Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  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.

  Chapter 6

  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, jus
t 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.

  Sensation, paralyzing and incredibly sweet, coursed through Sarah, starting in the secret place between her legs, shooting upward and outward, unfurling along her limbs, then, finally doubling back to pool white hot and molten deep in her belly. “Sarah,” he groaned. “How I ache for you.”

  She ached for him, too. It was sheer torment, gazing down at the raven head at her breast, feeling this exquisite longing, knowing that it was wrong to allow it to go on. Physical pleasures outside of wedlock were sinful and forbidden. Kingston was not her husband, he was not even her betrothed.

  Nothing was promised between them, and nothing could come of this. Indeed, once they reached Harris’s Ferry, she would never see him again. “Kingston.” Her voice was a mere whisper of sound. “Kingston, please stop. This is not right.”

  She stroked his silken hair, traced the strong line of his jaw, then, gripping his chin, she raised his head so that he could not ignore her plea.

  “Oh, but it is right. Right that we should be together. I want you, Sarah, and I know that you feel what I feel. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. I feel it in your kiss, your sweet surrender.” He slid one hand along the curve of her ribs to her waist and down across the soft expanse of her belly.

  With a gasp, Sarah caught his hand, stilling its progress a hair’s breadth from her womanhood. “What I feel does not matter,” she said, struggling out of his arms, scrambling back, just out of reach.

  “What you feel matters greatly to me.”

  He came closer; Sarah moved back. “Kingston, please,” she whispered desperately. “Do not!”

  “Sarah, my sweet,” he replied, and his voice was soft and low, persuasive, smooth as silk. “Come back to my arms. The night is long and there is much for us to discover.”

  Sarah shook her head, trying to cover her dishabille with the blanket. The spell he had woven around her was broken, and in its wake she remembered the things she had momentarily forgotten: her promises, her betrothed, the great gulf that separated her from Kingston, a gulf Sarah feared could never be bridged, no matter how great their desire. “This is not proper. It is not right! I am a woma
n betrothed! I gave my pledge to Gil, to go to the Muskingum and become the wife of Brother John Lieberman, and I am bound to those promises.”

  He smiled wolfishly. “Your betrothed is far away, and I am here.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “Our joining is destined, Sarah. Fate placed you in my path. It kindled a fire between us. Begun that first night, it burns hotter and brighter with each passing moment.”

  “You must not say such things! It was wrong of me to succumb to temptation, and I must not do it again. I belong to another.”

  He snorted. “By right of written agreement. Mere words on parchment, and words can be retracted. Agreements can be broken.”

  Hot tears rolled over Sarah’s cheeks. “I am betrothed by the right of the Lot. Our way is not your way, and I do not expect you to understand.”

  He looked at her, a cynical smile curving his hard mouth. “I understand all too well. Your piety takes precedence over everything, yet I remain unconvinced.” He took her hand in his, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Sarah, I have heard your heart whisper, and it knows full well how futile it is to rail against the inevitable, even if your head does not realize it yet. The passion we share is like the storm, a force of nature, and you might as well try to harness the wind as to attempt to quell what’s happening between us.”

  Releasing her, he took up his rifle and went out into the night yet again, into the wind and the driving rain. Sarah sat alone in the darkness, trying to negate the things he had said, determined not to succumb to temptation again. Yet, deep in the night, when her prayers had been exhausted and she lay wrapped in the rough woolen trade blanket, she remembered his kisses and the hot thread of desire that had rushed through her veins, and she finally understood that she was lost.

  Sometime later, Sarah awakened from a troubled sleep and lay listening, unsure as to what had disturbed her rest. For a moment or two, there was utter silence—then, it came again, a slow shuffling noise that raised the fine hairs on the backs of her arms and at her nape. “Kingston? Is that you?”