Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

"Let . . . let me escort you inside, Lady Langston."

  "No, no thank you," she said firmly. "I'd rather go alone. You understand?" She didn't want to sound ungrateful, on the other hand, she wanted no audience when she came face-to-face with Gifford. What she had to say to that man was for his ears and his alone.

  Just then the front door swung open. After assuming Gifford was dead all these months, Rachael thought she should feel some sense of relief to see him alive. After all, he was the man she'd once thought she'd loved. But as she looked at him standing tall and handsome in the morning sunlight, she felt no relief, no joy, only burning rage.

  Gifford swept off his scarlet cocked hat. "I say there, John Calmary, what are you— Holy God!"

  The woman coming out of the door behind him clamped her hand over mouth with a gasp as she reached for Gifford for support. She was an attractive woman with yellow-blond hair and billowing lemon yellow skirts with a matching bonnet. She was obviously several years older than Gifford, trying to look several years younger.

  Rachael stood on the cobblestone sidewalk in her Indian garb looking up at Gifford with a wide-eyed, aggressive stare.

  "R . . . Rachael?"

  "Gifford . . . She smiled the smile one uses when facing her opponent. Her voice was as smooth as silk and laced with razor-edged steel.

  "Sweet Jesus!" He looked from John Calmary to the woman clutching his lace sleeve and back at Rachael again.

  For a moment Rachael thought he might faint. Obviously he had assumed she died the night he left her alone in the woods to defend herself against Broken Horn. Obviously he had assumed he would never see her again. Obviously by walking into his life like this, she had set a few matters askew.

  Suddenly Gifford snapped into action and came running down the steps. He threw his arms around Rachael like a long lost lover would and pulled her tightly against him. "Praise God, you're alive, dear wife!"

  "Wife!" she murmured so that only he could hear her. "Wife, Gifford? I don't recall becoming your wife. "

  He pulled back, holding her shoulders, pretending not to have heard her. "I can't believe you're alive. My prayers have been answered!"

  "I found her wandering along the roadway," John Calmary offered with an air of importance. "The poor woman was nearly out of her head. Lucky I came along, 'else I don't know what would have come of her, Viscount."

  "Bless you, John Calmary! I will forever be indebted to you. Should you ever need my assistance—"

  "Enough of the socializing," Rachael interrupted. "I'll have a word with you inside, Husband," she intoned. "Now."

  "God in heaven!" Gifford proclaimed. "I've got to get her inside before she collapses!" he apologized to John. He tried to put his arms around Rachael but she shrugged him off.

  "Inside, Gifford," she repeated.

  "My apologies." Gifford looked up at John Calmary. "Please excuse us. My wife has been through a terrible ordeal. She's not herself."

  "I understand fully, Viscount," John answered, still standing in the same spot on the cobblestone walk watching them.

  Gifford tried to take Rachael's hand to lead her inside, but she pulled away. "I've gotten this far on my own, I think I can make into the house, don't you?" she asked, unable to control the sarcasm in her voice.

  Gifford stepped inside the front door with Rachael following. The blond woman he had been leaving the house with stood in the hallway, her eyes riveted on Gifford. "Your wife? Your wife has returned? I thought you said she was dead," she said through clenched teeth, speaking about Rachael as if she weren't present.

  "I thought she was dead," Gifford responded carefully. "But she isn't. Thank the Good Lord she's alive and well." He clapped his hands. "Margaret!"

  His bedraggled housekeeper came wandering down the hall, obviously in no hurry to respond to her master's call. "Yeah, Viscount. I'm comin'." When she looked up she gave a gasp and threw up three fingers to ward off evil. "Holy hell, she's come back to haunt ye, Viscount. She's been reincarnated as an Injun!"

  "No, no Rachael hasn't come back to haunt me, Margaret. Now, stop being ridiculous. You'll have the entire household in an uproar. Lady Langston's been rescued. My dear wife has been rescued from the savages. Now have someone start a bath for her and prepare her room. We'll put her straight to bed of course."

  "Bed?" Rachael lifted an eyebrow. "I think not." She grasped Gifford's arm tightly and pointed down the hall toward his study. "I think we have some matters to discuss, don't you?" She looked over her shoulder at the woman still standing in the hallway staring. Rachael smiled sweetly, wondering just how long Gifford had waited before bringing the tart into his house. "You'll excuse us, of course?"

  "Gifford!" the woman cried. "Gifford, I wish to speak to you immediately."

  "Not now, Jesslyn."

  "Gifford . . . "

  "Not now!" he barked sharply as he walked down the hallway and pushed open the door to his study. Rachael passed him and stepped into the room. "We're not to be disturbed, Margaret, not by anyone for any reason. Make tea and leave it outside the door."

  Margaret followed them down the hallway, muttering to herself about how perhaps Rachael was a haunt and she was the only one that suspected it.

  The minute Gifford closed the study door, Rachael turned on him. "Your wife?" She tried hard to control her rage. "You told everyone we were married and that I was dead?"

  He plucked off his befeathered cocked hat and set it down on the cherry sideboard. He reached for a glass. "Rachael love, let me—"

  "How could you have done such a thing?" She was shocked, though she didn't know why. This was certainly not beyond Gifford. But what would possess him to make up such lies. Why would he do it? For the sympathy? Perhaps. She supposed he had gotten a great deal of attention after escaping an Iroquois Indian capture. . . . Perhaps the fact that he had lost his wife just added to the story. But perhaps he had ulterior motives. Not that it mattered, because it didn't. Whatever Gifford had said or done in the past made no difference in her life now. She would get her money and she would leave him with his lies.

  Gifford poured himself a more than healthy portion of brandy, his hand shaking so badly that the glass clinked as he tried to pour from the bottle. "You must let me explain."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. She despised having to even stand in the same room with him, and this one of all rooms. She had always hated this room with its dark paneled walls and cases of dead butterflies pinned to boards and enclosed in glass. All she wanted was to get away from here. To go home to the village. To be with Storm Dancer and their little son.

  She looked him squarely in the eye. "I want no explanations. I want my dowry money. I want to see my brother and then I'll go."

  She watched him as he took a long swallow of his brandy. He was still as handsome in a boyish sort of way as she had remembered him, though his hairline had receded a good deal. He was dressed in an obviously expensive scarlet brocaded coat and breeches with a laced stock shirt and clocked stockings. On his feet he wore a pair of scarlet heeled shoes. She wondered absently if he knew how utterly ridiculous he truly looked.

  "You . . . you want your dowry?" He took another gulp of the fiery liquid. "But, love, now that you've returned we can go on with our life as planned. Our home is done." He looked up anxiously. "You'll love it, truly you will."

  "Gifford." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You listen and you listen well. I am not the woman you left to die in the forest at the hands of a brutal savage. I will not play your games any longer, and I will not be manipulated by your sweet hollow words. I want my money. You give it to me and I'll walk out of here. I don't care what you tell people—that we were married, or we weren't, or that I was eaten by savages. It matters not. I just want what was rightfully mine and I want it now."

  He set down his glass and pulled a lacy orange-water scented handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his perspiring forehead. His eyes were darting back and forth like those of a caged rodent. "And where
are you going to go with this money?" he asked, taking the defensive. "No man will have you after what you've endured among the savages." He flung out his hand. "Look at you. You look so much like them, I thought you were one when I first laid eyes on you!"

  "Not that it's your affair, but I have married now and have a child." She smiled proudly. "I have married Storm Dancer, brother to Broken Horn."

  "They forced you?"

  She shook her head. "I married Storm of my own free will . . . because I loved him."

  "A red nigger." He laughed. "You married one of those futtering heathens when you would not marry me?" He looked up at her for a moment as if he thought she had lost her mind, but when he saw the steady gaze in her eyes, he knew she had not. She was entirely serious. He paused for a split second, then spoke. "All right, Rachael, all right." He lifted his hand, the handkerchief fluttering. "Let me go see about sending for the funds and then we'll see what we can do. It may take some time."

  "I'm not jesting with you, Gifford. You give me my money or I'll tell everyone what you did. I'll tell them how you left me to be tortured and killed. Then how popular will you be? Who will want to come to your parties then?"

  He backed up toward the door. "I'll be right back. Just wait for me."

  She gave a nod, and turned toward the window to look out on the garden. She tried to ignore the cases of butterflies that adorned the walls of his study. She tried to ignore their motionless bodies and sightless eyes. She wrinkled her nose. The room smelled musty and dank. There was a hint of the scent of preservative in the still air.

  Gifford closed the paneled study door behind him and leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut.

  "What the bloody hell is going on here?" Jesslyn came down the hall.

  Gifford looked up. His fiancée had removed her traveling cloak and hat. He could see she was damned furious. He touched his lips with his finger. "Shh, or she'll hear you!"

  "You lyin' son of a bitch!" She slapped him across the cheek, leaving a red palm print. "You said she was dead. I gave you all of that damned money of my father's to finish that bloody house and now you've already got a wife?"

  He massaged his cheek as he went down the hallway toward the winter kitchen. "I'll take care of it, Jesslyn."

  "Take care of it? Take care of a wife? You swore you would marry me!"

  "And I will." He felt calmer now. He had a plan. A plan that could work. This could be handled. He need not lose face among his friends he need not lose Jesslyn and all her father's money. He just had to remain calm and do what had to be done. "Jesslyn, I want you to go home."

  "Go home! If you think—"

  He whipped around and caught her by a lock of stiff bleached blond hair. "Are you listening to me?"

  She grabbed his hand. "Ouch, you bastard. You're hurting me!"

  He brought his face inches from hers, his upper lip curling in dissatisfaction. "Now you go home to your father and you stay there until I call for you, do you understand me?" He released her.

  She rubbed her forehead to ease the pain of her pulled hair. "What are you going to do? Tell me. Just how are you going to fix this mess?"

  "Go home now!"

  "Very well, but I'll not wait long." She tried to smooth her hair. "I'm warning you, you futter this up and you'll regret it, Viscount Gifford Langston. I swear to God you will. I'll see you a pauper on the street!"

  A few minutes later Gifford entered his study with a tray of tea and cakes from the kitchen. He was smiling now, once again in control of himself. "I've sent for the funds."

  "The goldsmith is coming?"

  "It's being taken care of, Rachael." He set down the tea tray. "It will only be a little while."

  She turned away from the window. "Have you heard from Thomas? Do you know where he is? I'd like to see him before I go."

  Gifford poured a cup of tea and offered it to her.

  She took it though she didn't know why, politeness she supposed.

  He drew in a breath. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Rachael love but . . . "

  "But what?" He offered her a plate of cakes, but she shook her head. "What Gifford? What's happened to Thomas?"

  He lowered his head. "Drowned at sea. Just after we were captured I'm afraid."

  Rachael looked away, tears pooling in her eyes. Her brother never knew she was safe, then. He would never know of the happiness she had found with Storm Dancer and her life among the Lenni Lenape. She took a deep sip of the tea. It had been overly sweetened and tasted bitter, but she drank it anyway.

  "Where was he when it happened?"

  "Good God, somewhere in the Indies, I think." Gifford poured himself another brandy. "The entire ship went down. All hands lost." He made a clicking sound between his teeth. "A terrible tragedy."

  She nodded and changed the subject. She didn't want to think about Thomas now. It hurt too much. She had to be able to concentrate on the reason she was here. "The woman—who is she?"

  "A friend."

  "You're a poor liar." She finished the tea and set the handless china cup back on the tray. "Who is she really?"

  He poured her more tea and handed her the cup. "Why God's bowels, you couldn't expect me to become celibate!"

  "She's your whore?" Rachael sipped the tea in her hand, feeling a little dizzy. She didn't like the closeness of the walls and the wood floor felt strange beneath her moccasined feet. The room suddenly seemed stifling. "I think not. Your wife?" She smiled. "Have you married again, Gifford, love? And of course the next question would be, does she know you're married?"

  He laughed . . . "Witty. You were always so witty, Rachael, in an unflattering sort of way." He was watching her closely now as he sipped his brandy. His voice sounded more confident than it had a few minutes ago . . . almost cocky. "Jesslyn is my fiancée. When I lost you to the Iroquois, I of course had to find another woman to serve as my hostess."

  Rachael's tongue suddenly felt as if it were swollen and glued to the roof of her mouth. She was having a difficult time forming words with her mouth. "I . . . it makes no difference to me. Honestly it d . . . doesn't."

  "Rachael love, are you all right?" He offered his hand when she swayed.

  She blinked and reached to set down the teacup. When she released it, it hit the floor and shattered. She had missed the tray by a good arm's length. She looked up at Gifford in confusion. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She was suddenly sick to her stomach and the room was spinning. She touched her forehead. It felt cool and damp. "I . . . I'm feeling a little faint. I'm not used to being inside like this anymore." She inhaled deeply. "If you could just open a window."

  He grasped her arm.

  The room was spinning faster now, the dead butterflies in their cases whirling around her. "I . . . I have to go . . . I . . . I'll come back . . . I . . . want my husband." Her lower lip trembled. She was suddenly terribly frightened. "I want Storm . . . "

  "There, there, it's just all the excitement, love, Margaret!" Gifford bellowed. "We'll just tuck you into bed so you can get some rest."

  "No." She tried to shake her head, but it hurt. "I want to go home now."

  "Margaret!" Gifford patted Rachael, holding her up by her shoulders. "But you are home, love, and you'll be fine with a few days' rest."

  Margaret stuck her head in the door, but upon seeing Rachael, half draped in Gifford's arms, she came running. "What happened to her?"

  "Lady Langston's taken ill, Margaret. I want you to make a bed up for her and . . . "

  Rachael could hear Gifford and Margaret talking, but they seemed far away. She felt a sense of panic and blind fear. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't move. She wanted to cry out, to call for Storm Dancer, but her vocal cords wouldn't respond. Please help me, she thought as she felt herself lose her balance and fall as she descended into blackness. Someone help me!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Storm Dancer crouched beside the firepit he had prepared in anticipation of Rachael's return but
had not yet lit. He looked up at the rising moon, guessing the time. Midnight . . .

  Midnight, and still Rachael had not returned. When dusk came and she had not appeared, he told himself it was simply taking her longer to get the money than she'd anticipated—or perhaps she had stayed to sup with the brother Thomas who she would never see again. But then darkness had fallen and still she had not returned.

  Storm clenched his fists and shook it at the waning moon that hung high above his head. "Where are you?" he demanded. His voice echoed in the treetops before it melded with the sounds of the night forest and grew into silence. "Where are you, my love, my wife? Are you hurt? Did you die along a roadway?" He took a deep breath. "Or have you betrayed me?"

  The thought had not even occurred to him until he had said the words aloud. Rachael would not do that to him, not to him and their son Ka-we-ras, who waited for them back at the Lenni Lenape village. She would not have pretended these months since Ta-wa-ne's death to be content. She would not have deceived him in her promise to never leave his side. Or would she?

  He sprang up to flex his tight calves, wondering how long he had crouched waiting. Hours.

  Was he a fool? Had he been betrayed?

  What if Gif-ford Langston the coward had somehow miraculously survived his escape and made it back to Philadelphia? Rachael had been so adamant about the fact that he was dead that Storm had not really broached the subject, but what if? What if he had lured her into his home with the promise of fancy trappings and a life of luxury and ease? What if he had convinced Rachael that an Iroquois turned Lenni Lenape brave was unworthy of her? What if all along she had planned to have Storm Dancer take her to Philadelphia, only to remain in the city and return to the meaningless life she had once had. What if she had only pretended to care enough about his people to offer them her dowry to use to finance their journey west?

  For a long time Storm Dancer paced around in the small clearing, watching the moon move across the clear night sky. He waited hour after hour, hoping against hope that his wife would appear with a logical explanation. But she didn't. All night Storm Dancer wrestled with the feeling of betrayal he felt creeping under his skin. He felt like a fool. He had loved Rachael more than he had loved Ta-wa-ne. Why had he not learned with the first wife? Why had he allowed himself to be deceived by a woman of even greater beauty, of greater intelligence? A white woman no less! Had his brother Broken Horn been more correct in his opinion of women than Storm Dancer cared to admit?