by Pamela Clare
Bethie knew where the heat of his need resided, knew which part of him burned hottest. She lifted her lips from his skin, gazed on the rigid length of his shaft. But the fear she had expected to feel was no longer there. Instead she felt insatiably curious.
Touch me anywhere you want, any way you want.
She reached out with one hand, fondled his stones, cupped their surprising weight in her hands, and felt the sac that held them draw tight. Then she ran her fingers tentatively over the swollen head of his shaft, explored its smallest features one by one—the slit in the center, the thick ridge at its edges, the tiny line of pinched flesh on the underside.
Breath hissed from his clenched teeth, and she looked up to find him watching her through eyes that had turned to smoke.
She closed her hand around him, slid her hand down his pulsing length, amazed by the feel of him. He was steel in silk, both hard and soft.
“Bethie . . .” His eyes closed, and the muscles of his arms bulged as he strained against his grip on the bedposts.
Any way you want.
Driven by that same deep-seated hunger, she hesitated for only a moment, then leaned down and kissed this part of him as she had kissed the rest of him.
Nicholas felt her hot mouth close over him, thought he would come undone. “Good God, woman!”
He fought to hold his hips still, to remain passive, as she ran her tongue lightly over the head of his cock, tasting him. He knew she had never done this before, and yet her tentative touch, her exploring kisses, were more arousing than the expert actions of the most skilled whore. And when she gripped him in her hand and guided him deep into her mouth, he knew it wouldn’t be long until he came.
Was she ready for that? Was she ready to take his seed in her mouth? He doubted it.
“Bethie, let me . . . touch you. Let me show you how good it is! If you don’t stop . . .”
But she did stop, left him hanging on the edge, hard and aching.
He opened his eyes, saw her watching him through eyes filled with doubt. “Let me give you the same pleasure, Bethie. Let me show you just how good it can be for a woman.”
Her hair was a tangle of yellow silk, her lips swollen from kissing him. But her eyes still held a shadow of fear. “Must you be . . . inside me?”
Inside her. That was where he wanted to be, where he needed to be. He wanted to plunge inside her, to feel her muscles clench around him as his thrusts brought them both release. But the last man entrusted with loving her sweet body had hurt her, abused her. He realized she wasn’t ready for a man, not like that, not yet. He fought to subdue his own longing, looked into her eyes.
“No, love.” He could scarce believe what he was saying. He must be insane! “I don’t have to be inside you.”
Bethie sat for a moment, shaken by his smile, stunned to her core by her own passion, by his words. “Aye, Nicholas. Show me.”
And then she was in his arms as he pulled her against him, pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that seared her to her soul. He rolled her onto her back, and his lips followed the same path she had blazed on his flesh—over her lips, across her cheek, down her throat, to her breasts, where he laved her nipples with his tongue.
Delicious frissons of heat shot from her breasts to someplace deep in her belly with each flick of his tongue, each tug of his lips. She heard herself moan, heard herself whisper his name. “Nicholas!”
“I want you hungry and aching, Bethie. I want you to know what it’s like.”
Hands rough from years of living in the wild caressed her breasts, teased her nipples, while his lips traced fire across her belly. Just as she had done, he dipped his tongue into her navel. A dart of flame shot through her.
“I’m going to touch you now, Bethie, just as you touched me.”
Then his hand cupped her sex.
Tremors of pleasure twined with alarm shuddered through her. Instinctively, she drew her thighs together. “N-nay!”
“Trust me, love. Pleasure, not pain.” He moved the heel of his hand in slow, maddening circles on her woman’s mound.
And there was pleasure—shocking, deep, aching pleasure. She could not think. She could not doubt. She could do nothing but feel. Ragged sensation tore through her, made her insides quiver. The cleft between her thighs ached. She was wet, weeping, molten. “Oh, Nicholas, please . . . don’t . . . stop!”
She heard him chuckle, a deep erotic sound. “Now I’m going to taste you, Bethie, just as you tasted me. Spread your legs for me.”
Bethie’s eyes flew open and the breath caught in her throat as he parted her thighs, bent down, took her with his mouth. She cried out, unable to believe what he was doing, what she was feeling. His lips closed over the most sensitive part of her, and he began to suckle.
Unbearable, desperate, searing pleasure.
She heard him moan, the deep rumble vibrating against her tortured flesh.
“Mmm, you taste like heaven, love. So sweet.”
Then his tongue teased her entrance, sent deep shudders through her, and for the first time in her life, Bethie felt empty. She wanted his kiss inside her. She wanted him inside her. But she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell him.
“Please, Nicholas!” Her hands fisted in his long hair, pushed him closer.
Something was building inside her, stalking her. Something wild. Something primal.
He tugged on her swollen flesh with his lips, sucked her into his mouth again, teased her with flicks of his tongue.
Helpless, frantic cries escaped her as the flames inside her grew higher and higher.
And then all at once, the fire within her drew itself together deep in her belly—and exploded. White-hot bliss surged through her, a pounding tide of molten delight, waves of pleasure so strong she feared she would come apart. “Nicholas!”
Her body trembled with the force of her climax, her inner muscles clenching hard again and again, until the fire faded to embers.
But Nicholas wasn’t finished. He lapped her still-swollen sex with lazy strokes until the heat began to build again. Then he drew upon her sensitive bud with his lips, sucked it, teased it. And in a matter of minutes she was lost in another climax and another, until she was exhausted and floating, Nicholas by her side, a smile on his lips.
She curled against him, mumbled. “I never knew. I never knew, Nicholas.”
He pulled her into his arms, stroked her hair, his shaft still rigid. “Sleep, love.”
* * *
Bethie slept deeply that night.
His body yearning for release, Nicholas didn’t sleep at all.
But for the first time in six years, he felt content.
Chapter 21
Bethie placed the bandage in the basket with the others she had rolled, then reached for another strip of linen. Isabelle lay beside her on a thick lynx fur, gazing about with bright blue eyes and sucking on her hand.
Nicholas had arranged for Bethie to spend a few hours each morning working in the hospital, provided Private Fitchie stayed with her—and provided she agreed to return straightaway to their quarters should the alarm sound. Bethie had agreed to his conditions, though she felt he was still making too great a fuss over one soldier’s rudeness. Besides, what was the good of her helping in the hospital if she were to abandon it when her help was most needed? But Nicholas had insisted.
“There are some things a woman shouldn’t see, Bethie,” he’d said.
And so she rolled strips of linen into bandages she hoped would never be needed, made beds she hoped would remain empty, helped prepare salves she hoped would never be used, all the while listening to the surgeon, Dr. Aimes, talk about everything from treatments for different fevers to today’s topic—the many causes for the fall of the Roman Empire.
He poured out a measure of laudanum for a soldier who had broken his ankle. “For civilization to triumph, man must conquer his inner beast. The failure of Rome, madam, was its acceptance of the barbarian.”
Bethie scarce hear
d him, her mind on Nicholas. For three nights now she had lain in his arms, felt the magic of his hands and mouth upon her. Never had she thought she would ache for a man’s touch, his kisses, his embrace. Never had she thought a man could make her writhe with pleasure or plead for release. But Nicholas had shown her a new world, one she had not known existed. Now she could hardly wait each evening until the sun had set and Isabelle had fallen asleep. She wanted him, was greedy for him.
She was learning to please him in the same way he pleased her, with her hands, with her mouth. She had watched in awe the first time he’d reached his peak in her hands and spilled his seed across his belly. Like ribbons of melted, white silk it had shot from inside him, as his body shuddered with the power of his release, a look of intense pleasure, or pain, on his face.
He had never pressured her for more, never tried to enter her body. And for that she was grateful. And yet . . . Every time she drew near to her climax, she felt a deep need for him inside her, an empty yearning, as if that part of her truly longed to be filled by him. But she said nothing, hindered by the memory of Andrew’s painful thrusts and Richard’s rough probing.
Nicholas. Nicholas.
He had made these past three days the happiest of her life. And yet there were shadows.
Everyone believed she was his wife and Isabelle his daughter. It would be so easy to get lost in the daydream, to let herself believe it. But it was a lie, a misunderstanding that Nicholas had not challenged—in order, he said, to keep her safe. It pained her to deceive people who had been so kind to her—Annie, Minna, Goody Wallace, even Private Fitchie. They thought her the wife of an officer, a woman worthy of respect. In truth, she was naught but a widow, the daughter of a poor Scots-Irish farmer who’d tried to hack a living out of this unforgiving land—and had failed.
They weren’t the only ones she was deceiving. Just as Nicholas had allowed everyone to believe she was his wife, she had allowed him to believe that it was Andrew, not Richard, who had taught her to fear a man’s touch. She and Nicholas had never spoken of it, but she could tell that was what he thought. The thinly veiled contempt in his voice every time he mentioned her husband told her that.
What would he do if he knew the truth about her? What would he do if he learned it was her stepbrother who had come to her bed night after night? The tenderness in his eyes would disappear, and he would look at her with disgust and loathing. She would be tainted in his eyes, ruined.
Whatever else happened, she couldn’t bear that.
Voices at the door broke through her thoughts, brought her back to the moment.
Private Fitchie pushed the door open, and two men entered supporting a third between them.
Bethie gasped.
’Twas the man who had touched her.
He wore no shirt, and blood was spattered on his arms and shoulders.
“So there’s the soldier they flogged this morning. I was expecting to see him sooner or later.” Dr. Aimes stood, pointed to a bed. “Lay him on his abdomen over there. Water and bandages if you please, madam.”
“He fainted, Doctor. They had to wait until he came round again to finish it. Thirty-nine lashes and not a peep. He can be right proud of that, so he can.”
“Thank you, Private. That will be all.”
The two soldiers turned and left, casting Bethie furtive looks.
Thirty-nine lashes.
Bethie felt dizzy. It was not so much the sight of his torn and bloodied back that sickened her, as it was the knowledge that this was how he’d been punished for dishonoring her. Looking at him, she wondered if the punishment fit the crime. After all, he hadn’t hurt her.
“Madam? Water and bandages?”
She grabbed several bandage rolls, placed them on the bed beside the unconscious soldier, then poured fresh water in the copper bowl the doctor used for such things.
“Does the sight of blood upset you?” He began to wash the blood and bits of torn flesh from the soldier’s back.
“Nay. ’Tis no’ the sight of his wounds that startled me, Doctor, but knowin’ that this happened because of me.”
“Nonsense! Private Huntley was punished because he behaved in a manner unbecoming a British soldier. As it is, he got off lightly. I’ve seen men receive as many as a thousand lashes.”
Her stomach rolled. “A thousand?”
“Aye. Most often the blows are delivered over a period of days, allowing the prisoner some respite but greatly increasing his dread of the pain. Of course, such a beating can prove fatal. The trick in meting out punishment is to remember that a hardened scoundrel cannot be reformed no matter how hard you beat him. But a young soldier, such as this one, can still be turned to good if his spirit is not crushed.”
Something fell out of the man’s mouth. The doctor picked it up, held it up for her to see. “A lead ball. He’s bitten it flat, his attempt to preserve his pride and keep from crying out, I expect.”
Then the man moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. His gaze lighted on Bethie, and his eyes grew wide. He lifted his head, tears in his brown eyes. “I never meant to frighten you, mistress. Forgi’e me! I’m so sorry! I’ll no’ put my hands upon you or any other man’s wife again, and I’ll curse any man who does!”
Unsure what to say or feel, Bethie fought back her emotions, dipped a cloth into clean water, pressed it to his sweaty brow. “Rest. ’Tis over now. Dr. Aimes will see you well tended.”
* * *
Nicholas sank his spade deeply into the damaged earth wall, tossed another shovelful of dirt down into the rift that floodwaters had made in the Lower Town curtain wall. The wall would be a few feet lower here, but at least they could close the gap.
Sweat ran down his bare chest as he dug. It was only about nine in the morning, and already the sun was blazing. He pitied the soldiers in their heavy, woolen uniforms. It was hard to believe that he’d ever worn one. How far away that life seemed now.
He should have felt more ill at ease here amid the trappings of his former life. There were too many echoes, too many memories. He hadn’t spent this much time in a fort or taken orders from anyone in six years. Yet here he was among people who had known him, however briefly, as Lieutenant Nicholas Kenleigh. Such circumstances ordinarily would have driven him deeper into the wilderness, as he much preferred being nameless.
What had changed?
Nothing. Nothing had changed. He was simply repaying his debt to Bethie, making certain she and her baby reached home safely. That meant staying in the fort until the road east was again safe. His presence here was an unfortunate matter of obligation, nothing more.
Even as the words formed in his mind he knew them for a lie. Nothing would have kept him within these walls if he hadn’t wanted to be here, if he hadn’t wanted to be with her. There were others he owed far more than he owed Bethie, and he had turned his back on them and ridden away.
I regret to inform you, madam, that your son is dead.
The memory of cold words spoken long ago cut through him like a rapier. The pain surprised him. He’d become so good at not feeling, so good at locking the darkness away inside himself. But Bethie had changed that. Somehow she had broken through his defenses, opened a fissure into that sea of darkness.
Lord, he wanted her. No matter how many times he touched her, tasted her, he could not get enough of her. She was like a fever in his blood, an obsession. He enjoyed just watching her come, enjoyed watching her lovely face as the sweet shock of climax surged through her, enjoyed knowing he could bring her pleasure.
And though he’d not taken her in the usual way, she was a fast learner and becoming quite clever with her tongue and hands. The first time she’d brought him to orgasm, he’d feared the force of it would wake the entire garrison. He could not deny that he dreamt of burying himself inside her, feeling her hot and slick around him, but it was better this way. This way he could not get her with child.
For he knew this could not last. One day, reinforcements would arrive and d
isperse the Delaware. Then he and Bethie would resume their journey to Paxton, where Nicholas would leave her and her baby in her family’s care. He’d left home to protect his family from the man he’d become. He would leave Bethie for the same reason.
“I want the accursed pet wolf and the bear turned out of the fort or put down immediately! And if the settlers can’t keep their dogs tied up and quiet at night, I want the dogs shot! They’re ruining my sleep. Offer half a crown in bounty to any man who kills a loose or barking dog.” Écuyer’s voice preceded him as he walked along the ramparts.
“Aye, Captain.” The quartermaster ran after him.
Écuyer stopped at the bottom of the wall below Nicholas. “And make certain that those who are selling Indian corn are not making too much of a profit. I can’t have the king’s subjects slaughtering one another over grain. I should think that six shillings a bushel is sufficient in time of war.”
“Aye, as you wish, Captain. Will that be all, sir?”
“Aye. You are dismissed.”
The quartermaster—Clark was his name—hurried away.
“Master Kenleigh, I should like a word with you.”
Nicholas handed his spade to Ian Calhoun, climbed down the rough embankment to the ground.
Écuyer looked him over with a frown. “You are not properly attired, Master Kenleigh.”
Nicholas accepted a ladle of well water from one of the farmer’s wives, slaked his thirst, cold water spilling down his throat and over his chest. He wasn’t the only one working without a shirt. “It’s a hot day.”
Around him, men laughed.
Écuyer’s cheeks turned a blotchy shade of red. He lowered his voice. “Do not show insubordination before the men. As a gentleman, Master Kenleigh, and as a former officer, you ought to understand the need for maintaining discipline.”
Nicholas reached for his shirt, slipped it over his head, ignored the ties. “You came over here to ask me to put my shirt on?”
“Of course not! I came to get your assessment of these colonials. Will they be ready to fight when the time comes?”