Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  "You miss your family?"

  She stared into the orange flames that were spitting with the fat and juices of the baking fish. "Not really. Only my brother." She looked at Storm Dancer who sat so patiently listening. Gifford had never been one to listen. Stop doing that, she told herself. Stop comparing Storm Dancer to Gifford. You cannot allow yourself to soften to him. You cannot be this savage's wife. The thought is ludicrous!

  She went on with her story. "Thomas and I were close, even as children. But then he bought into a shipping business with friends and spent most of his time sailing between Philadelphia and London."

  She sighed. "I was very lonely when he left. Mama died. Papa started spending most of his time at the gaming tables."

  "You crossed the great sea to be with your brother?"

  "No." She began to draw patterns in the sand with a twig. "I came to marry Lord Langston—Gifford. We met in London. He was madly in love with me. He wanted to marry me the first night we met at the playhouse."

  "He said he wished to wed you, but he did not."

  She gave a nervous laugh. Storm Dancer made her think about things she didn't want to think about. He made her feel when she didn't want to feel. "He would have married me, but I said no. I wanted to get to know him a little better." She took a breath. "That's a lie. Actually Thomas wouldn't let us marry right away. We compromised and he brought me to Philadelphia so that Gifford and I could spend time together before we were married. Gifford started building a house. The wedding date was set twice, but I postponed it both times." She could hear a quiver in her voice. "I think he began using some of my dowery for the house. I think that's why he was so anxious to be wed."

  Storm Dancer reached out and stilled the hand that was digging into the sand. "You changed your mind about marrying this Giff-ord?"

  "Over and over again." Somehow his fingers found hers and they intertwined. "It just didn't feel right."

  "You did not love the coward."

  She lifted her chin defiantly. "He's not a coward. He wasn't. We just weren't suited to be man and wife."

  Storm Dancer lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "It is not your fault, my brave Rachael. It is not your weakness, it is his."

  Her gaze locked with his and she was mesmerized. "No, he's not my weakness, but you are," she heard herself say.

  Storm Dancer threaded his fingers through her hair, drawing her close. Rachael's eyes drifted shut as their lips touched. She knew this was wrong, and yet she couldn't help herself.

  His mouth was warm and tender against hers. Somehow her hand found his bare shoulder and she stroked the hard, muscular flesh that rippled beneath her fingertips.

  When Storm Dancer's fingers brushed her breast through the thin leather dress she heard a sigh escape her lips. Never had anything felt so heavenly, so sinfully good.

  He teased her lower lip with the tip of his tongue and she moaned. Her tongue touched his in a slow-building dance of sensual awakening.

  "Ki-ti-hi," he murmured in her ear, his warm breath sending shivers of gooseflesh down her neck. "K'da-holel, n'dochqueum."

  She lowered her hand to his, guiding it over her breast as she kissed him. "Gifford never—"

  "Shh," he hushed. "Do not speak of the coward." He kissed her chin, the tip of her nose, her forehead.

  "But I can't help it." She ran her fingers down his sinewy arm, reveling in the feel of the hard maleness of his biceps. "I compare him to you again and again. You are a savage and yet you are more a man than Gifford Langston ever was."

  He smiled, toying with a lock of her sweet-smelling hair. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. "It is good for a wife to appreciate her husband," he whispered. "It is good that we could learn to like each other." He kissed her once more and then reached for the fish. "Come, wife. Let us eat before the fish burns."

  Rachael could feel her cheeks growing warm as she awkwardly pulled away and sat down. She didn't know how she could look Storm Dancer in the face after behaving so wantonly. But he went on as if nothing had happened . . . as if it were commonplace for a man and woman to kiss as they had kissed, even to touch as he had touched her and then sit and share a late night meal.

  So Rachael sat in the soft, warm sand and ate the delicious trout Storm Dancer had roasted over the fire, pretending that it was perfectly natural to kiss a man and then sit down to supper. She talked with him as if they had known each other for a lifetime. Very quickly it became obvious to her that though their ways were very different, this man was no mindless savage. Storm Dancer was intelligent and witty. Though his thoughts and actions were gentle, he was a fierce man with fierce convictions.

  At first they spoke of meaningless things. They laughed and talked of their childhoods. Though Storm Dancer's life was entirely foreign, there was something about the Indian ways that fascinated Rachael, making her almost wish she'd been born a Mohawk. After a while the conversation grew more serious.

  "Tell me why your people have become a part of the fight between England and France," Rachael urged. She had never been interested in politics before, but suddenly this seemed important.

  Storm Dancer took his time in answering, as Rachael noticed he often did. "As you know the French and English fight for land . . . land that cannot be owned, not by Frenchmen, not by English-manake, not even by Ganiengehka, our Iroquois brothers." He tossed the bones of a fish picked clean into the flames. "Most of the Mohawks have sided with the English. Like it or not you have come to stay. Your people come across the ocean in great canoes and settle to the south and to the east of us. Each season that passes, your foothold in this land becomes stronger." He paused. "I say, my brother Mohawks from other villages say, learn to live beside the English-manake or become extinct."

  Rachael wiggled her toes in the sand, glad she'd removed her moccasins as Storm Dancer had. "So why does your village deal with Rouville? Why have you become a French ally if the other Mohawks are all English allies?"

  Storm Dancer's dark gaze met Rachael's and she was captivated by the fierceness in his voice. "My brother, Broken Horn, has a hate in his heart for the English-manake. Three summers ago they came to our village while the men hunted, and they slaughtered our families. Broken Horn lost two wives and three sons that day."

  Rachael felt a flutter of pity in her stomach for Broken Horn. "So in his eyes, the English deserve to die. It's revenge."

  Storm Dancer reached out to take Rachael's hand in his. Slowly he traced the lines in her palm with his finger. "It is not that simple, you see the English attacked our village in retaliation. Not a week before Broken Horn led a raid on a fort. He burned it to the ground with women, children, and old men still alive inside." Storm Dancer squeezed his eyes shut against his painful memories. "I can still hear their screams."

  She stiffened. "You didn't take part in it?" she asked, fearful of what his answer might be.

  He shook his head. "No. Broken Horn knew I would have stopped him. I had made a trip to St. Regents Mission to heal a dying priest. Father Drake was good to me when I studied at the mission. I owed him. By the time I reached our village, Broken Horn and the other men had already set out for the fort. By the time I reached the fort it was too late."

  Rachael found herself smoothing his broad bronze hand, savoring the warmth of his touch. "It wasn't your fault. You're not responsible for Broken Horn's evils."

  "My head tells me this is so, Wife, but my heart,"—he touched his chest—"my heart finds me guilty. I should not have gone to the mission to see Father Drake. I should have been in my village. I knew what my brother was capable of." He glanced up into the starry sky. "I should have been there to stop him."

  Not knowing what to say, Rachael remained silent. In the last week Storm Dancer had taught her that sometimes quiet was better than talk.

  He gave Rachael's hand a squeeze and then released it. "I feel like swimming," he told her, standing up to stretch his legs. "Let us bathe and then lay down to
sleep." His voice had lost that tightness she had heard only moments before. "It will be dawn in a few hours time."

  Rachael stood. She had quickly taken to the Indian way of bathing once or even twice a day. She'd even taken some swimming lessons from She-Who-Weeps and done quite well, but she was still uncomfortable with the custom of bathing nude.

  "You go." She wrapped her arms around her waist, suddenly feeling chilled. "I'll watch."

  Storm Dancer unlaced his vest and dropped it to the ground beside the firepit. His hand fell to the strings of his loincloth and Rachael went to turn away as she always did, but something held her back.

  Storm Dancer's gaze locked with hers as his fingers found the leather thongs. Rachael heard the leather ties and loin cloth hit the hard ground. By the light of the moon she could see the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

  He was daring her!

  She didn't know what made her do it. Perhaps the night air, perhaps the memory of the feel of his hand on her breast. Deliberately, her gaze slipped downward. She studied his broad, bronze chest, corded with muscles which led to his flat waist flaring slightly to his hips. Her stomach knotted. She almost looked away, but she could feel his eyes on her. Color diffused through her cheeks as her attention fell to his sparse sprinkling of dark hair and his semirigid shaft.

  Storm Dancer paused for moment, letting her become familiar with the male anatomy and then it was he who turned around and walked away, the well-defined muscles of his buttocks flexing as he strode.

  Rachael exhaled. That wasn't as bad as she'd imagined it would be. Though odd, Storm Dancer's male parts were not completely unintriguing, in fact . . .

  Rachael groaned aloud at the path her mind was taking. Six weeks with these amoral heathens and she was thinking like them!

  She heard a splash and looked up to see Storm Dancer sliding gracefully under the water. He surfaced in a puddle of moonlight and waved. "Come to me, Wife."

  She walked to the water's edge and let the water wash over her bare toes. The lake did look inviting.

  He waved again. "I give you my word as a warrior that I will not lay a hand on you, Wife. Come in and enjoy the water. It's part of the magic."

  A mischievous smile broke across her face. Who would ever know? she thought. Once I'm back in Philadelphia, who would ever know I'd swum naked with my savage?

  No one.

  Rachael touched the lacing of the vest she wore. She had only the vest, a short skirt, and the woman's loincloth to remove. Storm Dancer was watching her. Even in the moonlight she could see his black eyes riveted to her. She lowered her gaze to the leather bodice. Her hands trembled as she untied the rawhide lace. She stalled by pulling the lace from each eyelet until finally the vest hung open revealing much of her breasts. Afraid she would lose her nerve, she shrugged it off and dropped it beside Storm Dancer's clothing.

  The cool night air hit her breasts, making her nipples pucker. Unable to look at Storm Dancer, she found the tie of her short skirt and in a moment, it too lay on the ground. Her hand went to the loincloth. Two weeks ago she had been almost frightened of this undergarment, but now it was her only protection.

  "That is enough," Storm Dancer urged gently, as if knowing the thoughts that flew through her mind. "Join me and we will bathe together."

  Though she wanted to run, Rachael took her time in entering the water. She tried to savor each sensation and cast it to memory—the smell of the night air, the touch of the cool breeze, the sight of Storm Dancer waiting in waist-deep water, the feel of his gaze on her naked flesh.

  Rachael waded out until the water was thigh-high and then she lowered her body, covering herself with the security of the dark water.

  "Brr, it's cold," she said, her own voice sounding odd to her ears. She came within three feet of him and stopped.

  Storm Dancer reached beneath the water and brought up a handful of sand and began to scrub himself as was the custom. Rachael did the same. The grainy sand was abrasive to her tender skin, but left her entire body covered with tingling sensations. Storm Dancer leaned back to wash his hair. Rachael did the same, but each time that she went underwater, he appeared a few inches closer.

  Then somehow he had her hand. He opened his arms, inviting her into his embrace. Rachael shivered as much from fear as cold. "I—"

  "I want only to hold you, Rachael-wife. I told you. I would never force a woman to give of herself what she did not wish to give, and certainly not my wife."

  At that moment, Rachael trusted Storm Dancer wholeheartedly. He wrapped her nude body in his arms beneath the water and it seemed the most natural thing to her. His warmth drew her closer until she snuggled against his chest, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She glided her hands over the curves of his muscular forearms feeling wickedly bold. If she was truly his wife, there was no sin in their touching, was there?

  But was she his wife? Rachael had told herself time and time again in the last week that she was not. Yet the smallest part of her told her she was married to this strikingly handsome red man.

  Storm Dancer lifted her off her feet, cradling her with his own body. By the light of the moon she could see him gazing down at her, his dark eyes filled with the fire of his longing.

  When he leaned down to kiss her, she turned her face toward him. She threaded her fingers through his wet hair, savoring the taste of him, lips against lips, tongue touching tongue.

  This time when his hand made contact with her breast, she allowed herself to enjoy the strange sensations that rippled through her entire body. Floating in his arms, her head in the crook of his arm, she watched his hand as he stroked her.

  When Storm Dancer lowered his mouth to her breast, she sucked in her breath, stiffening. He murmured something in Mohawk and she relaxed, not knowing what he said, yet understanding his reassurance. The feel of his wet, hot mouth tugging at her nipple sent tremors of delight through her veins. She wanted him to stop, but she wanted him to go on forever.

  "Storm," she murmured.

  "Wife," he answered in a teasing voice.

  "Storm, you have to stop."

  "Why?" He kissed his way up between the valley of her breasts. "Tell me why, sweet wife of mine."

  "Because . . . because . . . " Flustered, she gave into the laugher that bubbled up inside her. "Oh, because I don't know why, just because."

  One moment he was laughing at her, then suddenly he was lowering her into the water. She could feel his body stiffen as he released her, his muscles bunching as he eased her to her feet in the waist-deep water.

  "What is it?" Suddenly she was frightened. He was watching the shore as he waded toward it.

  "Stay, Rachael," he ordered briskly.

  She covered her bare breasts with her arms. The laughter and excitement of the moment was past and now all she had left was fear and shame. "Storm—"

  He brought a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Stay where you are and you will be safe."

  She waded toward him, not wanting to stay in the water alone.

  The moment his bare feet hit the dry land he was sprinting the few feet to the campfire. By the light of the dying flames she could see him reach for his knife.

  Rachael still saw nothing or no one. What was wrong with Storm Dancer? There was no one out there!

  "This isn't funny. Wait for me!"

  He turned toward her, crooking a finger. "Get on your clothes and wait for me here. Do not forget your knife, Rachael." He turned back toward the darkness of the land that spread from the shoreline.

  She had nearly reached the bank when she heard a terrifying war cry. Someone sprang out of the darkness and Storm Dancer whirled around, his knife glinting in the moonlight as he faced his attacker.

  Rachael's hands flew to her mouth to keep from crying out as she saw through the shadows of night, the face of Broken Horn.

  Chapter Ten

  Storm Dancer fell beneath the weight of his brother, but twisted out from under him and bounced up into a crouching position.
Broken Horn rolled and flipped into the same stance, imitating Storm Dancer.

  Storm Dancer barked something in Mohawk and Broken Horn broke into a grin. He laughed jokingly, but Storm Dancer did not.

  Rachael covered herself with her hands as best she could and stalked out of the water. The bloody bastard Broken Horn had been spying on them! He'd watched her and Storm Dancer. She could feel her face growing hot with embarrassment at the thought of what had taken place in the lake . . . what someone had watched them do.

  "Damn him," she muttered hurrying for her clothes on the bank, not caring if Broken Horn saw her stark naked. At this point what was there left to see?

  Broken Horn tossed his knife to the ground and Storm Dancer followed suit. Without weapons, the two men circled each other like caged beasts. Broken Horn hissed, moving his hands in a circular motion, daring Storm Dancer to make the first move.

  Ignoring the men, Rachael yanked on her vest and reached for her leather skirt. She wasn't certain whether Storm Dancer had known Broken Horn followed them or not, but she didn't care. At this moment she hated Storm Dancer as much for luring her into the water and making her want him to touch her like that as she hated Broken Horn for watching them.

  As Rachael jerked on her skirt she could hear Storm Dancer speaking in harsh, low tones. He was angry. No, by the sound of his voice he was enraged. Her gentle lover had become the vicious savage that she'd known he was all along. The logical conclusion would be that Storm Dancer was furious with his brother for following him, but Rachael wasn't interested in logic. She strapped her beaded belt and knife sheath around her waist. There was no room in her head for logic when her heart was so overwhelmed by emotion.

  She sat down on the ground to pull on her moccasins, not caring that the sand stuck to her wet skin. She wasn't staying here, not with these crazy red men. She wanted to go home to Philadelphia, and if Thomas or Gifford weren't coming for her, she'd find her way home on her own!

  Broken Horn straightened, looking past Storm Dancer to where Rachael stood dressing. By the light of the campfire he could make out every feminine curve of her body. "She is a beautiful woman in her pale-skin way, Brother," he said in English so that she might hear. "Responsive to a man's touch, eh?" He laughed. "As brothers share of the hunt, let me share of the feast." His tongue darted out to touch his upper lip. "I have a taste for white honey."