Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  Sarah stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe for fear she would further provoke his anger. A second passed, then two, and he calmed slightly. “What matter does it make to you if I limp? Do you think that makes me weak? If you do, then you are wrong. I am still strong. Still as great a warrior as I was before I happened onto the old witch’s lair!”

  “A witch?” Sarah said softly. “I don’t understand.”

  “That woman, Samp. The one who shot me. She used her piddling powers to put a curse upon the ball that struck me so the wound would not heal, but I will show her. I will show them all! No one bests La Bruin. No one. The blood of French nobility runs through these veins!”

  Sarah strove hard to maintain an outward calm, pliant in his grasp since she sensed he fed off of fear. “I have knowledge of wounds. If you like, I could look at it for you.”

  The light of suspicion flared in Jean’s dark eyes. “You are a captive, a prisoner, Sauvage’s woman. What possible reason would you have to do such a thing?”

  “I abhor suffering in all of God’s creatures, great and small, even—” Sarah paused to catch her breath. “Even in mine enemies.”

  Her words seemed to confuse him. “You think to soften me with kindness,” he said. “To tame the beast with gentleness, but your efforts are wasted on one such as me. I assure you that I am not Sauvage. Indeed, I am nothing like him, as you shall soon see.” The night outside the hut throbbed with the steady beat of the drums, the haunting singsong chant of the war dance, and a strange, almost frenetic excitement.

  The atmosphere inside the hut throbbed as well, but with the black intensity of Jean Baer’s presence. “There is nothing soft about me,” he assured her.

  Fear welled up inside Sarah, but she fought it down. “You do not frighten me,” she said.

  With a muttered imprecation, he jerked her against him and lowered his head to take her lips. Yet as he started to close the little distance between them, her features wavered and seemed to melt. Changing, transforming magically into features more finely etched, more exotically pale, and more strikingly beautiful. Her brown hair magically lightened to a pure flaxen hue, her deep blue eyes suddenly icy and pale.

  Jean blinked, trying to clear his vision, cursing beneath his breath... but the image of Caroline Sauvage come back to life remained fixedly in place.

  As abruptly as he’d jerked her close, he thrust her from him. “If you have any instincts for self preservation, you will stay the hell out of my way!”

  Turning once more to the trunk, he rooted through the contents, extracting a fine linen shirt and snow-white neck cloth, black brocade breeches and boots. Sarah had resumed her seat by the wall, and sat, watching him intently.

  When he reached for the belt that closed his hunting shirt and she saw what he intended, she turned a becoming shade of pink and averted her gaze. Seemingly, she remained unafraid, a fact that continued to rankle Jean. “What will happen now?” she asked.

  Jean, carefully drawing his black brocade breeches over his bandaged thigh, gave her a contemptuous look. “Now, we drink and dance and celebrate the latest victory over the English hordes that seek to steal all of New France.”

  She accepted this information calmly, and he could not resist an attempt to goad her from her seemingly constant state of serenity. “Perhaps,” he said, “we will burn an English captive to appease the ferocity of our Ottawa brothers.”

  She shuddered visibly, and Jean laughed. “At last, I have wrung a reaction from the delicate flower who, if all accounts are true, has captured my infamous brother’s murderous heart.”

  Sarah sought the perception of calm she’d managed to maintain until he spoke of burning a captive, but it was hard to grasp a second time. Her fear seemed to please Jean greatly. He limped to where she sat and, bending down, tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “They provide a fine entertainment, I assure you. But you need not take my word for it when you can view it for yourself. Tonight, pigeon, you will accompany me, to sit by my side at the fire.”

  Staring up at him, Sarah swallowed hard. He was bending over her, his sable hair, which had been neatly clubbed at his nape with a wide black ribbon earlier that day, now swung loosed about his shoulders... shoulders that were bare, and broad, and as deeply tanned as his lean face.

  He was a presence, there was no denying, a dark cloud come thundering into her life, Kingston’s sinister half, so like the man she loved with all of her being, yet so terrifyingly different. His touch electrified her, yet it was not welcome, not pleasant, but chilling. She shuddered again, uncontrollably, and she could tell that he gloried in her reaction to him.

  “I had another of Sauvage’s women in my power once,” he said in a silken voice, “not so very long ago. We got on famously before she succumbed to my lethal charm.”

  “You murdered her,” Sarah found herself saying, incensed that he could speak so mockingly of Caroline.

  “Murder is such a harsh term,” Jean said with a flash of white teeth. “I prefer to think of it as freeing her from my brother’s cumbersome presence. A moment of foolishness in speaking her wedding vows had consigned her to a life of mediocrity, a moment she began to regret the instant I strode into her dooryard and into her life.” His black eyes glinted devilishly. “She preferred me to him, you know. As a matter of fact, she begged me to take her, and when I did, she cried out my name, not his. Because I am the better man. More virile, more experienced, more exciting than Sauvage could ever be. Do you not agree?”

  Sarah tried to push away from the black menace that was Jean, but there was no escaping him. “Please, just leave me.”

  “Leave you?” he said, lifting his black brows. “Come pigeon. Do not be coy. I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the leap of your heart.” He traced a finger down her jugular vein. “I excite you, and before this night is over, you will scream my name as well. Alas, you will need to be patient a little while longer, content to share me with the Ottawa.”

  With a flick of his strong hands, he tied the neck cloth and slipped into the doublet, leaving his glossy mane to swing loose about his shoulders. Then, he reached out and grasped Sarah’s hand, dragging her relentlessly up. “Come, my fearless heart. The reception awaits.”

  Chapter 15

  Jean led Sarah through the drunken melee, gripping her hand so tightly that she feared the slightest show of resistance would snap her bones. They wove their way through the throng, past two warriors quarreling over a flintlock pistol, past several others who lay unconscious on the ground, while their comrades stepped over and on them in their eagerness to reach the keg of brandy.

  In the center of the village was an open circle of ground devoid of grass and pounded smooth and hard by the treading of many moccasined feet. There, beside a blackened post set into the ground, Jean pulled Sarah to a halt. “Hear me, my brothers! This is White Wolf’s Woman! The consort of your greatest enemy! The evil one who has thinned your ranks and sent the Chippewa scurrying back to their lodges! And now—” he grasped Sarah’s braid, bringing her painfully up against him— “she belongs to me! Tonight, I have White Wolf’s Woman! But soon I will have White Wolf, to burn in the Ottawa and Huron fires!”

  Drunken cries rang out. Sarah’s skin crawled with cold dread. A warrior raced past, pausing just long enough to brandish a tomahawk before their eyes, then, with a savage cry, he dashed off again. The process was repeated again and again, each warrior seeming more enraged, less restrained than the last. One man, more drunken than the rest, let loose with a hideous yell and brought his hatchet arching down toward her.

  Sarah nearly swooned as Jean deftly caught the man’s wrist—the blade of the weapon so close that when she swayed on her feet, she felt the cold kiss of metal against her brow.

  Jean thrust the man roughly from him. “Drunken fool! White Wolf will sell his soul in exchange for her freedom! Kill her, and not only will he go free, he will slaughter you to a man.”

  The man who’d threa
tened Sarah, jerked his hand away and made another feint at Sarah with the weapon. Sarah shrank back against Jean’s solid warmth, but he offered little comfort.

  Her reaction seemed to amuse him. “You find yourself caught between the devil and his imps, eh pigeon? And since the imps are so without restraint, the devil is suddenly more palatable.”

  Staring up into his dark, demonic visage, Sarah sought a calm that eluded her. “Are you really so twisted as you wish for me to believe? What can you possibly gain by harming women and children, except for everlasting fire?”

  “Power and prestige,” he answered. “A name that is more widely recognized, and more greatly feared than that of Sauvage.”

  “You seek to surpass him in all things,” Sarah said.

  “I seek to destroy him!”

  Sarah raised her chin. “What has he done to you that makes you hate him so intensely?”

  “He exists,” he said simply. “Now come. Scares-The-World expects me. I am to be his honored guest this evening, and you will accompany me.”

  He made his way to a long bark hut, much larger than his own small dwelling. Outside the hut sat a distinguished-looking man of middle years. Unlike the young men Sarah had seen, his hair was unshorn, falling over the scarlet stroud he wore. A necklace of gleaming, black-tipped bear claws covered his breast, and in his hand was a silver chalice filled with brandy.

  Jean bowed to him and the older man bade them sit, offering the chalice. Jean passed the liquor beneath his nose, grunting appreciatively, tipped it up and drank. Then, the older man passed it to Sarah with a murmur. “He says you are to drink to the health of the Huron’s French father, King Louis,” Jean said.

  The brandy fumes wafted up, stealing Sarah’s breath. She pushed it away. “I cannot.”

  “Scares-The-World says drink, and you will drink.” He pressed the chalice to Sarah’s lips, forcing the brandy upon her. She gulped and nearly strangled on the strong drink. Then, pushing it aside, she quietly vomited into the weeds.

  Jean snorted. “Good brandy is wasted on women, and apparently English women are no exception.”

  The hours dragged slowly by, the stuff of Sarah’s worst nightmares. Jean continued to drink. He laughed and talked with the chief in an animated fashion, bragging of his exploits while Sarah stared into the flickering firelight and turned her thoughts inward, to Kingston.

  She tried to picture him as he had been that night at the cabin, the first night they had come together, his beloved face taut with need, his black eyes alight with an inner fire. The image conjured up a dreamy sort of calm that shattered the instant Jean lay his hand upon her thigh and, leaning close, nuzzled her ear. Sarah felt the graze of his teeth against her sensitive lobe. Panic surged up inside her, closing icy fingers around her heart. “Our time has come, pigeon.”

  Sarah tried to push him away, but he was too strong, too intent upon his purpose. “Jean, please. Do not.”

  Unmoved by her pleas, Jean lurched to his feet, pulling her up. Sarah looked frantically to Scares-The-World, who watched with heavy-lidded eyes. “Do you think that he will help you? To him, you are nothing but chattel! A pawn to be used up and then discarded. A pretty piece of bait to lure the wolf, and lure him you will, though it will be too late for you once he shows his face.”

  “He will not come. He will not walk into a trap!”

  Jean stroked the heavy plait that hung down Sarah’s back. “You vastly underestimate your charms, pigeon. You set my blood to boiling, and I am as cold and emotionless as a stone compared to Sauvage.” He smiled, his expression suddenly thoughtful. “I wonder how responsive you will be when I lay you down, hmmm? Will you kick and bite and scream? Mon Dieu, I hope so,” he said, kissing her savagely while Sarah struggled.

  She turned and twisted, wriggling in his unrelenting grasp, then finally, out of sheer desperation, she kicked the shin of his injured leg.

  “English bitch!” he roared, doubling over and clutching his thigh.

  Sarah broke free, bolting for the darkened forest. If only she could lose herself in the inky depths, he might grow tired of searching and simply let her go. She was unprepared—weaponless and without provisions, but she did not care. She would far rather face a slow starvation or fall victim to the elements than to surrender herself to the fate that she would suffer at Jean’s hands if she remained here. She would find a place to hide until she deemed it safe to travel, and then strike out for the East and hope that Kingston would find her. It was her only chance.

  Her breath caught in her throat, Sarah ran like a frightened deer toward the black wood and safety. She felt the coolness of the leaves brush her fingertips, heard Jean’s limping stride behind her, his ground-out curse. Then he hooked an arm around her waist, dragging her relentlessly back and around to face him. “Eager to leave so soon, pigeon?”

  “Please, let me go!”

  “Ah, but I will, dear heart. The moment I am through with you.” He dragged her back to the hut and shoved her roughly through the door with so much force that Sarah sprawled on the bed of furs. She hit the soft surface and terrified, scrambled up, but Jean was faster. He pushed her back and fell upon her, tearing at the belt that closed her shirt, her soft breechclout.

  Sarah tried to push him off, but he was too large, too strong, too determined to have his way with her. As his hand slid along the bare skin of her hip, Sarah felt frantically under the furs for the knife that Hergus had given her. At the same instant, a chillingly familiar sound came from outside, filtering through the thin bark walls of Jean’s hut. The lonely cry of a hunting wolf pierced the night, a wolf calling to its mate and, hot upon its completion, the noise of a great commotion—pounding feet and shouting voices.

  Sarah stilled, her fingers curled around the bone hilt of the weapon still hidden in the furs. The night was nearly spent. The circle of sky visible through the smoke hole overhead was growing gradually lighter, a soft gray, instead of black.

  “La Bruin!”

  Jean cursed, rolling off Sarah, throwing back the hide flap. “What is it?”

  “An envoy comes,” Cat-Man Jacobs said.

  “What envoy?”

  “De Angelheart. He is here to ransom the woman.”

  Jean was elated. “I know the rogue to whom you refer, and his powers of persuasion are not to be discounted. Where is he now, de Angelheart?”

  “Waiting for the council to gather.” Cat-Man replied. “It is a bad time to receive him. Many are sick from drink.”

  “Rouse them!” Jean said harshly. “Spread the word that their enemy is close at hand, and unless they wish to be caught off guard, they will come to council, now.”

  As Cat-Man hurried off, Jean turned to Sarah. “It would seem that my plan to bring Sauvage out into the open has met with success... a success which I owe to you, pigeon.” He stalked Sarah, not stopping until her back was pressed against the wall. Reaching out, he ran his knuckles down her cheek. “You bring me luck, I think.”

  “Good will always triumph over evil,” Sarah said. “If you go up against Kingston, he will kill you.”

  “I have something he wants in my power, and that power is absolute.” His hand came down, his fingers curling around her upper arm, his fingers digging like talons into her soft flesh. “You should thank me, pigeon. How many women get to see the depths to which their lovers will go in order to spare their lives? Before this day is through, you will have no doubt as to just how much Sauvage loves you.”

  In the center of the village, near the blackened post, a group of armed warriors stood, flanking de Angelheart’s familiar figure. A hush fell over the crowd as Jean pushed his way through their midst, holding tight to Sarah’s wrist.

  Everyone was waiting, their sullen gazes resting on de Angelheart. “This is the woman to whom I refer. It is for her freedom that I wish to negotiate, but first, I bring presents for Scares-The-World and his lieutenants, revered warriors all.”

  Angel made to open the leather pouch he he
ld, but Jean tore it from his grasp and threw it aside. “You think to bribe the mighty Huron and their Ottawa allies with your paltry offerings? This is what we think of your trifling presents!” Jean turned his head and spat. “Go back to Sauvage and tell him that his ploy has failed. You cannot buy the English captive’s freedom with cheap trinkets, nor sway the Huron hearts with your putrid lies!”

  Scares-The-World spoke slowly, seeming to weigh each word carefully before it passed his lips. “Let us see the gifts he brings.”

  As Angel retrieved the bag, Sarah felt Jean stiffen. “A fine Saracen blade for Scares-The-World,” Angel was saying. He produced a silver dagger and handed it to the chief, hilt first.

  Scares-The-World turned the blade in his hand. The rubies that encrusted the hilt caught the morning light, winking maliciously. The chief’s stony expression never changed, yet Sarah knew that he was greatly pleased. He nodded once in thanks, then, sat, attentive, as Angel finished presenting his gifts to the others. Sarah sensed the subtle shifting of loyalties. Angel now had their collective attention.

  Jean seemed to sense it, too, for his scowl grew increasingly blacker, and his fingers bit into Sarah’s arm.

  “I have come on behalf of your most revered enemy,” Angel proclaimed. “Kingston Sauvage, the warrior who has claimed the lives of your sons, your husbands, and brothers to pay for the murder of his wife and his son at the hands of this man.”

  Angel turned a chilly gaze upon Jean, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Sarah felt the tension mount, felt herself leaning forward, barely breathing for fear she might miss a single word. “He calls himself La Bruin, the bear, but he does not have the spirit of a bear. The bear is mighty, strong, the most feared creature in the forest. Jean Baer is a coward, a raper of women and killer of innocent children, a dog gone mad with jealousy and greed!”

  With a ground-out curse, Jean started forward, but Scares-The-World stopped him with a look. “This man is my honored guest. Our brother, La Bruin will let him speak.”