PRINCE OF WOLVES

by Susan Krinard

  "Yes." Joey's voice was small. "I was married. I met him while I was still in college—he was a successful architect, a guest lecturer at the school. I was very young then." Her breath caught, and she bit her lip. He could almost see the inner debate as it tightened the lines in the soft oval of her face, wondering if he had revealed so much. "At the time he seemed to give me things I thought I wanted. The security—the stability—I needed.

  "For a while it worked well enough. Life was comfortable with Richard. Predictable. Safe. Passionless.

  Nothing dramatic happened to end it. One day I came to realize—" Her eyes opened again. "That it wasn't fair. Not to either one of us. It was a kind of trap." Her choice of words made Luke focus on her so intently that she dropped her gaze before he could read her meaning.

  "It isn't important what happened. We agreed, eventually, that we had different needs. I'd come to realize then that there were things, things that I..." Breaking off, Joey stared into the fire, the glitter of unshed tears fractured the reflection of it into embers that burned at the tips of her dark lashes. "None of that matters anymore. We parted friends." She lapsed into silence.

  Luke almost stopped then, in respect to her distress. But the prick of the compulsion drove him to demand more of her. "And before Richard?"

  Joey met his eyes, her lips curved up into something approaching a smile. "There were no others. I didn't have time or space for them before Richard. Or after. I didn't even have space for him."

  The rush of triumph that transfixed Luke then was not rational. "Jealousy" was only a word, too paltry to define what he had felt imagining Joey with other men. Ordinary men. But long practice kept the reaction away from his face where Joey could guess at its source.

  He felt no need to ask more. There was relief in her, as well, when she realized she had satisfied him with with those few revelations. The tautness of her face relaxed, her lips resumed their usual calm curve. Luke looked away and listened to the night's language, to the cries of night-hunting owls and the rustling of small animals hidden in the brush. But he was drawn back to her again and again. With every heartbeat he lost ground he had little desire to regain.

  For the first time in many years he wished for more than the ability to read the language of the body, the nuances of movement and expression that had always sufficed with the others, and with the townsfolk who shunned him. In the silence, he gazed at Joey and wanted to understand the thoughts that passed behind her composed, delicate features, the motivations behind her sudden bursts of temper, and why she responded to him in ways that tore at his resolve, why even now the primitive needs of her body called to his in ways that her cool rationality denied. He wanted to know, desperately, why she was the one.

  He only realized how long he had struggled within himself when Joey's head dropped wearily into her arms where they rested on drawn-up knees, her silver-gold braid catching moon and firelight as it slid over her shoulder. It had grown very late and very cold, and Joey shivered even as her body demanded its toll of rest.

  Luke hesitated only a moment. He got up from his place across the fire and moved to her side with steps too silent to wake her. For one last instant he paused, inches away so that he could hear the sweet sound of her breathing and smell the rich femininity of her scent. Then he dropped down beside her, his arms closed about her so that she eased back into them without coming fully awake, her loose-limbed body a feather-light softness. She sighed, and her eyelids fluttered as she settled against him with complete and unconscious trust.

  He held her there until the fire died, his face pressed into the silken spun-starlight of her hair. For those time-suspended moments he was able to believe there was no future to deny. "Joelle," he murmured against the gentle pulse at her temple.

  Her name drifted out into the night, and the unasked question was answered by a solitary cry of a distant wolf.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning dawned brilliant and very cold, Joey felt more rested than she had in many days. The luxury of waking to breakfast and coffee and hot water had added a great deal to the feeling that everything was working out far better than she could have hoped. Only the continual, nagging awareness of Luke and the memory of what they had revealed to one another prevented a lapse into a reckless state of sheer happiness.

  Luke himself seemed unaware of the subtle change. He was reserved but friendly, casual but oddly intense in that way of his. As they started their day's hike, she caught him looking at her when he thought she wouldn't notice; always that intensity was there. She had almost grown used to it. Almost.

  It was easy to fall deep into thought, lulled by the steady rhythm of the pace Luke set, relying on his watchfulness in place of her own. Sometimes she would stumble, and he'd catch her, chiding her for her inattention, but he seemed content to take the responsibility.

  She was free to assimilate all he had told her of himself and his background, adding another piece to the puzzle that was Luke Gévaudan. It only made the other missing parts seem more vital.

  Thoughts soon became more of a burden as their ascent up the slope of the ridge grew steeper, her feet struggled for purchase on the scree, and choosing each step took more and more of her concentration. Luke's hand was always there to steady her, his solidity a barrier against any fall. He almost insisted, once, that she transfer more of the contents of her pack to his; with a stubborn desire to prove herself, Joey declined and made the vow that she would keep up with him, one way or another.

  It was harder work than she had thought, but she managed it. Her reward was Luke's appraising glance as they reached the summit of the pass, his slow smile of approval.

  As they paused for a cold lunch, Joey caught her breath and basked in the feeling of accomplishment. And Luke's regard Around them, the ridge was bare of trees, an open place where the wind was sharp and marmots whistled among the rocks. Joey shivered and pulled on the extra layers of sweater and parka she had discarded on the long hike up. A goshawk cried, sharp and sweet, as it rode the air currents in search of prey.

  From here the valley that swept away below them was a canvas of rich green, unbroken save for a few meadows and the revelation of water where streams cut through the forest. The valley was small, well protected by mountains on every side. Joey packed away the uneaten food and savored the magnificent view.

  "Is that still your land?" she asked, awed by the sheer scope of it.

  Luke shook his head "No—my land ends with this ridge. That"—he indicated the valley with a nod—"belongs to good friends of mine. And there"—his hand came up to indicate a series of low peaks at the other side where the land rose gradually from the valley floor—"that's our goal."

  Joey stared at the place she had been struggling so long and hard to reach. It seemed very far yet, and there were still no guarantees that it would be the place she sought. But there was still a chance. She was almost there…

  "Are you ready?" Luke was hitching his pack up over his broad shoulders. Joey nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on Miller's Peak and the surrounding mountains, range upon range marching into the distance beyond them. She hardly noticed when Luke helped her into her own pack and started down the other side of the pass; she scrambled to catch up and concentrated on the uncertain footing of descent.

  They soon found themselves once again among the trees, entering a land every bit as pristine—and primitive—as Luke's had been. Joey was considering how she could possibly have done this on her own when something very fast and very determined burst out of the brush ahead of them and flung itself headlong at Luke. She very nearly lost her balance under the weight of the pack as she jumped aside, but Luke held his ground, and when the small form was about to collide with his legs, he caught it up and swung it into his arms. Stunned, Joey only then recognized the very dirty and very wild face of a laughing child.

  A moment later Joey was laughing herself. It was hard to believe such a little girl could move so fast. Shrugging out of her pack,
she watched in growing amazement as the child chattered a rapid-fire patter in a language most distinctly not English. Luke was smiling. It was just about as close to a broad grin as she'd ever seen on his face, and that alone was enough to capture Joey's full attention.

  She concentrated very hard on picking up individual words in the little girl's babble. A fragment or two she managed to catch convinced her it was French she was hearing; a moment later Luke's deep voice confirmed it, speaking in more measured tones. There was more genuine warmth in his voice and in his expression than she had ever seen. He shifted the girl in his arms as if she were as light as a feather, and she kept up her ceaseless chatter, tugging at his chin, giggling and squirming.

  It didn't bother Joey in the least that she could understand only a little of what the girl was saying, and no more than a portion of Luke's brief replies. Watching them together was a revelation. Luke's full attention was on the child, his head cocked and eyes bright with amusement. He was utterly relaxed, the hard planes of his face shifting again and again in response to the girl's monologue. Joey thought he had entirely forgotten her existence, but even that did not annoy her. There was too much fascination in seeing a side of Luke she hadn't realized even existed.

  Luke laughed once, a deep chuckle as the child asked him a question; he shifted her again in his arms and answered. "Tu es devenue trop grande pour moi, Claire. Je vais devoir te remettre à terre." A moment later he let the wriggling little girl slide out of his embrace to the ground, where she took firm possession of his hand and abruptly turned her full attention to Joey.

  It certainly seemed odd that a child—no more than six or seven years old, with a dirt-streaked face, tangled black hair, and one finger planted firmly in her mouth—could focus that familiar, unnerving stare on Joey in much the same way Luke had. She felt as if she were being very carefully examined, judged, and sentenced by those wide green eyes. To counteract both the inspection and her uneasy reaction, Joey dropped into a crouch and smiled. "Hello, Claire. My name is Joey."

  The little girl removed her finger from her mouth, clutched Luke's hand more tightly, and thrust out her lower lip with uncertain belligerence. After another long moment of concentration she turned to look up at Luke with a loud and demanding question.

  Joey didn't have to understand all the words to work out the meaning. She maintained her smile and waited while Luke set down his pack and tousled the little girl's curls with his free hand. He glanced for the first time at Joey, the smile was still there, but this time it seemed all for her—a reassurance, still tinged with warmth.

  Luke answered the little girl slowly. Relying on guesswork and tone of voice to follow the conversation, Joey translated silently Joey est mon amie. Joey is my friend That much she understood very well. She basked for a moment in the warmth of Luke's gaze and then turned back to the girl.

  The child looked dubiously from Luke to Joey "Est-ce qu'elle est gentille?"

  Luke's answer was firm but reassuring, telling Claire that Joey was indeed "gentille"—nice—and that Claire should be polite in return "D'accort?" he asked softly

  The little girl sighed heavily "Okay." The accent on the English word gave it a charming lilt, Claire tilted the corners of her mouth in a hesitant smile. Joey returned it and extended her hand. The little girl shuffled for a moment and then placed her own grubby fingers in Joey's with sudden gravity. "Vous ne pouvez pas parler français, mademoiselle?"

  Joey looked helplessly up at Luke, who appeared very close to an outright laugh. He spoke to Claire in French and switched abruptly to English again, almost losing Joey in the process. "She only wanted to know if you spoke French." The gleam of his green-gold eyes was almost teasing.

  Giving Claire's hand a gentle squeeze, Joey released it. "A little—but right now I wish I'd paid more attention in class," she muttered wryly. "I'll bet you're going to tell me that all your friends who own this land don't speak English, right?" She stood up slowly, working the kinks out of her legs while the little girl backed up against the solid strength of Luke's legs, the top of her head just reaching his belt. One of his hands dropped to rest on Claire's thin shoulder.

  "Some of them speak English—of a sort—but there isn't much need for it here." At Joey's pained expression he shook his head. "Don't worry. We'll only be spending the night here—and as long as you're willing to be friendly, you'll be made welcome." For a moment there was an odd tone to Luke's voice, but Joey had no time to consider it. Abruptly he looked down at the top of Claire's head, tugging gently at one of the errant black curls. "Maintenant, va dire aux autres que nous arrivons." "Tell the others we're coming "

  Claire grinned very broadly at his words, did an exuberant little whirl, cast a final uncertain glance at Joey, and dashed off before she could blink.

  In spite of the feeling that she was on the verge of something unexpected, Joey couldn't help smiling after the girl as she vanished as quickly as she had come. She turned back to Luke, watching the slow metamorphosis of his face into the familiar, cool, unreadable expression she had grown accustomed to. Gradually her own smile faded, at that moment she would have given a great deal to have him look at her, again, the way he'd looked at the child—the way he'd looked at her in the child's presence. Now the mask was back in place, and it created an unexpected ache in Joey's heart.

  As if aware of her melancholy, Luke glanced at her and just as quickly away. In the brief silence he lifted on his pack and adjusted it without meeting her eyes again.

  "They'll be expecting us when we arrive—shouldn't take more than an hour." He waited until Joey had donned her pack and then started off without further explanation.

  "Just so I'll know what's happening, would you mind telling me who 'they' are?" Joey breathed, catching up to him. "And who that little girl—Claire—was? You certainly seemed to know each other!"

  Luke kept his eyes on the trail ahead of them as he answered. "We'll be spending the night in Val Cache—the village where Claire lives. You'll be able to sleep in a real bed for a change." There was almost a touch of dry humor in his voice. "Claire is my—our relationship is rather complex. We all find it easier to refer to each other as 'cousins'—even across generations."

  Joey's mind skipped over his explanation and put several things together. "Val Cache Cousins. This is the village you told me about last night—the place where your mother grew up!"

  "Yes." For a long while he said nothing further, and Joey considered everything he had told her of his background and the hidden village where a wild young woman had been born and had come back, in the end, to die. "As I said before," he added at last, interrupting her thoughts, "few of the villagers speak much English, but that won't be a problem, I'll translate anything you need to know."

  Casting him a dubious look, Joey reflected that not knowing what was being said around you couldn't be considered an ideal situation. But the prospect of a bed—and actually seeing the place where Luke had grown up—outweighed her doubts. Anticipation rose in her again, a fresh burst of energy carried her through the forest as they traveled the remaining distance to the village.

  When they arrived at last, Joey stopped in her tracks and stared. She could not have imagined a more picturesque place if she'd tried. From the edge of the clearing where they stood, neat one- and two-story log and wood-frame houses clustered to either side of an unpaved area that served as a main road. Beyond the village proper was an open field, and distant moving shapes that might have been horses or cattle. The whole of it could have been transported intact from the previous century. There were no electric power cables, no cars, and no satellite dishes, even Lovell looked like the heart of civilization compared to Val Cache.

  She was still absorbing this when Luke led her over the small footbridge that crossed a swift running stream and into the village. It was only then that Joey realized there were people waiting for them—people who had materialized seemingly out of nowhere to wait, still and silent, in their path. Like the villa
ge itself, the people were dressed as if they'd come from another, simpler time—but the faces that turned to Luke and Joey were anything but simple.

  It was almost a relief when little Claire burst out from among the solemn adults and danced up to them, she even spared a quick smile for Joey before grabbing Luke's hand and chattering away. Joey had almost gotten the hang of separating out the lilting words she spoke, even though most of the meaning eluded her. The girl made a dramatic announcement and pointed at Joey triumphantly.

  Joey found herself edging closer to Luke almost unwillingly when the villagers turned as one to look directly at her.

  Several sets of penetrating eyes stared at her unblinkingly. She returned their scrutiny with a tilt of her chin, straightening under the weight of the pack. Luke's presence at her back, though he did not touch her, was very welcome.

  "Hello." Joey heard her voice crack and cleared her throat impatiently "Hello, my name is Joey Randall."

  If she had expected an effusive welcome or any reply at all, she was doomed to disappointment. The faces that gazed at her were impassive, though not overtly hostile, even now she could begin to see similarity in the features—to each other and to Luk.e There was much black hair, some of it shot with gray that seemed to have little to do with age, planes and angles of jaw and cheekbone were reminiscent of Luke's. But it was the eyes that were most like his, in their intensity and strangeness—even though none matched the subtle power of his.

  Joey shifted uneasily, wondering how to break the stalemate, when Luke intervened. "Est-ce ainsi que vous souhaitez la bienvenue a une invitee?" Joey heard the challenge and question in his tone "Is this how you welcome guests?"

  The villagers shuffled, one or two of them muttered, and an elderly woman, her face a webwork of deeply engraved lines, stepped forward. Luke turned immediately to her. His words were clipped and defiant.