Lord of the Wolves (23 page)

“In
the woman, we have something White Wolf wants!” Jean countered. “Grant her
freedom, and we have nothing!”

“Grant
her freedom, and you will have White Wolf!” Angel cried in ringing tones. “He
offers his life for the Englishwoman’s!”

“No!”
Sarah cried, but her protest was quickly drowned by savage yips that exploded
all around her. The women among them exclaimed softly to one another, and Jean
looked inordinately pleased.

Sarah
saw and heard it all through a blinding haze. A dull roar began in her ears. Issuing
from the center of her being, it increased in volume until it threatened to
drown out everything.

Jean’s
tight hold on her arm was the only thing that kept her from crumbling. “How do
we know this is not a ruse to fool the Huron and Ottawa into giving up the
woman with nothing in return?”

“I
give my word,” Angel said. “As does White Wolf. He vowed to decimate your ranks
and he kept his word. Can you really afford to doubt his sincerity?    In accepting
this offer, you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Turn it aside and
you will suffer greatly, I vow.”

“The
woman is the one who will suffer!” Jean spat, wrapping his fist in Sarah’s hair.
“Sauvage, you cowardly wretch! If you are truly here, then show yourself!”

Angel
appealed to Scares-The-World, who sat silently through the exchange. “
Sachem
,
will you accept the ransom offered, and honor the terms of this agreement,
giving the woman into my care in exchange for White Wolf’s surrender?”

“The
woman is mine to do with as I please,” replied Jean, “and I say that Sauvage
surrenders his freedom first. Without him, there can be no agreement, and I do
not trust this strutting peafowl.”

“Blackguard,”
Angel said in silken tones. “Killer of women and helpless infants, I do not
bargain with you, but with Scares-The-World, a just man. Your word is worth
nothing.”

Jean
shoved Sarah aside and started forward, a look of black rage twisting his
handsome face, his hands fisted while Angel smiled and Sarah held her breath.

“Hold!”
The single utterance from the
sachem
silenced everyone, including Jean. “Is
it not true that
La Bruin
is a brother to the Huron and Ottawa?”
Scares-The-World asked Jean.

“It
is true,” Jean replied. “But—”

“And
is it not true that the Ottawa and Huron share in all things?    That if a man
hungers, and his brother has food, then he shall hunger no longer?”

“It
is the way of the people,” Jean said, “But—”

“Many
among us have suffered from the death and destruction brought by White Wolf’s
wrath. As our brother,
La Bruin
will wish to do what is best for the
People, and not just for
La Bruin
.” The
sachem
seemed satisfied
with Jean’s silence, for he turned to de Angelheart, who patiently waited. “
La
Bruin
and his Huron and Ottawa brothers accept your terms. You may have the
woman, in exchange for White Wolf, our enemy.”

A
collective shiver ran through the crowd as a man stepped from the trees,
followed by the startled gasps of the women, the shouts of the warriors, the
soft exclamations of the old ones.

Sarah’s
heart melted at the sight of him. He was battered and bruised from his fall
from the cliffs and the hair at his right temple was matted with blood. Breaking
away from Angel, she ran to him. He raised his gaze, and Sarah saw something
kindle in the dark depths, the light of a burning passion, a keen regret. And
then it was gone, replaced by a chilling acceptance. “Get her out of here!” he
shouted to Angel as Jean stepped up to greet him.

Mirror
images they seemed, only Jean’s was reflected in a dark and shaded glass. As
Sarah watched, stunned, Jean embraced Kingston, kissed one cheek, and then the
other. He took a half-step back. “Brother, how good it is to see you after all
this time.” He brought back his fist, slamming it into Kingston’s midsection.

Somewhere
close by, a woman screamed, and Sauvage knew that it was Sarah. He wanted to
urge de Angelheart a second time to take her away from this place, but Jean’s
blow had driven the breath from his lungs, driven him to his knees. For one terrible
and brief instant, he thought he would be sick, until he forced himself to
forget the crippling pain that had exploded in his stomach, to forget
everything except for Jean, his brother, his most hated enemy.

The
thought triggered the anger, and the anger numbed the pain, creeping along his
veins like an opiate, drowning all physical sensation. He came to his feet, and
stood. Jean was still there, still full of black arrogance and pride.

“He
is the flesh of my flesh, and the blood of my blood,” Jean declared. “And the
one who ends his life prematurely will answer to me. That privilege is mine,
and mine alone!”

“
La
Bruin
will have a say in the fate of White Wolf,” the
sachem
stated,
“as will the council. Now, let us gather to welcome White Wolf to our village.”

At
his signal, the crowd divided into two long rows that stood facing one another.
Each man, woman, and child held some weapon, a stout stick, a crab apple switch
rife with inch-long thorns, a war club with a rock fitted into its blunt end. There
was much talk and laughter among them; an air of jubilation infected the
participants.

Sauvage,
aware of what waited, did not join their celebration. He glanced briefly at two
young women who came forward to strip him of his clothing, leaving only his
breechclout, then his gaze slid back to Jean.

His
half brother had taken his place at the very end of the line, near the bark hut
which he must try and reach. Neutral ground. Sunlight broke through the clouds
and glinted off something metallic in Jean’s hand. Kingston pulled air into his
lungs and drew upon his anger, preparing for the run. He could not allow
himself to think of Sarah, whom he could see from the tail of his eye.

Damn
Angel for not carrying out his wishes. She had no business standing now at a little
distance, her face a dim oval, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

Scares-The-World
gave the nod to begin. Sauvage ran, sprinting between the parallel rows as if
he ran for sport, and not his life. Concentration and speed got him past the
first third of the participants before they could land a blow. Sauvage heard
them howl their frustration, and felt their clubs and switches slice the air
behind him.

The
warrior with whom he’d fought that day on the bluffs caught him a glancing blow
on the shoulder with a heavy cudgel, but Sauvage’s pulse was racing so
violently that he barely felt it. Another sought to strike at his face with
crab-apple thorns; Sauvage thrust an arm up to protect his eyes and felt the
thorns bury themselves in the flesh of his forearm.

Several
more blows landed—one, more solid than the rest, caught him alongside the head
and made his ears ring. If he fell short of his goal, they would beat him
senseless, break his bones, and he desperately needed to be whole in order to
vanquish his formidable enemy.

The
thrust of a war club opened a cut at his left brow. Blood streamed down into
his eye, blinding him. The club’s owner hooted with glee and moved up the line
to attempt another pass, only this time Sauvage was ready for him. Feinting to
the right, as if to avoid the blow, he swiftly came left again, grabbed the
balled end of the club and tore it from the startled man’s grasp, ramming it
into his enemy’s face. The man toppled and lay in a heap, blood pouring from
his flattened nose and ruined mouth. Sauvage, armed now, sped onward, using the
war club to fend off further blows.

The
participants went wild. Down the way, Jean was livid. “Stop him!” he roared. “Seize
his weapon!”

Sauvage
butted the first man to try in the jaw, tripped the second and bounded on. A
dozen paces separated him from the neutral ground, temporary safety. Once he
reached the bark hut, he would be granted a reprieve from further violence, a
little time to rest and lick his wounds while the council met to decide his
fate.

His
enemies would take great care in killing him, of that much he was certain. Yet
he could not dwell on that now, not with Jean limping up to block him, to deny
him that slim, hard-won reprieve.

Jean,
who had destroyed his happiness, his life, and who now sought to keep him and
Sarah apart.

Hatchet
in one hand, knife in the other, Jean took a solid stance. “You’ll not get past
me, little brother.”

“Getting
past
La Bruin
was never my intention, not when I will derive such
satisfaction in stepping over his lifeless body.” Sauvage swung the war club in
a wide arc, forcing Jean to step back in order to avoid being struck. “What is
this? Giving ground already?” He made another pass with the club, this time
intentionally close to Jean’s nose, then chuckled when Jean leap aside. “Not as
easy to fight someone as big and powerful as you are, is it, brother? Shall I
petition the sachem on your behalf? Perhaps he will pit you against a woman—a
contest more to your liking, not to mention your abilities, eh?”

Jean
swung his blade, his face flushed dark with rage, and a thin crimson stripe
appeared on Sauvage’s forearm. But the wound was superficial, and Jean was not
satisfied.

He
stepped in again, the opening for which Sauvage had been waiting. He struck
hard, the tip of the club connecting solidly with Jean’s chin. Jean staggered,
shaking his head. “I’ll see you roast in hell, Sauvage, and while you scream,
I’ll take your woman, just the way I took Caroline. You wonder how I know her
name?” he asked. “She told me. Indeed, she told me many things before she died,
including how much she scorned you.”

As
the last word passed Jean’s lips, he swung the hatchet; Sauvage saw it coming
and moved to block the pass. The handle clattered against the club, splintering
as it connected with the heavier weapon. Jean dropped it, useless now, mouthing
a vicious curse.

Sauvage
clucked his tongue. “Too bad. I’ve broken your weapon. Do you wish to forfeit,
Jean? The next time, it might just be your skull.” Another jab, short, but
powerful.

Jean
took it on the chin once more, so hard that Sauvage heard his teeth clack
together. He turned his head and spat blood. “Damn your black soul!” he roared,
lunging at Sauvage with knife raised.

Sauvage
grabbed the hand that held the knife, bringing that wrist down with all his
might across his upraised knee. He heard the bones snap, and Jean cradled the
injured limb, his face contorted in agony, but it was not enough for Sauvage.

He
wanted him to bed for mercy, wanted to look him in the eye and know that death
awaited... just as Caroline had done that day a year ago. To see Jean’s face
and hear Jean’s pleas was the only way to calm the rage, to cool the fires of
vengeance burning inside him.

Those
fires leapt to towering heights, and in seconds the last vestige of his
restraint lay in ashes. Dropping one shoulder, he bowled into Jean, who
sprawled on his back like a turtle. Then, lacing his fingers together to form a
bludgeon, he brought them crashing down, again and again and again.

“Enough!”
Angel’s hard hand stayed him from further retribution, preventing him from
murder. “You have bested him. Now, you must show restraint. He is their ally. You
are their enemy. Kill him now, and you will not live to see the sun set.”

There
was wisdom in Angel’s words. Sauvage slowly stood, stepping over Jean’s
unconscious form and walked the few remaining steps to the bark hut and the
neutral ground.

Kingston
sat against the eastern wall of his temporary prison, listening to the soft
chatter of the women drifting through the thin walls, the pounding of the
children’s feet as they raced past, the barking of the dogs, heard at frequent
intervals throughout the day, announcing yet another arrival to the village.

Word
of his surrender had spread quickly, and scores of Indians had poured into the
small encampment. The burning of the infamous White Wolf was an occasion for
great celebration, and the preparations had already begun in earnest. All of
the village slaves had been sent to the woods to gather fuel for the fire.

Sauvage
had watched them file past the door of the hut. Then, he had watched the morbid
procession return, burdened with sticks, each one staring at the ground, the
sky—anywhere to avoid looking into the condemned man’s eyes.

One
old woman, bolder than the rest, paused to squint at him. “Sae ye’re the great
wolf they been moanin’ aboot fer weeks on end, the one they be fixin’ to burn
on the morrow.”

Sauvage
stared at the old crone, wishing she would state her business and be on her way.
The last thing he wanted was to spend his final hours conversing with a fellow
captive, or anyone, for that matter. Better to spend that time thinking,
dreaming of Sarah, conjuring up the memories they had made together so that he
might relive those precious, stolen moments.

The
old woman, however, seemed wont to linger. “What do you want from me?” he
finally asked.

She
shifted her bundle of wood to a more comfortable position as she considered her
reply. “Only to see if it were true that Old Cripple Dick an’ ye were kith and
kin. It’s plain to see ye are. Must have been hard for the lass, to keep
company with yer dark half, feelin’ as she does aboot ye.”

Sauvage
looked hard at her. “You know Sarah?”

“Enuff
to know she’s fool in love wi’ ye, and ain’t gonna leave as ye wish her to do. Ye’re
the father of her bairn.” The old one cackled at his surprise. “Oh, aye. She’s
wi’ child. Yer child. A few weeks gone, she is, and sick as a bluddy hound.”

Sauvage
shook his head. “Impossible.”

The
hag snorted. “If ye believe that, ye’re a whole lot dumber than ye look!”

“How
do you know this?”

“I
seen it in the smoke of the night fire. I seen lots of things, past and future,
and I know for sartain that yer prospects without the lass ain’t lookin’ so bright.
If ye got some fool notion of givin’ them devils a bluddy spectacle to remember
ye by on the morrow, then ye need to consider it a while yet. Ye’re two halves
of a whole, ye and the lass. She’s made a hard journey, and she’s a tender
little thing still, and she’ll not make it half a year without ye. Only
together can ye thrive.”

The
old woman was gone in a whirl of dun-colored rags, leaving Sauvage to stare at
the bright rectangle of the open doorway. Sarah... his Sarah, with child. The
old woman’s creaking voice came back to haunt him.”
She’ll not survive half
the year without ye.
And he was to die on the morrow. The future, it
seemed, did not bode well for either of them.

Dark
thoughts, like bad birds, came to roost upon his shoulders. If he could not
save himself, how could he hope to save Sarah? “Caroline. Caroline!
Cher
,
come to me now! I need you, please! Caroline!”

He
thought he saw a pale blur from the outer corner of his eye, yet when he turned
to look, there was nothing. The cool air of the hut brushed his cheek, like the
flutter of feathered wings. But Caroline proved fickle, refusing to break his
solitude with her stark presence. Perhaps she knew that he was soon to enter
the spirit realm. Perhaps, she was preparing a place for him.

His
throat constricted. An hour before he had been resigned to his fate, his only
regret that he must leave Jean among the living. Quite suddenly, the stakes
were so much higher.

He
had failed Caroline; would he fail Sarah, too?

Into
his blackest hour came a subtle scratching sound, issuing from the entrance to
the hut. Frowning, Sauvage glanced up and saw a black-robed priest, accompanied
by another smaller figure half-hidden behind him.

“You
are Kingston Sauvage?”

“I
am.”

“I
am Father Francois Tu, from Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin.”

Sauvage
inclined his head. “I would rise, Father, but alas, I cannot.” He raised his
arm, rattling the chain fastened to the supports and manacle that circled his
wrist. “Compliments of the good soldiers of the garrison, and my brother.”

“Father
Tu frowned. “I have been informed of your difficulties, and am come to offer my
services at the request of your friend, Monsignor de Angelheart.”

“I
am not sure what he has told you, but I am not a practicing Catholic, Father.”

Father
Tu raised a gray brow. “You were baptized in the Church, were you not?”

“Yes,
but—”

“How
long has it been since your last confession, my son?”

Sauvage
sighed. “Five years, Father. But there is nothing I wish to confess.”

“Are
you certain, monsieur?” the priest’s companion edged into view. “Confession is
good for the soul.”

“Sarah,”
Sauvage said, all of his ardor, his misery apparent in that one word.

“I
know that it was your wish that I go,” she said hesitantly, “but I cannot leave
with everything so unsettled.”

What
a nice way to refer to his torture and death, Sauvage thought. And how very
like his mouse.

“I
only wish to be here with you.” She bowed her head, looking up through her
lashes. “Are you terribly angry?”

“Incredibly
so,” Sauvage said, his voice grave. “You should have listened. De Angelheart
should have carried you off bodily, anything to keep you from harm.”

“You
must not blame Renoir. He tried to convince me of the wisdom of your reasoning,
but he is a romantic at heart, and I used my considerable talents of persuasion
to sway him.”

“I
should have known that the two of you would conspire against me.”

Father
Tu watched the exchange with interest, looking from Sauvage to Sarah and back
again. “Well, since it seems there is nothing I can do for you, I shall be on
my way.”

Sauvage’s
gaze was locked on Sarah’s. “Actually, Father. There is one thing. Will you
marry us?”

“My
son?”

“I
wish to wed this woman. That is, if she is willing.”

Sarah
tried very hard to answer, but the affirmation came out as an unintelligible
squeak, and so she nodded vigorously.

“Do
you consent, Mademoiselle?”

“It’s
Madame, Father,” she whispered, when at last she found her voice. “Oh, yes, I
am most willing.”

“Willing
to do what?” Angel said from the doorway.

Sauvage
sighed. “Why don’t we just invite the entire village to our wedding? We would
not want anyone to feel left out.”

“They
are a surly lot,” Angel said. “If I were you, I would exclude them—especially
in lieu of the reception that they have given you—-but no matter.” He took
Sarah’s hand and immediately brightened. “Might I say that I am exceedingly
glad you have come to your senses? Do proceed. I shall be most happy to give
the bride away.”

Angel
presented his arm to Sarah. “Are you certain you can tolerate his tempers? He
is quite the bear at times.” He paused and flushed. “My apologies. Poor choice
of words.”

“May
we continue?” Sauvage said irritably. “I do so hate to disturb your fun, but my
time is somewhat limited.”

Standing
on tiptoes, Sarah bussed Angel’s cheek, then, hastened to take Sauvage’s
outstretched hand, coming to kneel closely by his side. Within moments, the
ceremony was concluded, and Sarah was White Wolf’s woman in truth.

Father
Tu took his leave, but when Angel made to follow, Sauvage called him back. “I
do not know how you managed it, but I thank you, for everything. He offered
Angel his hand, and Angel grasped it. “You have been a good friend, and I will
rest easier knowing that Sarah will have you to depend on. She is going to need
someone strong in the coming months.”

“Someone
like you,” Angel replied. “Really, Sauvage. It isn’t like you to give up so
easily. You are making me nervous.”

“I
haven’t given up.” Sauvage’s black gaze slid to Sarah. “But it seems likely
that the Hurons and Jean will have their way on the morrow, and if that happens,
I want her far away from here, beyond Jean’s reach.”

Sarah
shook her head. “I will not leave this place without you. You are my husband. My
place is by your side.”

“Yes,”
he said quietly. “I am your husband, and for that reason, you will respect my wishes
and go with Angel to the Muskingum, where you will wait for me.”

Angel
bowed lightly. “I quite suddenly feel the need for some air, so if you will
pardon me, I will be going.” Without further adieu, he made his exit, leaving
Sarah alone with Sauvage.

He
sat frowning at her, obviously bent upon her leaving; she was just as
determined to stay. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I no longer wish
to go to the Muskingum. God’s word says that a wife’s place is by her husband’s
side, to love and—”

“And
to obey.”

“It
is unfair of you to use that against me!”

He
stretched out his hand, fingers reaching. “Come here to me, my stubborn wife. I
cannot come to you.”

Sarah
gave him her hand. He pulled her down beside him with a rattle of chain and
took her face in his hands. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, intently. “I know.
I know that you are with child—
my child
—and that changes everything.”

“But
how can you know? I did not know myself until recently.”

“How
does not matter, Sarah. What matters is that you are carrying a new life inside
of you, and you must do everything in your power to protect it. That means that
you must leave this place. Now, my love, tonight.”

“Kingston,
please!” she said, softly, tearfully. “Do not ask this of me. I cannot bear it.
I will do anything—
anything—
just do not send me away.”

He
kissed her lips and leaned his brow against hers, and his voice was low and
taut with emotion. “Sarah... my angel, my bride... giver of life. Do you know
what you have done for me?”

She
shook her head, her tears flowing freely now, wetting his cheeks as well as
hers.

“Not
long ago I was dead to the world, a hard and empty shell, a shadow of a man,
existing for the pain and suffering I brought. And then I found you, and you
breathed life into my body, persuading my heart to go on beating when I was
convinced that it was forever broken.”

“I
only loved you,” Sarah sobbed. “I love you still.”

“You
dared
to love me,” he countered. “You alone were brave enough to see
beyond the rumors to the wounds that lay within, and attempt to heal them. You
gave me back my life, and something more, a small piece of immortality that all
men hope for, and only women can give. In cherishing it, you cherish the love
we have shared. Can you understand how much that means to me—why I do not want
the babe—our daughter or son—born to the violent world in which I have lived? Mouse,
I beg of you. Let it be born in a place of peace, a place of love, instead of
hatred and death.”

Sarah
threw her arms around his neck, burying her damp face in his hair. She knew the
wisdom in his words, yet could not bear the thought of leaving him to face his
final hours alone. “Let us speak no more of this tonight. I cannot face the
thought of losing you.”

Sauvage
stroked her hair, murmuring soft endearments against her tumbled tresses. He
did not try to stem her weeping; she wept for both of them, for though his
heart was aching, and his throat painfully tight, his eyes were dry.

Instead,
he held her tightly, cradling her on his lap, until her sobs had ceased. Gently
then, he brushed back her hair and kissed her salty cheeks, her small red nose,
her lips. “Sarah, my love, my dearest heart, give your love to me.”

She
kissed him then, with all the fire, all the passion and poignancy that he
remembered from those brief golden days at Angel’s cabin. He wore only his
breechclout and leggings. His torso was bare to her questing touch. She ran her
hands over his shoulders, soothing the bruises from the gauntlet with gentle
fingers, massaging the aches and stiffness from his muscles so that he groaned
beneath her attentions and, straining up to meet her, took her mouth again.

With
one hand chained, he was severely restrained. Not that it mattered. Sarah
aroused him fully, and then, just when he felt he could stand no more, she
removed his loin cloth and straddled his hips, taking him deep inside her. The
heat of her woman’s body was a balm and a terrible torment. Her movements were
teasing and slow.