by Pamela Clare
Shouts of outrage filled the room, but Ben held up his hand for silence.
“You’ve lived out there for six years, Nicholas. You’ve seen things we cannot imagine. I would hear more from you.”
“It’s quite simple, sir. The Scots-Irish settlers have suffered horribly in this war. When the government of Pennsylvania chooses to spend coin sheltering Indians rather than helping to defend their fellow British citizens against Indians who are slaughtering their families, the settlers get the impression no one in Philadelphia cares whether they live or die.”
The governor stared at him in horrified disbelief. “Are you suggesting, sir, that we turn peaceful, Christian Indians over to them to be slaughtered?”
“No, sir. Nor am I defending their murder of the Conestogas—a reprehensible act. But I’m suggesting you take a moment to see this from their point of view. Men rarely act without reason, and barbarians are just as often English as Scottish or Indian. The killing must stop.”
Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Governor, we must proceed cautiously. We must think this through and not rush to fire those rifles, which until now have lain in happy neglect in our homes. Otherwise we shall make hypocrites of ourselves for all time.”
“And now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, this topic of conversation is distressing to my wife.” Nicholas rose, helped Bethie to her feet. “Father, Jamie, if you wish to stay, I can have the carriage sent back for you.”
His father and Jamie nodded, and Nicholas could see they were both worried about Bethie and furious on her behalf. He had no doubt that franker, more heated words would be exchanged the moment she was out of earshot. He slipped his arm around her waist, thanked Ben for his hospitality, and led Bethie out to their waiting carriage.
* * *
Bethie laid a sleeping Belle in her cradle, felt Nicholas’s hands encircle her waist. They’d spoken little on the way home. Nicholas had been too angry and Bethie too near tears.
He turned her to face him, pressed her head against his bare chest. “I’m sorry, Bethie. No one meant to hurt you.”
She rested against his strength, felt tears sting her eyes, dreaded what she must say. “Whether they meant to hurt me or no’, they said what they feel to be true. And whether I love you or no’, I cannae be your wife.”
“You are my wife, Bethie, in every way that matters. I’ll not let you go.”
She looked up into his eyes. “And what of future parties, where people will tittle of the poor barbarian Scots-Irish girl Nicholas found on the frontier? What of your family if word of my . . . past reaches Virginia? What of our children, who will grow up in wealth and comfort to one day look upon their baseborn mother with shame and loathing? I couldna bear that!”
Tears poured freely down her cheeks now, and she fell across the bed.
She felt him stretch out beside her, did not resist when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her tears away. “That’s not going to happen. No child of my body could possibly feel anything but love for you.”
“’Tis sweet of you to say so, but you cannae know that for certain.”
“Aye, I can.” He pressed his hand against her belly above her womb. “I love you, Bethie Stewart. Any child you conceive of me will be born of that love. You’ll be a light to our children, as you are a light to Belle—as you are a light to me.”
She looked into his eyes, saw the full force of his feelings revealed there, felt as if her heart were singing. He loved her. Oh, how she had longed to hear those precious words! And yet . . . “I dinnae know if our love will be enough.”
“It will be more than enough.” Then he covered her mouth with his, and she forgot everything but him.
* * *
Nicholas held Bethie in his arms, watched her sleep, the air still warm with the musky scent of sex. If he lived a thousand years, he would never grow tired of her.
How he wished they were already well on their way to Virginia. But they weren’t. They were here in Philadelphia in the middle of what promised to be a bloodbath unless the frontiersmen from Paxton could be persuaded to leave in peace.
God, he was sick of the violence! He was sick of killing. He was sick of watching other people kill and be killed. For six long years, he’d been surrounded by death, immersed in it, coupled with it. No matter how many men he’d killed, there was always another. And another. And another. In this war, killing seemed always to lead not to peace, but to more killing. And as men struggled to survive, the innocent inevitably paid the highest price.
The peaceful citizens of Philadelphia didn’t stand a chance against seasoned Scots-Irish frontiersmen who’d spent the past ten years fighting for their lives. But the Scots-Irish would certainly find defeat at the hands of the disciplined British garrison. Either way, once the shooting started, innocent people would die. And although Nicholas felt reasonably certain he’d be able to keep Bethie and Belle safe should fighting erupt in the city, he did not want to see it come to that. Not again.
It had to end. Somehow the killing had to end.
And then it came to him. He knew what he had to do.
Whether it would work he had no idea. But he knew he had to try.
Nicholas pulled Bethie closer, looked out the window, and waited for dawn.
Chapter 31
Bethie watched sleepily, felt the stirrings of arousal as Nicholas got out of bed and strode naked to the wardrobe. His dark hair hung down almost to the muscular curves of his buttocks, which tightened and shifted as he slipped into his leather breeches. He pulled his linsey-woolsey shirt over his head, tucked it into the waist of his breeches, turning as the cloth slid down his chest to give her one last glimpse of his muscular belly.
It wasn’t until he reached for his pistols that she awoke fully. Then the events of the night before came flooding back to her, and she remembered.
She sat up, not aroused now, but afraid. “Nicholas? Where are you goin’?”
His gaze met hers, and she saw there hard resolve. “I’m going to ride out, try to talk with them.”
“But you’re English! You heard what Malcolm said at the cabin. They hate the English!”
He checked the pistols, ran the cleaning rod down their barrels. “I have lived on the frontier among them. I fought beside them at Fort Pitt. I think they’ll listen to me.”
She stepped from the bed, went to him, heedless of her nakedness. “And if they put a ball through your skull instead?”
He tucked the pistols in the waistband of his breeches, turned toward her, rested his hands on her shoulders. “They won’t.”
“And how can you be sure?”
He pulled her against him, held her. “I can’t, love. But neither can I sit here and do nothing—not when innocent people will surely die.”
Her fear grew and became anger. “You once told me that war and slaughter are nothing new, that the only person a man can save is himself, that survival is the only rule that matters!”
He stepped back from her, tilted her chin upward. There was an almost sad smile on his face. “You’re the one who showed me how foolish that philosophy was, Bethie. Don’t ask me to forget that lesson.”
Then she knew she could not stop him. Tears pricked her eyes. “Why must it always be you? Why must you be the one to ride out and speak with them?”
“This time is different. At Fort Pitt, I went out because I was the best at killing, at surviving. But this time I have a chance to do something far better. I have the chance to save lives, to stop the killing before it starts. I can’t let that chance pass by.” He kissed her, one gentle, slow kiss, then stepped away from her. “I need to go, love.”
“Then let me come with you! These are my people, my neighbors! Surely they will listen to me, to both of us!”
“Absolutely not! These men are armed and angry. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”
“But I can help! I know I can! If it’s safe enough for you—”
“No!” He seemed genuinely angry now. “Do
not defy me on this! Stay here with Belle. My father and Jamie will look after you.”
Tears of fear and fury spilled over, ran down her cheeks. “Damn you, Nicholas Kenleigh! You’d best come back to me alive!”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Of course, love. I don’t want to miss my own wedding.”
Then he seemed to hesitate. He took his pistols, considered them for a moment, laid them down on the table. He spoke as if to himself. “No more killing.”
And then he turned, walked out the door, and was gone.
For a moment Bethie stared after him, too shocked to move. He was unarmed. He was on his way to confront an armed mob, and he was unarmed.
“That haggis-headed—” She threw on her shift and dressing gown, dashed down the hallway, knocked frantically on the door. After a moment Jamie answered, wearing nothing but a bedsheet, which he’d tied haphazardly around his hips.
“Bethie? What’s the matter?” He let her inside, shut the door behind her.
“Jamie, who is it?” Alec emerged from an adjacent room, clad in a black velvet dressing gown.
Fighting panic, she told them of Nicholas’s plan, of her fear that he would be hurt, perhaps even killed. “He is unarmed! We must do somethin’ to help him!”
Jamie and Alec exchanged glances, then Alec opened the door, wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Thank you for warning us, Bethie. Go back to your room. You’ll be safe there until we return. We’ll take care of Nicholas. I promise.”
She looked up into Alec’s eyes, so like his son’s. “I couldna bear it if aught were to happen to him!”
“Nor could we.”
* * *
Nicholas had almost finished saddling Zeus when footsteps and familiar voices interrupted him.
“Cold. Damp. Dreary. The perfect morning for a ride, wouldn’t you say, Alec?”
“I’ve seen better, but this will do.”
Nicholas snorted in disgust, turned on them. “Where do you two think you’re going?”
Jamie entered a stall farther down and began to saddle his stallion. “We were about to ask you the same question.”
And then Nicholas understood. “Bethie. She woke you.”
His father pulled his saddle from the wall, walked to his mount. “And it’s a damned good thing she did.”
Nicholas led Zeus to the stable door, mounted. “You’re not coming with me. Stay here, and watch over her for me. Let me do this alone.”
Then he kicked in his heels, urging Zeus forward at a canter.
Behind him, Jamie led his horse from its stall, waited for Alec. “Not this time, Nicholas. Not this time.”
* * *
By the time Bethie had nursed Belle, dressed, and left her baby in the innkeeper’s caring arms, the men were far ahead of her. Clad in her plain linen gown and wearing her new winter cloak, she rode Rosa as fast as she dared. The ferryman reluctantly took her across the river—after she had assured him that she was not a bondswoman fleeing service or a runaway daughter, but a wife following her husband. He even pointed out which way the men had gone, after she pressed a coin into his dirty palm.
The air was cold with the crisp bite of autumn, the sky overcast and gray, the trees arrayed in shades of red and orange. She kept just off the road, using the skills Nicholas had taught her when they’d fled to Fort Pitt. She didn’t want him to spot her, didn’t want him to send her back. She was so tired of standing helplessly by while he risked his life, so tired of waiting to know whether he was dead or alive, so tired of doing nothing. These were her countrymen, her people. If he could not convince them to lay down their weapons, perhaps she could.
* * *
Nicholas had given up arguing with Jamie and his father by the time they’d reached the opposite side of the river and had turned to planning their strategy.
Jamie sounded insulted by his plan. “So you want us to stand there and say nothing.”
“Why is that?” His father frowned.
“The moment you open your mouth, Father, our cause is lost. These people are not fond of Englishmen.”
“Oh, that again,” Jamie muttered.
“You might not realize it, but your Oxford accents make you sound more English than bloody King George.”
Jamie chuckled. “We are more English than bloody King George.”
“Now that you mention it, son, I will say that your speech has become, shall we say, more colorful?”
“That’s one way to phrase it.” Jamie grinned. “It’s all those endless years of conversing with his horse.”
Nicholas was about to offer a witty retort, when he heard—or perhaps felt—many hooves beating the ground. “They’re just ahead.”
Jamie nodded, all jesting aside. “I feel it, too.”
They rode in silence until the front line of riders came into view.
Nicholas dismounted, stood in the middle of the road, one hand on Zeus’s reins, the other at his side. “Don’t draw your weapons unless you absolutely must.”
His father and Jamie dismounted and stood behind him, their pistols primed and loaded.
The horsemen drew near, riding at a gallop. Already Nicholas could see individual faces. A man toward the center of the mob motioned for them to clear the road. Zeus jerked on the reins, his animal instincts apparently telling him to make way for the horde that was bearing down upon them, but Nicholas stood firm.
On the road ahead of them, the riders slowed their mounts, then reined them to a walk.
Nicholas held up a hand in greeting.
“You’re blockin’ the road, friend.”
“I’ve come to talk, to stop you from throwing your lives away.”
There were snorts and chuckles, and some of the men drew their pistols. But a man in the center of the front line raised his hand, held them back. “There’s no need for anyone to die today, providin’ no one gets in our way.”
“That’s the problem. The garrison is already under arms, and the good citizens of Philadelphia have dusted off their muskets.” Nicholas smiled at the irony of Quakers rushing to arm themselves and heard men laugh as word of what he’d said was passed through their ranks.
The man dismounted. He wore a buckskin coat and breeches, and his face was as weathered and brown as the leather on his back. “Who the bleedin’ hell are you?”
“The name is Nicholas Kenleigh. I came to Philadelphia from the siege of Fort Pitt, where I fought against the Delaware and Shawnee, and I’ve come out here of my own accord to ask you not to do this.”
A whisper passed like a breeze through the throng.
“My name’s Matthew Smith. I was there at Fort Pitt, too. I remember you. You’ve got balls of granite, Kenleigh. But we’ve come for the Indians, no’ for the wee Quakers and their pretty wives.”
The crowd of frontiersmen burst into laughter, their horses shifting restlessly beneath them.
“The garrison will not release them to you. You know that. If you try to take them, there will be a battle.”
“Those savages are allies of the ones who killed our families, our women and children! The Quakers would not protect us from slaughter, but when the Indians ask for protection from us, our blood still on their hands, the good people of Philadelphia take them to their bosom! ’Tis an outrage!”
The horde erupted into angry shouting.
When it died down, a man began to chant a verse. “Go on, good Christians, never spare, to give your Indians clothes to wear. Send them good beef and pork and bread, guns, powder, flints and lead, to shoot your neighbor in the head!”
Cheers.
More angry shouts.
Nicholas understood their fury. He would not try to explain the Indian point of view, for he knew for certain none of these men wanted to hear that they were considered invaders in someone else’s homeland. From the frontiersman’s point of view, the west was open for the taking. Scratch your mark in the tree bark, and the land was yours. That the war had left thousands of Indian families withou
t land and sustenance mattered little to settlers.
“The Indians at the fort are Christianized and were nowhere near the frontier this summer.”
“If they are truly Christian, why did they no’ warn us of this uprisin’ before it happened? Why did they share information and supplies wi’ those who butchered us? And why now do they hide here, disguised as allies? I’ll tell you—they come here to be given stores of food through the winter so they can come back and scalp us in the spring!”
Bellows of outrage. Calls for bloodshed.
“On to Philadelphia!”
“We want justice!”
Nicholas felt the mood of the frontiersmen shift against him, felt their anger and hatred build. The line of horsemen pushed forward, driven by restless fury. More pistols and rifles were drawn. The stench of bloodlust permeated the air.
But almost as quickly as they arose, the shouts faded to silence, and Nicholas realized the men were staring past him.
He looked over his shoulder, thought he would explode.
Bethie. She rode one of the mares, her hair unbound and hanging freely over her new cloak. She had disobeyed him again, had followed them—alone.
From between gritted teeth, he spoke to his father and Jamie. “Take her back to the inn—now!”
Jamie looked at him, doubt in his eyes. “She may be of help, Nicholas. She’s one of them.”
Nicholas understood what Jamie was trying to say, knew he might well be right. But this crowd was on the brink of violence, and it infuriated him that she would defy him again, put herself in danger. Against his better judgment, he forced himself to stand still and let her speak.
Bethie met Nicholas’s gaze, looked into eyes as cold as slate. He was angry with her, as she had known he would be. But she’d overheard the men’s shouts and knew it was not going well for him. That’s why she had come.
“Listen to him! Please! He is my husband. He has lived among you, fought beside you. He knows what you have suffered!”
The man who was apparently their leader glared up at her. “What does he know of our sufferin’, lass?”
There was a murmur of agreement in the crowd, and she heard more than one man curse Nicholas and call him a Sassenach. More than a few had drawn their weapons, looked eager to spill his blood.