Lord of the Wolves (24 page)

Seated
with his back against the wall, Sauvage had little control over their
lovemaking. Sarah had it all. He could only hold her in the circle of one
arm—his chained hand clenched in a fist—kissing her throat, catching her full
lower lip in his teeth while the fires she was banking in his blood burst full
and hot upon his senses.

Slowly,
leisurely, as if she would hold him inside her forever, a prisoner of love and
desire, a true slave of the heart, she prolonged the sexual encounter. Sauvage
felt his body quicken and thought he would surely cheat the Huron of their
spectacle on the morrow, having succumbed to his wife’s own brand of torture
tonight.

His
release was slow in coming. The pressure mounted by degrees, so deliciously
sweet, but difficult to bear in silence. His blood pounded in his veins. He
could feel it in his temples, hear the thunder of his heart in his ears, and
then, as she moaned and collapsed against him, it burst bright and full upon
him, a few glittering seconds in a night devoid of hope.

It
was over, and Sarah was reluctant to leave him, yet not half as reluctant as
Sauvage was to see her go. She sat, curled on his lap like a child, her face
hidden in the curve of his throat, while Sauvage watched the light pouring
through the smoke hole in the ceiling shift and change and grow dim.

Darkness
was falling. The celebration over his capture had already commenced. The steady
throb of the drums and the dancing mirrored the throb of his heart, but his
mind was full of Sarah.

If
he forced her to go, it would end here in this mist-shrouded river valley. He
would never see her again in this lifetime. Yet, what other choice was there? He
could not go to his death knowing that she would bear witness to his suffering.
And if he fought, his end would only be hastened.

Scowling,
he tightened the arm that was shackled to the wall, testing his bonds. The
chain clanked, rousing Sarah from her silence. “I cannot break iron,” he said
when her questioning gaze met his. “And the support is far too strong to sever
without a hatchet.”

“A
hatchet, or a knife,” she said.

“Angel
might have a knife secreted somewhere on his person.”

“Angel
does not have a knife,” Sarah said, scrambling up. “But I do.” As he watched,
she fumbled with the ties that secured her leggings, stripping the left one
down to reveal her plump white thigh, dimpled knee and the bone hilt of the
weapon bound securely to her calf with a strip of dun-colored cloth. At his
questioning look, she shrugged. “Hergus gave it to me so that I could protect
myself from Jean.” She gave him the weapon.

Kingston
immediately turned and began prying at the irons, but succeeded only in
breaking the tip of the knife. Next, he went to work on the support itself,
shaving a short length of the wood as his thoughts leapt ahead. If the blade of
the knife held up to the task of whittling the post down to a manageable size,
he might be able to free himself. But how would he get clear of the encampment?
The ranks of the French-allied Indians had swollen to almost two hundred, and
most of those were able-bodied fighting men. He could not hope to fight them
all and win, armed only with a knife with a broken blade and accompanied by a
woman.

A
frontal assault would be futile, tantamount to suicide. If he was to survive
this night, he would have to come up with some scheme, some sort of trickery, but
what?

How
could he hope to fool two hundred Indians into giving him his freedom? Most
especially with
La Bruin
there to incite them? “Jean,” Sauvage murmured.
“But of course, that is the only solution. Why did I not think of it before?”

He
had paused in his work with the knife-—now, he turned to Sarah, who watched him
with troubled eyes. “Find Angel and tell him I have need of his assistance.”

“What
are you thinking?    And what does it have to do with Jean?”

“Jean
took my life from me,” he said softly. “Now, he is going to give it back. This
is what I want you to do....”

Sarah
found Jean in his hut, preparing for the celebration. Easing his broken arm
into a black sling, he glanced up and smiled, surprised to find Sarah standing
in the doorway. “Ah, pigeon, it’s you. Have you grown bored with Sauvage’s
company so soon?”

“I
have come on Kingston’s behalf,” Sarah said. “He has made his peace with God;
now he wishes to make his peace with you, so that he can face the dawn with a
pure spirit.”

“Sauvage!
A pure spirit!” Jean laughed outright at that. Sarah refrained from joining in.

She
stood very still, hoping that God would forgive her lies. “We have spent the
last hour praying together. Kingston is a changed man. His hatred is gone. In
its place is acceptance, forgiveness. His fondest wish is to see you, his only
kin, one more time. Will you come, Jean?    Please?”

Jean
came slowly forward, gripping her small chin in his large hand. As his warmth
assailed her, she knew a moment of sheer panic, and only the knowledge that
Kingston’s life depended on her performance kept her from crumbling in the face
of her fears. “Of course, I will come,” he replied, grazing her mouth with a
lazy kiss. “Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see the mighty
Sauvage brought to his knees.”

Sarah
backed away, ducking through the doorway and into the night ahead of Jean. Glancing
at the darkened woods, she nodded once, watching as Angel returned the signal,
then melted back into the shadows.

“Did
you see that?” Jean asked, stepping up behind her.

Sarah’s
heart lurched against her ribs. “See what?”

“A
shooting star just streaked across the heavens, racing through Ursa Major, the
Great Bear. It is a sign that my fortunes are rising.”

Or
falling
,
Sarah thought.

They
reached the hut where Kingston waited. Sarah entered first. He sat with his
back against the wall, his manacled wrist held slightly behind his body, just
as he’d been before she left him, and she knew an instant of pure panic before
she caught his warning look and calmed.

Jean
seemed not to notice. He strode forward, his posture arrogant as always. “I am
told that you are suddenly repentant, a changed man. I have come to see this
transformation for myself.”

“Your
visit is timely, then,” Kingston said. “For the true change has yet to take
place.”

From
somewhere outside came the lonely cry of a wolf calling to its mate, and within
seconds the mate replied in kind. Jean seemed vastly amused. “Changing to the
great white wolf, are you? I am surprised, brother. Surely, you yourself do not
believe the wild tales that circulate about your uncanny abilities?”

Kingston’s
dark eyes glittered. “It was not precisely a wolf, but something more useful I
had in mind,” he said, then leapt, wrapping the length of chain linked to the
manacle he still wore around Jean’s throat, while his half brother croaked and
clawed at the chain and the strong hands that held him. “I thought perhaps I
would become you, instead.”

A
twist of the chain, and the contest was over. Jean went limp in Kingston’s
grasp. He lay him down and looked to Sarah.

She
swallowed hard. “Is he? Is he dead?”

He
is breathing yet, much to my regret.” Working quickly, Sauvage stripped away
the black silk doublet, linen shirt, satin breeches and boots from his
brother’s body, leaving only his small clothes to cover his nakedness. “Where
is Angel?”

“I
am here,” Angel said. “My, don’t you look wondrous fine! Every inch the
gentleman—except for the iron at your wrist. It’s a bit telling, don’t you
think?”

Sauvage
shot his friend a glare as he knotted the neck cloth at his throat and slipped
into Jean’s doublet. “I’ll take care of that in a moment. Sarah, my love, hand
me the knife.”

She
retrieved the knife from her shirt and handed it to him. “What are you going to
do?”

“A
few finishing touches.” He gathered his hair at his nape and, holding it secure
with one hand, whacked it off with the other, casting the long strands aside. Next,
he removed the sling from Jean’s arm and put it on, concealing the manacle
within the black silk folds. With a shake of his head, he drew himself up and
stood looking haughtily down at them.

“I
think it is his left wrist that is broken, and your right that you must hide,”
Angel told him. “Other than that, it seems a fitting disguise, but who am I to
judge? Why not ask your wife?”

Sarah
stared at Kingston, mesmerized. Dressed in the trappings of a gentleman, with
his raven hair swinging loose about his shoulders, the resemblance was uncanny.
“Chilling. Had I not seen the transformation take place, I would be hard
pressed to believe it is really you.”

“Then,
we are ready.” He strode to Sarah, taking her by the shoulders for a quick,
savage kiss. Then, just as quickly, he released her. “Go with de Angelheart. I
will meet you at the river. Angel, did you sabotage the canoes?”

Angel
grinned. “All save one.”

“Then,
get you gone,” Sauvage commanded. “I’ll join you in a moment. There is
something else to which I must attend before I leave this place.”

“Remember
to look aggrieved, Madame,” Kingston said. “You are leaving your husband to
face certain death alone, so lean on Angel’s arm and let your tears flow if you
can.”

Sarah
nodded, glancing back at Kingston. He lounged in the doorway of the hut for a
moment, a sinister figure in his finery, then, as she watched, he swaggered
into the darkness.

Sarah
forced her gaze away, trying for the tears Kingston had mentioned, but she was
too nervous, too fearful for his safety to cry. The tears would come later, she
was certain, when the three of them climbed into the waiting canoe and slipped
silently into the dark river, putting the village, the French fort, the danger
of recapture, and Jean Baer behind them.

“Too
bad we cannot linger to join in the fun,” Angel quipped drily. “The brandy
flows like water. Doubtless they will be too drunk come the dawn to realize it
is
La Bruin
they are roasting, instead of Sauvage.”

“You
should not joke about such things, Renoir,” Sarah chastened. “Not even Jean
deserves such a terrible fate.”

Angel
just chuckled. “Ah, but violence begets violence, my dear. And Jean has earned
a violent end.”

 “He
is so like Kingston,” Sarah said. “It is hard for me to believe that he is
completely lacking compassion.”

Angel’s
mouth was set in an ironic twist. “Sauvage is right, you know. You see good in
everyone.”

“It
is as God intended,” Sarah told him.

Angel
sighed. “Let us hope that God intends for us to get out of this place before
some drunken warrior decides to visit the condemned man and raises a hue and
cry.”

They
were skirting the edge of the crowd, which filled the middle ground to
overflowing. In the very center, around the blackened upright post at a
distance of about six feet, a ring of kindling had been carefully laid in
preparation for the coming dawn. Around the ring, the dancers wove their way,
hatchets and war clubs raised, their wild cries shivering down the night.

They
had every intention of binding her husband, her heart, to that blackened stake
when the sky began to lighten, and bringing him to a slow and agonizing end.

Sarah
shuddered, turning toward the dark ribbon that was the river. Perhaps he had
finished his task, and was waiting. But the riverbank was empty and silent.

Her
heart sank. “Where can he be?”

“Making
mischief,” Angel said. “A little something for the Huron to remember him by. Look.”
He pointed toward the eastern perimeter of the encampment where a dim, rosy
glow lit up the night sky.

As
Sarah watched, another of the structures blossomed bright, precariously close
to the home of Autumn Woman, and her slave, Hergus Samp.

Sarah
had seen Autumn Woman among those gathered around the fire, but Hergus was
conspicuously absent. By now, the old woman would be sleeping, unaware of all
that had transpired.

Sarah
broke from Angel’s grasp. “I must go back! Hergus is asleep in one of the huts
near the blaze. There is no one to rouse her! I cannot leave her to perish,
Angel, please!”

“Very
well, but I am coming with you! If I let you out of my sight, and something
happened, Sauvage would kill me—and rightly so.”

They
changed their course and ran toward the blazing huts, now a brilliant
orange-red against the dark backdrop of the midnight forest. By the time they
reached the hut that Hergus shared with Autumn Woman, it was already aflame. Black
smoke poured from under the hide flap covering the entrance.

Filled
with panic, Sarah would have dashed forward had it not been for Angel, who
forcibly held her back. “Are you mad? You can’t go in there! If anyone is to
martyr themselves for the old crone, it will be me! Stay here, and for God’s
sake, do not move from this spot!”

Throwing
up an arm to protect his face, Angel bent low and started toward the burning
hut when Jean came out of the dark and hit him hard with the butt of a pistol. Angel
slumped to the ground and was still. Satisfied, Jean turned to Sarah.

“The
old witch is not inside,” Jean said. “I came looking for her myself, thinking
to put an end to the spell she has cast over my life, but it seems she has
eluded me yet again. No matter, I will find her later. For now, you will do
quite nicely in her stead. A pretty piece of bait for the wolf, eh? What worked
once, will work again. But first, that meddling peafowl, de Angelheart.”

Sarah
screamed as Jean raised the weapon for a final killing stroke, grappling for
the hand that held the weapon, but seizing the broken one instead.

Jean
shouted a curse, dropping the pistol and shoving Sarah hard. She stumbled and
fell, her fingers brushing the cold steel of the weapon, instinctively curling
around the worn walnut grip.

Trembling
in every limb, she picked it up, and pointed it at Jean. She had never held a
firearm in her entire life, and hadn’t the slightest inkling what to do next,
but Jean could not know that. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue
and tried to bluff her way through. “Move away from him, or so help me, I will
fire.”

Jean
was very still. Frighteningly so. It would have pleased Sarah to know that he
was the least bit unsettled. He wasn’t. “Pigeon,” he said. “I am shocked. You
would not take my life, after all that we have been to one another?”

Sarah’s
trembling increased, infecting her voice. “I won’t let you hurt Angel. Just do
as I say.”

Jean
braced his good hand on his hip, inclining his head slightly. He sensed her
weakness, her uncertainty, and exploited it shamelessly. “Perhaps, if you ask
nicely.”

“Please—”
Sarah said.

“”That’s
better,” Jean said, stepping over de Angelheart’s still form and slowly
stalking Sarah. “Yet, it is not nearly enough.”

“Jean,
please,” Sarah begged. “Do not make me do this!”

“Do
what, pigeon?” A malicious laugh. ”Shoot me?”

Sarah
squeezed her eyes shut, and at the same time squeezed the trigger. The hammer
fell with a loud click, a shower of sparks, and then nothing.

“Killing
me with that particular weapon would be a trick worthy of Madame Samp. That gun
you hold—unlike this one—is not loaded.” He pushed back the tail of Kingston’s
leather hunting shirt, which he wore along with his brother’s breechclout and
leggings. In his belt was a pistol that was identical to the one Sarah still
held. The blaze, now out of control, cast bloody highlights in his raven hair
and filled his black eyes with a hellish light. “’Twould seem that I have the
upper hand, would you not agree?”

Sarah
threw the empty pistol at his head, turned, tried to run, but Jean easily
caught her, looping his one good arm around her neck and pressing the muzzle of
the firearm against her ear. You are such a pious little bitch,” he crooned. “Always
seeking to save someone... too bad you cannot save yourself—or Sauvage. Where
is he now?”

“I
do not know,” Sarah said.

“And
if you did, you would not tell me. No matter. I have learned one important
thing about my brother. His woman is his weak spot, and the one sure way to lay
him low is to kill you.” He clucked his tongue as she shuddered. “Do not be
frightened, pigeon. Death is the gentlest, most beguiling of all lovers.”

“Please,
let me go!”

He
said nothing, just limped toward the darkened wood, dragging Sarah with him.

Sauvage
touched the brand to the empty hut and when it caught, threw the torch inside. The
night was alive with the enraged cries of the Huron and Ottawa and the sound of
running feet. Sparks filled the air, floating leisurely up, then, settling down
again upon the roofs of the vulnerable bark structures. Everywhere a spark
landed, a tongue of flame would sprout.

His
farewell to his enemies was complete, and it was time to leave. De Angelheart
would be putting the canoe into the water by now, and Sarah would doubtless be
anxious about his return.

The
village was a mass of confusion. Women ran with their children to collect their
belongings from the huts that were in danger of catching fire, while the
warriors, in various stages of inebriation—came streaming toward him.

The
one called Jacobs was the first to reach him. “
La Bruin
! What has
happened?”

As
the man halted before him, Sauvage struck a pose, leaning on his right leg and
easing off his left. “The prisoner has escaped, you drunken lout, that’s what’s
happened! I saw him slip away in that direction!” He thrust a finger toward the
northeast, and heard the soft clink of metal against metal inside the sling.

Cat-Man
Jacobs heard it, too. “You are not
La Bruin
!”

Sauvage’s
left fist smashed into the man’s chin. Cat-Man reeled backward, landing in a
heap, and did not move again. As Sauvage turned toward the river, de Angelheart
staggered out of the darkness and all but fell into Sauvage’s arms.

The
French trader’s yellow hair was dark with blood, and the expression on his face
turned Sauvage’s blood cold in his veins. “Sarah? Where is she?”

“I
lost her. She would not leave without Madame Samp, and when we got to the hut,
Jean was waiting.”

Sauvage
shook him hard. “Where did he take her?”

“Into
the forest, away from the water.”

Sauvage
was in a fever to be gone. “Get away from the village,” he said. “Cross the
river and lie low for a while. I will meet you in three days time at the
Shawnee towns on the Ohio. I still have friends there.”

“Good
fortune,” Angel said, offering his hand.

“You,
too.” Sauvage gripped it hard for an instant, then turned and melted into the
black wood.

“Please,
there is a stone in my moccasin. I must stop for a moment.”

“Stone,
be damned!” Jean growled, forcing Sarah relentlessly along the lightless path. Leafy
branches lashed her face and caught at her clothing. Twice now, she’d caught
her toe on a rock and nearly fallen, but her captor paid her little heed. He
just limped along as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, dragging her
with him. “At least tell me where we are going.”

“Somewhere
that we can have a bit of privacy, before your lover comes for you.”

“He
is my husband,” Sarah gasped. “And you—you are now my brother—family.”

He
halted, thrusting his face into hers. “If that is supposed to endear you to me,
then it is not working. Sauvage is the source of all my difficulties, the bane
of my existence, though admittedly, not for long.”

“Please,”
she said. “My moccasin.”

He
seemed to consider a moment, then, pushed her down onto a fallen log that
blocked the path, and stood looking warily around, as if to weigh the
advantages of their current position.”

To
their right was the dark ribbon that was the Monongahela River, winding its way
from the South through miles of trackless forest. To the left, the land fell
away abruptly, into a shallow but rocky ravine. Theirs was a good defensive
position, with plenty of cover here on the level ground, a fact which Jean
seemed to recognize, for she saw him relax.

Sarah
removed her moccasin and turned it upside down, emptying out the debris that
had collected inside it. “A moment ago, you called Kingston the bane of your
existence. What has he done to make you hate him so?”

He
looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing, then, at last, he broke his
brooding silence. “He stole from me,” he said. “First, my father’s affections,
and then, my inheritance.”

“Your
inheritance?” Sarah said. “But he owns nothing but the clothes on his back.”

Jean
smiled into the darkness. “He has much, much more. In fact, he is a wealthy
man—or would be, if he ever returned to Quebec, which he won’t.” He glanced at
her, and then away. “My father loved my mother once, before that half-breed
bitch stole his heart away. After that, everything was different. We saw him
little, and my
maman
knew what kept him away. He did not even have the
decency to keep his Indian family a secret from her. The loss of his affections
made her bitter, but who could blame her? He all but deserted us, and for an
Indian woman, an ignorant savage! And then, one day, he returned to Quebec for
good, with Sauvage, his bastard son, in tow. He could not speak passable
French, or eat at table in a civilized manner, but my father ensconced him in
our house all the same, handing him all of the privileges that were mine by
right of birth!”

“And
for that, you hated him,” Sarah prompted.

“With
all of my being,” Jean admitted. “When my father died, I was relieved. I
thought it had ended. The day I had dreamed of—the day I could put Sauvage into
the street and take over the trading business had arrived at last. And then,
the will was read, and I learned that Sauvage got half of everything: the
business, the warehouse in Quebec, the fortune. Everything except the house and
the debts that my mother had accumulated. Those were mine to bear.”