Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Before Rachael could shout a reply, Storm Dancer swung his fist and connected with his brother's jaw. Broken Horn went reeling backward, taken completely by surprise.

  "Do not insult my wife again, Brother," Storm Dancer threatened. "Or I will be forced to kill you and hang your scalp from my lodgepole for all the world to see."

  "Kill me!" As he got to his feet, Broken Horn stroked his prized scalp lock mockingly. "You would not kill me and you and I both know it. You are too soft for the Mohawk way of life and everyone knows it. That is why they will not listen to you at council."

  "They will not listen to me at council because you have filled their minds with lies and their hearts with hatred."

  This time it was Broken Horn who attacked, but Storm Dancer dodged the assault and swung again, slamming Broken Horn in the stomach. With a sharp exhalation of breath, Broken Horn went down on one knee clutching his midsection.

  Storm Dancer rested his hands on his bare hips. "Leave now before I am forced to dishonor our father and hurt you!"

  "Hurt me?" Broken Horn rose slowly, trying to catch his breath. "You don't have the balls. Now come, Brother, hand over the woman and let a real man give her a ride,"—he thrust out his hips—"a ride she will be long in forgetting."

  Storm Dancer dove forward wrapping his arms around Broken Horn's waist and sending them both crashing to the ground.

  Rachael went on lacing her moccasins. She didn't care if the two of them killed each other. She wasn't waiting around to see the outcome.

  The two brothers rolled over and over in the sand pounding each other with their fists.

  Rachael stood up and grabbed the knapsack Storm Dancer had brought with them. Taking the waterskin as well, she started off in the opposite direction of the two fighting men. Perhaps if she was lucky they'd both roll into the lake and drown each other. As she disappeared into the darkness she could hear the muffled thumps of Storm Dancer's fist connecting with Broken Horn's face as he struck him again and again in uncontrolled fury.

  "I'm going home," she muttered beneath her breath as she stalked off into the darkness, fighting tears. "I just want to go home."

  Storm Dancer hit his brother in the jaw and Broken Horn's body went limp. Breathing heavily, Storm Dancer rose, leaving Broken Horn lying unconscious in the sand.

  "Rachael?" Storm Dancer called, wiping away the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Maata wischasi, n'dochquem." When he heard no response, he walked to the campfire. It was beginning to die out.

  Rachael's clothes were gone, as were her knife, the waterskin, and his knapsack. Storm Dancer smiled. So his English-equiwa wife had fled finally, had she?

  A part of him could not help being hurt by the thought that despite what they had shared here on the shore and in the water, despite the obvious feeling between them, she did not want to stay with him. He thought of Ta-wa-ne and had to fight the bitter anger that rose in his throat threatening to choke his reasoning.

  Rachael was not Ta-wa-ne. Rachael was a woman who had been held captive and was forced to marry him to save herself. In her eyes she was still a captive. In truth, she was. Storm Dancer had to keep that fact in mind when judging her actions.

  But the fact remained that she was his wife and though he had lost one, he would not lose another.

  Storm Dancer glanced over his shoulder at Broken Horn. Storm Dancer knew he should feel some sense of remorse for losing his temper as he had. Broken Horn's face was a bloody pulp. Several ribs were probably broken. It was not the Mohawk way for brother to fight against brother in this manner. But Storm Dancer felt no remorse, only an ominous fear that this was not the end of their argument. Since Broken Horn had brought Rachael to the village the chasm between him and Storm Dancer had only widened.

  Storm Dancer put on his loincloth and moccasins and then went to Broken Horn. He pushed his brother's shoulder with the toe of his moccasin. "Ickalli aal! Away with you brother before I lift your scalp and hang it from my lodgepole."

  Broken Horn groaned but made no attempt to rise.

  Storm Dancer glanced off in the direction of Rachael's footprints. She would not get far. First he would deal with his brother, then his disobedient wife. He walked down the beach around another bend and there on high ground was Broken Horn's canoe. Had Storm Dancer been less enthralled with his wife and more observant of his surroundings he'd have heard or at least felt Broken Horn approaching by water.

  Storm Dancer dragged the canoe down to the water and floated it back around the bend to where his brother lay unconscious. Pulling the canoe far enough up on the bank to keep it from floating away, Storm Dancer went back to Broken Horn.

  Standing over him, he stared at his face. Though they had once been friends a long time ago, they were now enemies and that thought saddened Storm Dancer. Broken Horn had dishonored him too many times in word and deed for them to be anything but adversaries. The wise thing would be for me to kill him now, he thought. Before he destroys what chance I have with Rachael . . . before he destroys our entire village.

  But Storm Dancer could not do it. They were still blood brothers, if only half-brothers. No, if he was going to kill Broken Horn it would be in fair battle, warrior against warrior. Storm Dancer leaned over and slung Broken Horn's limp body over his shoulder. His brother was beginning to stir, but was still unconscious.

  Storm Dancer dumped Broken Horn unceremoniously into the canoe and gave it a shove into the water. For a moment he held the bow of the boat, staring down at Broken Horn. On impulse, he took his knife from his belt and with one slice of the razor-sharp blade he held Broken Horn's precious scalplock in his hand. He had threatened to hang Broken Horn's scalp from his lodgepole for the insult thrown on his wife. Was this not even better revenge? Now Broken Horn's scalplock would fly from Storm Dancer's lodgepole for all to the village to see and Broken Horn would be forced to hear their laughter.

  Storm Dancer tucked the long black scalp lock into his belt and then gave the canoe a shove, setting it adrift. Returning his knife to its sheath he cast a final glance over his shoulder at the canoe and then took off in an easy trot in the direction Rachael had fled.

  Rachael sat on a log half buried in the sand staring out at the lake that she now knew surrounded them. Storm Dancer had known she would try to escape! That's why he'd brought her here. She picked up a broken branch that had drifted ashore and hurled it angrily into the water. She was trapped on the island surrounded by water, just as she was trapped in the village surrounded by hundreds of miles of wilderness.

  An unfamiliar sound made Rachael leap up off the log. Someone was approaching. Broken Horn? As much as she wanted to get away from Storm Dancer, she prayed it was him and not his brother. Broken Horn was evil and he was dangerous and Rachael had no desire to tangle with him on a deserted island in the middle of the night.

  Peering into the darkness, Rachael slipped her knife from its sheath. Her first impulse was to call out into the darkness but she didn't. Never call attention to yourself, Storm Dancer had just told her the other day. See and know the enemy before he sees you.

  So Rachael waited, without moving. Though her heart was pounding in her chest, she breathed easily, listening, watching the beach. The footsteps grew closer and then suddenly stopped. She thought she could see a dark form, but she wasn't certain. She squinted, her knife clutched in her hand, her body tensed.

  "Yuh Kehella, kikileuotte," came a voice from the darkness.

  Rachael felt herself immediately relax, if only slightly. It was Storm Dancer. She lowered her knife. "You didn't tell me this was an island!" She was shocked by the harshness of her own voice.

  "You gave me your word a week ago, Wife, that you would not try to escape." He came toward her. "I am disappointed in you."

  She flailed her knife. "Come a step closer and I'll slit your throat."

  He laughed. "Brave and fierce as well."

  "I'm entirely serious."

  He stopped an arm's length from
her. She could see him now. He was dressed in his loin cloth and vest, his wet hair clinging to his muscular shoulders. He had several cuts on his face that oozed blood. He was the most frighteningly handsome man she had ever seen in her life.

  "You have nothing to fear from me, Rachael. Why do you try to run?"

  "He followed us. He watched us—" She stared at him with accusing eyes. "You knew he was there."

  "I did not. I should have known, but I was lost in the moment. I offer my apologies for allowing my brother to sneak up on us. I am sorry, Rachael-wife."

  Lost in the moment. From any other man, his words would have sounded shallow and false. But on Storm Dancer's tongue, the words rang true. They had both been lost in the moment, hadn't they? She lowered the knife. "Stop calling me wife! I hate it when you do that and you know it!"

  "But you are my wife and it is time you accept and make the best of what Wishemoto has given you."

  "Wishemoto? I know no Wishemoto!"

  "He is God in your tongue."

  "God? And what do you know of God?" she said.

  "I know he delivered you from a burning death by my arms. I know he has given you another chance at life and you must take that chance. No one is coming for you, Rachael. You must know that. You must also know that I would not allow you to go if someone did. You are my wife now and I will fight to the death to keep you at my side."

  Tears stung Rachael's eyes at the truth and finality of Storm Dancer's words. "Accept? How can I ever accept being a prisoner?"

  "You would not have to be a prisoner if you would be my wife."

  "You said I already was your wife."

  His black eyes pierced hers, preventing her from looking away. "No, you are pretending to be my wife." He took another step forward, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered her. "How foolish do you think I am that I cannot see through you? You do what I ask of you, but you have offered me nothing of yourself. I know you wait for the man who left you behind—the coward who will not return. Truly become my wife and you will be as free as the red bird that flies, as free as any Mohawk can be."

  "Be your wife truly? What do you mean? You mean let you—"

  "No!" he barked, losing his patience. "Listen to my words. Do not change them to suit your own ideas. I told you, I would never force you to give of yourself. I want you to come willingly into my arms. I want you to ask me to take you to my bedskins and love you as you deserve to be loved. But for now I would be pleased to see you try to be a good wife. I would like to see a little gratitude."

  "Gratitude? For what?" she spit. "What do I get out of this marriage other than my life which seems rather worthless at this moment?"

  When he spoke again the anger was gone from his voice. "What do you want?"

  "I want you to take me home to Philadelphia."

  He shook his head. "You know I cannot do that. Something else."

  She looked away, staring out at the water. What did she want? She couldn't think of anything to ask for! Then suddenly she thought of Dory. Dory had not been taken by the French along with the other women captives. Too fat and old Rouville had said. Rachael turned back toward Storm Dancer. "I want you to free Dory."

  "Dory?" He frowned. "Who is this Dory?"

  "The woman I take food and water to every day. She's my friend."

  He shook his head. "I cannot free her. She belongs to Pretty Woman."

  "Then buy her." She looked up at him. "She's going to die sitting there in the sun."

  "I cannot take her back to her homeland wherever that might be."

  Rachael understood the Mohawk ways enough to realize that. "I know," she said, going on faster than before. "But you could buy her for our slave, couldn't you."

  He fingered his beaded belt thoughtfully. "The price would be high."

  "Please, Storm?"

  He smiled. He liked the sound of her voice when she called him by name. Storm. She spoke the word as if it were an endearment. "And in return?"

  She met the challenge of his gaze. "In return I will try to accept my circumstances." At least for the time being, she thought

  He considered her offer for a moment and then nodded. "If it is in my power, I will buy this Dory for you, Wife."

  She smiled. "Thank you."

  He draped an arm around her shoulder. "Come now, it is nearly dawn. Let us lay down and take our sleep. It has been a long night."

  Rachael took the blanket from the knapsack and shook it out. He caught the other side and helped her to lay it out on the ground. "What happened to Broken Horn?" she asked, as she stretched out.

  Storm Dancer laid his weapons on the edge of the blanket and lay down beside her. "He has gone home."

  Rachael pushed up on her elbow, looking down at Storm Dancer's face. She wondered what was so humorous. "Gone?"

  He reached out and pulled her down so that her head rested on his shoulder. "I have dealt with my brother. Now, sleep, Wife, and in the morning we will catch fish to take home to our lodge."

  Rachael relaxed in his arms and Storm Dancer gave a comfortable sigh. For the moment all seemed right in the balance of the world. He reached down to touch his brother's scalplock that hung from his belt and smiled.

  "The Viscount Moreover to see you, sir."

  Gifford's gaze wandered from the framed buttery specimen on the wall to the housemaid standing in the parlor doorway. "Who?"

  She cast her eyes downward. "Lord Moreover, sir. Lady Rachael's brother."

  Gifford considered sending him away with word that he wasn't well enough to receive visitors yet. But he thought better of it. He glanced into a Venetian mirror that hung on the wall and smoothed back his hair. Perhaps it would be better to receive Thomas while he was still looking so pallid.

  Gifford glanced back at the young girl still hanging in the doorway. "Well don't just stand there like an addlepated chit, Anna. Send him in!"

  She dipped a quick curtsy and hurried down the hallway.

  With a sigh, Gifford went to the cherry sideboard beneath the window and reached for a bottle of bourbon. He poured himself a healthy portion and lifted the glass to his lips. He closed his eyes. Once this was taken care of, he could forget about Rachael, about the Indians, about those dreadful weeks, and go on with his life.

  He smiled and took another sip of his bourbon, his eyes scanning the wall lined with butterflies from all over the world. Once this was taken care of he could go on with the construction of his house. Though the costs were running higher than he'd anticipated, it was all going to be worth it when he held his first ball in the ballroom of the thirty-seven-room house overlooking the Delaware river. Then he'd be the talk of Philadelphia—the talk of the entire colony. Philadelphians would be pining for invitations to the great Langston estates. Everyone would want to be his intimate friend. His capture by the Mohawks and escape had make him popular, but this home was going to make him renowned!

  The Honorable Thomas Moreover cleared his throat.

  Gifford spun around. "Thomas." He offered a sad smile and hurried to take his hand. "So good to see you, Thomas."

  Thomas crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. "Spare me the sensitivities, Giffy. I just came into port last night. They say my sister's dead. They say she had married you."

  Gifford hung his head. "True. All true."

  "How the hell did you get captured by Indians in Philadelphia?" Thomas barked. "How the hell did you get away and not Rachael?" His voice cracked as he said her name.

  Gifford brushed his blond hair off his forehead and took a gulp of the liquor still clenched in his hand. "Please don't ask me to go over the details again." he shook his head. "I just can't bear to think of it right now. My Rachael, my poor little wife."

  Thomas glanced out the window unable to stand the sight of the whimpering ass his sister had married. "You're certain she's dead?"

  He nodded. "Saw it with my own eyes. Ah, Thomas, it was horrendous. Those savages—" he cut himself off. H
e had found that in relating his tale his audience enjoyed drawing their own conclusions.

  "So when did you marry? She swore to me she'd wait until I returned from Jamaica" He met Gifford's gaze, but Gifford looked away.

  "Just that day, in fact." He smiled at the fabricated memory. "My cousin Reverend James performed the ceremony."

  Thomas's eyes narrowed. "No witnesses?"

  Gifford couldn't resist a smile. "The good reverend of course, but he's dead."

  "Documentation?"

  Gifford shrugged and tipped his glass again. "Destroyed or lost by the savages, of course. There are only the betrothal papers and the death certificate my uncle down at the courthouse was kind enough to provide."

  Thomas swore foully beneath his breath. "I can't believe you let her die, you little bastard!"

  Gifford looked up, his eyes cold with hatred. "Had I been able to save Rachael, I would have, but it was beyond my control. My wife is dead, God rest her soul, and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life."

  "Where are these sons of bitches, these Mohawks? I'll go there myself."

  "And you'll never come out alive." Gifford went to the side table to pour himself another drink. "Take my advice, friend, and accept Rachael's death as I have."

  Thomas crossed the hardwood floor in four long strides. He grabbed the mulberry collar of Gifford's coat and spun him around. "Tell me where the Indians are!"

  Gifford never flinched. "I don't know. Now, unhand me before I call my man to escort you from my house."

  Thomas held him a second longer and then released his collar, giving him a shove. "There's more to this story than meets the eyes, Giffy." He shook a finger. "And let me tell you, if I discover you killed her yourself, I swear to Christ I'll kill you with my bare hands. You say these Mohawks tortured you, well let me tell you, you don't know what torture is!"