by Pamela Clare
“I’m going out for a while, but you keep sleeping, love. I’ll ask Matilda to send up breakfast in an hour. Would you like a bath?” His hand crept playfully beneath the covers, cupped the part of her that was still damp with his essence.
She opened her eyes, pushed herself against the delicious pressure of his hand. “Aye, I’d like a bath—if it’s no’ a burden for her. Mmmm. Dinnae stop.”
“It’s no’ a burden, love. And perhaps I willna be leavin’ just yet.” With deft strokes of his fingers, he brought her quickly to the edge, then unlaced his breeches and slid into her with one slow thrust.
It was a fast coupling, hard and hot, and left Bethie feeling warm and languid long after Nicholas had gone. She rose slowly, nursed Belle, her mind drifting through everything that had happened the night before.
She hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him, had meant to keep her feelings for him secret. But in her anguish over his pain, the words had slipped from her tongue. Yet she would not take them back. She had no idea what she would do.
Nicholas, though he had spoken no words of love to her, was bent on marrying her. Though Bethie’s heart wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with Nicholas as his proper wife, she feared the differences between them would bring them both a lifetime of regret. What if one day her mother or Malcolm should wander up to their door? What if the story of what Richard had done at Fort Pitt became widespread? What if, in her ignorance and poverty, she shamed him before society? How would Nicholas and his family feel then?
A knock came at the door, and with it a breakfast of eggs, bacon, bread, butter, and hot tea. Breakfast was followed by a bath. Trying to keep her mind off her troubles, Bethie brought Belle into the tub with her, laughed as her baby daughter splashed, giggled, and cooed in the warm water. She had just dressed and put Belle down for her morning nap, when another knock came at the door.
The innkeeper entered, followed by three other women bearing all manner of brightly colored cloth and lace. “Your husband sent Madame Moreau and her daughters to take your measurements and prepare a wardrobe for you, madam.”
“A w-wardrobe?”
Madame Moreau swept into the room, directed her daughters to lay their burdens across the bed. “Let’s get a look at you.”
Bethie didn’t know what to do or say. “B-but my baby is sleepin’.”
“We shall be quiet as mice, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, maman,” the dressmaker’s daughters whispered.
“Oh, you are a pretty little thing—flawless skin, lovely hair, and your eyes—what an unusual color! And your figure, madame, c’est parfait. I can see why your husband is so smitten. With my talent and his coin, you shall look like a princess!”
Bethie wasn’t certain she wanted to look like a princess, but in short order, she found herself in her shift being measured in every conceivable way while Madame Moreau and her daughters whispered away in French, held swatches of cloth, samples of lace, bits of ribbon up to her skin or beside her eyes. Bethie had never seen so many beautiful colors—lavenders, delicate shades of blue, soft ivories, sweet pinks, buttery yellows—nor had she ever touched anything so soft as the silks, so rich as the velvets, or so ornate as the embroidered damasks.
’Twas like being in a fairy tale. And that’s what frightened Bethie. For she knew that, sooner or later, all fairy tales end.
* * *
Jamie watched as Alec spoke with the innkeeper, felt his brother-in-law’s frustration mount. It was a frustration Jamie shared.
For six long years, he had wondered every day what had become of Nicholas, his nephew, childhood companion, closest friend. And Jamie was more than a little curious to see what sort of forest sprite had captured Nicholas’s heart, for he had no doubt it was due to his love for her that Nicholas had finally emerged from his self-imposed exile.
“What do you mean Nicholas left?”
“He rose early, sir, and went into the city.”
“Did you ask him where he was going?”
The innkeeper gaped at Alec in indignation. “Certainly not, sir! How my guests spend their time is none of my affair.”
“Of course, Matilda. Forgive me.”
“But, sir, his wife is still here, as are his horses. I’m certain he will return shortly, and when he does I shall notify you at once.”
“I would be most grateful, madam. But while he is away, I think I should like to meet my daughter-in-law.”
“Regrettably, she is indisposed at the moment, sir.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sir. Her husband, your son, sent Madame Moreau to fit her for a new wardrobe.”
Jamie chuckled. “Poor thing. We ought to rescue her, Alec. It would be the chivalrous thing to do.”
Alec met his gaze, smiled. “Indeed.”
* * *
Nicholas looked into the mirror, saw himself as he’d never expected to see himself again—dressed as a gentleman. He’d purchased one complete set of garments, ordered the rest of his wardrobe, complete with drawers and handkerchiefs, to be made and delivered by week’s end. But six years of living in the wild had done more than broaden his shoulders and slim his waist. It had changed his tastes, as well. “On second thought, no lace.”
“As you wish, sir. Might I suggest a good wig maker, sir?” The old man cast a disapproving glance at Nicholas’s hair, which still hung unbound to his waist.
“No, thank you. I never could abide wearing one.”
The man’s gaze remained fixed on Nicholas’s hair. “Very well, sir.”
As the tailor finished mending the hems of his breeches, Nicholas mulled over the news he’d heard on the street. A group of Scots-Irish frontiersmen from Paxton had attacked a village of peaceful Conestoga Indians and slaughtered everyone they could get their hands on—men, women, children. A handful of Conestogas had escaped to Lancaster, where Quakers, outraged by the carnage, had given them refuge in the local gaol. But the frontiersmen, eager to avenge the deaths of their loved ones after a spring and summer of bloodshed, had followed them, had broken into the gaol and hacked them down, even the babies, leaving their bodies scattered on the cold ground.
The thought of it made Nicholas’s gorge rise. Hadn’t there been enough killing? What good could the frontiersmen possibly gain by butchering innocent Indians? Or perhaps they, like Écuyer, didn’t believe there was such a thing as an innocent Indian. But the Conestoga were not only peaceful, making their living by selling baskets and brooms, they were Christian, as well.
All of Philadelphia was in a state of outrage about the murders. Every public house and square was abuzz with the news—and the rumor that more than a thousand frontiersmen were now on their way toward Philadelphia, armed and ready to fight unless the British garrison turned over the Moravian Indians it was sheltering.
Nicholas had no doubt the garrison’s commander would refuse such a demand. But would the frontiersman actually attack Philadelphia? That they had no love for Englishmen or Quakers went without saying. Too many of them had brought old hatreds with them from Scotland and Ireland and looked down upon the peace-loving Quakers as cowardly and effeminate. But to attack Philadelphia would be foolhardy, an act of suicide.
Suddenly Nicholas felt weary. He’d seen so much killing over the past six years, so much mindless barbarism. When would it end?
“Very well, sir. That should do nicely.” The tailor stepped away.
“Thank you, sir.” Nicholas slipped out of his waistcoat, removed his shirt, unbuttoned his new breeches. “Would you be so kind as to wrap these?”
The old man gaped at him from beneath his powdered wig. “You’re not going to wear them, sir?”
Nicholas chuckled. The tailor was clearly astonished that Nicholas was willing to show himself again clad in leather breeches and linsey-woolsey. “Oh, certainly, I’m going to wear them. But not just yet.”
He didn’t want to give Bethie a shock. She’d already endured enough. When he
took off his trapper attire and again clad himself as a gentlemen, he would do it before her eyes, so that she would know him and not think him a stranger.
* * *
By the time Madame Moreau had finished with her and packed her things, and gone, Bethie felt that she, too, needed a nap. But Belle had awoken, and Bethie had just finished nursing her, when yet another knock came at the door.
Bethie laid Belle in the center of the big bed, hurried to answer it.
It was the innkeeper again. “You have guests, madam.”
“Guests?”
“Matilda, we’re not guests. We’re family.” A tall, handsome gentleman with blond hair and green eyes pushed past the startled innkeeper, bowed, lifted Bethie’s hand to his lips. “I am Jamie Blakewell, Nicholas’s uncle. And you, my dear, are a picture of loveliness. You have no idea how happy I am to make your acquaintance.”
Another man stepped forward. “As am I.”
Bethie felt the breath leave her lungs, felt her knees go coggly.
There before her stood an older version of Nicholas. Tall, with bright blue eyes, his raven-dark hair shot through with silver, he could be no one but Nicholas’s father.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .” But it was hard to breathe, and she felt dizzy.
Two sets of strong arms shot out to steady her, help her into a chair.
“See now! In your impatience you’ve frightened the poor girl!” The innkeeper sounded vexed. “If you had waited until your son returned—”
“I—I’m fine—just a wee bit surprised.” Bethie didn’t want to cause a scene.
The man who’d called himself Jamie smiled at her. “See, Matilda? She’s just a wee bit surprised.”
Nicholas’s father gazed at her through eyes so like his son’s that Bethie could not help feeling affection for him. He touched a hand to her cheek. “Matilda, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”
“As you wish, sir.” The innkeeper turned and left them alone.
“I’m sorry we startled you, my dear. My name is Alec Kenleigh. As you’ve no doubt guessed, I’m your husband’s father.” He sat in a chair beside her.
Bethie swallowed, prepared to tell them the truth, prayed they wouldn’t be too angry with her. “I—I’m Elspeth—Elspeth Stewart. But I am no’ your son’s wife, and this is no’ his baby.”
Alec’s brow knitted in puzzlement, and he exchanged glances with Jamie, who looked likewise confused. “When you feel up to it, Elspeth, why don’t you tell us how you came to know my son, and why, if you’re not his wife, he has claimed you as such.”
Bethie snuggled Belle on her lap, told them how Nicholas, gravely wounded, had come upon her cabin in the forest, held a pistol to her head, forced her to help him. She told them how he’d helped her through Belle’s birth and how she’d come to trust him. She told them of Mattootuk and the fire and their flight to Fort Pitt. She told them of Nicholas’s heroism during the siege and of their journey to Philadelphia.
Of Richard and Malcolm Sorley and events in Paxton, she said nothing. Nor did she reveal that she and Nicholas had shared a bed.
They listened, asked the occasional question, treating her with nothing but kindness.
“I didna know who your son really was until yesterday when we arrived here. I thought he was a trapper and a soldier. If I had known . . .”
Alec watched a dark shadow pass over the sweet face of the young woman his son loved, felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. He knew from Captain Écuyer’s letter some of what she had suffered during her young life, much more than she had revealed, and he was glad that Nicholas had put a bullet through her bastard stepbrother’s heart. “If you had known—what then?”
She looked at him through pleading eyes. “I wouldna have let him pretend to be my husband. ’Tis no’ fair to him. I know you dinnae want him to marry a woman like me, a woman of no family. You dinnae need to hide your thoughts for my sake.”
And in that moment Alec knew without a doubt that she loved Nicholas, too. “My dear, I want Nicholas to marry the woman he loves, a woman who loves him. From where I’m sitting, that appears to be you.”
Her face turned an adorable shade of pink at his words, and her big eyes, so blue that they seemed to be violet, gazed sadly into his. “He has no’ spoken such words to me.”
“No, but his actions show that you mean the world to him. Did you know that after he arrived at Fort Pitt, my son wrote out his will and testament, claiming you and Isabelle as his wife and daughter and naming Isabelle his heir?”
The genuine astonishment on her face proved she had not known. “Wh-what? Why would he do so haggis-headed a thing as that?”
Jamie chuckled, and Alec could tell his brother-by-marriage was likewise charmed by this beautiful young woman. “It seems pretty clear, doesn’t it? He wanted to make certain you were well cared for if he should die in battle.”
“But Isabelle is no’ of his blood!”
Alec valued her honesty. Another woman might not hesitate to lie about her child’s parentage when a fortune was at stake. “I suspect that when you provide him with a son, Nicholas will rewrite his will, taking care to make certain Isabelle is well supported.”
The color rose in her cheeks again. “But we’re no’ really married!”
“You will be. Soon.” Alec shared a smile with Jamie, could almost read his brother-in-law’s thoughts.
The Kenleigh-Blakewell clan was going to cherish Elspeth and her baby girl.
* * *
Nicholas took the stairs two at a time, packages tucked beneath his arm, eager to see Bethie again, to set things straight. She was his wife in all ways but one. She might well be carrying his child. It was time they married in the church—till death do us part and all that.
He’d been to the goldsmith’s, purchased a ring for her, a simple gold band. It would do until he had time to find something worthy of her—a polished sapphire surrounded by diamonds or perhaps a ruby. He’d persuaded the nearest Anglican priest to marry them on Saturday—a mere three days hence. Now all he had to do was persuade the bride that wedding a well-to-do Englishman would not be a mistake.
He understood her concern. Having grown up among the landed élite, he knew how people gossiped, particularly jealous women. Some would look down their noses at Bethie because of her humble birth. Still others would disregard her because of her Scottish blood and manner of speech. Others would despise her for her youth and beauty. But Jamie and Bríghid had faced down even more formidable obstacles and were happy together. Why could he and Bethie not do the same?
He strode down the hallway, knocked lightly on the door so as not to startle her, opened it—and felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
In chairs on either side of Bethie sat his father and Jamie. Both looked almost as he remembered them, though his father had more silver in his hair, and his eyes held more worry.
Nicholas stared at them in disbelief, found he could not speak. A part of him cried out that he was not ready for this, that he needed more time.
But then his father stood, strode toward him, embraced him in a crushing bear hug, and Nicholas knew he had waited far, far too long.
“Nicholas!” His father’s voice was rough with emotion. “My God, Nicholas!”
Nicholas dropped his packages, answered his father’s embrace with his own fierce hug, held the man he’d never thought he’d see again, the man he’d thought had surely disowned him by now. There were no words, no room for anything but feelings.
After a moment—Nicholas had lost all sense of time—his father held him out at arm’s length, looked him up and down. “Apart from your desperate need for a barber, you don’t look bad for six years in the wilderness. My God, I’m glad to see you alive, son!”
“I say he looks like hell!” Jamie muscled his way in, embraced Nicholas, slapped him hard on the back.
“Is that so, Jamie, old boy? Bethie finds me ‘dashy-lookin’. She said so herself.” He met B
ethie’s gaze, saw the sweet smile on her face, the glitter of tears in her eyes.
Jamie cuffed him lightly on the chin, grinned. “Love is blind, as they say.”
Nicholas looked from the man he thought of as a brother to his father. “There is so much I would ask you, so much I would know.”
His father nodded, turned to Jamie. “Would you mind keeping my beautiful daughter-in-law company while I speak privately with my son?”
Jamie met Nicholas’s gaze, and a slow smile spread across his face. Then he turned to Bethie, lifted her hand to his lips. “It would be my great pleasure.”
Nicholas didn’t like that one bit. “Watch yourself!”
Jamie gazed at him, a feigned look of innocence on his face. “I’m a happily married man, the father of five.” Then his expression sobered. “I’ve got five children, Nicholas. Five. Three of them you’ve never even met.”
Nicholas nodded, felt the first edge of what he’d done to himself—what he’d done to his family—press in against him. He shifted his gaze to Bethie. “I’ll be back soon, love. Jamie, do try to be charming—but not too charming.”
* * *
For the second time in as many days, Nicholas told someone the full story of what had happened to him that terrible summer of 1756. Surprisingly, it was more difficult to tell his father what Lyda had done to him than it had been to tell Bethie. Perhaps it took a man to understand exactly how Lyda had humiliated him. She had forced his body to respond, controlled him, used him.
After he finished, neither of them spoke for some time.
Then finally his father broke the silence, his voice strained. “I don’t know what to say. We knew you had been brutalized. We knew from your scars that it had been terrible, beyond imagination. But the rest of it . . . what she did to you . . . the baby . . . we had no idea. My God!”
“How could you have known? I was unable to speak of it.”
“I am so sorry, Nicholas. So sorry.” Then the tone of his father’s voice changed. “But I need to know why you left. I need to understand why you turned your back on your mother and left her weeping. Do you have any idea how much she has suffered these past six years?”