Lord of the Wolves (22 page)

Shielded,
yes. Kept secret. Above all, Jean must not guess that she carried his enemy’s
seed.

As
if on cue, Jean’s voice sounded from the other side of the hide flap. Sarah
shivered, scrambling to slip the knife beneath the narrow pallet. She resumed
her former seat as he raised the flap and entered.

“
Bon
nuit,
pigeon.” His voice had lost its rough, growling quality, and sounded
much like Kingston’s—so much so that Sarah glanced sharply up. “Your prince has
returned.”

Sarah
watched him, saying nothing. He was toying with her, much like a cat toyed with
a mouse before dispatching it, but Sarah didn’t care. Indeed, in a strange way,
she almost welcomed it. It was what might happen when the toying stopped that
she found truly terrifying.

He
chuckled darkly at her quiet wariness. “What is this? No outstretched arms to
welcome me? I am, after all, you paramour’s brother, family, you might say. And
brothers are to share in everything. This I learned at the knee of my own
pere.”
His laughter died away, but a brittle smile lingered on his mouth. “Among
other important things.”

When
she still did not reply, he strode to the trunk and flung open the lid. Sarah
could not help but notice the hitch in his gait. Her gaze lit upon his left
thigh, and the dark smear of old blood that marred his buckskin breeches. As he
saw where her gaze had wandered, his face flushed dark. “What in hell are you
gaping at?”

“Nothing,”
Sarah said. While he stood scowling down at her, Sarah fought to remember that
he was a man, not a monster—despite his evil deeds. “I could not help but
notice that you are limping. The blood on your breeches is old, yet the wound
in your leg still plagues you. Perhaps—perhaps you should see a physician?”

With
a low and unintelligible growl he reached down and grasped her by the arms,
dragging her up against him. “The physician is a worthless sack of offal!” he
ground out, his face inches from hers. “Worthless, do you hear me? And if not
for the fact that he is a servant of King Louis, I would gladly send him to
hell!”

Sarah
stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe for fear she would further provoke
his anger. A second passed, then two, and he calmed slightly. “What matter does
it make to you if I limp? Do you think that makes me weak? If you do, then you
are wrong. I am still strong. Still as great a warrior as I was before I
happened onto the old witch’s lair!”

“A
witch?” Sarah said softly. “I don’t understand.”

“That
woman, Samp. The one who shot me. She used her piddling powers to put a curse
upon the ball that struck me so the wound would not heal, but I will show her. I
will show them all! No one bests
La Bruin
. No one. The blood of French
nobility runs through these veins!”

Sarah
strove hard to maintain an outward calm, pliant in his grasp since she sensed
he fed off of fear. “I have knowledge of wounds. If you like, I could look at
it for you.”

The
light of suspicion flared in Jean’s dark eyes. “You are a captive, a prisoner,
Sauvage’s woman. What possible reason would you have to do such a thing?”

“I
abhor suffering in all of God’s creatures, great and small, even—”  Sarah
paused to catch her breath. “Even in mine enemies.”

Her
words seemed to confuse him. “You think to soften me with kindness,” he said. “To
tame the beast with gentleness, but your efforts are wasted on one such as me. I
assure you that I am not Sauvage. Indeed, I am nothing like him, as you shall
soon see.” The night outside the hut throbbed with the steady beat of the
drums, the haunting singsong chant of the war dance, and a strange, almost
frenetic excitement.

The
atmosphere inside the hut throbbed as well, but with the black intensity of
Jean Baer’s presence. “There is nothing soft about me,” he assured her.

Fear
welled up inside Sarah, but she fought it down. “You do not frighten me,” she
said.

With
a muttered imprecation, he jerked her against him and lowered his head to take
her lips. Yet as he started to close the little distance between them, her
features wavered and seemed to melt. Changing, transforming magically into
features more finely etched, more exotically pale, and more strikingly
beautiful. Her brown hair magically lightened to a pure flaxen hue, her deep
blue eyes suddenly icy and pale.

Jean
blinked, trying to clear his vision, cursing beneath his breath... but the
image of Caroline Sauvage come back to life remained fixedly in place.

As
abruptly as he’d jerked her close, he thrust her from him. “If you have any instincts
for self preservation, you will stay the hell out of my way!”

Turning
once more to the trunk, he rooted through the contents, extracting a fine linen
shirt and snow-white neck cloth, black brocade breeches and boots. Sarah had
resumed her seat by the wall, and sat, watching him intently.

When
he reached for the belt that closed his hunting shirt and she saw what he
intended, she turned a becoming shade of pink and averted her gaze. Seemingly,
she remained unafraid, a fact that continued to rankle Jean. “What will happen
now?” she asked.

Jean,
carefully drawing his black brocade breeches over his bandaged thigh, gave her
a contemptuous look. “Now, we drink and dance and celebrate the latest victory
over the English hordes that seek to steal all of New France.”

She
accepted this information calmly, and he could not resist an attempt to goad
her from her seemingly constant state of serenity. “Perhaps,” he said, “we will
burn an English captive to appease the ferocity of our Ottawa brothers.”

She
shuddered visibly, and Jean laughed. “At last, I have wrung a reaction from the
delicate flower who, if all accounts are true, has captured my infamous
brother’s murderous heart.”

Sarah
sought the perception of calm she’d managed to maintain until he spoke of burning
a captive, but it was hard to grasp a second time. Her fear seemed to please
Jean greatly. He limped to where she sat and, bending down, tipped up her chin,
forcing her to meet his eyes. “They provide a fine entertainment, I assure you.
But you need not take my word for it when you can view it for yourself. Tonight,
pigeon, you will accompany me, to sit by my side at the fire.”

Staring
up at him, Sarah swallowed hard. He was bending over her, his sable hair, which
had been neatly clubbed at his nape with a wide black ribbon earlier that day,
now swung loosed about his shoulders... shoulders that were bare, and broad,
and as deeply tanned as his lean face.

He
was a presence, there was no denying, a dark cloud come thundering into her
life, Kingston’s sinister half, so like the man she loved with all of her
being, yet so terrifyingly different. His touch electrified her, yet it was not
welcome, not pleasant, but chilling. She shuddered again, uncontrollably, and
she could tell that he gloried in her reaction to him.

“I
had another of Sauvage’s women in my power once,” he said in a silken voice,
“not so very long ago. We got on famously before she succumbed to my lethal charm.”

“You
murdered her,” Sarah found herself saying, incensed that he could speak so mockingly
of Caroline.

“Murder
is such a harsh term,” Jean said with a flash of white teeth. “I prefer to
think of it as freeing her from my brother’s cumbersome presence. A moment of
foolishness in speaking her wedding vows had consigned her to a life of mediocrity,
a moment she began to regret the instant I strode into her dooryard and into
her life.” His black eyes glinted devilishly. “She preferred me to him, you
know. As a matter of fact, she begged me to take her, and when I did, she cried
out my name, not his. Because I am the better man. More virile, more
experienced, more exciting than Sauvage could ever be. Do you not agree?”

Sarah
tried to push away from the black menace that was Jean, but there was no
escaping him. “Please, just leave me.”

“Leave
you?” he said, lifting his black brows. “Come pigeon. Do not be coy. I can see
it in your eyes, feel it in the leap of your heart.” He traced a finger down
her jugular vein. “I excite you, and before this night is over, you will scream
my name as well. Alas, you will need to be patient a little while longer,
content to share me with the Ottawa.”

With
a flick of his strong hands, he tied the neck cloth and slipped into the
doublet, leaving his glossy mane to swing loose about his shoulders. Then, he
reached out and grasped Sarah’s hand, dragging her relentlessly up. “Come, my
fearless heart. The reception awaits.”

Jean
led Sarah through the drunken melee, gripping her hand so tightly that she
feared the slightest show of resistance would snap her bones. They wove their
way through the throng, past two warriors quarreling over a flintlock pistol,
past several others who lay unconscious on the ground, while their comrades
stepped over and on them in their eagerness to reach the keg of brandy.

In
the center of the village was an open circle of ground devoid of grass and
pounded smooth and hard by the treading of many moccasined feet. There, beside
a blackened post set into the ground, Jean pulled Sarah to a halt. “Hear me, my
brothers! This is White Wolf’s Woman! The consort of your greatest enemy! The
evil one who has thinned your ranks and sent the Chippewa scurrying back to
their lodges! And now—” he grasped Sarah’s braid, bringing her painfully up
against him— “she belongs to me! Tonight, I have White Wolf’s Woman! But soon I
will have White Wolf, to burn in the Ottawa and Huron fires!”

Drunken
cries rang out. Sarah’s skin crawled with cold dread. A warrior raced past,
pausing just long enough to brandish a tomahawk before their eyes, then, with a
savage cry, he dashed off again. The process was repeated again and again, each
warrior seeming more enraged, less restrained than the last. One man, more
drunken than the rest, let loose with a hideous yell and brought his hatchet
arching down toward her.

Sarah
nearly swooned as Jean deftly caught the man’s wrist—the blade of the weapon so
close that when she swayed on her feet, she felt the cold kiss of metal against
her brow.

Jean
thrust the man roughly from him. “Drunken fool! White Wolf will sell his soul
in exchange for her freedom! Kill her, and not only will he go free, he will
slaughter you to a man.”

The
man who’d threatened Sarah, jerked his hand away and made another feint at
Sarah with the weapon. Sarah shrank back against Jean’s solid warmth, but he
offered little comfort.

Her
reaction seemed to amuse him. “You find yourself caught between the devil and
his imps, eh pigeon? And since the imps are so without restraint, the devil is
suddenly more palatable.”

Staring
up into his dark, demonic visage, Sarah sought a calm that eluded her. “Are you
really so twisted as you wish for me to believe?    What can you possibly gain
by harming women and children, except for everlasting fire?”

“Power
and prestige,” he answered. “A name that is more widely recognized, and more
greatly feared than that of Sauvage.”

“You
seek to surpass him in all things,” Sarah said.

“I
seek to destroy him!”

Sarah
raised her chin. “What has he done to you that makes you hate him so
intensely?”

“He
exists,” he said simply. “Now come. Scares-The-World expects me. I am to be his
honored guest this evening, and you will accompany me.”

He
made his way to a long bark hut, much larger than his own small dwelling. Outside
the hut sat a distinguished-looking man of middle years. Unlike the young men
Sarah had seen, his hair was unshorn, falling over the scarlet stroud he wore. A
necklace of gleaming, black-tipped bear claws covered his breast, and in his
hand was a silver chalice filled with brandy.

Jean
bowed to him and the older man bade them sit, offering the chalice. Jean passed
the liquor beneath his nose, grunting appreciatively, tipped it up and drank. Then,
the older man passed it to Sarah with a murmur. “He says you are to drink to
the health of the Huron’s French father, King Louis,” Jean said.

The
brandy fumes wafted up, stealing Sarah’s breath. She pushed it away. “I
cannot.”

“Scares-The-World
says drink, and you will drink.” He pressed the chalice to Sarah’s lips,
forcing the brandy upon her. She gulped and nearly strangled on the strong
drink. Then, pushing it aside, she quietly vomited into the weeds.

Jean
snorted. “Good brandy is wasted on women, and apparently English women are no
exception.”

The
hours dragged slowly by, the stuff of Sarah’s worst nightmares. Jean continued to
drink. He laughed and talked with the chief in an animated fashion, bragging of
his exploits while Sarah stared into the flickering firelight and turned her
thoughts inward, to Kingston.

She
tried to picture him as he had been that night at the cabin, the first night
they had come together, his beloved face taut with need, his black eyes alight
with an inner fire. The image conjured up a dreamy sort of calm that shattered
the instant Jean lay his hand upon her thigh and, leaning close, nuzzled her
ear. Sarah felt the graze of his teeth against her sensitive lobe. Panic surged
up inside her, closing icy fingers around her heart. “Our time has come,
pigeon.”

Sarah
tried to push him away, but he was too strong, too intent upon his purpose. “Jean,
please. Do not.”

Unmoved
by her pleas, Jean lurched to his feet, pulling her up. Sarah looked
frantically to Scares-The-World, who watched with heavy-lidded eyes. “Do you
think that he will help you? To him, you are nothing but chattel! A pawn to be
used up and then discarded. A pretty piece of bait to lure the wolf, and lure
him you will, though it will be too late for you once he shows his face.”

“He
will not come. He will not walk into a trap!”

Jean
stroked the heavy plait that hung down Sarah’s back. “You vastly underestimate
your charms, pigeon. You set my blood to boiling, and I am as cold and
emotionless as a stone compared to Sauvage.” He smiled, his expression suddenly
thoughtful. “I wonder how responsive you will be when I lay you down, hmmm? Will
you kick and bite and scream?
Mon Dieu,
I hope so,” he said, kissing her
savagely while Sarah struggled.

She
turned and twisted, wriggling in his unrelenting grasp, then finally, out of
sheer desperation, she kicked the shin of his injured leg.

“English
bitch!” he roared, doubling over and clutching his thigh.

Sarah
broke free, bolting for the darkened forest. If only she could lose herself in
the inky depths, he might grow tired of searching and simply let her go. She
was unprepared—weaponless and without provisions, but she did not care. She
would far rather face a slow starvation or fall victim to the elements than to
surrender herself to the fate that she would suffer at Jean’s hands if she
remained here. She would find a place to hide until she deemed it safe to travel,
and then strike out for the East and hope that Kingston would find her. It was
her only chance.

Her
breath caught in her throat, Sarah ran like a frightened deer toward the black
wood and safety. She felt the coolness of the leaves brush her fingertips,
heard Jean’s limping stride behind her, his ground-out curse. Then he hooked an
arm around her waist, dragging her relentlessly back and around to face him. “Eager
to leave so soon, pigeon?”

“Please,
let me go!”

“Ah,
but I will, dear heart. The moment I am through with you.” He dragged her back
to the hut and shoved her roughly through the door with so much force that
Sarah sprawled on the bed of furs. She hit the soft surface and terrified,
scrambled up, but Jean was faster. He pushed her back and fell upon her,
tearing at the belt that closed her shirt, her soft breechclout.

Sarah
tried to push him off, but he was too large, too strong, too determined to have
his way with her. As his hand slid along the bare skin of her hip, Sarah felt
frantically under the furs for the knife that Hergus had given her. At the same
instant, a chillingly familiar sound came from outside, filtering through the
thin bark walls of Jean’s hut. The lonely cry of a hunting wolf pierced the
night, a wolf calling to its mate and, hot upon its completion, the noise of a
great commotion—pounding feet and shouting voices.

Sarah
stilled, her fingers curled around the bone hilt of the weapon still hidden in
the furs. The night was nearly spent. The circle of sky visible through the smoke
hole overhead was growing gradually lighter, a soft gray, instead of black.

“
La
Bruin
!”

Jean
cursed, rolling off Sarah, throwing back the hide flap. “What is it?”

“An
envoy comes,” Cat-Man Jacobs said.

“What
envoy?”

“De
Angelheart. He is here to ransom the woman.”

Jean
was elated. “I know the rogue to whom you refer, and his powers of persuasion
are not to be discounted. Where is he now, de Angelheart?”

“Waiting
for the council to gather.” Cat-Man replied. “It is a bad time to receive him. Many
are sick from drink.”

“Rouse
them!” Jean said harshly. “Spread the word that their enemy is close at hand,
and unless they wish to be caught off guard, they will come to council, now.”

As
Cat-Man hurried off, Jean turned to Sarah. “It would seem that my plan to bring
Sauvage out into the open has met with success... a success which I owe to you,
pigeon.” He stalked Sarah, not stopping until her back was pressed against the
wall. Reaching out, he ran his knuckles down her cheek. “You bring me luck, I
think.”

“Good
will always triumph over evil,” Sarah said. “If you go up against Kingston, he
will kill you.”

“I
have something he wants in my power, and that power is absolute.” His hand came
down, his fingers curling around her upper arm, his fingers digging like talons
into her soft flesh. “You should thank me, pigeon. How many women get to see
the depths to which their lovers will go in order to spare their lives? Before
this day is through, you will have no doubt as to just how much Sauvage loves
you.”

In
the center of the village, near the blackened post, a group of armed warriors
stood, flanking de Angelheart’s familiar figure. A hush fell over the crowd as
Jean pushed his way through their midst, holding tight to Sarah’s wrist.

Everyone
was waiting, their sullen gazes resting on de Angelheart. “This is the woman to
whom I refer. It is for her freedom that I wish to negotiate, but first, I
bring presents for Scares-The-World and his lieutenants, revered warriors all.”

Angel
made to open the leather pouch he held, but Jean tore it from his grasp and
threw it aside. “You think to bribe the mighty Huron and their Ottawa allies
with your paltry offerings? This is what we think of your trifling presents!” Jean
turned his head and spat. “Go back to Sauvage and tell him that his ploy has
failed. You cannot buy the English captive’s freedom with cheap trinkets, nor
sway the Huron hearts with your putrid lies!”

Scares-The-World
spoke slowly, seeming to weigh each word carefully before it passed his lips. “Let
us see the gifts he brings.”

As
Angel retrieved the bag, Sarah felt Jean stiffen. “A fine Saracen blade for
Scares-The-World,” Angel was saying. He produced a silver dagger and handed it
to the chief, hilt first.

Scares-The-World
turned the blade in his hand. The rubies that encrusted the hilt caught the
morning light, winking maliciously. The chief’s stony expression never changed,
yet Sarah knew that he was greatly pleased. He nodded once in thanks, then,
sat, attentive, as Angel finished presenting his gifts to the others. Sarah
sensed the subtle shifting of loyalties. Angel now had their collective
attention.

Jean
seemed to sense it, too, for his scowl grew increasingly blacker, and his
fingers bit into Sarah’s arm.

“I
have come on behalf of your most revered enemy,” Angel proclaimed. “Kingston
Sauvage, the warrior who has claimed the lives of your sons, your husbands, and
brothers to pay for the murder of his wife and his son at the hands of this
man.”

Angel
turned a chilly gaze upon Jean, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Sarah
felt the tension mount, felt herself leaning forward, barely breathing for fear
she might miss a single word. “He calls himself
La Bruin
, the bear, but
he does not have the spirit of a bear. The bear is mighty, strong, the most
feared creature in the forest. Jean Baer is a coward, a raper of women and killer
of innocent children, a dog gone mad with jealousy and greed!”

With
a ground-out curse, Jean started forward, but Scares-The-World stopped him with
a look. “This man is my honored guest. Our brother,
La Bruin
will let
him speak.”

Scares-The-World
turned his level gaze on Angel, ignoring all others. “You have brought us great
gifts, and we are pleased. What do you wish from us?”

“Only
that you not be swayed by one man’s poisonous words.” He stared pointedly at
Jean, who ground his teeth in impotent rage. “White Wolf holds the Englishwoman
in great esteem. He has asked me to petition you for her release.”

“Why
should we give her her freedom?” one of the warriors demanded. “White Wolf’s
woman should burn in our fires, an appeasement to the spirits of our loved
ones!”

“Burn
the woman, and White Wolf’s rage will know no bounds. How many men have you
lost to his revenge for the death of his wife and son?” He paused for dramatic
effect. “How many more of your young men can you afford to sacrifice?”