Storm Dancer stood for a moment in the shadows of the forest looking down at the priest. Though the sun had not yet appeared, the black of night had turned to gray. "I will not see you again, Father."
Father Drake nodded. "You will, if not in this world, then in the next."
Storm Dancer smiled. "I thank you for all you have given me."
"It was naught a bit more than you deserved." Father Drake reached for Storm Dancer's hand. "Now take your wife called Rachael and leave this colony. Go forth and make your own life far from the evils of this place."
Storm Dancer shook his head. "I cannot abandon my people."
"So instead you will face your sentence?"
Storm Dancer nodded. "As is destined, I think."
Father squeezed his hand. "Then may God protect and keep you on your journey wherever it might lead you." He touched his forehead, breastbone, one shoulder, and then the other in the sign of the cross and Storm Dancer did the same.
As Rachael stood aside watching the farewell an inkling of fear rose in her mind. She tried to shake it off, but it slithered up her spine like a snake waiting to strike.
Father Drake walked away, hurrying to join those who were disappearing into the forest. For a long moment Storm Dancer watched him in silence and then he turned back to Rachael.
"Come Wife. We must be gone from this place before my brother comes."
Rachael lifted her chin to stare directly into his dark eyes. "What did Father Drake mean by facing your sentence? Will you be punished by the village for what you've done here even though everyone knows what Broken Horn does is morally wrong?"
"Ea."
He tried to break from her gaze, but she brushed her fingertips across his cheek, forcing him to look at her. "You didn't tell me, but you must tell me now. What is the sentence if you are found guilty, Storm?"
Even as the word slipped off his tongue, his voice did not quaver. "Death."
Chapter Thirteen
Rachael thought she had heard him wrong. But she knew she hadn't. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. "They would kill you for this?"
He took her trembling hand in his and led her in the direction of the mission as if she were a lost child. The plan was to circumnavigate Broken Horn and his men and head for the village. "There are many meanings to our words."
"No." She pulled on his hand, angry that he would accept such retribution so easily. "No, Storm. There's only one meaning. Dead. Cold. Six feet under the ground." She held onto his bare forearm, forcing him to halt. "You can't go back and let them kill you. You have to run while you have the chance. You have to get far from here before Broken Horn discovers what you've done!"
"Shhh," Storm Dancer soothed. "Your voice can carry for miles. Now come. We must hurry. I want to be far from the mission before my brother arrives."
When Storm walked off, Rachael had no choice but to follow. Or did she?
It suddenly occurred to her that she could have asked Father Drake for asylum. She could have told the priest what had happened to her—how she'd been captured and then forced to marry Storm Dancer to save her own life. But would he have believed her? She appeared willing enough when she'd entered the mission with Storm.
And then of course he was Storm's friend. Would he have helped her if she'd asked, against Storm's will? Storm had made it clear that he would not permit her to leave him.
Rachael stood on the game path twisting her moccasin in the dirt in indecision. If she turned and ran, she might reach the priests before Storm could catch her. She could go with them to the fort and perhaps a soldier could help her get back to Philadelphia.
Or perhaps she could die in some fort in the middle of the wilderness. Even with the priests for protection, what would be the chance of her escaping a fort full of soldiers with her maidenhead intact? At least the Mohawks had not harmed her in that way. Dory had said they thought it was bad medicine.
Storm Dancer turned back to Rachael. "Come, Wife. Why do you stand there?" He signaled with his hand for her to hurry.
Rachael bit down on her lower lip. She wanted to go home to Philadelphia, didn't she? But what were her chances if she ran now? Slim. She looked up at Storm Dancer who seemed to sense her dilemma. He had made no move toward her, yet even in the dim light of the coming dawn she could see his muscles tense. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his knife in his belt. Would he kill her rather than lose her? Perhaps . . .
"Rachael." His voice was strained. "Rachael, I said come." This time it was an order.
She dared to look over her shoulder. Though the priests and children had disappeared from sight, she could still hear their footsteps.
She looked back at Storm Dancer.
"You gave me you word that you would not run if I brought you with me. I have trusted you, Rachael-wife."
Her lower lip trembled. She still didn't know what to do. Storm Dancer said he was going to die. He said they would kill him for what he had done here tonight. She'd be a fool to walk back into that Mohawk village if her protector was going to be put to death.
"You said they will kill you." Her voice trembled, but only slightly. "Where does that leave me?"
"I said that if I am found guilty, I will be sentenced to death . . . the walking death."
"I don't understand what you're talking about." She brushed away the hair that stuck to her perspiring forehead. "You have to talk so I can make sense of it. I don't understand this Indian gibberish." She was trying not to cry, but she could feel the tears welling up in her throat.
"The walking death. Banishment. If I am found guilty and am sentenced, I would become dead to my Mohawk brothers and sisters forever."
She laughed without humor. "They just pretend you're dead?"
"There is no pretending. Their eyes will no longer see me. Their ears no longer hear my voice. Their hand will no longer feel mine when we touch. I will be banished forever from the village, from my family, from my way of life."
Rachael stared at Storm Dancer as he approached her. His face was etched with pain, and perhaps even fear. The realization of what he had done abruptly hit her. In a moment's time she forgot the priests and her chance to escape. Suddenly there was only her and Storm Dancer.
Knowing he would face banishment, Storm Dancer had come to the mission to save an old man and some half-breed orphans. In saving these few forgotten children he had sacrificed all he loved.
Rachael reached out to her husband. "Storm. Storm, I'm so sorry." Tears slipped down her cheeks as she raised her arms to embrace him. "Why did you do it if you knew they were going to banish you?"
"Because I had to," he whispered resolutely as he smoothed back her hair and kissed her cheek.
She shook her head. "Then why go back to the village? I don't understand. We should run. Go far from here. Far from these evils."
"Run? Run where? This is my home. I am Mohawk. My ancestors have lived on this lake since the beginning of time. I have no other home."
"What about others from your tribe?" She grasped wildly for answers. "You could just go to another village."
"No." He spoke calmly as if it was another man he spoke of rather than himself. "Word of banishment travels quickly. I will be welcome nowhere among my people. To be banished is to be dead and yet not dead. It is a punishment worse than death."
"You could go back to Philadelphia with me."
"And what then, Wife, live with you and your Gifford? Perhaps I could be his manservant?"
"No, of course not. That's not what I meant. We could think of something. Perhaps . . . perhaps you could work for my brother, Thomas, on one of his ships."
He kissed her forehead, seemingly amused. "I do not belong among white men. I could not survive."
The truth of his words stung. He really had nowhere to go. "So you will face the council?"
"Every man is due a fair trial. I will tell the council my reasons. I will try to make them understand one final time what Broken Horn is doing, not
just to the English but to us as a village, as a nation of men."
"Will they listen?"
Storm Dancer ran his fingers through Rachael's dark hair. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "They have not listened before, but perhaps this time they will. I cannot believe that my father would approve of the killing of innocent children . . . ever."
Rachael lifted up on her toes and kissed Storm Dancer on the mouth as a wife would kiss her husband.
"What was that for?" He slipped his hands around her waist, surprised by her gesture.
"I don't know." She looked up into his onyx eyes wondering how she possibly could have fallen in love with a savage. When had it happened? Just a moment ago? Sometime in the last weeks? Or was it the night Broken Horn had led her into the village and she had first laid eyes on Storm Dancer of the Mohawks? "I kissed you because you are a good man . . . Husband."
His mouth softened into a bittersweet smile as he pressed his lips to hers. This time the kiss was deep and filled with urgency.
"Let me love you," Storm Dancer whispered, his voice husky with desire for her. "Let me take you in my arms here beneath the sycamores and make love to you as a husband should a wife."
The words were on the tip of her tongue before she could think. "Yes," she murmured desperately. "Yes, love me, Storm."
Rachael knew it made no sense to give her virginity to this wild savage who called her wife. Without her virginity how could she ever go back to Philadelphia and pick up her life where she left off? Yet her virginity was the one gift she could give to only one man in a lifetime, and it was Storm Dancer she wanted to give that gift to. No matter what happened in the future, whether Storm died, whether she went home to Philadelphia, she would always have these few moments to treasure and the knowledge that she had given to Storm of her own free will . . . out of love for him.
He kissed her gently again and again, his hands stroking her through the thin leather skirt and bodice until she was lost in a flood of sensation. He crooned soft words of encouragement, words Rachael did not understand, yet found stirring.
Everything seemed to happen so quickly. The sound of the wind and the rustle of the trees faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of Storm's voice and her own labored breathing. Rachael saw nothing but Storm, she heard nothing but his husky voice, she tasted nothing but the sweet taste of his mouth on hers.
When he eased her to a soft bed of summer grass, she was barely aware of it. All that mattered were the emotions that had been building inside her since that first night she had laid eyes on him.
When his capable hands unlaced her leather bodice she lay quietly watching him, waiting in tense anticipation until his mouth touched the bud of her breast. She cried out in the sweet morning air, overcome by joy and sorrow in the same breath.
When Storm kissed her again it was hard and demanding, a kiss that left them both breathless, wanting more. Rachael's hands glided over his corded muscles as she explored every ripple and plane of his sun-bronzed skin.
"I never imagined," she whispered. "I never imagined it could be like this."
He kissed her cheek and his mouth brushed her ear, his breath sending hot tingles of desire through her limbs. "I have wanted to love you, my wife, since that first night you appeared in the village. All of this time I have wanted to take you in my arms and show you what a woman as beautiful as you was meant for."
She pushed his quilled vest off his shoulders, her innocent fingers skimming over his back and buttocks in exploration.
"So sweet," Storm Dancer murmured, pushing the hair back off her face so that he could drink in her blue-eyed gaze.
Rachael touched the leather thong of his loincloth. "Take it off," she heard herself say. "I promise I won't turn away, not this time."
Her smokey blue-eyed gaze was filled with hunger. He wanted to take her now hard and fast, and yet at the same moment he wanted to prolong her pleasure indefinitely. "How is it," he asked as he slipped the leather thong from his hips, "that in losing all, I have gained everything?"
Rachael didn't know what he was talking about. She didn't care. Rather than frightening her, the sight of his engorged shaft made her breath go short and her flesh quiver with want of him.
Suddenly he was touching her again, his experienced broad hands seeming to know her body better than she ever had. He made her sigh, then moan as he stroked her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
The first time his fingers brushed her woman's place beneath her skirt, instinctively she tensed. But he stretched over her, kissing her softly, promising to go slowly . . . promising pleasure.
The sound of his voice and the touch of his inviting lips calmed her fears. Gradually she relaxed, letting the newfound pleasure taunt her senses until she was again lost in the pleasure of her husband's caress.
Intuitively, Rachael found herself pressing against Storm, wanting to feel his hard, flat muscles against her soft curves. When he eased over her, she parted her legs, wanting him, needing him.
"I . . . I don't know how," she confessed.
He silenced her with a tender kiss. "It is a husband's duty to show his wife the act of loving. Above all gifts this is greatest."
Rachael moved up and down against his hips, feeling his hardened manhood touching her, stroking her in just the right place. She threaded her fingers through his midnight hair, moaning as he caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged gently.
"Please, Storm, please," she murmured. "It hurts." She laughed, throwing back her head, sighing. "No, it feels so wonderful."
He smiled, reveling in her pleasure as he gently guided his way into her.
At the first thrust, Rachael gasped. But Storm pressed himself against her, cradling her. Barely inside her, he kissed her chin, her cheek, her trembling lips. "There will be only a little pain," he whispered. "But then never again. Only pleasure, ki-ti-hi. I promise you."
When he slowly began to move, she moved with him, cautiously at first, then with more confidence.
By the light of the dawn Storm Dancer thrust again and again. He wanted to make Rachael's first time memorable, yet he could feel his body growing impatient. It had been so long since he had loved.
"Rachael," he whispered in her ear. "Rachael, Wife."
She moved faster beneath him, unsure of what she sought and yet knowing the direction. Faster and faster they moved as one until suddenly Rachael cried out in ultimate pleasure.
Storm Dancer followed an instant behind her, driving home and reaching his own fulfillment.
Rachael panted heavily, amazed, in awe of what had just happened. Her Aunt Geraldine had told her of relations between a man and a woman, but she had not spoken of pleasure, only of duty and necessity.
Rachael hugged Storm Dancer tightly. She could still feel him inside her, making her giddy. He lifted himself up on one elbow and kissed her on the lips. It was the kiss of a butterfly's wings, soft and fleeting. "Sealed," he told her, his voice still husky with spent passion. "A marriage truly sealed in the heavens."
She smiled pushing back his hair so that she could get a better look at his bronze face. "Had I known it would have been like this I'd have demanded my wifely rights sooner."
He laughed, rolling off her and onto his side. "Would you have believed me if I had told you?"
"No." She smiled back. In the time they had spent making love the sun had risen and now soft rays of golden light poured through the trees, bathing their faces in warmth. She reached out to stroke his high-boned cheek. "But I thank you."
He took her hand and kissed the pad of each finger. "I would like to lay here beneath the father elms for days," he told her. "Among my mother's people there are days after marriage when a man and a woman spend time alone learning to give each other pleasure." He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "I wish we could have that time. But we must go. My brother and his men grow near."
Rachael's eyes went wide and she bolted upright. She covered her breasts with her hands. "You
hear them? Why didn't you say anything?" She slipped on her bodice and fumbled with the ties. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We are safe. I can hear them only when I press my ear to the ground." He stood and offered his hand to help her up. When she was standing, he pushed aside her nervous hands and began to deftly lace her leather bodice. "There is still time to pass by my brother and his men without them knowing."
She shook her head. "This was dangerous. We shouldn't have—I shouldn't have—"
Storm Dancer caught her chin and kissed her soundly. "It was the right moment. You knew. I knew. Had my brother passed by a hand's breath from this spot, I do not think he would have known we were here. There is a powerful magic that protects love."
Rachael reached for her skirt and wrapped it around her waist. Love? Was he saying he loved her, or was he speaking of the act? He had admitted he wanted her many times, but there had never been an admission of love. Had he just told her he loved her in his man's way?
Rachael brushed the grass and leaves from her hair. She didn't know what Storm meant. She didn't know anything except that they had to get out of here, and quickly. Right now there wasn't time to worry about feelings. Now was a time for action. Storm Dancer needed to make it back to the village to speak with the elders of the council before Broken Horn returned.
Dressed, she reached for the knapsack that had been thrown carelessly to the ground in their ardor. Storm Dancer was dressed and ready to go.
He slung his quiver over his broad shoulder and picked up his bow. "Come, Wife. Walk beside me and let us go to the village."
Rachael stepped up to him and side by side they pressed for home.
Broken Horn swore in Mohawk and then in English. He stood in the light of early morning staring up at the fortressed walls of the St. Regents Mission. Not only had Father Drake escaped, but to add to the insult, he had left the gate open as if welcoming Broken Horn. The sly old bastard had known they were coming, but how?
Two Crows loped up to Broken Horn, his war club in his hand. "There is no one here," he said in Iroquois.
"I told you we would not find a living creature." Broken Horn pulled back his mouth in a frown. "Even the mangy dog has fled."
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