Lord of the Wolves by S K McClafferty Page B

eyes, Sauvage felt a catch in his chest. The golden
firelight glimmered in the soft brown strands that framed her face, played
across her cheeks, and gilded the tips of her spiky lashes. She was the very
embodiment of all things feminine, and it seemed he could deny her nothing. “For
me, it has always been La Bruin. ”
    “Always,”
she repeated, her smooth brow furrowing in a perplexed frown. “You know him
well?”
    Tipping
back his head, he pretended to contemplate the starlit heavens visible through
the willow streamers. “You see that halo ‘round the moon? There will be rain
coming very soon. Perhaps as early as tomorrow.”
    “A
pretty attempt at evasion, monsieur,” she said. “But I am in a mood as well and
will not let you escape my question so handily.”
    He
should deny her, ignore her, turn cold and aloof, yet Sauvage found that
tonight of all nights he could not. His own painful past weighed too heavily on
his mind to be easily set aside. He gave Madame what she wanted—-or at least a
portion of it—-hoping to satisfy her sudden curiosity. “You might say that we
have a history, La Bruin and I. One that goes back a number of years.”
    She
narrowed her eyes. “You were not allies?”
    We
have always been enemies. Aloud, he said, “No, never that.”
    “Kathryn
named him a devil, and as we huddled in the log, listening to the cries of Mr.
Bones, I came to believe her. I cannot help but wonder how such evil exists in
mankind. Surely he was spawned by Satan and reared up by wolves.”
    “Give
the wolves some credit, Madame,” Sauvage replied. “As it happens, La Bruin was gently born and grew up wearing silks and perfumed laces.”
    “ La
Bruin a gentleman!” She was genuinely shocked. “That is very hard to
countenance.”
    “The
truth is often difficult to understand.” She would have spoken then, asked yet
another question about La Bruin , had Sauvage not put up a hand. “I dwell
enough on La Bruin. Tonight I do not wish to think of him, and I would
not be the cause of you having bad dreams.”
    “There
is a good likelihood that I shall suffer them in any case.” She caught her full
lower lip between her strong white teeth, becoming at once the endearing little
mouse that he could not seem to resist. “I was such a timid child, forever
starting at shadows. My father chided me for my weakness, and told me that I
must face my fears to make them disappear. Doubtless he was right, yet I
couldn’t find the courage to confront the invisible creatures lurking in the
shadows beneath my trundle bed.”
    Sauvage
understood about nightmares. Caroline haunted him, waking and sleeping. There
was not a day that passed that he was not reminded of her ethereal presence,
and rare indeed was the night when he did not awaken, his heartbeat a dull roar
in his ears and his body drenched with cold sweat, certain he’d heard the cry
of a new born babe.
    By
sheer dint of will, he pushed back the ghosts of the past and gave his
undivided attention to Sarah, his present.
    “It
was better after I married,” she was saying. “I felt safer. More secure.”
    “You
liked the warmth and strength of a man in your bed, eh?” he surmised with a
knowing smile.
    She
averted her gaze at his bold comment, but she did not seek to chide him for
speaking in so straightforward a fashion. Instead, she answered softly. “I
suppose that I did, in a way. Timothy was such a good man, kindly and patient
with all of my shortcomings, always understanding. When I would awaken, he
would hold me close until the fear all melted away. Somehow it made me less
afraid, just knowing that he was there.”
    “And
now he is gone, and there is no one to hold you when you waken in the middle of
the night.”
    A
slight nod of her bowed head, the glimmer of tears beneath the lush sweep of
her lashes.
     Madame’s
tears and soft-voiced confession had a strange effect upon Sauvage. In that
moment he should have liked very much to console her,