty Woman's gaze.

  "Take off! Take off!" the Mohawk insisted, leaning over to rummage through a pile of animal skins.

  Rachael's lower lip trembled. "Take off my clothes . . . here?"

  Pretty Woman tossed her a piece of tanned hide.

  Instinctively, Rachael caught it. "You want me to wear this?" she asked, setting down the fire trowel so that she could look at the Indian clothing.

  Pretty Woman clapped her hands. "Now! Dress! Do work!" She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.

  After only a moment's hesitation, Rachael turned away for privacy's sake. At least Broken Horn still slept. She stood for a moment with the hide dress in her hands. She knew she had no choice but to follow Pretty Woman's instructions. Still, tears of humiliation stung her eyes as she shed the remnants of her dress and underclothing.

  Dropping her English clothes to the hard-packed dirt floor, Rachael shook out the piece of hide. It was a sleeveless sheath made of some sort of animal skin that had been scraped clean of any fur. Though it was tattered around the edges, the seams were well sewn, and it would cover her breasts. Rachael slipped the dress over her head, amazed by how soft the leather felt as it fell over her nude body. Self-consciously touching her knees, Rachael turned back toward Pretty Woman. "Don't . . . don't you have anything longer? It doesn't even cover my knees. I'm tall for a woman, too tall."

  Pretty Woman snatched up Rachael's clothing.

  "Wait, you can't take those. They're mine!" Even as the words slipped from Rachael's mouth, she knew how foolish she sounded. Of course Pretty Woman could take her clothes. She could do anything she wanted. Rachael was her prisoner.

  Pretty Woman started for the lodge door again, Rachael's discarded clothing tucked under her arm. "Fire. Water. Hurry fast, English-manake Rach-ael."

  Rachael couldn't help but heave a small sigh of relief as the Indian woman took her leave. Apparently all Pretty Woman wanted of Rachael for now was for her to be her slave. Rachael could do that. She could work. She could work while she laid plans for her and Gifford's escape!

  "Very pretty," came a voice, startling Rachael.

  She whipped around to see Broken Horn still stretched out on the sleeping platform, but with his head propped up with his hand. He waggled a finger. "You wish to change your clothing, you may do so in this man's lodge any time." He gave a wave of his hand. "Any time."

  Rachael gasped, embarrassed, mortified that this heathen had seen her naked body, but her embarrassment was quickly replaced by anger. "How dare you look at me!"

  He sat up. "A beautiful woman unclothes herself in a man's home and he is not to look?"

  "Pretty Woman made me take off my clothes! Your wife made me put this dress on and you know it." She ground her teeth. "I thought you were asleep, but you were just pretending, weren't you?"

  He grinned. "Very nice, yes, very nice." He reached out pretending to cup her breasts with his hands.

  Rachael squatted by the firepit and with jerky movements began to scoop the ashes into the bucket Pretty Woman had left for her. "I'm warning you," she said in a low voice. "You touch me and I'll tell your wife."

  "You are warning me?" He ran his fingers over his scarred face, taking in her ivory-skinned beauty. "If she thinks you and I have rolled on the bedskins, she will kill you." He watched her for a reaction and when there was none, he went on. "She's killed other slaves I've given to her before."

  Rachael looked up. "Innocent women you forced yourself upon, no doubt."

  He shrugged, getting up to stretch lazily. His skin blanket fell to the floor exposing his nude male body. "A man cannot help it if his needs are great." He gave a slight thrust of his hips.

  Rachael was shocked only for a moment by Broken Horn's purposeful exposure of himself, but she didn't look away. That was what he wanted. He wanted to shame her, to humiliate her. "I warn you then," she said, her gaze never breaking from his. "You touch me and I will take that knife you carry and I will kill you, but first,"—it was her turn to point a finger—"I will cut off that which you are obviously so proud of, though for what reason I'm unsure . . . "

  The grin fell from Broken Horn's face. "Do not threaten me, English woman!" He reached for a belt and piece of cloth and tied on his loinskin. "You are at my mercy. You live or die by my word!" He struck his chest with his bare fist. "No
t even that brother of mine can save you!"

  Brother? Rachael held the trowel in midair. Could he mean the Indian who had brought her the water? The man who long after dark watched her from the shadows of the longhouses? The savage she could not stop thinking of? She lifted her lashes to meet Broken Horn's devil black gaze. "Your brother?"

  "Storm Dancer?" He lifted a bushy eyebrow in recognition. "You know who I speak of?"

  She lowered her gaze, turning her attention back to the ashes in the firepit. Storm Dancer . . . His name was Storm Dancer . . .

  Broken Horn moved toward the doorway. "I do not know what your interest in my brother is, English Rach-ael, but I can tell you he would be of no use to you. Better to cast your eyes in this man's direction. I could make your life easy . . . or very hard."

  Rachael swallowed against her fear. He was threatening her. He was trying to scare her into submission, no matter how subtlely.

  "Think about my words," Broken Horn said as he moved toward the door. "You please me well and I might even make you my wife."

  Rachael lifted her head to retort, but when she did, she saw that he was gone. Enraged, she stabbed her trowel again and again into the soot of the firepit. God help her, but she hated that man. Never before had she wished a man or woman ill, but she hated Broken Horn and his wife Pretty Woman and she wanted them dead. A chill covered her skin in gooseflesh. Would it come to that? Death? If so, would it be hers or theirs? Theirs she decided surprised by her own tenacity. Most definitely theirs.

  For more than a week Rachael played slave to Pretty Woman and Broken Horn's other wives. She cleaned their firepits, hauled water up from the river, washed their dirty clothing on the rocks, and even skinned and cleaned dead rabbits and squirrels. She served Broken Horn meals and was forced to withstand his lewd comments. He had tried to touch her once, but Pretty Woman had walked into the longhouse. Rachael knew she had seen something, because, though she said nothing, the Mohawk woman had lit into her accusing her of doing some menial task improperly. She had struck Rachael across the arm with a piece of firewood, and Rachael had the bruises to prove it.