by Kris Tualla
She straightened, startled. “You do?”
“You light up a room when you look at him. And he loves you as well. But if he’s too much a scared, stubborn Norwegian jackass to do what’s right, I won’t allow you, or the babe, to pay for it.”
Tears pricked at Sydney’s eyes. “Thank you, Rickard. That’s very kind.”
“I won’t do it out of kindness, Sydney. Don’t misunderstand me.” Rickard’s eyes dropped to her lips, then blinked to her eyes. Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation of his kiss. “You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. I desire you. If it comes to vows, I’ll be a very attentive husband.”
Rickard leaned back, to Sydney’s unexpected regret.
“But don’t worry, we’ll hold out as long as we can. We’ll give that pompous, skitt-for-brains every opportunity to make his move.”
That made Sydney smile. Then the baby kicked her ribs. Hard.
“Oh!” Her hand rested over the activity in her womb. “My little passenger seems to have awakened!”
“Could I?”
It was an unusually personal request. But he could very well end up being her husband and raising this child. Sydney flattened Rickard’s palm over the spot. “It might take a minute.”
Rickard didn’t breathe. The babe obliged.
“Whoa!” Rickard’s hand flew back as though burned. His eyes,
round as mill wheels, lifted to Sydney’s. “Holy—”
Sydney laughed. She reached for his hand and put it back. “Perchance it’ll happen again.”
They waited; it did.
“That’s the oddest thing, isn’t it?” Rickard’s enchantment gave Sydney pause. He truly would be a good father.
“It’s a bit disconcerting to have someone’s body inside yours, to be certain. But every time it moves, I get a little more hopeful.”
“Has Nick felt it?”
Sydney’s smile faded. “No.” They sat in silence and waited for another kick.
“Well, isn’t this the delightful domestic scene?” Nicolas’s earthquake shook them both. “If you two believe you might desist, dinner is ready.”
Sydney faced him. “Oh, my! What on earth happened to your hair?”
Nicolas’s long blond locks were chewed off right below his ears.
“I cut it every winter. It’s easier to care for in the cold.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”
Sydney circled Nicolas and examined his destroyed coif. “Who cut it?”
“John.”
“Well that explains it! After dinner I’ll get Addie’s scissors and fix it.”
“Fix it?” Nicolas’s hand went to the subject of scrutiny. “Fix it how?”
“Make it all the same length? Cut the ends to be even? Give it some shape? Pick one!” Sydney laughed as she slipped her arm through his, effectively altering his focus. “Meanwhile, I’m starving! Didn’t you say dinner was ready?”
After dinner, Sydney searched out the scissors and a comb. In the study, she asked Nicolas to light the lamp and sit close to the fire. “I need illumination. I don’t want to make it worse.”
“Don’t worry; you can’t!” Rickard chuckled.
Sydney combed through Nicolas’s thick hair, but he stopped her. “Let me take my shirt off.”
As Sydney went about her task, she tried not to rest her hands too long on Nicolas’s grooved back, muscled arms, or broad shoulders. His raw masculinity made her womb ache. It helped steady her hands to concentrate on Rickard’s presence.
“So, Nick, you’re leaving soon for your hunting trip.” Rickard sipped his brandy. “How long will you be gone this time?”
“I reckon about five weeks. Why?”
Rickard looked pointedly at Sydney. “Have you made your decision?”
Nicolas shifted in his seat. “Um, no. Not yet.”
“Isn’t that calling things a bit close?”
“The child’s not due until late January!” he protested.
“That’s just five weeks after you get back. And many’s the babe who made an early debut.”
Nicolas looked startled. Rickard sipped his brandy and rolled it around in his mouth. Watching him, Sydney recalled the denied kiss earlier.
He lifted his glass in a salute to Nicolas. “She’ll be married before the birth, Nick. I’ll see to it. If the babe comes while you’re gone, I want you to know, it’ll not be born a bastard.”
God bless Rickard. Sydney barely refrained from crossing herself.
He set his glass down and turned to Sydney. “It’s been a delightful time, as always, but I believe I’ll head for home.” Rickard kissed her cheek, his lips warm and firm. “Sleep well, my darling.”
He patted Nicolas on the shoulder and headed out the door.
Nicolas ran his hands through his repaired hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going away. I honestly forgot you didn’t know.”
“Forgiven,” Sydney sighed, staring at the fire. She had grown rather weary of his excuses and apologies.
Nicolas shifted in his chair. “I’m also sorry that I haven’t—”
“I’m tired,” Sydney interrupted and rose to her feet. “I’m going to bed.”
She left the study without looking back.
December 1, 1819
Wrapped in pelts, Nicolas knew he looked as wild as the forest he disappeared into. He rode for seven days to reach the Sauk Indian village, and he stayed to enjoy their hospitality for three days more. He feasted on roasted venison and smoked the pipe with the men, sharing stories of personal prowess in hunting both game and women. And he slept with them in a log longhouse.
He dreamt that a young woman crawled under the furs that covered him. Nicolas was naked and her hand found him with accuracy. She readied him and he rolled onto his back. The girl lifted her tunic over her head and lay on top of him. His hands moved over her skin as she spread her legs.
And then he woke up.
He gripped the young woman by the waist and lifted her from him. He assured her it wasn’t her fault; that he simply didn’t care to do the act at this time. Nicolas pulled her insistent hands away from their upright target. It wasn’t easy to make her leave.
It was customary hospitality for the chief to send a girl to him and in the past Nicolas took advantage of this particular offer and enjoyed himself well. Concerned that he might be ill, the chief brought the medicine woman to him the next day. How could Nicolas explain something to them that he, himself, didn’t understand?
Lie.
“I asked my God for a special favor. I gave up this pleasure to show Him I’m sincere.”
The chief frowned and nodded. He patted Nicolas on the shoulder. “I hope your God works quickly.”
Tonight, Nicolas wondered why he felt it was wrong for him to enjoy one of the Sauk women. It would be merely to release sexual tension. He could do it himself, but it would be more interesting with a partner. And he wasn’t married.
So why couldn’t he talk himself into it?
Nicolas considered that question for the hundredth time as he tried to fall asleep. This was the ninth day since he left the Sauk village. The ninth day of eating what he could kill and cook. The ninth day of sleeping on the ground in the freezing air of early December. The ninth day of hunting, skinning and stretching the skins of his prey. He should be exhausted.
Nicolas hunted beaver. He came to find them in their winter coats, fat and glossy from a summer of feasting. And beaver were big, heavy creatures. In spite of the chilled air, Nicolas broke a sweat every day with the effort.
Some nights he cooked the beaver meat. Rabbit and fish were always available. But tonight, he feasted on a wonderful meal of pheasant.
Nicolas rolled onto his back and pictured the scene. The fat male strolled under the maple tree without a care in the world. Nicolas was downwind, undetected, and fired a clean shot. He particularly relished the liver he fried with wild onions.
The maple tree had a handful of purple leaves still attached. His maple tr
ee at home was bare now. Sydney loved the way that tree looked in the autumn sunset.
Skitt!
There she was again.
A realization as shocking as ice water splashed Nicolas and chilled him as effectively. He never stopped thinking about her. He sat up and tried to recall a day, even an hour, when she wasn’t in his mind. He couldn’t do it. He carried her with him all the time. When he saw the maple tree. When he gave Fyrste a verbal command. When he ran his hand through his newly-shorn hair.
All.
The.
Time.
No wonder he wasn’t lonely on this trip; he never felt alone! And of course he couldn’t join with the Indian girl because Sydney was with him. Always with him.
Hellig skitt!
Nicolas clambered to his feet and began to pace. He listened to the midnight echo of dead leaves crackling under his boots. He relieved himself against a tree, and smelled the onions from dinner in the splatter of his water. He looked between the overhead branches and saw the moon with its icy ring. Nicolas sat on a rock, his legs bouncing. The chill of his frigid seat seeped through his leggings. His rapid breaths made steamy puffs in the dark.
She was always with him. What did that mean?
“I love her. I do. I love her,” he said out loud.
Nicolas saw her dark hair hanging down her back in a braid, or blowing free in the breeze, or spreading around her on the bed or in the spring pool. He saw her eyes. Eyes that turned a stormy gray when her mood threatened, or glowed spring green when she was happy. Nicolas closed his eyes and remembered her rounded body glowing in the lamplight the last time they were together. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.
Sydney cheated death twice in the eight months since he found her. She was feisty and had a mighty will to live. She buried two children and saw her marriage end in a devastating episode. Yet in the end, she challenged him to choose life or death.
She chose life.
Nicolas doubted Lara could have done the same. Unlike Rickard and Lily, who favored their father in their self-assured temperament, Lara resembled her mother. That mother high-tailed it back to the aristocratic comfort of her family’s North Carolina plantation as soon as she was widowed.
Lara struggled through her pregnancy. The babies weighed her down, drained her. Though they were small, only about four or five pounds each, she was overwhelmed by their presence. Sydney, on the other hand, shone with health. She hardly even slowed the pace of her days, still working with Sessa and helping around the manor.
Nicolas rubbed his face hard, the crucial thought formed but not yet acknowledged.
The child was easy to dismiss when it was an unseen entity. When Sydney’s belly was flat and there was no outward sign. But Nicolas nearly choked on his jealousy when he saw Rickard close to Sydney, his hands on her stomach and wonder on his face, as he felt Nicolas’s child move inside her.
My child.
Not his.
Mine.
Nicolas sat very still. He barely breathed as the suffocating presence in his chest worked its way past his objections to his lips. He spoke out loud with growing determination, “I want my child.”
Trust.
There it was again. That voice.
“Gud forbanner det!” he swore.
Nicolas jumped to his feet and kicked a smallish rock as hard as he could. He pulled a limb off the pine tree above him and used it to beat the trunk of that same tree.
“Trust what?” he shouted into the hollow night’s void, disturbing the horses a considerable measure. “What guarantee do I get?”
There was no answer.
He destroyed the branch and threw the stub as far as he could. He fell on his knees, and pounded the freezing ground with clenched fists until they grew numb. Nicolas leaned back and considered the silent branches above him. He needed to decide. The time had come. Nicolas approached the decision with logic uniquely male.
He loved Sydney.
He wanted the child.
He was afraid that Sydney might die giving birth, because Lara did.
If she did, he would lose her.
But…
She was going to birth the child, one way or the other.
She would be married, with or without him.
If he didn’t trust, and in that trusting, act, then his love and his child would belong to another man.
He would lose them both.
And his best friend.
That was his guarantee.
Nicolas stumbled to his feet. The realization didn’t allow him to wait for daylight; he began to pack his camp by the icy moonlight. He fed the horses grain, himself cold pheasant, then he loaded the animals. He was four days from home.
Perchance he could make it in three.
Chapter Thirty One
Charming and gracious as ever, Rickard visited her often while Nicolas was away. Even though they had an understanding of sorts, that didn't make the man any less compelling. Sydney found herself wondering if what she was about to propose was, in truth, foolish.
He sat with her in the drawing room that snowy afternoon, watching the wind blow enormous snowflakes in a crazy dance outside the window. A fire beckoned in the fireplace and the sweet smell of Addie’s sugar cookies filled the manor.
Sydney pulled a chair close, her heart heavy. “Rickard?”
“Yes, my darling Sydney?” His eyes warmed her in ways they shouldn’t.
She strangled the anxiety that choked her. “I—I can’t marry you.”
Rickard carefully selected a warm cookie from the dish. “Why not?”
“Because.” She hesitated, then charged through the obvious reason. “If I do, you’ll lose your best friend, your brother, the one body on this earth whom I know you do love!”
Rickard leaned back in his chair. His hazel eyes reflected soul-deep sorrow. He looked at the snowy scene outside the window, then down at the floor, then back at Sydney. She poured tea and handed him the cup.
He stared into his tea. “Have you considered what alternatives you have?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Sydney shifted in her chair. “Might I ask you a favor, Rickard?”
“Other than my hand in marriage?” One corner of his beautiful mouth lifted. “Yes, go right ahead. You know you may.”
Sydney looked down at the knot of twisted fingers in her lap. She drew a ragged breath and spoke quickly.
“If Nicolas doesn’t marry me as soon as he returns, I’ll go to St. Louis and birth the baby there. Afterwards, I’ll book passage by riverboat to Louisville, Kentucky. Then I’ll have my father take us back to Shelbyville.”
Rickard gawked at Sydney. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Nick would be livid!”
“Quite.”
Rickard reconsidered. “How can I help?”
“I need to borrow enough money to live in St. Louis for two months, and the fare for the riverboat.” Sydney leaned forward. “But I’ll pay you back. I’ll send money once I get to my parent’s home. I promise.”
Rickard shook his head. “I won’t loan you money.”
Sydney deflated. Hopelessness pressed her back in her seat.
Rickard nudged her chin with a warm knuckle until she met his eyes. “I’ll take you to St. Louis myself, and see that you’re well taken care of. And when you and the babe can travel, I’ll pay for your passage. But you’ll not owe me one thing, do you understand?”
Tears threatened. She swallowed them. “No.”
“My dearest, darling Sydney. Ever since we found you, you’ve brought excitement to our lives. While I’ve relished our flirtation immensely, you’ve truly brought Nick back from the dead.” Rickard stroked his fingers along Sydney’s arm. “If he’s foolish enough to abandon you, that will be his loss to deal with. But I’ve every right to show you what you mean to me.”
Sydney’s composure fractured into a hundred grateful tears. R
ickard pulled her into his embrace. He stroked her hair and held her close.
“You are the best friend I ever had, Rickard,” she snuffled against his cologne-scented shirt.
He kissed her temple. “That’s the nicest thing any woman’s ever said to me.”
The snow slowed Nicolas down. Large flakes fell, paused, then melted and turned the ground to mud. Nicolas pushed himself and the horses hard, but the snow forced them off the road. In the forest, pine needles and dead leaves protected the ground; the horses didn’t slip and their hooves didn’t cake with mud.
Nicolas trudged on foot. Three hours ago, just before sunset, he removed his two-hundred-and-fifty pound weight off the exhausted Fyrste, and divided the comparable load of pelts and supplies between him and Rusten, lightening the horses’ loads by half.
Nicolas reached into his pocket and felt the ring he traded for yesterday. When he came across a tinker on the road, he offered two prime beaver pelts for the piece of jewelry. The filigreed gold band with its rectangle garnet suited Sydney perfectly.
He hoped he wasn’t too late.
Distracted, Nicolas found himself sprawled on the ground, his face buried in wet leaves. He had tripped over a root he should’ve seen, and fell forward without the protective roll he should’ve taken. As he considered how nice it would feel not to get up again, he realized he was too tired to continue. Only four hours from home, he knew he must rest.
Nicolas pushed himself up; it took more effort than he wanted to admit. Both horses were stopped, heads down. Their labored breath blew translucent clouds in the frigid air. Nicolas went to Fyrste and untied his pack. When he pulled it to the ground, the stallion sighed in relief. He then pulled off Rusten’s pack and dropped it next to the first one. After hobbling the horses, Nicolas grabbed his blanket, rolled himself in it, and lay across the packs. He was asleep before he remembered lying down.
December 5, 1819
Weak winter sun pushed through the icy dawn and lit the crystalline landscape. Sydney gazed out the window at the pristine beauty. Blue shadows, pink snow, yellow sky and black branches. A soft, pastel palette etched with dark, angled skeletons; starkly beautiful and deceptively hospitable in appearance.