Ride the Fire (34 page)

He led her up the stone steps and through the door. Inside, stylishly attired gentlemen sat around polished tables eating, drinking, talking, smoking. A few looked over their shoulders toward the door at her and Nicholas. Suddenly she felt out of place in her gown of plain blue linen—no matter that it was the finest she’d ever owned. A tall, older woman walked toward them, dressed in a gown that shimmered and dripped with lace.

“Master Kenleigh! It’s been . . .”

“It’s a good thing you look like your father, or I’d not have recognized you.” She looked him up and down, a frown on her face.

“Are you criticizing my tailor, madam?” Nicholas gestured toward his linsey-woolsey shirt, leather breeches and beaded moccasins with a looked of feigned insult on his handsome face.

Bethie thought him ruggedly handsome, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. But clearly this woman did not. “I suspect, Master Kenleigh, that you’ve not seen a tailor in seven years either.”

Nicholas smiled, chuckled. “How right you are, Matilda, dear.”

Bethie watched them speak amicably, realized she was seeing yet another side of Nicholas she’d not known existed. Who was this man who spoke so easily with a woman who ought to have been far above his station? Who was he that he could afford to stay here? Surely the innkeeper didn’t take payment in pelts!

“Matilda, I’d like to introduce my wife, Elspeth.”

“Your wife?” Matilda’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she took Bethie’s work-roughened hand between her silkysmooth ones and smiled. “Congratulations are in order, Master Kenleigh. Welcome to The Three Crowns, my dear. We shall do all we can to keep you comfortable.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Bethie didn’t know whether she should curtsy or what she should do. And how long was Nicholas going to keep up this lie about her being his wife?

They were no longer in the wilderness among strangers. They were in Philadelphia among people who knew him, who knew his family.

Nicholas seemed to realize she felt uncomfortable. “Matilda, we’ve traveled a long way, and I would see my wife and daughter quickly settled. If you would be so kind, I’ll take your best room, with a cradle for Isabelle. Please send up some supper and a bottle of good wine when you can.”

“I can’t give you my best room, as it’s already taken. But I’ve another that will do nicely.” The woman turned, gave instructions to an eager lad of about fourteen. “I’ll show you upstairs.”

Nicholas offered Bethie his arm, and the two of them followed Matilda up the stairs and down a hallway to a corner room.

Matilda unlocked the door, handed Nicholas a large brass key. “Supper will be up soon. A cradle is already on its way. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Matilda. I can see we’re in good hands, as always.”

Bethie stepped through the doorway, felt as if she’d stepped into a dream. The room was much larger than her cabin. The bedstead itself was enormous, with a coverlet so lacy it might have been a lady’s gown. There was a polished table, chairs covered with rich, embroidered cloth, and in the corner a tall mirror.

She felt dizzy, almost sick. All these months she’d known there were things about him that didn’t make sense, but now it all came together. His fine speech. His reading, His bottomless purse. He was no trapper. He was no soldier, nor even an officer.

Feeling she’d been deceived, she turned to face him.

“You misled me, Nicholas Kenleigh! You let me believe you were a trapper, then perhaps a soldier who’d been kidnapped by Indians and afterward fled the war. But none of it was the truth!”

“Every bit of it was the truth!”

“How can it all be true? How? And what of your Indian wife and her baby? I’ve never demanded an explanation, never asked you to tell me what happened to them. I’ve trusted you all this time. But now I find you’re no’ the man I thought you were! And I’m wantin’ the truth—all of it!” But he’d never spoken to anyone of what had happened that summer. Oh, aye, he’d told about Eben and Josiah being tortured and burned to death. His own scars were plain enough that anyone who saw them knew that he, too, had been tormented. But he’d never said more than that. And never had he told anyone about Lyda.

When he’d faltered, Bethie had picked up Belle and made for the door.

He’d blocked her path. “You’re going nowhere!”

“You cannae tell me what to do! We both know you’re no’ really my husband!”

“In every way but one I am your husband, Bethie, and you will not leave this room!”

“Fine, Master Kenleigh. If I cannae leave, then you must, for I cannae stand to be near you!”

Most of his life he’d had to watch out for scheming parents who wanted to entrap him in marriage to their daughters because of his wealth. To think that he should now lose the woman he loved because he was propertied—well, there was some kind of perverse irony in that, but he’d had a bit too much brandy to work it out.

Damn her!

An annoying voice inside his head reminded him that it wasn’t just about the money. It was about truth. Bethie had asked for the truth, and he had refused to give it to her. The darkness inside him yawned deep and wide, a chasm he’d kept blocked off through sheer will for six long years. She’d already rent a fissure through the weakest spot in his defenses, already come tenibly close to letting that darkness escape.

So she wanted the truth. All of it. Well, then, he would give her the truth.

He tossed back the last of his brandy and, ignoring the curious glances of those around him, strode toward the stairs.

Alec Kenleigh dropped the knight he’d been about to move against Jamie Blakewell’s queen, stood, stared at the innkeeper. “My son is here? In Philadelphia?”

Matilda leaned toward him as if about to impart a great secret and whispered. “He’s here—in The Three Crowns, sir!”

Jamie stood. “It’s about bloody time! I was beginning to think Ecuyer had made the whole thing up.”

Alec could scarcely believe what he’d just heard. “Are you certain it’s him?’

“Aye, sir. I spoke with him, settled him in his room. He’s here with his wife, a lovely young woman, and their baby—a girl, I believe. He asked for the best room, but I could not give it to him, as you’ve already taken it.”

Alec started for the door. He’d waited six long years for this moment, six years of watching his wife, Cassie, suffer the anguish of not knowing whether her son was alive or dead, of watching his daughter, Elizabeth, blame herself for her brother’s abrupt departure, of watching every member of his family suffer for the love of a young man who’d turned his back on them. Six terrible years of wondering what he might have done different, of feeling helpless, of fearing he would never see his eldest son alive again.

“Alec, wait!” Jamie blocked his path. “Do you think it’s wise to go charging into his room at this late hour? He’s got a wife and a baby. They might well be sleeping.”

“Damn it!” Alec met Jamie’s gaze, realized his brother-in-law was right. Jamie knew Nicholas better than anyone. The two were only four years apart in age. Although Nicholas was Jamie’s nephew, they were more like brothers. “We’ve waited six years, Alec. What’s one more night? We came to bring him home. The last thing we want to do is barge through his door and provoke an argument.”

Alec closed his eyes, took a deep breath, every fiber of his being desperate to see his son and heir. “Aye, you’re right. But I won’t leave here without him.”

“No. We won’t leave here without him.”

Alec turned back to Matilda, took her hand in his. “Thank you, madam, for informing me. Please let me know immediately if Nicholas makes to depart. Wake me, if you must.”

“Of course, sir, as you wish. Tis always my pleasure to be of service to your family.” She turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Jamie settled himself before the chessboard. “Were you about to take my queen, or did I imagine that gleam in your eye?”

Alec strode to the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, his emotions in turmoil. “I’m afraid I’ve lost interest in the game. My God, he’s here!”

Jamie chuckled. “Lovely. You forfeit. I win.”

You are heir to your father’s estate. 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 and pleasant she might be.

Already she longed for him. Where had he gone? Had he taken a room for himself down the hall? Had he left the inn, gone to walk the city streets? Was he downstairs conversing with those well-dressed gentleman she’d seen earlier today? She tried to imagine him dressed like that—all lace, powdered wigs and velvet—and could not. The Nicholas she knew wore buckskin and linsey-woolsey. He bathed in icy rivers, rode bareback, moved through the trees like a ghost. He could kill without hesitation, but he was also gentler than any other man she’d ever known.

Aye, she loved him. But she might as well have fallen in love with the moon. He was beyond her, and if he lacked the sense to see it, she did not. As a trapper, he would have J found a good and devoted wife in her. As the son of gentry, he could only find regret and shame.

She sat, wiped the tears from her face, removed her gown, feeling oddly detached from her own actions, as if some j other force were making her body move, for certainly she lacked the will. She crossed the room in her shift, checked on Isabelle, ran her hand over her daughter’s downy head. She had just turned back toward the bed when someone jiggled the door handle.

Nicholas’s angry voice came from the other side. “Bethie, open the door.”

Fury warring with relief, Bethie walked to the door, hesitated.

“You wouldna do that.”

“Try me!”

Bethie quickly turned the key, stepped back as the door opened.

‘Tor God’s sake, Bethie! I’m not going to hurt you! Surely you know that by now.” He glared at her, walked right past her to the window, stared out into the darkness. “You asked me to tell you the truth, so I’m going to tell you. But you’re going to have to listen to it, and it won’t be easy.” Bethie sat on the bed, waited, chilled by his warning, the coldness of his voice.

For a long while he said nothing. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat, almost empty of emotion. “We were attacked at night—a Wyandot war party. We repulsed them quickly. Two young soldiers, boys I’d taken under my wing, gave chase as the warriors fled. Their names were . . . Eben and Josiah.”

She saw him shut his eyes, as if it hurt to speak their names.

“I knew they were about to be ambushed, taken captive. I shouted for them to stop, but they either couldn’t hear me or didn’t listen. Before I could reach them, they’d been overcome. I thought I could free them . . . but I was taken, too.”

Nicholas felt the brandy in his stomach churn as he told Bethie how they’d been brought north to the Wyandot village, how he’d known they would be sacrificed, how he’d warned Eben and Josiah, but they’d chosen not to believe him. He told her how the Wyandot had promised to adopt them, had feasted with them as honored guests, had offered them sexual delights. And for the first time in six years, he spoke Lyda’s name aloud.

“The woman who came to me was named Lyda, the daughter of their war chief, Atsan. Her mother’s line was likewise powerful. I knew none of this at the time. I knew only that I would not risk getting her with child. I refused to leave any part of myself with the Wyandot, nor could I betray my fiancée, Penelope. So I sent Lyda away untouched, even though I knew it would be my last chance to enjoy a woman.”

He told Bethie how he’d sought for a way to escape and had failed, how the next evening they’d been tied to stakes in the war chief’s longhouse, how the entire village had gathered to watch as the women cut them like cattle, shoved burning embers one at a time beneath their skin. His body began to shake as the memories he’d tried so hard to forget were unleashed. “

Lyda took the lead in my torment. She was angry that I had rejected her. I tried not to cry out, knew it would be worse for me if I did. But Eben and Josiah—they were just boys! I couldn’t bear their suffering, felt I ought to have been able to prevent it. I shouted something at Atsan—I can’t remember exactly what. My mind was . . . the pain . . . I couldn’t think clearly.” He told her how confused he’d been when Lyda and her grandmother had stopped burning him and instead had begun the horrendous process of treating his wounds, every bit as painful as the torture itself. But even as they’d given him cool drinks of water and rubbed salve into his blistered and charred flesh, it had soon become clear that what he’d endured was only the merest hint of what still lay in store for Eben and Josiah.

Nicholas turned from the window, sick to his stomach, sat in a chair before the hearth, buried his face in his hands.

Though he could hear Bethie’s quiet weeping, the sound of it was all but drowned out by the echoes of screams and curses, of cheering bystanders, of roaring flames.