Ride the Fire (36 page)

She opened her eyes, pushed herself against the delicious pressure of his hand. “Aye, I’d like a bath—if it’s no’ a burden for her. Mmmm. Dinnae stop.”

“It’s no’ a burden, love. And perhaps I willna be leavin’ just yet.” With deft strokes of his fingers he brought her quickly to the edge, then unlaced his breeches and slid into her with one slow thrust.

It was a fast coupling, hard and hot, and left Bethie feeling warm and languid long after Nicholas had gone. She rose slowly, nursed Belle, her mind drifting through everything that had happened the night before.

She hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him, had meant to keep her feelings for him secret. But in her anguish over his pain, the words had slipped from her tongue. Yet she would not take them back. She had no idea what she would do. Nicholas, though he had spoken no words of love to her, was bent on marrying her. Though Bethie wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with Nicholas as his proper wife, she feared the differences between them would bring them both a lifetime of regret. What if one day her mother or Malcolm should wander up to their door? What if the story of what Richard had done at Fort Pitt became widespread? What if in her ignorance and poverty she shamed him before society? How would Nicholas and his family feel then?

A knock came at the door, and with it a breakfast of eggs, bacon, bread, butter and hot tea. Breakfast was followed by a bath. Trying to keep her mind off her troubles, Bethie brought Belle into the tub with her, laughed as her baby daughter splashed, giggled and cooed in the warm water.

She had just dressed and put Belle down for her morning nap when another knock came at the door. The innkeeper entered, followed by three other women bearing all manner of brightly colored cloth and lace. “Your husband sent Madame Moreau and her daughters to take your measurements and prepare a wardrobe for you, madam.”

“A w-wardrobe?”

Madame Moreau swept into the room, directed her daughters to lay their burdens across the bed. “Let’s get a look at you.”

Bethie didn’t know what to do or say. “B-but my baby is sleepin’.”

Bethie wasn’t certain she wanted to look like a princess, but in short order she found herself in her shift, being measured in every conceivable way, while Madame Moreau and her daughters whispered away in French, held swatches of cloth, samples of lace, bits of ribbon up to her skin or beside her eyes. Bethie had never seen so many beautiful colors—lavenders, delicate shades of blue, soft ivories, sweet pinks, buttery yellows—nor had she ever touched anything so soft as the silks, so rich as the velvets, or so ornate as the embroidered damasks.

Twas like being in a fairy tale. And that was what frightened Bethie. For she knew that, sooner or later, all fairy tales end.

For six long years, he had wondered every day what had become of Nicholas, his nephew, childhood companion, closest friend. And Jamie was more than a little curious to see what sort of forest sprite had captured Nicholas’s heart, for he had no doubt it was due to his love for her that Nicholas had finally emerged from his self-imposed exile. “What do you mean, Nicholas has left?”

“Did you ask him where he was going?”

The innkeeper gaped at Alec in indignation. “Certainly not, sir! How my guests spend their time is none of my affair.”

“Of course, Matilda. Forgive me.”

“I would be most grateful, madam. But while he is away, I think I should like to meet my daughter-in-law.”

“Regrettably, she is indisposed at the moment, sir.”

Alec met his gaze, smiled. “Indeed.”

“As you wish, sir. Might I suggest a good wigmaker, sir?” The old man cast a disapproving glance at Nicholas’s hair, which still hung unbound to his waist.

“No, thank you. I never could abide wearing one.”

The man’s gaze remained fixed on Nicholas’s hair. “Very well, sir.”

As the tailor finished mending the hems of his breeches, Nicholas mulled over the news he’d heard on the street. A group of Scots-Irish frontiersmen from Paxton had attacked a village of peaceful Conestoga Indians and slaughtered everyone they could get their hands on—men, women, children. A handful of Conestogas had escaped to Lancaster, where Quakers, outraged by the carnage, had given them refuge in the local gaol. But the frontiersmen, eager to avenge the deaths of their loved ones after a spring and summer of bloodshed, had followed them, broken into the gaol and hacked them down, even the babies, and left their bodies scattered on the cold ground.

Nicholas had no doubt the garrison’s commander would refuse such a demand. But would the frontiersmen actually attack Philadelphia? That they had no love for Englishmen or Quakers went without saying. Too many of them had brought old hatreds with them from Scotland and Ireland and looked down upon the peace-loving Quakers as cowardly and effeminate. But to attack Philadelphia would be foolhardy, an act of suicide.

Suddenly Nicholas felt weary. He’d seen so much killing over the past six years, so much mindless barbarism. When would it end?

“Very well, sir. That should do nicely.” The tailor stepped away.

“Thank you, sir.” Nicholas slipped out of his waistcoat, removed his shirt, unbuttoned his new breeches. “Would you be so kind as to wrap these?”

Nicholas chuckled. The tailor was clearly astonished that Nicholas was willing to show himself again clad in leather breeches and linsey-woolsey. “Oh, certainly, I’m going to wear them. But not just yet.”

He didn’t want to give Bethie a shock. She’d already endured enough. When he took off his trapper attire and again clad himself as a gentlemen, he would do it before her eyes, so that she would know him and not think him a stranger.

Bethie laid Belle in the center of the big bed and hurried to answer it.

“Guests?”

“Matilda, we’re not guests. We’re family.” A tall, handsome gentleman with blond hair and green eyes pushed passed the startled innkeeper, bowed, lifted Bethie’s hand to his lips. “I am Jamie Blakewell, Nicholas’s uncle. And you, my dear, are a picture of loveliness. You have no idea how happy I am to make your acquaintance.”

There before her stood an older version of Nicholas. Tall, with bright blue eyes, his raven-dark hair shot through with silver, he could be no one but Nicholas’s father. “You’re ... you’re ...” But it was hard to breathe, and she felt dizzy.

Two sets of strong arms shot out to steady her, help her into a chair.

“See now! In your impatience you’ve frightened the poor girl!” The innkeeper sounded vexed. “If you had waited until your son returned—”

“I-I’m fine—just a wee bit surprised.” Bethie didn’t want to cause a scene.

The man who’d called himself Jamie smiled at her. “See, Matilda? She’s just a wee bit surprised.”

Nicholas’s father gazed at her through eyes so like his son’s that Bethie could not help feeling affection for him. He touched a hand to her cheek. “Matilda, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”

“As you wish, sir.” The innkeeper turned and left them alone.

“I’m sorry we startled you, my dear. My name is Alec Kenleigh. As you’ve no doubt guessed, I’m your husband’s father.” He sat in a chair beside her.

Bethie swallowed, prepared to tell them the truth. She prayed they wouldn’t be too angry with her. “I-I’m Elspeth—Elspeth Stewart. But I am no’ your son’s wife, and this is no’ his baby.”

Alec’s brow knitted in puzzlement, and he exchanged glances with Jamie, who looked likewise confused. “When you feel up to it, Elspeth, why don’t you tell us how you came to know my son, and why, if you’re not his wife, he has claimed you as such?”

Bethie snuggled Belle on her lap, told them how Nicholas, gravely wounded, had come upon her cabin in the forest, held a pistol to her head, forced her to help him. She told them how he’d helped her through Belle’s birth and how she’d come to trust him. She told them of Mattootuk and the fire and their flight to Fort Pitt. She told them of Nicholas’s heroism during the siege and of their journey to Philadelphia.

Of Richard and Malcolm Sorley and events in Paxton she said nothing. Nor did she reveal that she and Nicholas had shared a bed.

They listened, asked the occasional question, treated her with nothing but kindness.

“I didna know who your son really was until yesterday when we arrived here. I thought he was a trapper and a soldier. If I had known . . .”

Alec watched a dark shadow pass over the sweet face of the young woman his son loved, felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. He knew from Captain Ecuyer’s letter some of what she had suffered during her young life, much more than she had revealed, and he was glad that Nicholas had put a bullet through her bastard stepbrother’s heart. “If you had known—what then?”

She looked at him through pleading eyes. “I wouldna have let him pretend to be my husband. Tis no’ fair to him. I know you dinnae want him to marry a woman like me, a woman of no family. You dinnae need to hide your thoughts for my sake.”

And in that moment, Alec knew without a doubt that she loved Nicholas, too. “My dear, I want Nicholas to marry the woman he loves, a woman who loves him. From where I’m sitting, that appears to be you.”

Her face turned an adorable shade of pink at his words, and her big eyes, so blue that they seemed to be violet, gazed sadly into his. “He has no’ spoken such words to me.”

“No, but his actions show that you mean the world to him. Did you know that after he arrived at Fort Pitt, my son wrote out his will and testament, claiming you and Isabelle as his wife and daughter and naming Isabelle his heir?” The genuine astonishment on her face proved she had not known.

“Wh-what? Why would he do so haggis-headed a thing as that?”

Jamie chuckled, and Alec could tell that his brother-by marriage was likewise charmed by this beautiful young woman. “It seems pretty clear, doesn’t it? He wanted to make certain you were well cared for if he should die in battle.”

“But Isabelle is no’ of his blood!”

Alec valued her honesty. Another woman might not hesitate to lie about her child’s parentage when a fortune was at stake. “I suspect that when you provide him with a son, Nicholas will rewrite his will, taking care to make certain Isabelle is well supported.”

The color rose in her cheeks again. “But we’re no’ really married!”

“You will be. Soon.” Alec shared a smile with Jamie, could almost read his brother-in-law’s thoughts. The Kenleigh/Blakewell clan was going to cherish Elspeth and her baby girl.