Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  After a moment, a brief scuffling and a hideous bawl shattered the silence, seeming to come from just beyond the fire ring. Sarah felt an icy chill creep along her spine. Kingston had been so angry when he’d stormed out earlier, but was he angry enough to break his solemn oath and desert her? To resume his quest to slay La Bruin?

  A wave of panic threatened to overwhelm her. “You must not succumb to fear,” she told herself. “You battled a wolf and prevailed, after all, and you will prevail over this also.”

  She threw off the blanket and crept to the door of the shelter. A small dark shadow darted past her, another of like size and shape hot upon its heels.

  Unaware of her presence, two bear cubs tumbled and frolicked in the rear of the hut. Uncertain what else to do, Sarah skirted the cubs, staying close to the wall and moving behind them. “Mischief makers,” she said, sounding more forceful, more certain than she felt, “out with you!”

  One of the cubs gave a harsh-sounding bleat and ran from the shelter, disappearing into the darkness. The other dove for the corner of the shelter and scaled one of the supports, where it clung, raising a terrible din. Unsure what to do, Sarah pried the squalling youngster from its perch and, holding it at arm’s length, carried it quickly to the door. Off to the left, she heard the snap of a twig, and a rustle of movement. Sarah bent down, releasing the cub. But as it raced off to join its sibling, a huge bear reared up before her, six hundred pounds of raging maternal fury towering over her.

  Sarah screamed and stumbled back, certain she’d be killed and eaten. Kingston would return to find nothing but bones and prayer cap—if indeed, it left that much. Then, just as she’d opened her mouth to beg God for mercy, she saw a blur of movement from the tail of her eye. Silver-white, with dark guard hairs, the shade of moonlight and shadow, it streaked past her and flung itself upon the bear.

  A wolf. A very large and powerful wolf, but still no match for the lethal power of the mother bear. They tangled for a few seconds, the wolf biting, snarling, snapping and leaping back, circling and attacking again. The she-bear drop to all fours and feinted toward its opponent, swiping with one huge paw. The blow caught the wolf on its flank and knocked it aside. It yelped and rolled, and bounced onto its feet again, assuming a defensive crouch between the bear and Sarah. Hackles bristling, it snarled and bared its fangs in warning.

  The bear paced back and forth, then without warning spun and retreated into the woods. For one tense moment, Sarah faced the wolf. Then, with a whimper, it limped to the camp door and slowly sank down.

  Sarah eyed it warily, her gratitude and Christian charity warring with her trepidation. It was a wild beast, as great a danger as the bear, surely. Yet, in saving her life, it had risked its own, and she could not stand idly by while it bled out its life’s blood in her dooryard.

  Gathering her courage, she approached with the utmost caution. “Pretty wolf, I thank you for your kindness in saving me just now. You surely are a brave and valiant creature, and I would like to help you—-if indeed you will allow it.”

  The wolf left off licking its wounds to watch her. It pricked its ears at the sound of her voice, but made no move to harm her, no sign of hostility toward her as she approached, nothing but a soft whining sound low in its throat. Encouraged, Sarah sat down by its side and carefully examined its wounds.

  Four long gashes ran several inches along its flank, serious enough, but not as extensive as she had feared. If she could but stem the flow of blood, the animal would no doubt recover. “I do wish that Kingston were here!”

  The wolf whined and licked her hand in a very unwolf-like fashion. Sarah narrowed her eyes at the beast, then, shook her head, amazed that she could entertain such a foolish notion.

  It took several minutes, and the sacrifice of a portion of her chemise, but Sarah got the bleeding to stop, and afterward, the animal lay quietly, its muzzle mere inches from Sarah’s knee. “What odd companions we are. I confess, I’ve never been overly fond of your kind. Yet, I cannot deny that I am as grateful for your company as I am for your sacrifice. I suppose that makes us friends?” She stretched a tentative hand toward the animal, half expecting to be rebuffed with a snarl.

  Instead, it lay, quiet and still, watching her with its soulful dark eyes, then, as Sarah stroked its broad head, it closed its eyes. “You are quite beautiful,” Sarah said, stroking its head and shoulders. Its fur was silken to the touch, as pale as moonlight shimmering on the dark surface of a lake. Her fingers slid through it, and the animal sighed. There was a blatant sensuality in the act itself, a primitive connection between herself and the untamed, more sensed that understood. She could feel its contentment, its protectiveness, and she knew that she would be safe as long as it stayed by her side.

  Secure in that knowledge, Sarah curled on the ground and slept, her head pillowed in the curve of one arm, the fingers of her other hand threaded through the beast’s luxurious fur.

  When at last, she awakened, it was to the sensation of warmth. Emanating from the hard male body molded tightly to hers, it seeped through her gown and chemise, easing the stiffness in her limbs, bathing her in a comfort from shoulders to ankles that she had never known outside her marriage bed. Suddenly realizing that she was not alone, Sarah came awake with a start and, turning, gazed into Kingston’s intense dark eyes.

  Chapter 7

  Sarah scrambled up. “Oh, Kingston! ‘Tis you!”

  “You were expecting to wake in the arms of another man, perhaps?”

  “Certainly not!” Sarah replied, then, hastened to correct herself. “I did not realize you had returned. In fact, there was a time when I feared you would not come back at all.”

  He watched her from his place in the dooryard, still stretched full length upon his side, his head propped on his hand. “You feared that I would break my vow, abandon you. What is it that your Bible says? ‘Oh, ye of little faith’?”

  “My faith is hardly lacking. I woke last night to find you hadn’t returned, and the camp invaded by wild beasts. It was but by the grace of God that I was not devoured!”

  “So, your god was here last night?” He sounded dubious.

  She related the events of the previous night as succinctly as she could, smoothing her hair and donning her prayer cap. She still hadn’t forgiven him for taking such shameless advantage of her weakness last evening, or for looking so shockingly sensual right now. Sleep had eased the ferocity from his face, making him appear more youthful, more carefree, more devastatingly handsome than any man had a right to be. Sarah was careful to keep her distance. “Scoff if you wish, but I am convinced that the wolf that saved my life last night was sent by God for that very purpose, and it weighs heavily upon my heart that it was nearly killed.”

  Sauvage watched as she looked around, and knew what she was thinking. “Rest easy, Madame. If indeed there was a wolf, it has found a place by now to rest and lick its wounds.”

  “There was a wolf!” she insisted. “A great wolf, with a coat as pale as moonlight. It saved my life, then watched over me as I slept.” She scoured the ground near the place where Sauvage lay, looking for proof of the animal’s presence. “It must have left some drops of blood, some sign to indicate its passing.”

  She made to walk past him, intent upon her search, Sauvage took her arm, bringing her back to face him. He wanted to tell her that searching for signs of the animal was futile, that a wolf was a creature of the night and rarely seen in daylight. He wanted to bask in her soft angelic beauty, to ease her worries, to claim the tenderness and caring she bestowed upon the wolf for himself. Yet, as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw her gaze skim his middle, where the hunting shirt gaped open. In that instant, her expression went from gentle consternation, to concern, and then to disbelief in rapid succession.

  Sauvage bit back a groan of frustration, aware what would follow. “Sarah, it is nothing.” He started to close the shirt, to hide the quartet of deep slashes that scored his side, just above the belt that held his bre
echclout.

  Madame, however, had other ideas, and was already on her knees beside him. She grasped the leather, pulling it back for a closer look. “How came you by these wounds?” she demanded.

  “A minor incident,” Sauvage said. “Barely worthy of note.”

  “You are far too modest, Kingston. The cuts are deep and need attention. I’ll ask again. How came you by these wounds?”

  “As is happens, I ran afoul of the same bear that frightened you last night. I startled her, and she took a swat at me.”

  He felt her gaze go over him, and knew that she missed no small detail of his appearance. But did she notice how her mere presence inflamed him? Then, when he saw her gaze skim the front of his loin cloth and dart quickly away, he decided that she had.

  “There must have been a great deal of blood.”

  “Madame?” He hoped he’d misheard her.

  “No man could sustain such cuts without bleeding profusely. Yet, there is no blood on your shirt, or your leggings.” She met his gaze sharply, then, abruptly turned away. “The wolf had similar gashes on its flank. I knew that I should give it aid, but I feared that it would attack me. Curiously, it did not—-and I thought that it—-but no, it is too preposterous—-is it not, Kingston?”

  Sauvage braced a hand against his side and got stiffly to his feet. Yet, as he advanced, Madame backed away. “Sarah,” he said. “You will not leave this camp. To go off on your own would be far too dangerous, especially when you are so distraught.”

  “Distraught?” she cried. How can I be anything but distraught? To think that you—that the wolf was—” She pressed a fist to her mouth. “Where were you last night?”

  “We must be leaving soon,” he replied impatiently.

  “Kingston, I must know.”

  The look on her face in that moment was heartrending. Sauvage could not lie to her, but neither could he tell her the truth. “Suffice to say that I was never very far away.” Then, before she could say another word, he snapped, “Enough! My wounds will heal, and you are safe! Be satisfied with that.”

  Sarah was not satisfied. All day, the notion plagued her. When they halted for the night and Kingston went off to scout, she could think of nothing else. Was it possible? Could a man change his shape at will? Could Kingston have been the wolf, and the wolf Kingston?

  It was difficult to countenance, but Kingston had been gone when the wolf arrived to save her life. Its wounds were similar to Kingston’s wounds, wounds he’d been reluctant to explain.

  Suffice to say that I was never far away. His cryptic comment echoed in her mind, and with startling clarity she saw him again in her mind’s eye, as he’d been that first night, silvered by moonlight, a host of wolves whimpering at his feet.

  The image confused her. Before she realized it, she was on her feet and moving, away from the camp. She could not stay. His smoldering black gaze was her undoing. A single glance from him could dissolve her will in an instant, a touch of his hand had the power to make her forget everything she stood for. And, if by chance he should attempt to seduce her again, she might not be able to summon the will to resist.

  Even now, she longed to surrender. Suddenly, it all became frighteningly clear. As hard as it was to fathom, she was falling in love with him, and she had to act immediately. She had to leave this place, had to leave Kingston and his compelling air of dark mystery behind, or risk losing her immortal soul.

  Sarah glanced at the sky. Kingston had told her that Harris’s Ferry lay due west of here, a half day’s walk. If she hurried, she could put sufficient distance between her and Kingston to discourage him from following.

  As the evening advanced, Sarah’s footsteps dragged. The sun slowly slid behind the rolling hills; the gold of evening ripened. The details of the landscape blurred. She came upon a gnarled oak, the trunk of which had been blasted by lightning, the same tree she passed a quarter of an hour ago.

  Sarah’s heart sank. She was walking in circles. Weary, disheartened, she sat down at the base of the trunk and tried to decide what to do next.

  Then, she saw a man appear from the shadows, weapon in hand. As the indistinct figure emerged from the forest into the half light of evening, Sarah froze.

  The man was smaller and slighter in build than Kingston, with a tuft of black hair standing erect at the crown of his head like the comb on a rooster. The ends of his scalp lock were tipped with yellow ochre, and streaks of the same brilliant paint had been drawn horizontally across his lower face.

  He was a demon risen from the depths of Sarah’s worst nightmare. Only, this time, there would be no waking from the terror, no escape. She caught her breath as the warrior leveled his musket, whispered a prayer, and waited for death to claim her.

  A few hundred yards upstream from the campsite, Sauvage paused on the banks of Cocalico Creek. The evening air was sultry, as soft as a woman’s caress against his skin. He’d just finished his nightly rounds and what little Indian sign he’d come across was days old, giving him little cause for concern.

  The last of the light gave way to the violet dusk that in a moment or two would blanket the land. Only a thin golden thread remained to separate the hills from the endless purple sky.

  Another night would soon be upon them, and with it would come yet another test of his strength of will. A few hundred yards upstream, Sarah Marsters was waiting. Doubtless by now she would have finished her nightly ablutions and would be trying to comb out her shimmering brown tresses with her fingers.

  How alluring she was, even in her dishevelment, so sensual and appealing—all soft tangled curls, a shimmering gold in the firelight, and a faint rose blush blooming high upon her cheeks.

  She was alone, waiting for his return, and though he did not wish to be, he was anxious for the sight of her... anxious for the night to come, with all of its possibilities.

  Perhaps tonight she would soften and come to him. His body throbbed at the thought, and he had to fight the urge to turn away from his contemplation of the evening sky and hurry back.

  Instead, he forced himself to wait, to kneel and slake his thirst with the cold waters of the creek. Five days he’d been in Madame’s company. Five days of battling his lustful thoughts and ungovernable impulses. They’d traversed “die Kluft” in South Mountain behind Conrad Weiser’s home early in the afternoon, and had half a day’s walk before they reached Harris’s Ferry and his sensual torment at last came to an end.

  Kingston tipped his face up to the night sky. One more interminable night and one half day in which he must strive to control his mind and his body, when all he wanted was to lay her down and take her. He knew that he could still her protests with hot kisses, winning out over her piety, her propriety, so that he could lose himself within her sweet womanliness.

  Her innocence beguiled his senses, her lush curves beckoned sweetly. He could scarcely keep his goals in sight when Sarah was near. Thus, he was constantly at war with himself, his head with his heart, his body with his need for a reckoning.

  The warrior inside him screamed that she was poison to his purpose. Madame craved peace; he wreaked havoc. War was his life—a one man war, carried out against his enemies. He’d come too far and killed too many to quit the fight without total victory... without revenge against the one man he hated above all others.

  He’d never talked to anyone about what happened to Caroline, and though the circumstances of her death were known by some, no one had ever dared to approach him about the details. Not even Angel, who was like a brother to him.

  So, why did he long to tell Sarah? Why had he quaked like a leaf a dozen different times with the effort of holding the words back? He, who had howled like a wild thing when he’d come home to find Caroline’s ravaged body, their son, newly born and too tender to survive, mewling in the dust between her thighs. It was an image he must never allow himself to forget. Not for the sake of his lust for a woman so different from him, so foreign.

  Hatred for his enemy welled up inside hi
m, and he clung to it, resolved not to weaken again. Yet, as Kingston turned from the still waters of the creek, he felt his composure crumble.

  Caroline stood a few feet away, garbed in a pale-hued gown, the look of a startled doe poised to take flight upon her bloodless face. A breath of sound escaped Sauvage’s tightening throat; the apparition glanced at him, then into the trees.

  She would leave him now, to his torment. And this time, he swore, he would not follow. But his grief and guilt bit deep and the cry was wrung from him as she retreated into the trees. “Caroline, wait! Please don’t go!”

  At a little distance she paused, looking back. Sauvage followed, a madman, pursuing a ghost. She was always just ahead, a bewitching glimpse of white gown and flowing hair. With the child clutched tightly to her breast, she led him past the deep ravine, along the winding path to the deserted campsite.

  Deserted. Sauvage glanced around. “Sarah?” The venison lay where he’d left it, and sufficient wood had been gathered to fuel their nightly fire, but Sarah was nowhere to be seen.

  Caroline forgotten, Sauvage sprinted to the stream, hoping Sarah would be there. But no one was there.

  Sauvage. Quickly. He heard Caroline’s voice, a husk of an urgent whisper inside his head, and he was certain that he was losing his mind, but he listened, running now to keep her fleeting figure in sight. She guided him to the east, along the path he and Sarah had travelled that same afternoon. Sweat ran down his face in runnels with the effort, streaming into his eyes. He ignored it, afraid to blink for fear of losing sight of Caroline.

  And then, at a turn in the path, Caroline suddenly vanished and Sauvage saw Sarah, her figure rigid, her sweet face a study in horror. A few yards away, Killbuck, a half-Delaware, half-Huron member of La Bruin’s band, had Sarah in the sights of his rifle and was slowly squeezing the trigger.