Lord of the Wolves (19 page)

She’d
come into his life and cast her gentle, wondrous light upon a heart which had
been dark and filled with hatred, forcing him to care again—and now it seemed
he would lose her, too.

The
pain that thought aroused was terrible, an agony so great that it could not be
contained. It came welling up, and Sauvage was powerless to squash it. It
streamed down his face in a scalding torrent, wetting the hand that he held,
the furs on which Sarah lay. All of the pent-up pain and grief, the tears he
had been unable to shed for Caroline, now flowed unchecked.

He
was not sure how long he sat on the floor beside her bedside, wracked by the
spasms of uncontrollable grief—nor did he know when she had awakened, or just
how he found his way into her arms. He only knew that the gentle light which he
so loved, and which he’d feared would be snuffed out forever, was glowing soft
and strong. Sighing deeply, she stroked his hair. “Kingston, you are much
aggrieved. What is it? What is wrong?”

He
raised his head and lay his hand against her brow, her cheek. The blistering
heat was gone. The fever, finally broken. “Nothing,” he said softly. “Nothing
is wrong now. How do you feel?”

“Tired.”
She smiled a little as her glance slid around the room, touching the mantel,
the rough wooden table and stools, the furs on which she lay. “Where is this
place?”

“You
do not remember the storm?”

Sarah
shook her head, wincing at the sudden stab of pain the movement brought. “I
remember the wolves, and the forest—so dark and threatening—or was it just my
imagining?” She chuckled weakly, uneasily. “For the life of me, I cannot tell.”

Kingston
smoothed the hair back from her brow. Sarah reveled in his touch. “It was no
dream,” he assured her. “There was a violent storm, and we were caught in its
midst.”

His
words struck a chord in Sarah’s memory, and the images came flooding back. Torrential
rain, water, swirling and brown, rising toward a log on which she stood frozen.
She closed her eyes, battling down the images. “The Indian bridge,” she
murmured. “The tree was falling, and I feared you would be killed.”

“You
saved my life, and in the process, nearly lost your own. Why, Sarah? Why would
you do such a dangerous thing?”

Sarah
touched his dampened cheek with tender fingers. “Because I could not bear the
thought of a world without you in it.”

“But
you have so much to live for, and I have so little.”

Sarah’s
fingers slid under his chin, forcing his burning gaze up to meet her own. “You
could not be more wrong. You have a very great deal of good in your life. You
just have not realized it yet.”

“There
is but one good thing in my life, and it is fleeting. When we reach the Shining
city and you are united with your betrothed, the flame that has burned so
briefly in my dark world will cease to be. It is the loss of that flame—that
beautiful light—which I grieve.”

“God
is the truth and the light, not me,” Sarah insisted, but he only shook his dark
head stubbornly.

“You
are my sun, my moon,” he said. “My only light.”

“You
must not say such things,” Sarah whispered. “We must seek to be strong, and ask
God for guidance.”

“All
of my life I have sought to be strong,” he replied sadly. “It is the way of the
Delaware warrior never to show weakness, to face one’s death with a fearless
heart. Now, my heart is full of fear, stricken with terror at the thought of
loving again, and its cowardice shames me.”

Sarah
felt her own heart leap in her breast. “I am not sure I understand what you are
saying.”

“De
Angelheart was right—about Caroline, about everything. In the midst of the
crisis, when I was blinded by the night, and could not find my way, Caroline
appeared to guide me to this place, so you could be well again. She knew before
I did that what I felt for you is far beyond physical.”

She
made to protest, but he quickly silenced her. “Sarah, you must let me say what
is in my heart. You must listen. I need you in my life. You are my destiny.”

Her
hand slid into his hair, caressing his nape. She ached to feel his strong arms
around her, his lips on hers. But he only gripped her hands in his and looked
deeply into her eyes. “It was not until today that I realized how deeply I
cared for you—not until your fever raged and I feared that I would lose you
that I knew just how much I love you.”

Without
a word, Sarah drew him onto the furs and into her arms. As he pillowed his head
on her breasts, she held him close and stroked his silky hair. He had finally
spoken the words she had dreamt of hearing, and she should have been
deliriously happy. Instead, she felt forlorn, lost in a sea of hopelessness and
pain. He loved her, yet nothing had changed. He was still Kingston Sauvage, the
scourge of the Lakes tribes, bent upon destruction and revenge, and she was
promised to a man she neither knew, nor loved. They came from different worlds,
and no power on this earth, or beyond it, could alter that troubling fact.

She
drew a deep and shuddering breath, expelling it on a sigh, and closed her eyes
to sleep, Kingston lying close beside her, his raven head pressed against her
heart.

Sarah
woke late the following day to the smell of bacon frying, unsure just where she
was or how long she’d slept. She knew only that she was stiff and sore in every
muscle, and hungrier than she had ever been. Seeking a more comfortable
position, she shifted on the soft bed of furs and felt the sensuous slide of
the soft pelts against her bare skin.

There
was no need to peek beneath the covers. She knew she was naked, and there was
only one way she could have gotten that way.

Kingston.
Her gaze darted to the hearthside, where he labored. “I see my mouse has
awakened,” he said without looking up from his task. “How are you feeling?”

He
persisted in calling her his mouse, despite all that had happened between them,
and Sarah thought with a sharp pang how very much she would miss the endearment
once she had arrived at her destination and he had gone his way. “Hungry, I
fear.”

“Hunger
is a good sign.” He flashed her a grin, piling the bacon and corn cakes onto a
trencher and bringing it to the bedside. “And your head?”

“It
aches a little,” Sarah admitted. But it was nothing compared to the knowledge
that she was unclothed beneath the covers. An image of the turgid brown creek
flashed behind her eyes. He had undressed her, bathed her, and rinsed the filth
from her hair, sat with her while she was burning with fever, tended and cared
for her, all of the intimate little things that she had done for Timothy when
he was dying, he had done for her while she lay insensible.

She’d
been staring at him while the thoughts and memories swirled madly in her brain.
Embarrassed, she looked away. As always, she could not escape him. He read her
thoughts, knew her mind, better than she herself. “It was not a dream, my
love.”

Sarah
looked down at her hands. “What shall we do?”

“Do?”
He sat down on the edge of the furs, placing the trencher between them. “I am
not sure how you mean.”

“What
shall we do?” she repeated. “About Brother John Liebermann, our feelings for
one another, your quest to find your brother, Jean?”

“When
you reach the Shining City, you will marry your missionary, just as you planned
to do all along.”

“But
it is all so tangled,” Sarah said. “Impossibly so.”

He
shrugged, seeking an ease, a nonchalance with which he might treat this
situation, yet Sarah sensed it was all a lie, a false facade. He was just as
troubled as she by their situation, just as dissatisfied. “Life is more
complicated for some of us than for others. Some men live and prosper,
surrounded by loved ones. The ones I love don’t linger long in my life. At
least with Brother John Liebermann, you will be safe from harm.”

Sarah
sniffed back tears. “I wish it were not so.”

“Had
I been born an Englishman, and met the widow Sarah Marsters on a crowded London
Street, things might have turned out differently. Sadly, Fate saw to it that I
was born a bastard half-breed, who met the young widow under something less
than desirable circumstances.” He smiled sadly and smoothed the knuckles of one
hand down her cheek. “Thus, memories will have to suffice. So let us pretend
for a little while that there is no murderous half brother, no betrothed
waiting, no promises made. Only a man and a woman who have fallen deeply,
inexplicably in love with one another.” He leaned across the trencher and
kissed her lips, gently and with infinite tenderness. “You can do that, can you
not? For all the nights that I am destined to spend alone dreaming of you?”

She
touched his cheek with fingers that trembled, closing her eyes against her
tears. “Of course, I shall.”

“Good,”
he said, kissing the tip of her nose, then drawing back. “Let’s break bread
together, and have one of those holidays of which you are so fond—how do you
call it?”

“A
love feast,” Sarah answered quietly. They passed the day companionably, with no
more talk of Jean, or Brother John Liebermann, the future waiting outside the
cabin door, and whatever unpleasantness it was bound to bring.

Deep
in the night when the fire burned low, casting shadows over the room, Sarah lay
awake, wondering at the strange restlessness that had settled in upon her soul
with Kingston’s words earlier in the day.
Memories.
He wished for
memories to carry with him, and she burned to provide them, no matter how
sinful and wicked and worldly. She loved him, and that love was all-consuming.

Strange
and powerful, it urged her to throw back the furs and rise from the pallet. On
bare feet, she padded across the puncheon floor where she stopped, her bare
toes buried deep in the soft ebony fur of the rug on which he lay.

His
lids were lowered, but he was not asleep, and his voice when he spoke was
throaty. “Is this what you want, Madame?”

Sarah
thought of the man-wolf in her dreams, of her sadness when he left her. “Memories,”
she said. “I want memories of you.”

It
was all Sauvage needed to hear. Rising, he gathered up the bed of furs and
flung them on the floor next to the fire, then, bending slightly, he lifted
Sarah, kissing her deeply as he lay her down.

How
sweet her kiss, like honey. How wondrous her response as he grazed her full
lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Instantly, eagerly, she opened for him,
wrapping her arms around his neck, as if she could not get close enough. Her
breasts were high and full, her body lush and womanly, and when he left her
lips at last, he was determined to worship, to memorize every creamy inch, now
gilded by the firelight.

He
trailed lingering kisses from her fingertips, along one soft white arm to the
curve of her shoulder, pausing briefly at her breast. He rolled the nipple
between his teeth and, listening as she cried aloud, and left her gasping. He
heard her disappointment and was satisfied. He wanted to torture her. He wanted
to see her writhing with desire before he claimed her woman’s flesh.

Memories.
She
wanted memories, and he was determined to provide them, determined that when
she remembered this night, remembered him, she would remember flames. He moved
on, tracing his tongue down her midriff to her navel, into which he plunged so
briefly. She tried to tangle her fingers in his hair. To force him back to her
lips, but he only caught her wrists and pinned them down.

Down
her inner thigh he nibbled, to her knee and her calf, and her shapely ankle. Oh,
if Madame only knew the wicked thoughts he was thinking, she would blush to the
roots of her hair. Not that it mattered. Before he was through, those shapely
legs would be draped prettily over his shoulders, and Sarah would be his in
truth, at least for a little while.

His
thoughts moving on to other things, he kissed her instep, then gently suckled
her toes, laughing low and delightedly when she shrieked his name. Then, the
leisurely return trek to her mouth began again. When at last, he rose above
her, her breathing was quick and shallow and she looked at him with eyes of
glittering blue. “Kingston, please, I cannot bear it. Put an end to this
madness.”

“You
can bear it. You will. Because
I
wish it. Nothing done this night will
be done in haste.” He touched her flushed cheek, ran his thumb across her lips,
laughing when she sank her teeth into his flesh. “Sarah, love, have patience.”

But
Sarah had no patience left. It had gone winging away, along with her conscience
the moment he’d borne her down upon the thick bed of furs. She wanted him, and
she did not wish to wait another second. She was laboring beneath the weight of
a hunger more intense than any she had ever known. It was more than just
physical, flesh wanting flesh; it went clear through her, searing every fiber
of her being, scorching her soul.

Wanting
to feel him inside her, she freed his maleness from his breechclout, straining
upward to meet him as he covered her and pressed for entry. Soft femininity
yielded before hard male. Sarah heard his soft intake of breath as the barrier
was breached and he slowly filled her and began to move, each thrust deeper
than the last, each withdrawal an endless aching eternity for Sarah.

She
did not wish to let him go, not even for an instant. She wanted to hold him
deep inside, to treasure this time and this moment, to revel in the feel of his
satiny skin abrading hers. She wanted the taste and the feel of his kiss, the
sensuous slide of his hair at her cheek, the mingling of their breaths... she
wanted this instant in time to last forever, though deep down, she knew that it
could not.

That
knowledge rendered their lovemaking all the more poignant, turned his kisses,
the words of love he whispered in her ear, bittersweet. There were no apologies
forthcoming for Kingston, as there had been from Timothy. Instead, he lavished
her senses with a warm flood of praise, lauding her gentle, exquisite beauty,
the ripe womanliness of her ample curves, her stunning softness. He called her
his brave, dear heart, and his words were so genuine, so raw in their sincerity
that Sarah believed every word, loving him all the more for the wondrous warmth
that welled up inside her.

“Tell
me you love me,” he demanded.

Sarah
bit back a moan. Tension gripped her, the sweet, maddening pressure was slowly
building inside her. “I love you.”

“Again,
my love. Tell me again, and this time convince me.”

He
pushed deep and Sarah whimpered, withdrew with tortured slowness and paused,
with only the tip of his manhood still inside her. Sarah’s whole body pulsed
with need. “I love you, Kingston!” Sarah cried. “Oh, I love you so!”

Grasping
her knees, he urged them higher, then dove into her, again and again, never
truly withdrawing, driving her deeper into the furs. Pleasure lapped at Sarah’s
senses, subtle at first, then quickly growing more intense, and with it her
desperation mounted. She writhed beneath him, sobbing his name, begging release.
When at last it came and the spasms gripped her, she wrapped her legs around
his hips, holding him deep when he would have pulled back, selfishly wanting
all of him, everything he had to give.

Sauvage
felt the change in her and knew that he had pushed her beyond all caution. Her
breathing was ragged, she moaned and struggled beneath him, wanting the release
that was mere seconds away, and he thought that it could not come quickly
enough. His own control was slipping, his nerves stretched taut at trying to
hold back. He had wanted this day, dreamt of this moment, for so long, and
bringing her to her highest, most pleasurable peak had been sheer agony, for
every step of the way, he’d climbed with her. Climax now was a heartbeat away.

Muscles
rigid as stone, trembling in every limb, he felt the first of the contractions
claim her and steeled himself for withdrawal. Yet, at the last second, Sarah
locked her legs around his hips, her tight sheath gripping him like a hot,
pulsating glove and he came completely undone, melting inside her.

September
arrived and with it came a change in the weather. Suddenly the nights were damp
and chilly, the mornings misty and white, and the leaves were tipped scarlet
with the blood of Kingston’s celestial bear.

Autumn
was quickening. In the Indian towns and villages to the west, the council fires
would be rife with talk of war. Forays would soon be launched, a final
opportunity before the heavy snows arrived to seize captives, scalps, and
plunder. The provincials called it “Indian Summer” and Kingston had explained
that it was a time of great dread in the settlements. The colonists would not
relax their constant vigil against attack until the snow lay deep upon the
ground.

Standing
in the open doorway of Angel’s cabin, the scarlet leaves drifting one by one to
the ground, Sarah sighed. She had come to understand a great many things during
the two days since the fever had left her. She not only understood the keen
differences between she and Kingston, she was keenly aware of certain
similarities they shared... like physical need, and all of the little
complexities of falling truly and madly in love. She understood the strength of
a burning desire, and she understood as well why Kingston associated love with
loss and pain.

They
were three days travel from the Muskingum, and every time Sarah thought of
saying farewell to Kingston, her heart grew cold and leaden in her breast. It
was a weakness over which she could not hope to triumph, one she did not wish
for him to see, so she concentrated on the memories they had made together.

Kingston
tumbling her on their soft bed of furs, lying with her in the forest with the
rich tang of autumn perfuming the air and bright leaves drifting down to earth
around them. Kingston tormenting and teasing her to soaring new heights of
passion, telling her how much he loved her, again, and again, and again.

Kingston,
her desperate lover, her tutor, her friend. She had learned more about passion
in just two days than during her entire marriage to Timothy. Kingston’s lust
was insatiable, his love for her as deep as a bottomless well. She had quickly
discovered that he was as lavish with his praise and adoration as he was with
his kisses.