Ride the Fire (4 page)

“That bad?”

“I’ll need to wash the blood away first.” She added a bit of cold water to the hot, tested the temperature with her fingers. Then she pulled a chair over to the bed, set the bowl of water on it, together with the needle, thread and several clean strips of linen.

As Bethie knew only too well, there were many ways a man could hurt a woman. And this man was dangerous. Every instinct she had told her that. Hadn’t he already threatened her with his pistol and used his strength against her?

She must not give him another chance to harm her. She must find a way to take his weapons from him, to render him helpless, to gain the upper hand. Christian charity might demand that she help him, but that didn’t mean she had to leave herself defenseless against him. She dipped a linen cloth into the water, squeezed it out, began gingerly to wipe the blood from his leg. It was unsettling to touch the stranger in such an intimate way, to feel his skin, the rasp of his dark body hair, the strength of his muscles beneath her hands. She tried to take her mind off what she was doing, gathered her courage to ask him the question she’d wanted to ask since she’d seen he was wounded.

“If you dinnae mind my askin’, how did this happen?”

“I was attacked by two French trappers. I killed them, but not before one of them tried to hamstring me.”

The way he spoke of killing, as if it were nothing, sent a chill down her spine.

He seemed to read her mind. “They tried to murder me as I slept.”

Bethie said nothing, afraid her voice would reveal her fear and doubt. Instead, she bent over his injury to examine it. Blood still oozed from deep within despite the tourniquet, pooling red in the gaping wound. She parted the flesh with her fingers, felt her stomach lurch. He was cut almost to the bone.

She could not stitch this.

She stood, took deep breaths to calm her stomach, washed his blood from her hands. “ I . . . I’m sorry. But I’m goin’ to have to . . . to cauterize it.”

He turned his head, looked back at her over his shoulder, held out his hunting knife.

“Then do it. Use my knife.”

She hesitated for a moment, struck by his seeming indifference to the prospect of so much pain, then took the knife. She walked to the table, thrust the knife blade into the hottest part of the fire, waited for it to heat. Worries chased one another through her mind. She didn’t want to do this. She’d never done it before. And she was afraid—afraid of doing it wrong, afraid he would thrash about and hurt her, afraid he would blame her for his suffering. She turned to look at the strange man in her bed. He appeared to be sleeping, his face turned toward her, long dark lashes softening his otherwise starkly masculine features. She did not trust him, knew he was dangerous. But she did not want to hurt him.

Then, an idea half formed in her mind, she crossed the room to the cupboard, took out her bag of medicines and the jug of whisky Andrew kept for cold nights. Careful to turn her back to him, she poured a stout draft of whisky into a tin cup, added several drops of herbal tincture, sure the alcohol would mask the taste.

His voice broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

“Bethie.” Startled, she answered quickly, without thinking, then corrected herself. “Elspeth Stewart.”

“Check the blade, Mistress Stewart. Surely it’s hot by now.”

She turned toward him, cup in hand, walked to the bed and offered it to him. “You’ll be needin’ this.”

He lifted his head, his brows knitted in puzzlement, looked into the cup, grinned darkly.

“Corn whisky? You’d best save that to clean the wound.”

“But it will help to dull your pain.”

He shook his head. “A cup of whisky cannot help me. Besides, ‘tis only pain.”

Only pain?

“Fine. Suffer if you like, but I cannae hold you down. What promise do I have that you willna thrash about or kick me?”

He laughed at her. “I give you my word I will hold perfectly still.”

“But your sufferin’ will be terrible! Should I no’ at least bind you to the—”

“No!” There was an edge of genuine anger in his voice now. “I’ve given you my word. Now let’s get this over with.”

Sick to her stomach and trembling, Bethie set the whisky aside and retrieved the knife. Wrapping her apron around the hot, wooden handle, she carried it to the bed. The blade glowed red.

She stood next to his injured leg, dreading what she must do, and tried to figure out how best to apply the heat.

“Do it!”

The man reached above his head, grasped the carved rungs of the headboard, his large hands making fists around the wood.

She took a deep breath and pressed the red-hot steel into the wound.

The hiss and reek of burning flesh.

His body stiffened, and his knuckles turned white, but he did not cry out. Nor did he thrash or try to pull his leg away. The hissing faded.

Bethie pulled the blade free, stepped back from the bed, drew air deep into her lungs, afraid she might faint or be sick. Stray thoughts flitted through her mind like wild birds. Had it worked? Was he still bleeding? Would his leg fester?

How had he managed to hold still through such torment? Gradually her breathing slowed, and the dizziness and nausea passed. Gathering her wits, she carried the bucket and what was left of the fresh water to the bed. She sat beside him, expecting him to be unconscious, but he was not. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his face was even paler than before, if that were possible. But his eyes, though glazed with pain, were open, and he watched her.

“I-I’m sorry! I didna want to hurt you.” She dipped the cloth into the bucket, pressed the cold, wet cloth to his brow and cheeks.

“Has the bleeding... stopped?” His voice was tight, ragged, betraying his pain.

Almost afraid to look, Bethie bent over the wound. What had been a raw, bleeding gash was now burned, blistered flesh. But there was only one way to know for certain. She took up a knife and, after a moment’s hesitation, cut away the tourniquet.

“Aye, the bleedin’ has stopped.”

“Pour the whisky in.”

“Aye. Do it!”

She hurried to the cupboard, withdrew the jug once more, then returned to the bed. With a jerk, she pulled the cork free, then poured fiery liquid into the wound and set the jug aside.

She took a fresh strip of linen, sat beside him, blotting up the excess.

“A pouch of ointments... in my saddlebags. The big pocket. Fetch it.” He sounded weaker.

“Aye, in a moment. Should you not first have something to strengthen you? You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She reached for the tin cup with the whisky mixture, lifted his head, held it to his lips.

“Swallow.”

To her great relief, this time he drank.

The sight of her eyes—lovely eyes almost the color of violets—would be the last thing Nicholas remembered.

Where was he?

She’d helped him, cleaned his wound, cauterized it—not altogether willingly.

Nicholas lifted his head, started to roll onto his side to take in his surroundings, found he could not. His wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts.

Blood rushed to his head, a dark surge of rage, of dread. “You’re awake.” Her voice came from behind him. “You must be thirsty.”

“You little bitch!” He pulled on the ropes, his fury and dread rising when they held fast. “Release me! Now!”

“I cannae do that—no’ yet. I’ve made broth. It will help you regain—“

“Damn your broth, woman! Untie me!” He jerked on the ropes again, outraged and alarmed to find himself rendered powerless. Sharp pain cut through his right thigh.

“Stop your strugglin’! You’ll split your wound open and make it bleed again.”

Infuriated, Nicholas growled, a sound more animal than human, even to his own ears. He jerked violently on the ropes, but it was futile. He was still weak from blood loss, and the effort left him breathless, made his pulse hammer in his ears.

Damn her!

She is not Lyda. This is not the Wyandot village.

“Why did you do this? I told you I meant you no harm!” He craned his neck, saw that she stood before the fire, ladling liquid into a tin cup, a brown knitted shawl around her shoulders.

“Is that no’ what the wolf always says to the lamb?” She carried the cup to the bed, sat. “Drink. It will help to replenish your blood. Careful. Tis hot.”

Tantalized by the smell of the broth and suddenly aching with thirst, Nicholas bit back the curse that sat on his tongue. He drank.

Bethie held the cup to his lips, watched as he swallowed the broth, her heart still racing. For one terrible moment, she’d feared the ropes would break or come loose. She’d known he would be angry with her, but she hadn’t expected him to try to rip the bed apart.

Truth be told, she feared him despite the ropes. Although he’d given up for the moment, she could feel the fury coiled inside him. She could see it in the rippling tension of his body, in his clenched fists, in the unforgiving glare in his eyes. He made her think of a caged cougar—spitting angry and untamed. He was not used to being bested. The arrogant brute! Did he imagine she would grant him warm hospitality after the way he’d treated her? It served him right to be bound and helpless!

As if a man of his strength were ever truly helpless. Her gaze traveled the length of him as it had done many times while he’d slept, and she found her eyes focused of their own will on the rounded muscles of his buttocks where the butter-soft leather clung so tightly.

Mortified, she jerked her gaze away, felt heat rise in her cheeks. Her stepfather had always said she was possessed of a sinful nature.

“More.” His boorish command interrupted her thoughts.

He glowered at her through eyes of slate.

“Aye.” She stood, hurried to the fireplace, ladled more broth into the cup, uncomfortably aware that he was watching her.

“How long do you intend to keep me a prisoner?” His voice was rough, full of repressed rage.

She walked back to the bed, sat, and feigned a calm she did not feel.

“ Tis your own fault you lie bound. You cannae be expectin’ to be treated as a guest when you behaved like a felon. Drink.”

He pulled his head away, his gaze hard upon her, held up the ropes that bound his wrists.

“This isn’t necessary.”

“You threatened me, held your pistol to my head, forced me to do your will and admitted to killin’ two men. Do you truly expect me to trust you?”

He frowned, his dark brows pensive. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I didn’t have time for social graces. My need was dire.”

“So is mine!” She stood in a surge of temper, met his gaze. “I cannae risk you regainin’ your strength and then, when you no longer need my help, hurtin’ me or my baby or takin’ what is ours and leavin’ us in the cold to starve! I dinnae even know your name!”