Sarah had seen Autumn Woman among those gathered around the fire, but Hergus was conspicuously absent. By now, the old woman would be sleeping, unaware of all that had transpired.
Sarah broke from Angel’s grasp. “I must go back! Hergus is asleep in one of the huts near the blaze. There is no one to rouse her! I cannot leave her to perish, Angel, please!”
“Very well, but I am coming with you! If I let you out of my sight, and something happened, Sauvage would kill me—and rightly so.”
They changed their course and ran toward the blazing huts, now a brilliant orange-red against the dark backdrop of the midnight forest. By the time they reached the hut that Hergus shared with Autumn Woman, it was already aflame. Black smoke poured from under the hide flap covering the entrance.
Filled with panic, Sarah would have dashed forward had it not been for Angel, who forcibly held her back. “Are you mad? You can’t go in there! If anyone is to martyr themselves for the old crone, it will be me! Stay here, and for God’s sake, do not move from this spot!”
Throwing up an arm to protect his face, Angel bent low and started toward the burning hut when Jean came out of the dark and hit him hard with the butt of a pistol. Angel slumped to the ground and was still. Satisfied, Jean turned to Sarah.
“The old witch is not inside,” Jean said. “I came looking for her myself, thinking to put an end to the spell she has cast over my life, but it seems she has eluded me yet again. No matter, I will find her later. For now, you will do quite nicely in her stead. A pretty piece of bait for the wolf, eh? What worked once, will work again. But first, that meddling peafowl, de Angelheart.”
Sarah screamed as Jean raised the weapon for a final killing stroke, grappling for the hand that held the weapon, but seizing the broken one instead.
Jean shouted a curse, dropping the pistol and shoving Sarah hard. She stumbled and fell, her fingers brushing the cold steel of the weapon, instinctively curling around the worn walnut grip.
Trembling in every limb, she picked it up, and pointed it at Jean. She had never held a firearm in her entire life, and hadn’t the slightest inkling what to do next, but Jean could not know that. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and tried to bluff her way through. “Move away from him, or so help me, I will fire.”
Jean was very still. Frighteningly so. It would have pleased Sarah to know that he was the least bit unsettled. He wasn’t. “Pigeon,” he said. “I am shocked. You would not take my life, after all that we have been to one another?”
Sarah’s trembling increased, infecting her voice. “I won’t let you hurt Angel. Just do as I say.”
Jean braced his good hand on his hip, inclining his head slightly. He sensed her weakness, her uncertainty, and exploited it shamelessly. “Perhaps, if you ask nicely.”
“Please—” Sarah said.
“”That’s better,” Jean said, stepping over de Angelheart’s still form and slowly stalking Sarah. “Yet, it is not nearly enough.”
“Jean, please,” Sarah begged. “Do not make me do this!”
“Do what, pigeon?” A malicious laugh. ”Shoot me?”
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, and at the same time squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click, a shower of sparks, and then nothing.
“Killing me with that particular weapon would be a trick worthy of Madame Samp. That gun you hold—unlike this one—is not loaded.” He pushed back the tail of Kingston’s leather hunting shirt, which he wore along with his brother’s breechclout and leggings. In his belt was a pistol that was identical to the one Sarah still held. The blaze, now out of control, cast bloody highlights in his raven hair and filled his black eyes with a hellish light. “’Twould seem that I have the upper hand, would you not agree?”
Sarah threw the empty pistol at his head, turned, tried to run, but Jean easily caught her, looping his one good arm around her neck and pressing the muzzle of the firearm against her ear. You are such a pious little bitch,” he crooned. “Always seeking to save someone... too bad you cannot save yourself—or Sauvage. Where is he now?”
“I do not know,” Sarah said.
“And if you did, you would not tell me. No matter. I have learned one important thing about my brother. His woman is his weak spot, and the one sure way to lay him low is to kill you.” He clucked his tongue as she shuddered. “Do not be frightened, pigeon. Death is the gentlest, most beguiling of all lovers.”
“Please, let me go!”
He said nothing, just limped toward the darkened wood, dragging Sarah with him.
Sauvage touched the brand to the empty hut and when it caught, threw the torch inside. The night was alive with the enraged cries of the Huron and Ottawa and the sound of running feet. Sparks filled the air, floating leisurely up, then, settling down again upon the roofs of the vulnerable bark structures. Everywhere a spark landed, a tongue of flame would sprout.
His farewell to his enemies was complete, and it was time to leave. De Angelheart would be putting the canoe into the water by now, and Sarah would doubtless be anxious about his return.
The village was a mass of confusion. Women ran with their children to collect their belongings from the huts that were in danger of catching fire, while the warriors, in various stages of inebriation—came streaming toward him.
The one called Jacobs was the first to reach him. “La Bruin! What has happened?”
As the man halted before him, Sauvage struck a pose, leaning on his right leg and easing off his left. “The prisoner has escaped, you drunken lout, that’s what’s happened! I saw him slip away in that direction!” He thrust a finger toward the northeast, and heard the soft clink of metal against metal inside the sling.
Cat-Man Jacobs heard it, too. “You are not La Bruin!”
Sauvage’s left fist smashed into the man’s chin. Cat-Man reeled backward, landing in a heap, and did not move again. As Sauvage turned toward the river, de Angelheart staggered out of the darkness and all but fell into Sauvage’s arms.
The French trader’s yellow hair was dark with blood, and the expression on his face turned Sauvage’s blood cold in his veins. “Sarah? Where is she?”
“I lost her. She would not leave without Madame Samp, and when we got to the hut, Jean was waiting.”
Sauvage shook him hard. “Where did he take her?”
“Into the forest, away from the water.”
Sauvage was in a fever to be gone. “Get away from the village,” he said. “Cross the river and lie low for a while. I will meet you in three days time at the Shawnee towns on the Ohio. I still have friends there.”
“Good fortune,” Angel said, offering his hand.
“You, too.” Sauvage gripped it hard for an instant, then turned and melted into the black wood.
“Please, there is a stone in my moccasin. I must stop for a moment.”
“Stone, be damned!” Jean growled, forcing Sarah relentlessly along the lightless path. Leafy branches lashed her face and caught at her clothing. Twice now, she’d caught her toe on a rock and nearly fallen, but her captor paid her little heed. He just limped along as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, dragging her with him. “At least tell me where we are going.”
“Somewhere that we can have a bit of privacy, before your lover comes for you.”
“He is my husband,” Sarah gasped. “And you—you are now my brother—family.”
He halted, thrusting his face into hers. “If that is supposed to endear you to me, then it is not working. Sauvage is the source of all my difficulties, the bane of my existence, though admittedly, not for long.”
“Please,” she said. “My moccasin.”
He seemed to consider a moment, then, pushed her down onto a fallen log that blocked the path, and stood looking warily around, as if to weigh the advantages of their current position.”
To their right was the dark ribbon that was the Monongahela River, winding its way from the South through miles of trackless forest. To the left, th
e land fell away abruptly, into a shallow but rocky ravine. Theirs was a good defensive position, with plenty of cover here on the level ground, a fact which Jean seemed to recognize, for she saw him relax.
Sarah removed her moccasin and turned it upside down, emptying out the debris that had collected inside it. “A moment ago, you called Kingston the bane of your existence. What has he done to make you hate him so?”
He looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing, then, at last, he broke his brooding silence. “He stole from me,” he said. “First, my father’s affections, and then, my inheritance.”
“Your inheritance?” Sarah said. “But he owns nothing but the clothes on his back.”
Jean smiled into the darkness. “He has much, much more. In fact, he is a wealthy man—or would be, if he ever returned to Quebec, which he won’t.” He glanced at her, and then away. “My father loved my mother once, before that half-breed bitch stole his heart away. After that, everything was different. We saw him little, and my maman knew what kept him away. He did not even have the decency to keep his Indian family a secret from her. The loss of his affections made her bitter, but who could blame her? He all but deserted us, and for an Indian woman, an ignorant savage! And then, one day, he returned to Quebec for good, with Sauvage, his bastard son, in tow. He could not speak passable French, or eat at table in a civilized manner, but my father ensconced him in our house all the same, handing him all of the privileges that were mine by right of birth!”
“And for that, you hated him,” Sarah prompted.
“With all of my being,” Jean admitted. “When my father died, I was relieved. I thought it had ended. The day I had dreamed of—the day I could put Sauvage into the street and take over the trading business had arrived at last. And then, the will was read, and I learned that Sauvage got half of everything: the business, the warehouse in Quebec, the fortune. Everything except the house and the debts that my mother had accumulated. Those were mine to bear.”
“Why did you not just ask Kingston to help you?” Sarah wondered. “Surely, he would have done so had he known.”
“Ask? For what is rightly mine by birth? I am the first born! The only legitimate son!” he ground out with a thump of his fist on his chest. “And I do not ask! I take!”
“But it was not just about the fortune. You took his happiness. You took his bride, his son, his home. You wanted everything.”
“I wanted to blot him from existence! By the time the war began, the business had begun to fail, and I decided to seek my fortune elsewhere. What better way, I ask you, than to curry favor with the king? I have a flair for ruthlessness, you see, and it worked in my favor. By the time I crossed paths with Sauvage again, my star had begun to rise.” He paused, and laughed a little, fingering his ear. “I could scarcely believe my luck when I saw my brother emerge from a cabin in the woods last August. We had been lying in wait since before the dawn, and the warriors wanted to take his scalp then and there, only I purposely held them back. To give him his death was too swift a punishment. I wanted something more—something slower, and infinitely more satisfying, so that I might savor his torment. We waited until he was gone, and then, we set upon the place.”
“You raped and murdered a defenseless woman.”
Jean snorted. “Defenseless? Hardly! She fought like a mountain lion, and she left her mark upon me. Because she was Sauvage’s woman, I much enjoyed the conquest. Had she not been great with child—his child—I might have taken her back to Quebec with me after I had killed him. But the child presented a problem. He was Sauvage’s heir, and as such one more stumbling block placed in my path.”
Sarah thought about the child she carried, and felt a chill run through her. If he discovered her pregnancy, he would kill her, just to ensure his inheritance. “A stumbling block. What a cold and heartless way to view an innocent life. Do you not fear God’s wrath for what you have done?”
The face he turned toward her showed no trace of remorse. “Ah, but there’s the brilliance in my plan, don’t you see? I shall buy my absolution with your lover’s blood.”
There was a rustling in the underbrush behind them. Jean forced Sarah up and, wrapping his good arm around her throat, pressed the pistol’s muzzle to the tender spot just below her ear. Kingston stepped into the open. Sarah felt Jean stiffen.
“I can tell by the look on your face, that you do not approve of my transformation,” he said to Jean, taking a step closer, then another. “The likeness is remarkable, don’t you agree? Close enough that we could pass for, say—” he spread his hands wide “—brothers?” His smile faded. He inclined his dark head toward Sarah. “You have what you want, Jean. I am here, and more than willing to settle this business between us. Let her go.”
“I am not finished with her just yet,” Jean said, nuzzling Sarah’s cheek. “She makes a pretty shield, Sauvage. Granted, not as pretty as your first wife, but infinitely more tender, more vulnerable, I think. And you know how I love vulnerability. There is something about a vulnerable woman that calls out to the beast in me.”
He laughed darkly, and Sarah shivered. “Kingston, please. Go. Save yourself, while you still can!”
“Such selflessness,” Jean said. “It makes me green with envy. I fear that she has yet to warm toward me. But then, we have only just begun to get acquainted, isn’t that so, pigeon?”
He was taunting Kingston, and his taunts succeeded. Seeing Jean nuzzle her cheek and speak so suggestively to her pushed him precariously close to the edge of his self-restraint. Sarah could see it in his face, yet she was helpless to stop it, helpless to do anything but mouth a silent prayer for a miracle, and hope that God was listening.
You want her back, do you?” Jean questioned. “I shall think about that, but first humor me, and lay down your weapons.”
Kingston slipped the war hatchet from his belt and tossed it aside, holding his hands out to his side. “It is all I have. Release her.”
Sarah’s stomach clenched as she felt the cold steel of the weapon leave her throat, and saw it swing slowly toward Kingston. “How very odd this is,” Jean murmured, “to destroy one’s own reflection.” He cocked the piece, his finger tightening on the trigger, and at the same instant something pale moved inland from the river’s edge, flanked by three shapes of ghostly gray slipping noiselessly, menacingly through the trees.
“Caroline!” Sarah cried, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The spirit seemed not to hear her; instead she stopped at the tree line, glaring at Jean with eyes of pale blue fire. A wind whipped up out of nowhere, sounding eerily like the inconsolable wail of a newborn infant. Sarah’s flesh prickled alarmingly. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jean turn his head a stare with dawning horror at the apparition. “You are dead, damn you! Leave me! Go back to hell where you belong!”
The wail grew louder, rising in pitch. Jean tried once more to focus on Kingston, who snapped a command just as Jean pulled the trigger.
The wolves leapt, pushing Sarah aside, knocking Jean to the ground.
Sarah screamed, covering her ears in an effort to block out the howl of the wind, the snarls of the wolves, and Jean’s horrified gurgling cries as they tore out his throat.
In an instant, it was over. The wolves left Jean’s lifeless body, slipping back into the trees where they lingered. Then, Kingston was there, lifting Sarah, cradling her close, lending her his warmth, his strength.
Shouts and the sound of running feet were coming from the direction of the village. Kingston glanced at the path, frowning. “We must go, before they come and find us.”
“What about Jean?” Sarah said, glancing back over Kingston’s shoulder. Jean lay very still, his handsome face as pale in death as that of Caroline. “He was your brother. Must we leave him like this?”
“There is no time to do otherwise,” he said. “Besides, they will find him and do right by him. To the Huron, he is a hero.”
He started toward the darkened wood, but the wind rose ag
ain, enough to ruffle the hair at his face, to carry the soft, sighing voice clearly to Sarah’s ears. Sauvage, wait....
He went deathly still at the sound, and with Sarah clasped tightly to him, turned one final time to face his painful past.
A few feet away, Caroline stood, a shimmering, ethereal figure that was already beginning to waver and fade. Come close and look... look into the eyes of your son....
Hesitantly, he approached her, his breath catching in his throat as Caroline pushed the blanket aside to reveal the tiny face, the very image of Kingston’s, so ghostly pale.
The small lids fluttered up, and the spirit child stared up at him for the space of a heartbeat. Sarah saw tears well up in Kingston’s dark eyes, cascading unchecked down his lean cheeks, and felt her heart squeeze painfully in her breast. Then, as he reached out. Both mother and child faded away.
Sarah kissed his tear-ravaged face. She knew, as he did, that Caroline Sauvage, Kingston’s protector and her very own guardian angel, would not be coming back. Her task on earth had been fulfilled; her restless soul had at last found peace.
In time, Kingston’s heart would heal. Sarah would see to it. And in Kingston Sauvage, she, Sarah Van Alt Marsters Sauvage, timid mouse of a woman, had found her courage, her strength... her destiny.
Epilogue
The Shining City, on the Muskingum River
June 1758
The full moon was riding the treetops when Sarah Sauvage emerged from the cabin at the edge of the Shining City, her husband, Kingston, strolling slowly, purposefully, by her side. Since the birth of their daughter, Caroline Angelica, several weeks before, they had been the subject of much speculation among the residents of the Moravian settlement, for a host of most unwelcome visitors had arrived the night before the birth and, oddly enough, seemed wont to stay.
Even now, Sarah could see them, lying quietly among the great rocks near the banks of the river, their tawny fur silvered by the light of the summer moon. It was unnerving to have great mountain cats, creatures that were normally reticent to mingle with mankind, so close at hand. The planting of the new fields had been undertaken with a prayer on the lips of the workers, and the children had been banned from playing out of doors for fear that they would be carried off by the catamounts. Sarah had heard talk at service, and shared in the general sense of unease.
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