Lord of the Wolves (6 page)

“Always,”
she repeated, her smooth brow furrowing in a perplexed frown. “You know him
well?”

Tipping
back his head, he pretended to contemplate the starlit heavens visible through
the willow streamers. “You see that halo ‘round the moon? There will be rain
coming very soon. Perhaps as early as tomorrow.”

“A
pretty attempt at evasion, monsieur,” she said. “But I am in a mood as well and
will not let you escape my question so handily.”

He
should deny her, ignore her, turn cold and aloof, yet Sauvage found that
tonight of all nights he could not. His own painful past weighed too heavily on
his mind to be easily set aside. He gave Madame what she wanted—-or at least a
portion of it—-hoping to satisfy her sudden curiosity. “You might say that we
have a history,
La Bruin
and I. One that goes back a number of years.”

She
narrowed her eyes. “You were not allies?”

We
have always been enemies.
Aloud, he said, “No, never that.”

“Kathryn
named him a devil, and as we huddled in the log, listening to the cries of Mr.
Bones, I came to believe her. I cannot help but wonder how such evil exists in
mankind. Surely he was spawned by Satan and reared up by wolves.”

“Give
the wolves some credit, Madame,” Sauvage replied. “As it happens,
La Bruin
was gently born and grew up wearing silks and perfumed laces.”

“
La
Bruin
a gentleman!” She was genuinely shocked. “That is very hard to
countenance.”

“The
truth is often difficult to understand.” She would have spoken then, asked yet
another question about
La Bruin
, had Sauvage not put up a hand. “I dwell
enough on
La Bruin.
Tonight I do not wish to think of him, and I would
not be the cause of you having bad dreams.”

“There
is a good likelihood that I shall suffer them in any case.” She caught her full
lower lip between her strong white teeth, becoming at once the endearing little
mouse that he could not seem to resist. “I was such a timid child, forever
starting at shadows. My father chided me for my weakness, and told me that I
must face my fears to make them disappear. Doubtless he was right, yet I
couldn’t find the courage to confront the invisible creatures lurking in the
shadows beneath my trundle bed.”

Sauvage
understood about nightmares. Caroline haunted him, waking and sleeping. There
was not a day that passed that he was not reminded of her ethereal presence,
and rare indeed was the night when he did not awaken, his heartbeat a dull roar
in his ears and his body drenched with cold sweat, certain he’d heard the cry
of a new born babe.

By
sheer dint of will, he pushed back the ghosts of the past and gave his
undivided attention to Sarah, his present.

“It
was better after I married,” she was saying. “I felt safer. More secure.”

“You
liked the warmth and strength of a man in your bed, eh?” he surmised with a
knowing smile.

She
averted her gaze at his bold comment, but she did not seek to chide him for
speaking in so straightforward a fashion. Instead, she answered softly. “I
suppose that I did, in a way. Timothy was such a good man, kindly and patient
with all of my shortcomings, always understanding. When I would awaken, he
would hold me close until the fear all melted away. Somehow it made me less
afraid, just knowing that he was there.”

“And
now he is gone, and there is no one to hold you when you waken in the middle of
the night.”

A
slight nod of her bowed head, the glimmer of tears beneath the lush sweep of
her lashes.

 Madame’s
tears and soft-voiced confession had a strange effect upon Sauvage. In that
moment he should have liked very much to console her, to offer his own strong
arms as a substitute for the ones she had lost, to assure her that as long as
he was with her, she need not feel alone, or afraid, or vulnerable.

Indeed,
he ached to say all of the things that Sarah needed to hear, and only the
shadowy specter of his enemy lurking in the back of his mind kept him from
acting on the impulse, from making vows that he knew in his heart he could not
keep.

La
Bruin
was still out there, a fact of which Sauvage was well aware.

Madame
dabbed at her tears with a much-wrinkled handkerchief she extracted from her
sleeve and sniffed. “I shall not dwell on my loss. It was unthinking of me to
have rattled on when I am not the only one who has suffered. Surely you have
felt the same things as keenly as I—not the fears and feelings of insecurity,
of course, but the loneliness. How long were you can Caroline married?”

“We
were married in the autumn of 1755, when the leaves were tipped with the blood
of the bear, and she died one year ago.”

“The
blood of the bear?” She frowned quizzically.

“It
is a story my mother’s people tell about the cold months after the harvest.” Leaning
his weight on his left forearm, he indicated one of the constellations shining
brightly in the clear night sky. “Do you see that group of stars?”

“Ursa
Major, the Great Bear,” she said. “I am familiar with it.”

“The
four stars that form the rectangular base are the body of the mythical bear,
and the three stars that trail behind are the hunters. My mother’s people
believe that each October the hunters corner the bear and slay it, and it is
the bear’s blood that stains the leaves a vibrant red.”

Madame
smiled, and at that moment the shared sadness between them and all thoughts of
Caroline and Timothy were set aside.

Sauvage
felt at ease in her company, content to gaze at her small face, a pale golden cameo
in the firelight, as she continued to gaze at the starlit heaves. She would
make a fine companion, he was thinking, a worthy wife for her faraway
betrothed.

Sarah
was feeling the same ease in his presence. “Why do you refer to the Delaware as
your ‘mother’s people’?” she asked, her gaze shifting to Kingston’s dark,
impassive face. “Are they not your people, too?”

“They
were, until my eleventh year. And then, my mother died, and my father came and
took me from the village.”

“He
took you from your home? Where did you go, Kingston?”

“To
the ends of the earth... or so it seemed to a gangly youth who had never been
far from the village where he’d been born.” Reaching out, he stirred the fire
with a stick, then fed the stick to the hungry flames. “He took me to his home
in Quebec, in New France. I was gone a long time, and when I returned, nothing
was the same.

“Gray
Wolf, my mother’s father was dead, and my uncles, Dark Horse and White Eyes had
lost their lives in the struggle with the whites over the land. Great Wind was
the only one of my mother’s half brothers still living, and he had never looked
kindly upon me. His hatred of whites was unbounded, you see, despite the fact
that his step mother was a white woman.”

She
looked surprised. Kingston laughed. “
Oui
, Madame. Gray Wolf, my
grandfather, had been a war chief of great renown in his youth, an enemy of the
whites, but Regina Sauvage, daughter of a French Huguenot, changed all of that.
He was widowed several years with three small sons when he captured her in a
raid on an isolated settlement in the Carolinas, and brought her to his village.
Within a year they married.”

“And
she never returned to the settlements?” Sarah asked.

“Gray
Wolf’s people became her people.”

“And
your mother married a Frenchman?”

“Antoine
Baer, a trader. He was born in France and later immigrated to Quebec.”

“How
fascinating,” she said, and meant it. She was intrigued by the bits and pieces
of his past with which he was willing to part. That her insatiable curiosity
concerning Kingston, a veritable stranger, was highly improper did occur to
her, given that she was to be wed to another. Yet, Brother John Liebermann was
half a world away, and Kingston was here and larger than life. Surely this one
small discretion would do no real harm to anyone, certainly not her betrothed,
who would have no idea that she was busily prying into another man’s past. “Were
your mother and father as happy as Gray Wolf and Regina during their marriage?”

“When
they were together, perhaps,” Kingston replied. “But his business kept him away
much of the time. He remained in the village through autumn and winter. In
spring he would take the furs for which he had traded during that time and
depart for New France.”

“It
must have been hard for you,” Sarah said. “For your brothers and sisters. You
do have brothers and sisters, don’t you?”

His
expression darkened almost imperceptibly. His reply was carefully worded. Too
carefully, Sarah thought. “There was a girl child, born before me, but she
lived only a short while. Great Wind died last year when Armstrong razed the
village of Kit-han-ee. I am the last of Gray Wolf’s spawn, and the wolves of
the wood are my only true brothers.”

He
took up the rifle and stood. “That is more than enough talk for one evening,”
he said. “Get some sleep.”

He
turned and walked slowly, silently, into the obsidian shadows. Sarah watched
until he was gone from sight, and then she curled on her side and stared into
the flames of the campfire, more intrigued by Kingston Sauvage, despite his
revelations, than ever she had been.

A
hard hand shook Sarah from her dreams the next morning. “Madame? Are you awake?”
When she failed to respond immediately, he shook her again, less gently this
time. “Madame!”

“Yes,”
Sarah said, “Yes, I am awake. What is it?”

“The
dawn is breaking,” Sauvage replied, “and we must be on our way if we’re to make
the creek before it starts to rain.”

Sarah
yawned, stretching languidly. She’d been dreaming of a cabin besieged by
savages, and a raven-haired war captain with eyes of dark fire, who had taken
her prisoner and carried her off to his home far away, and that dream was slow
to fade. Sarah blinked sleepily up at him. “Must we leave so soon, Kingston? I
fear I did not sleep well, and I am feeling very weary. A few moments more and
I am certain I shall be rested.”

He
gave Sarah’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and chuckled darkly. “A few moments
more of watching you sleep and I might just decide to join you beneath that
blanket.”

Bold
and brash and slightly risqué, like her dream lover, Sarah thought. A glance
revealed the same dark fire burning in his black eyes, eyes framed by the same
hard and knowing face and flowing raven hair. “It is wicked of you to taunt
me.”

“Who’s
to say that I am teasing? It has been a long time since I have lain with a
woman. Sleep erases your piety, Madame, lending you the tousled look of the
wanton, and the sounds you make as you slumber—-”  he stroked his chin—-“if I
am any judge of women, that was no nightmare you were having.”

Sarah
gasped. Was it possible for him to read her thoughts? For if indeed he could...
.

“Well?
Will you give up the blanket? Or risk sharing it?”

Sarah
threw off the blanket, folding and rolling it, securing it with a rawhide thong.
It was ridiculous to think that he could read her mind, but she was suddenly
more careful to avoid all thoughts of the dream she’d had, all the same.

At
that very moment, fifteen miles northwest of the clearing where Sarah and
Kingston had camped, a German and his yellow-haired wife were just sitting down
to breakfast in their sturdy cabin.

The
German finished the blessing with a flourish and ladled a goodly portion of
steaming porridge onto his wooden trencher. At that same moment, the large
hound sleeping by the fire issued a throaty warning growl and, rising, padded
to the door.

The
immigrant looked at his wife. “I bet he smells a wolf.”

 
His wife looked nervous. “Maybe he should stay inside, Helmut. Just for now.”

Ignoring
her, Helmut came off his bench and went to the door. “What’s de matter, Otto? You
vant out to catch de wolf?”

Whining
softly, the dog thumped his tail on the puncheons.

“Helmut,
please!” Helmut’s wife pleaded. “Wait just a bit.”

Never
one to heed his wife’s worries, Helmut lifted the latchstring and edged the
door open. Otto slipped outside, brushing past the stranger lounging in the
shadows by the door. “How opportune,” the stranger said, addressing the
half-dozen warriors accompanying him in heavily accented English. “It would
seem that we are just in time to break our fast.”

With
each passing mile, travel became increasingly difficult for Kingston and Sarah.
The gentle rises were steeper now, the undergrowth at times, nearly
impenetrable, and Sauvage and Sarah spent most of the morning and afternoon
threading their way  through gigantic deadfalls which blocked their path.

When
at last they reached their destination, the afternoon was nearly spent, and
Sarah was weary beyond belief. Sinking down at the base of a chestnut tree, she
closed her eyes, but as she drifted off, Kingston grasped her shoulder, and for
the second time that day, shook her none too gently. Instead of waking, she
pressed her cheek to his hand, making a small noise in her throat. “Timothy?”
she said with a sigh. “Is it time for dinner?”

Sauvage
gazed down at her, a thousand thoughts running through his head, none of them
sufficiently wholesome to meet with Madame’s approval. Her small prayer cap was
pushed back on her head, and several strands of brown hair curled slightly at
her temples, her small shell-like ears and her cheek.

Unable
to resist the urge, he reached out, taking one shining brown lock between
forefinger and thumb. It was softer than silk, just as he suspected it would be.
He released the strand, but did not ease his hold on her shoulder. He’d longed
to touch her since that first night, to savor the velvety texture of her pale
skin, to feel it lightly abrading his. He wanted to pull her into his arms,
bear her to the earth, and smother all of her protests with kisses.

Instead,
he tightened his fingers over the lush shoulder he held. “Madame. Come, Madame,
you must waken. This is no time to be sleeping. There is still work to do.”

Groaning
softly, she opened her eyes. “Work? You wish me to work after fighting my way
through the brambles all day?”

Sauvage
gave her a level look. “You want to sup this night, do you not?” She nodded
with a quick bob of her capped head. “Then, I would suggest that you go gather
some wood for the fire.”

Sarah
yawned widely. “I should like to be more helpful, Kingston, yet I am certain I
shall be more hindrance than help. I have no experience in making a camp, or
gathering wood.”

“Then
you should consider this a valuable lesson, a skill you will need to master if
you are to live on the Muskingum.”

“Surely
there will be servants to see to the menial tasks.”

Sauvage
cut her off with a hard glance. “You are a long way from England, Madame. Here
a man must toil if he wishes to eat, as must a woman. Tonight, we will fish for
our supper. The sooner we finish setting up camp, the sooner we can begin.”

Disgruntled,
Sarah picked herself up and went off to collect the dry wood to fuel their
fire, while Sauvage labored to construct a simple three-sided structure. It was
completed by the time Sarah finished collecting the firewood. “Here is the wood
you wanted,” she said. “I am ready to fish. Where are the hooks and line?”

“There
are no hooks and line,” Kingston replied. “We’ll fish as my mother’s people
have fished since the beginning of time.”

“No
hooks and line?” Sarah questioned. “Perhaps my time would be better spent
gathering nuts and berries. It might not be substantial fare, but at least it
would be something.”

“Nuts
and berries are not filling. Besides, you must learn to make yourself useful if
you’re going to survive on the frontier,” Kingston replied. “A lazy woman who
waits to be waited upon is a shame to herself and a blight upon her husband’s
name.”

Sarah
gasped her outrage. “I am far from indolent!”

“No?
What practical skills have you mastered, Madame, besides napping at a moment’s
notice?” The smiling wretch persisted. “Cooking over a campfire? Skinning game,
perhaps? Or making a deerskin as supple as butter so that it might cover your
husband’s nakedness without chafing his skin to blisters.”

The
more he talked, the angrier Sarah became. A volatile temper was the one
shortcoming she had been unable to conquer, and it was becoming increasingly
clear that Kingston would not indulge her the least bit; indeed, for some
inexplicable reason, he brought out the worst in her. “Perhaps I cannot cook
over a campfire, or the other things you have mentioned, but in no way does
that diminish my worth! The skills which I possess are the sort required of a
gentlewoman. I play the spinet, and I am passing good at needlework.”

“Needlework,
you say?” he said. “Then, you can stitch a wound together without leaving a
scar?”

Sarah
sniffed. “It was my embroidery to which I was referring.”

Kingston
snorted. “Fancy stitches on a pillow are of precious little use. I shouldn’t be
at all surprised if Brother Liebermann reconsiders his proposal of marriage and
takes a Delaware woman to wife, someone more adept at being a helpmate, someone
more willing to learn.” With that, he turned his broad back and sauntered
toward the creek.

Fuming,
Sarah watched him go. How dare he insinuate that her betrothed would find her
so lacking that he would take another woman to wife! She was not devoid of
skills, inept! Why, with a little help, she could manage a home and be a worthy
wife, and she could learn to fish, if indeed she wanted to!

Quite
suddenly, Sarah very much wanted to. Lifting her skirts, she hurried after him.
At the water’s edge, he paused, removing the belt that closed the front of his
hunting shirt, revealing a generous expanse of smooth, tawny skin.

Sarah’s
eyes widened. “Why, what on earth are you doing?”

“Preparing
to fish, Madame.” Slipping out of the shirt, he tossed the garment and belt
onto a flat rock. He was broad of shoulder and deep of chest, with skin like
flawless bronze satin. His movements were fluid, graceful. The corded muscles
of his shoulders and back rippled sinuously as he untied the leather thongs
which secured his leggings, and eased them down.

Sarah
wondered what it would be like to touch his nearly naked form, to run her fingertips
along the thick muscles that joined his neck to his shoulder, and down across
his chest. To touch the warm silver bands that encircled his arms above his
biceps. Would her touch excite him, as watching him disrobe excited her? Would
he groan if she stroked the hard brown buds of his nipples?

Biting
back an anguished groan at her own rampant thoughts, Sarah quickly, carefully
averted her gaze. Then, upon hearing a soft, indefinable sound, she risked a
second glance, covertly, from the cover of her lashes.

Mesmerized
by the sight of so much naked skin, Sarah watched as he bent to remove his
moccasins, slid the leather casings down, inch by inch, and reached for the
leather thong that secured the soft strip of cloth that covered his loins—all
that stood between Sarah and total humiliation, yet to her vast relief, he only
readjusted the rawhide, then straightened and bent a look upon her. “You have
changed your mind, Madame?”

Sarah
cleared her throat. “After some consideration, I have decided that I should
like to learn to fish. Yet, I wish you to understand that it is not because you
suggested it.”

Smiling,
he touched her cheek. “Very well, then. Take off your clothes.”

“My—-you
wish me—-to disrobe?    Sir! I cannot! It would be most unseemly!”

“You
cannot fish dressed as you are,” he countered.

Sarah
narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, wondering if this was some perverted
scheme on his part to rob her of her modesty. “I do not pretend to know much
about Indian culture, but in England, we fish in a far more modest and
restrained fashion—-and we do not disrobe in the presence of the opposite... sex.”

The
last word was hissed. Sauvage smiled to himself, amused by her outrage. He
found her maidenly blushes very becoming, and could not help teasing her the smallest
bit. “Never?”

“Never,”
she affirmed.

“My
sympathies to Brother Liebermann. It is a very great shame that he will never
get to gaze upon your voluptuous charms.” He stood patiently waiting as she
took off her sturdy leather shoes and stockings, and, obstinate as any mule,
refused to undress. Sauvage smiled. She had pluck. Madame did, a fine thread of
tempered steel which lay hidden beneath her timidity and shyness. And then
there was the way her gaze had touched his flesh and lingered as he’d disrobed,
the fullness of her lips that hinted at a sleeping sensual side to her nature
crying out to be awakened.

Watching
the gentle sway of her hips beneath her voluminous skirts as she moved into the
water, Sauvage gave a wistful sigh. How strange that he should envy a man whom
he had never met. The man who would have the chance to coax Madame out of her
inhibitions and into the sublime light of physical love.

Sarah’s
momentary anger faded as she waded into the creek. Beauty was all around her,
in the dark sluggish stream, the towering hemlocks that grew on the opposite
shore, the green-black boughs of which stretched far out over the water. In the
middle of the stream, shaded by those boughs, a huge gray boulder squatted,
easily as large as some cabins Sarah had seen.

There
was an undeniable beauty as well in the man who now stood near the great
limestone monument, as silent and still as a bronze statue, the water lapping
‘round his naked flanks.

“Wait
there, Madame,” he cautioned. “Grandfather is dozing by the rock. I will urge
him into shore. Keep watch, and make ready to seize him.”

Seize
him? Seize him with what?

Sarah
glanced sharply up at Kingston, then down at her hands. He’d lost his senses. She
thought of wading back to shore, of admitting her shortcomings... and then she
thought of Kingston’s taunt that Brother John Liebermann would release her from
their marriage contract and take a more worthy woman to wife, someone willing
to learn.