Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

by Pamela Clare

  “You’ve the heart of a harlot, Bethie Stewart.”

  Could it be that Malcolm Sorley had been right about her all along?

  She could not desire Nicholas! Why would she desire him? She was not an innocent virgin, but a widow who had borne a child. She knew all there was to know about what went on between men and women, and she had no need for it. Not only did it not please her, but she’d found it painful.

  She sank into the water, rinsed soap from her hair, tried to rinse him from her thoughts. She had just stepped from the tub and reached for the linen towel, when the door suddenly opened and Nicholas stepped inside.

  Chapter 10

  She gasped, clutched the towel to her breasts.

  He stood still, frozen in the open doorway. His gaze blatantly traveled the length of her body. “My apologies, Bethie. I thought you were finished. The string was out.”

  “I—I must have forgotten to pull it in.”

  The door string was their signal. If the string was in, he couldn’t enter because she was in her bath. If the string was out, she was finished and he could come back inside. But she had forgotten, and now he was here, and she was naked, covered only by her hair and the small, threadbare towel.

  She assumed he would leave her to dress, so she was surprised when he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Wh-what—”

  Nicholas turned toward his bedroll in the corner, tried to act as if nothing earthshaking had just happened, and began to sort mindlessly through his gear. “Take your time, Bethie. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  He knew she stood rooted to the spot, almost smiled when she finally resigned herself to his presence and began to dress—hastily, from the sound of it.

  He had used up the daylight scouting the riverbank and the forest around the cabin for signs of other men, white or Indian, then settled the livestock for the night. He’d been watching storm clouds gather to the north of the setting sun, his mind on the evening reading lesson, when he realized the string was already out. He’d opened the door, expecting to find Bethie sitting before the fire brushing out her long tresses as she usually did after her bath.

  Now the sight of her was burned into his memory—wet hair clinging to her body, water running in rivulets down her satin skin, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the wet thatch of golden curls at the juncture of her thighs. The floor had seemed to drop out from under his feet, the air to vanish from his lungs. His cock had risen to stiff attention like a young recruit ready for battle.

  He rooted among his traps and tools with no purpose, determined to show no sign that seeing her naked and dripping wet had any effect on him.

  “I’m dressed.”

  Nicholas glanced her way. His mouth went dry.

  She stood facing the fire clad only in her shift, combing the tangles from her hair. Clearly she had no idea that the firelight rendered her shift all but transparent, displaying the luscious curves beneath in tantalizing detail.

  He struggled to compose himself, picked up his book, stood and faced her. “I used to brush my mother’s hair at night. Sit and read, and let me take care of the snarls.”

  In truth, his father had held the brush, but Nicholas had often watched, as charmed by his mother’s long, red-gold curls as his father had been, though not in the same way. But this was different. He did not feel a boy’s innocent fascination with Bethie’s long locks, but a man’s knowing hunger.

  Bethie looked up at him, tried to read the emotion behind his eyes, hesitated. No one had combed her hair since she was six and had learned to braid it herself. She supposed there could be no harm in this beyond the pinch she would feel when he pulled too sharply on her tangles. Then, just to be safe, she took up her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, hiding herself beneath a layer of wool, despite the warmth of the evening.

  He pulled out a chair for her. “Sit.”

  She sat, traded the wooden comb for his book. He had marked the page with a small strip of leather. She opened it, careful not to tear the page, and searched for the place where they’d left off the night before.

  He sat behind her, gathered the heavy weight of her hair into his hands, lifted it over the back of her chair.

  She began to read. “Candide, thus . . . driv-en out of this . . . ter-res . . .” She paused.

  “Terrestrial.”

  “What does that mean—‘terrestrial’?” She shivered as he ran the comb slowly through her wet hair.

  “‘Terrestrial’ means ‘of the Earth,’ the opposite of ‘heavenly.’”

  What he was doing with his hands was heavenly. He worked gently to part the tangles at her sensitive nape, his fingers brushing her skin, making her scalp tighten, tingle.

  “Candide, thus dr-driven out of this terrestrial . . . para-dise?”

  “Aye, paradise. Good.” His voice was husky, deep, as he combed her hair with slow, steady strokes.

  “Candide, thus driven out of this terrestrial paradise . . . rambled a long time without knowing where he went.” Where was she going? What path were her feet treading tonight? She could never have imagined that having another person comb her hair could be so pleasurable. Always when her mother had done this, it had hurt, the sting sometimes enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  “Good. Keep going.”

  “Sometimes he . . . raised . . . his eyes all be-dewed . . . with tears toward heaven, and sometimes he cast a mel . . . mel-an . . .” She felt her attention slip from the pages as his fingers slid through her tresses.

  “Melancholy.” His breath caressed her cheek as he leaned forward to glance at the page, and she caught his scent—leather, forest, man.

  He’d been this close to her this afternoon. And he’d kissed her, his lips scorching her.

  “. . . melancholy look toward the . . . mag . . . ni . . . fi . . .” She wanted him to kiss her again, willed him to kiss her again, desperate to feel his lips on her skin.

  “Magnificent.”

  But she had forgotten the book, forgotten everything except the feel of his fingers as they massaged her temples. Strong fingers, they moved in slow, deliberate circles, then delved deeply into her hair to caress her scalp.

  A frisson of pure pleasure skittered along her spine.

  She let the weight of her head fall back into his hands as they moved to caress her nape. A voice in her mind reminded her that she shouldn’t be enjoying this. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t want him. But she did.

  Then his lips pressed a featherlight kiss against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and she heard herself whimper.

  Aware of her every breath, Nicholas felt her tremble, heard the small sound that escaped her throat. Was it desire? Or fear?

  He looked for the answer on her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and even as he tasted her skin again, she tilted her head away from him, baring her throat to his kisses.

  Desire.

  Good. He didn’t want to stop kissing her just now, didn’t want to stop tasting her. He trailed kisses along her throat, felt the frantic rhythm of her pulse against his lips.

  She whimpered but did not pull away from him.

  Emboldened, he leaned farther forward, touched his lips to the corner of her mouth.

  He heard her quick intake of breath, felt his stomach tighten, his erection already full and heavy.

  She turned her head toward him, her lips pliant, a dreamy sigh caught in her throat.

  It was all the encouragement he needed. He cupped her cheek, turned his head from side to side, brushed her lips ever so lightly with his. Then he claimed her mouth in a slow kiss.

  It was a tender kiss, but the power of it was nearly his undoing. He felt another tremor pass through her, felt his body answer with a craving so potent it bordered on violence.

  Her eyes flew open, their pupils dark with a woman’s longing. Her hands were clenched together in her lap so tightly that her fingers were white. Even so, it did not still her trembling. “
W-we shouldna be doin’ this.”

  He pulled her hands into his, began to stroke their backs lazily with his thumbs. “Why not?”

  She did not answer, but dropped her gaze to the floor, the conflict within her written on her face.

  “Do my kisses frighten you, Bethie, love?”

  Her answer was a whisper. “A little.”

  “Why?”

  Bethie fought to clear her muddled mind, sought the right words. “B-because I know what you would do next.”

  His thumbs traced maddening circles against the sensitive skin of her wrists. “Tell me. What would I do next?”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, saw that his eyes had darkened to the color of midnight. “Y-you know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You would be overcome by . . .” She looked away again, felt the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks.

  “Overcome by what, Bethie?”

  She had to fight to speak the next word. “Lust.”

  “And that frightens you?”

  She looked into his eyes again, fought to recover her resolve. “I am no’ a silly girl, Nicholas, but a woman who has been a wife. I know all there is to know about . . . about that. There is no pleasure in it for a woman, only pain.”

  He looked at her through eyes that held only tenderness. “If you believe that women don’t also enjoy sex, Bethie, then you have much to learn.”

  Her face flamed with anger and embarrassment at his words, but something deep inside her belly clenched. “You only say this to persuade me.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek, traced the line of her lower lip with his thumb. “Did I hurt you, Bethie?”

  She shivered. “N-nay.”

  “Did you feel pleasure when I kissed you?”

  She hesitated, squeezed her eyes shut, wished she did not have to answer him. What would he think of her if she admitted that she didn’t want him to stop, that she wanted him to keep kissing her?

  You’ve the heart of a harlot, Bethie Stewart.

  “Answer me, Bethie. Did you feel pleasure?”

  Eyes still closed, she spoke the truth, her voice barely a whisper. “Aye.”

  “Have you ever enjoyed kissing a man before?”

  Her blush grew hotter. “Nay. But it is no’ a fair question. I have never been kissed before, no’ like that.”

  “A husband intent on pleasuring his wife would kiss her like that every day.” He kissed her lips again, softly, slowly. “And every night.” Again he kissed her.

  Bethie’s mind was a riot of emotion. Her lips tingled, ached. Her body shivered uncontrollably, flooded with unfamiliar sensations. “Nicholas!”

  His name was a plea, a prayer. Could he be telling her the truth? Was there more to the joining of men and women than she understood? Was this longing his touch aroused in her part of that?

  “I want to kiss you, Bethie. One kiss to show you that I’m right. One kiss to prove that I can bring you pleasure.”

  She opened her eyes, saw the look of sensual hunger on his face, knew he was holding himself back. “And if I hate it?”

  “If you hate it, I’ll never kiss you again. But if you enjoy it, then we shall end each reading lesson with a kiss.”

  “And you promise not to . . .”

  “Whatever else I may be, I am not the sort of man who would force himself on a woman, love. I will do nothing that you do not ask me to do.” The sincerity and intensity of his gaze stole what remained of her breath.

  Nothing that you do not ask me to do.

  The words hung in the air between them. Outside a robin sang a sweet farewell to the sun, but Bethie barely heard it. She was lost in Nicholas—his gaze, his scent, the lingering taste of him on her lips, the enthralling sound of his voice, the power of his words.

  Nothing that you do not ask me to do.

  She swallowed her fear. “Aye, Nicholas. Show me.”

  He growled low in his throat, slid one hand beneath her hair to cradle her head, drew her close with the other. Then his mouth gently captured hers.

  Heat licked through her, flared deep in her belly, as his lips teased, stroked, caressed hers. She felt weak, reckless, almost faint with need. “Nicholas.”

  He caught her whisper with his mouth, traced the line of her lips with his tongue, until her lips parted in anticipation of she knew not what.

  He groaned, took the kiss deeper, his tongue seeking hers, tasting her, stroking the inside of her cheeks, his fingers tracing her spine through the thin cloth of her shift.

  Awash in new sensations, she melted into the hard wall of his chest, found herself kissing him back, her tongue meeting his, tasting him in return.

  Nicholas knew he should stop. But she was so warm and willing in his arms, and she tasted so good—like wild honey and woman. He wanted more of her, needed more of her. But what he wanted he could not take. For her sake.

  Slowly, he released her, sat back, stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

  Breathless and trembling, she looked up at him through eyes filled with yearning. Her lips were wet, swollen, maddeningly ripe. Her hands still rested on his shoulders.

  He was terribly close to pulling her into his arms again when he remembered to ask the question. “Tell me, Bethie. Did my kiss bring you pleasure?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, as if struggling with the answer, then met his gaze. “Aye.”

  * * *

  Nicholas kicked the malfunctioning trap across the forest floor, let out a stream of profanity that would have shocked even another trapper.

  He wanted to hit something, anything.

  What in the hell had he been thinking when he offered to give Bethie a kiss each night? For five agonizing days he’d been living with the consequences of that decision—sleepless nights, restlessness, frustration. His balls were on the brink of exploding, and his cock was in a near-constant state of arousal. And his dreams . . .

  Dear God, his dreams had him spilling in the night like a boy of sixteen!

  It wasn’t that Bethie was a slow learner or unwilling to kiss. It was her natural talent and eagerness that was killing him. Each night he held her soft, pliant body in his arms, kissed her with every bit of passion and skill he possessed, and she returned his passion measure for measure.

  Nor was it that his kisses had no effect on her. She came alive in his arms, her body melting against his, her lips soft, her tongue eager to spar. She arched against him, moaned, clung to him in feminine surrender. Last night, she had scattered bites across his throat, nipped his lips, even bitten down gently on his tongue. It had taken every ounce of his resolve not to lift her shift, part her thighs, and impale her right there before the fire.

  The trouble was that she never asked for anything more.

  “I will do nothing that you do not ask me to do,” he’d said.

  Would she be content with kissing forever? Did she not long to follow her passion, to see where it led? Was she trying to drive him mad?

  With another curse, he stomped over to the place where his trap had landed, pulled it from a tangle of underbrush, examined it. One of the joints was bent. It wasn’t bad, just enough to ensure that the trap didn’t spring fully shut. He carried it back to the spot where Zeus grazed in contentment, draped it across his saddle, took out another.

  It was easy for the stallion to be content. He had a small harem of two mares to keep him satisfied and had already planted foals inside both of them. Bethie had taken it in stride, said she had expected as much.

  “Lucky bastard.” Nicholas stomped back to the riverbank, where he had chosen to place his trap.

  Surely Bethie’s husband was to blame for this. He had taught her to fear men. He had abused her. He had taken her sweet body to bed, had spread her legs, and hurt her. It was a good thing the son of a bitch was already dead. For God’s sake, the man hadn’t even kissed her!

  Nicholas picked up a rock, brought it down hard on the stake that held his trap in place
, forcing the stake deep into the mud.

  And then it dawned on him. If her husband hadn’t kissed her, perhaps there were other things he hadn’t done. As hard as it was to imagine, perhaps he had simply lifted her shift, spread her thighs, and rammed himself into her. Perhaps she had no idea what pleasures could follow kissing—all the touching, tasting, licking, and . . .

  A spray of crows scattered across the sky a half mile to the north, their raucous cries echoing through the forest. Then all was silent.

  Bethie!

  Nicholas pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and ran.

  * * *

  Bethie knelt in the dirt, freed the row of marjoram from the weeds that threatened to engulf it. Nicholas had told her not to bother planting a kitchen garden this summer, to save her seeds for planting elsewhere. But that didn’t mean she had to neglect her herbs. The wet winter meant the plants were especially healthy and robust this year. ’Twas a shame she would soon leave them behind. But she didn’t want to think about that.

  Isabelle cooed cheerfully from her basket in the nearby shade. She was growing so fast. She had already begun to sleep through the night once in a while.

  That was more than Bethie could say for herself. She hadn’t slept well since the first night Nicholas had kissed her. Instead, she had lain awake until late into the night, listening to his breathing, wanting . . . Wanting what?

  If only she knew.

  Every time he kissed her was better than the last. Never had she imagined that the simple touching of lips, the swirl of a tongue could leave her feeling so desperate, so needy. Each taste of him made her hungry for more, until she felt she could never be satisfied.

  Nicholas. Nicholas.

  Her mind seemed always to be filled with thoughts of—

  A hand fisted brutally in her hair, jerked her painfully to her feet. She would have screamed had a hand not closed over her mouth.

  Out from behind her strode two Indians. Both wore a mix of Indian and white man’s garb—leather leggings and breechcloths with homespun shirts. Their heads were bald apart from scalp locks.