Captive Splendors (35 page)

“That is so, Sassacus.”

 

Wren woke, disoriented in the dimness of the hut. She didn't move, but her eyes took in the squaws and their watchful attitude. A feeling of incredible loss swept over her. What had she lost? Certainly not Malcolm. Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered the name falling from her lips when she had surrendered to sleep. Caleb. Had something happened to Caleb? Why did she feel this way? She had to get up, move, do something.

Two of the Indian women, sensing her intention, gently pushed her back onto the blanket with a motion for her to lie still. Wren obeyed. She slept again, her arms folded across her chest. How empty they felt. Arms were meant to hold someone. “Caleb,” she cried aloud heartbrokenly.

The women looked at one another and again repeated the strange name—Ca-leb. Soon Chief Sassacus would make his rounds of the fort, and then they would tell him of the strange name and how they came to have the white woman in their hut.

Sassacus walked around the compound as it began to come alive for the start of a new day. How he loved these quiet, gentle people who were entrusted to his care. He prayed that he would always have the wisdom to do the right thing where they were concerned. And if he couldn't do the right thing, he prayed that his people would forgive him.

As he neared the squaws' lodge, he waited expectantly for the women to bid him entrance. There was something they wanted him to see. A treat of some sort. His eyes widened when he saw a white woman lying on a blanket and gazing up at him with bright amber eyes. He had to clap his hands to quiet the women as they all babbled at once, pointing to Wren and then to the children and always ending with the word “Ca-leb.”

Wren moistened dry lips and looked up at the tall chief. “I think they are trying to tell you that I have been calling that name in my sleep. I am Wren van der Rhys. I sailed with Captain van der Rhys from England and was kidnaped by someone who hoped for a ransom.” A note of hysteria crept into her voice as she gazed at the Indian. “Where am I? What is this place?”

Sassacus dropped to his knees, stunned. “You are a van der Rhys woman?” he asked incredulously. “Caleb and I are old friends. I am Sassacus, the chief of my people. He was here last night and we talked for many hours. I did not know of your presence here.” He shrugged. “My people do not always see fit to tell me all things immediately. I cannot chastise them, for I see that they have taken excellent care of you.”

Wren smiled. “Yes, your people must have taken very good care of me, for I feel much better. I am glad you are Caleb's friend. Tell me, do you know where he is?”

Sassacus smiled. “I see much love in your eyes for him. I will have my men take you to him soon. You will be returned to your people. We wish you no harm, you must believe that.”

“I do believe that, and I wish to thank you and especially the children who brought me here. Is there something I can do, some way I can repay you for your help?”

“Seeing you back with your people will be payment enough. Caleb is my friend, and you will be my friend. Now, you must allow the women to remove these compresses and clean you up. They will bring food and you will eat. When you have rested and are able to travel, you will be on your way to your people.” He smiled again, a dazzling smile of happiness because he would be able to do something for his friend Caleb.

Caleb rode into Saybrook and handed over the reins of the stallion to the young boy, Sammy. He was tired and discouraged. There was a deep ache within him, an emptiness that only Wren could fill. To have come so close to finding her and to lose her again! Damn that Weatherly! The first order of the day would be to find him and wring the truth out of him.

He looked around the bustling settlement and was impressed by the amount of activity at this early hour. Sounds of furious hammering pounded in his ears. Bascom's congregation was hard at work building its new homes with the aid of the present settlers. Before long, there would be a hundred new houses. Progress had already been accomplished on the construction of the new church. The skeleton was up and men were busy nailing planks to the timbers.

Caleb slouched against a stout oak tree and watched the proceedings as the men worked in companionable silence. Companionable, that is, until Bascom arrived on the scene, prayer book in hand. He shouted to be heard over the noise of the hammers and waited for the men to acknowledge him. The workers held their tools loosely in their hands, and at the exchange of words that passed between Bascom and them, Caleb almost guffawed aloud.

“It's time for a prayer meeting. Lay down your hammers and join me in asking the Lord for forgiveness for our sins and to help us see the light of His ways. My flock waits over there,” Bascom said, pointing a bony hand.

“We can't rightly be attending your meeting,” a red-faced, burly man protested. “We have a goal set for us each day, and until it's met, we have to keep on with the building. We could do with a few more hands. How about yourself, Preacher?” he sneered.

“Prayer and forgiveness are more important than work, even if that work is building a house of the Lord,” Bascom declared virtuously.

“You won't be thinking like that if those redskins come riding in here, Preacher,” the man shouted. “We work from sunup till the moon is directly overhead. We do our praying on Sundays.” He motioned the workers to resume their tasks and lifted his own hammer to bang in a nail.

“One can never set aside just one day for the Lord. Every day is for the Lord. That's something I'll have to teach you, and teach you now. There must be no dissension among us now that I've arrived.” Bascom drew himself up to his full height. “I am the Lord's messenger.”

One of the settlers grinned at another and muttered, “Then deliver your message some place else.” He banged a nail with undue emphasis to make his point.

Rather than lose face by continuing an already lost argument, Bascom turned angrily away from the area.

“The Lord wasn't using all His wits when He sent this preacher to us,” the burly man said to a worker near him. They laughed heartily, the sound reaching Bascom's ears as he strode off. He knew they were laughing at him and mocking him. His thin lips tightened. He'd call down the wrath of God on the lot of them for ridiculing him! Things hadn't gone right ever since Lydia had walked out on him. Each day he could see a look of speculation on the faces of his flock. If a man couldn't control his own wife, how could he minister to and aid his own people? And dotty Sara certainly wasn't helping his image. Today he planned to ostracize her in front of his congregation. Unmarried women who found themselves with child had to be punished for their sins. He would see that she was punished severely.

 

The sun was already low in the west when Wren and her small entourage of Pequot braves followed the trail south through the dense Connecticut woods to the Old Saybrook settlement. The late June weather held a warm promise for the summer about to emerge upon the land. Songbirds were singing their last song before roosting at dusk, and a gentle breeze wafted up from the Sound. Wren's heart sang with happiness at the thought of being reunited with her people, and she was grateful for the superb care the Pequot women had given her. She still bore nasty welts from the rope Malcolm had used to bind her, but the minuscule ruddy insect bites had all but disappeared because of the cooling mudpacks the Indians had administered.

Because of the hostilities between the colonists and the Indians, the braves indicated to Wren that it was time to leave her, here by a small stream that fed into the river. They would go on alone to find either Captain van der Rhys or his first mate, Peter, and alert them to her whereabouts. One brave, noting the concern on her face, motioned to the sky and pointed at the sun, dipping his arm slightly. She understood that this undertaking would be accomplished before dark.

Alone in the lengthening shadows, Wren rested alongside the stream, delighting in the reflection of the sun's reds and golds upon the water. The trek along the trail had been difficult, and she had sensed the Indians' eagerness to complete their task and immediately return to their camp. The woods offered no safety these days to a small band of red men who might encounter a hunting party of white men. Before Wren had left Sassacus's fort, one of the squaws had offered her a beautifully stitched buckskin dress, complete with intricate beadwork and fringes along the hemline. Her long dark hair had been bound with rawhide thongs atop her head to bare her neck to any cool breeze. But the day had been hot and the trail dusty, and Wren looked longingly at the cool water rushing past her.

Impulsively, she stood up and stripped off her dress and moccasins, stepped forward and tested the water with her toe. Wishing for a bar of perfumed soap, she waded into the stream and found that at its deepest level it was waist-high. As she submerged herself, she was uncertain if she trembled from the cool water or from the prospect of seeing Caleb again. Always Caleb. He had been uppermost in her mind throughout the trek back to Saybrook. She had no idea what his reaction to her might be. The last she had known about him before being trapped in the locker box with Malcolm was that Sara had claimed he was the father of her child. Knowing what an honorable man Caleb was, Wren was certain he had married Sara by now.

A sob caught in Wren's throat, but she was determined not to cry. She was a little girl no longer. She was a woman. Perhaps if she had behaved like a woman, had shown Caleb how much she loved him, instead of letting her fears override her passions . . . She willed her mind to come to a halt, to accept things the way they were, not the way she wished they could be. Yet she couldn't discipline her memories. Caleb's face swam before her time and time again . . . his night-dark eyes sweeping over her, warming her skin with an unseen flame, letting her know she was beautiful and desirable . . . his mouth taking possession of her, his strong, white teeth nibbling at her lower lip in tender, teasing touches . . . his arms, hard and powerful, capable of crushing her and yet so tender, so gentle and persuasive. She remembered the feel of his thick thatch of hair beneath her fingers, the way his lean, steel-hard thighs had pressed against her legs, making her weak-kneed and helpless. She heard the sound of his voice, confident and commanding when giving orders to his crew, soft and murmuring when he whispered love words into her ears. The crinkles of humor at the corners of his eyes, the almost invisible little scar near his upper lip . . . everything . . . everything . . . was Caleb.

Wren lifted her eyes and saw him standing there. At first she thought he was a figment of her imagination, so great was her desire to see him. He stood tall, feet planted apart, arms folded akimbo across his chest He was still, as still as the giant oak behind him; only his eyes were alive . . . alive with the joy of seeing her. Slowly he stretched out an arm, extending it toward her, reaching out for her. All doubts left her; all answers were there to be seen in his eyes.

As though in a dream, she floated toward him. Oblivious of her nakedness, untouched by the breeze that chilled her wet skin and ruffled her hair, she emerged from the stream, arms extended, her heart in her eyes.

She was in his arms, holding him, being held, knowing her world had come right again, finding her answers in his eyes, on his lips.

Caleb was speechless with a happiness so deep and wondrous, it filled his soul and throbbed through his veins. She was real, she was here, in his arms, and he would never let her go.

Two long tresses trailed down from her tumbled hair, framing her lovely face. Her skin shone golden in the last rays of the sun, making her body appear as though it had been carved from copper. He held her close to him, pressing his hands possessively against her hips.

Lightheaded, delirious with joy, her legs trembling beneath her, she clung to him for support and felt herself being lowered to the shady bank, knowing he was beside her, wrapping her in his arms, cherishing the feel of her and the love he offered.

She offered her lips and possessed his in return. She offered her body and enslaved his passions. A hundred times his lips touched hers, seeking, finding, caressing. A thousand times his hands stroked her; still he could not satisfy his desire for her. She intoxicated him with her beauty: the elegant length of her legs, the clear curve of her thighs, the sleekness of her haunches, the provocative appeal of her breasts. It was toward these visual signs of her beauty that he directed the ardor of his caresses and kisses.

Wren thrilled beneath his touch and turned herself voluptuously in his arms, encouraging him to voyage again with his lips along her supple thighs, allowing him access to the threshold of her sensuality, maddening him with her responses, inspiring his caresses. With closed eyes and his name upon her lips, he led her into the kingdom of love.

 

The night air was warm and soft. When Wren awakened, her first thought was of Caleb. For an instant she thought she had only dreamed he had come to her, loved her. She realized she was alone, her naked body covered by his shirt. Thinking they had been separated again, she gave a frightened start and sat up. The first stars of evening twinkled in the darkening sky.

A splash from the stream attracted her attention; a plume of white shot up as Caleb threw the water over his body. Wren was mesmerized by the sight of him. The water swirled about his hips, revealing to her view the hardness of his chest, his well-muscled arms, the strong column of his neck, the proud set of his head. Droplets glistened off his skin like jewels, his panther-dark hair tumbling over his brow.

She rose, casting aside his shirt, and waded into the stream, oblivious of the chill, knowing only that she had to be near him, to feel his arms encircle her once again.

Around them there was no movement save for the flow of the stream and the scud of distant clouds. A night bird issued a song that strummed through their veins and pounded at their pulses, reawakening their desires. She stood before him, an arm's reach away, and faced him proudly, shoulders back, head erect. “You understand. I have no regrets.” Her voice was soft, a whisper in the night. “Not a single action do I regret. I surrendered myself to your embraces, responded to your caresses. I know no regret.” Her eyes burned with unspoken questions.

“I sensed in you a hesitation, a withdrawal. No matter how slight, it was there.” His voice was deep and husky with emotion. His mind whirled with arguments and approved of the consideration he had given to her fears; his imagination summoned up visions of Wren's total surrender to him, to his love for her.

She lowered her eyes. “You know me well. You know me through and through. There's not an inch of my body whose response to your touch you do not know. But what do I know of you?” Her words were less than a whisper.

He reached for her hand, drawing her closer, guiding her hand to him and laying it upon his chest. She placed her head on his shoulder with a movement already familiar and one that he loved. Her hand, lightly touching his chest, trembled slightly on coming in contact with his skin. Then, in a slow and delicate progression, her fingers slid along his body, awakening in him a tidal wave of desire that rippled down to his aching loins.

He caught her up in his arms and carried her to the mossy bank, laying her gently upon their discarded clothing and coming to rest beside her. The moon was in his eyes, the stars in hers. With tender advances she learned the mysteries of his body and became the mistress of his soul.

Wren, his enchantress, summoned his passions and invoked his love. Each sensual caress that she learned from him, she turned about and practiced upon him, captivating him, enslaving him. A cry broke from his lips, a sound of passion and joy, and the cry became her name.
Wren.

 

At daybreak Caleb waited impatiently for Sammy to saddle his horse. His thoughts were on the coming day, and when he spoke to Wren, Lydia and Peter, his tone was curt, almost abrasive. “Stay within the confines of the settlement. There's no telling when I'll come back. See about setting in ship's stores. If and when the situation between the Pequots and the colonists comes to a head, I want us to be well out to sea.” His dark glance rested on Wren's upturned face, his meaning clear. He wanted no harm to come to her. Now that he had found her again, he wanted to keep her near him, always.

As Lydia and Wren walked off arm in arm, Caleb motioned Peter aside. “Weatherly is still lurking about. I know it as well as I know my name. He can't live in the woods forever without coming into Saybrook at some point. That can only mean trouble for all of us, especially for Wren. Keep a sharp eye out. I'm placing both women in your hands. Don't fail me, Peter.”

“Aye, Captain. And we'll see about setting in ship's stores as well as rounding up the crew. If you see any of the louts hanging about New Amsterdam while you're there, be sure to tell them to high-tail it back to the ship before their scalps are on a redskin's belt.”

Caleb took a last look in the direction that Wren and Lydia had taken. He ached to see her face again and hold her in his arms. Determinedly, he mounted, turned his steed in the direction of New Amsterdam and headed out of the settlement. What he hoped to accomplish by confronting Kiefft one last time was based more on elusive dream than on tangible reality. Sassacus had meant every word he had said, and war was inevitable. Were the colonists prepared? Would they be a match for the Indians with their knowledge of the woods and their deadly bows and arrows and stealthy attacks in the middle of the night? He shuddered to think of what an Indian rampage could do to the young town of Saybrook. For that reason alone, he wanted to take Wren and his crew as far away as possible. He had lost Farrington and had come so close to losing Wren that he couldn't chance it again.