Savage Surrender
Page 8
"I cannot help the others. Only you, Rachael."
Tears stung her eyes and she turned away so that he wouldn't see her weakness. "Why me?" she whispered. "Why then me?"
"I cannot say." Storm Dancer lit the tallow candles in his pewter lamp filling the lodge with soft light. "Fate I would suppose." He paused letting his words sink in. "Now come and eat. My mother has left us a wedding feast."
"I'm not hungry."
He sat cross-legged on a hide mat. "Then sit while I eat."
The tone in Storm Dancer's voice made her obey. She sat across the cold firepit from him, as far away as she could get in the small lodge.
Storm Dancer took a piece of venison covered with mushrooms from a platter and a healthy serving of corn cut from the cob. "I understand that it will take time for you to adjust to our ways. As I told you, I have much patience. But I do not have patience for sullen, pouting children." He lifted an eyebrow. "I have kept my side of the bargain. I took you from the flames and I made you my wife so that your life might be spared. You must now fulfill your part as wife."
She watched him spear a mushroom with a knife and bring it to his lips. "Tell me what you wish me to do and I'll do it."
He scowled. "I think I like better the shrew than the mouse." He plucked the mushroom from the knife with his teeth and chewed. With a nod he indicated a small bundle near the firepit. "For you, a wedding gift."
She touched her bosom. "But you already gave me the dress and moccasins."
"Open it." He sliced the venison and bit into a succulent piece.
Rachael picked up the hide bundle and unrolled it. Inside was a soft tanned belt covered with blue beads, and a woman's knife. She looked up at him.
"Every wife must have a knife. To do her work, to protect herself. You will wear it whenever you are not in sight of me."
She ran her hand over the breathtakingly beautiful beaded belt, trying to hold tightly to the anger she felt for Storm Dancer. But it was so difficult to be angry when he had given her such a beautiful present.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He dipped himself a ladle of water. "Now come, eat, and then we will sleep. Tomorrow She-Who-Weeps will begin to teach you of a woman's ways. She will teach you to be a good wife to Storm Dancer."
Relucantly, Rachael ate. Though she wasn't hungry, she knew she had to eat to keep up her strength. If she was going to escape she had to remain strong of body as well as mind. After the meal, Storm Dancer took up his flute and began to play. Lazy with food and drink, Rachael sat cross-legged, her eyes drifting shut with fatigue. For a long time she sat in the soft candlelight listening to her new husband play his bone flute.
All too soon, he laid it aside and began to prepare for sleep. With her eyes half closed, Rachael watched Storm Dancer shed his quilled vest and moccasins. She watched the way the candle light played against his bronze skin as it rippled with each motion.
Seeming to sense that she watched him, Storm Dancer turned. "Time to sleep, Wife," he said, his voice so low that she felt rather than heard his words. Slowly he offered her his hand.
She felt compelled to take it, though why she didn't know. "Yes, I am tired," she said lamely as his fingers curled around hers and he lifted her to her feet.
He nodded to the pile of soft skins and furs spread on the floor. No doubt that was a bride's bed left by the well-meaning She-Who-Weeps.
Rachael's gaze moved from Storm Dancer to the bed and back to Storm Dancer again. Before she could protest he pressed a finger to her lips.
"I said I am a patient man, and though I desire you Rach-ael, I will not take you against your will. To force a woman is not the way to begin a life together."
She lowered her gaze feeling guilty for the accusations that she had held on the tip of her tongue. "I truly am thankful for what you have done for me," she whispered. She lifted her gaze.
He caught a tiny braid of her hair and twisted it around his finger in a strangely intimate gesture. "Do not be afraid of me, Rach-ael. You are my wife now. I would kill any man who brought harm to you."
As she looked into his dark eyes, she came to the stark realization that he meant what he said. Her mind strayed to thoughts of Gifford and the sight of him riding away to leave her behind. She knew it was foolish to compare a savage to a viscount, but she couldn't help herself. She couldn't help wondering that if placed in the same position, what Storm Dancer would have done. Would he have ridden out of the camp without her? She thought not.
Her hand trembling, Rachael reached out to brush her fingertips across Storm Dancer's cheek. His skin was soft and warm. He turned his head slightly so that his lips touched her fingers.
Fascinated by the feel of his skin, she explored the contour of his lower lip with the pads of her fingertips. She could feel herself trembling, frightened and yet at the same time, captivated by his presence.
He lowered his head. She knew he was going to kiss her. She knew she had to step back. Yet as he wrapped his arms around her waist, she felt her hands fall to his bare bronze shoulders. She sucked in her breath.
His lips touched hers, ever so lightly, as if testing the waters. Instead of stiffening, Rachael felt herself melting in his arms. She told herself one kiss was a fair price to pay a man who had just saved her life. But the truth was that she wanted the red man to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him.
His tongue touched her lower lip and she parted her lips, her entire body alive with the first sensations of desire. When his kiss deepened, she felt herself sway toward him and mold her body to his. Thoughts of the sins of lust and burning in everlasting hell tumbled in her mind, but she was out of control. All she cared about was this man and his touch.
When he withdrew, she was breathless. She was embarrassed. She was mortified. She had practically thrown herself into this savage's arms!
She took a step back, pulling away as if his warm bronze skin scalded her. "I—" She didn't know what to say. She knew her cheeks were burning bright red.
Storm Dancer laughed, but not unkindly. "Go to bed, my Wife," he murmured, pointing to the pile of furs. "I will not come to you, no matter how much I would like to."
Rachael made a quick retreat to the far side of the lodge, and keeping a careful watch on his movements, she slid into the bed. There was more rich male laughter as he lowered his hand to his loinskin to remove it and she rolled onto her side so as not to catch a glimpse of his naked maleness.
"Good night, wife," Storm Dancer murmured softly as he dropped his loinskin and blew out the candles. "Dream well."
Rachael lay motionless as she listened to him shake out a hide mat, and lay down to sleep on the far side of the firepit, and it was not until she heard the rhythmic breathing of sleep that she finally relaxed and surrendered to her own exhaustion.
Gifford plodded forward, his stolen horse's reins still tangled in his limp hand. It was near dawn. He had been riding, then walking, for three or four days without stopping for more than an hour's rest. He was too frightened to stop. He knew that if he didn't reach civilization, the savages were going to catch him. They were going to torture him, then kill him, then eat his flesh from his bones. To Gifford, every whistle of the wind sounded like a Mohawk war cry. Every night shadow, every fallen tree in the distance looked like a savage waiting to pounce.
Just a little further, Gifford tried to comfort himself. Just another step, another mile. There's got to be someone out there who will know how important I am. Someone who is looking for me. Someone who can help me.
A branch snapped and Gifford came to a sudden halt, peering into the semidarkness of dawn. He was too exhausted to go on, too tired to care if the Indians ate him or not.
Another branch snapped. Gifford could hear faint footsteps now. He knew he should run. He meant to run, but his limbs would no longer obey him. His horse nickered as the reins fell from his hand. "Horse. Horse, don't leave me," Gifford muttered as he went down on his knees. "Horse don't leave me here with the Indians
. Don't let them eat me."
Gifford felt himself fall forward, pushing his face into the soft humus ground of the woods. The smell of rotting leaves and damp wood filled his nostrils. Get up! Get up! his mind shouted. But he was beyond trying. He wanted nothing more than the peaceful blackness of sleep. Perhaps death.
"Pa! Pa!" Gifford heard a faint voice call. "Pa! Come look what I found!"
Gifford heard a dog bark as the footsteps drew closer. He knew he should sit up, but he just couldn't manage it. The dog's wet nose pushed at his face.
"Pa, look," the distant voice said. "I found a man!"
"Holy Mother Mary," another voice, deeper this time, more mature, said.
Someone touched Gifford's shoulder. He felt himself being rolled over. He tried to open his eyes.
"Still breathin'," the deeper voice said. "I'll give him some water. You fetch your ma. Now!"
Gifford heard the footsteps crunching in the dead leaves as someone ran away. The dog followed.
Water touched Gifford's lips and he drank in great greedy slurps.
"You all right, sir?"
"Viscount Langston," Gifford managed. "My name is Viscount Gifford Langston. You must . . . must notify my family in Philadelphia of my whereabouts. They will pay you. Pay you well."
"Injuns?" the man asked.
Gifford cracked open one eye to see a bearded man in buckskins. "Yes. Mohawks."
The man in the buckskins gave a low whistle. "The Holy Virgin must of been with you! I ain't never heard of no one getting away from a Mohawk. Not alive." The man paused and then spoke again. "Was . . . was there others? Other captives, I mean?"
Gifford nodded, his eyes slipping closed. "Yes." He took a deep breath. "My wife, Rachael, but . . .," he shook his head, "but she's dead. The bloody redskins murdered her."
Chapter Eight
Storm Dancer stood at the door of the ceremonial longhouse setting his thoughts in order. Tonight he would once again present to the council his opinion on the war between the French and the English and the village's choice of sides. Somehow he had to make the chief, his father, and the other elders of the council understand the danger of continuing the raids on the English forts that were being encouraged by Rouville and carried out by Broken Horn and his men.
Storm Dancer knew he was fighting an uphill battle, but just the same, it was his duty to his people to try his best. He took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to focus on the discussion to ensue.
This last week he'd had a difficult time concentrating on anything. Since his marriage to the white woman, Rachael, the female had haunted his every waking moment. It was not that she encouraged his attention. In fact, she avoided contact with him whenever possible. Rachael gave the illusion that she was trying to behave in the proper manner of a Mohawk wife, with She-Who-Weeps offering instruction, but Storm Dancer knew she was not a woman to be so easily changed. Rachael was there for him in body, but most definitely not in soul. She responded when spoken to, but made no effort to speak to him on her own.
He knew it was only a matter of time before she tried to escape. He saw it in her sky-eyes. Most captives in her position would have attempted already. But Rachael was patient. She was smart. Storm Dancer, of course, could not allow her to escape; she was his wife now. But just the same, he admired her for her cunning.
He couldn't help wondering if she was repulsed by the thought of being wed to a red man. During his time at the mission, he had learned of prejudice and its evils. But when he thought of that one kiss on their wedding night, he was certain he had not forced her. He was certain she had responded to him as a woman who desired a man would.
Storm Dancer took another deep breath. This was why he had never intended to marry again. Women took up too much time in thought and deed in a man's life. They were often more of a vexation than a benefit. He was convinced that men spent too much time concerning themselves with female matters. Hadn't he spent the last two years thinking of Ta-wa-ne, going over and over in his mind how he could have made her happier? How he could have kept her from—
He refused to think of her now. Tonight's council meeting was too important to lose himself in self-pity or recrimination.
Holding his head high, his tanned body erect, Storm Dancer entered the ceremonial lodge and took his place in the spot designated for a guest. He nodded politely first to the chief and then to his father, the shaman. He pointedly ignored his half-brother who sat between the two elderly men.
A clay pipe of pungent tobacco was being passed around. Storm Dancer did not care to smoke, but he took an obligatory puff before passing it on to the next man. When the pipe had been passed around full circle to each council member and then back to the shaman, the chief cleared his throat and began his customary welcoming speech.
For nearly an hour the council prattled on with village concerns of a domestic nature; a quarrel between One Eye's second wife and Pretty Woman over a pewter pot, the naming of a new man-child, the visitation of the priest from St. Regents Mission the previous month, and other trivial matters. Storm Dancer sat quietly listening as each subject was discussed and solved. Though Meadowlark attempted to run the council meeting, Broken Horn spoke most often. Other council members voiced their opinions, but the old chief and his shaman, each time, came to a decision based on Broken Horn's conception of the matter.
Finally, when Storm Dancer thought that he would go insane from all the useless babble, Meadowlark addressed him.
"So, son of Two Fists, you ask to speak to our council," Meadowlark said in Mohawk. "What is it you wish to discuss?"
Storm Dancer paused for a moment, waiting for all eyes to turn on him before he spoke. "I come to ask that the council reconsider our position with the French, Chief Meadowlark. Rouville is a cheat and a liar. The man is dangerous. We should follow the ways of our fellow Mohawks in other villages and try to make peace with the English-manake."
Broken Horn groaned. "Week after week my brother comes to us with the same words." He addressed the council members. "How long must we endure before he is no longer welcome before this council fire?"
"A man of this village is always welcome before this fire. It is the law," stated Two Fists.
"That is a man who speaks out of pity for his half-son," Broken Horn accused.
Storm Dancer waited for his father's reply, half-hoping his father would take up for him, knowing he would not. Though Storm Dancer knew his father's weakness concerning Broken Horn, Storm Dancer still had the childish need for approval by his father. When the old shaman said nothing, Storm Dancer went on. "I see destruction for our people. I see blood, I hear screams of pain. I taste death on my tongue."
"Why does our father, the shaman, not have these premonitions, half-brother? Tell the council members why not. He is our shaman, not you."
Because he is old. Because he has lost the sight. Because he has been so influenced by his favorite son's hate and greed that he has lost his power, Storm Dancer thought. But out of respect for the father he still loved, he did not reply. Instead he stood and addressed the other council members. "I ask only that you think about what we are doing when we raid English villages and forts. The English are bringing men, women, and children to our land by the great boatful. They are coming whether we like it or not. And if we anger them enough they will come with their great armies of muskets and kill us while our children sleep. We have no choice, honored councilmen, but to learn to live side by side, else there will be no life left within us."
"That is woman talk!" Broken Horn accused, violently swinging his fist. "These are the words of a man who is a coward. With the help of our friend Rouville we can drive the white men from our land. We can soak the soil with their blood!"
"White men? Is Rouville not a white man as well?" Storm Dancer reasoned aloud. "Are not the French as great a threat as the English?" He scanned the circle of council members, excited by the looks on their faces. They were listening to him! He had them thinking!
"You ha
ve wasted enough of the council's time with your whining." Broken Horn pulled a silver flask from his beaded belt and popped the cork. "Dismiss him," he suggested to Meadowlark as he took a swig of the French liquor.
Meadowlark looked up at Storm Dancer apologetically. "We have heard your words and will take them into consideration."
Coward! Storm Dancer thought. You are a coward not to stand up to Broken Horn. Not to at least come to your own conclusion! But Storm Dancer could not bring himself to dishonor the old man. He had been too good to Storm Dancer as a child. He still deserved respect from his braves.
Storm Dancer nodded. "Think well on my words, brothers of the Iroquois nation. Bring in other brothers so that we might discuss this dire situation. Call a council of all Mohawks. I tell you our lives depend on the decisions we will make in the next few months."
Storm Dancer stood for a moment letting his words reverberate in the ceremonial longhouse and then with a nod of thanks, he made his exit, his head still held high.
Outside the longhouse, the fresh cool air of sunset hit him with a refreshing blast. Tonight would have been a good night to fish, but he just didn't feel up to it. He contemplated going to his mother's longhouse to visit with her, but found himself heading toward his own small lodge. He did not realize he sought out his new wife until he saw her standing in the shadows of dusk staring up at the darkening sky.
She was indeed a beautiful creature, this English woman, Rachael, with her crown of shiny dark hair and round eyes the color of the summer sky. Even her pale skin seemed beautiful to Storm Dancer tonight. It was not red like the mother earth but instead the color of moonlight reflected off the great lakes of his homeland.
Storm Dancer watched her as he approached the lodge. She stood like a warrior, her head held high, her breasts thrust out. She was definitely not the submissive creature Mohawk women were expected to be. He smiled. How many complaints had he heard this week from the other wives about his wife not knowing her position among the women? The entire village was divided into hierarchies, not just among the men, but the women as well. If Rachael was to become a Mohawk, she would have to learn the rules of their way of life, but all in good time, he reasoned.