Ride the Fire (24 page)

“Where are they?”

“In the forest. Watching. They won’t come in range of the cannon or long rifles.”

“What are they doin’?” She pointed to a group of five soldiers who seemed to be wrestling with a cannon. From the looks they shot her way, she knew they weren’t used to seeing a woman on the walls.

“They’re adjusting the artillery to make certain they’ve got the curtain walls covered.”

“So that’s why the fort is shaped like a star.”

“Aye.” He smiled, nodded, then pointed.

“The defensive wall over there is the glacis. It gives retreating soldiers some measure of cover. The arrow-shaped walls just inside it are called ravelins. They offer additional cover. Whoever designed it was thinking of an organized attack by the French. That’s why most of the defensive works are to the east.” Below in the parade grounds, people busied themselves with their morning chores. Mothers and fathers chased their children, cooked over open fires, hung laundry in the wind to dry. Soldiers marched in formation, worked to repair the flood damage, did their best to chase chickens off the ramparts. One rooster perched haughtily on the back of a grazing goat, keeping a careful watch on his hens. Suddenly the fort seemed terribly exposed, a fragile haven upon which all this life depended.

“Tis its own world, a little island surrounded by peril.”

“Aye. You asked me earlier if the Delaware would attack. Bethie, they don’t have to.”

Immediately she understood. Inside the fort, the whites were isolated, cut off from their fields, with no way to hunt game. Time was on the side of the Indians. When their food ran o u t . . .

“You think they’ll put us under siege?”

She brushed aside the sense of foreboding that had overtaken her. “Aye.”

They had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the lieutenant who had summoned Nicholas the day before appeared and asked to have a word with him.

“Stay right here.” Nicholas released her and joined the lieutenant a few feet away.

A ball made of an animal bladder rolled to a stop at Bethie’s feet, followed closely by a very muddy boy of three or four. She smiled, bent down, picked up the ball, threw it gently to him.

The little boy caught it, smiled, rolled it back. She bent down again, felt a man’s hand close intimately over her bottom.

She gasped, lurched upright, spun about, a flush of fear and anger hot on her face.

But Nicholas already held the man by his uniform jacket. In one motion, he slammed the young soldier up against the curtain wall, pressed the blade of his hunting knife against the soldier’s throat.

A hushed silence fell around them.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t geld you here and now!” Nicholas’s voice was a rough growl, the look on his face one of primal male rage.

The man, a barmy-faced lad not much older than Bethie, trembled, his eyes wide with terror. “I-I-I’m sorry. I—”

“Sorry is just the beginning!”

The lieutenant stepped forward. “I’m afraid Lieutenant Kenleigh is right, Private Huntley. Corporal, put this man in irons. Take him to the guardhouse to await a court-martial.”

“Aye, sir!”

But Nicholas wasn’t finished. “Do you know what the Cherokee do to a man who violates women? No? Touch her or any other woman again, and you’ll find out!” Then Nicholas released the soldier, sheathed his knife. Immediately, the corporal, together with several others, led the private away. The onlookers slowly drifted back to their conversations.

Bethie released a long, trembling breath, searched Nicholas’s face, saw his gaze soften as he looked down at her. “It’s all right, Nicholas.”

“I-I’m just a wee bit startled.”

“I must apologize, madam.” The lieutenant bowed his head with such respect that Bethie was taken aback. “I would never have imagined one of our soldiers would make such a bold assault on an officer’s wife, or any woman, for that matter.”

“As you wish. Rest assured the miscreant shall be punished. Good day to you both.” With a quick nod of the head, he turned and walked away.

Nicholas took her arm. “Let’s get you back to the barracks.”

She gave him a little tug. “No’ yet. I want to see Annie’s tradin’ post first.”

Thirty-nine lashes!”

Richard glared at Silas, glanced nervously around. “Keep your voice down! I’m no’ supposed to be here!”

“Can you get me out?”

“Are you daft? You shouldna have gotten yourself caught! I told you to be careful, did I no’?”

Silas nodded. “I didna think he’d see. Why, oh, why did I let you put me up to this?”

“I brought you this.” Richard held out the lead ball.

“What is that for?”

“Tuck it in your mouth on the mornin’ when they come to get you. Bite it while they’re floggin’ you. Tis to keep you from wailin’.” Richard watched in disgust as a tear rolled down Silas’s cheek, felt an urge to hit the spineless bastard. Silas grabbed the ball with a sweaty hand.

“I’m so frightened!”

“Christ, Silas! Dinnae be such a cutcher!” Richard gave a snort of contempt, turned and walked past the sleeping guard out into the night.

She didn’t know when she’d ever felt more cankersome. She’d tried to make herself useful in the cookhouse this afternoon, only to find herself hauled back to the barracks by a very angry Nicholas.

“You’re not to leave this room without me!” He’d thrust her roughly through the door and slammed it behind them. She’d stepped away, resisting the urge to pummel him.

“I’m just tryin’ to make myself useful!”

“And I’m trying to keep you safe! After what happened this morning, I would think you’d understand the danger.” A muscle in his jaw ticked, and she knew he was genuinely angry with her. “This place is filled with men who haven’t touched a woman in years and are not above rape if it means getting their hands on you!”

She’d felt the blood drain from her face, felt some of her anger fade. “But I cannae stay in here all day every day!

There must be somethin’ I can do. I could work in the laundry or help cook—”

He shook his head. “Ecuyer brought his own personal chef, and most of the officers have enlisted men or servants to see to their laundry and mending. They don’t need your help, Bethie.”

“Everyone else is preparin’ for war. Minna is mendin’ soldiers’ uniforms. Goody Wallace is teachin’ Bible lessons. But my hands are idle! I dinnae even cook our meals!” He’d reached out to her, cupped her shoulders in his big hands.

“ Tis admirable of you to want to help, Bethie, but I will not let you do anything that puts you in harm’s way.”

His words had only made her angrier. “Who are you to decide what I do and what I dinnae do? I am no’ yours to command, Nicholas Kenleigh!”

He’d pulled her hard against him. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly, or you’re likely to find yourself sleeping with the other settlers!”

Before she’d drawn a breath, he’d gone.

She dipped the cloth in the water again, squeezed it, ran it over her bare breasts, felt her nipples tighten against the pleasing chill.

The door opened.

“You’re still awake . . .” Nicholas closed the door behind him. His gaze, as intimate as a caress, slid slowly down her naked body. His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened to midnight.

Her first instinct was to hide herself. But she forced herself to face him, to stand her ground.

Wasn’t this what she wanted?

Bethie stood before him, completely naked, her hair twisted atop her head, her skin glistening wet in the candlelight, her nipples tight and ripe. Shimmering strands of water trickled down her belly to her thighs or disappeared in the thatch of golden curls that hid her sex.

“ Twas such a sweltrie day . . .”

He took a step toward her, expected her to turn away, to cover herself, to ask him to leave. But she didn’t. Instead, she dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed it out, pressed its dampness against the side of her throat, as if... As if she had intended him to find her. As if she were trying to seduce him.

He took another step and another. Only when he stood before her could he see that she was trembling. He reached out, took the cloth from her, dipped it in the bowl, squeezed it.

“Let me.”

She closed her eyes, hid a gaze that held both fear and desire, and he could tell she was pushing herself, forcing herself to confront whatever demons still lived inside her. He’d be damned if he was going to let her face them alone.

Touched that she was giving him something so precious as trust, he pressed the cold cloth to her cheek, her throat, her nape. “Do you know what it does to me to touch you like this?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she met his gaze for a moment, then looked away. Her voice was a whisper. “You feel... lust?”

“I feel much more than lust, Bethie. Lust is a need quickly satisfied. What I want takes time.” He dipped the cloth in the water again, squeezed it. “I want to bring you pleasure—to touch every part of you, kiss every part of you, taste every part of you. I want to make you come again and again, until you’re weak and sleepy and there’s nothing in your world but the scent of me, the taste of me, the feel of me.”

He heard her little intake of breath, watched a blush rise from her breasts to her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to his again, a look of confusion on her face, and shook her head.

“But ‘tis no’ like that for women.”

He touched the cold, wet cloth to the valley between her breasts, allowed his knuckles to graze one of her nipples, felt her heart skip beneath his palm.

“It can be.”

She shivered. But fear lingered in her eyes. Her hands were fisted at her sides, her body tense, proof she was still forcing herself, still fighting, still afraid.

He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. She’d been terrified of him since the first moment she’d seen him, and that was his own damned fault. Only when she’d drugged him and tied him to her bed—

The memory stopped him, gave him pause. What would she do now if he gave up control, if he put that same power in her hands?

He dropped the cloth in the water. Guided by instinct, he brushed aside his unease about his scars, his lingering memories of Lyda, slowly loosed the ties of his shirt, pulled it over his head, dropped it on the floor. Then he took up the cloth, pressed it dripping wet to his chest, gently placed her hand atop it.

She gaped at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and he saw her pupils dilate.

“I’m burning up, Bethie. Put out the fire.”

Bethie could not breathe, could barely think, not with him watching her through those dark eyes, not with his skin so hot beneath the cloth. She slid the linen slowly over the hard planes of his chest, over his scars, over the winecolored silk of his nipples. Then she moved lower, explored the ridges of his belly, felt his muscles jerk against her touch, saw the demanding bulge straining against his buckskin breeches.