Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  Sauvage’s gaze was locked on Sarah’s. “Actually, Father. There is one thing. Will you marry us?”

  “My son?”

  “I wish to wed this woman. That is, if she is willing.”

  Sarah tried very hard to answer, but the affirmation came out as an unintelligible squeak, and so she nodded vigorously.

  “Do you consent, Mademoiselle?”

  “It’s Madame, Father,” she whispered, when at last she found her voice. “Oh, yes, I am most willing.”

  “Willing to do what?” Angel said from the doorway.

  Sauvage sighed. “Why don’t we just invite the entire village to our wedding? We would not want anyone to feel left out.”

  “They are a surly lot,” Angel said. “If I were you, I would exclude them—especially in lieu of the reception that they have given you—-but no matter.” He took Sarah’s hand and immediately brightened. “Might I say that I am exceedingly glad you have come to your senses? Do proceed. I shall be most happy to give the bride away.”

  Angel presented his arm to Sarah. “Are you certain you can tolerate his tempers? He is quite the bear at times.” He paused and flushed. “My apologies. Poor choice of words.”

  “May we continue?” Sauvage said irritably. “I do so hate to disturb your fun, but my time is somewhat limited.”

  Standing on tiptoes, Sarah bussed Angel’s cheek, then, hastened to take Sauvage’s outstretched hand, coming to kneel closely by his side. Within moments, the ceremony was concluded, and Sarah was White Wolf’s woman in truth.

  Father Tu took his leave, but when Angel made to follow, Sauvage called him back. “I do not know how you managed it, but I thank you, for everything. He offered Angel his hand, and Angel grasped it. “You have been a good friend, and I will rest easier knowing that Sarah will have you to depend on. She is going to need someone strong in the coming months.”

  “Someone like you,” Angel replied. “Really, Sauvage. It isn’t like you to give up so easily. You are making me nervous.”

  “I haven’t given up.” Sauvage’s black gaze slid to Sarah. “But it seems likely that the Hurons and Jean will have their way on the morrow, and if that happens, I want her far away from here, beyond Jean’s reach.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I will not leave this place without you. You are my husband. My place is by your side.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am your husband, and for that reason, you will respect my wishes and go with Angel to the Muskingum, where you will wait for me.”

  Angel bowed lightly. “I quite suddenly feel the need for some air, so if you will pardon me, I will be going.” Without further adieu, he made his exit, leaving Sarah alone with Sauvage.

  He sat frowning at her, obviously bent upon her leaving; she was just as determined to stay. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I no longer wish to go to the Muskingum. God’s word says that a wife’s place is by her husband’s side, to love and—”

  “And to obey.”

  “It is unfair of you to use that against me!”

  He stretched out his hand, fingers reaching. “Come here to me, my stubborn wife. I cannot come to you.”

  Sarah gave him her hand. He pulled her down beside him with a rattle of chain and took her face in his hands. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, intently. “I know. I know that you are with child—my child—and that changes everything.”

  “But how can you know? I did not know myself until recently.”

  “How does not matter, Sarah. What matters is that you are carrying a new life inside of you, and you must do everything in your power to protect it. That means that you must leave this place. Now, my love, tonight.”

  “Kingston, please!” she said, softly, tearfully. “Do not ask this of me. I cannot bear it. I will do anything—anything—just do not send me away.”

  He kissed her lips and leaned his brow against hers, and his voice was low and taut with emotion. “Sarah... my angel, my bride... giver of life. Do you know what you have done for me?”

  She shook her head, her tears flowing freely now, wetting his cheeks as well as hers.

  “Not long ago I was dead to the world, a hard and empty shell, a shadow of a man, existing for the pain and suffering I brought. And then I found you, and you breathed life into my body, persuading my heart to go on beating when I was convinced that it was forever broken.”

  “I only loved you,” Sarah sobbed. “I love you still.”

  “You dared to love me,” he countered. “You alone were brave enough to see beyond the rumors to the wounds that lay within, and attempt to heal them. You gave me back my life, and something more, a small piece of immortality that all men hope for, and only women can give. In cherishing it, you cherish the love we have shared. Can you understand how much that means to me—why I do not want the babe—our daughter or son—born to the violent world in which I have lived? Mouse, I beg of you. Let it be born in a place of peace, a place of love, instead of hatred and death.”

  Sarah threw her arms around his neck, burying her damp face in his hair. She knew the wisdom in his words, yet could not bear the thought of leaving him to face his final hours alone. “Let us speak no more of this tonight. I cannot face the thought of losing you.”

  Sauvage stroked her hair, murmuring soft endearments against her tumbled tresses. He did not try to stem her weeping; she wept for both of them, for though his heart was aching, and his throat painfully tight, his eyes were dry.

  Instead, he held her tightly, cradling her on his lap, until her sobs had ceased. Gently then, he brushed back her hair and kissed her salty cheeks, her small red nose, her lips. “Sarah, my love, my dearest heart, give your love to me.”

  She kissed him then, with all the fire, all the passion and poignancy that he remembered from those brief golden days at Angel’s cabin. He wore only his breechclout and leggings. His torso was bare to her questing touch. She ran her hands over his shoulders, soothing the bruises from the gauntlet with gentle fingers, massaging the aches and stiffness from his muscles so that he groaned beneath her attentions and, straining up to meet her, took her mouth again.

  With one hand chained, he was severely restrained. Not that it mattered. Sarah aroused him fully, and then, just when he felt he could stand no more, she removed his loin cloth and straddled his hips, taking him deep inside her. The heat of her woman’s body was a balm and a terrible torment. Her movements were teasing and slow.

  Seated with his back against the wall, Sauvage had little control over their lovemaking. Sarah had it all. He could only hold her in the circle of one arm—his chained hand clenched in a fist—kissing her throat, catching her full lower lip in his teeth while the fires she was banking in his blood burst full and hot upon his senses.

  Slowly, leisurely, as if she would hold him inside her forever, a prisoner of love and desire, a true slave of the heart, she prolonged the sexual encounter. Sauvage felt his body quicken and thought he would surely cheat the Huron of their spectacle on the morrow, having succumbed to his wife’s own brand of torture tonight.

  His release was slow in coming. The pressure mounted by degrees, so deliciously sweet, but difficult to bear in silence. His blood pounded in his veins. He could feel it in his temples, hear the thunder of his heart in his ears, and then, as she moaned and collapsed against him, it burst bright and full upon him, a few glittering seconds in a night devoid of hope.

  It was over, and Sarah was reluctant to leave him, yet not half as reluctant as Sauvage was to see her go. She sat, curled on his lap like a child, her face hidden in the curve of his throat, while Sauvage watched the light pouring through the smoke hole in the ceiling shift and change and grow dim.

  Darkness was falling. The celebration over his capture had already commenced. The steady throb of the drums and the dancing mirrored the throb of his heart, but his mind was full of Sarah.

  If he forced her to go, it would end here in this mist-shrouded river valley. He would never see her again
in this lifetime. Yet, what other choice was there? He could not go to his death knowing that she would bear witness to his suffering. And if he fought, his end would only be hastened.

  Scowling, he tightened the arm that was shackled to the wall, testing his bonds. The chain clanked, rousing Sarah from her silence. “I cannot break iron,” he said when her questioning gaze met his. “And the support is far too strong to sever without a hatchet.”

  “A hatchet, or a knife,” she said.

  “Angel might have a knife secreted somewhere on his person.”

  “Angel does not have a knife,” Sarah said, scrambling up. “But I do.” As he watched, she fumbled with the ties that secured her leggings, stripping the left one down to reveal her plump white thigh, dimpled knee and the bone hilt of the weapon bound securely to her calf with a strip of dun-colored cloth. At his questioning look, she shrugged. “Hergus gave it to me so that I could protect myself from Jean.” She gave him the weapon.

  Kingston immediately turned and began prying at the irons, but succeeded only in breaking the tip of the knife. Next, he went to work on the support itself, shaving a short length of the wood as his thoughts leapt ahead. If the blade of the knife held up to the task of whittling the post down to a manageable size, he might be able to free himself. But how would he get clear of the encampment? The ranks of the French-allied Indians had swollen to almost two hundred, and most of those were able-bodied fighting men. He could not hope to fight them all and win, armed only with a knife with a broken blade and accompanied by a woman.

  A frontal assault would be futile, tantamount to suicide. If he was to survive this night, he would have to come up with some scheme, some sort of trickery, but what?

  How could he hope to fool two hundred Indians into giving him his freedom? Most especially with La Bruin there to incite them? “Jean,” Sauvage murmured. “But of course, that is the only solution. Why did I not think of it before?”

  He had paused in his work with the knife-—now, he turned to Sarah, who watched him with troubled eyes. “Find Angel and tell him I have need of his assistance.”

  “What are you thinking? And what does it have to do with Jean?”

  “Jean took my life from me,” he said softly. “Now, he is going to give it back. This is what I want you to do....”

  Sarah found Jean in his hut, preparing for the celebration. Easing his broken arm into a black sling, he glanced up and smiled, surprised to find Sarah standing in the doorway. “Ah, pigeon, it’s you. Have you grown bored with Sauvage’s company so soon?”

  “I have come on Kingston’s behalf,” Sarah said. “He has made his peace with God; now he wishes to make his peace with you, so that he can face the dawn with a pure spirit.”

  “Sauvage! A pure spirit!” Jean laughed outright at that. Sarah refrained from joining in.

  She stood very still, hoping that God would forgive her lies. “We have spent the last hour praying together. Kingston is a changed man. His hatred is gone. In its place is acceptance, forgiveness. His fondest wish is to see you, his only kin, one more time. Will you come, Jean? Please?”

  Jean came slowly forward, gripping her small chin in his large hand. As his warmth assailed her, she knew a moment of sheer panic, and only the knowledge that Kingston’s life depended on her performance kept her from crumbling in the face of her fears. “Of course, I will come,” he replied, grazing her mouth with a lazy kiss. “Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see the mighty Sauvage brought to his knees.”

  Sarah backed away, ducking through the doorway and into the night ahead of Jean. Glancing at the darkened woods, she nodded once, watching as Angel returned the signal, then melted back into the shadows.

  “Did you see that?” Jean asked, stepping up behind her.

  Sarah’s heart lurched against her ribs. “See what?”

  “A shooting star just streaked across the heavens, racing through Ursa Major, the Great Bear. It is a sign that my fortunes are rising.”

  Or falling, Sarah thought.

  They reached the hut where Kingston waited. Sarah entered first. He sat with his back against the wall, his manacled wrist held slightly behind his body, just as he’d been before she left him, and she knew an instant of pure panic before she caught his warning look and calmed.

  Jean seemed not to notice. He strode forward, his posture arrogant as always. “I am told that you are suddenly repentant, a changed man. I have come to see this transformation for myself.”

  “Your visit is timely, then,” Kingston said. “For the true change has yet to take place.”

  From somewhere outside came the lonely cry of a wolf calling to its mate, and within seconds the mate replied in kind. Jean seemed vastly amused. “Changing to the great white wolf, are you? I am surprised, brother. Surely, you yourself do not believe the wild tales that circulate about your uncanny abilities?”

  Kingston’s dark eyes glittered. “It was not precisely a wolf, but something more useful I had in mind,” he said, then leapt, wrapping the length of chain linked to the manacle he still wore around Jean’s throat, while his half brother croaked and clawed at the chain and the strong hands that held him. “I thought perhaps I would become you, instead.”

  A twist of the chain, and the contest was over. Jean went limp in Kingston’s grasp. He lay him down and looked to Sarah.

  She swallowed hard. “Is he? Is he dead?”

  He is breathing yet, much to my regret.” Working quickly, Sauvage stripped away the black silk doublet, linen shirt, satin breeches and boots from his brother’s body, leaving only his small clothes to cover his nakedness. “Where is Angel?”

  “I am here,” Angel said. “My, don’t you look wondrous fine! Every inch the gentleman—except for the iron at your wrist. It’s a bit telling, don’t you think?”

  Sauvage shot his friend a glare as he knotted the neck cloth at his throat and slipped into Jean’s doublet. “I’ll take care of that in a moment. Sarah, my love, hand me the knife.”

  She retrieved the knife from her shirt and handed it to him. “What are you going to do?”

  “A few finishing touches.” He gathered his hair at his nape and, holding it secure with one hand, whacked it off with the other, casting the long strands aside. Next, he removed the sling from Jean’s arm and put it on, concealing the manacle within the black silk folds. With a shake of his head, he drew himself up and stood looking haughtily down at them.

  “I think it is his left wrist that is broken, and your right that you must hide,” Angel told him. “Other than that, it seems a fitting disguise, but who am I to judge? Why not ask your wife?”

  Sarah stared at Kingston, mesmerized. Dressed in the trappings of a gentleman, with his raven hair swinging loose about his shoulders, the resemblance was uncanny. “Chilling. Had I not seen the transformation take place, I would be hard pressed to believe it is really you.”

  “Then, we are ready.” He strode to Sarah, taking her by the shoulders for a quick, savage kiss. Then, just as quickly, he released her. “Go with de Angelheart. I will meet you at the river. Angel, did you sabotage the canoes?”

  Angel grinned. “All save one.”

  “Then, get you gone,” Sauvage commanded. “I’ll join you in a moment. There is something else to which I must attend before I leave this place.”

  Chapter 17

  “Remember to look aggrieved, Madame,” Kingston said. “You are leaving your husband to face certain death alone, so lean on Angel’s arm and let your tears flow if you can.”

  Sarah nodded, glancing back at Kingston. He lounged in the doorway of the hut for a moment, a sinister figure in his finery, then, as she watched, he swaggered into the darkness.

  Sarah forced her gaze away, trying for the tears Kingston had mentioned, but she was too nervous, too fearful for his safety to cry. The tears would come later, she was certain, when the three of them climbed into the waiting canoe and slipped silently into the dark river, putting the village, the Fren
ch fort, the danger of recapture, and Jean Baer behind them.

  “Too bad we cannot linger to join in the fun,” Angel quipped drily. “The brandy flows like water. Doubtless they will be too drunk come the dawn to realize it is La Bruin they are roasting, instead of Sauvage.”

  “You should not joke about such things, Renoir,” Sarah chastened. “Not even Jean deserves such a terrible fate.”

  Angel just chuckled. “Ah, but violence begets violence, my dear. And Jean has earned a violent end.”

  “He is so like Kingston,” Sarah said. “It is hard for me to believe that he is completely lacking compassion.”

  Angel’s mouth was set in an ironic twist. “Sauvage is right, you know. You see good in everyone.”

  “It is as God intended,” Sarah told him.

  Angel sighed. “Let us hope that God intends for us to get out of this place before some drunken warrior decides to visit the condemned man and raises a hue and cry.”

  They were skirting the edge of the crowd, which filled the middle ground to overflowing. In the very center, around the blackened upright post at a distance of about six feet, a ring of kindling had been carefully laid in preparation for the coming dawn. Around the ring, the dancers wove their way, hatchets and war clubs raised, their wild cries shivering down the night.

  They had every intention of binding her husband, her heart, to that blackened stake when the sky began to lighten, and bringing him to a slow and agonizing end.

  Sarah shuddered, turning toward the dark ribbon that was the river. Perhaps he had finished his task, and was waiting. But the riverbank was empty and silent.

  Her heart sank. “Where can he be?”

  “Making mischief,” Angel said. “A little something for the Huron to remember him by. Look.” He pointed toward the eastern perimeter of the encampment where a dim, rosy glow lit up the night sky.

  As Sarah watched, another of the structures blossomed bright, precariously close to the home of Autumn Woman, and her slave, Hergus Samp.