by Pamela Clare
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.
“How do you feel?”
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.
He struggled to remember how he’d been injured, could not. “What happened?”
“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 and found his release inside her.
Still, Bethie was so determined to keep him from danger that when Captain Écuyer knocked on their door one morning, she had half a mind to shut it in his face. Only the knowledge that insubordination could get them thrown out of the fort kept her from doing just that. She didn’t like Écuyer one bit. Any man who could shoot a dog . . . well, there weren’t words.
“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.
Écuyer 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, head 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.”
Écuyer’s gaze met his. “You think they mean to attack Colonel Bouquet.”
“That’s my guess. They hope to maintain the siege and at the same time destroy your reinforcements. They remember Braddock’s defeat and hope to accomplish the same thing with Bouquet.”
“If they do, it will be the end of us.”
“Aye.”
“For once I hope you’re wrong, Kenleigh.”
* * *
Two days later, three expresses arrived, carrying word from Colonel Bouquet. Reinforcements had reached Ligonier and were on their way. But scouts had reported a massive gathering of Delaware, Shawnee, Ottawa, and Wyandot just west of a place called Bushy Run. Colonel Bouquet was walking into a trap. But unlike Braddock before him, Bouquet and his regiment of Scottish Highlanders knew it.
* * *
Four more days passed, days of tense silence, days of hunger. The wood was almost gone. There was no flour, no cornmeal. Only salt pork and a bit of beef remained. In every heart lurked one shared fear—that Colonel Bouquet and his troops had been ambushed and defeated.
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.
August 10, 1763
Bethie was having the most delicious dream. Nicholas was making love to her, entering her from behind as she slept on her side, his lips on her nape, his fingers teasing her most sensitive spot, flicking it, rubbing it, caressing it.
She awakened to hear herself cry out as the bliss of climax washed through her, sweet as the sunrise.
He nuzzled her ear, his voice deep and husky. “Good morning.”
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 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, bringing him to a shuddering climax inside her.
For a while they lay in each other’s arms, hovering on the edge of sleep.
Then they heard the sound of rifle fire, shouts, drums.
Nicholas kissed her, leapt from the bed, his face grave. “Stay here.”
But as he drew on his breeches, there came a knocking at the door.
Nicholas opened it to find Private Fitchie, an enormous smile on his young face. “They’ve made it, sir! They’re just outside the gates! They won a great battle at Bushy Run, and they’re here! It’s over, Master Kenleigh!”
Nicholas felt a warm rush of relief, saw tears well up in Bethie’s sweet eyes. She didn’t know it, but he’d been planning to leave the fort with her tonight, to sneak out under cover of darkness, to take his chances with her and little Belle in the wild.
Now he wouldn’t have to.
He shucked his breeches, crawled back into bed beside her, pulled her against him, stroked the tangled silk of her hair.
She sniffed back her tears. “It’s over, Nicholas! It’s really over!”
He nudged her with his revived erection. “Is it now, lass? Or maybe it’s just beginnin’.”
* * *
Life at Fort Pitt changed overnight. The king’s garden and surrounding fields were harvested, their bounty
added to the fresh provisions brought by Bouquet’s troops. Four hundred additional regulars meant more labor for rebuilding the damaged walls, preparing for another onslaught should one come. And Bouquet, hearing how the Indians had hidden along the riverbank and had only been dislodged with great daring, ordered the building of several redoubts at key points outside the fort overlooking the river.
Bouquet was effusive in his praise of all who had fought in the battle—British regulars, militiamen, farmers. He thanked Nicholas personally. But Nicholas was appalled to hear him likewise praise Écuyer for giving infected blankets to the Indians.
“Governor Amherst and I had discussed doing just that in our letters these past months, and you were bold enough to enact it on your own. Well done, Écuyer.”
Écuyer bowed his head. “I am your very humble and obedient servant, sir. But I fear it had no effect.”
Nicholas turned his back and walked away.
The day after his arrival, Bouquet gave the orders that all women, children, and other “useless” people should prepare to leave two days hence for Ligonier under heavy military escort. It was on that day Bouquet summoned Nicholas to his office for a private meeting with him and Écuyer.
“In light of your courage, knowledge, and skill, I am prepared to advance you to the rank of captain and charge you with creating your own company of rangers.” Bouquet spoke the words as if he were offering Nicholas all the kingdoms of the world. “It is a great honor, one I do not offer lightly. Your wife and daughter will, of course, be escorted safely to Ligonier and housed as comfortably as possible until this rebellion has been quashed. What say you?”
Nicholas looked both men in the eyes, allowed his contempt to show. “I’m afraid I must decline. I’ve seen enough death and brutality—on both sides, gentlemen—to last until the world’s ending. What I cherish travels east, and I go with her. Good day to you both. I leave you to yourselves.”
* * *
The night before they left Fort Pitt, there was a commotion on the walls, and the colonel sent for Nicholas.
“One of the faithless savages is standing across the river. We’ve fired at him, but he won’t budge. He has asked to speak with you.”
Nicholas climbed to the top of the ramparts, looked across the Monongahela.
Atsan.
“I must go across and speak with him.”
Taking only his knife, Nicholas paddled a canoe left by the retreating Delaware. Across the river, Atsan stood alone, his war paint washed away.
Atsan spoke first, using the Wyandot tongue. “You live. I feared that tomahawk had split your head.”
“You tried to warn me. Why?”
“I do not wish you dead, Sa-ray-u-migh. Had you stayed with my people, I would have treated you as an honored son.”
“I know.” Nicholas had to tell him. “Mattootuk is dead.”
“You killed him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Aye. He tried to kill my wife and daughter. He left me no choice.”
The old man’s body tensed, but no sign of emotion played on his face. “Mattootuk was angry with you over Lyda’s death. They were both prideful—a failing they received through their mother’s blood. Mattootuk refused to see what was clear to everyone else—that his sister brought her end upon herself.”
Regret as sharp as a knife sliced through Nicholas, forced the breath from his lungs. “I did not seek her death.”
“There was a time when you would gladly have killed her.”
“Not while she carried my child.”
“No, not while she carried your child.” Atsan lifted the talisman that hung around his neck, the sign of his house, draped it over Nicholas’s head. “Mattootuk was my last surviving son. It is right that you take this. Go in peace, Long Knife. Father many children.”
“Go in peace, Atsan.”
Atsan looked at him through eyes that seemed older than the forest. “There will be no peace for us now. Only war. It is over.”
Then the old man turned, disappearing into the trees and leaving Nicholas to sort out the tempest inside him.
Chapter 27
Bethie’s stomach pitched and rolled. The cabin where she’d lived the worst years of her life came into view around the bend, grew larger with every passing second. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that she wasn’t here to stay, that Nicholas was with her, that nothing could happen to her.
Nicholas reined the wagon to a halt, took her hand in his, his eyes dark with concern and misgiving. “You don’t have to do this, Bethie.”
“But I must. I must tell them about Richard. And I . . . I want to see my mother.”
“Then let’s get it over with.” Nicholas gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, released it, took the reins, snapped them over Zeus’s rump.
They had left Fort Pitt with everyone else deemed a burden by Colonel Bouquet and traveled to Ligonier, where Nicholas somehow managed to buy a wagon. Then Bethie had bade her new friends a sad farewell. Most would remain in Ligonier until the frontier was safe once again. They had poured too much blood and sweat into their farms to leave them—and they had no place else to go.
Hardest of all had been saying good-bye to Annie.
“I’ll never forget you, Annie. You’ve been so kind to me.”
“Nor I you, lamb. But yer in good hands. That strappin’ man of yers will take good care of both of ye. Come next summer, ye’ll have another babe, as sweet as this one. Oh, let Auntie Annie hold you one last time!”
Talk of another baby had startled Bethie, but she’d smiled, handed Belle into Annie’s arms, her vision blurred with tears as Annie kissed Belle’s chubby cheeks.
Reluctantly, Annie had handed Isabelle back. “Be off wi’ ye now. And may God bless and protect ye.”
“You, too, Annie.”
They had traveled from Ligonier east toward Philadelphia, stopping in Harrisburg, where they’d stayed at an inn. Never had Bethie enjoyed so lavish a roof over her head or so soft a bed. When she’d protested to Nicholas that she’d never be able to repay him and that he was surely well on his way to becoming penniless or landing in a debtor’s gaol, he’d only kissed her and told her not to worry.
She had asked Nicholas only to take her as far as Ligonier, but he’d shaken his head, told her it wasn’t safe, insisted that he go with her all the way to Philadelphia. When she’d asked him if he thought she’d be better able to find work there, he’d frowned, mumbled something about leaving the future to take care of itself.
Although that future was fast approaching and so much lay unspoken and unfinished between them, Bethie hadn’t pushed for an answer. She hadn’t even had the courage to ask Nicholas what he intended to do once they reached Philadelphia. She feared his answer. Did he care about her enough to stay with her? Or would he turn his horse’s head west and return to the wild that was so much a part of him?
She told herself that either way she would be fine. She was not the girl Richard had violated, nor was she the frightened young woman Andrew had taken to wife. She was stronger now, braver. Whether Nicholas was with her or not, she would do her best to build a good life for herself and Isabelle. But she knew in her heart that, although she could survive without him, the only place she was truly alive was at his side.
Stopping in Paxton had been her idea. She told herself it was her duty to let Malcolm know what had become of Richard. But a part of her wanted to see her mother, to show her Isabelle, to ask her to come with her to Philadelphia to start a new life free from Malcolm and his fists.
As they rolled to a stop before the cabin, Bethie found it hard to breathe, found herself wishing she’d let Nicholas talk her out of doing this. She clung to him as he lifted her and Belle to the ground.
“I’m right here, Bethie. I won’t let him hurt you.”
She met his encouraging gaze, felt some of her fear melt away.
The cabin and barn looked more worn down than she remembered. Weathered clapboard shingles hun
g loosely from the roof. The parchment window was torn. Flies buzzed around a pile of manure on the side of the barn, the stench of which was overwhelming. Chickens pecked listlessly in the dirt.
She’d taken one step toward the door, when it was thrown open and Malcolm Sorely stepped outside. The years had been cruel to him. His coppery hair was dulled with gray, his face haggard and covered with gray stubble, his skin ruddy and mottled by the sun. He seemed a man bent and old, as if bowed under the weight of his own dourness and cruelty.
The look of shock and loathing on his face might have made Bethie laugh had her fear of him not run so deep. His gaze traveled from her to Isabelle to Nicholas and back again.
“What are you doin’ here?”
Bethie’s heart hammered in her breast. For a moment she was ten years old and terrified. Then she felt Nicholas behind her. She was not a little girl. She was not helpless. She was a woman, a mother, and she would not let Malcolm frighten her.
She met her stepfather’s hate-filled gaze, lifted her chin. “I’ve brought news, and I’ve come to see my mother.”
Bethie heard her mother’s reedy voice call from within. “Who is it, Malcolm?”
“It’s that bedeviled daughter of yours come back to stir up trouble, Greer. She’s brought a strange man wi’ her. Who is this?”
“He is Nicholas Kenleigh, my . . .” She hesitated.
“Her husband.” Nicholas’s voice, so strong, helped steady her.
“She’s already got a husband.” Malcolm’s gaze shifted between them. “So it’s an adulteress you’ve become, Bethie Stewart?”
Nicholas stepped out from behind her, one aggressive stride, and for the first time in her life, Bethie saw fear in her stepfather’s eyes as he measured Nicholas’s strength and found himself outmatched.
Nicholas’s voice was soft as silk—and deadly. “The old man you married her off to died and left her alone and unprotected in the middle of a war.”
“Nicholas saved my life and Isabelle’s.”
Malcolm looked at the baby. “Whose get is she?”
“She is Andrew’s child.” Bethie held Belle closer.