Ride the Fire (10 page)

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.

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 that 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 winedark nipples tight from the chilly water. Then, as if by some devilry, her gaze was drawn down along the trail of hair to his rippled belly and then, further still, to his sex. Bethie felt her womb lurch.

Bereft of thought, of breath, she stared at what she had never seen 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.

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.

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 backwards, then turned and ran to the cabin.

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.

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, with 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.

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!

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 absolutely 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.”

He 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 further 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 backwards. 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.

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!”

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 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, he corrected himself, 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 first 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—!”