Lord of the Wolves (11 page)

“He
did not like Quebec?” Sarah questioned.

“He
detested the foreignness, hated the fine broadcloth suits, the linen and lace
he’d been forced to wear. Most of all, he hated his father’s wife, and her imp
of a son.”

“Kingston
has a brother?” Sarah was shocked.

“A
half brother. They shared a father, but have different mothers.”

“He
spoke of his mother, but he never mentioned a brother.”

Angel
waved her comment aside. “Nor will he. Have you seen how the wolves bow down at
his feet? They come to pay him homage, you see, these wild creatures, and it
has been this way since his birth.”

“Indeed?”

“The
man is legend. They speak of this in all of the villages.”

“What
do they say about him?”

 
“Well... it is said that he was born in the teeth of a howling gale, when the
snows lay deep upon the land, and the wolves gathered outside of the birthing hut,
causing quite a stir among his people. Only his grandfather, Gray Wolf,
understood. The old man took the infant from his mother, bundled him in skins
against the bitter cold, and showed the wolves the man-child they were to
serve, their prince. That is how he was given his Indian name: White Wolf. White
for the color of his skin and the deep winter snows, and Wolf for his totem. It
was not until the following year when the priest came to the village that he
was baptized Kingston Sauvage.”

“He
told you this?” Sarah asked.

Angel’s
eyes danced with secret amusement. “Talk of Sauvage has always been rife. You
have but to listen to hear it.”

“White
Wolf. It suits him, doesn’t it?”

“It
does. White Wolf he was before he started his bloody campaign. Now, they speak
of him differently.”

“Differently?”
Sarah prompted. “How so?”

“Are
you certain you wish to know? There are, after all, other more pleasant
subjects we might pursue, such as the latest Parisian fashions. I have seen the
dressmakers’ dolls myself, and can describe them for you if you like, in great
detail.”

“Please,
Renoir,” Sarah said. “You must tell me.”

He
sighed. “The old ones speak of him with reverence. The young men of the
French-allied tribes lust for his scalp, and count great coup just to have
glimpsed him and lived to tell the tale. Son-of-a-Vengeful-Spirit, Lord of the
Wolves, that’s what the Chippewa call him. It is glamorous, eh?”

“And
deadly,” Sarah added.

“This
is true. It is widely believed that the warrior who lifts his hair will rise to
great renown.”

“Dear
me,” Sarah said. “You should not speak of such eventualities, even in jest.” The
thought of Kingston meeting a violent end was something she did not wish to
think about. Not so soon after the incident in the gathering dusk, and what had
come after. Better to think of the feel of his hands on her flesh, so full of
life and passion, or the secrets he was keeping, than to contemplate his death.
“Would you tell me about the wolves, Renoir? You’ve known him for a long time. Do
you think that it is possible—can he change shapes at will?”

“I
have heard of such things, yet I cannot say if it is truth or falsehood. If you
wish to know, you must ask Sauvage.”

A
thoughtful silence settled between them, in which Renoir studied Sarah, and
Sarah studied her hands, folded demurely in her lap. “It’s easy to see that you
love him, Sarah. And if his possessiveness toward you is any indication, I
should say that you have captured a great deal more than Sauvage’s eye.”

“Of
course, I care for Kingston,” she countered. “But it is not as you seem to
think. He has helped me, and although I cannot agree with his drastic methods,
I owe him my life.”

Kingston
returned in time for Angel to turn a questioning stare upon him. “I thought I heard
a shot as darkness was descending.”

“Sarah
wandered away from camp,” Kingston explained, “and Killbuck was set to take her
scalp when I came upon them.”

“And
you killed him,” Angel surmised. “I myself would have done the same. Killbuck
was a bad man. And since we are speaking of evil incarnate, what news have you
of
La Bruin
?”

“Nothing
since he massacred Sarah’s party. I had no chance to question Killbuck. Sadly,
he did not linger to converse with me.” He glanced at Sarah, a dark glance,
full of meaning. “Perhaps it’s just as well. She has suffered enough upset.”

“Then,
you have not heard?” Angel surmised. “A German farmer and his wife were slain a
few days ago near Squirrel Run. Block was his name—Helmut Block. Didn’t seem to
have put up much of a struggle. It could be that they took him by surprise. They
killed him quickly. Not so, his wife.”

“I
should have killed him when I had the chance. Caroline, the babe, and this—it
is no wonder she haunts me.” Caught up in his raging emotions, his fury, his
guilt, Sauvage had completely forgotten Sarah. Now, as he glanced up and Sarah,
he felt the stab of an instant regret. She was waiting for him to explain. Her
eyes were wide, her face unnaturally pale. Angel watched him just as keenly as
Sarah. Sauvage could have bitten his traitorous tongue in two. He felt his face
flush dark, and looked to Angel, hoping his friend would come to his aid.

Instead,
Angel rose and stretched. “If you will excuse me, I’ll just go and retrieve my
belongings. As you well know, you cannot be too careful out here. The woods are
filled with wolves, and not everyone has the power to charm them.” Reaching
out, he clapped Sauvage’s shoulder. “I wish you more than your usual luck, my
friend. I have a feeling you are going to need it.” With a sadistic chuckle, he
turned and walked slowly into the shadows, leaving Sauvage to his fate.

Sarah
struck with amazing speed, giving Sauvage no time to erect a barrier of
forbidding glances, or a wall of stony silence. “Who haunts you, Kingston?”

“I
should not have said what I said just now.”

“But
you did say it, and you meant it.”

“Sarah,
please.” He frowned. A lame parry, too weak a defense to fend off her curiosity.

She
gave him a troubled look, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and hesitant,
shy, a clear indication that she was not accustomed to speaking of such things.
“A little while ago, you would have taken my virtue, everything I have to give.
Why can you not tell me the truth?”

“Truth
and love make bad bedfellows,” Kingston replied.

Sarah
concentrated on her hands, which lay in her lap. “Without truth, there can be
no love, no intimacy. Only with sharing can genuine feeling grow between a man
and a woman, affection flourish. Only with truth can hearts unite.”

“The
truth can be ugly,” Sauvage spat. “Cruel.”

“Telling
truths, no matter how painful, is a balm to an aching heart. It helps to unburden
a troubled soul.”

“Would
that the telling of truths could make that dastardly French cur vanish so that
we could be alone together,” he shot back. “I’d soon put an end to this
incessant talk, and ease this fire in my loins in the bargain.”

Sarah
smiled. “Perhaps you should indulge in a dip in the creek.”

“And
leave you alone with him?” Sauvage demanded. “Never.”

“I
heard that!” Angel called from a little distance.

“I
have more to fear from your presence at this moment, than from his. Tell me
what you meant before. Who haunts you?”

“Must
I say the obvious? Must I speak her name?”

She
frowned. “Caroline? But why, Kingston? What reason would her spirit have to
linger? I do not understand.”

Kingston
sighed, not wanting to discuss it, fearing she would think him mad. “I should
have been there that day. I should have protected them.” His chest was on fire,
his lungs choked. He forced himself to breathe, great gulps of air that helped
only marginally to calm him. “Perhaps she blames me,” he said. “I know for
certain that she fears me.”

“Fears
you?” Sarah said. “How can you know that?”

“From
the look that comes over her face when she sees me, when I call her name. On a
night, not long ago, I came upon a hunter’s cabin besieged by wolves. I knew
from the moment of my arrival that a woman had sought shelter within the
crumbling walls. Still, I planned to turn my back and walk away. Indeed, I
started to do just that when I saw Caroline. She was standing a few yards away,
holding our child, a look of wariness on her face—fear. I wanted to embrace
her, to soothe her, to look upon our son’s face. A glimpse, no more—I called
out to her, and she looked at me with terror on her face, then, turning, she
faded into the woods. It was that look of fear that kept me there when I would
have left you to your fate.”

“Are
you certain it was Caroline you saw?” Sarah asked. “Perhaps it was some trick
of the moonlight and shadows.”

“Was
the woman you saw the night of the storm a trick of the light and shadows?” he
countered.

“What
are you saying?” she whispered.

“I
am saying that there was no flesh-and-blood woman within miles of the camp that
night, not a leaf or twig out of place.”

“But
she was standing at the edge of the forest!”

“With
the babe in her arms,” Kingston finished for her, “and the instant I emerged
from the wood, she disappeared.”

“No,”
she said with a shake of her head. “It cannot be.”

“You
wanted truth, Sarah,” Kingston said. “Now, I give it to you. You asked before
how I knew where you had gone when Killbuck nearly killed you. I did not
know—would never have found you in time had Caroline not led me to you.”

She
gaped at him, a look of incredulity on her face.

“I
paused by the creek’s edge as the sun was going down, purposely delaying my
return because of the tension between us... and she appeared. Only this time,
she did not disappear when I called out to her. Instead, she beckoned me to
follow.”

“She
spoke to you?” It was Angel, who’d come to stand nearby, his saddlebags slung
across his shoulder, a burlap sack on the ground near his booted feet.

“She
bade me to hurry, and then she led me directly to Sarah.”

“What
happened then?” Angel asked.

Kingston
frowned into the fire. “I dispatched Killbuck and brought Sarah back to camp.”

Angel
looked from Kingston to Sarah and back again. “You do not see it?”

Kingston
glanced up. “See what?”

“Why,
the obvious, of course,” Angel replied. “Caroline is not here to torment,
mon
ami
, but to protect you—-from yourself. You said that she led you to Sarah,
not once, but twice.”

“You
were eavesdropping?” Kingston’s look was black, and growing blacker.

“Not
purposely!” Angel replied. “What manner of blackguard do you take me for?” Then,
his eyes narrowed, and he held up his hand. “Never mind! I’ve had quite enough
aspersions cast upon my character for one evening. ‘Dastardly French cur’,
indeed! As I was saying, Caroline is trying to bring the two of you together,
though you are no doubt too dense to see it.”

“Forgive
me, monsieur,” Sarah said. “But, once again, I am betrothed.”

Kingston
threw each of them a dark glance, saying nothing.

“Very
well,” Angel said with an indignant sniff. “But who is the expert in affairs of
the heart. You, my solitary friend, or I?”

Sauvage
opened his mouth to reply, then, thinking the better of it, closed it again.

“At
last! A point with which he finds no room for argument.” Angel sat back with a
satisfied smile. “We shall quit the subject while I am ahead, and thereby
relieve your mutual discomfort.” He reached down and took up the burlap bag, withdrawing
from it a small parcel, wrapped in a bit of creamy muslin and tied up with
string. “Sarah, whose beauty rivals the dawn, this is for you.”

“For
me?” Sarah said, with a hand at her breast.

“Indeed,
for you,” Angel replied. “To replace what you have lost, and because every
beautiful woman needs to be surrounded by beautiful things.” He held it out to
her. “Go on, take it. Sauvage will not prevent you. He understands the
importance of gifts. Indian culture lauds generosity. When a man holds a friend
in great esteem, he gives that friend a gift. Something he treasures, to
display his friendship. The friend, in turn, gives something back, so that each
man knows he is valued by the other. And Indian women—indeed, all women—love
gifts.”

“But
I have nothing for you,” she protested.

“Dear
lady,” Angel said, taking her hand, raising it to his lips. “Your charming
company is gift enough.”

Sauvage
watched as his friend kissed Madame’s soft white hand, noting that he held it
much too long, and felt an unaccustomed twinge of jealousy. Uncertain just how
to respond, she raised her gaze to his, and he gave a slow, almost
imperceptible nod, watching with heavy lidded eyes as she took the gift from
Angel’s  beringed hands.