Chapter 8
Bethie tried to keep the shock from her face, put down her spoon, and buried her hands in her apron to hide their sudden trembling.
Nicholas continued to speak. “We dare not tarry. If we leave by the beginning of June, we should be able to reach Paxton by the first week of July.”
Her heart beat so fiercely she could scarce hear his final words. Her mind was fixed on one thought only: He wanted to take her to Paxton. He wanted to take her back to Malcolm Sorley, back to Richard, back to the mother who hated her, back to the hell that had once been her life.
I will no’ go! I cannae go!
Even as the panic cut off her breath, shards of hope, like shafts of sunshine, broke through her sundered thoughts.
Four long years had gone by, years of war and deprivation. She couldn’t be sure her family still lived on the farm. Perhaps they had fled farther east to avoid the slaughter.
For that matter, she couldn’t be certain Malcolm and Richard were still alive. And even if they were, there was every chance that Richard, who was a good ten years older than she, had married and gone off to farm his own land. That would still leave Malcolm to contend with, but he no longer ruled her. Bethie was now a grown woman and a widow, not a defenseless young girl.
Besides, she didn’t have to go all the way to Paxton. She could ask Nicholas to leave her at one of the forts or settlements along the way. He held no power over her. He could not force her to go to Paxton. And yet she knew she ought to be grateful. He was offering her his help in escaping the frontier—no small favor.
“Bethie?” The sound of his voice pulled her from her thoughts. He sat across from her, gazed at her with those piercing blue eyes, his dark brows furrowed.
Unable to bear his scrutiny, she stood, her breakfast uneaten, and busied herself mindlessly at the hearth, her back to him. She tried to keep her voice cheerful, free of the sickness that gnawed at her stomach. “Isabelle is too little to travel, nor can I yet make the journey. And you can scarce sit a horse such a long way with your leg still healin’.”
She heard the scrape of his chair on the wooden floor, knew he stood right behind her. “Another month is more than enough time. We cannot remain longer than is necessary. I’ve told you why.”
Aye, he’d told her the Indians had banded together in hopes of driving settlers back over the mountains. ’Twas every settler’s greatest fear. “Y-you said they wouldna attack yet, that they are gathering to the north.”
“Aye, but they will come. They will not leave this valley in peace. ’Tis their hunting grounds, the land of their grandfathers, and they want it back. You must seek safety with your family.”
Bethie choked back a panic-stricken laugh, felt tears fill her eyes. She wanted to scream, to shout at him, to tell him there was no safety anywhere near Malcolm Sorley or his accursed son, but she could say nothing without revealing her shame.
“Bethie?” The tone of his voice told her he could see her distress. “What is it?”
“What is what?” Dismayed that he was able to perceive so much, she snapped at him. “I dinnae know what you’re bletherin’ about, Master Kenleigh.”
“I think you do.”
She sought for excuses, kept her back to him, blinked her tears away. “’Tis such a long journey, and . . . it pains me to think of leavin’ the home I shared with Andrew.”
’Twas a lie, of course, but she had to say something.
“You loved him?”
The question took her by surprise. She hesitated. Loved Andrew? Certainly, she’d come to feel affection for him and gratitude. He had rescued her from hell, shown her kindness, and he hadn’t hurt her in any way. “H-he was my husband.”
“I’m sorry.” Nicholas didn’t sound particularly sorry.
But when she at last turned to face him, she saw an emotion in his eyes that might have been concern. He lifted a hand, cupped her cheek, his gaze locked with hers. His touch was warm, a gentle caress, and for the space of a heartbeat the storm inside her stilled. Then her mind flashed on the image of him standing naked in the river, so breathtakingly male, and her gaze dropped first to his lips, then farther still to the wedge of dark hair revealed by the loose ties of his shirt.
And suddenly it was too much—her family, Indians, Nicholas. She took an instinctive step backward. She needed to get away from him until she was herself again. With a quick glance to make certain Isabelle was safe in her cradle, Bethie picked up the water pail, and almost ran to the door. “I’ll be needin’ water for dishes.”
She’d just stepped outside when something hit her hard from behind, threw her onto her stomach on the ground, knocked the air from her lungs. A hard body held her down, and she both felt and heard the cloth of her skirts being ripped from her.
Lacking breath to scream, she kicked, fought, tried in vain to roll away.
This could not be happening! She would not let it happen! Not again!
“Damn it, Bethie! Stop!”
The panic she had suppressed moments earlier surged through her with renewed strength, and she was blind to all else. Air at last filled her aching lungs, and she screamed. “Stop!”
But his strength was unyielding. Strong arms forced her roughly onto her back, and the weight of his body held her fast.
Then suddenly he released her.
She crawled quickly away, sobbing for breath, then turned and stared in horror at the man she had almost come to trust.
And then she saw.
Beside him on the ground lay a large piece of cloth, gray woolen cloth from her skirts. It was scorched black and smoldering. The front of his shirt was also scorched. The sharp smell of burnt wool hung in the air between them.
Her gaze rose until it met his.
“Your skirts . . . on fire.” His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. “Are you hurt?”
She couldn’t hear his question, began to tremble uncontrollably.
Alarmed by her silence, Nicholas crawled to her, lifted what was left of her torn and scorched skirts, ran his hands over her slender legs, searched them for burns. Her skin was soft and creamy white, unscathed by the flames. And he realized as she stared at him in shocked silence that it was not the knowledge that her skirts had been on fire that made her tremble.
“Bethie.” He pulled her against his chest, held her, his relief that she was safe grappling with concern for her obvious suffering. He knew it was a measure of how shaken she was that she did not try to pull away from him. Even so, he was grateful she allowed his touch. She felt soft and precious in his arms.
When he’d realized the back of her skirts was afire, he’d felt a jolt of genuine fear such as he hadn’t known in years. For one horrible moment a vision had flashed into his mind’s eye: Bethie on fire, her body horribly burned, her violet eyes lifeless. On raw instinct, he’d leapt after her, cast her to the ground, thrown his body on the flames to squelch them.
She’d clearly thought he was trying to hurt her.
No, she’d thought he was trying to rape her.
He could think of only one reason a woman would react with such intense fear, lashing out in a desperate panic. Someone had violated her before. Someone—some man—had hurt her in the worst way a man could hurt a woman. And even as the revolting thought came to him, he knew in his gut he was right.
So many things suddenly made sense to him—her skittishness, her excessive modesty during Isabelle’s birth, her decision to sleep fully clothed, to drug him and tie him to the bed. She so greatly feared a man’s touch that she had all but stepped into the hearth fire to avoid him, for God’s sake!
Nicholas found himself itching to bury his knife in the whoreson who had placed such fear in her. Had it perhaps been her husband? Nicholas didn’t believe for one moment she had loved the man despite what she’d said earlier. She hadn’t called her husband’s name once as she’d labored to bring forth his child, hadn’t mentioned him as she’d held little Isabelle in her arms for the fir
st time. In truth, for a woman recently widowed, she seemed remarkably unburdened by grief. Perhaps her husband had been the sort of brute who took the notion of wifely duty too seriously and had forced Bethie to submit to his lust. If so, she was well rid of him.
Or perhaps it had been marauding Indians. Aye, perhaps that was it. Nicholas had seen her reaction when he’d told her that Obwandiyag of the Ottawa, known to her as Pontiac, was gathering all of the tribes in the region to his side for a renewed war on settlers. The color had drained from her face. Her breathing had become erratic, shallow, and her hands had begun to shake, just as she trembled now.
Nicholas ignored the voice that warned him to keep his distance, held her closer, overcome by a rush of tenderness for her. He fought to keep the anger that seethed inside him from his voice. “I frightened you. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to explain. In a moment you’d have been engulfed by flames.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didna mean . . . I didna know . . . I thought . . .” She shivered.
“I know.”
“Th-thank you, Nicholas. If you hadna—”
“Shhh, love. It’s over.”
He heard her gasp, felt her hands tug on his shirt.
She pulled away from him, looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You’ve been burned!”
He could feel the sting, but it was little worse than the pain of sunburn. “’Tis nothing, Bethie, truly.”
But she was already on her feet and tugging on him to follow her toward the well. “Come. We’ll put cold water on it.”
Nicholas stood, followed, mostly because he liked the feel of her small hand in his.
“Take off your shirt.” She released his hand, began to draw water from the well.
He hesitated for a moment, aware that he would be baring his scars to her again, then did as she asked, strangely pleased by the worry on her face.
Bethie grabbed the ruined shirt from his hands, dipped it in the full bucket, squeezed it out, her gaze dropping to his reddened chest. Regret coursed through her. When had she last done something so stupid? Even the littlest girl knew better than to drag her hems too close to the hearth. “Oh, this is my fault! If I hadna been so careless—”
“It’s not bad. Don’t blame—”
She pressed the sodden cloth against the hard wall of his reddened chest and belly, heard his quick intake of breath, felt his muscles jerk in response. “Oh, I’m sorry! I dinnae mean to hurt you!”
His chuckle surprised her, and she looked up to see not a look of pain on his face, but a smile, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his dark hair and skin. “You didn’t. It was the shock of cold water, nothing more.”
She bit her lip and, unable to bear the penetrating warmth of his gaze, looked at the backs of her own hands, suddenly aware how close to him she stood. Heat, like that of a fever, radiated off his body and through the wet cloth, seeming to seep into her. Beneath her left hand, she could feel the ridges and valleys of his abdomen, the slow rhythm of his breathing, beneath her right, the firm planes of his chest and the steady beating of his heart.
But she could feel something else, as well—the puckered crests of countless scars. Some were round and looked like burns, pinched circles of colorless flesh. Those she had seen from a distance yesterday. Others appeared to be cut marks, thin lines of faded silver against his sun-browned skin. Not only did they cover his chest, but also his sides, disappearing behind the muscled strength of his arms. She didn’t have to look to know she’d find them on his back, as well.
Without thinking, she reached with her right hand, gently ran her fingers over one of the burn marks, her heart filled with compassion for him. “Such cruelty! Who did this to you?”
Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the chorus of countless songbirds.
“The Wyandot.” His voice was rough, strained. “I was taken captive years ago.”
She looked up, saw the bleakness in his eyes, and his words of weeks ago came back to her.
’Tis only pain.
At last she understood. He hadn’t feared the heated blade because he’d already survived much worse. The Indians had tormented him with fire, had forced him to endure untold pain.
And yet he willingly threw himself on my burnin’ skirts to save me.
She felt tears prick her eyes, wanted to speak, to offer him some comfort, to thank him, but at that moment, Isabelle began to cry. “Belle.”
“Aye. Go to her.”
But just before she turned, she caught in his eyes a glimpse of anguish so deep that it nearly broke her heart.
* * *
Nicholas stacked another load of firewood in his arms, struggled to make sense of his own feelings, tried to understand what had happened this morning.
He hadn’t spoken of the Wyandot to anyone since he’d left home, had barely spoken of them to his family. He had tried to put those ceaseless hours of unbearable agony—and the even worse horror that had followed—behind him, hoping through his own silence to somehow silence his memories. He had ignored curious glances, overlooked surprised gasps, pretended not to hear even the most pointed questions. Until today.
Why was Bethie different? Why had the gentle brush of her fingers over his chest drawn the air from his lungs? Why had her soft words loosed his tongue?
He had expected to see disgust or pity in her eyes, as he thought he’d seen the day before when she’d watched him at the river. Instead he’d seen compassion and the bright sheen of tears. It had disarmed him, opened a gaping fissure inside him, and for a moment the darkness within him had seemed nigh to escaping. He’d wanted to push her away, but had found he could not.
’Twas the first time in six long years a woman had touched him of her own choosing and not for the pelts he could give her. And it had scorched him to his core.
Aye, he cared about Bethie. He couldn’t deny that. Nor could he deny that his desire for her was growing. But she had her own shadows. Someone had abused her, had taught her that a man’s caress was hateful, a thing to be feared, not savored. And what a shame it was. A woman as beautiful and sweet as Bethie was made for pleasure.
Suddenly Nicholas found himself wishing he could be the man who healed that deep hurt and initiated her into the delights of sex. How he longed to be the one to awaken her desire, to drive her hunger to a fever pitch, to make her cry out in delight. How he ached to sheathe himself inside her and feel her melt around him as one climax after the next claimed her. The thought of it sent blood rushing to his cock, made him harder than the firewood in his arms. And even as the idea came to him, even as a part of him rejected it wholly, he began to wonder how he might accomplish this.
Could he, who trusted no one, win her trust? Could he, with his scarred body, heal the wounds hidden within hers? Could he as a man heal the pain caused by another man?
He knew there was passion inside her, knew she felt some attraction to him. He’d seen it on her face yesterday as she’d watched him bathe. He’d seen it this morning in the way her eyes had grown dark and her breath had quickened as she’d held the wet shirt against his chest. Even the sight of his scars had not banished the look of feminine need on her face this time. But how could he show her that it was safe to touch him, to want him, to give herself to him when such feelings clearly made her afraid?
As he might gentle a timid mare, he would have to approach her with kind words and soft caresses that would not provoke her fear. He would have to control himself, to rein in his desire, so as not to frighten her with the force of his own need. He would have to win her trust and arouse her slowly. He would have to wait until her hunger was such that she overcame her fear, came to him, begged him to please her.
And then, when she lay sleepy and sated in his arms, what would he do? Call it a fair trade? Turn Zeus’s reins to the west and ride away? Leave her to whichever man claimed her next?
Bethie deserved better than that. She deserved the love of a husband, a man to protect her and watch over her and Bell
e and the other children she would bear. And Nicholas knew he could not be that man. He did not deserve to be that man. Sooner or later, the darkness inside him would drive him back into the wild, back to the vast emptiness where he could forget.
’Twas far better never to touch her than to risk hurting her.
Yet even as he acknowledged this, he knew that unless she stopped him, he would touch her. He would run his fingers through the sun-drenched silk of her hair. He would kiss her lips, savor their fullness with his tongue. He would feel the velvet of her nipples grow hard beneath his palms. He would part her thighs, taste her sweetness, bury himself in her liquid heat, feel her muscles clench in climax as they milked him to orgasm.
Such thoughts did nothing to quiet his erection, which strained against the leather of his breeches until he felt he might burst. Unable to do a damned thing about it, he strode to the cabin, his arms full, and nudged the door open with his boot.
Bethie sat in the rocking chair, humming a quiet lullaby to the baby at her breast. She did not look up, but gazed down at her daughter, a look of dreamy happiness on her sweet face.
He walked to the hearth, stacked the firewood as quietly as possible, closed the door, drew in the string. Since the night Isabelle was born, he’d taken to sleeping in the cabin again, and Bethie had not asked him to leave. If he’d possessed any sense, he would already have moved his bedroll back into the barn, where the sight and scent of her would not taunt him. Clearly, he was an idiot. Without glancing in her direction again, he strode to his bedroll in the corner and lay down to try to sleep.
But his body was tense with unspent energy, taut with lust, and sleep would not come. Cursing silently, he reached into one of his bags, dug around until his fingers closed over hard leather. Then he withdrew the book he’d purchased on a whim last time he’d been in Philadelphia, the latest satire by that French fellow Voltaire. But though the words danced on the page before his eyes, in his mind he could see only Bethie.
* * *
Bethie laid Isabelle in her cradle, pulled the soft furs up to her little chin, gazed longingly at her own bed. If she was lucky, Belle would awaken only once tonight and she could get some sleep.