Lord of the Wolves (7 page)

It
was enough to solidify Sarah’s determination, and she vowed in that moment that
she would succeed in this venture even if it killed her. She stared hard at the
water, trying to look beyond the refractions of silver light on its surface. But
she could see nothing that looked like a fish. Then, she noticed the long gray,
undulating shadow that lay on the rocky bottom, a shadow which, as Kingston
approached it, moved slightly, and became a fish.

A
whale of a fish, a full two feet in length! A wave of hunger assaulted Sarah. She
could almost taste the grandfather fish, firm and slightly smoky from the open fire...
delicious, and filling and—Sarah’s heart was pounding. She must be cunning to
achieve success. More cunning than the fish.

She
glanced at the shadowy form, so graceful in the pale green depths of the creek,
and watched, mesmerized as it moved slowly forward, a few feet ahead of
Kingston.

Bent
upon her goal, Sarah moved, too. The cool water lapped around her knees, her
thighs, soaking her skirts, wrapped around her legs, hampering her movements.

“Careful,
Madame,” Kingston said. “Slowly. The creek bed is uneven in places.”

The
sleek gray body swam near and then past her and Sarah lunged, heart thudding
against her ribs. She grabbed for the great fish, catching his tail, jerking
him back and into her arms as she teetered off balance and, encumbered by the
tangle of her sodden skirts, slowly sank beneath the surface.

And
then, Kingston was there, taking her elbow, urging her up and onto her feet. He
pounded Sarah’s back as she coughed and sputtered, then, regaining her composure,
grinned soggily, triumphantly up at him, clutching her struggling prize. “Delaware
w-woman, indeed!” she said.

Evening
came, and the nightly serenade of cicadas and crickets began. Just before
twilight they struck up a lively tune, that continued until the first gray
light of dawn.

Sarah
sat by the fireside, vainly trying to wring the moisture from her sodden skirts
as she awaited Kingston’s return. He’d gone off on his nightly rounds shortly
after their meal of fish, in order to assure himself there were no Hurons
lurking nearby. But that had been hours ago, and he had yet to return. The
purple dusk was slowly fading into night, and threatening storm clouds were
beginning to gather.

There
was thunder in the distance, intermittent still, but moving closer, and a brief
flash of lightning now and again that lit up the sky. A breath of a breeze,
heavy with damp and uncommonly chilly, swept through the valley and was gone.

Sarah
shivered. She was starting to worry. Where was Kingston? Had something happened?
Had he run afoul of the Frenchman, or one of his allies? Was he even now lying
out there somewhere, wounded and helpless and breathing his last?

Images
of the massacre flashed behind Sarah’s eyes, but instead of Ben Bones being
besieged behind the huge oak tree, it was Kingston who was cornered, hopelessly
outmanned. “Father, please,” Sarah said quietly. “Watch over him.”

Heavy
silence, then the low rumble of thunder. Sarah chafed her arms, wishing she’d
listened to Kingston earlier and disrobed to fish in the creek. Her clothing
was still cloying and wet, her skin damp and cold, despite the cloying warmth
of the evening.

Bravery
might come more easily, she thought, if she were warm and dry instead of damp
and miserable. Caught up in her thoughts and fears, Sarah at first failed to
notice the rustling of the underbrush to the left of the fire. Then, it sounded
again, and a chill snaked up her spine.

Had
Kingston returned? Or had something else caused the noise? Something she was
too fearful to even try and identify?

She
wet her lips and called aloud, “Kingston?”

The
noise came again, furtive and infinitely frightening. Sarah felt the fine hair
on her arms and at her nape stand erect. She strained her vision, looking for
bears or great mountain cats or painted warriors, and instead saw something
pale moving in the shadows.
Someone,
she mentally amended.

Her
mouth was dry from fear, but somehow Sarah found her voice. “Who is there? Please,
come into the light.”

Nothing
moved, and no one answered. Sarah sought calm. Perhaps she had imagined the
figure, so ghostly, so pale, so human—-and then the lightning flashed again and
Sarah saw the woman. Dressed in a faded, simply fashioned gown, she kept beyond
the circle of firelight, and Sarah sensed her wariness.

Lightning
lit up the sky. Thunder rolled over the valley, then died away. In the ensuing
silence, there came the crack of a branch underfoot. The woman must have heard
it, too, for she sent a warning glance Sarah’s way, then, clutching the bundle she
was carrying more securely to her bosom, she turned toward the forest.

“Please,
wait!” Sarah cried, leaping to her feet.

And
at the same instant, Kingston emerged from the trees.

When
Sauvage returned to the clearing, Sarah ran to him. “Kingston! Oh, praise God,
you’ve come! There was a woman! I saw her standing at the edge of the trees!”

“A
woman, you say? Are you certain?”

“Yes!
I saw her! Please, Kingston! You must believe me!”

“Slowly,
Madame,” he said, trying to soothe her, to maintain some semblance of calm when
his own heart was beating erratically against his ribs. “Tell me exactly what
you saw.”

“I
was seated by the fire, and I heard a noise in the bushes. She was standing at
the edge of the trees, her flowing hair wildly tossed by the wind. She was
carrying something, a bundle of sorts, and the look on her face—” She broke
off, clutching his forearm as she stared up at him, her own face a mask of
concern. “She seemed so frightened, and when she looked straight at me, I got
the impression that she was lost. Kingston, please! You must find her! I am
certain she is in grave danger.”

“Madame,
you must listen to me. We are miles from civilization, and there is not a white
woman within thirty miles of this place. It was an illusion, nothing more.”

At
his words, she grew wild again, wringing her small white hands. “Kingston,
please! Humor me this once. For my sake, if not for hers, search, and if you
find her, bring her safely back!”

Sauvage
cupped her chin in one broad palm. It pained him to see her desperation and
know that he was the cause of it, however inadvertently. “Very well. I’ll go
out again and have a look, but you must promise me that you will not wander off
while I’m gone.” She said nothing, and the hand that gripped her chin tightened
imperceptibly. “Your solemn oath, Sarah.”

She
agreed, and Sauvage left her, scouring the ground in the direction which Sarah
had indicated, looking for any signs of a woman’s passage, even though he knew
that he would find nothing.

He
searched the woods bordering the river, certain it was Caroline he sought, hoping
to catch sight of her, calling out her name while the wind howled mournfully
through the treetops.

It
was useless. Caroline’s ghost was capricious, appearing at will when he least
expected it, then staying away for weeks on end. She had never appeared to
anyone but him. So, why had she come to Sarah? And what would he tell her upon
his return?

As
Sauvage abandoned the search and made his way back to camp, the first raindrops
struck the ground. Sarah was waiting by the fire when he arrived, looking
miserable despite the blanket she had placed around her shoulders. “Did you
find her?”

He
propelled Sarah toward the shelter. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

“I
am all right, truly.”

“You
are shivering.” Sauvage turned her to face him and started to undo the hooks
that fastened the front of her bodice, anticipating her protest, strangely
hoping that it would come—anything to erase the image of a lost and forlorn
figure of a woman standing at the edge of a storm-swept wood.

Sarah
did not protest. Her thoughts reflected his. “You did not find her, did you,
Kingston?” She sounded disheartened.

“She
left no trace,” he said gravely. “No clue.”

“As
if she had never been.” The eyes she raised to him were large and luminous, the
deepest, most incredible blue. Sauvage felt himself falling. “You must think me
mad,” she said.

Sauvage
paused, his knuckles resting against the lush swell of her bosom, with only the
damp lawn between his touch and her soft skin. Seeing her like this filled him
with longing. Gone was the prim and proper Moravian widow, and in her place was
a woman, all beguiling softness and sensuous curves. Her allure was potent, and
Sauvage sighed as all thought of the spectral figure was put aside. “You are
the sanest woman I know.”

“Then,
you believe me?”

“I
never doubted you. Think no more of it. There is nothing more that you or I can
do for her.” He bent once again to his task, freeing the last of the tiny buttons
that held her bodice closed from their holes, easing the damp garment off her
shoulders, down her arms and away. Then, he reached for the waistband of her
skirt, and she brushed his hands aside.

“It
is easier than the bodice.” Despite her protest, she fumbled with the laces.

Sauvage
caught her hands in his. “You are trembling with cold.” He whisked the skirt
away. She stood before him, garbed in the thin lawn chemise, transparent from
her dip in the stream.

Transparent,
yes. Deliciously, seductively so. The garment was meant to preserve her
modesty, but it failed miserably. In fact, it was little more than a gossamer
veil enhancing her womanly form in the flickering firelight, and he could
clearly see the dark curls that capped her Venus mound, the dip of her waist,
and her nipples—-succulent pink, virginal, almost.

She
would not look at him, and he could not tear his gaze away from her. He was
weak-willed when it came to resisting her—-hungry. Hungry to awaken her
sleeping sensuality, to feel her skin so soft against his, to kiss her lips. Her
breasts, and finally, to lose himself in her fragrant white charms.

She
must have sensed his lustful thoughts, for she reached for the blanket,
fumbling slightly as she attempted to wrap its concealing folds around her
quaking form.

Sauvage
took it from her. “Here, let me warm you.” Without preamble, he began chafing
her chilled skin with the rough woolen blanket. Starting with her shoulders, he
worked his way down her arms to her fingertips, then back to her shoulders
again.

A
wondrous warmth followed in the wake of his ministrations, a warmth Sarah
savored. How good it was to feel the tingle of blood returning to her limbs,
how selfish a creature she was for wanting it to go on and on, how odd that a
hard and driven man like Kingston Sauvage would take such tender care with her.

Stranger
still was the fact that she welcomed his attention. Strange... yet totally in
keeping with the night, the sudden storm, the phantom woman... with this
inexplicable need Sarah felt to be close to him.

A
need with which she should do battle, for the sake of her betrothed, Brother
John Liebermann, the promise she’d made to Gil, and more importantly, for the
sake of her own virtue.

Should.
Yet
as Kingston worked the blanket over her shoulders to her breasts, she closed her
eyes in silent surrender. Thoughts of Brother John Liebermann, of Gil, of
promises made long ago in England, were slowly, but steadily slipping away.

Outside
the shelter, the wind howled through the forest, flinging sheets of rain
against the walls and roof. Even now, she longed to surrender. In less than an
instant, the rain doused the campfire, plunging them into total darkness. For
once, Sarah welcomed it. Somehow, the absence of light reinforced the impression
that they were alone, not just in this primeval valley, but in the world itself,
just as Adam and Eve had been in the Garden of Eden—yet undeniably different. Until
Eve had partaken of the apple, she’d been virginal and innocent—unaware of
Adam, or her nakedness.

Sarah
was neither virginal, nor innocent in the ways of man and woman. She was also
very aware of Kingston... aware of the power in the hands that sought to warm
her chilled body.

“Sarah,”
he said softly, and there was such raw and throbbing emotion in that single
word that Sarah caught her breath. “Sarah,
mon ange.
”

Sarah,
my angel.

He
draped the blanket over her shoulders, drawing her close.

Sarah
gave a despairing groan, but he hushed her with a finger to her lips. “Say
nothing, my love. Do not spoil this moment. Save your words for the dawn. Tonight
we need only the language of love when addressing one another.”

He
cupped her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek, the corner of her
mouth, so tenderly. “So much can be said with just a touch. An embrace can
speak volumes.” Sliding an arm behind her back, he brought her against him,
their bodies melding, hard-muscled chest to soft, yielding breasts, heated
loins against slightly rounded belly, thigh against thigh.

Sarah
moaned aloud.

“Speak
to me silently,” Kingston whispered against her parted lips. “Touch me.”

Sarah
did touch him, tentatively at first, her fingers trembling against the smooth
skin of his face. How could a touch possibly convey her conflicting thoughts
and emotions? How could it tell him that she wanted him, wanted his touch and
his attention, and had, from the beginning when she’d glimpsed him in the
moonlit yard of the hunter’s camp, surrounded by wolves? It was impossible, was
it not? Yet, Sarah suspected that if anyone could read her thoughts, look into
her heart, he could.

Kingston
was gifted. He talked to wolves. And the wolves listened.
He knew things.
He
also knew that talk would drive a wedge between them, shattering the fragile
spell which the night, the storm, his nearness, had cast over this enchanted
place, and over her. Lifting her free hand, Sarah answered his plea, touching
his throat, feeling the pulse that leapt beneath his satiny skin, threading her
fingers into the silky strands of his hair.

“Do
not be afraid,” he whispered. “Do not ever be afraid when you are with me.”

Sarah
wasn’t afraid. It was strange, but she felt a closeness to him, a kinship. Somehow,
she sensed his desperation. And his loneliness... his loneliness called to her,
striking an answering chord within her heart. She understood loneliness
intimately, the inconsolable ache of empty arms. It kept her close when she was
aware that she should have pushed away. Then, he closed the little distance
remaining between them, and all thought of resistance was swept away.

Lowering
his head, he claimed her mouth in a kiss so searingly passionate, so demanding,
that it stole her breath from her lungs and left her weak and tremulous. His
hot mouth slanted slowly over hers, begging a response Sarah had no will to
deny. Her arms stole up and around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. It
felt cool to the touch, thick and luxurious. How she longed to get lost in it,
to bury her face in the silken mass and breathe in the fragrance of the forest
and ....

“Oh,
Kingston!”

Without
a word, he drew her down and lay half atop her, the blanket and pine boughs
cushioning her buttocks and back. Sweet endless kisses! Sarah had always liked
kisses, liked the warmth and the intimacy of masculine lips pressed to hers. Timothy’s
kisses had been brief and absent-minded, a simple, chaste expression of his
affection for her. Kingston’s kisses were different, long and languorous, full
of fire and passion the likes of which Sarah had never experienced.

Its
scorching heat threatened to consume her, to burn away every shred of her
weakened resistance. Bowing before its strength, Sarah succumbed to the fire...
until she felt something caress her tightly clenched teeth and realized just
what that something was.

Shocked
right out of her languor, she drew back slightly to stare up at him. “Kingston,
what are you doing?”

He
lapsed into French, soft-voiced and sensual. “I am kissing you, Madame. Thoroughly,
and with passion. Have you never been kissed this way before?”

“I
have not,” she answered in kind.

“Then,
you have much to learn.” Laughing, he bent and nuzzled the soft swell of one
creamy breast, showing above the neckline of the chemise, then kissed and
nibbled his way back up to her chin. “A very great deal to learn, and I will be
happy to instruct you. Open your mouth to me, Sarah, let me in. Let me
introduce you to passion.”

His
smile was persuasive, the light in his black eyes purely seductive. “I suppose
it can do no harm, as long as all we are doing is kissing.”

“Kissing,
yes. Kissing is important as a prelude to other, even more enjoyable things. And
this kind of kissing—well, it’s very important indeed. Meaningful. Lie back. Let
me show you.”

Sarah’s
response was halfhearted at first. She could not imagine his tongue in her
mouth; still, she parted her lips beneath his sensual onslaught, unclenching
her teeth when he bade her to do so.

His
entry was slow and leisurely, a subtle teasing of her full lower lip, so that
she tightened her arms around his neck. He chuckled, entering her mouth,
tentatively touching, then stroking her tongue—slowly, seductively luring it
past her lips and into his mouth, then enfolding, caressing, entwining his
tongue with hers---for all the world as if they were mating.

Heat,
born of the intimacy of the moment, crept through her veins. Kingston left her
lips, which felt bruised and deliciously tender, to nuzzle her ear, then kiss
and caress his way down her soft white throat. Down, to the sensitive hollow
above her collarbone, and the swell of one white breast.

Before
Sarah could protest, almost before she understood what he intended, he took her
nipple into his mouth and teased it to exquisite hardness with his lips and his
teeth and his tongue.