by Pamela Clare
He stroked her hair, pressed his lips to her temple. “First, we’re going to get some sleep. Oh, don’t worry. The horses will warn us if anyone approaches. Then I’m going to find us a nice, fat rabbit for dinner. Tomorrow morning we make for Fort Pitt and from there on to Paxton.”
Chapter 14
Bethie reined in her mare, weary with pain and fatigue. She adjusted Isabelle’s weight in the sling she had made from her shawl, tried to keep her mind off the ache in her shoulders and the chafed, raw skin of her inner thighs. Nicholas had given her his last remaining shirt to protect her skin from insects and the burning rays of the sun, but he had no spare breeches to protect her bare legs nor shoes or moccasins for her feet.
Ahead of her, Nicholas dismounted, knelt down, studied the ground for tracks, his brow furrowed in concentration, his dark hair tied back with a thong. The wilderness was his world, she realized. Here he seemed at ease. He saw things she didn’t see, heard things she couldn’t hear, exuded confidence when she felt only hesitation, fear. He showed no signs of the exhaustion that plagued her, but leapt agilely up onto the stallion’s back, urged it forward.
She gritted her teeth, bit back a groan as Rosa followed, the animal’s stride causing Bethie’s unprotected thighs to rub against the leather of Nicholas’s saddle. He had adjusted it to fit the mares, given it to Bethie to use, sure it would make the journey safer for her and the baby. But she had little experience riding and had never sat astride. If the insides of her thighs were not blistered and bloody, they certainly felt that way.
Hadn’t Nicholas warned her it would be hard? Aye, he had. And so much of the responsibility of this journey rested on his shoulders. It was he who protected them, found them food, searched for the safest paths. She wouldn’t add to his burdens by complaining.
Fortunately, both mares had accepted Zeus’s dominance and followed docilely wherever the stallion led, so Bethie had no worries when it came to controlling her mount. Nicholas hadn’t even bothered to tie Rona to Bethie’s saddle, but had let her wander free, sure that she would stay close behind them.
They’d been riding since shortly after dawn, following the river as it wound its way slowly to the northeast then dropped sharply to the southeast. Nicholas had kept them hidden in the cover of the forest, beneath a canopy of beech, maple, and oak. Bethie could not see the sun, but she knew it must be near sunset. Surely that meant they would stop soon.
In the sling, Belle began to whimper. Though the sling freed Bethie’s hands for riding and made it easy for her to nurse without stopping, it didn’t prevent them from having to dismount whenever the moss lining in Belle’s diaper cloth needed to be changed.
Bethie held her daughter close, whispered. “Shhh, sweet. We cannae stop just yet.”
But Belle would not be comforted. She began to kick and cry.
Bethie opened her shift, brought her nipple to Belle’s mouth, but the baby turned her face away and cried harder.
Nicholas stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
Fearing his rebuke—he had warned her that a baby’s cries, so out of place in the wild, would attract predators, especially the human kind—Bethie tried to explain. “She’s wet.”
He nodded, his brow bent in a slight frown. “If you can quiet her for just awhile longer, there’s good shelter ahead.”
“I’ll try.” Bethie lifted Belle out of the sling, held her upright against her shoulder, patted her back. “Shhh, Belle. Just awhile longer now.”
The change of position seemed to help. Belle began to suck on her hand and gazed at the shadows of the forest. But the terrain became increasingly hilly, forcing Bethie to hang on more tightly with her tortured thighs, until she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. Then the slope pitched sharply downhill, and Bethie heard the sound of running water.
In one fluid move, Nicholas dismounted and withdrew his knife from its sheath. “Wait here.” Gaze on the ground, he moved forward in silence, swiftly disappeared down the hill.
Bethie’s pulse raced. Had he heard something? She dared not ask. She strained to listen, heard nothing but water and the twitter of birds.
Belle began to squirm, and Bethie knew she was about to begin fussing again. She jiggled her baby, kissed her cheek, did her best to distract her.
“Shhh, little one. Shhh.”
Then, just as suddenly as he had vanished, he was back. “We’ll make camp here for the night.” He mounted the stallion again and led Bethie downhill to an outcropping of rocks, one of which seemed to have toppled against the other, forming a kind of arch. They stood just above a rushing creek.
“We’ll have to dismount and tie the horses here. It’s not high enough for them to pass through.” He leapt lightly to the ground and reached for Rosa’s bridle.
Now that they had finally stopped and she had the chance to get out of the saddle, Bethie found she hadn’t the strength to move. Where her legs didn’t hurt, they felt as dead and heavy as rotted logs. She tried to shift, to lift her right leg back and over the horse’s rump, and could not stop the moan that passed her lips.
She didn’t realize Nicholas was beside her until he lifted her from the saddle.
“Hold on to Belle.” His voice was soft, reassuring. “Can you stand?”
“Aye.”
He placed her on her feet, his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
But twelve hours in the saddle had left her weaker than she’d imagined. Her legs buckled, and she sagged against him.
Nicholas bit back a curse. He’d known this would be tough on her. He hadn’t realized quite how tough. It had been a lifetime since his first days in the saddle, so long that he couldn’t even remember ever being saddle sore. Clearly, he’d pushed her too hard.
He scooped Bethie into his arms, ducked under the arch, carried her to the other side, set her down on a cushion of dried moss. This wasn’t the safest place in the world to pass the night, but it was reasonably secure and offered them both protection from the elements and a defensible position should anyone come across them in the night. To the north, the rocks created a natural barrier, passable only through the easily defended arch. The creek itself, though shallow, offered some protection to the east. A sheer wall of stone almost forty feet high guarded them to the south and west. At its base, water had created a small alcove deep enough for a few people to spend the night out of the rain and out of sight from above.
“Just rest. I’ll tend to the horses.”
Nicholas ducked back through the arch, found the horses at the water’s edge slaking their thirst. He quickly stripped the saddle from Rosa’s back, rubbed her down with the currycomb from his saddlebags. Then he gave Zeus and Rona a good rubdown, as well, and staked the three within distance of both grass and water.
“Keep an eye on things, old boy.” He gave Zeus a hearty pat on his withers. The stallion, so protective of his mares, would alert him should man or animal approach.
Nicholas picked up his saddle and saddlebags and ducked back through the arch. There he found both Bethie and Isabelle sound asleep. Bethie had solved the problem of the wet diaper cloth by simply removing it and draping it over a rock to dry. Thanks to the forest fire, they had only the one. Isabelle lay naked as the night she’d been born on her mother’s breast, covered only by the thin woolen shawl.
Nicholas wasted no time. First, he laid out a soft bed of furs in the alcove. Then he lit a small fire, built a tripod of sturdy sticks over it, took out his cook pot, put water on to boil. Last, he slipped off his moccasins and strode down to the water’s edge, knife in hand.
By the time Bethie awoke, he had a cup of tea waiting for her and three spotted bass sizzling over the fire.
“That smells good.” She tried to sit, gasped, bit her lip.
“Easy, Bethie.” He picked up the tea, carried it to her. “I’ll have supper soon. Drink this. It’s made from willow bark. It will help take away some of your soreness. Be careful. It’s still hot.”
Sh
“It’s bitter, but it really does work. Trust me.” He watched as she took a sip, smiled at the face she made. “Drink it.”
While she struggled with the tea, Nicholas tossed wild onion onto the fish, flipped them once more, and pulled the corn cakes from the ashes. There was no butter, as she was accustomed to, but this would help her rebuild her strength and keep up her milk for Isabelle. He put half of the fish onto his tin plate, together with a couple of corn cakes and a fork, carried it to her, then sat to eat his from the pan with a spoon.
“Thank you.” She took one small bite, moaned, took another larger bite, then ate with a dainty abandon that would have shocked the women of Virginia’s stuffy drawing rooms. “This is tasty.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve had to survive on my own cooking for a long time now. I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.”
She lowered her fork, licked her lips in an unconscious gesture that made Nicholas’s blood heat by several degrees, then looked at him through guileless eyes. “Why do you live out here alone? Do you no’ have family?”
Nicholas felt his good humor vanish. But it was an innocent question. “Aye, I have family—parents, brothers, sisters—in Virginia. I left home at the outset of the war and never went back.”
Bethie watched the smile vanish from his face and knew she’d asked the wrong question. She finished her meal in silence. She watched as he cleaned up, set more water on to boil.
“It will be dark soon. You should try taking a quick bath in the creek. The cold water will make you feel better.”
“But—”
“I won’t watch.” He reached into his saddlebags. “You can use my soap.”
Soap in hand, she struggled to her feet, gritted her teeth against her aching muscles, and walked stiffly to the water’s edge. She turned to face him. “Do I have your word you willna watch?”
“Aye, Mistress Stewart. I’ll keep my eyes instead on your charming daughter.”
She watched as he gently laid her shawl over Isabelle. Then she wandered a short distance downstream, out of his direct sight and slipped off his shirt and her shift, dropping them on the sandy bank. She tested the water with her toes, yanked her foot back. It was ice cold.
Not wishing to be a coward, she stepped slowly into the rushing water until it reached her thighs. Then she ducked beneath the surface and began hastily to wash herself with his soap. Although the water was colder than any she’d ever bathed in before, she felt some of her pain begin to slip away. By the time her bones ached from the chill, she was clean from head to toe and feeling much refreshed.
Nicholas watched, his promise broken to bits, as Bethie walked carefully over wet stones back to the bank, squeezing water from her long hair. Water ran in rivulets down her satiny skin, over her full breasts, over the soft curve of her belly, through the nest of blond curls that covered her sex, down her shapely thighs. Her rosy nipples were drawn tight against the chill, and her skin glowed pink.
His cock sprang to life, stretched the buckskin of his breeches. His testicles ached for release. He found himself wanting to pick her up, carry her to this bed of furs, pleasure her with his hands and mouth and cock until she trembled with need and begged him to take her over the edge. Then she lifted her leg to take a step . . . and he saw the deep, purple bruises on the insides of her thighs.
“Hell!” Caught between irritation and the frustration of pent-up desire, he rummaged roughly through his saddlebags until he found his little crock of salve. By the time she returned, he had managed to gain some control of himself. “Feel any better?”
She smiled, her face as sweet as sunlight, and sat beside him on the moss. “Aye.
He handed her the salve. “Spread this on the skin between your legs. And next time you’re in that much pain, let me know. You won’t last out here if you don’t take care of yourself.”
She gaped at him, eyes wide. Then a rosy blush suffused her cheeks, and she looked away. “You watched.”
There was no way to deny it, so he didn’t bother. “Only a little. Now put that on your thighs and the burn on your cheek. When you’re finished, I’ll get the tangles out of your hair.”
She glared at him, then turned her back to him.
He tried not to think about the fact that she wore no drawers and now sat with her legs parted, so that she could spread ointment on her inner thighs. Instead, he focused on her hair, long golden strands, as soft as silk. Without a comb, he had only his fingers to separate the snarls. He waited until she finished, then took up her hair, starting at the ends and working his way up. “Too bad it’s dark. Otherwise, we might have practiced your reading a bit tonight.”
“You saved the book?” She sounded pleased.
“It was tucked away in my bags when the fire hit and so was spared. Did you think it lost?”
Bethie tried to answer, but he was doing something wonderful to her nape with his fingers, and the only sound that came from her mouth was a sort of purr.
“Does that feel good, Bethie?” His voice was deep, carried the husky tones she now recognized as desire.
“Oh, aye.” She felt it, too—a strange heat, an awareness, a longing. “Kiss me, Nicholas!”
He groaned, a primal, male sound. Then he pulled her into his arms, laid her gently down on the furs, stretched out beside her. For an instant he gazed deep into her eyes, a look of barely restrained emotion on his face. Then his mouth claimed hers in a fierce kiss.
If Bethie thought she knew how good it was to be kissed by him, she soon realized she was blissfully mistaken. In front of the hearth in the cabin, his mouth had teased her, tempted her, but now it possessed her, consumed her.
She parted her lips, surrendered to the velvet invasion of his tongue, the terror and exhaustion of the past two days yielding to the hard press of his body against hers. Lost in the taste of him, the feel of him, lost in his scent, she found in herself a fervor to match his. She returned his kiss, arched against him, wanting . . .
Wanting what?
She whimpered, a sound of frustration, then whispered his name. “Nicholas!”
“What do you want, Bethie? Tell me.” His mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, nipped, licked, sucked.
Something deep in her belly clenched. Damp heat gathered inside her, spread between her thighs. She felt heavy, hot, on fire. “More!”
“Is this what you want?” He traced her lips with his tongue, thrust intimately into her mouth. Her lips were swollen and aching beneath his. Then he broke the kiss. Gazing knowingly into her eyes, he traced a lazy line on her collarbone with his thumb. “Tell me, Bethie.”
“I—I dinnae know what I want!” She panted, breathless and desperate.
His hand stroked her wet hair as his lips brushed her cheek. “Do you trust me?”
Did she trust him? After all he’d done to help her and Belle? After he’d nearly died to save them? After he’d watched her bathe in the creek when he’d promised not to? “Aye. Mostly.”
He chuckled softly, then nipped her throat, ran his tongue over the whorl of her ear. “Have I ever hurt you?”
She shivered. “N-nay.” The word came out as a moan.
“Then let me bring you pleasure. Let me touch you. Only tell me to stop, and I will.” He nibbled her earlobe, drew it into the heat of his mouth.
Let me touch you.
Dark memories pricked at the back of her mind—memories of groping hands, of pain, of humiliation. But there were other memories as well, memories of tenderness, of kisses so potent they stole her breath, made her pulse quicken, made her blood burn.
He was not Richard. He was not Andrew.
He was Nicholas.
Could it be different? Could a woman enjoy lying beside a man? Could she enjoy his hands upon her?
She wanted to know. She needed to know.
; She met his gaze, felt herself begin to tremble, anticipation and apprehension twined together in her belly. “Aye, Nicholas. Please!”
Chapter 15
Her whispered words unleashed a maelstrom inside Nicholas. He wanted to release the fire inside her, to bury himself in her silken heat, to devour her. He wanted to claim her, make her forget she’d ever been touched by another man.
But he could feel the conflict within her. The ardor of her body’s response told him she wanted him, but the wariness in her eyes proved she was still afraid.
He brushed his lips over hers, kissed the corners of her mouth, forced himself to rein in his own need, to go slowly. “You are beautiful, Bethie. Do you know that?”
He didn’t give her time to answer, but took her lips in a deep, languid kiss, using his tongue to make her forget fear, forget doubt, forget everything but his touch.
She moaned into his mouth—not in fear, but desire.
He took her breath into his lungs, pressed the kiss deeper, rested his palm over her heart. It beat like the wings of a frightened bird. “You’ve nothing to fear, Bethie. Tell me what you want, whatever you want. It’s yours.”
She whispered his name, arched against his touch, her body telling him what she seemingly could not.
He brushed the valley between her breasts with the back of his knuckles once, twice, three times, felt her heartbeat quicken even more. Then he slid his hand beneath the thin, damp fabric of her shift, caressed the soft underside of her breast, his palm brushing lightly over her nipple on the way.
She gasped, one quick intake of breath, arched again, her nipples already drawn into tight, blushing buds.
“So soft.” He continued to caress the naked silk of her breast, to mold its delicious fullness in his palm.
She had begun to tremble, to writhe in his arms, one hand fisted in the soft furs, the other pressed against his chest.
He flicked his thumb over her taut, rosy peak once, then again.
She gasped, moaned.
“You like that, too. What about this?” He leaned over, took her nipple into his mouth, suckled her. He would teach her to ask for her pleasure, to demand it, to savor it.
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