Lord of the Wolves (4 page)

His
reply was silken, almost a caress. “I fear but one thing, Madame: that
something will deprive me of the pleasure I have so long anticipated, that
someone else will prevent me from tearing the heart from his chest. It is the
only
thing I live for.”

“What
has he done,” Sarah asked, “to make you hate him so?”

He
rose from his place by the fire, not deigning to answer, and came to stand by
her side. “Your brooch, Madame,” he said and, reaching for her hand, he pressed
it into her palm, closing her fingers securely around it. He held it a fraction
too long, then abruptly released her. “Try to get some sleep. You have a long
journey ahead of you.”

“Journey,”
Sarah said, stunned by his sudden reversal.

“I
will take you as far west as Harris’s Ferry,” he replied. “You can abide there
until you can find another guide.”

“It
is enough,” Sarah said. “Thank you, monsieur.”

“Sauvage,”
he said. “Or Kingston, if it pleases you, but not monsieur. Monsieur is for a
gentleman with perfumed silks and foppish laces. I am but a simple man who
toils for his bread.”

Sarah
smiled.
He is wrong
, she thought.
There is nothing simple about him.
Aloud,
she said, “Thank you, Kingston.”

“Good
night, Madame.” He strode to the cabin door and took up his rifle, prepared to
go out, but Sarah called him back.

“Kingston?”
He half turned to look at her, and she very nearly faltered. Only her restless
curiosity gave her the courage to go on. “Who is Caroline?”

His
expression remained impassive, unreadable. “Her name was Caroline Dutton
Sauvage,” he said, “and she was my wife.”

Questions
leapt to Sarah’s tongue, questions concerning Caroline’s fate and the infamous
La
Bruin
, questions destined to go unanswered, for Kingston Sauvage had gone.

When
Sauvage returned a short time later, the fire was burning low and the shadows
were dense along the far wall. Curled on her side not far from Kate’s pallet,
Madame slept peacefully, her prayer cap neatly folded and laid to one side, her
head pillowed in the curve of one arm. How childlike she appeared in slumber,
in need of protection Sauvage was uncertain he could provide.

He
had failed Caroline, failed their unborn child. Standing by Madame’s
comfortless bed, Sauvage fought back a flood tide of memories, each one more
unbearable than the last. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself standing by the
foot of the bed he’d shared with Caroline, gazing down at her sleep-tousled
beauty... the very last time he’d seen her alive.

Sauvage’s
guilt and remorse rose up and hit him hard. He should not have left her alone. He
stepped back, away from Madame, so angelic in soft repose, closing himself off
once again.

Madame’s
God demanded a life for a life. He, Sauvage, had taken ten lives for the two he
had lost, and it was still not enough.

It
would never be enough, Sauvage knew, for nothing could fill the dreadful aching
void where his heart once had been. His thoughts dark, and melancholy, he moved
carefully past Madame to Kate’s side.

Her
face was white as milk, her features waxen. Her dark eyes were open, but there
was no spark there, no trace of life; the indomitable spirit that had only a
short time ago dwelt within her battered shell, was gone.

He
had been right about her willfulness keeping her alive. In defending Madame,
she’d had a purpose, and having extracted his promise to help, there was no
reason for her to remain.

Sauvage
closed Kate’s fragile lids and kissed her fingertips. “Adieu, my friend,” he
said quietly.

Then,
he turned away to the fireside, where he sank down. Sixty-five miles of rough
country lay between them and Harper’s Ferry. Sixty-five miles of deadfalls, and
hillocks and swamps, through which he must make his way, dragging the
contradictory Sarah Marsters, who’d vanquished a wolf with a tree branch, but
quelled at the thought of a spider, every step of the way.

Their
friendship had proven tragically brief, yet during their short acquaintance,
Sarah and Kathryn Seaton had depended upon and helped one another more than
most friends do in a lifetime. If not for Kathryn, Sarah would not have
survived the attack, let alone their harrowing flight.

Now,
Kathryn was gone, and Sarah felt bereft.

Standing
in the dooryard of the hunter’s camp, with a cool morning mist swirling around
her skirts, Sarah watched Kingston emerge from the cabin, and her breath caught
in her throat.

He
was even more formidable, more breathtaking a figure in the bold light of day. One
glance made Sarah tremble, a fact she tried to hide. Her reaction would trigger
his mockery if he should by chance discover it, and Sarah could not imagine how
she and her pride could withstand four mortifying days in his company, let
alone four nights.

Kingston
touched a flaming brand to the mound of dry leaves and broken branches piled
against the wall of the building. A plume of smoke spiraled upward, blending
with the mist. His tall, lean figure shimmered and swam as he neared her. “You
must be brave, Madame. It’s what Kate would have wanted.”

Sarah
sniffed. How I would dearly love to be brave, just this once.” She wiped at
tears and a sob escaped her. “It must sound easy for someone like you, but cowardice
is more my way, I fear. That is how it has always been, Monsieur.”

Kingston
rolled his dark eyes heavenward. “Monsieur again. Tsk, tsk, Madame.”

“I
am sorry—Kingston,” Sarah said on a hiccough.

“Mon
dieu, what a mouse you are, all pink and white and brown.” As if to prove his
point, he brushed his fingertips across her damp cheek, trailed them down the
column of her throat, then caught one shining tendril that had escaped her prayer
cap and wrapped it around one finger. “So soft,” he said. “So sweet. It’s easy
to see why the wolves were so intent upon gobbling you up—-and I ask you,
Madame, who could blame them? Not I, certainly. Indeed, I would sympathize with
my brothers’ loss, if not for the fact that they’ve left you to me.”

Sarah
stared at the breast of his hunting shirt, afraid to raise her gaze to his for
fear of what she’d find.
So afraid of everything.

“Sarah.
Sarah, look at me.”

Sarah
bit her lip to still its quivering. He sighed in soft reply, and lay a hand
along the curve of her throat. His touch was light, his skin so warm. Its vibrant
heat made Sarah shiver. He was a stranger, this man whose bold touch made her
quiver, someone she ought to fear, yet all she could think of was raising her
hand to cover his, to keep it there against her throat. Thankfully, she could not
move. Could not draw a breath without it catching in her throat.

How
right he was! She was a mouse! A timid, backward mouse! Doubtless, she would
remain a mouse, quaking and skittish, for the rest of her days.

“Sarah.”
His hand curved under her chin, cupping its stubborn curve, raising it
slightly, forcing her against her will to meet and hold his gaze. “There is
something about your mouth.”

How
grave he looked. Sarah frowned up at him. “My mouth?”

“Your
mouth,” he repeated, the fingers on his left hand closing over the soft flesh
of her upper arm, drawing her closer, closer, until her thighs were pressed
against his with only her linen skirts and his buckskin between them.

Sarah
touched a questing finger to her lips. They felt the same—two lips, a trifle
fuller, perhaps, than was proper, but seemingly in good order. “Is something
wrong with my mouth?”

“Not
wrong,” he replied. “And yet it seems to me a worldly mouth, out of place on a
fine, pious, Quaker lady like yourself.”

“Moravian,”
Sarah insisted with a shake of her head. Her prayer cap listed to one side. Without
tearing her gaze from his, she reached up and righted it again. “The Quakers
are our friends in Christ, yet the Brethren do not adhere to the same doctrine
as they. We do not seek to separate ourselves from the worldly, even though we
live and worship simply. Our purpose is to worship God, to share his Glory with
those who are unenlightened, to promote peace among all of God’s children. Why,
at times, I am told, the Brethren and Sisters have even taken spouses from
among the local Indians.”

“How
very brave of the Sisters and Brethren, to have such close relations with the
savages,” he said, with just a touch of mockery, “how noble. Yet, it is not your
religious doctrine that interests me, but your lips.”

“What
about my lips?”

“They
are quite sultry, when you are not pursing them tightly. Truth to tell, Madame,
yours are the most kissable lips I have seen in a very long while.”

“Oh,
Kingston. You should not say such things.” She blushed and turned her gaze
aside. “My mouth is not a worldly mouth, or sultry, or kissable. It is merely
the mouth God gave me, and if indeed it appears out of place with the rest of
me, then that is a cross which I must bear.”

“Your
god is a foolish god, who acts without thinking.”

“Everything
the Lord does, He does for a purpose.”

“Everything?”
Sauvage questioned. He had her now.

Sarah
nodded, replying emphatically. “Everything.”

“Then,
I must assume he made your lips this way especially to tempt me.” Then, before
she could protest, he closed the little distance between them and covered her
lips with his. The kiss was slow and seductive, a leisurely assault upon her
senses.

Somewhere,
deep down inside, Sarah knew it was wrong to soften, to lean into his strong
embrace... and yet, as his mouth, so hot and so insistent, moved over hers, she
could not seem to help herself. She melted against him, shocked anew at the
contours of the hard male form beneath the leather clothes, her arms slowly
stealing up and around his neck.

Sauvage
sensed her surrender. It had not been his intent to seduce her, yet she had
looked so soft and so sweet standing there, with tears streaming down her face,
and he’d been strangely moved by the sight of her grief. He’d been compelled to
dry her tears, to attempt to cheer her just a little, to distract her with his
teasing, and then she’d raised her eyes to his and he’d been lost. Eyes the
shade of a bottomless lake on a storm-swept day. Eyes a man could easily drown
in... and Sauvage had.

He’d
felt himself sinking, going surely, inexorably down, succumbing to the plump
pink and white, somewhat pious, softly scented charms of Sarah Marsters.

What
a succulent little morsel she was, a sweetmeat to assuage an appetite too long
repressed. How long had it been since he’d seen a white woman? How long since
he’d lowered himself between a pair of silken thighs?

Not
since Caroline.

Sauvage
gave himself to his hunger, deepening the kiss, tightening his arms around
Sarah, drawing her down until she lay beneath him on the ground, catching the
hem of her long linen skirts, edging it slowly up.

At
the same time, Sarah came to her senses. Wedging her hands between them, she
pushed against his chest; he pushed back her prayer cap and pulled the pins
from her hair.

Sarah
caught his hands. “Kingston, what are you doing?”

“I
am liberating your glorious tresses, Madame,” he said with maddening calm. “Since
I first laid eyes on you, they have been crying out for their freedom, and
being a man who loves freedom, how can I resist?”

The
last pin was plucked, and the shining brown mass fell loose with a sibilant
hiss. He buried his face in her hair and Sarah’s tears gathered. Furious tears
that slid down her cheeks. “If you truly loved freedom, then you would release
me.”

“So
much for promoting peace and love among the savages,” he said. “It’s good
policy, Madame. Are you certain you will not change your mind? I could have
sworn that you were willing.”

“I
am certain,” Sarah insisted.

“Then,
save your tears, Madame,” he said quietly. “I would not want an unwilling woman.”
He pushed away from her and stood. “I’ve never forced a woman to lie with me,
yet I am not above seduction. A pretty face and generous curves are tempting,
and temptation is hard to resist. You understand irresistible natural urges,
eh, Madame? Having been wedded and bedded yourself.” He stood back with a wry
smile, sketching a shallow bow before he turned away. “I’ll be back in a little
while. Compose yourself, and be ready to leave by the time I return.”

Sarah
dried the last of her tears on the hem of her skirt, then, when she could no
longer hear his fading footfalls, she bowed to her mortification and covered
her face with her hands.

What
had come over her? Why had she, a respectable widowed woman, newly betrothed,
allowed a man like Kingston Sauvage to take such liberties?

Surely,
as he had said, she was no stranger to the ways of man and woman. But neither
was she a slave to passion!

She
was simply Sarah Marsters, plain and lackluster and given to plumpness, a timid
brown wren of a woman who had accepted a third-party marriage proposal rather
than live alone.

There
was nothing exciting about her, nothing fiery, bold, or heroic, and yet, in
that moment when Kingston had spoken of her sultry mouth, she had felt almost
pretty. The blood had thrummed through her veins and for a brief time, when his
mouth had moved over hers, her thoughts had been so filled with the wonder of
his possession, his touch, that there had been no room for doubts, or fears, or
her ever-looming inadequacies.

Now,
they came rushing back with a vengeance, along with a new realization. “Merciful
God in Heaven,” Sarah breathed. She was truly along with Kingston Sauvage. But
what frightened her more than anything was the nagging suspicion that given the
same set of circumstances, she would do it all over again.

Sarah
was seated on a large rock examining her shoes when Kingston reentered the
clearing a short time later. “Is something amiss with your shoes, Madame?”

The
skin at Sarah’s nape prickled deliciously. His voice was so liquid-sounding, so
silken that the simplest comment or question seemed to brim with hidden meaning.
It was a ridiculous notion, of course, the fanciful thoughts of a lonely young
widow—a widow of whom he had taken shameless advantage just a short time ago.

She
was still quite upset about what had occurred between them. Sufficiently upset
to consider not answering his question at all, but he would only assume she had
not heard and put the question to her again. “I was trying to decide which to
devour first, the sole, or the upper portion. I suppose it must be the upper
portion, since I could not fit the entire sole into my ‘sultry’ mouth.”

He
laughed, a pleasant ripple of sound, deeper than his voice, more resonant. “I
am happy to see that you have a sense of humor. You’re going to need it.”

“It
was only half a jest,” Sarah admitted. “I’ve heard tales of the colonial militia
boiling their moccasins for something to eat. It always sounded ludicrous when
I was living in London with all that I wished to eat. Now, quite suddenly, I
understand.”

“Hungry,
are you?”

She
looked up at him, shading her eyes with her hand. “I don’t suppose you happened
to kill something while you were gone?”

He
shook his head, his black eyes glinting in his lean, hard face. “There’s little
game to be found around here these days.”

“I
thought the wilderness was teeming with all manner of wild beasts,” Sarah said.
“A veritable hunter’s paradise.”

“It
was, before the coming of the white man. Still is, west of the mountains, but
here in the East, game is scarce.”

“But
the land is still raw, untamed.”

Kingston
shrugged. “Traders come in droves from the coastal cities seeking furs and
bringing with them ruination, whiskey and rum. Wherever a trader makes his post,
a settlement is bound to follow. Soon there are too many whites and not enough
game to go around. It’s bad for the land. Bad for the people.”

“But
surely settlement is progress,” Sarah countered.

He
shifted his stance, folding his hands over the barrel of his long rifle. “That
would depend on which side of the mountains you are standing when your belly is
empty, would it not?”

“I
do believe I take your meaning.” She cast a wry glance at her shoes. “Never let
it be said that I am gluttonous. Which will it be, monsieur? Upper, or sole?”

He
chuckled, reaching into the leather satchel that hung at his hip. “There is no
need for so drastic a measure just yet.”

The
strips he held out to her were black and smelled strongly of smoke. Sarah eyed
him skeptically.

“It’s
jerked bear meat. If you break off small pieces, and chew it slowly to bring
forth the juices, it will assuage your hunger until I can find something more
substantial.”

Sarah
did as he suggested, tearing off a small piece and chewing diligently. It was
nearly as tough as shoe leather, but the flavor was smoky and not unpleasant. “Thank
you, Kingston.”