Ride the Fire (32 page)

Slowly the heavy drawbridge began to lower. Tomahawk in hand, grenades in a leather pouch on his shoulder, Nicholas waited.

Then the drawbridge was open.

On the other side stood the ravelin and, beyond that, the moonlit water of the Monongahela, gliding smooth and silent.

Surprised, and perhaps afraid the rest of the garrison was on its way out, most of the Indians fled out through the sally port and down to the river. Those that remained were quickly dispatched.

“Form two lines—one north, one south. Go!” The men did as Nicholas ordered while he covered them, firing upon two Indians who’d recovered from their surprise and turned to fight.

“They know we’re here, boys. Let’s do what we came to do!”

Quickly the men in front of the two lines lit their fuses, stepped out of the sally port, threw their grenades, retreated. Small explosions. Frightened shouts. Cries of pain. The whine of a passing arrow.

Almost immediately, gunfire from the ramparts increased as marksmen took down those who’d fled their cover. The plan was working.

By the time the sound of the first explosions had died, the next men in line had already lit their fuses and hurled their grenades. Frightened shouts turned to outright cries of retreat as the second, third and fourth wave of grenades hit. It seemed the mission would go off without a hitch, when one of the militiamen slipped and fell to the sandy riverbank. Three Indians, crouching at the river’s edge, saw him and made straight for him.

They were Wyandot.

And then Nicholas saw him.

Atsan.

A wave of conflicting emotions slammed into Nicholas, hot and thick. Shock. Rage. Gnawing regret. But there was no time. He could not settle this here.

“Cover me!” Nicholas leapt down, reached for the fallen militiaman, jerked him to his feet. “Time to get out of here! Go!”

As Nicholas turned to follow the militiaman, he heard the end-over-end rush of a tomahawk hurtling through the air, Atsan’s shout of warning. He had just enough time to push the militiaman through the sally port when something exploded against the back of his skull, sent him plummeting into darkness.

Maybe it would be over by morning, and maybe . . .

She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until a knock on the door woke her. She hurried from bed to answer it, expected someone to tell her the building was on fire. Instead, she found several battle-weary men bearing Nicholas between them.

Her heart stopped. “Oh, my God! Nicholas!” He hung limply between them, his eyes closed. But he was breathing. He was alive.

“Lay him on the bed.” She stepped aside to let them enter, hurried around to the other side of the bed. “What happened?”

“He took a tomahawk to the back of the head,” said one of the men as they laid him on the mattress. “It was the handle that got him, no’ the blade. If it had been the blade, his brains would be—”

“Hold your whist, Bill! This is his lady here!”

Filled with dread, Bethie leaned over him, touched her hand to his cheek. “Nicholas, can you hear me? Nicholas?” He didn’t move, didn’t answer, lay still as death against the pillow. But he wasn’t feverish, and his breathing was deep and even.

“The surgeon says all we can do is wait and see
if
he wakes up.”

Bethie nodded, fought back her tears. “Thank you, gentlemen, for bringin’ him home. Can one of you fetch water for me—and bandages? I want to clean the wound on his arm.”

“Aye, ma’am. I’ll see to it.” The one who’d first spoken picked up the water bucket from the table, started out the door, turned back. “If it makes you feel any better, he saved a good man’s life out there. If it hadn’t been for him, I dinnae know how many of us would have made it back inside the walls alive.”

“H-he went outside the walls?”

“Aye. He led us out to the West Ravelin so we could fight back those Indians who were shootin’ fire over the walls. Nicholas Kenleigh is a man among men, the bravest of the lot. We’re all prayin’ for him tonight.”

As the men shut the door behind them, Bethie didn’t know which emotion burned hottest inside her—fear or fury.

Bethie kept vigil at Nicholas’s side all night and through the next day. She removed his sweat-stained clothes, bathed his body with cool cloths. She cleaned the wound on his arm where it seemed a ball had grazed him. She trickled water into his throat, urged him to drink. She spoke to him, and she prayed.

Dr. Aimes came to check on him around noon, told Bethie there was nothing to be done. “I’ve seen men wake after being unconscious for weeks and be in complete command of their faculties, but I’ve also seen men drift away and die or wake to be helpless as newborn babies. Keep talking to him.”

And so she did. She spoke to him of her childhood before her father’s death. She told him how hard her life had been before he’d arrived on her doorstep. She told him she loved him, could not imagine a single sunrise without him. But if he heard, he showed no sign of it.

Annie brought her meals and fresh water, shared with her news of the battle. “Some of the fight has left them. They’re gatherin’ under the bank again, but no’ so close this time. Yer man put a lick of fear in them, he did. No one has been killed or injured all day, thank heavens! But look at you, lamb! Ye’ve no’ slept a wink! Let old Annie take the little one, and you get some rest.”

Beyond exhaustion, Bethie nursed Belle, kissed her, handed her over to her Auntie Annie, then lay down beside Nicholas, her head on his shoulder, and slept. When she awoke, she found him still unconscious, but his arm was wrapped around her, holding her close.

Nicholas heard the blast of a cannon, was certain it had been fired inside his skull.

“Open your eyes, love. Please open your eyes!” It was Bethie. She sounded upset.

He tried to answer, heard himself groan instead. His head hurt like hell. What had happened? He tried to remember, fought to clear his mind. The Indians had surrounded the fort, fired lit arrows over the wall. Had he been shot? Aye, a ball had grazed his right shoulder. But that was yesterday, and the wound had been minor. Why did he feel so weak?

“Nicholas? Can you hear me?”

He fought the blinding pain in his head, willed himself to speak. “Bethie.”

“Oh, thank God! Oh, Nicholas!” Her lips brushed his cheek. Something cold was held to his lips. “Drink.” He didn’t realize until the cool water slid down his throat how thirsty he was. But before he could ask for more, he was drifting again.

Later—how much later he couldn’t say—he opened his eyes, found himself in bed, Bethie bathing his brow. His head throbbed, almost sickeningly so.

His throat was dry. “I’ve been better.”

She held out a cup, gently lifted his head. “Drink.” Three times she refilled the cup, held it to his lips before his thirst was slaked.

“You went outside the bloody walls and got hit by a tomahawk. Luckily, it struck your thick skull. Otherwise you might have been hurt.”

She was angry. He could see from the dark circles beneath her eyes that she hadn’t slept well for some time. “I’m sorry . . . I frightened you.”

“You did more than frighten me, Nicholas.” Her voice broke. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “You almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m fine, love.” He reached up, cupped her cheek, wiped the tears away with his thumb. “How goes the battle?”

“The battle is all but over. Annie tells me the Indians have pulled back.”

After five relentless days and nights of fighting, the silence left everyone inside the fort feeling uneasy. No one could understand why the Indians had seemed to withdraw back into the forest. The entire garrison held its breath. Nicholas recovered quickly, but Bethie wouldn’t let him out of her sight. Never had she been so desperately afraid as when he’d lain still, silent and sleeping.

“If you so much as think of leaving these walls, I’ll take your pistol and shoot you in the bloody foot” she’d shouted at him.

“Bethie, I know this has been hard on you, but I need to do my part—”

“You’ve done your part! You’ve taken on more than your share of the risk!”

But what began as an argument soon turned to the sweetest lovemaking she’d ever experienced, Nicholas deep inside her, whispering to her all the ways he wanted to love her, as he brought her to one shattering peak after another, found his release inside her.

“I want to thank you for your bravery and diligence, Kenleigh. I assure you I shall acquaint the commander-in-chief with your services to His Majesty these past months. I know you harbor no affection for me, but you are a man of courage and honor. You have done your duty with spirit, in the finest British tradition, and I respect that.”

Bethie watched as Nicholas took in the captain’s words, answered with silence.

Ecuyer shifted uncomfortably. “Damn it, Kenleigh! What are they up to? Why have they withdrawn? We’re still surrounded, and yet we’ve watched hundreds cross the river, heading east.”

“They’re taking the battle elsewhere. That’s the only explanation.

They have us by the throat, and they know it. They have not truly withdrawn. There were Ottawa out there—and Wyandot.”

Ecuyer’s gaze met his. “You think they mean to attack Colonel Bouquet.”

“That’s my guess. They hope to maintain the siege here and simultaneously destroy your reinforcements. They remember Braddock’s defeat and hope to accomplish the same thing with Bouquet.”

“Aye.”

“For once, I hope you’re wrong, Kenleigh.”

Four more days passed, days offense silence, days of hunger.

Bethie began to suspect she was losing her milk, as Belle seemed always to be hungry. Nicholas had opened his stores of salt pork and pemmican and shared them in secret with her, giving her the larger portion despite her protests. “I’m used to going hungry. You’ve a baby to feed.” And although some short forays were made to the King’s Garden, they were repulsed by the Delaware, who, though reduced in numbers, now considered the garden and its bounty theirs and kept it under close watch. And so the weary occupants of Fort Pitt sat hungry in the heat—and waited.

As the last ripples of pleasure faded into languor, he began to move again, thick and hard inside her. He wasn’t finished with her yet.

He drew her up onto her knees, spread her thighs farther apart, thrust into her hard, his hands grasping her hips as he built the rhythm, stroke upon stroke. “Oh, God, woman, you feel good!”

She felt his stones slap against her, felt his power as he drove into her, filled her, his cock striking just there where she needed it most. And then it hit her, harder than before—not sweet, but wrenching, overpowering. She cried out, called his name, as her inner muscles quaked in fierce ecstasy, brought him to a shuddering climax inside her. For a while they lay in one another’s arms, hovering on the edge of sleep.