Ride the Fire (23 page)

“Settlers pass through here and realize too late that they need an extra rifle a sight more than pretty gowns or flowery teacups. We do what we can, but there’s no’ much call for frippery on the frontier. Why, yer man is the only officer here to have his lady with him.”

She started to shake her head, stopped herself. She knew so little about him. For all she knew, he could be an officer. No sooner had they arrived at the fort than the commander had requested to meet with Nicholas. She’d thought at the time the captain was merely eager for whatever Nicholas could tell him of happenings in the surrounding countryside.

Certainly Nicholas hadn’t behaved like a military man who’d just received an order from his superior. He had barely paid the lieutenant who’d summoned him any heed, had insisted on settling Bethie and Isabelle first. Much to her surprise, the lieutenant had immediately assigned one of his men—a young private named Patrick Fitchie, who blushed to the roots of his carrot-orange hair every time he glanced at Bethie—to see that she and Belle were given suitable quarters and a hot meal. Only then had Nicholas turned and followed the lieutenant.

Bethie had expected to find herself forced to lodge in a horse stall or even in the open air. Instead, Private Fitchie had led her to a grand room with wooden floors, a deep hearth and a large bedstead of carven oak. When she’d asked Private Fitchie if everyone at Fort Pitt was housed in such comfort, he’d merely turned a bright shade of red. She’d barely had time to glance around her when a plump older woman with a kindly face had entered, sent by Nicholas with a new gown for her, fresh diaper cloths for Belle and instructions to prepare a hot bath for both of them. With many a “poor lamb!” Annie had heated water, helped bathe the baby, then held Belle so that Bethie could bathe in peace.

“She has the face of an angel, just like her mother!” Annie had even combed the tangles from Bethie’s hair and braided it, despite Bethie’s insistence that she could do it herself.

“Nonsense, lamb!” she’d said when Bethie had tried to take the brush from her hand. “Ye’ve had a frightful journey, and yer man thinks ye deserve a bit o’ lookin’ after.”

Bethie hadn’t known what to say, but something about Annie’s words had left her feeling strangely giddy. Nicholas had bought her a gown and felt she deserved looking after.

Annie, it turned out, was the wife of one Master Charlie Baskin, the man who ran the trading post at the fort. She’d wanted to know everything about Bethie’s journey. So Bethie had recounted the nightmare of the fire, the horror of finding massacred families, the terrifying moment when the bull had come charging out of the forest, their encounter with other settlers. She’d even told Annie about the fight in the gully.

“And so ye shot him—dead?” Annie had gaped at her in amazement.

A vague sick feeling had stirred in Bethie’s belly at the memory. “Aye. I couldna let him kill Nicholas!”

Annie had stopped brushing her hair, given her a quick hug. “Of course not, lamb! Tis a fine man ye’ve got, one well worth savin’. I saw how he kissed you this mornin’. Twas enough to make my old knees go all coggly.”

“Aye.” Certainly Bethie’s knees had gone coggly, along with the rest of her.

“Now then, we’re all finished. Unless there’s anythin’ else ye need, I’ll be off home. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Despite her deep weariness, Bethie was sorry to see Annie leave. It had been four long years since she’d shared the company of another woman. “Thank you, Annie. You’ve been very kind to me. But, nay, I’m afraid I dinnae know where to find you.”

“Ye just ask anyone here where to find old Annie Baskin, and they’ll point the way.” Annie gave Belle one last tickle under her chin and was gone.

Suddenly unable to stay awake one moment longer, Bethie lay down on the soft bed with Belle in her arms and was instantly asleep.

So, little Elspeth Stewart was here.

He smiled, felt a familiar itch in his groin. He’d seen her ride in this morning with the others, watched as she’d wantonly kissed the big, dark-haired trapper in front of everyone. Whoever he was, he wasn’t the man she had married. But then, his dear stepsister had always been a whore.

She had changed since the last time he’d seen her. She was rounder, looked more like a woman and less like the frightened girl he remembered. Oh, what a pretty thing she’d been back then! With her big round eyes, her skinny body, her budding breasts, she had been everything to him. Bitch!

It was her fault his father had sent him away. She had seduced him, lured him in, tempted him. And he had been helpless.

First he’d tried to stop the itch by touching her. He would go to her bed at night, clamp a hand over her mouth, let his other hand have its way with her. For a time, that had been enough. Then he’d had to go further. Night after night, he’d held her flat on the bed with his body, forced her legs apart, buried his fingers inside her and rubbed against her until his seed spilled.

Finally the itch had grown so strong, and his tadger so hard, he’d known he had no choice but to have her, and have her good. He’d waited until everyone was asleep, then crept into the loft to her bed. She struggled a bit, as she usually did, pretended not to want him, but he’d always been bigger and stronger. He was a man, after all, and ten years older.

But when she’d realized what he aimed to do, she’d fought like a madwoman, and her struggles had awoken them all.

His father had given them both a good thrashing, called her a harlot and accused her of putting a spell on his only son. Then he’d married her off to that old fellow from the meetinghouse. Within a week she’d been gone for good. That would have been the end of it. Except that the fire she’d lit inside him hadn’t gone out, and he’d needed desperately to put it out. When his father had caught him in the woods with a neighbor girl too young for him to marry, Malcolm had sworn the girl to secrecy with many threats and then forced him to leave.

And here he was a soldier in the British Army. How his father would hate that if he knew! His father hated everything having to do with the English.

He smiled.

He would bide his time, wait for his chance. Then he would pay a call on his long-lost stepsister.

She had even killed a man.

She’d grown so accustomed to being afraid and on the run that she scarce knew how to feel now that she and Belle were safe and settled. Anything sudden, even laughter, startled her. She felt restless, wary. It was as if some part of her were still out there, still fleeing through the wild, death but a step behind her.

She gently moved Belle from one breast to the other, glanced across the room to the corner where Nicholas had stashed his gear and bedroll. Near exhaustion, he’d slept on the floor last night, just as he’d done at the cabin. He’d made no move to touch her, hadn’t even kissed her. Nicholas. Nicholas. She sifted through what she’d come to know about him. He had family in Virginia. He could read and write. He’d once been a lieutenant in the Royal Americans. He’d been captured and tortured by Indians. He’d then married an Indian woman, planted a baby in her belly, openly taken other women to bed. Then he had somehow killed both wife and child.

But that was only part of who he was.

He’d helped with Belle’s birth, holding Bethie’s hand, encouraging her, holding her world together through the frightful pain. He’d saved their lives more times than she could count. He’d taught her to write her name, to read a bit. He’d shown her many acts of thoughtfulness. He’d kissed her, made her feel things she’d never felt before. Most of all, when she’d asked him to stop, he had stopped. And now when they had reached safety and he could easily have left her to find her own way, he’d allowed everyone to think she was his wife to spare her sleeping among the others who’d sought refuge here.

Each of these deeds was a piece of Nicholas. Yet no matter how many times she looked at the pieces, tried to put them together, she came no closer to knowing him. The pieces didn’t fit.

But it wasn’t only Nicholas who confused her. She was a stranger to herself these days. Ever since that first kiss—it seemed so long ago now, though it was really only a fortnight—she’d felt a need for him she could not explain. That need had only gotten worse with time. Like a gnawing hunger it ate at her, pursued her even in her sleep. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted him to hold her against his hard man’s body, wanted him to touch her as he had that night beside the brook.

She stood, Belle in her arms, felt suddenly like a silly girl of ten.

He stopped only inches from her, stroked Belle’s cheek, smiled when the baby wrapped her tiny hand around one of his fingers. Then a look of amazement lit up his face. “She smiled at me!”

Bethie laughed. “She likes you. Is that no’ true, little one?” Belle smiled again, a wide toothless grin, then gurgled. Bethie looked up, met Nicholas’s gaze. The look in his eyes—a mix of potent male hunger and tenderness—made her stomach flip.

“I came to ask if you’d like a tour of the fort.”

Nicholas guided Bethie through the crowded fort, watched her face light up with excitement. They had left Belle in Annie’s care, the older woman beaming with delight at the chance to hold the baby again. He wanted to make Bethie smile, to chase the lingering shadows from her eyes.

“ Tis like a city!” She smiled. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place. To think Philadelphia is even bigger than this!”

Charmed by her innocence, Nicholas couldn’t help chuckling. “Aye, Philadelphia is much larger and boasts fifty times as many people.”

She looked up at him, amazement on her face, then looked at her feet, bit her lip. “I must seem a bletherin’ bumpkin to you.”

He tucked a finger beneath her chin, lifted it. “Nay, Bethie, love. When I look at you, I think only how brave and beautiful you are.”

She shrugged off his compliment, smiled mischievously. “You are more than a wee bit brave and dashy-lookin’ yourself, Master Kenleigh.”

“I speak the truth, Bethie.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over the softness of her lips, told her in the only way he could that he hadn’t spoken in jest.

She met his gaze, the playful look in her violet eyes gone, replaced by one of deep female vulnerability. “Shall we continue?”

He
was
speaking the truth. Her loveliness enthralled him. Everything about her proclaimed her femininity. The faint lavender scent that lingered from her bath. The gentle sway of her hips as she walked. The spun gold of her hair in sunlight. The soft, thick braid that hung to her waist. The new gown fitted her perfectly—a bit too perfectly if one considered the way her creamy breasts rose in soft mounds above the bodice. Why hadn’t he thought to bring her shawl? He didn’t care if it was hotter than Satan’s arse. He didn’t want men eyeing her.

“Over there is the hospital.” He pointed.

She gestured to a small building that stood apart from the others. “What’s that?”

“The smallpox hospital.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Are there—”

“I’ve never been so far off the ground.”

A warm breeze brushed her skin, carrying with it the mingled smells of forest and river. Sunlight warmed her through the linen of her gown.

“It’s beautiful country.”

His arm encircled her waist, pulled her closer. He smelled of pine soap, leather and man, a heady scent that made her pulse quicken. She saw the three rivers—the Allegheny, the Ohio, the Monongahela—trailing off to the east, the west and the south like flowing ribbons of silver. She saw the hoofprints their horses had left in mud in their frantic dash to the sally port. She saw blackened earth where cabins had once stood. She saw the King’s Garden, the fields beyond the fort’s walls that supplied food for the fort. She saw the forest stretching into the distance, a turbulent sea of green. Behind her a drummer tapped out a rhythm, accompanied by the tune of a fife.