Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

by Pamela Clare

  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, and grinned darkly. “Corn whiskey? You’d best save that to clean the wound.”

  “But it will help to dull your pain.”

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

  Only pain?

  She gaped at him. What kind of life had he led that certain agony meant nothing to him? “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 whiskey aside and retrieved the knife. Wrapping her apron around the hot, wooden handle, she carried it to the bed.

  The blade glowed red.

  Dreading what she must do, she stood next to his injured leg 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, 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 whiskey in.”

  “Are you cert—”

  “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.

  Not so much as a sound escaped his lips.

  She took a fresh strip of linen, sat beside him, blotted 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 somethin’ to strengthen you? You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She reached for the tin cup with the whiskey 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.

  Chapter 3

  Nicholas was on fire. Every inch of his chest, belly, and back seemed to burn, pain ripping even into his sleep. The ropes chafed his wrists and ankles, imprisoned him, made his right leg ache.

  Lyda was again cleaning his wounds, rubbing ointment into his burns, her fingers like glass shards against his tortured skin. He would have killed her, would have broken her neck had he been able to free himself.

  But she knew that, and so she kept him bound.

  How long had he lain here, drifting in and out of consciousness, half mad with pain and fever? Hours? Days? Weeks? And why was he still alive? Why had they spared him?

  Screams.

  Josiah and Eben! The Wyandot were burning them, tormenting them. But they were already long dead, weren’t they? Why then could he still hear them?

  “Nicholas! For God’s sake, help us!”

  Nicholas awoke with a jerk, caught between the nightmare and wakefulness, his heart pounding, his body covered with sweat. He struggled to open his eyes, found himself lying on his stomach in someone’s bed, his head on a pillow. His right leg throbbed, burned. His head ached. His throat was parched as sand, and a strange aftertaste lingered in his mouth.

  From nearby came the swish of skirts, the sound of a log settling in a fire, the scent of something cooking.

  Where was he?

  Through a fog he tried to remember. He’d been attacked. The Frenchmen from the fort. He’d lost a lot of blood, had ridden in search of help. The cabin. The woman.

  Bethie was her name. Elspeth Stewart.

  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—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!

  He closed his eyes, fought to subdue the slick current of panic that slid up from his belly, caught in his throat.

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

  His heartbeat slowed. The panic subsided, left white-hot rage in its wake.

  “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, 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.”

  “As I recollect, you seemed quite bent on frightenin’ me.”

  “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!”

  For a moment he said nothing. “Kenleigh. Nicholas Kenleigh.”

  She repeated his name aloud.

  “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, Mistress Stewart, you will release me.”

  “Nay, Master Kenleigh. I willna—no’ just yet.” She lifted her chin. “You’ll stay as you are till I’m certain you pose no threat to me and my baby.”

  He gave a snort. “And how will you determine that?”

  “Drink.” She held the cup once more to his lips. “Perhaps I shall have you swear an oath, a bindin’ oath.”

  He drained the cup, looked up at her. “And if I am a murdering liar, a man with no honor, the sort of man who would harm a woman ripe with child, how would this oath prevent me from doing whatever I want the moment you cut me free?”

  Bethie stood, walked back to the fireplace to refill the cup once more, the truth in his words dashing her sense of safety to pieces. “Are you sayin’ I should never set you free, Master Kenleigh?”

  “No, Mistress Stewart. I’m saying that unless you plan to keep me a prisoner forever and care for me as if I were a babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot, sooner or later you have no choice but to trust me.”

  She walked back to the bed, felt her step falter. In truth, she hadn’t thought about how or when she would release him when she’d bound him to the bed. Nor had she considered what keeping him bound would mean. She’d been thinking only of a way to restrain him and deprive him of his weapons, and she had accomplished that.

  A babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot? Good heavens!

  She reached the bed, sat, held the cup once more to his lips. “Very well. I shall cut you free. But you shall first swear to me by all you hold sacred that you willna do anythin’ to harm me or my baby or to deprive us of our hearth and home.”

  He swallowed, licked broth from his lips. Then a queer look came over his face. He stared at the tin cup, then gaped at her. “You drugged me!”

  How did he know? “I—I gave you medicine to ease your pain—and make you sleep.”

  He laughed, a harsh sound. “You drugged me so that you could bind me and take my weapons.”

  He stated it so plainly that Bethie could find no words to soften the truth of what she’d done. She rested a hand protectively on her belly, felt her baby shift within her. “Y-you left me no choice.”

  Nicholas saw the defiant tilt of her chin, noticed the pink that crept into her cheeks. He noticed, too, the way her hand softly caressed the swollen curve of her abdomen as if to calm the small life inside her.

  What would I have done in her place?

  He dismissed the question—and the irritating impulse to defend his previous actions toward her. There was only one rule in the wild—survival. He’d only done what he’d felt he had to do to stay alive.

  And so had she.

  “Very well, Mistress Stewart. I swear that I will not harm you or your child or try to take from you that which is yours.” His next words surprised him. “And for the short time I shelter under your roof, I swear to protect you from any man who would.”

  What in the hell had inspired him to say that? She was not his problem. Clearly, whatever potion she’d given him had addled his mind.

  For a moment she stood as still as a statue, her gaze seeming to measure him in light of the words he had just spoken. “Very well, Master Kenleigh.”

  She took up his hunting knife, which had lain on the table, then disappeared out of his range of vision. He felt her fingers pulling on the rope that bound his left ankle, felt the cold blade of his knife slide between the rope and his skin. A few tugs later, his left ankle was free.

  In a matter of moments, only the bonds around his left wrist remained. He rolled onto his back, watched her as she rounded the bed with agonizing slowness. He could feel her doubt, her trepidation. She watched him as if he were a wild animal that might attack at any moment, her violet eyes wide.

  “I promised not to harm you. I am a man of my word.”

  The cool touch of a blade. A few sharp tugs.

  His wrist was free.

  Quickly, she backed away from the bed, out of his reach, his knife still in her grasp.

  Nicholas pushed himself up onto his elbows. Outside the parchment window, all was dark. Nighttime already?

  Slowly he sat, let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, touched his feet to the wooden floor. The muscles in his right thigh screamed in angry protest. Dark spots danced before his eyes. The cabin swam.

  Nicholas drew air into his lungs, felt the labored beating of his heart. He cursed his weakness, knew he had come terribly close to dying. It would take days, perhaps even weeks, for him to regain the blood he had lost and, with it, his strength.

  “You see, Mistress Stewart? I’m in . . . no shape to harm . . . anyone.”

  And then, as if to prove his point, he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  * * *

  Bethie knelt beside him, touched his forehead, let out a long sigh of relief to find it still cool. He stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowed as if in response to her touch. Asleep like this, his long lashes dark upon his pale cheeks, his brow relaxed, he seemed harmless, not at all the kind of beast who’d hold a pistol to a woman’s head.

  He lay on the floor much as he had fallen. She could not lift him, or even drag him, without risking harm to her baby. She tucked a pillow beneath his head and draped his heavy bearskin coat over him to keep him warm, but there was little more she could do for him.

  Slowly she stood, one hand held against her lower back, the other stifling a yawn. She had already stoked the fire, paid one last visit to the privy house, and drawn in the door string. There was nothing left to do but go to sleep.

  But how could she sleep with this huge Englishman, this rough and wild stranger, in the same room?

  “He cannae hurt you, Bethie, you silly lass. He cannae even—”

  Her words were interrupted by another yawn. ’Twas surely near midnight. She needed to sleep.

  She pic
ked up his pistol from the table where she had left it after she’d primed and loaded it, carried it with her around his prostrate form to the other side of the bedstead. Then she drew down the covers, crawled into their warmth.

  The baby kicked restlessly as she settled onto her pillow. “Quiet now, little one. You wouldna want to keep me awake, would you?”

  But despite her exhaustion, sleep would not come, and the baby was not to blame. Each time she began to drift off, something woke her. Several times she abruptly found herself sitting up, pistol in hand and pointed into the darkness. Once it was a log settling on the fire. Then it was the howl of a wolf in the distance. And then the stranger shifted in his sleep, bumped one of the chairs.

  Twice, Bethie arose, checked him for fever, made certain the door string was pulled in, added wood to the fire. And when she had to use the chamber pot, as she seemed to have to do constantly these days, she found she could not—not with him in the cabin. Quietly, she crept outside and saw to her needs under a cold canopy of stars, surrounded by furtive noises and the impenetrable darkness of the forest.

  With unbearable slowness, the hours drifted by. The fire burned down to embers. The silence of the night, filled with dark possibility, deepened around her.

  * * *

  The first thing Nicholas noticed when he awoke, besides the relentless pain in his right thigh, was the underside of a pinewood table. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why. But how had he come to be on the floor?

  He remembered Mistress Stewart cutting his bonds. He remembered trying to sit. And then?

  Had the little wench drugged him again?

  No. He had passed out.

  He cursed under his breath, felt his tongue stick to the dry roof of his mouth. He needed water. A water skin full of it.

  It was then he noticed the pillow. She had placed a pillow beneath his head and had covered him with his bearskin coat while he slept. The thoughtfulness of her gesture left him feeling annoyed. He didn’t need her compassion.