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

  Nicholas was unlike any man she had known. He was a big man and strong, like her stepfather, but, although he smiled but rarely and was not a man of many words, he did not use his strength in fits of violence. Though he was more thoughtful than Andrew, he was also stronger and more virile, a man for whom hard work offered no challenge. And though he was but a trapper, he spoke in surprisingly cultured tones.

  How unexpected that he, a rough stranger from the wild, had been her lifeline during her travail, his encouraging words and the soothing tone of his voice her only comfort. For so gruff and cold a man, he’d been surprisingly gentle and caring, and she remembered him calling her “love” more than once.

  “Bethie, love,” he’d said.

  She knew he hadn’t meant it, that he’d simply been trying to console her in her desperation. But the sound of those words on his lips filled her memory.

  In the days following the birth he’d become withdrawn again, distant and pensive. That didn’t mean he’d been rude to her. Far from it. He’d taken over the man’s chores about the farm, chopping and hauling wood, seeing to the bigger animals, repairing the leaky barn roof. He’d fixed the window he had ruined and built a shutter inside the cabin to prevent anyone else from doing what he had done. He’d even brought down a yearling buck, the first venison Bethie had tasted in many months.

  She was grateful for all of this, but other things he’d done had touched her even more. The day after the birth, he’d cleaned the old wooden washtub, carried it into the cabin, filled it with hot water so that she could soak her pain away. How had he known that sitting and using the chamber pot were excruciating for her or that hot water would help her feel better? Now bathing was a pleasure she enjoyed almost every evening.

  When her milk had come in and her breasts had grown hard and painful, he’d given her heated cloths to press against them though she’d not complained. And when her nipples had become chapped and sore from nursing, he’d shared a special ointment with her, one that magically relieved the pain and quickly healed them.

  He had shown her every kindness a woman could hope for from a husband, and yet he was not her husband. Nor was he Belle’s father, though clearly he was besotted with the baby. He had taken an old wooden chest, strengthened it, built legs for it, turning it into a little cradle, which he’d lined with soft rabbit fur. And just last night he’d presented Bethie with two pairs of moccasins that he’d made from the salvaged leather of his ruined breeches—one lined with gray rabbit fur that fit her and another pair so tiny that the sight of them had made her laugh. They, too, were lined with soft fur, and though they were the smallest pair of shoes Bethie had ever seen, they were still too large for her newborn daughter.

  “Room to grow,” he’d said, before turning and heading silently back outside.

  Still, Nicholas was a man, and she could not deny the sense of danger, the darkness that seemed to surround him like a shadow, despite his kindness. At times, she felt him watching her, felt his gaze upon her. And once in a while he would brush against her by accident, or his hand would touch hers by mistake, leaving her unsettled. She didn’t exactly fear him, and she knew he would not deliberately hurt her. But she didn’t feel at ease around him, either.

  Bethie set her stirring stick aside, smoothed her skirts, walked back toward the cabin to check on Belle, the soft feel of fur against her feet. She’d never had moccasins before. Her stepfather would have considered them sinful, as they came from the heathen Indian. And Andrew had no skill to make such things. For most of her life, her shoes had been nothing more than smooth blocks of wood with a leather shell nailed on top. Moccasins were much warmer, much more agreeable to her feet.

  Inside the cabin, Bethie found Belle peacefully asleep in her cradle, her wee fists pressed to her chubby cheeks. Bethie’s heart swelled with love. Though she had known she would feel affection for her child, she hadn’t expected to love her so fiercely that it stole her breath and made her heart ache. From her tiny eyelashes to her wee toes, Belle was perfect. And she was Bethie’s to love and to care for, someone who needed Bethie and would grow to love her in return.

  It was strange to think that Isabelle was also Andrew’s baby. Belle’s skin was fairest cream, her hair soft gold, while Andrew’s complexion had been ruddy, his hair sandy brown. With a shock, Bethie found herself struggling to remember his face.

  Silently, she chided herself, ashamed. Andrew had been a kind husband. He had rescued her from a life of misery and shame. He had forgiven her unspeakable taint. He had never hurt her or raised his voice at her. And only rarely had he taken his pleasure with her.

  “I must have sons, Bethie, lass,” he would say by way of apology. Then he would reach for her in the dark, lift her gown, climb upon her, finish silently and quickly.

  Bethie had not enjoyed it, but then she couldn’t imagine any woman did. Hadn’t her mother said as much? “’Tis a Christian wife’s duty, though it often seems a curse,” she’d said on the day Bethie had left to become Andrew’s wife. And so Bethie had never complained, had never refused him. It was his due as her husband, and her feelings about it mattered little.

  Bethie said a silent prayer for Andrew’s soul, added more wood to the fire. Then she picked up a large wooden bowl, checked on Belle one last time, and started toward the river. She needed more moss to line the baby’s diaper cloths. If she was lucky, she might even find milkweed pods from last fall. Once the seeds were removed, the silk would make an even softer lining than moss.

  It was truly a lovely day. Birds filled the sky, and the forest was rich with their tuneful chatter. Violets and bluebells bloomed beneath her feet, and a green mist of newborn leaves hovered on the branches of the trees. As she walked along the path to the river, Bethie found herself wondering when she’d last felt this carefree or happy.

  Only one thing marred her joy—the knowledge that Nicholas would soon be leaving.

  As disturbing as he might be, she was all but certain he would not go back on his word. He would not harm her or Belle. And he would protect them from any man who tried to do so. As long as he was with her, she’d be as safe as any woman could be in this untamed land.

  But she could tell he felt restless. He seemed distracted, overwrought, as if many matters weighed on his mind. She realized she knew nothing about him—where he’d come from, whether he’d truly lived with the Indians, whether he had a wife and children waiting for him somewhere. She tried to forgive herself if in moments of fear she hoped there was no one waiting for him, wished he had no other life to return to, for she could only stay here as long as he remained.

  Yet his mind seemed to stray far from here. She could see it in the way his gaze always sought the dark wall of the forest, in the tense lines of his face and the impatience that seemed to boil beneath his skin. Now that he was again hale and hearty, there was no reason for him to stay. And that meant the uncertain future Bethie had been trying so hard to avoid was drawing closer.

  * * *

  Nicholas let cold river water run over his naked body, welcomed its invigorating chill. He was beginning to feel strong again. Though he hadn’t recovered his full strength, he was no longer out of breath or dizzy. His injured leg was healing, as well, thanks to the salve Takotah had taught him to make long ago. And although it still hurt to walk or sit a horse, he was certain the wound would eventually heal completely.

  He waded back to the riverbank, startled a breeding pair of mallards from the shelter of new reeds, reached for the leather pouch he’d dropped there. He dug to the bottom, withdrew soap and a sharpened knife. He spread the soap on his face, scraped the knife over his skin with quick strokes, felt the day’s growth of whiskers give way.

  It was strange to shave regularly now when he had forsaken the habit for almost six years. He didn’t want to think about what had motivated him to start again—or admit that Bethie’s reaction when she’d first seen him clean-shaven had affected him. His shaving was a whim, nothing more.


  He rinsed his face, took up the soap again, began to wash his body.

  The river was running high and fast this year. Heavy snows had fallen in the mountains this past winter, and he expected that by the middle of next month, the river would overflow its banks. He’d have to wait to take Bethie back east until the middle of June. They had several rivers and creeks to cross to reach Paxton, and he wouldn’t risk losing her or the baby to the raging waters of the freshet.

  Of course, he hated to wait that long. Spring had brought new life, but by summertime the Ohio wilderness would again be rank with death. He didn’t want Bethie and Belle anywhere near here when the Indians attacked. Even Paxton was too far west for his tastes. He’d rather see her settled in Philadelphia, which enjoyed the protection of an entire British garrison. But she belonged with her family, so he would take her to Paxton.

  Still, the delay gave her time to heal. Already much of her strength had returned, though she tired easily due to night feedings and she hadn’t yet stopped bleeding.

  He hadn’t discussed his plan with her yet, but he was certain she’d be grateful for his help in returning home. He knew she was afraid to be here, knew it hadn’t been her idea to come here in the first place. He remembered the look of terror on her face when she’d turned, her arms full of firewood, and discovered him outside her cabin that first morning. It was only a matter of time before that scenario played itself out again, only next time the man on the horse would be someone else.

  Aye, she’d be grateful to be safely at home again.

  God’s blood, but he couldn’t quit thinking of her. He’d believed her lovely before, but now she was positively breathtaking. Her waistline was pleasingly slender again, her hips rounded, her breasts full with milk. And she glowed with love for little Belle, happiness shining on her sweet face like a sunrise.

  Unnerved by his reaction to her, he’d been doing his best to keep his distance. Fortunately, she seemed to want to stay as far away from him as possible. Skittish, easily startled, she pulled away from him any time he accidentally touched her, as if even the brush of his hand against hers unsettled her. How she could still fear him he knew not, but he’d begun to suspect her husband was the kind of man who hurt women. It gave Nicholas yet another reason to despise him.

  Still, Nicholas supposed her fearfulness was for the best. If he were left to follow his own impulses, she’d soon have another babe in her belly. More than once, he’d found himself wanting to kiss the plush curve of her lips, to run his fingers through the long silk of her golden hair, to cup the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, savor their rosy tips, taste their milky nectar. But he tried to slam the door on such thoughts the instant they arose. To give in to such fantasies would only make his need for her worse. Already his body was growing persistent, demanding. He felt like a boy of seventeen again, his cock hard more often than not.

  And if there were moments late at night when he watched Bethie nurse her baby in the light of the hearth and wished for all the world both mother and child were his? ’Twas only proof that he had not been himself of late.

  Bethie was no whore who earned her living off of men’s lust. And lust was all Nicholas could ever truly give her. As soon as he could safely see Bethie and her baby girl to her family’s farm, he’d take his leave of them and return to the only life he was fit to live.

  * * *

  Bethie worked her way down the riverbank, keeping a safe distance from the swirling waters as she peeled soft moss from the earth and placed it in her bowl. She walked quietly, warily, remembering the war party that had passed this way only weeks ago. But the air was so sweet and the singing of the birds so lovely that she could not linger on dark thoughts.

  On impulse she began to pick the wild violets that grew beneath the trees. They would make a pretty bouquet for the table. Or perhaps she would tie them at the head of Belle’s cradle. She followed the violets around a bend in the river, picking them in clusters of purple, white, and yellow, when a movement caught her eye.

  Heart in her throat, she froze.

  Nicholas.

  He stood with his back to her in the river just around the bend, water up to the middle of his thighs.

  And he was completely naked.

  She meant to avert her eyes, to turn away, to flee before he saw her. But she could scarce breathe, much less move. She had never seen a fully naked man before. Oh, aye, she’d cared for Andrew in his illness and after death. But he had not looked anything like . . . this.

  Nicholas’s body was all muscle, lean and hard. His thighs were heavy and corded, his bum twin mounds of smooth muscle that tightened and released as he moved his weight from one leg to the other. Dark, wet hair clung to his skin, hung down his powerful back all the way to his narrow hips. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged and stretched as he washed himself. His skin, bronzed from the sun, was slick and wet.

  ’Twas like stumbling upon some heathen river god.

  Bethie stood as if under a spell, her mind beyond fear or reason. And although some part of her knew what she was doing was wrong and sinful, she could not make herself turn away. Never would she have imagined that she could find a man beautiful. Yet beautiful he was.

  Time was measured in heartbeats as she stood, watched.

  And then it happened. She could not say when, but suddenly she became aware that he was looking straight at her.

  Blue eyes.

  Even at this distance, they pierced her.

  She felt naked. And although she knew she should turn away, apologize, leave him in peace, she continued to stare. Against her will, her gaze dropped from his bonny face to his broad chest, with its sprinkling of dark hair and wine-dark nipples tight from the chilly water. Then, as if by some deviltry, her gaze was drawn down along a trail of hair to his rippled belly and then, farther still, to his sex.

  Bethie felt her womb clench.

  Bereft of thought, of breath, she stared at what she had never seen in the light before. To her eyes, he seemed huge, his shaft thick and heavy, his stones full and nestled in dark curls.

  Heat and heaviness seemed to spread through her belly, a new sensation and more than a little frightening. She meant to look away, tried to look away, but his raw maleness enticed her, called to her.

  And some unknown part of her answered.

  Her gaze moved up his body again—and she saw them.

  Countless scars.

  Ridges and rings of pinched, puckered skin, they dotted his belly and chest, reached around his side. They looked like burns long-healed. And spread in a pattern as they were, they could not be the result of an accident.

  Someone had done this to him. Someone had hurt him terribly.

  The horror of it broke the spell.

  She gasped. Shame flooded her, and she lifted her gaze to meet his impenetrable stare.

  “I’m sorry! Forgi’e me!”

  She took two steps backward, then turned and ran back to the cabin.

  * * *

  Nicholas shut the barn door, leaned against it, looked up at the clear night sky. A thousand points of silver light spread across the black velvet heavens. But their beauty held no comfort for him tonight.

  He ought to have expected it. Women were repulsed by his scars. He knew that. Even the most baseborn whore stared at his body with loathing. He had learned long ago not to care.

  Why, then, had Bethie’s reaction cut him to the quick?

  Because he’d seen desire in her eyes, and like a fool he had dared to hope.

  He hadn’t heard her approach—itself an oddity. He’d turned to find her staring at him as if she’d never seen a naked man before, a look of feminine need blatant upon her face. Only the chilly water had kept him from becoming hard as granite.

  Her gaze had traveled over every inch of him in seemingly innocent appraisal, her eyes growing wide at the sight of his penis. He might have preferred that her first sight of him come elsewhere, out of the icy stream, which tended to humble
and wither a man. Still, he’d seen appreciation on her face.

  It had been so long since a woman had gazed upon him with anything other than revulsion. Raw hunger for her had surged through his veins, and for a moment he’d considered going to her, ripping away her gown, and pleasuring her right there on the damp moss. He’d known he could not take her in the normal way, as she was still healing. But there were many ways to please a woman, many ways he could find release with her. And he’d been willing to use them all. Hell, he’d have been happy to forgo his own orgasm for the sheer pleasure of watching her face as she climaxed.

  But even as he’d been about to take a step toward her, the passion had fled her face and was replaced by a look of horror. And she had turned away from him and run.

  She had avoided him all day and into the afternoon, unable to look him in the eye. She’d barely spoken as they’d eaten their evening meal, had seemed nervous, uneasy, her cheeks stained with color. Perhaps she was simply embarrassed to have come upon him when he was unclothed. Or perhaps the record of violence, carved into his flesh, frightened and sickened her.

  Why did it matter? As soon as he delivered her to her family, he’d bid her farewell and ride into the west. He’d never see her or Belle again. What she thought of him would not matter then, so it should not matter now.

  That was what he told himself, but that was not how he felt. And he cursed himself again for his irrational thoughts. His desire for her was clouding his mind. It was time he began making serious plans for taking Bethie back to her family, not only for her sake and that of her baby, but for his own, as well.

  And if she didn’t want to leave?

  Unthinkable. No woman would choose to stay out here.

  He strode to the cabin, resolved to put other thoughts behind him and begin discussing plans with her tonight. But when he opened the door, he found her lying sound asleep on her bed, little Belle asleep beside her.

  He lifted the covers over them, added wood to the fire, pulled in the door string. Planning would have to wait for morning.