Lord of the Wolves (12 page)

Sarah
pulled the ends of the strings, slipping the neatly formed bow, folding back
the cloth wrapping to reveal a lovely, ornate brush and hand mirror. “Oh,
monsieur!” she exclaimed.

Angel
held up a hand. “Please, you must call me Angel.”

“Angel.
‘Tis beautiful, and obviously very costly. Too costly to accept.”

Reaching
out, Sauvage stayed her hand, covering it with his for an instant, his fingers
twining briefly with his. “
Non
, Madame. You much accept this gift in the
spirit it which it is given. To return it to the giver is to offer insult. Besides,
he’s actually thinking of someone else for a change. It is good that he should
learn this.”

Angel
huffed softly, but Sauvage could tell that he was pleased. Not half so please
as Madame, however, who, after a brief apology, began to ply the brush and work
the tangles from her soft brown hair. How content she appeared, and how her
eyes shone at Angel’s thoughtful gift! A gift Sauvage wished he’d given her
himself.

Long
after Sarah and Angel had drifted off to sleep, he lay awake, unable to rid
himself of the events of the evening, of thoughts of Madame. Tomorrow, they
would reach Harris’ Ferry. How strange, Sauvage thought, as he stared at the
stars in the heavens, that he should no longer find that thought comforting,
that he felt no vast relief that he would once and for all be rid of Madame and
her huffing and puffing, her complaints and her endless piety... only a deep
and explicable melancholy which, once it settled in, stubbornly refused to
leave him.

The
settlement of Harris’ Ferry was not the clean and orderly town that Sarah had
expected. Buildings of all description sat around a great log trading post and
warehouse, like a hen with a straggling brood of strange-looking chicks. Some
of the structures were made of logs, others of native limestone, and still
others constructed haphazardly of whatever materials had been readily
available—supports with cured hides used for the walls and roof, or great slabs
of tree bark—and looking no sounder, no more permanent, than the simple camp
shelters Kingston had constructed each evening upon setting up camp.

The
settlement had a disreputable air that was out of place against the silver
glimmer of the broad Susquehanna River and the mysterious blue of the mountains
lying to the north and the south.

Narrowing
her eyes against the bright glare off the river, Sarah tried to picture the
valley without the houses and shacks surrounded by broken crockery and assorted
refuse, a layer of smoke lying like a thin pale gray pall over all.

It
had begun as a trading post situated a little distance from the Indian town of
Paxtang, and because of its close proximity to the Allegheny Path—the very path
which they had been following these past few days—the town had quickly grown
and prospered.

The
Harris family had grown rich upon the Indian trade, and, in recent years, from
the ferry they operated which bridged the Susquehanna, at present the only one
of its kind on the river. But there was little to recommend the town.

Standing
on a rise above it, with a gentle breeze wafting over the water, Sarah wrinkled
her nose in distaste. “What is that smell?”

Kingston
leaned on his rifle. “Smoke and urine, boiling bear fat, and curing hides—the
smell of the white man’s progress.”

“I
find it offensive. It is not at all like Bethlehem. There, the streets are
clean, and the air is untainted by the evil stink that permeates this place.”

“Perhaps
you will adjust to it.”

Sarah
gave an indignant sniff and immediately regretted it. “Lord willing, I shall
not be here that long.”

Kingston
smiled, but the expression was lacking in warmth. “Madame is understandably
anxious to resume her journey and join her husband on the Muskingum.”

Sarah
said nothing. Yes, she was anxious, nervous and sad, when she should have been
elated. She had reached a milestone in her long journey. The past had been put
firmly behind her; the future that lay ahead was shining bright, and rich with
promise.

Why,
then, did she feel this wavering uncertainty, this inexplicable, undeniable
sense of loss? As if she were leaving an important part of her life behind? A
part of her heart?

The
answer to her questions let his gaze roam over her, then, without saying a
word, he took hold of her arm just above the elbow, and guided her into the
ramshackle town.

As
they approached the first of the outlying hovels, a long low frame covered in
skins, he drew her closer to his side. Seated on a stump in the dooryard, a man
with stringy brown hair and grizzled chin indulged in a leisurely scratch. The
man’s companion, a lanky youth of perhaps ten and six was stirring the contents
of a pot suspended over an open fire. A few feet away several rangy hounds sat
on their haunches, hopefully sniffing the air.

Catching
their scent, the hounds bounded toward them, hackles raised and growling
menacingly. Kingston snapped a command and they retreated, their tails tucked
between their legs.

“Bully!
Ely! Ransome!” the seated man growled, and the dogs trotted back to plop down
in the dust at his feet. “Pretty little filly you got there, Sauvage,” he said,
rising and falling into step behind them. “You steal her from some unsuspectin’
white man?”

Kingston
ignored the ugly comment. “Is McCrae in town, Jack?”

Jack
Simmons narrowed his gaze and spat. “Mebe he is, an’ mebe he ain’t. What’dya
want him for?” Jack demanded, then his aspect brightened when he sized up the
trophies that hung from Kingston’s belt. “You got scalps? Three? Is that all? Why,
I took two last month myself, up near Robinson’s Bluff.”

“Warriors,
Jack?” Kingston inquired. “Or women and children?”

Simmons
drew himself up. “I never could figure out which part o’ you I hated the worst,
the French, or the In’jun. Not that it makes much never-mind. Your luck ain’t
like to hold forever, n’ you’re already losin’ your edge. Some heart-eatin’
Huron buck’ll have that pretty hair o’ yourn for his own, someday real soon,
Sauvage. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

Jack
Simmons’s words made Sarah shiver. “Who is he, Kingston? And what did you mean
by ‘women and children’?”

“A
few years back, a farm near here was attacked by a Delaware war party upset by
the loss of the land to the Whites. The men hereabouts decided to pursue those
responsible. When they returned, they had several scalps, but not a warrior’s
among them. Jack Simmons was one of those men.”

“How
reprehensible,” Sarah said.

“It
was cowardly,” Kingston agreed, “yet regrettably, such occurrences are not at
all uncommon, and Jack Simmons is far from the worst of the lot. There are men
here, who aren’t to be trusted. Evil men. You must keep that in mind when you
begin your search for a guide, Madame. Trust your instincts, and just to be
sure, consult Cherry Vining. She knows everyone within twenty miles of Harris’s
Ferry, and Cherry does not lie.”

Sarah
digested his advice with a frown of concern. She shook her head doubtfully, not
at all certain that she could manage it all. They came to a large log house—-the
only house, besides the one owned by the Harris family that was two stories
high. A painted wooden sign mounted on the porch post and swinging slowly in
the breeze proclaimed: VINING’S BOARDING HOUSE.

Pausing
on the bottom step, Sarah looked at the sign, and then to Kingston. “Cherry
Vining, I presume?”

“She
was a friend of Caroline’s.” He opened the door and stood aside for Sarah to
enter.

As
he turned, a woman of perhaps twenty and five came forward. Dressed in a gown
of mulberry--colored silk frothy with white lace at the elbow and neckline, her
flame-red hair piled high atop her head, she looked as if she belonged in a
parlor in Philadelphia, instead of in this rude wilderness outpost. “Well, well.
If it isn’t Kingston Sauvage. What brings you to town?”

“Business,”
Kingston replied. “Have you a room to let?”

“That
depends on who’ll be layin’ their head on my bedding, you, or your friend,
there. If it’s the two of you together, then we got us a problem. I’ve got my
standards, as you know.”

“The
room is for the lady,” Kingston said with a rare smile. “Are you open to
negotiation?”

“I’m
always open to barter. What do you have to offer?”

Sarah
watched in amazement as Kingston undid his belt, slipped off the hunting shirt,
and stood, bare to the waist beneath the other woman’s shrewd gaze. Against the
backdrop of the shabby parlor, he seemed all the more exotic, a pagan prince
with deep bronze skin and wide silver bracelets gleaming above his biceps. Sarah,
closely observing the two, felt an unaccustomed wave of jealousy. “Kingston,
please, she began, “there is no need for you to part with your possessions. I
have my brooch with which to pay—”

The
woman narrowed her eyes at Kingston. “Is this a serious offer, or a ruse?”

“It
is serious,” he said. “The question is: are you? If you do not wish to trade, I
will take my bracelets and go elsewhere.”

He
started to slip back into his shirt, but the woman stopped him. “All right,
let’s get down to business.”

Kingston
grounded the butt of his rifle, folding his hands over the barrel. “You provide
Madame with a room, clean bedding, and three meals a day, and I will part with
one bracelet.”

“For
how long?” Cherry demanded. “One week? Two?”

“For
as long as she wishes to stay.”

Cherry
stalked across the parlor. Kingston stood, as hard and implacable as stone. “Two
meals a day,” she countered, “and a clean bed for a fortnight. That’s the best
I can do.”

“Not
good enough,” Kingston hefted the rifle and, taking Sarah by the arm, walked
her to the door. Before they crossed the threshold, Cherry stopped them.

“All
right! One bracelet, and I’ll take her in. Two, and I’ll adopt her.”

“One,
and she stays until she finds a guide to take her to her chosen destination, no
matter how long that takes. You provide bed, board, and a decent gown for her.”

“A
gown! Damn you, Sauvage! You ask too much!”

“
A
gown
.” Kingston held firm, sliding one of the wide silver bands from a
brawny arm and holding it so it caught the sunlight streaming through a window.
“You are smarter than most. You will tell everyone who will listen that you had
this bracelet from the notorious Kingston Sauvage, a wanton killer, the terror
of the Huron of the Lakes. When the right man comes along, you will sell it for
five times its worth—ten, if by that time I have met my fate.”

While
Cherry speculated, Sarah tugged insistently at his arm. “Kingston, please. Do
not give away what cannot be replaced.”

Kingston
pinned the woman with his gaze. “What will it be? One fine silver bracelet in
exchange for bed and board, or do I take Madame elsewhere?”

“One
bracelet,” Cherry agreed, “and she can have a bed under the eaves for as long
as she likes, with two meals thrown in, morning and evening. Three if she helps
out in the kitchen.

“A
clean bed,” he warned. “I do not want her to spend her nights chasing fleas. And
the gown I mentioned.”

“A
clean bed, and a gown, too,” Cherry relented. “Now, hand it over.”

Kingston
placed the gleaming silver band in the outstretched hand of Cherry, who
gleefully secreted it inside the hidden pocket of her skirt.

“Give
us a moment, will you?” Kingston said to the older woman, who gave a crisp nod,
then, turning, exited the room.

They
were alone together at last. Sarah swallowed hard. The moment which she had
been dreading had finally arrived. Kingston was leaving, and she would never
see him again. Tears stung her eyes at the thought, but she blinked them back,
trying to smile, to laugh, but the smile died on her lips, the laugh escaped as
a strangled sob.

Kingston
reached out to her in her moment of weakness, cupping her cheek with his palm. There
was tenderness in his touch, his voice. “Mouse, one phase of your journey has
ended, another is about to begin. You should be happy, not sad.”

She
dashed the tears from her eyes with an impatient hand. “I am sorry. Truly, I am.
I have never been very good at farewells.”

“Do
not think of it as farewell,” he suggested with a slight smile. “I am going
away for a time, but once I have concluded my business with
La Bruin
I
will come and visit you and your new husband on the Muskingum. You would like
that, eh?”

She
gave him a watery smile. “Indeed, I would.”

He
laughed low and pulled her into his arms. “Kiss me, then, for I must be on my
way.”

Rising
on tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Kingston
let go of the rifle. Sarah heard it clatter to the floor. His hands slid down
her spine, coming to rest on the twin moons of her buttocks, urging her soft
belly against him. Unable to bear the bittersweet kiss any longer, Sarah tore
her mouth from his and hid her tearstained face in the curve of his throat.

He
drew a deep and shuddering breath, expelling it on a sigh. “Perhaps after all,
it is best if I do not come to you on the Muskingum. Perhaps it is best for all
concerned if it ends here, in Harper’s Ferry.”

Beyond
reply, Sarah watched him retrieve his rifle, turn, and with a last burning
glance, make his way from the room.

She
was still standing in the middle of the parlor, staring at the empty portal
through which he’d made his exit, when Cherry Vining returned to close the door
on the outside world and take her in hand. “Are you feeling unwell, Mrs.
Marsters? You’re looking rather flushed.”

Sarah
smiled halfheartedly. “It is nothing, Mrs. Vining. I am suddenly quite weary,
is all.”

“Then,
come this way,” Cherry said, heading toward the stairs. “I’ll show you to your
room, where you can rest until Jessie draws your bath.”

Sauvage’s
business took him to John Harris Jr.’s trading post, a large log building
situated at a little distance from the shore and built to withstand trouble,
flood and the passing of the generations. John Harris Sr. had settled in this
valley in 1717; he’d lived here and worked here and prospered. His legacy was
far-reaching, and there was little doubt that his sons and grandsons would be
here in this valley long after Kingston Sauvage was reduced to dust and
memories.