Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

  She smiled up at him. “Go to them, Nicholas. Go to them.”

  He nodded, opened the door, stepped to the ground, and was swept into a throng of men and women who looked so much like him they could only be his brothers and sisters.

  “Nicholas!”

  “Welcome home, brother!”

  “Bloody hell, but you need a barber!”

  A young woman with her father’s dark hair stepped forward, remorse in her eyes, tears streaming down her face. Her hands were fisted in her skirts. “Nicholas, I . . . I’m so sorry.”

  Nicholas drew her into his arms, held her for a moment, then stepped back, taking her hands in his. “No, Elizabeth. ’Tis I who am sorry. You are and always have been blameless. You did nothing wrong. You came to comfort me, and I repaid your love and kindness with selfishness. I hurt you terribly. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Elizabeth nodded, her lips curving in a smile, even as she wept. “Oh, yes!”

  He embraced her again, held her tight.

  And suddenly Bethie felt close to tears. She blinked quickly, swallowed hard, fidgeted with the ribbons on Belle’s dress.

  “Shall we?” Her father-by-marriage stepped from the carriage, turned back for her, lifted her and Belle safely to the ground.

  She accepted his arm, walked with him to stand beside her husband.

  “This is your new sister-in-law, Elspeth Stewart Kenleigh. Bethie, if I might, this is Sarah and Matthew and Alec and Elizabeth and William.”

  Each of them greeted her in turn, the men with a polite kiss on the back of her hand, the women with an embrace and kiss on the cheek, as she repeated their names.

  “Father, what about me?”

  A little girl appeared from behind the others, dressed regally in silk, ribbons, and lace, her red-gold curls spilling over her shoulders. She looked expectantly at Nicholas and Bethie through bright blue eyes.

  Bethie glanced at Nicholas, saw on his face that his heart had just melted.

  He stepped forward, took the little girl’s hand, kissed it, gave a courtly bow. “Emma Rose. I’ve heard tales of your beauty, and I see that every word is true.”

  An adorable pink flush stole into Emma Rose’s cheeks. “You’re my brother, aren’t you?”

  “Aye. I am Nicholas, your eldest brother. And this is my wife, Bethie, and our daughter, Isabelle.”

  Bethie bent down, smiled. “I am so happy to meet you, Emma Rose. What a bonny lass you are! Isabelle is lucky to have you as her aunt.”

  Emma Rose blushed again, then looked straight at Nicholas, suddenly solemn. “Is it true you were hurt by Indians and then ran away?”

  Nicholas nodded. “Aye, ’tis true.”

  “Are you going to run away again?”

  Nicholas touched a finger to her nose. “This time I’m home to stay.”

  Emma Rose smiled at him, only to be swept off her feet by her father.

  “How is my little princess?”

  Emma Rose giggled, wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “Papa!”

  “Most coddled lass in the county,” Jamie whispered from behind Bethie, then strode off to embrace a beautiful dark-haired woman Bethie knew must be his wife, Bríghid. A flock of small children gathered around them.

  Then abruptly Nicholas’s brothers and sisters stepped back, and on the stairs before them stood a tall woman, her red-gold curls frosted with white, her lovely face lined with years of worry, her green eyes shimmering with tears. “Nicholas!”

  Nicholas stepped forward. But instead of embracing his mother as Bethie had expected, he knelt before her, his head bowed, his hands bunched into fists at his sides. As he spoke, his voice shook. “Forgive me, madam, for I have done you a most grievous wrong.”

  His mother reached out, touched his head, then knelt with him, framing his face with trembling hands. “There was never anything to forgive. Thank God you’re home! Oh, Nicholas!”

  Tears poured down Bethie’s cheeks as she watched the two of them embrace, listened to his mother sob for joy against her son’s shoulder. Then Nicholas lifted his mother up and swung her around.

  She laughed, her cheeks wet with tears, her smile bright. “Put me down, son, and introduce me to my new daughter-in-law and granddaughter.”

  Nicholas placed his mother gently on her feet. “Mother, may I present Elspeth Stewart Kenleigh and our daughter, Isabelle. If it weren’t for Bethie, I wouldn’t be here. She brought me back to life. She brought me home.” He met Bethie’s gaze, and she saw in his eyes a peace that had never been there before. “Bethie, your mother-by-marriage, my mother, Cassie Blakewell Kenleigh.”

  “Mistress. ’Tis a joy to meet you at last.”

  Cassie kissed Bethie’s cheek, stroked Isabelle’s downy head. “My husband and son have written and told me all that you’ve done, Bethie. I could not love you more if you were my own daughter. I hope that in time you shall come to think of me as a mother. Welcome home.”

  The shaft of joy that pierced Bethie’s heart was as bright and pure as sunlight.

  * * *

  Nicholas brushed Bethie’s hair as she read.

  “‘There is a . . . con-cat-en-ation of all events in the best of possible worlds; for, in short, had you no’ been kicked out of a fine castle for the love of Miss Cunegonde; had you no’ been put into the Inquisition; had you no’ traveled over America on foot; had you no’ run the Baron through the body; and had you no’ lost all your sheep, which you brought from the good country of El Dorado, you wouldna have been here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.’

  “‘Excellently observed,’ answered Candide, ‘but let us cultivate our garden.’”

  “And that, my love, is the end.” Nicholas set the brush and the book aside, pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her nape, drank in the scent of her skin.

  But Bethie seemed lost in thought. “I love your mother and father, Nicholas. I love Jamie and Bríghid. I love your brothers and sisters. I even love Takotah, though at first she frightened me.”

  Nicholas kissed his way along the column of her throat. “They love you, too.”

  “They are truly kind people, though I dinnae think I shall ever learn everyone’s name.”

  He nipped her earlobe. “You will—with time.”

  “Do you think this is the best of all possible worlds?”

  Nicholas chuckled, slid her shift from her shoulders, kissed the scar on her left shoulder. “Without a doubt, love. Mmmm, you taste good.”

  She giggled. “I’m no’ jestin’, Nicholas!”

  He slid his hands beneath the cloth to cup her breasts, flicked his thumbs over her tightening nipples. “Neither am I.”

  She shivered, pressed her breasts deeper into his hands. “And all you went through—was it worth this? Just like Candide, if you hadna been taken captive, if you hadna run from home, if you hadna been livin’ in the wild, if the Frenchmen hadna cut your—”

  “Then I would have found you some other way.” His cock was raging hard, his blood hot. “Come to bed, wife.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “That you should come to bed?” He took her hand, pressed his erection into her palm. “Oh, aye.”

  “Nay, you daftie! Are you certain we’d have met some other way?”

  Perhaps it was the tone of her voice, but something stilled him. He turned her to face him, knelt before her. “Aye, Bethie. It must be so, for I could not face this life without you.”

  She looked into his eyes, brushed a strand of hair from his face. “You have so many who love you. You’d have found your way home without me.”

  He cupped her face gently between his hands. “No, Bethie. I was a dead man, blind to their love. I cared about nothing, not even my mother’s tears. I lived without joy, took life without remorse. You made me feel again, forced me to face my past. You saved my life, but more than that, you saved me. No matter what I may have done for you, there is no gift greater than the one you have given me
.”

  “Oh, Nicholas! I need no gifts! Just love me, and I shall count myself the happiest of women.”

  He brushed his lips over hers. “I do, Bethie. With all my heart, I do.”

  Epilogue

  October 30, 1774

  Nicholas stood against the wall of his father’s study, sipping his evening cognac and doing his best to stay out of the fray while his father, his uncle, his brother William, and his sister Emma Rose argued about the burning of the HMS Peggy Stewart. It was in all the papers. People had spoken of little else for a fortnight, emotions in the colonies running high, talk of rebellion against the Crown growing.

  “Mob justice is no justice at all!” Even at age seventy-six, his hair almost entirely turned to silver, Alec Kenleigh was a daunting figure when he was angry. “Poor Stewart was forced to burn his own ship or risk being hanged, and yet the crime was not his. That crowd would have burned that ship heedless of its human cargo. The Crown has made some grievous errors in its governance of these colonies, but you cannot tell me it is enough to merit breaking bonds with Britain and turning this land over to such . . . rabble!”

  “Father, I am not alone in believing it is time to sever bonds with Britain.” William had traveled from his nearby estate to bring news of unrest in Annapolis. “Benjamin Franklin is not a man of poor judgment, nor is he given to immoderate anger, and yet even he believes reconciliation may be impossible.”

  “George Washington as well,” Jamie added. “He’s a Virginian, Alec, and a man whose judgment I trust.”

  Nicholas had his own thoughts on the subject. The split from Britain was inevitable. He’d seen the cracks begin to form and the rift widen during the war against the French and Indians. Parliament and the British commanders had seemingly done all they could to alienate the colonists, disregarding their superior knowledge of the land, treating them as lesser men. Only William Pitt had seemed to understand the colonists’ perspective. But it was too late. The colonists had already come to see themselves not as Englishmen, but as Americans.

  The seeds for this strife had been sown long ago.

  Nicholas didn’t want a war, but he feared it was unavoidable. He had never discussed this with his father. Alec Kenleigh would never turn against the Crown, not with estates in England and his beloved sister and her family living outside London. And Nicholas had sons—three so far. He did not want to see them lose their youth and vigor in bitter fighting or spend their blood in battle.

  William pressed on. “We cannot remain silent when other good men speak out.”

  “Well said, William!” Emma Rose’s cheeks were flushed with temper. Still unmarried at twenty, she had taken what their father deemed to be an excessive interest in politics. “Hester and Amity—”

  Father cut across her. “The Harris sisters are filling your head with dangerous notions and nonsense! I would do well to forbid any further association with them.”

  Emma Rose gaped at him in surprise, her astonishment quickly turning to fury. “Hester and Amity are loyal Virginians, father.”

  “Loyal Virginians? If they and their ilk should get their way, the blood of Virginians will soon stain the ground.”

  “’Tis better to die on our feet fighting than to live on our knees!”

  Nicholas took a slow step forward, struggling to keep his voice calm. “What do you know about fighting, Emma Rose? Have you been in battle? Have you witnessed true slaughter or cared for wounded men or watched them die? I’ve seen war enough to sicken my soul. You’d best pray this conflict does not turn to bloodshed, or you may find yourself burying your brothers and nephews.”

  For a moment there was silence.

  Emma Rose’s gaze dropped to the floor, her bluster gone. “Aye, Nicholas. You are right. It must not come to bloodshed. Forgive me.”

  Father stood. “Whatever occurs, know this: I will not allow this conflict to divide our family and turn us against one another.”

  The door to the study opened and Nicholas’s mother appeared.

  “This talk of war sickens me.” She glared at them, one at a time, then met Nicholas’s gaze. “If you’re quite finished arguing, Bethie’s labor has begun.”

  Nicholas set his glass aside, left the study, and took the stairs two at a time.

  * * *

  Bethie gazed down at her newborn son and stroked his dark, downy hair, too lost in the wonder of him to notice her exhaustion and lingering pain. “He looks so like his brothers—peas in a pod, the four of them.”

  “Aye, he does.” Nicholas took one of the baby’s clenched hands, opened the little fist, touched each tiny finger, the joy on his face making Bethie’s heart swell.

  He’d been beside her throughout her travail, as he had been each time she’d given birth. It had lasted nine hours, much longer than her last birth. They’d been nine arduous hours, too, her pangs coming fast and hard. Somehow, though she’d given birth six times before, she seemed to have forgotten how very much it hurt. Nicholas’s strength, the sound of his voice, his soothing touch had held her together.

  Outside the bedroom curtains, it was not yet daylight.

  The baby looked up at her through eyes that would soon turn blue, as all of their children’s eyes had done. Given his first bath by his grandmother and wrapped in a soft blanket, he seemed to study them, a slight frown on his little face. He opened his mouth, gave a little cry.

  Nicholas pressed a kiss to Bethie’s temple. “He’s hungry.”

  With Nicholas’s help, Bethie bared her left breast, wincing as the baby latched on and began to nurse, his suckling causing her womb to clench painfully. She closed her eyes, fought not to moan, the after-pains as fierce as true birthing pangs. Nicholas rubbed the hard curve of her womb as Takotah had taught him when Alexander was born, the pressure seeming to ease some of her discomfort.

  She tried to take her mind off her pain, her words halting. “What do you think . . . of namin’ him Benjamin after dear Mr. Franklin? He has ever been . . . so kind to us.”

  Nicholas smiled. “The old man will strut about Philadelphia as proud as a tom turkey when he hears the news. Benjamin it is, then. Benjamin James?”

  “Aye, I like that.” She stroked the baby’s cheek. “Benjamin James.”

  Out of nowhere, her mother’s words came back to her.

  Pray she didnae curse your womb as you did mine.

  How long ago that day now seemed, how distant the grief and loss. Far from having a womb that was cursed, Bethie had been blessed beyond measure.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I was just recollectin’ what my mother said the last time I saw her—about Isabelle cursin’ my womb as I had cursed hers.”

  “That makes you laugh?” Nicholas frowned.

  He never liked discussing her mother or stepfather.

  Bethie tried to explain. “I am now the mother of seven. There was a time when I feared that perhaps . . .”

  His frown faded, gentle understanding dawning on his face. “Her bitter words hold no power over you. They never did. But even had you never borne another child, I would have loved you and Isabelle just the same.”

  It was sweet to hear him say such a thing, sweeter still to know he meant it.

  “How different our children’s lives are from the one I knew. They’ll never suffer poverty or hunger. They’ll never be beaten or abused. They’ll never be left alone to fend for themselves. If aught should happen to us, they have aunts, uncles, and cousins who love them and would provide for them and keep them safe. I cannae tell you how much peace this brings me.”

  Nicholas stroked her hair. “I am glad to hear it.”

  The baby pulled away from her nipple, apparently done feeding. She closed her shift, adjusted the baby’s blanket, and lay back against her pillow.

  A light knock came at the door.

  Nicholas answered. “Come.”

  Alec and Cassie, whom Bethie now called Father and Mother, peeked in. Mother had dark circles beneath
her eyes from a sleepless night, a smile on her face. “The children are most eager to meet their new little brother.”

  Bethie shared a smile with Nicholas. “Aye, send them in.”

  Emma Rose ushered in six children still dressed in their nightclothes. Belle, very much her mother’s helper at age eleven, carried little Mary, only two, on her hip. Behind her came her brothers—Alexander, nine; Nicholas, six; and Matthew, almost four. All of the boys were dark of hair and tall for their age, very much resembling their father. Catherine, on the other hand, was fair of hair and resembled Bethie. She entered last, a smile on her sweet face.

  The children tiptoed across the room, noisily shushing one another, their faces alive with anticipation.

  Bethie turned the baby, holding him so they could see his tiny face.

  “Oh, Mama, he is beautiful—and so little!” Belle smiled brightly. “He looks just like you did, Matthew! Do you see the new baby, Mary?”

  “Baby?” Mary peered sleepily at her newborn brother, but was clearly unimpressed. She popped her little thumb in her mouth and laid her head on Belle’s shoulder.

  The boys drew closer, smiles on their faces.

  Little Nicholas reached out and gently touched the top of the baby’s head. “He can ride my pony if he wants, Papa.”

  Nicholas chuckled softly. “That’s most kind of you, son.”

  Alexander nudged his little brother. “He’s too little to ride a pony! I shall help Belle read him stories, Mama.”

  “I’m certain he will like that, Alex.”

  Little Matthew looked up at Bethie. “Do you think he likes me?”

  Bethie gave Matthew’s head a few reassuring strokes. He was no longer the youngest son in the family. “Aye, for certain, he does.”

  Emma Rose drew closer. “Oh, Bethie, he is so sweet! I cannot wait to hold him!”

  Nicholas’s father leaned forward, his wife beside him, and looked down at the baby. “He is a handsome boy. Can you fathom it, Cassie? Thirty-one grandchildren.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Your love has borne fruit, as it were.”

  Then little Catherine reached out, took one of Benjamin’s little hands in hers, her smile broadening. “I do not know him well, Mama, but already I love him.”