cold waters
of the creek. Five days he’d been in Madame’s company. Five days of battling
his lustful thoughts and ungovernable impulses. They’d traversed “die Kluft” in
South Mountain behind Conrad Weiser’s home early in the afternoon, and had half
a day’s walk before they reached Harris’s Ferry and his sensual torment at last
came to an end.
Kingston
tipped his face up to the night sky. One more interminable night and one half
day in which he must strive to control his mind and his body, when all he
wanted was to lay her down and take her. He knew that he could still her
protests with hot kisses, winning out over her piety, her propriety, so that he
could lose himself within her sweet womanliness.
Her
innocence beguiled his senses, her lush curves beckoned sweetly. He could
scarcely keep his goals in sight when Sarah was near. Thus, he was constantly
at war with himself, his head with his heart, his body with his need for a
reckoning.
The
warrior inside him screamed that she was poison to his purpose. Madame craved
peace; he wreaked havoc. War was his life—a one man war, carried out against
his enemies. He’d come too far and killed too many to quit the fight without
total victory... without revenge against the one man he hated above all others.
He’d
never talked to anyone about what happened to Caroline, and though the
circumstances of her death were known by some, no one had ever dared to
approach him about the details. Not even Angel, who was like a brother to him.
So,
why did he long to tell Sarah? Why had he quaked like a leaf a dozen different
times with the effort of holding the words back? He, who had howled like a wild
thing when he’d come home to find Caroline’s ravaged body, their son, newly
born and too tender to survive, mewling in the dust between her thighs. It was
an image he must never allow himself to forget. Not for the sake of his lust
for a woman so different from him, so foreign.
Hatred
for his enemy welled up inside him, and he clung to it, resolved not to weaken
again. Yet, as Kingston turned from the still waters of the creek, he felt his
composure crumble.
Caroline
stood a few feet away, garbed in a pale-hued gown, the look of a startled doe
poised to take flight upon her bloodless face. A breath of sound escaped
Sauvage’s tightening throat; the apparition glanced at him, then into the
trees.
She
would leave him now, to his torment. And this time, he swore, he would not
follow. But his grief and guilt bit deep and the cry was wrung from him as she
retreated into the trees. “Caroline, wait! Please don’t go!”
At
a little distance she paused, looking back. Sauvage followed, a madman,
pursuing a ghost. She was always just ahead, a bewitching glimpse of white gown
and flowing hair. With the child clutched tightly to her breast, she led him
past the deep ravine, along the winding path to the deserted campsite.
Deserted. Sauvage
glanced around. “Sarah?” The venison lay where he’d left it, and sufficient
wood had been gathered to fuel their nightly fire, but Sarah was nowhere to be
seen.
Caroline
forgotten, Sauvage sprinted to the stream, hoping Sarah would be there. But no
one was there.
Sauvage.
Quickly. He
heard Caroline’s voice, a husk of an urgent whisper inside his head, and he was
certain that he was losing his mind, but he listened, running now to keep her
fleeting figure in sight. She guided him to the east, along the path he and
Sarah had travelled that same afternoon. Sweat ran down his face in runnels
with the effort, streaming into his eyes. He ignored it, afraid to blink for
fear of losing sight of Caroline.
And
then, at a turn in the path, Caroline suddenly vanished and Sauvage saw Sarah,
her figure rigid, her sweet face a study in horror. A few yards away, Killbuck,
a half-Delaware, half-Huron member of La Bruin ’s band, had Sarah in the
sights of his rifle and was slowly squeezing the trigger.
Crack! The thunderous
report of a rifle
of the creek. Five days he’d been in Madame’s company. Five days of battling
his lustful thoughts and ungovernable impulses. They’d traversed “die Kluft” in
South Mountain behind Conrad Weiser’s home early in the afternoon, and had half
a day’s walk before they reached Harris’s Ferry and his sensual torment at last
came to an end.
Kingston
tipped his face up to the night sky. One more interminable night and one half
day in which he must strive to control his mind and his body, when all he
wanted was to lay her down and take her. He knew that he could still her
protests with hot kisses, winning out over her piety, her propriety, so that he
could lose himself within her sweet womanliness.
Her
innocence beguiled his senses, her lush curves beckoned sweetly. He could
scarcely keep his goals in sight when Sarah was near. Thus, he was constantly
at war with himself, his head with his heart, his body with his need for a
reckoning.
The
warrior inside him screamed that she was poison to his purpose. Madame craved
peace; he wreaked havoc. War was his life—a one man war, carried out against
his enemies. He’d come too far and killed too many to quit the fight without
total victory... without revenge against the one man he hated above all others.
He’d
never talked to anyone about what happened to Caroline, and though the
circumstances of her death were known by some, no one had ever dared to
approach him about the details. Not even Angel, who was like a brother to him.
So,
why did he long to tell Sarah? Why had he quaked like a leaf a dozen different
times with the effort of holding the words back? He, who had howled like a wild
thing when he’d come home to find Caroline’s ravaged body, their son, newly
born and too tender to survive, mewling in the dust between her thighs. It was
an image he must never allow himself to forget. Not for the sake of his lust
for a woman so different from him, so foreign.
Hatred
for his enemy welled up inside him, and he clung to it, resolved not to weaken
again. Yet, as Kingston turned from the still waters of the creek, he felt his
composure crumble.
Caroline
stood a few feet away, garbed in a pale-hued gown, the look of a startled doe
poised to take flight upon her bloodless face. A breath of sound escaped
Sauvage’s tightening throat; the apparition glanced at him, then into the
trees.
She
would leave him now, to his torment. And this time, he swore, he would not
follow. But his grief and guilt bit deep and the cry was wrung from him as she
retreated into the trees. “Caroline, wait! Please don’t go!”
At
a little distance she paused, looking back. Sauvage followed, a madman,
pursuing a ghost. She was always just ahead, a bewitching glimpse of white gown
and flowing hair. With the child clutched tightly to her breast, she led him
past the deep ravine, along the winding path to the deserted campsite.
Deserted. Sauvage
glanced around. “Sarah?” The venison lay where he’d left it, and sufficient
wood had been gathered to fuel their nightly fire, but Sarah was nowhere to be
seen.
Caroline
forgotten, Sauvage sprinted to the stream, hoping Sarah would be there. But no
one was there.
Sauvage.
Quickly. He
heard Caroline’s voice, a husk of an urgent whisper inside his head, and he was
certain that he was losing his mind, but he listened, running now to keep her
fleeting figure in sight. She guided him to the east, along the path he and
Sarah had travelled that same afternoon. Sweat ran down his face in runnels
with the effort, streaming into his eyes. He ignored it, afraid to blink for
fear of losing sight of Caroline.
And
then, at a turn in the path, Caroline suddenly vanished and Sauvage saw Sarah,
her figure rigid, her sweet face a study in horror. A few yards away, Killbuck,
a half-Delaware, half-Huron member of La Bruin ’s band, had Sarah in the
sights of his rifle and was slowly squeezing the trigger.
Crack! The thunderous
report of a rifle
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