"Her husband?" he flared, half rising in his seat. "That cannot be! You must be the bastard who kidnapped her?"
Storm shook his head. "No, I was not. I love Rachael and I believe in my heart of hearts she loves me."
"My sister wouldn't marry a heathen of her own free will!"
"No." Storm Dancer held Thomas in his black-eyed gaze. "Your sister is good Christian. But I am not a heathen. I spent many years in the walls of a Jesuit mission learning your ways." He laid his palms on the rough wood of the table. "But I have not come here to speak of myself or to justify the marriage of Rachael and Storm Dancer. Ask her yourself when you speak with her."
"So what is it you want, supposed husband to my sister?" Thomas was still not entirely convinced Rachael was married to this redskin but for some odd reason, when he looked into the man's honest eyes, he thought it entirely possible.
"There is something not right here in this place of Philadelphia. My Rachael returned to collect the dowry money she said was hers. She was to return to me three days ago, yet I have not seen her face."
"Perhaps she doesn't wish to be your wife," Thomas suggested carefully. He had once again taken his seat.
"Perhaps, but if you speak the truth, I must hear the words from her own mouth."
"Why do you come to me? How did you even know who I was?"
"I saw you at the Gifford's house. I heard him speak of her illness. I saw him turn you away." Storm Dancer leaned on the table. "You have not seen my Rachael with your own eyes?"
"No." Thomas took a sip of his ale. The red man's story sounded ludicrous of course, but there was something in the tone of his voice that made him think he did know his sister . . . and that he did, indeed, love her. Could it be that his mild sister Rachael had fallen in love and married this virile savage? It was entirely possible. Thomas looked up. "What do you want from me?"
Storm Dancer noticed that he had the same sky-eyes as Rachael. "I wanted first to ask if you have seen her. You have not. I now ask if you wish to join with me. I will see her tonight. Do you come with me?"
"Gifford said he would let me in to see her tonight. Of course he's a lying little bastard too."
"If he will let you in to see her, I would ask that you tell her I wait for her in the gardens below. I would ask that you tell her that I swear on our son's life that I will not force her against her will if she does not wish to go back to our village with me. I want only to hear the words from her lips, so that I can know that she makes this choice of her own free will, that free will which has become so important to her."
Thomas took a long swig of ale. "She has a child?"
"My wife and I adopted a son this winter." He couldn't resist a smile when he thought of the toddler. "He is Ka-we-ras."
Thomas stroked his chin. "So you'll wait in the garden for her. If she's sick, how can she come to you?"
"This man is not certain she is truly sick. Perhaps she does not wish to speak with you or me. But perhaps—" Storm Dancer lifted a finger, "she has not been given that choice."
Thomas thought a few seconds longer and then nodded. He didn't know why he trusted this red man with eyes the color of pitch, but he did. "This is crazy as hell, but all right. I get in to see her tonight and I'll give her your message. What if the prick doesn't let me see her?"
"You will speak your farewell without rousing suspicion, and then you will come to the garden. We will go into the house anyway."
Thomas laughed at the absurdity of the Indian's statement. "The room she's always slept in is on the third floor. It's a flush brick wall. You can't get in a window."
Storm Dancer rose. "I will see my wife before I return to my people. I must."
Thomas stood and watched the red man take his leave. "Tonight then?" he called after him. "When?"
"When darkness falls."
Then Storm Dancer left Thomas and crossed the sawdust floor to step out of the tavern and onto the busy cobblestone street.
Darkness fell on Philadelphia as Storm Dancer crouched behind a fragrant lilac bush. As he waited for Thomas to appear at the front stoop at the designated time, he studied the brick house, which now seemed a fortress. He observed the movement in the windows and quickly surmised which ones led to the room where Rachael rested . . . or where she was being held.
Thomas was correct in saying that it would be difficult to get to the window, but it would not be impossible. While he waited, Storm stripped off his white man's clothing and took off his moccasins, so that he would have better traction with his bare feet. He had strapped his bow and quiver to his back and carried his knife tucked into the band of his leather loincloth. He had spent the afternoon prowling barns looking for any materials he thought he might need. Coiled in the grass within his grasp was a sturdy hemp rope attached to a metal hook taken from a small granary.
Storm Dancer shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, finding a comfortable position. A brave could crouch motionless for hours—a well-trained one for a day.
As Storm Dancer waited for Thomas, he allowed his thoughts to wander. What if Rachael had indeed betrayed him, what would he do then? He thought of her sweet face and the sound of her laughter on a dewy morning and his arms ached for her. The concept of being without her the rest of his days made him physically ill. He had loved her more than he had ever allowed himself to love anyone—no, he still loved her more than he loved anyone. Could he go on without her?
He would have to. He would have to return to the village, to his son, and to his people. They were waiting for him, depending upon him. Without the money Rachael was to have provided, the trek west would be difficult, but not impossible. Storm Dancer, shaman of his tribe, would take his son Ka-we-ras west and raise him to be a fine man, and Storm Dancer would not ever, ever give his heart to another woman. He would give in to Broken Horn's way of thinking and use them as he saw fit, for sex, for work, but he would never love another female as long as he lived.
Broken Horn. This was the first time he had thought of his brother in ages. Storm Dancer had become so wrapped up in his happiness with Rachael among the Lenni Lenape that he had all but forgotten the Mohawk he had once been and the brother he had once loved.
Storm Dancer could not help wondering if he was forever doomed to be betrayed by those he loved. As children he and Broken Horn had been inseparable. What had happened to draw them so far apart? What had made Broken Horn hate him so much? He wondered how his brother fared. Was he happy now that Storm Dancer was gone? Had he found that fleeting sense of peace within he had sought his entire adult life?
Footsteps on an arm's length away the cobblestone walk startled Storm Dancer. He silently chastised himself for being so lost in his thoughts as he peered through the lilac bushes. Thomas stood on the top step, his cocked hat tucked beneath his hand waiting for someone to answer Gifford's door. After repeated knocking, the housekeeper, Margaret, swung open the door; the lantern she held up illuminated a purple bruise across her cheek.
"The Honorable Thomas Moreover here to see my sister Rachael," Thomas said in a clear voice.
Margaret lowered her head. "Sorry, sir, but Lady Langston is not receivin' visitors." She spoke as if she recited what someone else had told her.
"I'm not a visitor, I'm her brother." He leaned on the door frame, trying to look inside. "If she's ill, I've a right to see her."
"I'm sorry, sir," Margaret repeated steadily. "But I'm not to let you in. Not anyone, 'else I'll catch hell."
Storm Dancer saw Thomas look the woman over, no doubt taking in consideration the fresh bruise that marked the housekeeper's plump face.
"Very well," Thomas said. "I'll not have you in trouble. I'll see Langston, then."
She shook her head. "He's not to be disturbed. I been given strict orders."
Thomas looked away, cursing a sailor's curse beneath his breath. "Can you tell me," his gaze met hers, "is she veritably ill or is he holding her prisoner."
Tears welled up in the rotund housekeeper's eyes. "She's
true sick, sir. Bad sick and gettin' worse. I tried everything. One minute she seems like she's comin' out of it and then she's worse again." She took a step back. "I got to go in. I ain't to speak to you or anyone concerning the mistress."
Thomas caught her sleeve. "What's wrong with her?" he pleaded gently. "Can you tell me what sort of illness she's contracted?"
Margaret glanced over her shoulder, obviously fearful of the retribution she would receive if caught speaking with Rachael's brother. "I don't know, sir. Strangest thing I ever seen. She don't know where she is most of the time. She talks gibberish. The master says she's possessed by the devil. It's a punishment for 'er sins against her true husband." She ground her teeth. "The master says she whored for the Injuns to save 'erself."
Thomas wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Thank you for your help. You can go in now. If that bastard lays a hand on you over this, you let me know. I can be contacted at the Lady Rachael in the harbor. I was to have set sail yesterday on the morning tide but until my sister is better, the goods and Mother England will wait."
Margaret turned away and hurried inside, closing the door behind her. Before Thomas turned away he heard a bolt slide on the door.
The moment the door slammed shut, Storm Dancer rose to his full height. "He leaves me no choice, Thomas," he said gently. "I must be certain she is not in danger."
Thomas came off the step and followed the Indian into the shadows of the garden. "You would go through with this." He looked up at the brick wall of the building. "You would risk your life on the chance that she may well be sitting above drinking tea with Langston?"
"You heard the woman servant speak. It is the sound of the words more than the words themselves that you must hear. Rachael is very ill," Storm Dancer said gravely. "And whether it is by choice, or nay, that she stays with this man, if she is ill, I must see her."
Thomas exhaled slowly as he looked up at the dimly lit windows curtained on the third story. "That's the window all right." He pulled his cocked hat over his head and pointed. "I can climb the mainm'st to her top in a hurricane, but I can't climb a brick wall three stories into the sky, friend."
Storm Dancer glanced up at the wall, unconcerned. "I do not ask that you go above. I will go to her." He picked up the hemp rope and coiled it carefully on his arm. "I have another task for you." He eyed Thomas. "If you are up to it."
"Name it. The chance that that bastard might be holding Rachael against her will makes me so bloody mad I can't think straight."
"Go to the barn and take two horses. Two fast horses. Saddle yours if you like, but on mine I want only a bridle. I never learned to ride the saddle well.'
"Steal his horses?"
"If she is being held against her will, I will take her. We will have to ride fast for the safety of the forest. I cannot defend my wife on stone streets."
"I'll do it." Thomas looked up at the brick wall of the house. "But are you certain that's the way to go? Can't you sneak in from the ground floor and go up the stairs like the rest of us?"
"You heard the bolt slide home on the door. It is obvious the coward expects trouble. I will not kill him unless I must because my position among my people as shaman does not permit me to kill without good reason. In this manner there will less likely be bloodshed and Rachael will be safer."
"All right. It sounds as crazy as hell to me, but I'll get the horses."
Storm Dancer swung the hook attached to the rope well over his head and it caught on the header brick ledge of the second-story window below the window they assumed Rachael to be behind.
Thomas gave a low whistle and started toward the barn that loomed in the darkness beyond a line of other dependencies. "I'll hurry. God speed, friend. You're going to need it."
Storm Dancer tested his weight against the metal hook and rope, and satisfied with its sturdiness, he lifted himself off the ground and began to scale the wall.
With his bare feet against the cool, rough brick, Storm Dancer made his way slowly up the wall. He leaned back against the rope, using his own weight to steady himself. One foot at a time, he rose above the ground, past the first story window, up to the second. When he made it to the windowsill on the second story, he was forced to perch on the ledge barely half a brick wide.
Storm Dancer breathed carefully as he steadied himself in a crouched position, one bare foot in front of the other. Unhooking his rope from the ledge, he slowly stood inside the window casing. He now had to swing the iron hook up into the next windowsill without losing his balance and tumbling to the grass below.
He heard the soft neigh and snort of a horse and knew that Thomas was about his job. He smiled in the darkness, pleased with his choice for an ally. This Thomas, brother to Rachael, was a good man. He could use his sturdy head among his braves back at the village.
Hesitating for only a moment, Storm swung his hook above his head. On the first try it hit too high and hit the brick above the window. On the second though it hit a glass pane with a silent shattering clink. With luck beyond reason, the thin glass did not shatter.
Storm Dancer glanced up into the clear-skied night heavens and whispered a prayer. He then threw the hook again, and this time it caught on the ledge. With one hard pull, it lodged and Storm Dancer was once again scaling the wall upward toward Rachael.
When he reached the third story windowsill and came to rest on the narrow ledge, he realized that he stood further above solid ground than he ever had before in his life. It seemed as if he was so high that if he stretched, he could pluck a twinkling star from the sky, and when he looked down, the grass loomed so far below that it made him dizzy.
Leaving the hook and rope where it hung, Storm Dancer turned in the window, keeping careful balance and shielded his eyes with his hands to look into the dimly lit room.
Across the small sleeping chamber was a bed so heaped with piles of quilts that the form of the person in the bed was obscured. But there was someone sleeping in the bed, and it was Rachael, Storm Dancer could feel it in his bones.
Carefully, he pressed his hands to the glass-paned windowframe and slid it up just as he had watched a maid do so when washing the ones on the bottom floor this morning. When it did not slide smoothly, he slipped his knife from his loinskin and eased it around the tight points. On his next try the window slowly squeaked up.
The first rush of hot air that billowed from the sick room made Storm Dancer wince. As a medicine man he would never understand this white man's way of locking someone already ill in a room of bad air.
With the window up, and no one to be seen, he stepped inside through a haze of filmy curtains. The moment his bare feet hit the hot polished floorboards, he surveyed the room. Rachael lay on the bed on her side facing away from him with nothing but the back of her dark head showing. There was a fire burning in the fireplace making the vine-wallpapered room ridiculously warm. The bedchamber was sparsely furnished with the bed, a chest along one wall, and a table and upholstered chair near the bed. Eyeing the paneled door that led to the hallway, Storm touched the chair with his palm. It was warm, and still indented from the person who had sat there only moments before, caring for Rachael, or guarding her.
Storm picked up the heavy chair and carried it to the door. Tipping it, he wedged it beneath the knob so that the door could not be easily opened. Then he crossed the room, toward Rachael, his bare feet padding on the hardwood floor.
He stood for a moment over her, looking down on her deathly pale face. Her breath was so shallow that a lump rose in his throat. From the sound of her breathing, she was dying, God in Heaven, his Rachael was dying!
He laid his hand on her cheek. She burned with fire, but there was no fever. Storm grabbed a handful of the quilts and ripped them off the bed, throwing them angrily to the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed and grasped her shoulders, rolling her over.
Rachael was so ill, that she didn't look like herself. Her face was a dull gray, the color of a dead man's skin. When Storm Dancer li
fted her eyelid, her pupils barely reacted. With a moan, he lifted her into his arms and held her tightly, unabashed tears running down his broad bronze cheeks.
"Ki-ti-hi, " he pleaded. "Ki-ti-hi, I have come for you. Do you hear this man who is your husband?"
To his amazement, her lips moved, though he was unable to understand what she said. He leaned closer, pressing his ear to her mouth. "Speak to me, my love. I listen."
"S . . . Storm Dancer," she moaned. "Husband . . . "
"Rachael?"
"Storm." Her lips moved, though this time there was no sound.
"Rachael listen to me. You must tell me. Have you left me for your white man? Do you live beneath this roof of your own free will?"
"Storm?"
He smoothed her hollow damp cheek. Her face was dotted with perspiration, her white gown buttoned to her neck soaking wet. "Yes, I am here."
" . . . Take me a . . . away?"
"You want me to take you away?"
"He said . . . " She took a long shuddering breath and then began again. "He said you were only a dream. He said you were never mine."
"Who?" Storm Dancer insisted. "Who Rachael?"
" . . . Gifford," she managed on the exhale.
"He took you against your will?"
"W . . . wouldn't get you. Thomas dead. No one help me."
Storm Dancer pulled her tightly against his chest, his throat constricted with anger and pain. How dare he hold her from him! How dare that coward lie to her when she was sick! For this he would kill him. He would torture him and then he would kill him!
"No. Thomas is not dead. He is below waiting for you. I will take you home," Storm Dancer whispered. "Do you hear me? I'll take you home to the village, home to Dory and to Ka-we-ras."
"Ka-we-ras," she repeated. "H . . . he said my little boy was just a dream." She rolled her head to and fro, her eyes still closed. "Is he . . . is he just a dream?"
Storm Dancer caught her chin. "Open your eyes, Rachael."
"Can't."
"You can. For me. For our son."
Her eyelids flickered, and opened a slit. They widened as she caught a glimpse of Storm Dancer's face. "You're not a dream," she whispered. "But even if you are, it's all right. Just take me away." She closed her eyes again, weakened by the talk. "Take me away, lover, take me far from this evil place before I die."
Savage Surrender Page 31