“Am I? How so?”
“I have never known a man who talks to wolves. Or known a wolf to listen.”
Sauvage saw her shiver, despite her close proximity to the fire, and smiled to himself. “It was never my intention to frighten you.”
“Nor mine to offer insult.” She ducked her head. “Is what Kathryn said true? Have you truly killed twenty men?”
Sauvage’s smile faded, and a cold brittle light entered his eyes. “I have never killed a man who did not merit killing.”
“Then the rumors about you are founded in truth.” She clenched her hands in her lap.
Sauvage watched her intently. “What difference does this make to you? You require my help, and you have it. Be satisfied with that.”
She frowned, but stood her ground. “Since it seems we are destined to spend a considerable amount of time together, I deem it necessary to know what manner of man I am dealing with.”
A wounded man, Sauvage thought darkly. A man whose living heart had been ripped from his chest, the subject of great speculation in civilized circles, an object of pity and fear. He glanced at Madame as he finished the thought. “I have never harmed a woman, if that’s what concerns you. You have nothing to fear from me. Besides, if we push hard, we can make it back to Bethlehem in one day, so you will not be long in my company.”
Madame shook her capped head. “Oh, no. You misunderstand, monsieur. I’ve recently come from there. I cannot go back. I am bound for the Shining City, on the Muskingum River. You have agreed to take me there. Surely, you will not go back on your word?”
“I gave my word that I would not leave you here, alone and defenseless,” Sauvage countered. “The Muskingum lies three hundred miles west of here. That’s three weeks on foot, discounting the fact that the country you speak of is teeming with hostiles—-longer still if we encounter difficulties. Even if I were of a mind to take you—which I am not—I cannot spare that kind of time.”
“Cannot?” she said stubbornly. “Or will not?”
Sauvage swore in colorful French. When he finished and calmed again she was still watching him with that unfaltering stare of hers. “You should not speak so,” she replied in kind. “It’s most unseemly, even for a man who takes pride in the fact that he is not a gentleman. Besides, I heartily doubt the acts you just described are physically possible.”
“Madame,” Sauvage said with a shake of his head. “You astound me.”
She shrugged, a gentle lifting of her plump shoulders which drew her linen bodice taut across full, round breasts. Sauvage felt his male body stir to life beneath the thin rag that was his breechclout, and was grateful for the concealing shadows. “My husband, Timothy, was a scholar and very indulgent where I was concerned. He taught me French and Latin, and encouraged me to dabble in other pursuits as well.” She raised her gaze to his and deep blue clashed with obsidian. “Do you find that shocking, monsieur? The fact that I am learned?”
Shocking, yes, Sauvage thought. A woman of refinement and education was a rarity here in the wilderness. And Madame was not just learned; she was exasperating.
He shook his head again, this time in amazement, and took to muttering in Delaware, secure in the knowledge that this, at least, she could not comprehend. Kate had certainly done him a disservice by wringing the promise from him that he would remain. Seemingly there was but one way to rectify the impossible situation, and that was to see Madame to safety as quickly as possible. The moment he had fulfilled his vow to Kate, he would strike to the west again, in the hope of picking up the trail of La Bruin.
“Madame,” Sauvage said, as gently as he could, “you must understand that what you are asking is impossible. The journey you speak of is not just perilous; it is tantamount to suicide. The Ohio country is in French hands, and zealously defended by the Ottawa, Wyandot, and Chippewa. To these men—these savages—a scalp is a scalp, and it makes no difference if its owner is a man, woman, or child.”
Madame was unmoved. “I shall put my faith in God to protect me until I reach the Shining City. As long as I have faith, He will not fail me. Besides, you have been to the Ohio country, have you not? And I see that your luxuriant scalp is still in place.”
Sauvage could not argue the point, and so he contented himself with a noise that conveyed his utter disgust.
Madame, however, remained undaunted. She pinned him with her sharp blue gaze and tried another tack, obviously hell-bent on convincing him. “Monsieur Sauvage, my mission is most urgent. I am expected at the Shining City. If I fail to arrive, concerns will be raised, and a search may be organized.”
“Who would ask that you make such a dangerous journey?” Sauvage demanded. “Surely, not your husband?”
“Timothy died several years ago in London. It is his brother Gil who is anticipating my arrival, along with Brother John Liebermann, the man I am to wed.”
“Then, this ‘business’ you mentioned earlier is a matter of the heart. I begin to see why Madame is so eager to reach the Muskingum,” Sauvage said with a knowing smile. He watched as Sarah Marsters blushed becomingly.
“Brother Liebermann and I have never met,” she admitted softly. “It was the children who were the deciding factor in my present undertaking, not any pressing desire to wed.”
“Children? What children?”
“The children at the mission,” she replied. “We live communally—not unlike a large religious family. Gil has promised that I can work with the little ones at the Sisters’ House. I’ve always wanted children, but God has seen fit to deny them—” She broke off, and it took her a moment to collect herself.
Sauvage continued to watch her. Her face had changed when she said the word “children.” Her expression had softened, and a light had come into her deep blue eyes, a warm and mellow light he’d seen in the eyes of another woman, a thousand lifetimes ago.
Physically, she was nothing like Caroline. Caroline had been tall and willowy, with hair the shade of ripening wheat and eyes of icy blue. Madame was petite, just three or four inches above five feet, the crown of her head barely rising above Sauvage’s collarbone. The body beneath her plain garments was well rounded, perhaps best described as plump.
From the top of her soft brown head to the tips of her sturdy leather shoes, there was nothing so very extraordinary about Sarah Marsters, not the slightest similarity between her and Caroline, until she had mentioned the children, and then the face of Sauvage’s lost love and this lost and forlorn young woman overlapped, melding one with the other... while the burning pain in his chest burgeoned and swelled, until he thought that he would die of it.
What was there about this young woman that stirred him so, conjuring up a vast discomfort within his body and soul? Was it her generous curves and shy glances? Or her vulnerability, a quality which beckoned to his predatory instincts?
Whatever it was, he resisted it, hardening himself to a threatening tide of emotion, retreating from Madame without moving a muscle, distancing himself from her emotionally, until the terrible aching need that gripped him receded, too.
Seated across from him, Sarah felt his emotional retreat, his sudden coldness, as if a wall of ice had settled down between them. Her dream of reaching the Muskingum lost some of its bright sheen in that instant. “Will you not relent, monsieur, and guide me to my destination?” she asked, unable to resist making one last bid to change his mind. “I can pay for your services. I have this brooch—” Unbuttoning three of the tiny pearl buttons that fastened her bodice, she reached inside and, after several fumbling attempts, produced a gold and onyx brooch, which she handed to Kingston. “It belonged to Timothy’s mother. He gave it to me on our wedding day. I have never had it appraised, but I am sure it is worth a great deal of money.”
For a long while, Kingston Sauvage stared down at the brooch in his hand, his dark face impassive, while Sarah watched him, and wished for the power to read his thoughts.
There was so much about him she did not know, so much that s
till remained a mystery, and there was but one thing of which she was certain where he was concerned. Aloud, she voiced her certainty: “You will not accept my offer, will you, monsieur?”
“Some things cannot be bought,” he said without looking up. “Your premature death is one of them. No, I will not see you to the Muskingum. I will not have your death on my hands.”
“Yet you will pursue La Bruin,” Sarah said, “with every intention of killing him.”
He raised his gaze to hers, and the firelight was reflected in his black eyes. “Yes.”
Despite the warmth of the blaze, Sarah shivered. “Do you not fear for your immortal soul, sir, speaking in so cavalier fashion of taking another man’s life?”
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.
Chapter 3
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.
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