Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Marry this Rachael? I have agreed to marry a white woman? his voice echoed in his head. I cannot marry a white woman. I have no desire to marry anyone ever again! Yet with those words he had spoken before the village, he knew he had pledged himself. He had said he would marry her to save her life, and now marry her, he would.

  Somewhere in the depths of her mind, Rachael could feel herself rising out of a pool of blackness. The burning heat of the flames were gone. Now there was only the coolness that rolled over her face, her arms, even her legs. She no longer heard the crackle and pop of the flames, but rather a soft tenor voice crooning some strange unintelligible song.

  Rachael took a deep shuddering breath. Her lungs burned. She coughed, choking on the smoke that still filled her chest.

  "Easy," the singing voice murmured. "Easy, my Rachael. He brushed her hair back, caressing her cheek with his cool hand.

  She tried to force open her eyelids, but they seemed so heavy. The man's voice was so comforting. It would have been so easy to drift back into the dark unconsciousness that sucked at her. But Rachael struggled. She had to know what was happening.

  She willed her eyes open. For some reason she was not surprised to see her Indian leaning over her, bringing a dish of water to her mouth. "Drink," he urged.

  Rachael lifted her head to sip the cold water and then lay back again. Her eyes slowly focused. She was in a lodge she had not been in before. It was small and dome-shaped rather than long and narrow like the longhouses.

  "Storm Dancer?" It was the first time she had spoken his name aloud though she'd said it a thousand times to herself.

  "Yes, ki-ti-hi?"

  Her gaze searched his black eyes for understanding. "What happened? How did I get here?" She ran a palm over her face. "The fire?"

  Storm Dancer sat back on his heels to look at her, this woman who would be his wife. "You are safe now, Rachael." Her sky-eyes were filled with uncertainty.

  "You saved me?" She ran a hand through her wet, sooty hair.

  He wondered what her hair would feel like on his fingertips when it was freshly washed and dried in the sun. "Today was not a good day to die for a woman warrior."

  "I belong to Broken Horn. He must be very angry."

  "Very angry," Storm Dancer said in lilting English.

  "He let you cut me down and carry me away?"

  "It is the law."

  Rachael sat up. "What is the law?"

  "That if I claim you as wife, you live."

  Rachael's eyes widened in sheer shock. "Wife! I'm not your wife!"

  "The ceremony will be tomorrow when the great mother sun sets in the western sky."

  She gave a little laugh born of hear-hysteria. "I'm not marrying you! I'm not marrying Gifford and I'm certainly not marrying that animal brother of yours!" She stared at Storm Dancer, somehow feeling betrayed by him.

  He stood and busied himself in the small lodge putting away the bowl. "I am sorry for you, then," he said matter-of-factly. "Because you will have to be returned to Broken Horn."

  Her eyes followed him as he moved about the lodge. Though small, it looked comfortable. A pewter punched lamp hanging from the ceiling cast golden candlelight to see by. Like Broken Horn's longhouse, baskets and dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters and there was a small firepit in the center of the structure. But Storm Dancer's lodge definitely lacked a woman's touch. Bowls, animal pelts, tools, and hunting weapons lay haphazardly about. He had to step over a broken cooking basket to return a spear to its proper place against the wall.

  "You're blackmailing me," she accused. "You can't do that. That makes you no better than Broken Horn!"

  He turned to face her, irritated that she should be so ungrateful. "I did what I could to save you."

  "And saying you would marry me was the only way?"

  He shrugged. "It was the only way." Then he paused, his dark eyes never straying from hers. "I give you the choice, Rachael. I will not force you. I would never force you."

  "Choice!" She shoved the light linen sheet he had draped over her. "You call that a choice! Die or marry a savage?"

  Storm Dancer's jaw tensed. "I did not say it was a good choice."

  Rachael drew up her legs so that she could hug them with her arms. She rested her forehead on her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. What did she do now? What could she do? Here it was, a way to save herself? She had told Dory that God would protect her, that he would save her from Broken Horn, but never in her wildest imagination did she think that this would be the solution.

  She lifted her head. "If I marry you, Broken Horn can't take me back."

  "No. As my wife, you have my protection . . . always."

  The way he said the word always made Rachael shiver. Always? Just until I escape, she thought. Just until Thomas comes for me. After all, how much longer can it be, a week or two at the most? It wouldn't be a real marriage, she rationalized. It would just be a way to protect myself until Thomas comes for me, or until I find a chance to get away on my own.

  Rachael watched Storm Dancer ring out the square of cotton she knew he had touched her body with when he had bathed her. "All right," she said quietly. "I'll marry you, but only because I don't want to die."

  "There are many different reasons to marry."

  "Yes, and what is yours?" she challenged. She was angry that he had forced her into this position. She was angry that she had no better solution.

  He turned away so that she could no longer see his strikingly handsome bronze face. "I had a wife, but she is gone."

  So the widower wants someone to cook and clean, she thought. A slave.

  "I would not hurt you. I do not believe in striking women."

  "Only forcing them to marry you?" The moment she said it, she regretted her words. She knew she should be thankful. For God's sake, the man had risked his own life to save hers!

  When he made no comment, she softened her tone. "Gifford, did they find him . . . the man who was with me."

  He shook his head. "No, not yet. Broken Horn sent men looking for him." He brought a bowl of fresh berries and set them down in front of her. "They will kill him when they catch him," he said.

  She lowered her chin, reaching for a few berries. "I know."

  "He was not your husband?" Storm Dancer had to ask, though it didn't really matter. The white man would never make it out of Iroquois territory with his scalp intact.

  She swallowed the berries, but they went down hard. "No. He was meant to be, but . . . " she let her voice trail off, not seeing the point of continuing. If Gifford was not already dead, it would only be a matter of hours. It seemed almost sacrilegious to speak of the trouble between them now. What was the point of saying she hadn't loved him. What was the point of saying that Gifford had never made her blood stir, not like the redskinned man here in this lodge. Not like Storm Dancer.

  Storm Dancer squatted and reached for their berries. His fingertips brushed hers and she pulled back. He wondered if Rachael loved the man, Gifford. "They say he left you behind," he said, aware of the lightning that had arced between them when they had touched.

  Tears sprang to Rachael's eyes. "Not . . . not on purpose. Gifford wouldn't do that to me. I wouldn't do that to Gifford."

  Storm Dancer chewed thoughtfully. "You are not responsible for another man's cowardice."

  She looked up. He was so close. She could hear him breathing; she could smell that odd, provocative woods smell that clung to him. She wondered if she had made a mistake in agreeing to marry this heathen. She wondered if she had lost her soul the moment she had said yes.

  "Gifford was not a coward. He was frightened. He got confused."

  "They say he said he would come back for you. You know that is not true."

  Again, tears stung her eyes. She lowered her head so that he could not see her weakness. "He will come," she whispered.

  "I warn you, Rachael. If you become my wife, you will be mine unto eternity." His voice became sharp, almost threatening. "I will
not let you go. I will not lose another wife. The choice is yours, my brave warrior."

  Rachael knew it was a sin to lie. It's the only way, her inner voice screamed. The only way to survive. She hung her head asking for God's forgiveness even as she spoke, "I will be your wife," she whispered. "Forever."

  He reached out to stroke her cheek. "There will be plenty of time to become familiar with each other. I do not expect you to come to my bedskins our first night as man and wife." His fingertips explored her smooth skin . . . the curve of her trembling lips. "I am a patient man."

  She let her eyes drift shut, frightened by the warm sensuous feeling that had started deep in the pit of her stomach but now rose, curling like smoke to warm her limbs. At least he doesn't expect me to bed him, she thought. Not yet, at least, she reminded herself.

  Rachael clasped his hand and lowered it. His fingers found hers, but she did not pull away immediately. "You said we would marry tomorrow?"

  He stroked her fingertips with his, surprised by his own obvious desire for this pale-skinned woman. "Yes. Tomorrow ki-ti-hi. Tomorrow you will be my wife."

  She withdrew her hand and lay back on the bed he had made for her, drawing the sheet protectively over her shoulders. "Tomorrow, then," she said, as if she spoke her own death sentence.

  He stood and blew out the candles, leaving the lodge in total darkness. "I will leave you here tonight. It would not be fitting for me to stay with you still a maiden, but I will be just outside the door if you need me. Call and I will come."

  Rachael pulled the rough linen closer, closing her eyes. These savages had a strange sense of honor. They could burn a woman to death, they could force her to marry them, but they couldn't sleep in the same lodge with the woman who was about to become their wife. The thought seemed so absurd that she couldn't help but smile in the darkness.

  Storm Dancer glanced one last time at Rachael's still form, and then, grabbing his spear, he ducked out into the night air.

  Chapter Seven

  Rachael heard the Mohawk drums begin to beat steadily, signifying that the marriage ceremony was about to take place. She shivered despite the warmth of Storm Dancer's lodge. No matter how many times she reminded herself that this heathen rite was no true marriage, deep inside she was frightened by the thought of pledging herself to Storm Dancer.

  The Mohawks had not caught Gifford, but what if he was killed in the forest before he could make it back to safety? How would anyone know where she was to rescue her? What if Thomas gave up searching for her? If no one came for her, would she be this brooding redman's wife for the rest of her days?

  No. If no one comes for me, I'll escape on my own, she told herself. I'll wait a few days, a week at most, and then I'll set out on my own. I'll play the good wife of the savage, make him trust me, and then I'll slip out of the village and then I'll be free, free from all the men who want to possess me.

  The beat of the drums outside Storm Dancer's lodge accelerated. Rachael wiped her damp palms on the new doeskin dress she wore . . . a gift from the bridegroom. Like the ragged sheath Pretty Woman had given her, the dress was sleeveless, falling just short of her knees. But this dress had been intricately quilled, as had the new moccasins on her feet. She wiggled her toes looking down at the soft doeskin leather. She had to admit that they were a sight more comfortable than the heeled slippers she walked into the camp wearing.

  She-Who-Weeps came through the flap in the lodge. "It be time," she said in her best English.

  Rachael smiled at the older woman. She-Who-Weeps was the one Mohawk in the village who had been kind to her. This morning she had brought her a meal and then taken her to the river to bathe. Her mother-in-law-to-be had waded out with Rachael into the cool water and washed Rachael's hair with some thick white pith from a plant stalk. To Rachael's surprise the Indian shampoo smelled wonderful, and left her hair shiny and clean. After washing her hair, She-Who-Weeps had offered Rachael a small cake of soap so that she could wash herself. Rachael had spent nearly an hour in the shallows of the river trying to soak off the weeks of grime.

  Finally, when her skin tingled from the scrubbing, Rachael had waded out of the river and allowed She-Who-Weeps to dry her off with a linen towel. Back at Storm Dancer's lodge, the older woman gave her the dress and moccasins explaining that they were a wedding gift from Storm Dancer.

  Rachael had spent the remainder of the day resting. She-Who-Weeps remained at her side, at her beck and call. Once, Rachael had asked where Storm Dancer was, because she'd not seen him since the night before. The older woman had laughed, explaining that it was ill-luck for the bridegroom to see his bride before the ceremony, else she might realize how truly ugly he was and refuse to marry him.

  Ugly? Storm Dancer was many things, arrogant, frightening, complex in personality, but never ugly. So, Rachael had spent the last few hours contemplating her situation and wondering what would happen after the ceremony. Would Storm Dancer keep his word and not insist on intimacies, or would Rachael be forced to fight for her virtue?

  "Rach-ael," She-Who-Weeps said gently. "It is time. Your warrior waits."

  Rachael nodded her head, her hair brushed shiny sweeping over her shoulders. She-Who-Weeps had insisted on fixing it this way for Rachael, in the style of a bride, the Delaware woman had said. Fanning out Rachael's hair with a porcupine quill brush, She-Who-Weeps had made small braids that lay on top, with shells and beads woven into them.

  Rachael lifted her head to meet She-Who-Weeps' gaze. "I'm ready."

  The elder woman took Rachael's cold hand in her own warm one. "My son is good man. Brave. He will give you sons to be proud."

  "I'm certain he is a good man, at least for a Mohawk," Rachael answered honestly. "But I'm being forced to marry him to save myself. You cannot expect me to be happy about it."

  She-Who-Weeps rubbed Rachael's hand between her wrinkled ones. "I understand your words. This woman was taken from her family when she was no more than fifteen summers. Two Fists took this woman far from her people and made her one of his. This woman found much sadness." She squeezed Rachael's hand. "But so did she find much happiness. She longed for home for many years until the day she knew she was home."

  Rachael withdrew her hand. She couldn't tell She-Who-Weeps that she had no intentions of remaining here in the village. She couldn't let anyone know that to her this marriage was a farce. It was a way to survive. "Thank you for your kindness," she said.

  She-Who-Weeps nodded. "This woman see much happiness for you, Rach-ael. She only hopes that you know it when you see it."

  A shout from outside the lodge made Rachael stiffen her spine. "We'd best go before they drag me out," she murmured.

  She-Who-Weeps lifted the skin flap and Rachael stepped out into the fading light of dusk. Most of the village had gathered if not in celebration, then for curiosity's sake. They stood opposite each other in two lines leading to the community firepit which burned brightly. Broken Horn and his four wives were noticeably absent. At the end of the two columns of villagers stood Storm Dancer and two old men, the shaman, Storm Dancer's father and the chief, Rachael assumed from what She-Who-Weeps had explained.

  Storm Dancer drew her attention, and mesmerized by his gaze, she began to walk toward him, her moccasined feet finding the step in the drumbeat. Storm Dancer was indeed a sight to behold in his wedding garb. Dressed in a small loin cloth and a quilled vest, he stood with more bronze, muscular flesh bared than hidden. His blue-black hair had been pulled to one side and tied with a ribbon of sinew and dangling feathers and beads. On each bulging bicep he wore an engraved copper band. His face was solemn, his black eyes intent on her.

  She took the last steps toward him and stood at his side as directed. The shaman began to chant softly, swinging a smoking pot of pungent ash as the chief spoke with great flourish. Storm Dancer replied once in his native tongue, but no one asked Rachael anything, so she kept silent. She tried to think of other things besides the wedding and the virile heathen who stood be
side her, holding her cold, trembling hand in his steady one. She tried to tell herself again and again that this was no true marriage, but deep in her heart, she felt a tie binding her to this stranger as the foreign words of the ceremony were spoken.

  When the wedding was over, there was no kiss. Rachael didn't know if that was the way an Indian ceremony was, or if Storm Dancer had simply spared her, knowing her feelings. Either way, she was relieved. The villagers did not gather around for congratulations, but rather scattered, the women heading for their lodges, the men gathering near the firepit and passing around bottles of whiskey. Rachael stood watching the Mohawks for a moment and then turned to look up at Storm Dancer.

  "It's done," she murmured, not knowing what to say, but feeling some words were necessary.

  "Done," he echoed. "You will be safe now. I, Storm Dancer of the Bear Clan, will protect Rachael, his wife."

  She lowered her gaze, unable to stand the scrutiny of his obsidian eyes. "I didn't thank you for saving me."

  He brushed his fingertips against her pale cheek. "I ask for no thanks. I ask only that you accept fate."

  She lifted her lashes. "Fate? It's fate that men will control my life forever? First my father, then Gifford, then Broken Horn, now you?"

  Several braves glanced their way hearing the tone of her inappropriately raised voice. Storm Dancer took her by the arm and led her toward his lodge. "I will not control you unless you have need of control." He lifted the door flap and gently but firmly pushed her inside.

  "Need of control, what does that mean?"

  "It means I expect you to behave as a wife of a Mohawk would behave. You do not show disrespect for me or for my family before others. You are to be honorable in all ways and words."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "Honorable. You call the buying and selling of humans honorable?"

  "I do not take part in the sale of English-manake."

  She laughed humorlessly. "So that makes you innocent? Broken Horn is still kidnapping and selling women! You are allowing it to happen. My friend Dory is tied to a pole out there!"