Ride the Fire (30 page)

He loved her.

He was in love with Bethie Stewart.

All I see, Bethie, is the woman I care deeply about and wish to protect.

Nicholas. Nicholas. She loved him. With everything she was, she loved him. Uncertain though their future might be, she felt some peace in knowing that much. He stayed with her, refused to let her get out of bed for three days, except when absolutely necessary. Private Fitchie, much embarrassed by the cruel trick that had been played upon him and blaming himself for her suffering, was back on duty outside her door, ferocious in his devotion. Annie paid several calls each day, bringing what gossip she had—which was considerable, given that she was the hub of the fort’s gossip mill.

But no one ever spoke to Bethie about Richard. When she finally asked Nicholas, all he told her was that Richard would never trouble her again.

The court-martial of Richard Sorley convened three days after the attack. Nicholas watched in disgust as Sorley accused Bethie of seducing and bewitching him, described how she’d seduced him when she was but a child. His words were so revolting that Nicholas spied the officers giving Sorley blatant looks of contempt. Nicholas was the only other person to testify. The officers reached a verdict within minutes: guilty.

Ecuyer rendered his sentence immediately. “Private Richard Sorley, you are hereby sentenced to be executed by firing squad at dawn tomorrow for the reprehensible and capital crimes of assault and attempted rape. And only God will have mercy on your soul.”

There was no shortage of volunteers for the firing squad among either the soldiers, who seemed to have despised Sorley, or the militia, who had apparently grown to respect Nicholas for his woodcraft and bravery. But when Sorley was led, weeping, from the guardhouse the next morning, taken across the drawbridge and bound to a stake, only one of the dozen rifles aimed at him was loaded. “Ready!”

Nicholas lifted his weapon, thought of a young girl who had lain, terrified and alone, in the darkness. “Aim!”

He aligned the front sight with Sorley’s black heart, heard the sound of that young girl’s desperate pleas, her weeping.

“Fire!”

He pulled the trigger, killed the bastard who had hurt her. And later, those who were there told how Nicholas Kenleigh, after firing the single fatal shot, strode angrily over to the man who had tried to dishonor his wife, ripped the blindfold off the man’s face, glared into his dying eyes—and cursed him to eternal hell.

Nicholas had left before she’d awoken, and when she’d asked Private Fitchie where he’d gone, the boy had claimed not to know. Worried about Nicholas and feeling more than a wee bit cankersome, she’d asked Fitchie to bring water, soap and a brush so that she could clean the floor, only to have Minna and Goody Wallace enter, arms full, to do the job for her. When she’d tried to help, they’d told her to sit and have some tea, saying that Nicholas would be upset with them if they allowed her to do anything strenuous. Minna had stood firm. “We owe you both our families’ lives, so please dinnae argie wi’ us.”

In short order, the room had been swept and scrubbed from one end to the other, and the bed linens had been stripped and replaced with new, sweet-smelling sheets Annie had sent over from the trading post.

“A gift from yer husband, a thoughtful man and a brave one,” Goody Wallace had said as she made the bed. “I’ve ne’er seen a man so in love wi’ his wife as your Master Kenleigh.”

Her words had made Bethie smile, though it still bothered her that she and Nicholas were allowing these good people to believe a lie.

By the late afternoon, she and Belle were all that remained in need of cleaning. Twas then she learned she would have to bathe her daughter in cold water, as Captain Ecuyer had ordered the rationing of firewood. Though Bethie thought the water felt heavenly when pressed against her throat with a cloth, Belle, who’d been fussy all day, had shrieked in protest when Bethie had dipped her in the bucket. By the time Nicholas walked through the door, Bethie was close to tears herself.

“I can see I’ve arrived just in time.” He strode through the door, a smile on his face, his shirt stained with sweat. Annie came through the door behind him, a bundle beneath her arm, followed by two soldiers carrying what looked like a horse trough with legs, a third carrying firewood and a fourth carrying dinner from the officers’ mess.

“What is all this about?” Bethie stared in amazement.

Nicholas grinned. “I heard you wanted to take a bath,”

“She should eat her supper before it grows cold!”

Annie dropped her bundle on the bed, scooped Belle from Bethie’s arms. “How is Auntie Annie’s little Isabelle?” As abruptly as they’d arrived, the soldiers left, Annie behind them with Belle in her arms.

Nicholas gestured to the table. “Sit and eat, love. It’s not much, I’m afraid.”

Bethie sat, lifted the cloth from her plate. Boiled beef and some dearly won greens. “Will you join me?”

“Aye, after I get this fire started. Young Fitchie should be back with water at any moment.”

Bethie felt almost giddy with excitement. “I’ve never had a bath so grand.”

Then Nicholas reached out, cupped her cheek, drew her near. “I want this to be a new start for you, love. It’s over. Sorley is dead. He was executed early this morning.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. “Richard is . . . dead?”

‘Twas such momentous news she barely knew what to feel. Grief? He’d been her stepbrother. Happiness? He’d all but ruined her life. But then one emotion stood clear from the rest: relief.

“There’s more.” Nicholas looked gravely into her eyes. “I was on the firing squad. I fired the shot that killed him.”

“You? You killed him?”

Nicholas nodded, his lips a grim line. “I wish I could say I felt some compassion for him in the end, but I didn’t. I was happy to pull that trigger.”

Unsure what to say, Bethie laid her head against his chest, stunned by what he had done for her. Twas no small thing to take another man’s life.

He kissed her hair. “Your bathwater is getting cold. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

As he released her and turned to leave, it dawned on Bethie that somehow Nicholas had known. Somehow he’d understood her need to wash all traces of Richard from her bed, her home, her body.

“Nicholas, stop! Dinnae go. Bathe with me.”

He turned to face her, a lopsided grin on his face, held his arms out to his sides, looked down the front of his sweat stained shirt. “It’s a tempting invitation, love, but I’m covered with a day’s worth of sweat and dirt. I’ll foul your water.”

She stepped forward, rested her hands on his chest. “You can wash me first, and then I’ll wash you.”

He brushed a finger over her cheek. “Bethie, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to rush you. I don’t want—”

“I want you, Nicholas. Do you no’ understand? You make me feel clean.”

Nicholas looked into her eyes, saw her need, a need for something far beyond mere sexual gratification. “Very well, then. It would be my pleasure.”

He helped her to undress, threw her gown and shift in a heap on the floor. She didn’t know it yet, but he was never going to let her wear either of them again. He intended to burn them. The bundle on the bed held new ones stitched by Annie and Minna.

Then he steadied her as she stepped into the bathtub, felt his gut clench when he saw the bruises that marred her soft skin, marks of another man’s cruelty.

“Oh, this feels heavenly! And it smells heavenly, too!”

She gave a gratifying sigh of pleasure.

Only the first of many, if Nicholas had anything to say about it.

Her answer was a soft “mmmm.”

Next he washed her arms, amazed for a moment at how slender they were, how soft, how fragile they seemed compared to his own. He rinsed the soap away, bent down, kissed the yellowing bruises, so clearly left by a man’s big hand.

Then he washed her feet, her slender calves, her thighs, coming within inches of her golden curls before withdrawing his hand.

“Is that so?” He slicked his hands with soap, moved around the tub until he sat behind her, slid his hands over her breasts. “Then I’ll have to teach you how good it can be when you wait, when you savor it.”

She moaned, pushed the weight of her breasts deeper into his palms.

He molded them, shaped them, ran his thumbs over their taut peaks, knew from her rapid breathing that she was as aroused as he was. He bent down, nipped the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, felt her shiver, let his soap-slick hands slide down her breasts to her belly.

“Oh, aye, Nicholas!” She arched, lifted her hips off the bottom of the tub in anticipation of his intimate touch. Then he slid his hands back up to her breasts, rinsed the soap away, unable to suppress a chuckle at her disappointed moan. “Were you expecting something, love?” But his need was building, too, and a man—or a woman—could wait only so long.

This time when his hands slid down her body, one stopped to tease her nipples while the other slid down into her curls, delved into her soft folds, sought her most sensitive flesh. As her head fell back and a whimper left her throat, he bent down, took her in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Bethie welcomed the invasion of his tongue, relished the heat of his kiss, as sensations almost too good to be true flowed over her. The caress of warm water on her tingling skin. His fingers flicking and teasing her aching nipples. The pressure of his hand against her throbbing sex.

Liquid heat gathered in her belly, became a molten blaze. But she wanted more. She wanted him inside her. She tried to speak, to tell him what she wanted. The words came out in ragged pants. “Nicholas . . . please . . . inside me!”

“There is no man but me, Bethie. There never was.” Then slowly, so slowly that it made her whimper in anguish, he slid his finger deep inside her slick and aching core.

The sweet shock of it sent her spiraling over the edge. Pleasure buffeted her, wave upon fiery wave, tore a cry from her throat as he prolonged her climax with deft, penetrating strokes.

For a moment she lay still in the water, floating, stunned that an act that had once brought her so much pain and suffering could be so pleasurable. And a tremor of anticipation shot through her as she wondered what it would be like to have his thick, hard shaft inside her.

Then she opened her eyes, looked up into a gaze that burned with need. She smiled, thinking of all the ways she would torment him.

“Time for
your
bath.”

Bethie lingered over him, knowing it would drive both of them to a frenzy of desire. She washed his long hair, rinsed the day’s dirt and sweat from his shoulders, arms and chest, secretly savored the feel of him beneath her hands—the roughness of his body hair, the hardness of his muscles, the softness of his skin.

He smiled, a sensual twist of his lips that made her heart beat faster. “Dinnae be thinkin’ you can fool me, lass. I know what you’re doin’. You’re tryin’ to tease me, to drive me mad.”

His attempt at a Scottish brogue made her laugh. She did her best to mock his English. “You, sir, are mine to do with as I please.”

Then, without warning, she reached beneath the water, took his erection in her hand, began to stroke its length, taking extra time to tease the satiny tip.

His laughter turned into a quick intake of breath, and his hands slowly clenched around the sides of the tub as she built the rhythm, stroke upon slow stroke. But just as she felt him nearing his peak, she stopped, went to wash his feet.

“Wench!” He groaned, kicked water at her. She shrieked, chided him. “It serves you right for makin’ a lady wait.”

He grabbed the soap from her hands and in a blink had scrubbed and rinsed his legs. Then he dropped the soap, stood, stepped out of the tub. “The lady need wait no longer.”

Water ran in glistening rivulets over his sun-browned skin to the floorboards. His long hair clung in dark, wet ropes to his chest and shoulders. His shaft stood, thick and heavy, against his belly.

There was no more teasing, no more games. He pulled her against him, his fingers buried in her wet hair, his lips hot on her mouth.

Then he carried her two short steps to the bed, laid her on the soft linen, stretched out above her. They rolled and twisted in a tangle of limbs, locked in a heated kiss, desperate for the taste of one another, the feel of one another. Bethie broke the kiss, reached down, took his length in her hand, stroked him. “I want you inside me.”

Nicholas thought his heart might actually break through his chest. He took a deep breath, fought to rein himself in. Those were words he’d never expected to hear. “Bethie, I don’t think—“

“Please.”

The look of innocent trust in her eyes made something twist in his stomach. After all she’d been through, that she should trust
him . .
.

“As you wish—but not like this.” He rolled onto his back, settled her astride him, reached down, held himself so that the head of his cock met her heated core. “It’s up to you now.”

She looked surprised at first, then she smiled, bit her lower lip—and lowered herself so that the head of his shaft slid inside her. She gasped, a soft, sweet sound, then lifted her hips, withdrew from him before lowering herself upon him, taking a bit more of him this time.

Months of suppressed need, of wanting her, of wanting to be inside her, had left him on the brink, and Nicholas began to wonder if he would survive the night. As she gradually took more and more of him into her slick heat, he fought the urge to thrust, forced himself to hold his hips still, to let her determine the pace.

He reached up, stroked the beaded velvet of her nipples with his thumbs, tried to make his muscles relax as, inch by torturous inch, she took him inside her. When he thought he could take no more, she lifted her hips once more, then slid down the length of him, took all of him.

“Oh, Nicholas, it feels . . . s o . . . good!”

Her eyes were closed, a look of bliss on her sweet face, her hair a damp, tangled mass that hung to her hips. She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

“I’ve wanted you for so long!” He clasped her hips, moved in slow circles beneath her, fought to hold on as her tight sheath caressed him, carried him toward the edge. “No man but me, Bethie!”

Bethie heard the strain in his voice, heard her own whimpered reply. Never had she felt anything like this. It was erotic beyond imagination, being joined to this big man, his body inside hers, a part of hers. He stretched her, filled every inch of her, made her complete. Each thrust felt better than the one before, made her desperate for the next, as she moved with him, rode the fire.

How had she lived without this? How had she lived without him?

She heard her own keening cries, called his name as the pleasure built inside her. “Oh, oh, Nicholas!”

“My God, Bethie! I can’t hold back, not anymore! You’re too sweet, too tight!” His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed as if in pain.

“Then don’t hold back!” She bent down, kissed his sweat-slick chest. “Love me, Nicholas!”

With a feral growl, he rolled her onto her back, wrapped her legs around his waist, looked into her eyes. “No man but me!”

Then he was thrusting into her, deep and hard, his shaft driving against some secret spot inside her, drawing frantic cries from her throat. His lips were on her mouth, her eyelids, her cheeks, her throat. His voice was a ragged whisper. “No man but me!”

Her body trembled at the power of his words, the potency of his loving, as he carried her up and up and up to a place she’d never been before. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, tears that cleansed, tears that purified, tears that washed the past away.

Precious torment. Sweet surrender. Shattering bliss.

“Nicholas!” she cried out as the force of it hit her, drew the life from her body, and gave it back again, pleasure showering her like tears, like rain, like starlight.

“No man but me!” His body shuddered, and she heard his deep groan, as he, too, succumbed, spilled himself inside her. Then, in the stillness, he kissed her tears away.