Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Gifford smoothed the collar of his coat. "Please leave my home."

  "Gladly." Thomas turned around and headed for the hall.

  "But, Thomas . . . "

  Thomas turned and glared.

  "I'll expect the balance of my deceased wife's dowry in thirty days."

  "You pettifogging bastard!"

  "I've checked with my barrister. You are under legal obligation to provide the balance in one month's time or your business holdings will be frozen until the court can deal with the matter." He paused. "And heaven knows the English courts can be slow. It might be a year or more before your business accounts would be open to your use again."

  Gifford couldn't resist a smile as Thomas walked out of the parlor and slammed the door so hard that a framed African monarch butterfly flew off the wall, the glass shattering as it hit the floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rachael and Dory knelt side by side at the stream's edge washing cooking utensils and discussing where they would go berry picking in the morning. For the hundredth time in a week Rachael glanced at Dory and smiled. It was so good to have a friend.

  Storm Dancer had kept his word. Though the price had been steep, he had purchased Dory from Pretty Woman and Dory was now Rachael's personal slave. Once the deal was made, Rachael had gone immediately to Dory and untied her. The older woman had been so grateful that tears had filled her blue eyes. She vowed to give her life to Rachael for saving her own.

  Of course Rachael didn't want Dory for a servant. She'd had enough servants to last her a lifetime. All she wanted was a companion and Dory had become just that. Despite their difference in age and life experiences, they found they truly enjoyed each other's company. Dory was anxious to help Rachael adjust to her new position as wife to Storm Dancer in any way she could. Because she had lived in a Seneca village she had many skills necessary to an Indian wife. Not only could she do a task and do it well, but she had a good sense of humor about it. Working side by side, Dory made the tedious daily chores seem almost fun.

  And then of course she adored Storm Dancer. When Rachael had confessed that she had not had sexual relations with her husband and that she did not intend on staying, Dory had become angry. She said most women would give anything to have the kind of husband Storm Dancer would be if Rachael would just give him a chance. Dory had also made it quite clear that she would not help Rachael try to escape. She said she would not be responsible for her friend's death. But Dory had not held this difference of opinion against her. She in fact made it a personal objective to unite Rachael and Storm Dancer who now moved cautiously around each other. Storm Dancer was giving her time for adjustment and Rachael was trying to deal with her obvious feelings for her husband, feelings she passionately wanted to deny.

  Dory elbowed Rachael in the side and glanced knowingly downstream. Rachael leaned forward, shaking the water from a wooden stirring stick. It was Pretty Woman and Gull. Rachael smiled mischievously. Dory got a great deal of pleasure from annoying Broken Horn's wives and though Rachael didn't encourage her, she could not help herself when the opportunity arose.

  "Tell Pretty Woman how much you like 'er new skirt," Dory whispered, scrubbing a copper pan with a great deal of vigor.

  Rachael glanced sideways.

  "Go ahead," Dory urged. "I always did enjoy a cat fight."

  "What are you talking about?" Rachael whispered.

  "Just tell 'er."

  Rachael leaned over the edge of the bank and nodded politely. In her best broken Mohawk she spoke.

  Pretty Woman looked up suspiciously. But her vanity got the best of her and she stroked the blue damask. "My warrior brought it to me. He paid much for such fine English cloth," she said in English.

  Gull cast a sideways glance at Rachael. "The skirt was mine," she said partly in Mohawk, partly in English. "Our husband gave it to me."

  "He did not," Pretty Woman protested. "I am first wife. All gifts come to me and you get what I cast off."

  Gull stood up and threw a pewter plate to the ground in anger. "That is not the truth. Your name should not be Pretty Woman, but She-Who-Tells-Lies! You took the skirt from me when I slept."

  "Ha!"

  "It is true. Our husband gave the skirt to me because I please him on the sleeping mat." Gull took a step toward Pretty Woman, pushing her face into the other wife's. "He said you bored him."

  "And now look who lies! My husband says you sound like a cat hung from a tree the way you scream in his ear!"

  In fury Gull reached out and yanked on Pretty Woman's blue skirt.

  Rachael couldn't resist a snicker at the sound of tearing material. "We'd better go back to the lodge," she told Dory as she picked up her basket and held it out for Dory to put the clean cooking utensils in.

  "I think we should stay put." Dory craned her neck to get a better view of the two Mohawk women. "One's bound to push the other into the stream any minute."

  Rachael prodded her friend in the side. "Come on. We'd best get back to the village before they realize who started it."

  Side by side the two women hurried down the path, casting glances over their shoulders as they went. By now Pretty Woman and Gull were shoving each other back and forth. Both women held strips of the prized blue brocade which had only moments before been the skirt.

  Rachael was still chuckling to herself when Storm Dancer pushed aside the doormat and came into the lodge where she was putting away her cooking utensils. She'd sent Dory off to return a borrowed clay pot to She-Who-Weeps.

  Rachael's laughter died at the sight of her husband's face. His usually suntanned face was pale, his mouth pulled into a tight frown. He came in and immediately began to pack his knapsack.

  "What is it?"

  "I must go, Wife." He held up his palm. "You are to stay here."

  The sound of his voice frightened her. Something was terribly wrong. "Tell me. What's happened? Where are you going?"

  "It would be better that you did not know." He reached for a quiver of arrows that hung from the birch rafter.

  Rachael touched his bare forearm. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, his muscles as hard as iron. "Storm?" Her voice trembled. Suddenly his problems had become hers. "Tell me . . . Husband."

  He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. "My brother has gone too far this time. I was not able to stop him once—" he nodded, "but this time I must."

  She shook her head refusing to release his arm. "What are you talking about? Please tell me."

  His black eyes clouded with hostility. "My brother will attack St. Regents Mission at dawn. I must warn them."

  Rachael's hand found his and for a moment she forgot that she was his prisoner, or that he had forced her to marry him. For a moment she was his wife. "You can't go. Speak to the council. There's no one there but old priests and children! They're unarmed but for a squirrel musket or two. Surely the council would not allow the attack of harmless civilians."

  "You do not understand. My brother had become the council. He can do what he pleases."

  "There's no way for you to stop him?" Her blue eyes searched his face for understanding.

  "No. I am one man against too many. I cannot stop Broken Horn, but I can warn Father Drake."

  He pulled away and went back to gathering his things.

  Rachael thought for a moment and then spoke. "Take me with you."

  "Maata. Impossible." He added arrows to his quiver.

  "It's not safe for me to stay here without you. Since you shamed him by cutting off his scalp lock you know Broken Horn's been seeking a way to have his revenge."

  "It looks as if he has found it."

  "You mean—"

  "I do not have the time to talk of this matter now. Broken Horn is leaving in a few hours. You will be safe while I am gone. I will go the mission, warn them, and return before Broken Horn and his men return."

  "And what if you don't come back?" Her ominous words hung in the still air of the lodge. "You know what will happen to me if y
ou are killed."

  "I will not die. I will return for my wife."

  "You could cross paths with Broken Horn, or the English. Anything could happen out there!" She grabbed his arm and forced him to turn and look at her. Her voice was stark with the reality of their situation. "If you don't come back, I will become your brother's woman."

  Storm Dancer looked away, obviously torn.

  Rachael went on quickly. "I won't slow you down, I swear it. I'm much stronger than I was when I first came here. Maybe I can even help once we get to the mission."

  "Mohawk women do not travel with their men. This is not a Mohawk woman's right."

  She reached up to touch his cheek. "I am not a Mohawk woman. I want to go with you. I want to help you."

  "Why?"

  "Because what you are trying to do is right. It's honorable." She took a deep breath. "Because Broken Horn must be stopped."

  He rested his hand on her shoulder. "Speak with a true tongue. You do not ask to go with me so that you can run from me?"

  She shook her head. "I will go with you to the mission and I will help you get the children out before Broken Horn and his men come."

  When Storm Dancer made no reply she brushed her fingers against his cheek. "Please."

  He gave a sudden shake of his head. "This is not the way of my people. Women are to stay at the camp and keep the lodge fires burning."

  "Is it your people's way to murder innocent men and children?"

  He looked off into nothingness, remembering a time of long ago. "Once, no. Now?" He met her gaze. "It seems it has become the way."

  Rachael lifted the knapsack from the floor and began to stuff necessary items inside—flint and steel, dried venison and berries, a thread and needle and Storm Dancer's precious medicine bag. "I have to tell Dory we're leaving."

  "You cannot tell her where we go." He shrugged on his quilled vest. "Tell her we are going fishing, but instruct her not to tell anyone who does not ask."

  Rachael grabbed a waterskin and put the strap over her head. She then put the knapsack on her back so that Storm Dancer would only need to carry his weapons. They would do this together, as equals.

  Rachael stepped out of the lodge and glanced up at Broken Horn's scalp lock flying from Storm Dancer's lodgepole. She shivered despite the warmth of the August evening.

  Dory was seated on the ground, scraping the hair off a piece of rabbit hide. "Dory." Rachael tried to sound nonchalant. Though she was trembling inside, her voice was steady. "Storm Dancer wants to go fishing again. He insists I go."

  Dory grinned. "He's wooin' you, Rachael-honey. Wish I had a man like him. Believe you me, I wouldn't let him out of my lodge." She winked.

  "Yes, well, I don't know when we'll be back. Sometime tomorrow, I suppose." She paused, lowering her voice. "Dory, don't tell anyone where we've gone unless you're asked directly."

  Dory lifted a bushy eyebrow suspiciously but asked no questions. She returned her attention to the rabbit hide in her lap. "No need to worry 'bout me, Rachael, honey. I don't speak to them 'less they speak to me. Then I pretend I'm too stupid to understand. After a while, they just leave ol' Dory to herself."

  Storm Dancer stepped out of the lodge and took Rachael's hand. She waved good-bye to Dory and started through the camp at Storm Dancer's side.

  The other villagers paid little attention to them as they meandered through the camp. Two braves called out to Storm Dancer as he and Rachael passed the ceremonial longhouse. He made some comment about the trophy hanging from Storm Dancer's lodgepole and the three men laughed. To those around him, Storm Dancer seemed to be calm and relaxed.

  No one seemed to question his taking Rachael with him. Honeymooners often left the village on expeditions. It would be tales of those escapades that would keep the men amused when the long dark winter settled upon them.

  Two Crows called out from his lodge. He made some lewd remark about Rachael, but Storm Dancer ignored him, giving a friendly wave.

  Storm Dancer and Rachael had nearly made it out of the village when Broken Horn suddenly appeared out of nowhere to block their path.

  He had plucked his shorn head bald, making his deformed ear appear even more grotesque. He smiled. "Good evening to you, half-brother." He spoke in English for Rachael's benefit. "You and your wife going somewhere?"

  Storm Dancer's eyes met Broken Horn's. There was a sense of amusement that hung in the air. "Fishing."

  Broken Horn arced an eyebrow. "Fishing with your wife again." He grinned. "Your appetite is great."

  His eyes raked over Rachael and it was all she could do to keep from stepping back a step. But she didn't. She remained beside her husband, her chin held high.

  "Would you like me to bring some fish back to your lodge?" Storm Dancer took a casual stance, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "I hear your wives complaining that you are too busy to bring them decent meat."

  Broken Horn's pitch eyes narrowed at the insult. "Yes, do that. I've a taste for fresh catch." He turned to Rachael. "What women do not understand is a man's responsibility to the politics of the world. I have little time for trivial matters."

  "Then let me not stand in the way of your importance." Storm Dancer nodded farewell. "Until tomorrow, Brother."

  Broken Horn hesitated, but then backed down and stepped aside and off the narrow path that led out of the village.

  Storm Dancer took Rachael's hand in his and together they walked off into the forest.

  They walked nearly a mile in silence before Rachael spoke. They traveled single file, with Storm Dancer paying close attention to be certain no one approached them from any direction. They traveled quickly, but Rachael was not having a difficult time keeping up. These last weeks in the Mohawk village had strengthened her, both physically and mentally.

  "How far is the mission?"

  "If we hurry we will be there in two maybe three hours before the dawning light." He spoke curtly, but his voice was not unkind.

  "I'm glad you let me come." She stepped over a bulging root and ducked beneath a low-hanging elderberry branch.

  "You may yet regret your choice."

  "I think not. You might need my help."

  He glanced over her shoulder. "I have never before needed a woman's help."

  She frowned, her forehead creasing. "You don't seem to like women much."

  "I have not had much luck with women." He thought of Ta-wa-ne. "I lost my first wife."

  "You were married before." It was a statement that she hoped would lead to further discussion.

  "Yes."

  She wanted to ask how his wife had died, but she could tell by the tone in his voice that this was not the time to question him on the matter. Instead she asked, "Why then did you marry me?"

  "Fate. You were delivered from the flames and into my arms."

  "I was in one of your seeings, then?" Storm Dancer had made mention several times that he sometimes saw the future in a waking dream. She'd heard of men and women with such abilities in London, but she had never believed in it. Seers were for country fairs and young impressionable children.

  He held back a branch for her. "I did."

  "Well, I don't believe in such silliness." She passed him, unable to resist reaching out and brushing her finger against his chest as she went by.

  "It does not matter if you believe."

  "It doesn't?"

  He shook his head. "What you believe or do not believe does not change the world, Rachael. Life goes on as it always has. You need not believe to be a part of it."

  The path northwest widened and she fell into step beside him. By stretching her legs with each stride, she was able to keep up. "What do you see of the future?" She hesitated. "Our future?"

  He thought of the sound of laughter he had heard the night he rescued Rachael from the evil flames of Broken Horn. Had that been a prediction of future good times, or only a wish? He didn't know. "I cannot command the sight. It comes and goes with necessity."

  "
Yet you said you saw a future in us."

  He shrugged. "How long is the future? A lifetime? A year? A month? A moment? I cannot say, Wife."

  She stopped, shaking her head. "I don't understand you when you talk like that."

  He caught a thick lock of dark hair and pushed it back off her shoulders. She was as beautiful in this twilight as any woman he had ever laid eyes on. He pressed his lips to hers and she responded as he had hoped. Storm Dancer was tempted to take her into arms right here in the forest. He could lay her on a bed of moss and make love to her as he did now only in his dreams.

  But he had a mission to carry out.

  "Come, Wife," he murmured against her honey-lips. "We must hurry. My brother will not be far behind us." He reluctantly released his hold on her and waved for her to hasten.

  Rachael smiled in the dim light of sunset. "I'm coming Husband. I'm coming."

  Chapter Twelve

  A silence fell upon Rachael and Storm Dancer as they traveled northwest toward St. Regents Mission. But it was a comfortable silence that gave them both time to reflect on what they were about to attempt.

  Rachael's mind ran wild as she tried to digest all Storm Dancer had said. His first wife, fate bringing him and Rachael together, the Mission, Broken Horn. It was all a jumble in her mind. Nothing made sense, and yet out of that tumult of thoughts and emotions came an overwhelming sense of equanimity. Somehow for the first time in her life, Rachael had found a cause greater than herself. Her entire life she'd had nothing to think of but her own happiness or unhappiness. It wasn't that she had purposely become self-centered and self-serving, she'd just never been exposed to any other type of thinking. She had lived her life in a glass jar like one of Gifford's poor butterflies.

  Rachael glanced up at the man who walked several strides ahead of her. Storm Dancer. Here was a man to be reckoned with, a man with a purpose. Here was a man trying to save his people from the destruction of their race. A smile rose on her lips as she watched his muscles ripple in the moonlight as he strode.

  Storm Dancer . . . her husband.

  Not really, of course. But she wondered for the first time what it would be like to live as his wife. Just for a flickering moment she allowed her mind to wander. Was there any way she could help him bring the Mohawks around to understanding the English? Was there some way through her and Storm Dancer that the Mohawks could learn to live beside the English? Was there a way to end the hate and killing?