Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  That knowledge rendered their lovemaking all the more poignant, turned his kisses, the words of love he whispered in her ear, bittersweet. There were no apologies forthcoming for Kingston, as there had been from Timothy. Instead, he lavished her senses with a warm flood of praise, lauding her gentle, exquisite beauty, the ripe womanliness of her ample curves, her stunning softness. He called her his brave, dear heart, and his words were so genuine, so raw in their sincerity that Sarah believed every word, loving him all the more for the wondrous warmth that welled up inside her.

  “Tell me you love me,” he demanded.

  Sarah bit back a moan. Tension gripped her, the sweet, maddening pressure was slowly building inside her. “I love you.”

  “Again, my love. Tell me again, and this time convince me.”

  He pushed deep and Sarah whimpered, withdrew with tortured slowness and paused, with only the tip of his manhood still inside her. Sarah’s whole body pulsed with need. “I love you, Kingston!” Sarah cried. “Oh, I love you so!”

  Grasping her knees, he urged them higher, then dove into her, again and again, never truly withdrawing, driving her deeper into the furs. Pleasure lapped at Sarah’s senses, subtle at first, then quickly growing more intense, and with it her desperation mounted. She writhed beneath him, sobbing his name, begging release. When at last it came and the spasms gripped her, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him deep when he would have pulled back, selfishly wanting all of him, everything he had to give.

  Sauvage felt the change in her and knew that he had pushed her beyond all caution. Her breathing was ragged, she moaned and struggled beneath him, wanting the release that was mere seconds away, and he thought that it could not come quickly enough. His own control was slipping, his nerves stretched taut at trying to hold back. He had wanted this day, dreamt of this moment, for so long, and bringing her to her highest, most pleasurable peak had been sheer agony, for every step of the way, he’d climbed with her. Climax now was a heartbeat away.

  Muscles rigid as stone, trembling in every limb, he felt the first of the contractions claim her and steeled himself for withdrawal. Yet, at the last second, Sarah locked her legs around his hips, her tight sheath gripping him like a hot, pulsating glove and he came completely undone, melting inside her.

  September arrived and with it came a change in the weather. Suddenly the nights were damp and chilly, the mornings misty and white, and the leaves were tipped scarlet with the blood of Kingston’s celestial bear.

  Autumn was quickening. In the Indian towns and villages to the west, the council fires would be rife with talk of war. Forays would soon be launched, a final opportunity before the heavy snows arrived to seize captives, scalps, and plunder. The provincials called it “Indian Summer” and Kingston had explained that it was a time of great dread in the settlements. The colonists would not relax their constant vigil against attack until the snow lay deep upon the ground.

  Standing in the open doorway of Angel’s cabin, the scarlet leaves drifting one by one to the ground, Sarah sighed. She had come to understand a great many things during the two days since the fever had left her. She not only understood the keen differences between she and Kingston, she was keenly aware of certain similarities they shared... like physical need, and all of the little complexities of falling truly and madly in love. She understood the strength of a burning desire, and she understood as well why Kingston associated love with loss and pain.

  They were three days travel from the Muskingum, and every time Sarah thought of saying farewell to Kingston, her heart grew cold and leaden in her breast. It was a weakness over which she could not hope to triumph, one she did not wish for him to see, so she concentrated on the memories they had made together.

  Kingston tumbling her on their soft bed of furs, lying with her in the forest with the rich tang of autumn perfuming the air and bright leaves drifting down to earth around them. Kingston tormenting and teasing her to soaring new heights of passion, telling her how much he loved her, again, and again, and again.

  Kingston, her desperate lover, her tutor, her friend. She had learned more about passion in just two days than during her entire marriage to Timothy. Kingston’s lust was insatiable, his love for her as deep as a bottomless well. She had quickly discovered that he was as lavish with his praise and adoration as he was with his kisses.

  Beneath his tender ministrations, his somewhat wicked words of love, his trust, Sarah had begun to blossom, and selfishly, she did not want it to end. If only they could stay in this valley, this secluded cabin, she thought, she would truly be happy, sublimely content. If only there was some way to hold onto this time, to keep the world at bay.

  Sadly, she was still promised to Brother John Liebermann, Gil still awaited her arrival on the Muskingum, La Bruin was still out there somewhere destroying lives, and Kingston remained convinced that only he could stop him.

  The world would not stop spinning, no matter how hard she wished it. La Bruin and all of the dangers he represented would simply not go away, a fact that was impressed upon Sarah as she caught sight of Kingston, who topped the rise and dashed toward the cabin at a ground-eating lope.

  Her heart leapt at the sight of him. Something was terribly wrong. She ran from the cabin, meeting him in the dooryard. “Quickly,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her with him into the trees. They came to a thicket, and he pushed her through the leafy barrier, then dove in after her, pulling the pistol he’d taken from the cabin from his belt.

  Through the cover of the thicket, Sarah saw movement in the cabin dooryard, men, garbed in a mixture of leather and bright calico, some barely clothed, all milling about the very spot where she’d been standing a moment ago.

  “A war party,” he whispered. “Six men. Maybe more. Ottawa and Chippewa. I could have picked them off well enough with my rifle, but this pistol is useless at more than a dozen paces. Too close for so large a number. I could not take the chance with you so close at hand—”

  Breaking off abruptly, he put a finger to his lips and sat, holding the pistol aloft. Voices sounded at a very short distance. Sarah’s heart pounded alarmingly. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to calm, but she could not dispel the images that came rushing back... the dark, decaying space that was the hollow log, the dank, noxious smell of rotting wood and animal droppings that had clogged her lungs and lingered for hours afterward, and the hoarse, heart-wrenching screams of Benjamin Bones....

  Complete composure was beyond her grasp, yet she managed to regulate her breathing and remain quiet and motionless as the voices and footsteps neared. Sarah watched in horror as Kingston lowered the pistol and took aim at a patch of brown skin visible through the heavy screen of vegetation.

  Laying her hand on his arm, she slowly shook her head.

  He frowned at her, but held his fire, and in the next instant a familiar but unexpected sound came clearly through the thicket. The sound of water splashing onto the bushes; the smell of urine wafted on the breeze.

  A moment passed, and then, two, and the sounds of the searchers grew dim and indistinct. Sarah sank back with a sigh of relief. Praise God,” she breathed, “that was uncomfortably close.”

  “For the Ottawa, more than for you and me,” Kingston replied. “He came within a hairsbreadth of forfeiting his manhood. Not that he was undeserving. Only a fool pisses against blind cover. There might have been a slumbering she-bear back here, or a catamount and her cubs.” He traced his fingertips along the curve of Sarah’s cheek, then leaned forward to kiss her lips. “You did well, mouse. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  He got to his feet and, taking her hand, led her off through the forest, striking out for the west.

  Sarah struggled to keep up. “Are we not going back?”

  He shook his head. “They will return and lay in wait awhile to see if we come back. We head west, as quickly and as carefully as we can.”

  West, to the Muskingum, toward a future that was more uncertain than it h
ad ever been, to the arms and bed of a man she neither loved, nor wanted to know. Kingston traveled toward his enemy, and perhaps, ultimately, toward his end.

  Best not to dwell on the things she could not change, Sarah thought, but as they topped the far ridge, she could not help glancing back wistfully at the low log building where she had discovered love, nor wishing that things were different.

  The great mountain ridges were behind them. The land though which they made their way was lush and wild and beautiful. A wilderness paradise that had never known the bite of a plow.

  By day, they plunged on, fording the numerous creeks and rivers which sliced through the rich forest loam, inching their way along treacherous paths and towering cliffs—silent as wraiths. At night Sarah pillowed her head on Kingston’s chest and slept, worn from her day’s exertions, secure in his embrace.

  Late afternoon of the third day out from de Angelheart’s cabin found them on the bluffs above Parson’s Creek, the last stream to be forded before they reached the Ohio River. Standing on the bluffs above the rippling water, his waist-length hair tossed by the fitful breeze, Kingston glanced down at Sarah.

  She looked like a lost child, and he could not help but wonder just what she was thinking now that her long and arduous journey was nearing an end? Once they reached the Shining City, would she settle back into her sedate and pious existence without difficulty? Would she marry the man to whom she was betrothed and be happy the rest of her days?

  His dark gaze warmed as it touched the lush fullness of her kissable lips. Or would she be unwed and waiting when his reckoning with Jean had been completed to his satisfaction, when Caroline’s spirit had been set free, and he returned to the Muskingum? Aloud, he said, “Beyond the trees is the Ohio, and beyond that, at the edge of the horizon, the Muskingum.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain?”

  Sauvage smiled. “Positive. We’ll be standing on the sandy banks of the Ohio before nightfall, and if all goes well and I find the canoe that Angel secreted there in good repair, we will reach the city of the United Brethren tomorrow.”

  “Then I must pray,” she said in a voice that was oddly toneless, “and ask God to aid us in the search for the canoe.”

  “Oui, Madame,” he murmured, thoughtfully. “Prayers are good. I would sooner have the Creator for an ally than an enemy.” Taking her hand, he started to descend the narrow trail that led to the water when a sound issued from below and he spun, fairly pushing Sarah back up the steep incline she had just descended.

  When they reached the top, he pulled her into a thickly wooded copse, forced her down, and with a warning look, bade her to stay hidden. Flattening himself beside her, he snatched the pistol from his belt and waited.

  A moment later, a pair of Indians topped the bluff. The first man was short and paunchy with a graying scalp lock and a face deeply scored with age. The second was a light-skinned man with an impressive stature and an ingrained hauteur. Sauvage tensed. It was Tall Trees, Jean’s lieutenant.

  A fine red haze swirled around the edges of Sauvage’s vision, around the Huron and his companion, who stood gesturing to the copse where they lay concealed. Sauvage steadied the pistol, took careful aim on the painted breast of the Huron war captain. He had forgotten about Sarah, forgotten everything but the cabin burning in his mind’s eye and the woman lying so still and lifeless in the dooryard.

  He slowly squeezed the trigger. Beside him, Sarah grabbed his arm. “Kingston, no! You must not!”

  Flint struck steel, and the weapon bucked and roared, but the shot went wild. He was on his feet before the smoke cleared, racing along the forest path that wound along the bluffs, dragging Sarah with him. When they rounded a curve in the path, he shoved her out ahead of him. “Run!”

  She shot ahead of him like a frightened deer while he reloaded. Moccasined feet pounded the path behind him. Sauvage’s blood pulsed through his veins, but he ignored it, pouring a measure of powder down the muzzle, then taking one of the balls from his mouth and ramming it home. One of the pursuers drew near enough to touch him. He felt fingers pluck at the fringe on his sleeve. A trickle of powder in the frizzen pan and he spun, firing.

  The ball caught the man in the chest, and slammed him backward, into one of his fellow warriors, knocking the second man off his feet. He fell with a curse, struggling to throw off his comrade. Sauvage was about to reload when a scream stopped him dead in his tracks.

  A few yards away, Tall Trees stood behind Sarah, her soft brown hair was wrapped around a cruel fist. In the other hand, he held a scalping knife, its edge pressed to her throat. “Lay down your arms,” he said in passably good French. “Or I will kill her.”

  Kingston dropped the weapon, but his fingers itched for the hilt of his scalping knife. The Huron seemed to read his thoughts. “Your knife and war hatchet. Place them on the ground.”

  Kingston complied. “You want me, not the woman. Let her go.”

  “You are the one called White Wolf?” Tall Trees said.

  “Once long ago, I was called by such a name. But White Wolf is no longer. Now, I am Kingston Sauvage.”

  “Son-Of-A-Vengeful-Spirit,” the Huron finished for him. “Your past deeds are not unknown to me. And this,” he said, looking down at Sarah, “is White Wolf’s woman.”

  Sauvage shook his head. “Her name is Sarah Marsters, and she does not belong to me. I had a woman once, but no longer. She was killed by the French renegade, La Bruin, and his band of cowardly Huron dogs.”

  Sauvage saw Sarah’s glance slide from her captor to the others, eight in all, who had gathered ‘round. “What will they do to us?” she asked in a voice that clearly conveyed her fear.

  “This is not the time for questions, Madame,” Sauvage told her. “Be still, and do as you are told. If you provoke them, they will not hesitate to kill you. They’re Chippewa, Ottawa, and Huron, allied to the French. They do not treat their women well.”

  One of the warriors took great offense at his words, for he struck Sauvage a vicious blow with the brass butt plate of his musket, driving him to his knees.

  Pain exploded in Sauvage’s chest. His vision blurred, and he had to struggle for breath. “Fatherless cur!” he grated in French, to assure himself that the man understood. “You were bred in the white man’s hog sty, and born in the mud and the offal. That is why you do not fight as a man fights!”

  The Huron’s face flushed dark; he lifted the musket for yet another blow. At the same time, Sauvage bowled into the Huron, knocking him off balance, and onto his back. In the next instant, Sauvage was on him, one fist wrapped in his scalp lock, the other curled around the musket stock. Face a mask of fury, he jammed one knee into the man’s throat, cutting off his air. “Have you not been listening, Huron? Are your ears stopped with mud? Do you not know who it is you threaten? I am Sauvage, and I will feed your liver to the wolves!”

  Sauvage brought the musket back for a killing blow, but a chorus of soft clicks and Sarah’s soft, pleading voice made him go still. “Kingston, please. Release him.”

  “Enough!” The shout came from Tall Trees. “You have proven that you need no weapon to be dangerous, White Wolf, but do you need the woman? You say she belongs to another, but I think you lie.” Tall Trees turned the blade at Sarah’s throat. “I could pry the truth from you, yet there is one way to tell. I could kill her now, and it would not pain me. What of you? Would it pain White Wolf to see the soft one die? Or, are you accustomed by now to losing your women?”

  Sauvage released the man who’d struck him and stood. The pain in his chest was a dull, throbbing fire. It burned away his last ounce of caution. He took a step toward Tall Trees, and the war chief applied pressure to the knife so that Sarah cried out, and a small trickle of crimson wound its way down her throat. “Shall I take her life here?” he taunted. “Or give her to La Bruin?”

  Sauvage stiffened, and the Huron laughed, “Yes, a gift is what the gentle one will be. A gift of fine white flesh for the
bear.”

  “Mention his name again in connection with hers and I will kill you.”

  “Then, you did lie. The woman is yours—or was.” Tall Trees was gleeful. “She belongs to me, now. A pretty English captive to do with as Tall Trees wishes.”

  Numbness welled up inside Sauvage; the black rage stirred to life inside him, rising up and roaring its fury, until he saw nothing but the fine crimson thread at Sarah’s throat. Vivid against her pale skin, it blocked out everything. He had no sense of time or place, no sense of self aside from the rising fury, which now was a pulsing, living thing.

  Sarah alone seemed to notice the change taking place in Kingston, and felt a surge of alarm. A strange electric tension seemed to radiate from him, unlike anything she had ever witnessed. She saw him crouch and then spring, launching himself at Tall Trees, and for the shocking space of a split second it was not Kingston she saw, but the great white wolf from her fevered dreams, hackles raised as it hurdled through the air.

  It was not possible. Yet, as he barreled into the stunned Huron, knocking Sarah roughly aside, she could have sworn she felt the sensuous slide of luxuriant fur against her skin. She hit the ground hard, scrambling to hands and knees as Kingston caught the war captain by the throat, the impetus of his wild leap carrying him and his enemy back and back, over the edge of the high bluff and into the empty air.

  Sarah ran to the edge of the cliff before the others could stop her and stood staring dazedly down at the white froth of water far below. There was no sign of Kingston or Tall Trees, only the rippling water that dashed around and over the rocks in its haste to reach the Ohio.

  Strong fingers closed over Sarah’s arm, urging her away from the cliff. Raising her gaze, she saw the warrior who had hit Kingston scowling down at her. “White Wolf’s Woman come,” he said in French.

  “No, please,” Sarah pleaded. “I must stay. Kingston is down there, somewhere.”

  “Gone,” the warrior corrected. “White Wolf fly away. You come with Cat-Man Jacobs.” He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.