Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Rachael refused to obey or even consider obeying anyone but her husband and even then, Storm Dancer made his wants requests rather than demands. It was true that eventually Rachael had to learn her place, but he had no desire to break her spirit in the process. She'd been too brave through her entire ordeal. She deserved a certain amount of respect that, in Storm Dancer's eyes, few woman deserved.

  "The stars will be bright tonight," Storm Dancer said to Rachael, watching the way her lips turned in the slightest smile.

  "Yes," she murmured. She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself tightly as if to protect herself from him.

  "A good night to fish."

  When she made no response, he gazed up into the heavens with her. After a moment of silence, he touched her arm lightly. "Come." He motioned her into the lodge and quickly began to throw some items into a canvas sailor's bag he had bought from a white trapper several years ago. He dropped precious fish hooks and a line into the bag, an extra skinning knife, a rolled cotton blanket, a waterskin, and several other miscellaneous objects.

  Rachael hung in the doorway watching Storm Dancer pack the knapsack. "Where are you going?"

  "We." He added a small medicinal pouch to the canvas bag.

  She took a step back. "No. I . . . I'll stay here. I'm not afraid." She brushed back a lock of silky hair. She was afraid of staying in the village without Storm Dancer's protection, but she was more afraid of being alone with him. "I'll be fine."

  Slinging the knapsack over his shoulder, and retrieving his favorite bow and quill of arrows, he took her gently by the wrist and led her out of the lodge. "No. I have a mind to go fishing this night with my wife. Come."

  She dragged her feet trying to twist her arm from his grasp. "Please. I . . . I don't like to fish."

  He stopped in midstep, turning his black-eyed gaze on her. "Have you ever gone fishing?"

  She looked away. "No," she confessed, "but—"

  "Then how can you say you do not like to fish?"

  She turned back to the handsome brave who called her wife. The heat of his hand penetrated her thoughts. A part of her wanted to break free and run from this savage, but a part of her wanted to reach out and trace the line of his sharp jaw. She knew it made no sense, but a part of her wanted to taste his lips on hers again. "Where are we going fishing?"

  "A special place." He tugged on her wrist and this time she followed. "A special place my father took me and my brother when we were children." He winked at her. "A magical place."

  She took a hurried step so that she might walk beside him and he dropped her wrist. She could tell by the stubborn look in his eyes that he would not allow her to stay behind, so she decided to make the best of it. Perhaps she could even do a little exploring. If she was going to be forced to escape on her own, she had to know the area. "I don't believe in magic," she told him.

  "Don't believe in magic?" His rich tenor voice was laced with a childlike wonder. "How can you live in a world as beautiful as this and not believe in magic?"

  "Magic is for babes. Magic is naught but an illusion."

  He laughed. "You are too serious, Rachael. You must learn to accept life's gifts and give thanks for your riches."

  "I don't feel very thankful," she told him honestly. It was funny how she could never recall having ever had a conversation like this with Gifford. A conversation friend to friend. "My carriage was attacked. I saw a man die. I was dragged across half a continent by a crazy man. I was nearly burned at the stake and then I was forced out of circumstances to marry a man I did not wish to marry."

  Storm Dancer was not offended by her words. In his heart he knew that in time Rachael would learn to accept him as her husband just as She-Who-Weeps had learned to accept Two Fists. "It is true that you have been through great trials, but you are alive, Rachael. You are healthy. You have a chance to make a life for yourself."

  They reached the edge of the village and passed through the briar wall into the forest. She was caught between wanting to shout at Storm Dancer and knowing it was best to keep silent. She wanted to tell him she hated him. She wanted to tell him she would not stay. She was not his wife and would not be his wife.

  As if reading her mind, Storm Dancer spoke. "He will not come back for you, you know."

  Rachael tripped on a hidden root and he put out his arm to prevent her from falling. She pushed his arm away, catching herself. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He smiled in the moonlight. "I am no fool. I see you watching . . . waiting. I am sorry that he left you behind. You think that he will return for you with an army and guns, but he will not. That English-manake was a coward. He did not care if you lived or died, 'else he would never have left you." He paused for a moment giving her time to think, then added softly, "You deserve a better man to warm your bedskins, to father your children."

  Rachael's cheeks burned at the thought of intimacies with Storm Dancer. He meant to have her. She could hear it in his voice. If Gifford didn't return soon with help. If her brother Thomas didn't find her—" She swallowed hard.

  He's right, an inner voice warned. Storm Dancer is right. Gifford will not come back for you. Gifford lays dead somewhere in the wilderness. Thomas has given up on you. It's been too long. He thinks you're dead.

  A sense of panic surged in her chest constricting her throat and making her feel dizzy. No one's coming for me. Not ever. If I don't escape on my own, I'll never escape.

  She glanced aside at Storm Dancer. He had been so kind to her that she almost felt guilty. Of course that was absurd. The man was holding her against her will. He'd forced her into marrying him and if she didn't escape he'd force her into his bed.

  For a long time Rachael and Storm Dancer walked side by side down a game path that led northwest. Occasionally, Storm Dancer would point out a scurrying nocturnal animal or a curious bush or tree. After a while Rachael began to relax and enjoy the sights and sounds of the dark forest. Feeling she was is no immediate danger of Storm Dancer's ardor, she allowed herself to forget for a few moments that she was the captive and he the captor. For the briefest time, she allowed herself to become one with her surroundings, just as Storm Dancer was one with this world of his.

  "I never knew the forest could be such a beautiful place at night," Rachael ventured, ducking a low hanging branch. Though the elm and sycamore trees were closely knitted, a three-quarter moon shone through the treetops, as if God held a lantern to illuminate their way.

  Storm Dancer nodded. He could feel Rachael becoming more at ease out here away from the village, which was exactly what he had hoped for. Perhaps alone for a day or two they could begin to get to know one another. Storm Dancer's first marriage had been a dismal failure, so dismal that he had intended to never marry again. But now that he was married he was committed to make it work. If he and Rachael could build a foundation to their relationship, as a man built a foundation for his longhouse, he was certain the marriage could withstand the winds of change and the snowfalls of time.

  "What I have told you of magic is here, Rachael," Storm Dancer said. "You have but to look to see the magic others take not the time for." He came to a sudden halt and pressed a finger to his lips, pointing in front of them.

  Rachael's eyes widened with pleasure at the sight of a gray fox skittering across the path followed by several half-grown kits.

  She smiled, mesmerized by the bushy tails and glimmering eyes. She'd never seen a fox except for the red ones men and women in elaborate riding costumes chased while riding to the hounds outside of London.

  When the foxes had disappeared into the undergrowth of the forest, Storm Dancer started forward again. "Come," he said, catching Rachael's hand.

  It occurred to Rachael that she should pull her hand from his, but it seemed so natural that she didn't. She told herself that she let him hold her so as not to annoy him, but the truth was that she liked the feel of his touch. It was comforting, but at the same time it sent a thrill of excitement thro
ugh her. Perhaps it was the thought of the forbidden. Perhaps she was just lonely.

  For another hour Rachael and Storm Dancer walked. Then, before long, the woods began to thin. Anxious to see what was ahead, Rachael walked in front of Storm Dancer, climbing over jutting rocks and vaulting over fallen trees as if she'd spent a lifetime in the forest. Pushing through a thicket of hemlocks, Rachael rocked back on her feet in surprise. "Oh," she murmured, "it's beautiful!"

  Even in the darkness of midnight, she could make out the outline of the lake's edge. "What's it called?" She walked down to the water's edge so that the water could lap at her moccasined feet as she stared out into the darkness wondering just how far the lake stretched.

  "Called? It is called nothing." He put down his knapsack and bow. "It is a funny thing the way whites must name every place." He came to the water's edge and knelt to scoop a handful of water and bring it to his lips.

  Rachael squatted beside him. "I guess it is rather silly, isn't it?" She laughed, her voice carrying on the wind.

  Storm Dancer scooped two handfuls of water and offered it to Rachael. Her gaze flicked to his, then to the water cupped in his broad palms. She lowered her head and drank, tasting the cool wetness of the water and the saltiness of his hand. It was an innocent enough gesture and yet here in the darkness with this red man it seemed eminently intimate.

  When she pulled back, he reached out and touched a drop of water that ran down her chin. She watched as he caught the drop with his fingertip and brought it to his own lips.

  Suddenly Rachael was lost in the depths of his heathen black eyes. She could feel his light, fresh breath on her face. She could smell that deeply masculine woodsy scent that clung to him, haunting her every waking moment.

  He's going to kiss me again, she thought. Do I allow him? But her mind was already made up, perhaps even before his. He leaned toward her. She met him halfway, their lips brushing like the wings of a night moth.

  Rachael had expected, almost craved more. She nearly fell off-balance as Storm Dancer stood, breaking the kiss. "Come to my magical place," he said, offering her his hand.

  "You mean this isn't it?" The kiss seemed so natural to her, as if she had been kissing the tall redskinned man her entire life.

  "No. I'll be right back and then I will take you there." He left her alone by the side of the lake and disappeared into the forest. Rachael sat down on a jutting rock to wait for him. It was funny that she felt no fear sitting here in the darkness in the middle of the wilderness with nothing to defend herself but the knife she wore around her waist. It would never have occurred to her to go out alone in London or even in Philadelphia after dark without a proper male escort, but from here on this rock, both cities seemed far more dangerous than this peaceful forest.

  When Storm Dancer came out of the treeline he was carrying a large object over his head. A boat!

  Rachael jumped up. "We're going onto the water?" She'd always loved the water. Even the ocean crossing to get from London to Philadelphia had been enjoyable.

  He carried the boat to the lake's edge and lowered it into the water without so much as a splash. "Get the bag," he told her, "and climb in. You must take care, though. Step only on the spine or ridges. The canoe is watertight, but the skin shell is very delicate." He offered her his hand. "Kneel across the ribs and you will not fall through."

  Rachael stepped hesitantly into the canoe and it began to rock violently. She gazed anxiously up at him, but he tightened his grip on her hand and nodded. Slowly she lowered herself to the floor of the paper-thin canoe. Once she was seated, Storm Dancer waded out into the water until he was chest-deep and then with a leap, he stepped into the canoe, barely rocking it as he fell onto his knees. Laying down his bow and quiver of arrows, he lifted a two-sided oar from the canoe's hull and began to paddle.

  Rachael was hypnotized by the single fluid motion of man, paddle, and water that sent the canoe gliding through the lake with each powerful thrust of Storm Dancer's arms. His bare back rippled with each stroke, his muscles straining against his skin with each motion as the canoe eased soundlessly across the lake.

  Moonlight fell in a band from the dark sky across the water illuminating the deep blue-green of the spring-fed lake. It was the most beautiful place, the most beautiful moment in time Rachael had ever experienced.

  "This is it," she whispered, afraid her voice would break the serenity. "This is your magical place," she declared after several minutes.

  "No." He pointed with one muscular arm. "There is my magical place."

  Out of the darkness rose the outline of land. "There we can be alone." he told her. "There we can see what it is to be man and wife."

  Chapter Nine

  The moment the canoe hit the soft sand of the bank, Rachael jumped out. She was caught between the fear of the ominous words Storm Dancer had spoken and her excitement over the special place he had brought her to. Never in her life had she ever experienced the emotional turmoil this heathen caused in her. Before she'd met him she'd always known exactly what she wanted, how she felt. These days, nothing was clear, nothing made sense.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," she sighed, choosing to ignore his last words. She turned in a circle taking in the panorama of the water, the curving beach, and the moonlit sky.

  "I told you it was magical." He smiled. He delighted in seeing her happy and carefree, if only for a moment. Turning back to the canoe, he dragged it well onto the shore and retrieved his bow, quiver of arrows, and knapsack. "Come," he told her, slinging the quiver and knapsack over his broad, bare shoulders. "There is a good place to fish around the bend. A deep place cut into the land where the fish like to hide and grow fat and delicious."

  Rachael fell into step beside him. Just as Storm Dancer had promised, around the bend in the shoreline, the water cut inward making a small lagoon. The moonlight shone on the private pool, basking it in soft light. The water rippled with fish as they came up to strike at the long-legged insects that skated across the flat surface.

  Storm Dancer sat down to retrieve his fishing line from his sack. "You could find wood and we could make a small fire," he suggested.

  Anxious to explore the area around the lagoon, Rachael went in search of dry kindling and brown grass. If there was one thing she'd learned in the last week from She-Who-Weeps, it was how to make a good fire. Once she got back to Philadelphia, she'd have a thing or two to teach the sullen maids who usually built the fires in her brother's home, making more smoke than flame.

  For half an hour or more Rachael climbed over rocks, made her way through prickly bushes, and walked along the sandy beach gathering small limbs. She was curious about what lay further along the shore, but she didn't stray out of sight of Storm Dancer, for fear she would cause suspicion. By the time she returned to his side, he had two plump trout at his feet and was pulling in another.

  "So many fish!" she laughed as she dumped her armful of firewood in the sand and went to retrieve flint and steel from the knapsack.

  Storm Dancer dropped the third fish onto the ground and it flopped up and down on the dry land. "I'm hungry. Aren't you?" He held up a trout by its gills. "Fish is best if it goes from water to fire."

  Actually, for the first time in weeks, she was hungry . . . famished. "You didn't bring a pan. How can we eat them?"

  He pulled the long, thin knife he carried on his belt and began to scrape the scales off the trout. "I will show you how to clean and cook the fish so that you might do so for me in our lodge."

  She looked away, thinking that if Gifford or Thomas didn't come for her soon, she would have to set out on her own. Storm Dancer was making too many plans. He really thought she meant to be his wife. Though she had no intentions of being a savage's spouse, she didn't want to hurt Storm Dancer. In the last week, he'd made more effort to make her comfortable with the idea of marriage than Gifford had in the last eighteen months.

  Rachael turned her attention to the fire, building a tent of dry grass. With the flint a
nd steel she lit the kindling and soon had a bright blaze burning.

  Storm Dancer nodded his approval as he approached her, the cleaned fish hanging from his finger. He squatted beside her in front of the fire and pointed at the pile of wood she'd gathered. "Give me a strong, green stick."

  By the light of the campfire she rifled through the pile and came up with an appropriate piece of wood.

  He accepted the stick and pierced the length of the fish with it. Then, taking two forked sticks, he pushed them into the soft, damp bank on each side of the fire and hung the fish between the two by the skewer. Now the fish hung just above the blaze so it would cook but not burn.

  Rachael rocked back on her feet and sat down, hugging her knees. "I didn't know you could do that. It looks so easy."

  He sat down beside her to wait for the fish to cook. "No task is difficult once taught and learned."

  She watched the flames lick at the fish. Already she could smell the heavenly aroma of baked trout. "But there's so much to remember. Before I came here I never lifted a finger for myself. If you'd thrown me out here six months ago I'd have starved to death or been eaten by wolves."

  He turned his head so that he could watch the expressions change on her face. "But not now."

  She shook her head ever so slightly, afraid to turn and look at him. "Not now," she said softly.

  "Tell me about your life," he urged. His voice was as gentle as the summer breeze that blew in off the lake. "Tell me where you lived. Tell me what you did with your life before you came to me, wife of mine."

  She shrugged. His endearments made her uncomfortable. They made her want to call him husband of mine. "There's little to tell. My father is an earl. We lived in London in a small house."