by Karen Kay
Only she could make sense of these things he had heard and seen tonight. He would await her no longer, but rather he would seek her out in her own lair.
Toward this end he crept to her room in the castle, where he waited and waited and waited.
But alas, the princess never returned to her room. Not to sleep, not to eat, not even to dress for her own wedding.
Chapter 12
How fortunate for me our paths converged,
That when we met our separate futures merged!
Excerpted from a poem by David Ziff
“Sonnets to a Soul Mate”
And so it had been.
High Wolf had stayed in the castle, had roamed the corridors looking for the princess, only to arrive at her room having accomplished nothing. Deciding he might have missed seeing her, he vowed to keep to her room, abandoning it for no more than fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty, at a time.
All through the night, he had endured the tiredness of his body, as well as an urgency within his soul that demanded he find the princess…now. Still, he had waited, stalking the halls, the nooks and crannies of the castle.
The dreary hours of the “darkness that descends before dawn” came and went, surrendering to the steel gray sky of morning. Nonetheless, he held fast to his own counsel. In his heart, he knew that his friends would not betray him.
But when daybreak unfolded and the princess had yet to return, High Wolf knew the anxiety in his heart to be real. Should he continue to scour the castle for her?
Deciding this was his only option, he once more left her room. That was when he heard the music from the chapel, and slowly, moving in such a way as to fade into the shadows, High Wolf stalked toward the chapel, which should have been the most sacred of places.
It had been dark inside the chapel when he had slid into the shadows of the room; too dark to see well, for the day outside was overcast and cloudy, and the room itself was lit by nothing more than a few candles.
But High Wolf would not leave. In his heart, he could not.
That was when he saw them. There, in front of the chapel, the forms of a man and woman, both of them kneeling before a priest. Was it the princess taking her wedding vows?
High Wolf could not hear what was being said, nevertheless, he had stayed through the long hours of the ceremony; waiting, watching the woman, if only to ensure that she was indeed the princess.
Slowly, the woman moved, and High Wolf thought he recognized the princess, for only she stirred with such grace.
Though he had thought himself to be prepared for the worst, the shock of seeing her shook him, spiritually, mentally, physically, and though he knew he should, he could not look away from her. He trembled, and falling back, he grasped for the wall behind him as though it might steady him.
But it was not to be. The pain was not physical; it was a sickness of spirit. And he had stood there in the shadows for a moment, transfixed, unable to take a step backward or forward, if only to raise a protest—if, indeed, such an action would have any effect.
Deep in his heart, he had never believed that the princess and Prince Alathom would obey the wishes of their parents—not when the matter at hand was marriage. True, he had known that a prince and princess were bound by rules and forms of conduct that he had never quite fathomed. But not until this moment had he been a ware of how these rule smight affect him personally.
He understood it now.
Be that as it may, he had lingered there in the darkness, waiting for what must surely come: a protest. He waited in vain.
And then it was over, the multitude of people pouring out of the chapel and into the corridors of the castle, a false gaiety in the air that belied the heaviness of the chapel itself. But High Wolf did not stir.
No, he, and he alone, stayed behind, as though the physical location itself might steady him. Indeed, he thought, how could he leave this place when its emptiness echoed the hollowness of his soul?
How long he stood there, he was never quite certain. But it had been dark by the time he had managed to prod himself into action, and with the loss so raw that he physically ached, he had slipped out of the castle as quietly as he had come into it, leaving behind a satchel of gold and the princess’s seal in his place.
He didn’t think to seek out the prince and princess with congratulations. What could he say? How could he react?
No, they had done their duty to their families, to their countries. It was best that he, High Wolf, simply fade away.
Within days, he had located a ship headed for the Americas, and had boarded her. And to this day High Wolf recalled vividly his thoughts as he stood aboard that ship’s deck, watching the shoreline taper slowly away.
And with the wind beating on his face as though it would tell him of something important, something he should attend to, High Wolf swore that he would never trust again, never love. In sooth, that day he lost a gentler, kinder part of himself.
And as the land disappeared unspectacularly from view, High Wolf had said good-bye to the land, to the six years he had spent at this place and to those two people, who had once been his dearest, most beloved friends.
But friends they could be no more…
Like a ghost, a dark shadow lingered over the water, moving slowly, as though it were searching for something, or perhaps someone…But unable to find that which it sought, it shifted its position slowly north.
Sierra had never felt so miserable or been so cold. Several hours later, sitting next to a small fire in a makeshift camp, which consisted of a large chasm that High Wolf had dug out between two large stones, she tried to envision an enormous fire, while at the same time, she attempted to determine her next course of action. But it was difficult to imagine it, especially since she could barely think of anything other than High Wolf, his presence beside her, the overwhelming hint of power the man exuded.
Somehow, somewhere, during their watery escape, with her body pressed up close to his, she had become more aware of this man physically than she had ever been of anything. And at this present moment, she was painfully conscious of the masculine aura he emanated.
Truth be told, she was all too sensitive in that regard. For one thing, he wore little clothing. There was his breechcloth, moccasins, weapons of bow and arrows and a knife. True, a parfleche bag fell to his side, with the strap thrown over his chest, and his quiver of arrows hung over one arm. But that was all!
Of course, there were little things about him, too: like the look of his long fingers as they fiddled over a piece of wood; the sharp angles of his features; the wide width of his chest, completely unmarred by body hair; the piercing stare of his dark eyes, when and if he chose to look at her.
And she wondered: Had she noticed, all those years ago, these little things?
If she had, she certainly did not call them easily back to mind. Why not?
Had she been too innocent at the time, too unobservant; or was it, perhaps, due to the fact that she had never, before this night, experienced a brush with death? Indeed since that incident, her senses seemed greatly heightened.
She rocked back on her rump, deep in contemplation. What good would any ultra-sensitivity do her, however, when the man beside her seemed curiously unemotional? Completely unaware of her?
Nonetheless, under the cover of her lashes, Sierra decided to look her fill at him, and she let her gaze roam up to his face, committing to mind his look of maturity. She shook her head, amazed at herself.
How could she have forgotten the little things about him? Like the unusual quality of his eyebrows, which were thick, yet sparsely populated with hair? Alas, how could she have neglected to note how high were his cheekbones, how slightly aquiline was his nose, how stubborn was the tilt of his chin? Although she had to admit that she had always been aware of the sensual quality of High Wolf’s lips, a promise of passion that belied his stern exterior.
Why, she wondered, continuing her line of thought, had she never remarked upon how truly masculine this man was? Was
it because she had been too young at the time? Or had she simply been too full of her own royal status?
It was true that other than High Wolf, she had never known or even had much to do with the more “common” man. In truth, her life had been filled with studies of history and lineage; with decorum, pomp and circumstance; with dinners, obligations; with meetings of only the best and most royal of people.
In truth, seen from her present state, it began to appear as if she had spent the majority of her life in an ivory tower, unaware of what went on in the world, outside her tiny speck of manicured lawn.
But these thoughts, though insightful, were disturbing, and Sierra fidgeted.
However, her antics caused little more than a quick glance from High Wolf. Alas, this and this alone was the most she was coming to expect from him. Since entering into their camp, he practically did little more than ignore her.
Reluctantly, she tilted her head to one side, and since there was nothing else to be done at the moment, she studied him further. Why didn’t he talk to her? Was he sorry that he had kissed her within the heightened beat of a war-induced moment? Was he ashamed that he had shown her a grain of kindness?
The thought was distressful, and in an effort to divert her attention, she glanced above her, staring at the sticks and the large evergreen boughs that High Wolf had found near the water, having placed them over the top of their camp for camouflage and beneath them, as well, that they might both be cushioned as they sat. And all around her was nothing but dirt and stone; fresh earth to be sure, but dirt, nonetheless.
Which brought another question to mind: Why were they not camping in the open spaces of this land? Where a person could breathe more easily?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask this and many other questions, but she found herself reluctant to speak. High Wolf seemed so distant, so uncommunicative. Indeed, she felt loath to make an attempt at conversation, lest he bite.
She shivered, an action that drew his eye to her at last. But he said nothing, just as she was beginning to expect from him.
In a manner of speaking, Sierra wished she hadn’t asked High Wolf earlier if he still cared for her, if only because since that time, he had been unusually quiet, answering her questions with no more than a curt reply.
With a shrug, she brought her attention back to what she had come to refer to as their pit, their camp, watching him whittle away over a stick—a piece of wood he had gathered.
She needed to talk to him; albeit, she required his attention to an important matter. However…
She bit her lip; it was a bad habit, but one she was far from taming, particularly at the moment. And she wondered, what would it take to persuade this man to help her find the prince? Communication? Feminine wiles? A promise of her charms?
Whatever was to be done, however, she knew she would have to be the one to initiate conversation. And at last, she could stand the silence no longer, and clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you very much for bringing me here and for setting up camp.” Again, she cleared her throat. “But, High Wolf, I am cold.”
He made no answer.
She tried again. “This fire does little to warm me, and thoughts of three or more gigantic fires, all blazing before me, does not help the matter. High Wolf, could you not build a bigger fire?”
He shrugged, and after a time, responded, “A large fire is easy to see, easy to smell. We are not in safe country yet that I might make a better fire. Be content that you have even a small one, for it will, in time, warm you.”
“I beg to differ in that opinion.”
He simply raised his shoulders and glanced away.
Staring at him, at his complacency, she decided to change her tactic, and taking a deeper plunge, she came directly to the point, saying, “Why did you kiss me?”
She watched him carefully, noting that he visibly stiffened, that his fingers faltered over what he was doing, and that he cut himself. Furthermore, the very air around them became suddenly stifling.
But he otherwise remained quiet.
However, she knew him well enough to know that she had at least captured his attention. And she waited…
At some length, without looking up, he said, “I kissed you to keep you quiet and to calm you. You were about to scream, and there were enemies all around us. Do not worry. I realize it was a mistake. It will not happen again.”
“I see,” she acknowledged, keeping her eyes trained on him. “And you thought that by sweeping your tongue into my mouth, I would become calmer?”
He paused; he coughed, as though startled that she might say such a thing. However, after a slight pause, he began, “Perhaps I did believe it might,” he said, as a gleam came into his eye. “Although maybe I wanted you to notice what you have missed all these years without me.”
All these years without him. The thought made her eyes sting. Also, she realized on a note of some reluctance, he might very well have accomplished exactly that.
But Sierra was in no mood to give him quarter, and she said, “I beg to know, Mr. High Wolf, do you think the lesson is complete?”
The question earned her a hard look, although all he said was, “The lesson?”
“Yes, the lesson I’m supposed to learn—the one that makes me realize all I’ve missed these past ten years.”
He shook his head. “Hardly learned, I should say.”
“Is that so? Then I suppose that is why later, when we were in the tree trunk, you held me in your arms and kissed me again.”
To this, he gave her an incredulous, although a rigid look. Only this time, when he gazed at her, he placed the wood he was whittling to the side. Turning toward her and leaning forward, he brought up a hand to brush aside a strand of her hair, as he said, “There is another reason I kissed you, I think. Perhaps you should know it, too, although this one will not make you happy.”
“Oh?”
“Haa’he.” He nodded.
“And that is…?”
“I fear that I have been away from my true love for too long, and you were”—he pulled a face—“there…”
Ouch! With a start, Sierra drew back away from him.
But if he noticed her reaction, it was hard to say, for he turned his face away from her to pick up that darned wood once more. Over his shoulder, he said, “But do not worry. I have my wits about me now, and it will not happen again.”
“Oh?” Sierra sat up straighter. “Really?” Her chin shot forward and up. “And you can, I assume, be certain of that?”
“As certain as I am that the sun comes with the day.”
“Really?” Seeing red, she gave him a wide-eyed stare, wondering what it would take to break through this man’s nonchalance. She said, “How can you be so certain that we will never again kiss?”
“How?” he asked, all without looking at her. “Because I can control my baser impulses.”
“Ah, now I understand,” she said. “Then if I am to comprehend you completely, I am to believe that I am a baser impulse?”
He looked up to her at last, turning slightly to face her before giving her a considering glance. “I did not say that. You put words in my mouth. I was referring to the urge to kiss.”
“Hmmm.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Then you admit you felt…ah…urged to kiss me?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “I suppose I did. Now, to what end do all these questions tend?”
“To nothing, I daresay,” she said, looking away from him. “I am attempting, however, to understand, after these somewhat diverting incidents, if my life and my…feminine person is secure with you. That is all.”
He grunted. “You are safe with me. Let me assure you that I will keep my hands—and my lips—away from you from this day forward.”
“Will you?” she asked, glancing toward him and smiling. “Even when we are in the water?”
He sat up straighter. “You know that I must hold you close to me then because you don’t know how to swim.”
Looking as innocent as possible, she said, “Then you should teach me.”
Looking sullen, he gazed over to her, giving her his full attention, and he said, “I will. But until then, I will hold you to ensure your safety when we are in the water.”
“I see,” she said. “And what other excuse do you have?”
He frowned. “It is not an excuse.”
“Is it not?”
He ground his teeth. “I give up. Tell me, what is it you want from me? A letter stating my unlecherous intentions? I am sorry, but I am fresh out of parchment.”
“I don’t wish a letter.”
“Then what? An apology?”
Facing him fully, she leaned in toward him and grinned before saying, “Mr. High Wolf, I ask a very simple thing. I merely want you to do it again.”
At these words, High Wolf sat so stiffly, he might as well have turned to stone.
And pressing advantage, she said, “Here I am before you. You may try again now.”
He moved not a muscle, not even to contain the slight twitch in his cheek. At some length, he said, “Do you think I am afraid to do it? Is that what this all tends toward?”
“Maybe.”
“I am not afraid of you, or your touch.”
“Aren’t you?” She scooted forward, and reaching out to him, trailed her fingers over the wayward muscle in his cheek.
He caught her hand. “What game are you trying to play with me, Princess? I know that whatever it is, what you want from me has little to do with kissing. That is only a ruse. Do not think that your flirtation with me will work as it used to? I am no longer the same young boy whom you could all too easily bend to your will. And I warn you, if I ever again kiss you, you will not want me to stop.”
“Try me.”
“Do not tempt me, Princess, you, who are a married woman.”
“Am I? To the world at large I am a widow.”
“Do you think that makes a difference?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“Whether you are a widow or not, you are still a married woman.”
