Lord of the Wolves Read online

  LORD OF THE WOLVES

  S. K. McClafferty

  Lord Of The Wolves

  Susan Kay McClafferty

  Copyright 2000 by Susan Kay McClafferty

  Digital edition 2012

  Contents

  LORD OF THE WOLVES

  Copyright

  Other Books By S. K. McClafferty

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  THE FORTUNE HUNTER

  About the Author

  Other Books By S. K. McClafferty

  Historical Romance

  ROUGH AND TENDER

  FORBIDDEN FLAME

  EMBRACE THE WILD DAWN

  ONLY IN DARKNESS (Avon Books Paperback: CONQUER THE NIGHT)

  BRIDE OF THE SHINING MOUNTAINS (Zebra paperback A SCANDALOUS BRIDE)

  THE FORTUNE HUNTER (Precious Gems LOVE, JAMES)

  LORD OF THE WOLVES

  Romantic Suspense

  AS NIGHT FALLS

  DON’T TELL A SOUL (January 2013)

  IN AT THE KILL

  BE VERY AFRAID

  NOTHING TO LOSE

  SHAKEN AND STIRRED as Sue McKay

  The Jenna’s Cove Romance Series

  THE GHOST AND DEVLIN MUIR

  LOVE-MATCH.COM July 2013

  For Sarah Katherine Waldenville,

  My favorite Sarah.

  Chapter 1

  Pennsylvania Colony

  August 21, 1757

  The cry came from a distance, plaintive and haunting, almost human in its utter loneliness, or so it seemed to Sarah Marsters, who crouched within the walls of a rickety hunter’s cabin deep in a darkened wood, trying unsuccessfully to keep her fears at bay.

  Sarah was new to the American wilderness, but it did not take a seasoned frontiersman to recognize the sound for what it was. Wolves. They’d caught the scent of the blood on the night wind.

  Sarah’s gaze drifted to the still form of her traveling companion, Kathryn Seaton. She lay on a pallet of leaves and moldering straw at the rear of the structure—their refuge.

  That’s what Sarah had called it when the two of them had come upon it earlier that same evening. They had walked several miles since the attack on their party that afternoon; sheer determination had kept the wounded Kathryn on her feet, and they’d veered like a pair of drunken wraiths when they’d caught sight of the structure.

  Glimpsed first by the flattering light of a full moon, it had seemed a gift from Providence, and even when Sarah saw that the waddle and daub had fallen from the cracks, the door hung askew on its leathern hinges, and there was little to speak of left of the roof, she’d sent up a prayer of thanks.

  The bullet wound in Kathryn’s side was bleeding profusely, and she leaned heavily on Sarah for support. Sarah knew her friend’s strength was ebbing. She needed rest and quiet. Sarah needed the security that had been cruelly torn away earlier in the day by the resounding crack of musket fire, the war cries of the savages, and the agonized screams of the dying.

  Sitting on the dirt floor of the cabin, her arms locked around her upraised knees, she heard the ghostly echoes in her mind.

  It had all happened so suddenly. One moment, she was lagging behind the others because of a stone in her shoe, and the next she was standing on a wooded knoll beside Kathryn, watching with growing horror the bloody tableau being played out below. In a small clearing a dozen yards to the west, the four men of their party were besieged by a band of savages and their leader.

  Young Henry Windham had already fallen, a bullet in his brainpan. His father, Mr. Burl Windham, a portly merchant from Philadelphia, crouched beside his son, begging Benjamin Bones to help him. Bones, the hired guide who had led the party west from the Moravian settlement of Bethlehem, had taken shelter behind a huge pin oak along with Joshua Stanhope, Kathryn’s younger brother. Both were returning the enemy’s musket fire.

  Mr. Windham’s cries were piteous. Sarah’s heart went out to him. Seemingly, they moved Joshua Stanhope, too, because as she watched, he burst from cover, heading for the center of the clearing where the merchant and his son were trapped. There was a crack of musket fire, and Joshua fell.

  Her brother’s death sent Kathryn into action. She clawed at Sarah’s arm, dragging her back into the trees. They stumbled blindly back down the hill, crashing through the leaves and creating enough din to wake the dead. Then, she was knocked to her knees and shoved headfirst into the dank and smelly darkness of a hollow log where they burrowed like two raccoons in a den tree while one of the Indians searched all around them.

  Later, after the moon had risen and the terrible sounds from the clearing had stopped, they wriggled from hiding and began the long trek eastward. That had been hours ago.

  Sarah shook her head to clear it, pushing the unsettling images away. She could not dwell on the attack, not when a new threat was lurking. Yet, strength had always come hard to Sarah. Cowardice was much more her way.

  From outside the cabin walls came a rustling movement. A padding of paws on the forest loam. Sarah’s heart stilled. She’d never been so frightened, so incapable of decisive thought or the smallest movement.

  A low growl issued from the rear of the cabin, not far from where Kathryn lay sleeping. At the same time, something bumped against the door, and the panel thumped on its frame.

  The wolves had closed in while she sat lost in thought.

  We are surrounded.

  Sarah shrank back as her cowardice rose up to claim her. Oh, how she regretted leaving England! If only she had not dreaded the thought of spending another winter alone, she would be safe in her late husband Timothy’s family residence in London... if she hadn’t feared the encroaching years, and the thought of growing old alone. Then, just as her fears sunk invisible fangs deep, the letter from Timothy’s brother, Gil, arrived, asking her to come to America.

  In the long missive, Gil, a respected member of the United Brethren, spoke of a colleague, one Brother John Liebermann, who had gained permission by way of the lot to take a worthy woman to wife. Gil spoke of the good works being done in the American colonies, of the richness and beauty of the land and its native peoples, then slyly suggested that Sarah give serious consideration to the thought of remarriage, and said that if she were willing, arrangements could be made.

  Almost before she knew what was happening, Sarah was undertaking the voyage to America.

  And to think that for a time she had considered herself to be bravely embarking on a daring new adventure, boldly charting her own destiny.

  As she berated herself for her foolishness, the wolves grew bolder, circling the structure, snuffling loudly at the cracks. Had she suspected that her destiny was to be devoured by ravenous fur-covered creatures, she would have gladly grown old and decrepit by the safety of her own hearthside.

  She heartily wished herself there right now and Kathryn with her. In England, her friend would be made comfortable in a soft feather bed while the maid ran for the physician. There would have been powders and poultices, and herbal concoctions to help her recover, instead of a hard earthen floor and a fearful companion for her only solace.

  But this wasn’t England.

  And all they had was each other. Sarah suddenly felt very sad for Kathryn. If not for Kathryn’s bravery that afternoon, she would have suffered a terrible fate at the hands of t
he savages. Now, it was her turn to help her friend, and she could do nothing but sit, cowering like a great frightened lump, ready to surrender to death before it came to claim her.

  How shameful.

  How typical.

  How could she simply give up?

  The door bumped against its frame a second time. Sarah gathered her small store of courage. She’d never been brave, and could not be now, but the wolves did not know that. Perhaps just this once, she could go through the motions—pretend.

  Think! Oh, think what to do!

  A weapon! A brave woman would seek out a weapon!

  Sarah glanced around the interior of the structure. The shadows were deep, and she could not see clearly, but she could not let that stop her. By sheer dint of will, she unlocked her arms from around her legs and crawled around the perimeter of the structure, scouring every inch of the litter-strewn floor for a rock, a staff, anything she might employ in their defense.

  In the farthest corner, she uncovered the skeletal remains of a mouse and a few acorns buried beneath the leaves, but nothing that would help alleviate their predicament. Thinking with longing of the ancient crossbow at the London house that hung suspended about the fireplace mantel, Sarah doggedly continued to search, but her heart sank a little more with each passing second. Just when she was about to succumb to her despair, her fingers brushed something rough lying among the leaves.

  Praise God, a stick! A solid, wonderful stick, lying quite near the door!

  “Thank you, Lord,” Sarah said as her fingers curled around the weapon. At that same instant, one of the wolves, more determined than the rest, thrust his muzzle under the crack below the door and snorted loudly, then, catching her scent, snapped and snarled, baring its fangs.

  Sarah screamed, dropping the stick and stumbling back, then sat on her heels, her heart lodged in her throat, mourning the loss of her weapon. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. Angrily, she sniffed them back. To have come so close to victory made defeat all the more crushing.

  I am going to die. Cowards always die miserable deaths, so doubtless, I am deserving.

  Kathryn, unfortunately, was going to die, too, and all because she had the ill luck to fall in with a fearful companion, who sat on her heels and waited for a wolf to burst through the door, rather than reach for a weapon that lay just out of reach.

  Fearful. Yes, she was fearful. She could not embrace death gladly, but if indeed it was God’s will that she must die, then she would die with that stick in her hand!

  Catching her breath to try and contain her rising panic, Sarah forced herself to edge closer. “Pretty wolf,” she said, speaking aloud in order to boost her flagging courage. “I have need of that stick, to even the odds between us, you see, for I fear that God did not make us entirely equal.”

  At the sound of her voice, the animal growled again, a menacing rumble low in its throat. Then, it withdrew and began digging furiously beneath the door.

  A frisson of fear snaked up Sarah’s spine. Still, she kept edging closer, closer on hands and knees, her fingers mere inches from the gap between earth and door. Her fingertips brushed the rough bark, but could not grasp it. She crawled closer, inch by tortured inch, closer, until at last she closed her hand around the jagged end of the wooden staff.

  The beast snarled and snorted, redoubling its efforts to gain entrance to the structure, but Sarah was just as determined to hold it at bay. On quaking limbs, she assumed what she hoped was a threatening stance between the door and Kathryn. “I give you fair warning,” she said. “I am unarmed no longer. If you do not leave us in peace, I shall be forced to use violence.”

  How strong her voice sounded, how forceful! Yet, the wolf paid no heed, just kept digging, filling the air with the smell of freshly churned earth, a smell redolent of the grave. Then, as Sarah watched, it wedged its sleek gray body into the newly made space, trying to wriggle under the door.

  A rustle of movement sounded behind Sarah. Kathryn stirred on her pallet, moaning softly in her sleep. Rushing forward with a cry on her lips, Sarah brought her stick down hard across the wolf’s broad head. Whack! Whack!

  She struck, and struck again, punishing blows that landed solidly on its head and across its sensitive muzzle. The animal snapped and snarled, snatching at the end of her stick. Then, with a whine, it wriggled back under the door.

  As she stood, out of breath and panting, trembling in every muscle, a new sound emerged from the dooryard outside the cabin, a deep, resonant male voice barely heard above the sound of something solid striking flesh and bone, and the subsequent yelp of the wolves.

  Curious, Sarah crept to the door and stood, peering out through the largest crack. Standing in the dooryard, not a dozen paces away, was a tall, lean figure of a man. He had an impressive breadth of shoulder and an easy sort of arrogance, despite the fact that several wolves still lurked dangerously near.

  Sarah held her breath, expecting that at any second, any or all of the animals would leap upon this stranger and tear him to pieces before her very eyes. Yet, as she watched, mesmerized, the stranger shifted the long-barreled rifle that he carried, resting its butt upon the ground. Then, folding his hands over the muzzle, he began speaking in a language she could not comprehend, seeming to address the animals themselves.

  His actions were strange indeed; the wolves’ reaction to his words stranger still. The animals dropped to their bellies and crept near, whining at the man and trying to lick his moccasined feet like a pack of remorseful hounds. He carelessly nudged them away with his rifle butt, and with a flourish of one hand, snapped a command.

  To Sarah’s amazement, the wolves tucked their shaggy tails between their legs and skulked off, melting one by one into the shadows of the midnight wood.

  The wolves had been vanquished, but the threat to their safety was far from eliminated. Indeed, as Sarah watched, danger personified moved from the shadows into the moonlit dooryard, where he stood surveying the hunter’s cabin.

  The glance with which he swept the structure was burning and intense, and Sarah had the odd impression that he could see her there by the door, her eye pressed to the crack. Instinctively, she drew back, then, admonishing herself mentally, forced herself to look again, to study him as he studied the camp.

  She surmised that he was a young man, for his hair was black as soot. Banded by a folded kerchief drawn across his brow, it streamed over his shoulders, rippling to his waist in back.

  Sarah’s heart turned over in her breast, and a fine sheen of cold sweat dampened her palms and dotted her brow. His unshorn raven locks and dark, penetrating gaze, the buckskin hunting shirt he wore over breechclout and leggings, the ornamentation he wore in his ears, all marked him as an Indian.

  A savage.

  Flashes from that afternoon flickered behind Sarah’s eyes.

  Poor Mr. Windham begging Mr. Bones for help for his fallen son; the bright crimson bloom that had appeared on Joshua Standhope’s shirt just before he fell; and the screams... the images were underscored by the hoarse, inhuman screams of Benjamin Bones that had filled the air throughout the long afternoon.

  A chill of dread swept through Sarah.

  Who was this man?

  What did he want?

  Did he belong with the renegade band that had attacked their party that same day?

  For some reason, Sarah didn’t think so. The Indians with La Bruin had plucked the hair from their heads, leaving but a wiry tuft standing straight at the crown, like the comb on a rooster. Their faces and bodies had been painted with vermillion, yellow, white and black.

  This man’s hair flowed unfettered down his back, and his skin was free of paint. He did not have the look of La Bruin’s savages, yet Sarah was afraid to trust him. As she watched, he assumed a waiting stance, both hands still resting on the rifle barrel. “The wolves are gone now,” he said in a clear and ringing voice. “You are safe from harm. It is time to open the door and come forth, into the moonlight.”

  S
everal seconds passed before Sarah realized he’d spoken in lightly accented English. The realization was oddly comforting. Perhaps he was not as savage as he seemed. It was not enough, however, to convince her to open the door, and so she waited, heart knocking violently against her ribs.

  “You’ve nothing to fear,” he persisted. “I come in peace.”

  Leaning on his Pennsylvania rifle, Kingston Sauvage repeated his promise, first in French, and then in Delaware, his mother tongue, hoping to draw a response from the occupant of the cabin.

  He knew without a shred of doubt that someone had sought refuge within the decaying walls—someone who continued to watch him warily. He could feel their gaze upon him, could sense the fear almost as keenly as his brothers the wolves had sensed it.

  Fear was a potent force, not easily conquered. Kingston glanced at the heavens. The moon was high above the trees. It was nearing midnight. If he lingered here, talking the night away, he would regret it come the morning.

  Hell. I am beginning to regret it already.

  Perhaps this person’s fear was well justified. Perhaps he should just leave her. It seemed to be what she wanted.

  He hoisted the rifle with one hand and with a final glance at the crumbling structure, started to turn away when he caught a flash of white from the corner of his eye. Slowly, carefully, he turned toward it and saw her standing there among the trees, as pale and ethereal as she’d been on their wedding day.

  “Caroline,” he groaned low, afraid to move, to breathe, for fear of frightening her away. She had the child, his child, in her arms, and she was smiling. How young she looked. How vulnerable. Instinctively, he reached out, wanting so badly to hold her again, to gaze into the face of his son, that he could not stop himself.

  The movement startled her. She glanced up, clutching the babe protectively to her breast, and slowly faded, leaving nothing but the vast, throbbing emptiness that had become so much a part of his existence.