Ride the Fire (5 page)

She repeated his name aloud.

“Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, Mistress Stewart, you
will
release me.”

“Nay, Master Kenleigh. I willna—no’ just yet.” She lifted her chin. “You’ll stay as you are till I’m certain you pose no threat to me and my baby.”

He gave a snort. “And how will you determine that?”

“Drink.” She held the cup once more to his lips.

“Perhaps I shall have you swear an oath, a bindin’ oath.”

“Are you sayin’ I should never set you free, Master Kenleigh?”

She walked back to the bed, felt her step falter. In truth, she hadn’t thought about how or when she would release him when she’d bound him to the bed. Nor had she considered what keeping him bound would mean. She’d been thinking only of a way to restrain him and deprive him of his weapons, and she had accomplished that. A
babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot?
Good heavens! She reached the bed, sat, held the cup once more to his lips.

“Very well. I shall cut you free. But you shall first swear to me by all you hold sacred that you willna do anythin’ to harm me or my baby or to deprive us of our hearth and home.”

He swallowed, licked broth from his lips. Then a queer look came over his face. He stared at the tin cup, then gaped at her.

“You drugged me!”

How did he know?
“I-I gave you medicine to ease your pain—and make you sleep.”

He laughed, a harsh sound. “You drugged me so that you could bind me and take my weapons.”

He stated it so plainly that Bethie could find no words to soften the truth of what she’d done. She rested a hand protectively on her belly, felt her baby shift within her.

“Y-you left me no choice.”

Nicholas saw the defiant tilt of her chin, noticed the pink that crept into her cheeks. He noticed, too, the way her hand softly caressed the swollen curve of her abdomen as if to calm the small life inside her.

What would I have done in her place?

And so had she.

What in hell had inspired him to say that? She was not his problem. Clearly, whatever potion she’d given him had addled his mind.

For a moment she stood as still as a statue, her gaze seeming to measure him in light of the words he had just spoken.

“Very well, Master Kenleigh.”

She took up his hunting knife, which had lain on the table, then disappeared out of his range of vision. He felt her fingers pulling on the rope that bound his left ankle, felt the cold blade of his knife slide between the rope and his skin. A few tugs later, his left ankle was free. In a matter of moments, only the bonds around his left wrist remained. He rolled onto his back, watched her as she rounded the bed with agonizing slowness. He could feel her doubt, her trepidation. Her violet eyes wide, she watched him as if he were a wild animal that might attack at any moment.

“I promised not to harm you. I am a man of my word.”

His wrist was free.

Quickly she backed away from the bed, out of his reach, his knife still in her grasp.

Nicholas drew air into his lungs, felt the labored beating of his heart. He cursed his weakness, knew he had come terribly close to dying. It would take days, perhaps even weeks, for him to regain the blood he had lost and, with it, his strength.

“You see, Mistress Stewart? I’m in . . . no shape to harm... anyone.”

And then, as if to prove his point, he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

Bethie knelt beside him, touched his forehead, let out a long sigh of relief to find it still cool. He stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowed as if in response to her touch. Asleep like this, his long lashes dark upon his pale cheeks, his brow relaxed, he seemed harmless, not at all the kind of beast who’d hold a pistol to a woman’s head.

He lay on the floor much as he had fallen. She could not lift him, or even drag him, without risking harm to her baby. She tucked a pillow beneath his head and draped his heavy buffalo-skin coat over him to keep him warm, but there was little more she could do for him.

Slowly she stood, one hand held against her lower back, the other stifling a yawn. She had already stoked the fire, paid one last visit to the privy house and drawn in the door string. There was nothing left to do but go to sleep. But how could she sleep with this huge Englishman, this rough and wild stranger, in the same room?

“He cannae hurt you, Bethie, you silly lass. He cannae even—”

Her words were interrupted by another yawn. Twas surely near midnight. She needed to sleep. She picked up his pistol from the table where she had left it after she’d primed and loaded it, carried it with her around his prostrate form to the other side of the bedstead. Then she drew down the covers, crawled into their warmth.

The baby kicked restlessly as Bethie settled onto her pillow. “Quiet now, little one. You wouldna want to keep me awake, would you?”

Twice Bethie arose, checked him for fever, made certain the door string was pulled in, added wood to the fire. And when she had to use the chamber pot, as she seemed to have to do constantly these days, she found she could not—not with him in the cabin. Quietly she crept outside and saw to her needs under a cold canopy of stars surrounded by furtive noises and the impenetrable darkness of the forest.

With unbearable slowness, the hours drifted by. The fire burned down to embers. The silence of the night, filled with dark possibility, deepened around her.

He remembered Mistress Stewart cutting his bonds. He remembered trying to sit. And then?

No. He had passed out.

He cursed under his breath, felt his tongue stick to the dry roof of his mouth. He needed water. A waterskin full of it. It was then he noticed the pillow. She had placed a pillow beneath his head and had covered him with his buffalo hide coat while he slept. The thoughtfulness of her gesture left him feeling annoyed. He didn’t need her compassion.

Although the sun had risen, she was still asleep. Even in the dim light, he could see dark circles beneath her eyes, and he knew she’d slept poorly out of fear of him. If his gut hadn’t told him this, the pistol she clutched tightly in her hand—his pistol—certainly would have.

She looked helpless, very young and utterly innocent. Her smoky lashes rested on her creamy cheeks. Her long braid had come unbound, leaving her hair to tangle in thick, honey-colored coils against her pillow. She had slept fully clothed, as if to be ready for anything at any moment. Her blankets were twisted in disarray around her thighs, proof she’d had a restless night.

It wasn’t his damned fault if she was still afraid of him.

He’d given her his word. What more could he do? He fought to ignore the pricking of his conscience, was about to drag his gaze from her when he noticed something that stopped him. Beneath the plain gray cloth of her gown where it stretched across her rounded belly, he could actually
see
her baby move. At first he thought he’d imagined it. But as he watched, it happened again—an abrupt movement, almost like a twitch, beneath her gown.

Without thinking, he pressed his hand against the surprising hardness of her abdomen. And there it was—a light pressure against his palm, faint at first, then stronger, as if the child could feel his touch and was pushing back. His throat grew tight with unexpected emotion.

A baby. His baby.

The gentle pressure against his palm increased, undeniable, persistent, as if in tender mockery of his attempts to forget. It held him in thrall.

Nicholas didn’t know which angered him more—his own inexplicable behavior moments earlier or the fact that he was about to be killed with his own gun. Had he not been so weak, he could easily have taken it from her. But in his present state, he’d probably only succeed in getting himself shot.

He mumbled something he intended to be an apology, tried to get to his feet. Sharp pain shot through his right thigh, and he came close to sinking back to the floor. But he needed air. He needed to be alone, away from her, away from whatever had just happened.

She’d been in a dreamless sleep when she’d opened her eyes to find him touching her belly. At first, she’d been too sleepy to be afraid. As if in a dream, she had watched him. The look on his face had been one of wonder or grief—or both. She had smiled to see him so lost in her baby’s tiny movements—until, with a jolt, she’d come fully awake, remembered who he was.

How dare he touch her in her sleep! How dare he touch her with such familiarity! He was lucky she hadn’t pulled the trigger.

She pressed her palms to the hard curve of her abdomen, where the warmth of his touch lingered. Strange that she didn’t feel the revulsion and fear a man’s hands usually aroused in her. Perhaps her mind was still fogged with sleep.

She glanced toward the window, realized with a start that it was already well past sunrise. How could she have slept so long when there was work to be done?

“Bethie! For shame!” For a moment, her voice seemed to take on her mother’s unforgiving tones.

She rose, hurried around the bed, set the pistol down on the table with a wary glance toward the closed door. Where had he gone? She hoped he’d get on his horse, ride far away and never return. His very presence unnerved her. She didn’t want him anywhere near her when the baby came.

What was he doing out there? He’d catch his death for sure walking about in this chill barefooted in half a pair of breeches with no coat or cloak.

Why did she care? She cared because she’d be forced to tend him if he fell sick, and already she’d had more than her fill of him.

Quickly she combed her fingers through her tangled hair, worked it into a braid. Satisfied her hair would stay out of her face, she built up the fire, took her shawl from its peg and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she picked up his pistol, slipped it into her apron pocket. While he’d slept, she’d hidden his other weapons—a rifle, another pistol, a bayonet and the two hunting knives—under the loose floorboard to the right of the fireplace. They were fine weapons, the pistols graced with intricate inlaid handles, surely far beyond the means of a simple trapper. She’d kept one pistol for her own protection. Easier to wield than Andrew’s rifle, it would be just as deadly if his promise proved worthless. The bayonet told her he was a soldier, perhaps a deserter who had wearied of war and fled west.

Slowly, cautiously, Bethie opened the door. She half expected to find Master Kenleigh sprawled unconscious on the ground or lying in wait near the door. Instead, he stood by the well, drinking deeply from the tin dipper. He did not turn to her, did not acknowledge her. She hurried past him to the poultry pens, tried to act as if his presence didn’t bother her. When she came back out from the chicken coop, the morning’s eggs in her apron, he was nowhere to be seen. She found him when she went to milk old Dorcas, her favorite cow. He stood in the barn, tending his horse. He spoke reassuringly to the animal, brushed its chestnut flanks with sure strokes. Bethie faltered on the threshold, uneasy at the idea of being in a dark, confined space near him. But there was nothing to be done about it. Drawing reassurance from the weight of the pistol in her apron pocket, she went about her work, doing her best to ignore him.

She had just settled on the milking stool when he spoke. “Return my weapons, and I’ll sleep here in the barn.” His voice was deep and as soft as velvet.

Twas surely just such a voice Satan had used when he’d enticed Eve. And his suggestion
was
tempting. She’d sleep so much better with him out of the cabin. Or would she? Once he had his weapons, there was nothing to stop him from using them against her again.

“I’ll return them when you ride away.”

For a moment there was no sound but the hiss of milk against tin.

“Some would say that to deprive a man of his firearms is a grave and dangerous offense.” This time his voice carried an edge of warning.

A shiver of fear raced along her spine. She knew she was playing with fire. Her fingers grew awkward, earning an angry swish of Dorcas’s tail.

“And some would say a woman who doesna protect herself against strange men on the frontier is daft and deservin’ of whatever befalls her.”

He chuckled, a warm sound so contrary to his rough and callous character that it surprised her. “Let no man dare say you’re daft, Mistress Stewart.”

Bethie stood, untied Dorcas so the cow could wander back to her new calf, which lay nearby curled up in the straw, watching its mother with soft brown eyes. Then she lifted the pail of fresh milk by its handle and let herself out of the stall.

He was still brushing his stallion’s chestnut coat, his back to her.

“If you’ve the strength to feed and water the horses and loose them in the paddock, you can give your stallion a portion of my oats and hay. I’ll have porridge ready by the time you’re done.”

She had his weapons, and she wasn’t going to give them back.

If she’d been a man, Nicholas would have settled the issue with his fists. On the frontier, the only law all men acknowledged was the right of each man to arm himself. Any man stupid enough to trifle with another man’s firearms could expect to wind up as fodder for wolves and ravens.

But she wasn’t a man. She was a young woman heavy with child—alone and desperately vulnerable. And she was doing her best to stay alive.

She should not be here. What a fool her husband had been to drag her out here, to put her in harm’s way and then leave her defenseless! She should be in the care of her family in some safe little town back East with older women to fuss over her, not left to fend for herself in a land without pity.

He released the second of her two gray mares into the paddock with a slap on the rump, turned back for Zeus, fought his dizziness.

It would not be hard to take the pistol from her by force. He could easily overpower her without hurting her, take it back, end this whole damned game. Once he had it, she would almost certainly tell him where she’d hidden the rest of his belongings.

But she would probably view his action as a breach of his vow. And that bothered him. He had not yet slipped so far as to break his word to anyone.

Damn it to hell.