Lord of the Wolves (18 page)

Sauvage
stilled, the numbness and despair dissolving as the silvery shapes of the
wolves slipped noiselessly from the trees, Caroline’s ghostly figure seeming to
glide through their midst.

“Caroline,”
Sauvage said. “My darling wife. Please, help me.”

She
bent near, seeming to peer directly into the dim oval of Sarah’s face, then
straightened with a worried frown.
Come. We will guide you.

Caroline’s
ghost led Sauvage through the blackest part of night, her pale, ethereal
presence his unerring beacon, but when they reached the ridge overlooking the
valley where Angel’s lodge stood, the light and the vision she was began to
fade.

Sauvage
started to call out to her, his heart torn between the woman he had loved and
lost, and the one he so desperately wished to save, but he could not force
Caroline’s name past the lump in his throat. When he turned away, he heard her
voice again.
Sauvage, do not regret... we will always be with you.

His
eyes burning, his heart frozen in his chest, Kingston hurried toward the dark
bulk of the log structure that squatted in the center of a clearing. To his
relief, he saw that it was still intact, despite the war being waged all around
it, the last existing haven in a raging storm.

Into
that safe refuge, he bore Sarah’s limp form, laying her gently down upon the
deep pile of furs that served as a bed. A moment or two of fumbling in the
darkness and he found a tinderbox. Then, by the wavering light of a betty lamp,
he kindled a fire and set water to warm in a kettle suspended over the fire. Then,
he turned back to the bed where Sarah lay.

She
was very white, except for the livid bruise on her temple, and frighteningly
still. But he could not allow himself to think of that now.

Working
quickly, Sauvage unknotted the sash at her waist and drew off the deerskin
hunting smock, easing her arms from the sleeves and allowing the garment to
fall to the floor. In quick succession, her moccasins, the thong belt that
secured her leggings, and the leather casings themselves joined it there.

She
would be angry with him for taking liberties with her person. But Sauvage did
not care. Her comfort—her recovery—was all that mattered to him in this moment.
Gingerly, he felt the contours of her cheek and jaw. She must have suffered a
glancing blow from one of the smaller branches when the sycamore had struck the
Indian bridge, for nothing appeared to be broken. No blood came from ears, nose
or mouth—a good sign.

His
hopes rising a notch, he rinsed the rag, washing the fine grit from the column
of her throat, her shoulders and firm white breasts.
Mon Dieu,
she was
lovely, even in her dishabille. Her body was softly rounded, perfect in its
plumpness, her curves generous, the very embodiment of woman. He dipped the rag
and cleansed her arms, her hands, her midriff and down... across her belly and
down her shapely legs. And when he’d finished cleansing her front, he turned
her onto her side and began the process again, not stopping until every inch of
her was clean and sweet-smelling once again. Once the task was completed, he
covered her with furs, forcing a little brandy down her throat and coaxing her
to swallow.

She
coughed and sputtered and wheezed, trying to push the bottle away, groaning low
in her throat. “Come, mouse, drink. It will lend you strength and help to warm
you.”

She
must have heard, for she stopped fighting and relaxed against the arm that
supported her, opening her eyes. “Kingston. ‘Tis you.” Her voice was so weak,
like the cry of a newborn kitten. It wrung his heart to hear it.

“
Oui
,
Madame. I am here with you, and here I will stay. Can you drink a little more
for me?”

She
grimaced, turning her face away. “No more, please. It’s most sinful.”

Sauvage
eased her down, onto the furs, smoothing her hair back from her brow with a
gentle hand. “You are an angel,” he whispered in French, “and angels cannot
sin.”

“No,”
she said, tears trickling from the corners of her shuttered lids. “Not an angel.
I have sinned often since we met—in my heart.”

Kingston
took her hand, holding it in both of his, desperate now to make her understand.
“You are the purest thing to have come into my life since Caroline left it... a
kind and gentle soul totally devoid of wickedness, and I, of all men, should know.
I can recognize an angel when I see one, so do not give a thought to sin. Think
only of getting well. It’s all that matters now.”

There
was no way to be certain that she had even heard, for she had already drifted
off and lay, pale and shivering beneath the mound of furs. Kingston watched her
for a while, then, rose from his seat on the edge of her bed. Her words, though
hardly lucid, had set him to thinking. When he’d been gathering supplies
earlier to make her well, he’d come upon a small store of the Virginia leaf.

It
was customary to offer a gift before asking a favor from the giver of all life.
Kingston was about to ask a very great favor indeed, but first he must be clean
again. He could not address his god covered with silt and smelling of fish and
creek water.

Using
the cauldron of water with which he’d bathed Sarah, he rinsed the silt from his
hair, tossed the water into the dooryard, and filled it again from the spring,
and rinsed it again, scrubbing every inch of his body until he was tingling with
cold. When he had finished, he took the tobacco and went to kneel naked before
the hearth, willing himself back to his youth in his mind, back to the Delaware
village situated on the banks of the dark Allegheny.

The
ritual of prayer began with the rite of purification, but Kingston could not
risk leaving Sarah to build a sweat lodge, so his icy bath would have to
suffice. Seating himself before the fire, he dribbled some leaf onto the logs
and began the singsong chant that signified an ardent wish. He thanked the
Creator for the blessings He bestowed upon him: the trueness of his aim, the
many enemy scalps he’d taken, the deer that had fed and clothed him, and the
loyalty of his spirit guides. Then he added more leaf to the fire, inhaling the
rich fragrant smoke that filled the room and began his entreaty.

While
the fire crackled and the night deepened, Kingston regaled his god with tales
of Sarah’s bravery that afternoon and the sacrifice that had brought her to
this perilous pass, and asked that her life be spared so that she might bear
her betrothed many strong sons and live a life of peace and goodness.

He
sang and prayed until his throat ached, until the well of words dried up. Then
he fed the last of Angel’s precious tobacco to the flames and returned to
Sarah’s side. There was no noticeable change in her condition. She still
shivered so violently beneath the furs that her teeth chattered, and her skin
was hot and dry to the touch. She was fevered.

Sauvage’s
heart sank in his breast. He sought for the trust he knew he must have—trust
that his prayers would be answered, that Sarah would survive this crisis. But
that trust came damnably hard. Fever had claimed his mother.

Dipping
the rag in the cold water, he wrung it out and pressed it to her brow. It would
not happen to Sarah. He needed her—more than he realized—more, perhaps than was
prudent, given the fact that she was pledged to another man.

He
frowned at the thought of the Moravian missionary, Brother John Liebermann. What
manner of man was he? Was he gentle and kind? Would he care for Sarah? Keep her
from getting into trouble, and deftly extract her when she did? Would he love
her unstintingly, as she so rightly deserved, or give her but half his heart,
saving the rest for the Lord? Would he warm her flesh with his own on cold
winter nights, kiss her and tutor her, and give her the babies she so richly
deserved, and which until now, she’d been denied?

All
of these things he himself longed to do for Sarah, but never would, because she
was promised to Brother John Liebermann, and he was pledged to vengeance.

The
night advanced. Sarah’s fever raged and Sauvage’s concern increased. She tossed
on her pillow, her body trembling violently beneath the wealth of furs. He
forced a bit of water laced with brandy between her parched lips, listening to
her ceaseless ramblings.

“Kathryn...
oh, Kathryn, the wolves....”

Sauvage
tried his best to soothe her, pressing the cool rag to her hot skin, he leaned
close and whispered. “Hush, my love. The wolves will not harm you. There is no
need to be afraid. I am here with you now. Rest and get well.”

“No,”
she said with a terrible shudder. “I must help—Kathryn. Coward—always a
coward—I must try to be—brave.”

“You
are not a coward,” he said softly, fervently, hoping that on some deep level
she would hear and understand his words. “You are the bravest woman I have ever
known. You saved my life, and now you must gather your strength and come back
to me.”

“Cold,”
she said. “So cold.”

All
of the furs at his disposal were piled onto her, and still she shivered. Finally,
in desperation, he lifted the furs and, naked, climbed in beside her, gathering
her against him, lending her his warmth, the only thing besides his heart he
had to give.

The
forest through which Sarah wandered was treacherous, filled with pitfalls and
spongy morass... if she strayed from the path she would lose her way, be
swallowed up by the dark tangle of swamp. A cold and unreasoning panic crept
along her veins. She was lost... doomed to wander forever in the malevolent
wood.

She
was about to succumb to despair when she saw him, the shadowy figure of a man
moving through the mist just a few yards ahead. Her heart in her throat, she
called out to him, but he only turned and, with a wave of his hand, bade her to
follow, not pausing until they came to a cabin deep in a sheltered wood. All of
her worries, her panic, her deep despair dissolved in that moment. At last she
found a place where she could lay aside her fears and rest. Pausing at the
door, she turned back to thank her guide, and found that he had vanished. She
searched the trees, but saw only the shadowy form of a great wolf moving slowly
off into the mist. At the crest of a hill, the huge animal paused to look back,
and Sarah saw that although its coat was milky white, its eyes were a
fathomless black, their expression all-knowing, just as her rescuer’s had been.

“Please...
come back! Do not leave me.”

Sauvage
mopped her brow, then took up the noggin again, forcing tepid willow-bark tea
through her lips. “Sarah, my love, you are not alone. I am here. Drink for me.”

She
swallowed, obedient as always, then weakly pushed the vessel away, wrinkling
her nose in distaste. “No more. ‘Tis rank.”

Cradling
her head in one big hand, he pressed the liquid upon her with the other. “It’s
medicine,” he countered in a voice that brooked no refusals, “and you must take
it all. Now, drink it down. Unpleasant things are best done without delay.”

“Unpleasant,
yes. Thankful—Timothy’s male urges are infrequent. Such a peculiar business.”

Sauvage
smiled. “Drink.”

She
gulped the bitter dregs, gagging and grimacing, then, before he had even set
the noggin aside, she sank once more into her restless dreams.

Sauvage
took up the cool wet rag again in a futile attempt to give her ease, but
nothing seemed to help. She tossed upon the bed of furs, her flesh aflame, her
body wracked with chills. And all the while he tore himself to shreds inside.

He
should have spared her this, somehow; taken her fears of the Indian bridge more
to heart. Instead, he had allowed concern for the state of their supplies to
take precedence over her safety, he had issued orders and expected her to
follow. He had failed her, and look at what his arrogance had wrought.

He
sighed wearily, glancing at the crack beneath the door. No light shone there,
and he wondered wearily if this would be the day that the sun chose not to rise?
Sarah was his sun, and without her gentle light, his world would be cold and
bleak.

He
felt the ache begin in his chest, and pushed the thought away. He mopped her
brow, bathed her naked form, and worried. How small, how vulnerable she looked
in the bed! Thinner than before, surely!
Mon dieu,
was she wasting away?

He
groaned and dropped the rag into the basin, clutching her small hand in both of
his. “Sarah, please,” he whispered miserably. “You must stay with me. Please,
do not leave.”

Such
black despair. His chest was leaden with it. So hard to breathe. He had not
known such agony since returning home to find his cabin in ashes, his wife and
child lying in a pool of blood. He bowed his head and closed his eyes against
the sting of tears, still clutching Sarah’s hand tightly to his breast.

He’d
thought that his heart had died upon that day, but he’d been wrong. It had only
been lying dormant, waiting for someone or something to rouse it from its
apathy—and someone had. A young English widow, soft spoken and pretty, in a
subtle, unassuming kind of way.

His
Sarah.