by Kris Tualla
Hope.
Nicolas lifted his head. He pulled a shuddering breath of resolution. “I’ll choose life, Sydney. I’m tired of death.”
A faint smile. “I’ll choose life, as well.”
He lifted her hand and held it to his chest. “I was afraid you were going to leave me.”
“I considered it.” Her gaze flickered aside, then back. “But I do still love you.”
Nicolas let his air out slowly. Relief cleansed him.
“Sydney, I…”
Sydney closed her eyes and turned her head away.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
She pressed her lips together. Their corners twitched downward.
He was insistent. “Sydney.”
“My shoulder hurts,” she whispered. “I ache all over.”
“I know.”
“Nicolas, don’t.”
“Sydney! Look at me!” That startled her and gained her attention. His eyes bore into hers. “I love you as well.”
Sydney blinked slowly. “You do?”
“I do. I love you, Sydney.” Nicolas was amazed; once he shoved it out, it stopped fighting him. So he said it again, “I love you.” Then he leaned over and kissed her perfect lips; hot, dry and cracked with fever.
Sydney laid her fingers on Nicolas’s cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.
“Is something amiss, Sydney?”
She shook her head weakly and seemed to dissolve into the mattress. Her eyelids drooped as her strength evaporated. “Something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
Her frail gaze pleaded for his understanding. “Couldn’t help it. So sorry.”
“What is it Sydney?”
“That night.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Sydney collapsed back into sleep as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
Nicolas was stone. Unmoving. Cold. Hard. His thoughts scattered everywhere and nowhere. He stared out the window and waited through the interminable final hour until dawn—the last of his watch. The moment Betsy appeared, he bolted from the room and flew downstairs to look for Addie.
He found her in the kitchen, in front of the stove.
“Addie, I need to ask you something. It’s extremely important. And it’s somewhat delicate.”
“What is it, Nicky?”
“Since Sydney has come here, to the manor, has she had her monthly…” He hesitated, embarrassed to ask about something so personal. But he had to know.
Addie stopped her breakfast preparations and turned to face him. Her eyes did not let go of his and her voice was stern. “She bled less than two weeks after you found her and not again since. The child is yours.”
Nicolas was smacked speechless. How did she know?
Addie grabbed a bucket and left the kitchen. Nicolas followed her outside to the water pump. He held the heavy bucket while Addie raised and lowered the handle with more force than usual.
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“I figured it out myself around the end of May. When she got peaked and started sleeping in the afternoons.”
Nicolas did some finger counting. He knew the night she conceived; it was the only night he entered her. It was ten weeks ago.
“What’ll you do?” Addie asked.
Nicolas shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Addie frowned and pursed her lips. Her blatant disapproval buckled his knees.
Nicolas carried the water inside, then disappeared deeper into the house. When he returned, he carried his rifle and ammunition.
“Nick, you haven’t slept!” Addie protested. “You’re in no shape to go gallivantin’ around the woods with a loaded weapon!”
Nicolas pushed past her and out the back door to the stable. He led Fyrste out of his stall and saddled him in the Cheyenne saddle. He tied his rifle and saddlebag behind the seat. Then he mounted the stallion while still inside the stable and kicked the startled horse, urging him to a full-out run when they cleared the building.
Chapter Twenty Four
July 5, 1819
Fyrste’s hooves thundered through the forest, hurling huge clods of dirt behind him. Nicolas leaned forward and the wind tangled his long, loose hair in Fyrste’s charcoal mane. Man and stallion were one.
They followed a Mississippi River tributary upstream into the wooded hills. Nicolas pushed Fyrste for an hour, covering nearly ten miles before he slowed the laboring animal. He walked in slow, wide circles through the trees to cool him. Finally Nicolas hobbled the stallion, stripped off his clothes, and dove into the wide blue pond at the bottom of a twenty-foot waterfall.
Nicolas swam without stopping, crisscrossing the deep pool until his limbs ached and his lungs burned. Plunging to the bottom, pushing back to the top, he relished the water combing through his hair and sliding over every inch of his bare body. He wanted to wash away his worries. He wanted to indulge his physical desires.
Most of all, he wanted to stop loving.
He climbed out of the cool water and lay on a flat rock, breathless, warmed by the sun. The radiating heat on his back contrasted with the cold evaporation on his wet skin. The pleasant sensations soon evident in his private barometer, he stroked until it released, groaning with complete abandon. This was what he wanted, what he thought he needed. Relaxed, he slept.
Nicolas woke hours later, when the sun moved behind trees and the rock cooled. He was famished. He squirmed back into his clothes and wondered what he would catch. Rabbits and squirrels were abundant, as were birds.
“No feathers,” he said aloud just to hear his voice. He loaded his rifle and searched for a likely hunting perch, settling in the fork of a nearby oak tree. In less than half an hour, Nicolas started a fire, cleaned and spitted the rabbit, and propped it over the flames. Satisfied, he sat back and watched the fire char the meat. Now, he would allow himself to think.
“Gud forbanner det,” he muttered. “Gud forbanner det all til helvete!”
Pregnant. With his child.
Not again.
Not again!
Nicolas’s rage engulfed him. His heart threw itself against his ribs; his pulse thrashed in his ears. Was this some kind of cosmic joke? Was God finding it particularly amusing to toy with him? To see how much he could take?
Or not take? Was God searching for his breaking point? First it was his beloved Lara. When she breathed her last, Nicolas’s world collapsed. He begged God to take him, too; but He wouldn’t show Nicolas that mercy. So Nicolas was still here, pretending to live.
Apparently that wasn’t good enough for God, because He turned around and dropped Sydney at his feet.
Sydney. Nicolas’s heart eased against his will at the thought of her.
Beautiful, funny, strong, intelligent Sydney.
Warm, loving, giving, soft, sensual Sydney.
Desirable Sydney.
Fertile Sydney.
He rose to his feet, threw his head back and screamed as loud as he could, “Gud forbanner det all til fucking helvete!”
God damn it all to hell.
Nicolas stood, tall and defiant, and raised his fists to the sky.
“What do You expect from me? How much skitt do You care to dump on me? Just how strong do You think I am?”
Nicolas picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could. Then another and another. He threw until his muscles passed burning and went numb. Then he leaned his head back, threw his arms wide, and addressed the unfathomable Deity somewhere above him.
“I’m not that strong!” His voice echoed off the rocky cliff of the waterfall. “I cannot do this again! Don’t ask this of me!”
Then from somewhere Nicolas couldn’t place, he heard a voice. Not in truth a voice, because he didn’t hear it with his ears; but he heard it just the same.
Trust.
What the helvete was that supposed t
o mean? Trust? Trust what? Trust whom? Nicolas trusted before. He was not impressed with the outcome.
He yelled back, “Hvorfor skal jeg stoler på?” Why should I trust?
He trusted that his love for Lara was strong enough to see them through a lifetime. He trusted that because he was a good husband, God would show him how to be a good father. That was not how it worked out.
“Are You laughing?” Nicolas sneered. “Your sense of irony is rather impressive! Or should I say, infinite?”
Less than an hour after Nicolas decided to let go of his pain, to open his heart again and let Sydney in, God turned the tables and put him back precisely where he was six years ago. Less than a forbannet hour! Skitt!
“I won’t do it. I will not! I cannot, do You understand? I know there’s a child. And I am sorry about that. But do not ask me to—”
Trust.
There it was again, that odd, disembodied voice that wasn’t a voice. Clear, understandable and unmistakable, it chilled Nicolas to the marrow. A shiver skated up his spine.
The smell of cooking flesh diverted his attention. He looked at the fire as a piece of the rabbit meat fell into the flames. Nicolas rushed over and stabbed it with his dirk, then retrieved the spitted carcass and sat down on a log. He ate in silence and kept his thoughts to himself for the time being.
When he finished, he kicked dirt over the fire, staunching the flames. Nicolas stared at the smoldering ashes. Crazy as it sounded, he felt that by his unwillingness to trust, he paralyzed himself somehow. Like he was his own obstacle.
“Pure unadulterated bunkum!” he muttered aloud. He shook himself like a wet dog to rid himself of the feeling. He laid down on the flat rock again, head pillowed on his saddlebag. He must decide
what to do next.
He did love Sydney. Just since the wee hours of morning, his feelings for her had solidified and become part of him. He would do everything he could to keep her.
But the child?
The child was a different story.
He hated the child.
The child would want to keep Sydney all to itself. To that end, it would do whatever was required to keep him away from her.
Including killing her.
In Nicolas’s mind, that’s what happened to Lara. The boy that died wanted his mother for himself, so he claimed her life to ensure she would be with him, and only him. But Sydney wouldn’t understand the perilous situation she was in. She would love the unborn child; women were prone to such emotions.
This was going to be a balancing act of the greatest magnitude.
Nicolas knew that marrying Sydney was expected in this situation. After all, she would be divorced when Rickard returned from St. Louis with the signed decree. But marriage would place him directly in the jealous child’s path.
It made sense within Nicolas’s logic that if he and Sydney weren’t married, then the babe wouldn’t need to kill her. After the bastard child was successfully birthed, he’d be pleased to marry her. With luck and care, they could avoid conceiving any more children. Then he could be a husband without fear and live his life loving Sydney and being loved by her.
This appeared to be the perfect solution.
With a satisfied sigh, Nicolas stretched and groaned long and loud. He scratched his belly and considered another dip in the pond. The day's weather was definitely consistent with mid-July; hot and humid, with useless wisps of cloud striating the sky. The air was so heavy it couldn’t move.
Nicolas stripped again and slipped into the cool water. He swam to the waterfall. Climbing the rocks behind it, he stood on a ledge, hands on his hips, as the water spilled over him. His hair washed around his shoulders; his legs and buttocks flexed to maintain his balance. His muscles were outlined by the glint of sunlight on his wet skin. The drenched hair on his chest grew darker as it narrowed to a trail leading to the nest of his manhood.
One last time, Nicolas released the lingering remnants of his tension, shooting his seed into the churning waters below him. Then he jumped in after it, submerging himself in the solitude of the deep, clear water. He held his breath as long as he could before he resurfaced and reentered his life.
It was dark when Nicolas arrived back at his estate. Eager to see Sydney, he took the stairs two at a time and followed the light to her open door.
“How is she?” he asked Addie as he approached the bed.
“Better. The fever’s almost gone.” She eyed Nicolas. “She asked about you today.”
“Did she?” That made Nicolas smile. “I’ve a proposition for you, Addie, you old dear. I’ll sit with Sydney if you’ll bring me up a plate of food. I believe I could eat an entire cow!”
“I’ll do it.” Addie hoisted her bulk from the rocking chair and patted her surrogate son. “Just to make you happy.”
Nicolas felt like a child waiting for Christmas as he watched to see Sydney stir. It didn’t matter that her dark, tangled hair hadn’t been brushed in days, nor her face washed or her bedclothes aired. Just to be near her and know she would recover was all he needed.
His diligence was rewarded when Sydney drew a breath and tried to stretch. Wincing, her hand went to her upper chest. Her eyes fluttered open. She turned toward the oil-lamp and Nicolas, food tray on his lap, laden utensils held in mid-bite, mouth open, eyes riveted on hers.
She smiled and his world righted itself.
“I missed you today.” Her voice was much stronger.
Nicolas lowered the bite of food. “I had to sort some things out. You gave me quite a shock, you know. I had no idea.” Nicolas set the tray on the bedside table and knelt by the bed. “I love you. We’ll work it out.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Not any of it.”
“I know.”
“Are you angry?”
“Not at you. Never at you.” Nicolas brushed her lips with his. “But I believe it’s best that we don’t tell anyone about the child.”
Sydney frowned. “Why?”
“You’re recovering from a serious injury. You just got your memory back. You’re not quite divorced yet, and your husband was—” Nicolas bit back the rest of the sentence.
“Oh.” Her voice was very tiny.
“When you’ve done adjusting to all these things, we’ll move forward. I believe that’s the sensible way to go,” he said, logically outlining his insanity. He lifted a stray lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “You won’t have to do it alone. I promise.”
July 6, 1819
“Would you open the windows? I feel like I’m in a tomb,” Sydney said.
Morning’s orange-pink rays and dew-freshened air swirled into the room, pushing aside sickroom mustiness.
“It’s going to be another hot one.” Nicolas eyed the cloudless sky. “I know my father built this house to withstand the twisters, but these thick stone walls are a blessing on days like this.”
Sydney struggled to sit up. Nicolas moved to help, but she put up a hand to stop him.
“It hurts less when I move myself.” She pushed the covers back and suddenly remembered she was naked. Mortified, she snatched the covers up to her chin. Nicolas laughed out loud.
“Sydney, you know I’ve seen—” He gestured along her body. “And not just looked.”
“That’s different!” Sydney was mortified at the untimely reminder of her indiscretions.
Addie entered the room and, with a sideways glance at Nicolas, hurried to Sydney’s side.
“Whatever’s the matter, child?”
She bit her lower lip and spoke a separate concern. “Will I be badly scarred?”
Addie patted her hand. “It’s not that bad. Now the infection’s gone, it should heal quite nicely.”
Sydney gave her a look that clearly displayed her doubt.
Addie turned to Nicolas. “Shut the door. We’ll take a look.”
Sydney reached for his hand and her eyes squeezed shut. She reckoned it was best to confront this demon at t
he same time as he. When the dressing was lifted away, no one made a sound. Sydney opened one eye to see Addie and Nicolas bending over her chest, frowning with interest, not revulsion.
“What do you think?” she whispered.
Addie squinted. “The stitches need to come out.”
Nicolas left to fetch the scissors and tweezers.
Sydney steeled herself and looked. Multi-colored knots of thread puckered a four-inch line from her right collarbone to below her right shoulder. Deep pink showed along the edges and was evidence of healing. Sydney shuddered at what her husband had tried to do to her.
Nicolas slipped in the door and handed Addie her tools.
“How might I help?” he asked.
“Help her keep still. Though it’s a lot less painful than putting them in, don’t you know.”
Nicolas sat on the bed next to Sydney. She gripped his hands. One by one, Addie snipped the knots and pulled the thread from her skin. She dug her nails into Nicolas’s palms, but he didn’t complain. When the torture ended, Addie laid a cool damp cloth over the wound to soothe her inflamed skin.
“You be careful now. You don’t want to move too much and split that open, or you’ll have a bigger scar for certain!” Addie gathered the bits of cut thread. “I’ll send you both up some breakfast.”
“Do you find it repulsive?” Sydney asked Nicolas when they were alone.
“No.” Nicolas cocked his head to the side and fixed his dark-blue gaze on Sydney. “That wound signifies the end of one life and the start of another.”
Sydney smiled faintly. “I love you, Nicolas.”
“And I you.”
“How do you say it in Norse?”
“Jeg elsker deg.”
“Yegg els-kerr dig?” she attempted.
“Jeg elsker deg også!”
With a gasp, Nicolas bounced off the bed. “I forgot! I have a gift for you. That’s why I went into town that day.” He was out of the door before Sydney could respond, and back in less than a minute. He set a large box tied with twine on the bed.