“Not purposely!” Angel replied. “What manner of blackguard do you take me for?” Then, his eyes narrowed, and he held up his hand. “Never mind! I’ve had quite enough aspersions cast upon my character for one evening. ‘Dastardly French cur’, indeed! As I was saying, Caroline is trying to bring the two of you together, though you are no doubt too dense to see it.”
“Forgive me, monsieur,” Sarah said. “But, once again, I am betrothed.”
Kingston threw each of them a dark glance, saying nothing.
“Very well,” Angel said with an indignant sniff. “But who is the expert in affairs of the heart. You, my solitary friend, or I?”
Sauvage opened his mouth to reply, then, thinking the better of it, closed it again.
“At last! A point with which he finds no room for argument.” Angel sat back with a satisfied smile. “We shall quit the subject while I am ahead, and thereby relieve your mutual discomfort.” He reached down and took up the burlap bag, withdrawing from it a small parcel, wrapped in a bit of creamy muslin and tied up with string. “Sarah, whose beauty rivals the dawn, this is for you.”
“For me?” Sarah said, with a hand at her breast.
“Indeed, for you,” Angel replied. “To replace what you have lost, and because every beautiful woman needs to be surrounded by beautiful things.” He held it out to her. “Go on, take it. Sauvage will not prevent you. He understands the importance of gifts. Indian culture lauds generosity. When a man holds a friend in great esteem, he gives that friend a gift. Something he treasures, to display his friendship. The friend, in turn, gives something back, so that each man knows he is valued by the other. And Indian women—indeed, all women—love gifts.”
“But I have nothing for you,” she protested.
“Dear lady,” Angel said, taking her hand, raising it to his lips. “Your charming company is gift enough.”
Sauvage watched as his friend kissed Madame’s soft white hand, noting that he held it much too long, and felt an unaccustomed twinge of jealousy. Uncertain just how to respond, she raised her gaze to his, and he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, watching with heavy lidded eyes as she took the gift from Angel’s beringed hands.
Sarah pulled the ends of the strings, slipping the neatly formed bow, folding back the cloth wrapping to reveal a lovely, ornate brush and hand mirror. “Oh, monsieur!” she exclaimed.
Angel held up a hand. “Please, you must call me Angel.”
“Angel. ‘Tis beautiful, and obviously very costly. Too costly to accept.”
Reaching out, Sauvage stayed her hand, covering it with his for an instant, his fingers twining briefly with his. “Non, Madame. You much accept this gift in the spirit it which it is given. To return it to the giver is to offer insult. Besides, he’s actually thinking of someone else for a change. It is good that he should learn this.”
Angel huffed softly, but Sauvage could tell that he was pleased. Not half so please as Madame, however, who, after a brief apology, began to ply the brush and work the tangles from her soft brown hair. How content she appeared, and how her eyes shone at Angel’s thoughtful gift! A gift Sauvage wished he’d given her himself.
Long after Sarah and Angel had drifted off to sleep, he lay awake, unable to rid himself of the events of the evening, of thoughts of Madame. Tomorrow, they would reach Harris’ Ferry. How strange, Sauvage thought, as he stared at the stars in the heavens, that he should no longer find that thought comforting, that he felt no vast relief that he would once and for all be rid of Madame and her huffing and puffing, her complaints and her endless piety... only a deep and explicable melancholy which, once it settled in, stubbornly refused to leave him.
Chapter 9
The settlement of Harris’ Ferry was not the clean and orderly town that Sarah had expected. Buildings of all description sat around a great log trading post and warehouse, like a hen with a straggling brood of strange-looking chicks. Some of the structures were made of logs, others of native limestone, and still others constructed haphazardly of whatever materials had been readily available—supports with cured hides used for the walls and roof, or great slabs of tree bark—and looking no sounder, no more permanent, than the simple camp shelters Kingston had constructed each evening upon setting up camp.
The settlement had a disreputable air that was out of place against the silver glimmer of the broad Susquehanna River and the mysterious blue of the mountains lying to the north and the south.
Narrowing her eyes against the bright glare off the river, Sarah tried to picture the valley without the houses and shacks surrounded by broken crockery and assorted refuse, a layer of smoke lying like a thin pale gray pall over all.
It had begun as a trading post situated a little distance from the Indian town of Paxtang, and because of its close proximity to the Allegheny Path—the very path which they had been following these past few days—the town had quickly grown and prospered.
The Harris family had grown rich upon the Indian trade, and, in recent years, from the ferry they operated which bridged the Susquehanna, at present the only one of its kind on the river. But there was little to recommend the town.
Standing on a rise above it, with a gentle breeze wafting over the water, Sarah wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What is that smell?”
Kingston leaned on his rifle. “Smoke and urine, boiling bear fat, and curing hides—the smell of the white man’s progress.”
“I find it offensive. It is not at all like Bethlehem. There, the streets are clean, and the air is untainted by the evil stink that permeates this place.”
“Perhaps you will adjust to it.”
Sarah gave an indignant sniff and immediately regretted it. “Lord willing, I shall not be here that long.”
Kingston smiled, but the expression was lacking in warmth. “Madame is understandably anxious to resume her journey and join her husband on the Muskingum.”
Sarah said nothing. Yes, she was anxious, nervous and sad, when she should have been elated. She had reached a milestone in her long journey. The past had been put firmly behind her; the future that lay ahead was shining bright, and rich with promise.
Why, then, did she feel this wavering uncertainty, this inexplicable, undeniable sense of loss? As if she were leaving an important part of her life behind? A part of her heart?
The answer to her questions let his gaze roam over her, then, without saying a word, he took hold of her arm just above the elbow, and guided her into the ramshackle town.
As they approached the first of the outlying hovels, a long low frame covered in skins, he drew her closer to his side. Seated on a stump in the dooryard, a man with stringy brown hair and grizzled chin indulged in a leisurely scratch. The man’s companion, a lanky youth of perhaps ten and six was stirring the contents of a pot suspended over an open fire. A few feet away several rangy hounds sat on their haunches, hopefully sniffing the air.
Catching their scent, the hounds bounded toward them, hackles raised and growling menacingly. Kingston snapped a command and they retreated, their tails tucked between their legs.
“Bully! Ely! Ransome!” the seated man growled, and the dogs trotted back to plop down in the dust at his feet. “Pretty little filly you got there, Sauvage,” he said, rising and falling into step behind them. “You steal her from some unsuspectin’ white man?”
Kingston ignored the ugly comment. “Is McCrae in town, Jack?”
Jack Simmons narrowed his gaze and spat. “Mebe he is, an’ mebe he ain’t. What’dya want him for?” Jack demanded, then his aspect brightened when he sized up the trophies that hung from Kingston’s belt. “You got scalps? Three? Is that all? Why, I took two last month myself, up near Robinson’s Bluff.”
“Warriors, Jack?” Kingston inquired. “Or women and children?”
Simmons drew himself up. “I never could figure out which part o’ you I hated the worst, the French, or the In’jun. Not that it makes much never-mind. Your luck ain’t like to hold forever, n’ you’re
already losin’ your edge. Some heart-eatin’ Huron buck’ll have that pretty hair o’ yourn for his own, someday real soon, Sauvage. I just hope I’m around to see it.”
Jack Simmons’s words made Sarah shiver. “Who is he, Kingston? And what did you mean by ‘women and children’?”
“A few years back, a farm near here was attacked by a Delaware war party upset by the loss of the land to the Whites. The men hereabouts decided to pursue those responsible. When they returned, they had several scalps, but not a warrior’s among them. Jack Simmons was one of those men.”
“How reprehensible,” Sarah said.
“It was cowardly,” Kingston agreed, “yet regrettably, such occurrences are not at all uncommon, and Jack Simmons is far from the worst of the lot. There are men here, who aren’t to be trusted. Evil men. You must keep that in mind when you begin your search for a guide, Madame. Trust your instincts, and just to be sure, consult Cherry Vining. She knows everyone within twenty miles of Harris’s Ferry, and Cherry does not lie.”
Sarah digested his advice with a frown of concern. She shook her head doubtfully, not at all certain that she could manage it all. They came to a large log house—-the only house, besides the one owned by the Harris family that was two stories high. A painted wooden sign mounted on the porch post and swinging slowly in the breeze proclaimed: VINING’S BOARDING HOUSE.
Pausing on the bottom step, Sarah looked at the sign, and then to Kingston. “Cherry Vining, I presume?”
“She was a friend of Caroline’s.” He opened the door and stood aside for Sarah to enter.
As he turned, a woman of perhaps twenty and five came forward. Dressed in a gown of mulberry--colored silk frothy with white lace at the elbow and neckline, her flame-red hair piled high atop her head, she looked as if she belonged in a parlor in Philadelphia, instead of in this rude wilderness outpost. “Well, well. If it isn’t Kingston Sauvage. What brings you to town?”
“Business,” Kingston replied. “Have you a room to let?”
“That depends on who’ll be layin’ their head on my bedding, you, or your friend, there. If it’s the two of you together, then we got us a problem. I’ve got my standards, as you know.”
“The room is for the lady,” Kingston said with a rare smile. “Are you open to negotiation?”
“I’m always open to barter. What do you have to offer?”
Sarah watched in amazement as Kingston undid his belt, slipped off the hunting shirt, and stood, bare to the waist beneath the other woman’s shrewd gaze. Against the backdrop of the shabby parlor, he seemed all the more exotic, a pagan prince with deep bronze skin and wide silver bracelets gleaming above his biceps. Sarah, closely observing the two, felt an unaccustomed wave of jealousy. “Kingston, please, she began, “there is no need for you to part with your possessions. I have my brooch with which to pay—”
The woman narrowed her eyes at Kingston. “Is this a serious offer, or a ruse?”
“It is serious,” he said. “The question is: are you? If you do not wish to trade, I will take my bracelets and go elsewhere.”
He started to slip back into his shirt, but the woman stopped him. “All right, let’s get down to business.”
Kingston grounded the butt of his rifle, folding his hands over the barrel. “You provide Madame with a room, clean bedding, and three meals a day, and I will part with one bracelet.”
“For how long?” Cherry demanded. “One week? Two?”
“For as long as she wishes to stay.”
Cherry stalked across the parlor. Kingston stood, as hard and implacable as stone. “Two meals a day,” she countered, “and a clean bed for a fortnight. That’s the best I can do.”
“Not good enough,” Kingston hefted the rifle and, taking Sarah by the arm, walked her to the door. Before they crossed the threshold, Cherry stopped them.
“All right! One bracelet, and I’ll take her in. Two, and I’ll adopt her.”
“One, and she stays until she finds a guide to take her to her chosen destination, no matter how long that takes. You provide bed, board, and a decent gown for her.”
“A gown! Damn you, Sauvage! You ask too much!”
“A gown.” Kingston held firm, sliding one of the wide silver bands from a brawny arm and holding it so it caught the sunlight streaming through a window. “You are smarter than most. You will tell everyone who will listen that you had this bracelet from the notorious Kingston Sauvage, a wanton killer, the terror of the Huron of the Lakes. When the right man comes along, you will sell it for five times its worth—ten, if by that time I have met my fate.”
While Cherry speculated, Sarah tugged insistently at his arm. “Kingston, please. Do not give away what cannot be replaced.”
Kingston pinned the woman with his gaze. “What will it be? One fine silver bracelet in exchange for bed and board, or do I take Madame elsewhere?”
“One bracelet,” Cherry agreed, “and she can have a bed under the eaves for as long as she likes, with two meals thrown in, morning and evening. Three if she helps out in the kitchen.
“A clean bed,” he warned. “I do not want her to spend her nights chasing fleas. And the gown I mentioned.”
“A clean bed, and a gown, too,” Cherry relented. “Now, hand it over.”
Kingston placed the gleaming silver band in the outstretched hand of Cherry, who gleefully secreted it inside the hidden pocket of her skirt.
“Give us a moment, will you?” Kingston said to the older woman, who gave a crisp nod, then, turning, exited the room.
They were alone together at last. Sarah swallowed hard. The moment which she had been dreading had finally arrived. Kingston was leaving, and she would never see him again. Tears stung her eyes at the thought, but she blinked them back, trying to smile, to laugh, but the smile died on her lips, the laugh escaped as a strangled sob.
Kingston reached out to her in her moment of weakness, cupping her cheek with his palm. There was tenderness in his touch, his voice. “Mouse, one phase of your journey has ended, another is about to begin. You should be happy, not sad.”
She dashed the tears from her eyes with an impatient hand. “I am sorry. Truly, I am. I have never been very good at farewells.”
“Do not think of it as farewell,” he suggested with a slight smile. “I am going away for a time, but once I have concluded my business with La Bruin I will come and visit you and your new husband on the Muskingum. You would like that, eh?”
She gave him a watery smile. “Indeed, I would.”
He laughed low and pulled her into his arms. “Kiss me, then, for I must be on my way.”
Rising on tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Kingston let go of the rifle. Sarah heard it clatter to the floor. His hands slid down her spine, coming to rest on the twin moons of her buttocks, urging her soft belly against him. Unable to bear the bittersweet kiss any longer, Sarah tore her mouth from his and hid her tearstained face in the curve of his throat.
He drew a deep and shuddering breath, expelling it on a sigh. “Perhaps after all, it is best if I do not come to you on the Muskingum. Perhaps it is best for all concerned if it ends here, in Harper’s Ferry.”
Beyond reply, Sarah watched him retrieve his rifle, turn, and with a last burning glance, make his way from the room.
She was still standing in the middle of the parlor, staring at the empty portal through which he’d made his exit, when Cherry Vining returned to close the door on the outside world and take her in hand. “Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Marsters? You’re looking rather flushed.”
Sarah smiled halfheartedly. “It is nothing, Mrs. Vining. I am suddenly quite weary, is all.”
“Then, come this way,” Cherry said, heading toward the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room, where you can rest until Jessie draws your bath.”
Sauvage’s business took him to John Harris Jr.’s trading post, a large log building situated at a little distance from the shore and built to withs
tand trouble, flood and the passing of the generations. John Harris Sr. had settled in this valley in 1717; he’d lived here and worked here and prospered. His legacy was far-reaching, and there was little doubt that his sons and grandsons would be here in this valley long after Kingston Sauvage was reduced to dust and memories.
Harris was fortunate. He had his family, loved ones with which to share his life and with whom he would grow old. Kingston had nothing, and he had never felt the lack of loved ones, of a worthy and fulfilling life, as keenly as he did at this moment.
That sense of loss had little to do with Harris, however, and everything to do with the young widow he had just left behind. Sarah Marsters, timid little mouse, soft and sweet and caring. A true lady, deserving of far better than anything he could offer her.
It had pained him far more than he had ever imagined to leave her at Cherry’s boarding house. Knowing that he had made the right decision did nothing to lessen his longing, to ease his vast and aching emptiness. An emptiness only Sarah could fill.
She was good for him, a magical balm for his deeply troubled spirit. To linger at Cherry’s and while away the afternoon in Sarah’s company had been tempting. Her serene presence drew him. Her lack of guile was charming, her voluptuous figure impossible to resist. If he had stayed, he would have claimed her fragrant white charms. It was what he longed for, yet making her his woman would only bring her a greater sorrow. And the thought of hurting her more deeply than he already had was worse than the nagging, hollow ache in his chest.
She needed a quiet strength, a gentleness that he had never learned... a depth of caring that he had once possessed but had lost somewhere along the way.
Sarah Marsters was not meant for him, he staunchly told himself, bounding up the wooden steps to the portico of the building and making his way inside. Yet, knowing that did not drown his desires, nor ease his cold regret.
Jean Baer, alias La Bruin had done this to him. Jean had ruined him for anything decent and good, by taking Caroline’s life, and that of their son. Until he had settled his debt with Jean, he could not seek solace in Sarah’s arms, he could not live his life.
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