Lord of the Wolves (8 page)

Sensation,
paralyzing and incredibly sweet, coursed through Sarah, starting in the secret
place between her legs, shooting upward and outward, unfurling along her limbs,
then, finally doubling back to pool white hot and molten deep in her belly. “Sarah,”
he groaned. “How I ache for you.”

She
ached for him, too. It was sheer torment, gazing down at the raven head at her
breast, feeling this exquisite longing, knowing that it was wrong to allow it
to go on. Physical pleasures outside of wedlock were sinful and forbidden. Kingston
was not her husband, he was not even her betrothed.

Nothing
was promised between them, and nothing could come of this. Indeed, once they
reached Harris’s Ferry, she would never see him again. “Kingston.” Her voice
was a mere whisper of sound. “Kingston, please stop. This is not right.”

She
stroked his silken hair, traced the strong line of his jaw, then, gripping his
chin, she raised his head so that he could not ignore her plea.

“Oh,
but it is right. Right that we should be together. I want you, Sarah, and I
know that you feel what I feel. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. I
feel it in your kiss, your sweet surrender.” He slid one hand along the curve
of her ribs to her waist and down across the soft expanse of her belly.

With
a gasp, Sarah caught his hand, stilling its progress a hair’s breadth from her
womanhood. “What I feel does not matter,” she said, struggling out of his arms,
scrambling back, just out of reach.

“What
you feel matters greatly to me.”

He
came closer; Sarah moved back. “Kingston, please,” she whispered desperately. “Do
not!”

“Sarah,
my sweet,” he replied, and his voice was soft and low, persuasive, smooth as
silk. “Come back to my arms. The night is long and there is much for us to
discover.”

Sarah
shook her head, trying to cover her dishabille with the blanket. The spell he
had woven around her was broken, and in its wake she remembered the things she
had momentarily forgotten: her promises, her betrothed, the great gulf that
separated her from Kingston, a gulf Sarah feared could never be bridged, no
matter how great their desire. “This is not proper. It is not right! I am a
woman betrothed! I gave my pledge to Gil, to go to the Muskingum and become the
wife of Brother John Lieberman, and I am bound to those promises.”

He
smiled wolfishly. “Your betrothed is far away, and I am here.” He brought her hand
to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “Our joining is destined, Sarah. Fate placed
you in my path. It kindled a fire between us. Begun that first night, it burns
hotter and brighter with each passing moment.”

“You
must not say such things! It was wrong of me to succumb to temptation, and I
must not do it again. I belong to another.”

He
snorted. “By right of written agreement. Mere words on parchment, and words can
be retracted. Agreements can be broken.”

Hot
tears rolled over Sarah’s cheeks. “I am betrothed by the right of the Lot. Our
way is not your way, and I do not expect you to understand.”

He
looked at her, a cynical smile curving his hard mouth. “I understand all too
well. Your piety takes precedence over everything, yet I remain unconvinced.” He
took her hand in his, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Sarah, I
have heard your heart whisper, and it knows full well how futile it is to rail
against the inevitable, even if your head does not realize it yet. The passion
we share is like the storm, a force of nature, and you might as well try to
harness the wind as to attempt to quell what’s happening between us.”

Releasing
her, he took up his rifle and went out into the night yet again, into the wind
and the driving rain. Sarah sat alone in the darkness, trying to negate the
things he had said, determined not to succumb to temptation again. Yet, deep in
the night, when her prayers had been exhausted and she lay wrapped in the rough
woolen trade blanket, she remembered his kisses and the hot thread of desire that
had rushed through her veins, and she finally understood that she was lost.

Sometime
later, Sarah awakened from a troubled sleep and lay listening, unsure as to
what had disturbed her rest. For a moment or two, there was utter silence—then,
it came again, a slow shuffling noise that raised the fine hairs on the backs
of her arms and at her nape. “Kingston? Is that you?”

After
a moment, a brief scuffling and a hideous bawl shattered the silence, seeming
to come from just beyond the fire ring. Sarah felt an icy chill creep along her
spine. Kingston had been so angry when he’d stormed out earlier, but was he
angry enough to break his solemn oath and desert her? To resume his quest to
slay
La Bruin?

A
wave of panic threatened to overwhelm her. “You must not succumb to fear,” she
told herself. “You battled a wolf and prevailed, after all, and you will
prevail over this also.”

She
threw off the blanket and crept to the door of the shelter. A small dark shadow
darted past her, another of like size and shape hot upon its heels.

Unaware
of her presence, two bear cubs tumbled and frolicked in the rear of the hut. Uncertain
what else to do, Sarah skirted the cubs, staying close to the wall and moving
behind them. “Mischief makers,” she said, sounding more forceful, more certain
than she felt, “out with you!”

One
of the cubs gave a harsh-sounding bleat and ran from the shelter, disappearing
into the darkness. The other dove for the corner of the shelter and scaled one
of the supports, where it clung, raising a terrible din. Unsure what to do,
Sarah pried the squalling youngster from its perch and, holding it at arm’s
length, carried it quickly to the door. Off to the left, she heard the snap of
a twig, and a rustle of movement. Sarah bent down, releasing the cub. But as it
raced off to join its sibling, a huge bear reared up before her, six hundred
pounds of raging maternal fury towering over her.

Sarah
screamed and stumbled back, certain she’d be killed and eaten. Kingston would
return to find nothing but bones and prayer cap—if indeed, it left that much. Then,
just as she’d opened her mouth to beg God for mercy, she saw a blur of movement
from the tail of her eye. Silver-white, with dark guard hairs, the shade of
moonlight and shadow, it streaked past her and flung itself upon the bear.

A
wolf. A very large and powerful wolf, but still no match for the lethal power
of the mother bear. They tangled for a few seconds, the wolf biting, snarling,
snapping and leaping back, circling and attacking again. The she-bear drop to
all fours and feinted toward its opponent, swiping with one huge paw. The blow
caught the wolf on its flank and knocked it aside. It yelped and rolled, and
bounced onto its feet again, assuming a defensive crouch between the bear and
Sarah. Hackles bristling, it snarled and bared its fangs in warning.

The
bear paced back and forth, then without warning spun and retreated into the
woods. For one tense moment, Sarah faced the wolf. Then, with a whimper, it
limped to the camp door and slowly sank down.

Sarah
eyed it warily, her gratitude and Christian charity warring with her
trepidation. It was a wild beast, as great a danger as the bear, surely. Yet,
in saving her life, it had risked its own, and she could not stand idly by
while it bled out its life’s blood in her dooryard.

Gathering
her courage, she approached with the utmost caution. “Pretty wolf, I thank you
for your kindness in saving me just now. You surely are a brave and valiant
creature, and I would like to help you—-if indeed you will allow it.”

The
wolf left off licking its wounds to watch her. It pricked its ears at the sound
of her voice, but made no move to harm her, no sign of hostility toward her as
she approached, nothing but a soft whining sound low in its throat. Encouraged,
Sarah sat down by its side and carefully examined its wounds.

Four
long gashes ran several inches along its flank, serious enough, but not as
extensive as she had feared. If she could but stem the flow of blood, the
animal would no doubt recover. “I do wish that Kingston were here!”

The
wolf whined and licked her hand in a very unwolf-like fashion. Sarah narrowed
her eyes at the beast, then, shook her head, amazed that she could entertain
such a foolish notion.

It
took several minutes, and the sacrifice of a portion of her chemise, but Sarah
got the bleeding to stop, and afterward, the animal lay quietly, its muzzle
mere inches from Sarah’s knee. “What odd companions we are. I confess, I’ve
never been overly fond of your kind. Yet, I cannot deny that I am as grateful
for your company as I am for your sacrifice. I suppose that makes us friends?” She
stretched a tentative hand toward the animal, half expecting to be rebuffed
with a snarl.

Instead,
it lay, quiet and still, watching her with its soulful dark eyes, then, as
Sarah stroked its broad head, it closed its eyes. “You are quite beautiful,”
Sarah said, stroking its head and shoulders. Its fur was silken to the touch,
as pale as moonlight shimmering on the dark surface of a lake. Her fingers slid
through it, and the animal sighed. There was a blatant sensuality in the act
itself, a primitive connection between herself and the untamed, more sensed
that understood. She could feel its contentment, its protectiveness, and she
knew that she would be safe as long as it stayed by her side.

Secure
in that knowledge, Sarah curled on the ground and slept, her head pillowed in
the curve of one arm, the fingers of her other hand threaded through the
beast’s luxurious fur.

When
at last, she awakened, it was to the sensation of warmth. Emanating from the
hard male body molded tightly to hers, it seeped through her gown and chemise,
easing the stiffness in her limbs, bathing her in a comfort from shoulders to
ankles that she had never known outside her marriage bed. Suddenly realizing
that she was not alone, Sarah came awake with a start and, turning, gazed into
Kingston’s intense dark eyes.

 Sarah
scrambled up. “Oh, Kingston! ‘Tis you!”

“You
were expecting to wake in the arms of another man, perhaps?”

“Certainly
not!” Sarah replied, then, hastened to correct herself. “I did not realize you
had returned. In fact, there was a time when I feared you would not come back
at all.”

He
watched her from his place in the dooryard, still stretched full length upon
his side, his head propped on his hand. “You feared that I would break my vow,
abandon you. What is it that your Bible says? ‘Oh, ye of little faith’?”

“My
faith is hardly lacking. I woke last night to find you hadn’t returned, and the
camp invaded by wild beasts. It was but by the grace of God that I was not
devoured!”

“So,
your god was here last night?” He sounded dubious.

She
related the events of the previous night as succinctly as she could, smoothing
her hair and donning her prayer cap. She still hadn’t forgiven him for taking
such shameless advantage of her weakness last evening, or for looking so
shockingly sensual right now. Sleep had eased the ferocity from his face, making
him appear more youthful, more carefree, more devastatingly handsome than any
man had a right to be. Sarah was careful to keep her distance. “Scoff if you
wish, but I am convinced that the wolf that saved my life last night was sent
by God for that very purpose, and it weighs heavily upon my heart that it was
nearly killed.”

Sauvage
watched as she looked around, and knew what she was thinking. “Rest easy,
Madame. If indeed there was a wolf, it has found a place by now to rest and
lick its wounds.”

“There
was
a wolf!” she insisted. “A great wolf, with a coat as pale as
moonlight. It saved my life, then watched over me as I slept.” She scoured the
ground near the place where Sauvage lay, looking for proof of the animal’s
presence. “It must have left some drops of blood, some sign to indicate its
passing.”

She
made to walk past him, intent upon her search, Sauvage took her arm, bringing
her back to face him. He wanted to tell her that searching for signs of the
animal was futile, that a wolf was a creature of the night and rarely seen in
daylight. He wanted to bask in her soft angelic beauty, to ease her worries, to
claim the tenderness and caring she bestowed upon the wolf for himself. Yet, as
he opened his mouth to speak, he saw her gaze skim his middle, where the
hunting shirt gaped open. In that instant, her expression went from gentle
consternation, to concern, and then to disbelief in rapid succession.

Sauvage
bit back a groan of frustration, aware what would follow. “Sarah, it is nothing.”
He started to close the shirt, to hide the quartet of deep slashes that scored
his side, just above the belt that held his breechclout.

Madame,
however, had other ideas, and was already on her knees beside him. She grasped
the leather, pulling it back for a closer look. “How came you by these wounds?”
she demanded.

“A
minor incident,” Sauvage said. “Barely worthy of note.”

“You
are far too modest, Kingston. The cuts are deep and need attention. I’ll ask
again. How came you by these wounds?”

“As
is happens, I ran afoul of the same bear that frightened you last night. I
startled her, and she took a swat at me.”

He
felt her gaze go over him, and knew that she missed no small detail of his
appearance.
But did she notice how her mere presence inflamed him?
Then,
when he saw her gaze skim the front of his loin cloth and dart quickly away, he
decided that she had.

“There
must have been a great deal of blood.”

“Madame?”
He hoped he’d misheard her.

“No
man could sustain such cuts without bleeding profusely. Yet, there is no blood
on your shirt, or your leggings.” She met his gaze sharply, then, abruptly
turned away. “The wolf had similar gashes on its flank. I knew that I should
give it aid, but I feared that it would attack me. Curiously, it did not—-and I
thought that it—-but no, it is too preposterous—-is it not, Kingston?”

Sauvage
braced a hand against his side and got stiffly to his feet. Yet, as he
advanced, Madame backed away. “Sarah,” he said. “You will not leave this camp. To
go off on your own would be far too dangerous, especially when you are so
distraught.”

“Distraught?”
she cried. How can I be anything but distraught? To think that you—that the
wolf was—” She pressed a fist to her mouth. “Where were you last night?”

“We
must be leaving soon,” he replied impatiently.

“Kingston,
I must know.”

The
look on her face in that moment was heartrending. Sauvage could not lie to her,
but neither could he tell her the truth. “Suffice to say that I was never very
far away.” Then, before she could say another word, he snapped, “Enough! My
wounds will heal, and you are safe! Be satisfied with that.”

Sarah
was not satisfied. All day, the notion plagued her. When they halted for the
night and Kingston went off to scout, she could think of nothing else. Was it
possible? Could a man change his shape at will? Could Kingston have been the
wolf, and the wolf Kingston?

It
was difficult to countenance, but Kingston had been gone when the wolf arrived
to save her life. Its wounds were similar to Kingston’s wounds, wounds he’d
been reluctant to explain.

Suffice
to say that I was never far away.
His cryptic comment echoed in her mind, and
with startling clarity she saw him again in her mind’s eye, as he’d been that
first night, silvered by moonlight, a host of wolves whimpering at his feet.

The
image confused her. Before she realized it, she was on her feet and moving,
away from the camp. She could not stay. His smoldering black gaze was her
undoing. A single glance from him could dissolve her will in an instant, a
touch of his hand had the power to make her forget everything she stood for. And,
if by chance he should attempt to seduce her again, she might not be able to
summon the will to resist.

Even
now, she longed to surrender. Suddenly, it all became frighteningly clear. As
hard as it was to fathom, she was falling in love with him, and she had to act
immediately. She had to leave this place, had to leave Kingston and his
compelling air of dark mystery behind, or risk losing her immortal soul.

Sarah
glanced at the sky. Kingston had told her that Harris’s Ferry lay due west of
here, a half day’s walk. If she hurried, she could put sufficient distance
between her and Kingston to discourage him from following.

As
the evening advanced, Sarah’s footsteps dragged. The sun slowly slid behind the
rolling hills; the gold of evening ripened. The details of the landscape
blurred. She came upon a gnarled oak, the trunk of which had been blasted by
lightning, the same tree she passed a quarter of an hour ago.

Sarah’s
heart sank. She was walking in circles. Weary, disheartened, she sat down at
the base of the trunk and tried to decide what to do next.

Then,
she saw a man appear from the shadows, weapon in hand. As the indistinct figure
emerged from the forest into the half light of evening, Sarah froze.

The
man was smaller and slighter in build than Kingston, with a tuft of black hair
standing erect at the crown of his head like the comb on a rooster. The ends of
his scalp lock were tipped with yellow ochre, and streaks of the same brilliant
paint had been drawn horizontally across his lower face.

He
was a demon risen from the depths of Sarah’s worst nightmare. Only, this time,
there would be no waking from the terror, no escape. She caught her breath as
the warrior leveled his musket, whispered a prayer, and waited for death to
claim her.

A
few hundred yards upstream from the campsite, Sauvage paused on the banks of
Cocalico Creek. The evening air was sultry, as soft as a woman’s caress against
his skin. He’d just finished his nightly rounds and what little Indian sign
he’d come across was days old, giving him little cause for concern.

The
last of the light gave way to the violet dusk that in a moment or two would
blanket the land. Only a thin golden thread remained to separate the hills from
the endless purple sky.

Another
night would soon be upon them, and with it would come yet another test of his
strength of will. A few hundred yards upstream, Sarah Marsters was waiting. Doubtless
by now she would have finished her nightly ablutions and would be trying to
comb out her shimmering brown tresses with her fingers.

How
alluring she was, even in her dishevelment, so sensual and appealing—all soft
tangled curls, a shimmering gold in the firelight, and a faint rose blush
blooming high upon her cheeks.

She
was alone, waiting for his return, and though he did not wish to be, he was anxious
for the sight of her... anxious for the night to come, with all of its
possibilities.

Perhaps
tonight she would soften and come to him. His body throbbed at the thought, and
he had to fight the urge to turn away from his contemplation of the evening sky
and hurry back.

Instead,
he forced himself to wait, to kneel and slake his thirst with the cold waters
of the creek. Five days he’d been in Madame’s company. Five days of battling
his lustful thoughts and ungovernable impulses. They’d traversed “die Kluft” in
South Mountain behind Conrad Weiser’s home early in the afternoon, and had half
a day’s walk before they reached Harris’s Ferry and his sensual torment at last
came to an end.

Kingston
tipped his face up to the night sky. One more interminable night and one half
day in which he must strive to control his mind and his body, when all he
wanted was to lay her down and take her. He knew that he could still her
protests with hot kisses, winning out over her piety, her propriety, so that he
could lose himself within her sweet womanliness.

Her
innocence beguiled his senses, her lush curves beckoned sweetly. He could
scarcely keep his goals in sight when Sarah was near. Thus, he was constantly
at war with himself, his head with his heart, his body with his need for a
reckoning.

The
warrior inside him screamed that she was poison to his purpose. Madame craved
peace; he wreaked havoc. War was his life—a one man war, carried out against
his enemies. He’d come too far and killed too many to quit the fight without
total victory... without revenge against the one man he hated above all others.

He’d
never talked to anyone about what happened to Caroline, and though the
circumstances of her death were known by some, no one had ever dared to
approach him about the details. Not even Angel, who was like a brother to him.

So,
why did he long to tell Sarah? Why had he quaked like a leaf a dozen different
times with the effort of holding the words back? He, who had howled like a wild
thing when he’d come home to find Caroline’s ravaged body, their son, newly
born and too tender to survive, mewling in the dust between her thighs. It was
an image he must never allow himself to forget. Not for the sake of his lust
for a woman so different from him, so foreign.

Hatred
for his enemy welled up inside him, and he clung to it, resolved not to weaken
again. Yet, as Kingston turned from the still waters of the creek, he felt his
composure crumble.

Caroline
stood a few feet away, garbed in a pale-hued gown, the look of a startled doe
poised to take flight upon her bloodless face. A breath of sound escaped
Sauvage’s tightening throat; the apparition glanced at him, then into the
trees.

She
would leave him now, to his torment. And this time, he swore, he would not
follow. But his grief and guilt bit deep and the cry was wrung from him as she
retreated into the trees. “Caroline, wait! Please don’t go!”

At
a little distance she paused, looking back. Sauvage followed, a madman,
pursuing a ghost. She was always just ahead, a bewitching glimpse of white gown
and flowing hair. With the child clutched tightly to her breast, she led him
past the deep ravine, along the winding path to the deserted campsite.

Deserted.
Sauvage
glanced around. “Sarah?” The venison lay where he’d left it, and sufficient
wood had been gathered to fuel their nightly fire, but Sarah was nowhere to be
seen.

Caroline
forgotten, Sauvage sprinted to the stream, hoping Sarah would be there. But no
one was there.

Sauvage.
Quickly.
He
heard Caroline’s voice, a husk of an urgent whisper inside his head, and he was
certain that he was losing his mind, but he listened, running now to keep her
fleeting figure in sight. She guided him to the east, along the path he and
Sarah had travelled that same afternoon. Sweat ran down his face in runnels
with the effort, streaming into his eyes. He ignored it, afraid to blink for
fear of losing sight of Caroline.

And
then, at a turn in the path, Caroline suddenly vanished and Sauvage saw Sarah,
her figure rigid, her sweet face a study in horror. A few yards away, Killbuck,
a half-Delaware, half-Huron member of
La Bruin
’s band, had Sarah in the
sights of his rifle and was slowly squeezing the trigger.