Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  “Vainglorious?” Kingston supplied.

  “Engaging,” Angel finished with a toothy grin.

  Sarah immediately brightened. “You know Kingston well?”

  “Very well, indeed. We met ten years ago when I was but a beardless boy of ten and five. He saved me from disgrace. I had been visiting a friend late one summer evening, and was climbing out the second story boudoir window when Sauvage happened by, and was there to break my fall.”

  “A friend? She was your lover—a married woman whose husband returned home early and nearly caught you. Besides, I may have broken your fall, but you broke my collarbone, and I was abed for three weeks, unable to leave Quebec as I had planned.”

  “Madame LaTour was my tutor.”

  “Undoubtedly!”

  Angel smiled and shrugged as he tied his mount’s reins to a low-hanging branch. “I took you home and saw you mended, did I not?”

  Sarah giggled, drawing Kingston’s displeasure. “Pray, Madame, do not encourage him!”

  “Kingston is right, of course,” Sarah said, hiding a smile behind her hand. “It is a sin to covet thy neighbor’s wife.”

  Angel came forth, stretching himself by the fire between Kingston and Sarah. “Indeed, it is. And where is your husband, my dear?”

  Sarah looked down at her hands. “I am a widow.”

  Angel stroked his bottom lip. “Then you are unattached.”

  “Hardly!” Kingston put in flatly.

  Sarah hastened to explain. “I am betrothed—to Brother John Liebermann, who is one of the United Brethren, as am I. I am traveling to meet him on the Muskingum.”

  “The Muskingum,” Angel mused. “And you are escorting her. Tell me, my friend, does this mean that you have abandoned your search for Jean?”

  “Jean?” Sarah repeated.

  “Jean Baer, Sauvage’s—”

  “Perhaps you should see to your mount,” Kingston pointedly suggested. “I noticed when you arrived that she was limping.”

  Angel frowned and broke off abruptly, leaving Sarah to wonder what he’d been about to say. “I was hoping that you might be persuaded to have a look at her—unless, of course, you are still feeling cross with me, and then I shall be forced to sit and chat with the beautiful Sarah a while longer.”

  Angel’s compliments were lavish, but they made Sarah uncomfortable. “Monsieur is exceedingly generous, but I have never been beautiful, and I fear that since the attack, when I lost all of my possessions, I am reduced even further.” She touched her hair, which tumbled wildly around her shoulders.

  For the first time since his arrival, Angel seemed nonplussed. “You have lost your looking glass? Your brush and comb? Mon dieu, who would do such a thing to a woman?”

  Kingston answered for her. “La Bruin. Madame was travelling west to Harris’s Ferry, when her party was attacked. They got Ben Bones, among others. Sarah escaped, with the aid of Kate Seaton.”

  Angel glanced around. “Kathryn is here with you?”

  “She died at a hunting camp several days east of here.”

  “A genuine pity,” Angel said. “I liked her well. Damnable war. It’s bad for the Provincials, bad for business. Autumn is coming, but instead of preparing to hunt and gather meat for their families and furs to trade, the western tribes are off fighting. The fools think the French will provide for them. Pah! And now, with this business at Fort William Henry—well, that’s why I am getting out of trade.”

  “What about William Henry?” Kingston said.

  “You have not heard? No, of course, you haven’t. You’ve been far too busy conducting you own petite guerre to keep abreast of news, or gossip.” Kingston scowled at Angel, who waved the look aside. “The fort fell to Montcalm earlier this month. Colonel Munro surrendered his sword and marched his troops out of the fort and directly into an ambush. Montcalm’s Indian allies, impatient with the white man’s methods of war, took it upon themselves to attack. They began in the hospital.” He sighed, and shook his head. “I am told that some were smallpox stricken. By taking their scalps, the Huron may have done to themselves what the whites and the tribes hostile to them could not.”

  “It is good that you are well away from there,” Kingston said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Angel concurred. “Besides, it is time for a change. I was thinking that after I deliver my goods to Weiser, I might go on a prolonged visit to the continent. Paris is lovely in the fall. And what of you, my friend? I have prattled on, and you have said nothing about the Muskingum. Surely, you do not expect to find your nemesis there?”

  Angel looked to Sarah, who looked to Kingston, who stared, seemingly mesmerized, into the flames. His enemies were numerous, Sarah thought. He could find them almost anywhere. She thought of the warrior, Killbuck, who lay dead along the wooded trail to the east, of Kingston’s ferocity when taking the man’s scalp, and lastly, of his admission concerning Caroline and his son, and knew that Kingston’s petite guerre, his “little war” was just beginning.

  Sarah felt suddenly chilled, but whether from her thoughts, or from Angel’s startling news about the fall of Fort William Henry, she could not tell. She forced a smile. “Kingston has but offered to take me to the settlement of Harris’s Ferry. Once there, I shall seek another guide to take me west.”

  “You will be parting company very soon,” Angel said.

  “Indeed,” Sarah agreed, “and I’ve little doubt that he will be much relieved. I am afraid I have been quite a trial.”

  Kingston threw down the rag and picked up this rifle. “I’ll go have a look at your mount,” he told Angel. And then to Sarah, “Madame, be on your guard. De Angelheart would attempt to talk you right out of your chemise if not for fear that I would be offended. And even then, he is not to be trusted.”

  Angel was offended. “So much for loyalty! Friendship!”

  Ignoring his outrage, Kingston made his way to Angel’s roan mare. Sarah’s expression, as she watched him, was troubled.

  “Never in my life have I been so abused, so maligned!” Angel complained. “Please feel free to confide in me, Sarah. Has the brute mistreated you terribly?”

  Sarah looked down at her hands, and the image of them tangled in Kingston’s dark hair flashed in her mind. “Actually, he has been quite kind.” How steady her voice was, how strong, how deceptive. She felt shaky inside, uncertain, after all that had happened. “Would you tell me about him?”

  Angel rolled his eyes heavenward. “How can this be happening again? I find myself alone in the company of a beautiful woman, and she wishes to speak of Sauvage?” A beleaguered sigh and he recovered from his disappointment, settling with remarkable ease into the role of confidante. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What do you wish to know?”

  “What was he like as a young man? And what did you mean about his unhappy childhood?”

  He smiled then, boyishly. “Ah, now I see. You have fallen victim to his air of dark mystery, been hopelessly ensnared by the aura of tragedy that surrounds him. You are in love with Sauvage.”

  Sarah was greatly discomfited. “You misunderstand, monsieur. I am betrothed to Brother John Liebermann.”

  “What has the one thing to do with the other?” he asked. Then, when Sarah said nothing, he answered her questions. “As a young man, Sauvage was wild inside, but the wildness was tightly contained. When we met, his father Antoine, had just died, and Sauvage was very anxious to leave the city and all of its bad memories behind, and return to his true home on the great river.”

  “He did not like Quebec?” Sarah questioned.

  “He detested the foreignness, hated the fine broadcloth suits, the linen and lace he’d been forced to wear. Most of all, he hated his father’s wife, and her imp of a son.”

  “Kingston has a brother?” Sarah was shocked.

  “A half brother. They shared a father, but have different mothers.”

  “He spoke of his mother, but he never mentioned a brother.”

  Angel w
aved her comment aside. “Nor will he. Have you seen how the wolves bow down at his feet? They come to pay him homage, you see, these wild creatures, and it has been this way since his birth.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The man is legend. They speak of this in all of the villages.”

  “What do they say about him?”

  “Well... it is said that he was born in the teeth of a howling gale, when the snows lay deep upon the land, and the wolves gathered outside of the birthing hut, causing quite a stir among his people. Only his grandfather, Gray Wolf, understood. The old man took the infant from his mother, bundled him in skins against the bitter cold, and showed the wolves the man-child they were to serve, their prince. That is how he was given his Indian name: White Wolf. White for the color of his skin and the deep winter snows, and Wolf for his totem. It was not until the following year when the priest came to the village that he was baptized Kingston Sauvage.”

  “He told you this?” Sarah asked.

  Angel’s eyes danced with secret amusement. “Talk of Sauvage has always been rife. You have but to listen to hear it.”

  “White Wolf. It suits him, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. White Wolf he was before he started his bloody campaign. Now, they speak of him differently.”

  “Differently?” Sarah prompted. “How so?”

  “Are you certain you wish to know? There are, after all, other more pleasant subjects we might pursue, such as the latest Parisian fashions. I have seen the dressmakers’ dolls myself, and can describe them for you if you like, in great detail.”

  “Please, Renoir,” Sarah said. “You must tell me.”

  He sighed. “The old ones speak of him with reverence. The young men of the French-allied tribes lust for his scalp, and count great coup just to have glimpsed him and lived to tell the tale. Son-of-a-Vengeful-Spirit, Lord of the Wolves, that’s what the Chippewa call him. It is glamorous, eh?”

  “And deadly,” Sarah added.

  “This is true. It is widely believed that the warrior who lifts his hair will rise to great renown.”

  “Dear me,” Sarah said. “You should not speak of such eventualities, even in jest.” The thought of Kingston meeting a violent end was something she did not wish to think about. Not so soon after the incident in the gathering dusk, and what had come after. Better to think of the feel of his hands on her flesh, so full of life and passion, or the secrets he was keeping, than to contemplate his death. “Would you tell me about the wolves, Renoir? You’ve known him for a long time. Do you think that it is possible—can he change shapes at will?”

  “I have heard of such things, yet I cannot say if it is truth or falsehood. If you wish to know, you must ask Sauvage.”

  A thoughtful silence settled between them, in which Renoir studied Sarah, and Sarah studied her hands, folded demurely in her lap. “It’s easy to see that you love him, Sarah. And if his possessiveness toward you is any indication, I should say that you have captured a great deal more than Sauvage’s eye.”

  “Of course, I care for Kingston,” she countered. “But it is not as you seem to think. He has helped me, and although I cannot agree with his drastic methods, I owe him my life.”

  Kingston returned in time for Angel to turn a questioning stare upon him. “I thought I heard a shot as darkness was descending.”

  “Sarah wandered away from camp,” Kingston explained, “and Killbuck was set to take her scalp when I came upon them.”

  “And you killed him,” Angel surmised. “I myself would have done the same. Killbuck was a bad man. And since we are speaking of evil incarnate, what news have you of La Bruin?”

  “Nothing since he massacred Sarah’s party. I had no chance to question Killbuck. Sadly, he did not linger to converse with me.” He glanced at Sarah, a dark glance, full of meaning. “Perhaps it’s just as well. She has suffered enough upset.”

  “Then, you have not heard?” Angel surmised. “A German farmer and his wife were slain a few days ago near Squirrel Run. Block was his name—Helmut Block. Didn’t seem to have put up much of a struggle. It could be that they took him by surprise. They killed him quickly. Not so, his wife.”

  “I should have killed him when I had the chance. Caroline, the babe, and this—it is no wonder she haunts me.” Caught up in his raging emotions, his fury, his guilt, Sauvage had completely forgotten Sarah. Now, as he glanced up and Sarah, he felt the stab of an instant regret. She was waiting for him to explain. Her eyes were wide, her face unnaturally pale. Angel watched him just as keenly as Sarah. Sauvage could have bitten his traitorous tongue in two. He felt his face flush dark, and looked to Angel, hoping his friend would come to his aid.

  Instead, Angel rose and stretched. “If you will excuse me, I’ll just go and retrieve my belongings. As you well know, you cannot be too careful out here. The woods are filled with wolves, and not everyone has the power to charm them.” Reaching out, he clapped Sauvage’s shoulder. “I wish you more than your usual luck, my friend. I have a feeling you are going to need it.” With a sadistic chuckle, he turned and walked slowly into the shadows, leaving Sauvage to his fate.

  Sarah struck with amazing speed, giving Sauvage no time to erect a barrier of forbidding glances, or a wall of stony silence. “Who haunts you, Kingston?”

  “I should not have said what I said just now.”

  “But you did say it, and you meant it.”

  “Sarah, please.” He frowned. A lame parry, too weak a defense to fend off her curiosity.

  She gave him a troubled look, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and hesitant, shy, a clear indication that she was not accustomed to speaking of such things. “A little while ago, you would have taken my virtue, everything I have to give. Why can you not tell me the truth?”

  “Truth and love make bad bedfellows,” Kingston replied.

  Sarah concentrated on her hands, which lay in her lap. “Without truth, there can be no love, no intimacy. Only with sharing can genuine feeling grow between a man and a woman, affection flourish. Only with truth can hearts unite.”

  “The truth can be ugly,” Sauvage spat. “Cruel.”

  “Telling truths, no matter how painful, is a balm to an aching heart. It helps to unburden a troubled soul.”

  “Would that the telling of truths could make that dastardly French cur vanish so that we could be alone together,” he shot back. “I’d soon put an end to this incessant talk, and ease this fire in my loins in the bargain.”

  Sarah smiled. “Perhaps you should indulge in a dip in the creek.”

  “And leave you alone with him?” Sauvage demanded. “Never.”

  “I heard that!” Angel called from a little distance.

  “I have more to fear from your presence at this moment, than from his. Tell me what you meant before. Who haunts you?”

  “Must I say the obvious? Must I speak her name?”

  She frowned. “Caroline? But why, Kingston? What reason would her spirit have to linger? I do not understand.”

  Kingston sighed, not wanting to discuss it, fearing she would think him mad. “I should have been there that day. I should have protected them.” His chest was on fire, his lungs choked. He forced himself to breathe, great gulps of air that helped only marginally to calm him. “Perhaps she blames me,” he said. “I know for certain that she fears me.”

  “Fears you?” Sarah said. “How can you know that?”

  “From the look that comes over her face when she sees me, when I call her name. On a night, not long ago, I came upon a hunter’s cabin besieged by wolves. I knew from the moment of my arrival that a woman had sought shelter within the crumbling walls. Still, I planned to turn my back and walk away. Indeed, I started to do just that when I saw Caroline. She was standing a few yards away, holding our child, a look of wariness on her face—fear. I wanted to embrace her, to soothe her, to look upon our son’s face. A glimpse, no more—I called out to her, and she looked at me with terror on her face, then, turning, she faded
into the woods. It was that look of fear that kept me there when I would have left you to your fate.”

  “Are you certain it was Caroline you saw?” Sarah asked. “Perhaps it was some trick of the moonlight and shadows.”

  “Was the woman you saw the night of the storm a trick of the light and shadows?” he countered.

  “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “I am saying that there was no flesh-and-blood woman within miles of the camp that night, not a leaf or twig out of place.”

  “But she was standing at the edge of the forest!”

  “With the babe in her arms,” Kingston finished for her, “and the instant I emerged from the wood, she disappeared.”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “It cannot be.”

  “You wanted truth, Sarah,” Kingston said. “Now, I give it to you. You asked before how I knew where you had gone when Killbuck nearly killed you. I did not know—would never have found you in time had Caroline not led me to you.”

  She gaped at him, a look of incredulity on her face.

  “I paused by the creek’s edge as the sun was going down, purposely delaying my return because of the tension between us... and she appeared. Only this time, she did not disappear when I called out to her. Instead, she beckoned me to follow.”

  “She spoke to you?” It was Angel, who’d come to stand nearby, his saddlebags slung across his shoulder, a burlap sack on the ground near his booted feet.

  “She bade me to hurry, and then she led me directly to Sarah.”

  “What happened then?” Angel asked.

  Kingston frowned into the fire. “I dispatched Killbuck and brought Sarah back to camp.”

  Angel looked from Kingston to Sarah and back again. “You do not see it?”

  Kingston glanced up. “See what?”

  “Why, the obvious, of course,” Angel replied. “Caroline is not here to torment, mon ami, but to protect you—-from yourself. You said that she led you to Sarah, not once, but twice.”

  “You were eavesdropping?” Kingston’s look was black, and growing blacker.