"I . . . I have to get back to camp," Rachael managed, trying not to let the sound of her fear affect her voice. "My . . . my husband is expecting me."
"Husband is she, that fat-assed redhead tendin' the camp? Funny lookin' husband if you ask me. What do think on the matter, Beau?"
"Funny lookin' husband, fat-assed redhead," the man behind Rachael echoed.
Rachael rested her hand on her waist and slowly let it slide until her fingers touched the hilt of her knife. There was nowhere to go. She looked sideways out of the corners of her eyes, but the underbrush was so thick that she knew she'd not get far.
Suddenly Reuben made a quick move forward. Rachael leaped back, right into the arms of the one called Beauregard. She screamed, flailing her knife. She felt it meet resistance and there was a howl of pain.
Even in the darkness of the moonless evening she could see the black stain of blood on her attacker's cheek.
"Let go!" She screamed, but the sound was muffled as the big man behind her slapped his dirty hand over her mouth and lifted her off the ground. He stank of gunpowder, sour sweat, and grum.
Rachael struggled, kicking her legs and twisting. Anything to get free. Reuben clawed her knife from her, cutting her palm in the process. She sobbed beneath the grimy hand as her only defense was yanked from her fingers.
"Nice knife," Reuben muttered, tilting his cocked hat to get a better look. "Injun knife. Sharp sucker."
"Sharp sucker," Beauregard repeated as he twisted a soiled cloth around Rachael's mouth and tied it so tight that she could only breathe out of her nose.
"Got her tied?"
Beauregard yanked her hands behind her back and whipped a piece of rawhide binding her wrists. Next he tied her ankles together. "Got her tied."
"Well then, don't just stand there, Beauregard." Reuben slapped his partner on the temple. "Let's get our tails out of here. Now that we got ourselves a woman, we won't be so lonely in that stinking cabin of yours come winter. You can do the trapping, friend, and I can tend to more homey pleasures."
"Got ourselves a woman," her captor snickered as he lifted Rachael and threw her over his shoulder like a rag doll.
Hanging upside down over the big brute's shoulder, it was all Rachael could do to keep her head about her. Her stomach turned inside out and her mind spun in confusion as the man ran through the forest, his footsteps pounding the ground, jolting her with every step.
Oh, dear God, how could I have been so stupid? Rachael thought in agony as she gritted her teeth. How could I have let this happen? If I hadn't been so stupid! If I hadn't stomped out of camp . . .
But surely Storm would come looking for me. He said he wouldn't let me go, not matter what. So even if he didn't love me, I'm still his wife. He'd still come for me, wouldn't he, she thought desperately.
Please, Rachael begged in silence. Please come for me, Storm, and I swear I won't leave you, not ever, Husband. I swear it!
Chapter Sixteen
Storm Dancer stood by the edge of the river for several minutes after Rachael stalked off. He watched the way the smooth surface of the water rippled with skating water bugs, then broke into circles as fish came up to claim their meals.
Storm twisted his jaw in thought. He knew he had made the right decision in not taking Rachael back to Philadelphia. She was his wife and she was bound by the vows of marriage to remain at his side. Taking her to the place she once called home would be giving her the chance to leave him, to perhaps even run into the arms of the coward, Gifford. Storm had had one wife abandon him; he wouldn't tolerate it from another.
Yet he knew deep in his heart that he didn't have the right to compare his first wife Ta-wa-ne to Rachael. He didn't even have the right to speak their names in the same breath. It was too great a dishonor to Rachael.
He thought about what Rachael had just said. She had spoken of choices. She had said she wanted only to be permitted to make her own decision to stay with him. But what if he took her to the place called Philadelphia and she changed his mind? What if she left him just as Ta-wa-ne had left him? Ta-wa-ne's absence had caused injury only to his pride, but to lose Rachael would be to tear a part of his beating heart from his chest.
Storm turned toward the direction she had run. He could not take her to Philadelphia, but perhaps he could make her understand why.
Leaving his fish on the bank, Storm picked up his bow and quiver and hurried back to the camp. He found Dory sitting alone by a newborn campfire. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice tense. It had grown dark and the thought that she was in the forest alone concerned him.
Dory looked up from the corn mush she was mixing. "'Bout time you come lookin' for her." She pointed. "She done strutted off that way sayin' she was headed for Philadelphia. I didn't tell her she was goin' the wrong way."
Without another word he started in the same direction, following the obvious tracks Rachael had made in her haste to be rid of him. Storm Dancer had not gone but a few hundred strides when he came to the place where she had been captured. An English curse slipped from his tongue as he knelt to study the signs that were but a few minutes old. Stretching once again to his full height, he stared through the darkness in the direction the two man carrying Rachael had gone. He prayed that she was unhurt both for her sake and for that of her captors. After another moment of contemplation he took off in an easy run, certain he would catch up with the kidnappers in a matter of minutes.
Storm Dancer leapt out of the darkness like an apparition in a dreaded nightmare. He let out a piercing whoop of terror that frightened even Rachael who knew who he was.
It was astounding to her that one moment she was alone with her captors in the oppressive, dark forest and the next moment Storm Dancer was there, all power and muscle, his nude bronze body gleaming in the little natural light of nightfall. Even in the darkness she could see the gleam of danger in his pitch black eyes as he notched an arrow in his bow.
Rachael's captor, Beauregard gave an involuntary cry of fear and stumbled backward with her still slung over his shoulder. An arrow flew from Storm Dancer's bow and whistled through the air stripping leaves from the branches of the trees above the kidnappers' heads.
Reuben managed to fall on one knee and discharge his musket, but he was so taken off guard by the appearance of the naked whooping savage that his weapon fired uselessly into the treetops, expending his only bullet.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, I've pissed my drawers!" Reuben cursed, his voice shaking, as he fumbled with his powder box. "Shoot the bastard, Beauregard, shoot him!"
Another well-aimed arrow whizzed through the air, striking a tree trunk only inches above Beauregard's head. They were striking closer with calculated intention. The giant of a man dumped Rachael into the brush and attempted to raise his musket.
The moment Rachael hit the leafy ground she rolled, pushing herself to her feet. Still tied, she couldn't run, but she had the good sense to dive for cover as another of Storm Dancer's arrows pierced the air. With each arrow he let out a blood curdling cry and it was the sound of his voice that seemed to terrorize the two men even more than the onslaught of feathered arrows.
Beauregard pulled the trigger of his musket, but it misfired, kicking him backward with a cloud of smoke.
Reuben threw a glance over his shoulder at his partner reeling backward under the impact of the misfire. "Jesus H. Christ, Beauregard! We're going to be skinned!"
"Skinned!" Beauregard echoed as he pushed onto his feet.
The next arrow lifted Reuben's battered felt hat off his balding head, drawing a rattling scream from his throat. Rachael inched her way behind a large tree trunk and peered out from behind.
In the dim light she spied Storm notching another arrow with quick fluid motions and for a moment Rachael forgot her fear. It was like watching some ancient, mystic dance to see Storm Dancer slip an arrow from his quiver, notch it, pull, release, and reach for another. There was no break in his movement, no beginning or end to the cycle, ju
st a deadly dance.
Neither Beauregard nor Reuben had managed to reload their muskets. Beauregard had lost his when he fell. Now both men stood in stark terror, without cover or weapon, staring at the naked red man who held another arrow steadily on them.
"One . . . one of us has time to make it, Beau, old friend," Reuben insisted under his breath. "You . . . you cover for me and I . . . I'll give it a try."
"Like hell!" Beauregard shouted the first original words Rachael had heard out of his mouth as he made a dive for the thick camouflage of a clump of mulberry bushes.
The moment Reuben realized he'd been abandoned by his partner, he fled after him, his long legs pumping as hard as they could.
Rachael watched as the two men disappeared into the darkness of the forest, making so much noise as they ran that they sounded like an army.
Another moment passed before Storm lowered his bow and called out softly. "Wife?"
With the gag around her mouth, Rachael could only make a garbled sound, but she moved against the tree, rustling branches so that Storm could find her.
Slinging his bow onto his shoulder he came through the trees and brushed back the hickory limbs that hid her from view.
"Ki-ti-hi, are you hurt?"
She shook her head. Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him, so thankful he had come for her. She wondered how she could love him so deeply, want him so badly, and yet still resent him so much.
He knelt and reached behind her head to cut away the filthy gag with his knife.
"Oh, Storm, I was afraid you wouldn't come looking for me after what I said," she rushed. "I was afraid they were going to carry me away. I—"
He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her, brushing his lips against hers to silence her. "You should not have run. I like it better when you stand and fight, Wife."
"I'm sorry. It was wrong. It was childish."
"Enough talk," he soothed as he carried her into the small clearing where the men had fought and began to cut away her bindings.
Rachael rubbed her raw wrists as he cut the ties that held her ankles together. "I don't know where they came from! I never heard them until they were suddenly there. It was so stupid of me not to hear them coming."
"Shhh," he hushed, rubbing her chafed ankles. "They are gone, Rachael and you are safe."
"Who were they? What were they doing out here?"
"The closer we get to the world of the white man, the more evil we will come upon. They were deserters of the king's army. Bad men . . . confused by war, but not dangerous."
"That's why you didn't kill them?" She looked up into his black eyes.
He nodded. "I do not kill without reason. Those men were too insignificant to waste an arrow upon." He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "They had not hurt you, had they?"
"No. Just scared me." She looked up at him anxiously. "But they said they were going to take me to their cabin. They said they—"
"You're safe," Storm Dancer assured her. "Think no more of the men."
"Safe," she murmured against his lips, suddenly intoxicated by the masculine scent of him, the closeness of his naked body, and the feel of his bare chest beneath her palm. She let her eyes drift shut as the familiar tingles of pleasure radiated from the center of her being outward . . . Suddenly her eyes flew open. "My knife! They took my knife, Storm."
His warm lips trailed over her cheek. "I will make you a new knife, a better knife, Rachael of mine."
She smiled as their lips met.
"You taste of honey," he told her, his tongue darting out to flick her upper lip, then the tip of her tongue. "A honey that sets my heart afire."
Rachael's fingers glanced over the powerful muscles of his shoulders and slid down his bare back. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth in the valley between her breasts.
Rachael arched her back, leaning into him, moaning in anticipation as his fingers found the bindings of her bodice and ripped at them. There was a desperation in their touch, an urgency in their kisses as hand flew over flesh seeking that which seemed fleeting.
"Storm," Rachael murmured as he brought the tip of her love-swollen breast between his teeth and tugged, sending pulses of pleasure through her veins. "You make me feel what I don't want to feel."
"It is not wrong between a husband and a wife," he told her, his voice thick with passion. "I have told you it is a gift of God."
She shook her head as his palms cupped the cheeks of her buttocks and massaged them rhythmically. "No, no," she insisted. "You make me love you, but I can't. You're the enemy."
"I am not." He went down on one knee kissing a hot, wet trail between her breasts across her stomach and downward. "I am not the enemy, but your husband—yesterday, today, tomorrow, and for all tomorrows."
She rolled her head, her fingers tangled in his glossy black hair. He was making it hard to think, hard to speak. "But you took me against my will. Still you hold me against my will."
"Only out of love for you do I do these things, Rachael, wife of mine."
"Love?" She caught his face between her palms and lifted his head until their gazes locked. "You have said nothing of love for me, Storm Dancer. You speak to me, of me, as if I were a possession."
He took her hand and pressed it to his bare chest so that she could feel the pounding of his life's blood. His smoldering black gaze held her in rapture as the poetic words slipped off his tongue. "You are a possession of my heart, ki-ti-hi, that I cannot give up. I have lost once; I cannot lose again."
"Tell me what happened," she begged. "Tell me about your wife so that I can understand."
He shook his head no, his lips again touching the bare flesh of her flat stomach. "To speak of her would be ill-luck. Let me forget her and love only you, Rachael. Let me love you as you should be loved."
"Yes, yes," she whispered, leaning back against the rough bark of a tree, her hands guiding him as he kissed her where she longed to be kissed.
Storm Dancer taunted her with the rough skin of his fingertips and the sweet hot tip of his tongue, until Rachael gasped for air . . . for release. And only then did he rise.
She pulled at the ties of his loincloth and was rewarded with a handful of leather. She tossed it aside and slid her hand down his taut belly. The groan that rose in his throat but did not escape his lips excited her. Slowly her fingers glided over the thatch of crispy dark hair and found what they sought. Storm Dancer inhaled sharply as Rachael touched the swollen tip of his engorged shaft. She watched the expression change on his face as his eyes fell shut and he breathed heavily. She kissed him and he responded hungrily, enraptured by her caress.
After only a few moments of stroking, he gently pushed her hand aside. "No more, sweet wife, or there will be nothing left for you."
"That would be all right," she whispered, darting out her tongue to moisten his ear. "You have done no less for me."
He shook his head. "No. I want you too much. I need to feel you, Rachael-wife."
But instead of lowering her to the ground, he lifted her in his arms and with one well-directed tilt of his hips, he sank his tumescent shaft into her. Rachael cried out with pleasure, throwing back her head as she gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into the flesh of his back. For a moment their rhythm was awkward and irregular as Rachael adjusted to this new, exhilarating position, but after only a few strokes, she seemed to find her way. She tightened her legs around Storm Dancer's waist, kissing him, stroking him, moving under the guidance of his palms cradling her buttocks.
The strength of Storm Dancer's arms and shoulders amazed her as he held her in midair, diving deeper and deeper with each thrust. Rachael felt the rough bark of the tree against her back but felt no pain, only the rhapsody of the rocking motion and the urgency that drove them faster.
Storm Dancer took his time, allowing Rachael to adjust to one rhythm only to change it again. Fast, slow, shallow, deep, he plied her with wave after wave of ecstasy, stopping each time he heard the change of p
itch in her voice and felt her muscles contract on the verge of her ultimate pleasure. Finally when he himself could prolong his own need no longer, he drove hard into her, crushing his mouth against her as together as one they reached utter, complete fulfillment.
Rachael found herself laughing and crying at the same time as Storm Dancer sank to the soft leafy ground still cradling his love in his lap. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, waiting for her breath to return to her and her heart to slow its explosive pace.
"Did you really mean it?" she asked when she could finally speak again.
"Did I mean what, ki-ti-hi?" He kissed her neck, his fingers brushing back tendrils of hair that stuck to her damp skin.
"What you said about loving me."
"You ask if I love my wife? Every man must love his wife."
"No, do you really love me?" She leaned back a little so that she could see the shadows of his face. "Would you love me if I weren't your wife? Would you love me if I were someone else's wife," she dared.
He seemed amused. "Would I love you if you were the Gifford's wife? It is too late, you are already mine."
"Hypothetical, Storm. Just tell me if I were another man's wife . . . Broken Horn's even, would you still love me?"
"It is wrong to covet that which belongs to another," he paused for the bat of an eye and then went on, "but to answer you with truth, Rachael-wife, yes I would love you if you were another man's wife. I would come and steal you from my brother's wigwam and carry you into the wilderness to make you mine. I would scale the stone wall of your Gifford's house and take you through the window. I would carry you to his gardens and lay you in a bed of rose petals where I would love you as no man could ever love you, where I could brand you mine."
She smiled. "You would do well at court with a tongue like that. You sound so sincere that I almost believe you."
"I speak only the truth. Only the truth will I ever speak to you." He kissed her lips as if to seal his vow.
She caught a lock of his crow's wing hair and fingered it thoughtfully. "You speak the truth and yet you won't tell me about your wife."
Savage Surrender Page 17