Ride the Fire (29 page)

Her reaction came so swiftly, it surprised even her. Fueled by white-hot rage, Bethie drove her knee into his groin with all the force in her body.

Ashen-faced and trembling, Richard slowly got to his feet. Still bent double, he turned as if to go. Then he spun about, lunged for her.

Bethie swung the poker, aimed for his head. But he caught it, wrenched it from her grasp, threw it to the floor.

Before she could take a single step, he grabbed her by the hair, hauled her up against him, forced her to meet his gaze. “Bitch! If you’ve unmanned me, I’ll kill you!”

She ignored the pain in her scalp, glared at him. “You were never a man, Richard!”

Pain exploded in her skull as his fist connected with her cheek, sent her sprawling across the bed. A flash of lights. Swirling gray. The taste of blood.

Driven by equal parts of fear and fury, she fought her way back to consciousness, saw him unbuttoning his breeches, tried to roll away, to reach the other side of the bed. Rough hands clawed at her, pulled her back.

“You’re no’ goin’ anywhere until I’ve finished wi’ you, Bethie Stewart—Englishman’s whore!”

“You will no’ touch me! No’ again!” Desperate, she screamed, kicked, scratched, struggled with all her strength. Her nails tore skin from his face, left four bright streaks of red.

He howled in outrage, hit her again and again, left her spinning on the edge of pain and forgetfulness. From far away, she could hear Belle crying. And then he was upon her, his legs forcing hers apart, his body holding hers helpless against the bed. She heard herself whimper, felt the wet slide of tears down her cheeks, struggled to speak.

“Nay!”

Richard laughed. “This is goin’ to be good!”

The creak of the door on its hinges. Richard’s surprised gasp.

Nicholas!

Primal rage surged from his gut. He looked into the soldier’s shocked eyes, saw a dead man. “Get the hell away from her!”

Before the soldier could button his breeches, Nicholas rounded the bed, drove his fist into the soldier’s face, knocked him to the floor. “You like to beat women? You like to hurt them? Try me instead.”

The soldier cowered, tried to scoot away. “I-it’s no’ like that! Please, sir! You cannae kill me!”

“No? And why not?”

“I-I’m Bethie’s brother!”

Stunned, Nicholas stared into the soldier’s eyes, saw there the unspeakable truth.

Oh, God, Bethie!

“That’s what you think!”

In a black rage, Nicholas slammed his fist into the bastard’s jaw again and again and again, until the soldier’s head lolled stupidly on his shoulders. Nicholas wanted to kill him, spill his blood, watch the light fade from his eyes as life left his body. He might have killed him then and there, had not the sound of Belle’s frantic crying pierced his fury.

Nicholas barked out a string of orders, certain they would be obeyed. “Get the quartermaster! This man attacked my wife! See to it he is locked in the guardhouse! Send for the doctor! And get Annie from the trading post! Quickly!”

If only her head didn’t hurt so badly. If only the nightmare would leave her in peace.

A hand stroked her cheek.

“She’s suffered quite a severe beating. I’ve left laudanum for her pain, but I shouldn’t be surprised if she remains unconscious for some time.” That was Dr. Aimes. “You might well need a wet nurse for the baby, at least for a day or two. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to the man who did this.”

Bearing? Unconscious? Wet nurse?

“I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“It’s better that you didn’t, Kenleigh. A British fort is no place for frontier-style justice. He will be tried in a court martial, and after he is convicted, he will be shot.” “It must be handled discreetly, Captain. I would not have her suffer more than she already has.”

“Of course. Everyone shall be sworn to secrecy. Tell me, Master Kenleigh, does your father know of your marriage?”

“I’ve had no contact with him for six years. Why do you ask?”

“I should think my question obvious. You are heir to your father’s estates. I’m certain he would have preferred you to make a dynastic match and marry a woman of your own class, not the daughter of Scottish rustics, no matter how lovely or pleasant she might be.”

Bethie heard the sound of a door shutting, felt a cold cloth against her aching forehead. Warm lips brushed over hers. Nicholas.

“Bethie? Bethie, can you hear me?”

She tried to dig her way out of the darkness, put all of her strength into saying one word. “Belle . . .”

“Belle is fine, love. She’s safe, and so are you. I won’t leave you, Bethie.”

Then she surrendered and slept.

Nicholas gazed down at Bethie’s sleeping face. Dark bruises and lacerations marred both of her cheeks. There were bruises on her throat, arms and inner thighs as well, the marks of a predator.

So much violence. So much brutality. Nicholas thought he’d seen everything both the wilderness and the so-called civilized world had to offer. And then he’d seen this. Why hadn’t she told him?

As soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. He had secrets, too—memories so terrible that even the act of recounting them was unbearable.

He shuddered to think what would have happened to Bethie had he not arrived just then. He’d been on his way to work on the ramparts, ready to spend his rage in the dirt, when he’d noticed that Private Fitchie was not on duty outside their door. Still haunted by a vague sense of uneasiness, he’d come to investigate. If only he had come sooner.

“Nicholas?”

“I’m right here, love. How do you feel?”

Her violet eyes were clouded by pain. “My head... hurts.”

Nicholas lowered her head gently back to the pillow.

“Just rest, Bethie.”

For a moment she lay silent, then tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. Please forgi’e me.”

He wiped the tears away with his thumb. “Forgive you for what, Bethie? None of this was your fault.”

“I’ll no’ blame you if you tell people the truth about us, set me aside.”

Her voice, already weak, quavered with emotion. “I’ve brought shame on you.”

Nicholas tilted his head, looked straight into her eyes.

“That is not true. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“B-but he is my . . .
brother.”
The last word was an anguished whisper.

“Your stepbrother. Aye, I know.”

Whatever Bethie had expected from him, it was not this. She’d been so certain he would turn away from her the moment he knew the truth. But here he was, beside her, comforting her. Perhaps it was his kindness, or perhaps it was the lulling effects of the laudanum, but she found herself telling him everything.

How her father had been killed while helping neighbors build their cabin when she was only ten. How her mother, burdened with a daughter and no living sons, had sought a husband at the meetinghouse and found Malcolm Sorley. How her Gospel-greedy stepfather had taken them to his home further west, where he lived with his already-grown son Richard. How Malcolm had found her lacking in piety and over-blessed with beauty and had made it his duty to beat the fear of his vengeful God into her. How Richard had watched the beatings with a strange look in his eyes that made Bethie afraid.

“The first time he came to my bed, I was twelve. I didna know what men did with women, didna understand what he was tryin’ to do. When I started to protest, he told me Malcolm would punish me if he found out.”

“And then he raped you.”

“Nay. At first, all he did was t-touch me, run his hands over me.” She shuddered, a feeling of deep horror mingling with utter revulsion in her belly.

Nicholas held her closer. “I’m right here, Bethie.”

“But then he began to . . . “ Twas almost impossible to say it. She took a deep breath. “Then he began to put his fingers . . . inside me.”

“It hurt, but he didn’t care. I tried to fight him. I tried! But he was so much stronger.”

“A little girl can hardly be expected to fight off a grown man, Bethie. It was not your fault. You did everything you could.”

“You should sleep. Tell me the rest later. It’s too soon.”

“Nay! I must finish! You must know!”

“I know everything I need to know about you, Bethie. There’s nothing you can tell me that will change the way I feel about you.”

But Bethie scarcely heard him. She had started the story.

Now she must finish it.

Her grief was almost more than he could bear. Rage, fueled by anguish, burned hot inside him. Richard Sorley would die. It would be Nicholas’s great pleasure to kill him. But not tonight.

Gently he scooped Bethie’s bruised and trembling body into his arms, laid her head against his chest, let her tears soak through the cloth of his shirt. “It’s over now, Bethie. None of them will ever harm you again.”

“I-I am no’ deservin’ of such kindness. I am tainted, do you no’ see that?”