by Pamela Clare
Below in the parade grounds, people busied themselves with their morning chores. Mothers and fathers chased their children, cooked over open fires, hung laundry in the wind to dry. Soldiers marched in formation, worked to repair the flood damage, did their best to chase chickens off the ramparts. One rooster perched haughtily on the back of a grazing goat, keeping a careful watch on his hens.
Suddenly the fort seemed terribly exposed, a fragile haven upon which all this life depended. “’Tis its own world, a little island surrounded by peril.”
“Aye. You asked me earlier if the Delaware would attack. Bethie, they don’t have to.”
Immediately she understood. Inside they fort, the settlers and soldiers were isolated, cut off from their fields, with no way to hunt game. Time was on the side of the Indians. When the food ran out . . . “You think they’ll put us under siege.”
“Aye.” He pulled her closer. “But perhaps reinforcements are already on their way. Would you like to visit the trading post?”
She brushed aside the sense of foreboding that had overtaken her. “Aye.”
They had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the lieutenant who had summoned Nicholas the day before appeared and asked to have a word with him.
“Stay right here.” Nicholas released her and joined the lieutenant a few feet away.
A ball made of an animal bladder rolled to a stop at Bethie’s feet, followed closely by a very muddy boy of three or four. She smiled, bent down, picked up the ball, threw it gently to him.
The little boy caught it, smiled, rolled it back.
She bent down again, felt a man’s hand close intimately over her bottom.
She gasped, lurched upright, spun about, a flush of fear and anger hot on her face.
But Nicholas already had the man by his uniform jacket. In one motion, he slammed the young soldier up against the curtain wall, pressed the blade of his hunting knife against the soldier’s throat.
A hushed silence fell around them.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t geld you here and now!” Nicholas’s voice was a rough growl, the look on his face one of primal male rage.
The man, a barmy-faced lad not much older than she, trembled, his eyes wide with terror. “I—I—I’m sorry. I—”
“Sorry is just the beginning!”
The lieutenant stepped forward. “I’m afraid Lieutenant Kenleigh is right, Private Huntley. Corporal, put this man in irons. Take him to the guardhouse to await a court-martial.”
“Aye, sir!”
But Nicholas wasn’t finished. “Do you know what the Cherokee do to a man who violates women? No? Touch her or any other woman again, and you’ll find out!” Then Nicholas released the soldier, sheathed his knife.
Immediately, the corporal, together with several others, led the private away. The onlookers slowly drifted back to their conversations.
Bethie released a long, trembling breath, searched Nicholas’s face, saw his gaze soften as he looked down at her. “It’s all right, Nicholas.”
“Like bloody hell it is!”
“I—I’m just a wee bit startled.”
“I must apologize, madam.” The lieutenant bowed his head with such respect that Bethie was taken aback. “I would never have imagined one of our soldiers would make such a bold assault on an officer’s wife, or any woman for that matter.”
“I’m no longer an officer, Lieutenant Trent.”
Lieutenant Trent gave an impatient flick of his lace-adorned wrist. “As you wish. Rest assured the miscreant shall be punished. Good day to you both.” With a quick nod of the head, he turned and walked away.
Nicholas took her arm. “Let’s get you back to the barracks.”
She gave him a little tug. “No’ yet. I want to see Annie’s tradin’ post first.”
* * *
“You’ve got to help me, Richard! They’re goin’ to flog me! Thirty-nine lashes!”
Richard glared at Silas, glanced nervously around. “Keep your voice down! I’m no’ supposed to be here!”
“Can you get me out?”
“Are you daft? You shouldna have gotten yourself caught! I told you to be careful, did I no’?”
Silas nodded. “I didna think he’d see. Why, oh, why did I let you put me up to this?”
Richard reached between the bars, grabbed Silas by the throat. “Hold your whist, or I’ll duff you one! ’Twas your own foolish idea!”
Silas coughed, pulled away. “I willna tell. I wouldna do such a thing, Richard! But you must help me. You’re my friend!”
“I brought you this.” Richard held out the lead ball.
“What is that for?”
“Tuck it in your mouth on the mornin’ when they come to get you. Bite it while they’re floggin’ you. ’Tis to keep you from wailin’.” Richard watched in disgust as a tear rolled down Silas’s cheek, felt an urge to hit the spineless bastard.
Silas grabbed the ball with a sweaty hand. “I’m so frightened!”
“Pull your wits together! I’ve seen girls take a beating with less fuss than you!” Richard didn’t tell him that one of those girls was the woman whose arse he’d grabbed today.
Richard had wanted to test the waters, to see exactly how much of a guard dog Bethie’s man was. He had egged Silas on, then watched from the shadows as her man had threatened to cut Silas’s cods off. He had no doubt the man—a bleedin’ officer, no less—had meant every word he’d said.
Richard would have to be very careful.
Silas was still weeping. “I shouldna ha’ done it.”
“Christ, Silas! Dinnae be such a cutcher!” Richard gave a snort of contempt, turned, and walked past the sleeping guard out into the night.
* * *
Bethie poured cold water from the bucket Private Fitchie had filled into the glass bowl, then removed her clothes until she stood naked. Isabelle had finally fallen asleep, giving her a few precious moments alone. She dipped a linen cloth into the cool water, squeezed it out, pressed it against her throat and breasts, biting back a moan. It had been a hot and sticky day.
If only the water would cool her temper as well.
She didn’t know when she’d ever felt more cankersome. She’d tried to make herself useful in the cookhouse this afternoon only to find herself hauled back to the barracks by a very angry Nicholas.
“You’re not to leave this room without me!” He’d thrust her roughly through the door and slammed it behind them.
She’d stepped away, resisted the urge to pummel him. “I’m just tryin’ to make myself useful!”
“And I’m trying to keep you safe! After what happened this morning, I would think you’d understand the danger!” A muscle in his jaw ticked, and she knew he was genuinely angry with her. “This place is filled with men who haven’t touched a woman in years and are not above rape if it means getting their hands on you!”
She’d felt the blood drain from her face, felt some of her anger fade. “But I cannae stay in here all day every day! There must be somethin’ I can do. I could work in the laundry or help cook—”
He shook his head. “Écuyer brought his own personal chef, and most of the officers have enlisted men or servants to see to their laundry and mending. They don’t need your help, Bethie.”
“Everyone else is preparin’ for war. Minna is mendin’ soldiers’ uniforms. Goody Wallace is teachin’ Bible lessons. But my hands are idle! I dinnae even cook our meals!”
He’d reached out to her, cupped her shoulders in his big hands. “’Tis admirable of you to want to help, Bethie, but I will not let you do anything that puts you in harm’s way.”
His words had only made her angrier. “Who are you to decide what I do and what I dinnae do? I am no’ yours to command, Nicholas Kenleigh!”
He’d pulled her hard against him. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly, or you’re likely to find yourself sleeping with the other settlers!”
Then his mouth had closed over hers in a rough kiss
Before she’d drawn a breath, he’d gone.
She hadn’t seen him all evening. He was having brandy with the captain and had warned her he’d likely not return until very late. Which was just as well.
Part of her wanted to slap him. Part of her wanted to apologize. Part of her just wanted him to kiss her like that again. And again. And again.
She dipped the cloth in the water once more, squeezed it, ran it over her bare breasts, felt her nipples tighten against the pleasing chill.
The door opened.
“You’re still awake . . .” Nicholas closed the door behind him. His gaze, as intimate as a caress, slid slowly down her naked body. His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened to midnight.
Burned as she was by the heat of his perusal, her first instinct was to hide herself. But she forced herself to face him, to stand her ground.
Wasn’t this what she wanted?
Chapter 20
A rush of air left Nicholas’s lungs, caught in his throat, as seemingly all the blood in his body surged to his cock. His mind stumbled in search of words. “You should be sleeping.”
Bethie stood before him, completely naked, her hair twisted atop her head, her skin glistening wet in the candlelight, her nipples tight and ripe. Shimmering strands of water trickled down her belly to her thighs or disappeared in the thatch of golden curls that hid her sex.
“’Twas such a sweltrie day . . .”
He took a step toward her, expected her to turn away, to cover herself, to ask him to leave. But she didn’t. Instead, she dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed it out, pressed its dampness against the side of her throat, as if . . .
As if she had intended him to find her. As if she were trying to seduce him.
He took another step and another. Only when he stood before her could he see that she was trembling. He reached out, took the cloth from her, dipped it in the bowl, squeezed it. “Let me.”
She closed her eyes, hid a gaze that held both fear and desire, and he could tell she was pushing herself, forcing herself to confront whatever demons still lived inside her.
He’d be damned if he was going to let her face them alone.
Touched that she was giving him something so precious as trust, he pressed the cold cloth to her cheek, her throat, her nape. “Do you know what it does to me to touch you like this?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she met his gaze for a moment, then looked away. Her voice was a whisper. “You feel . . . lust?”
“I feel much more than lust, Bethie. Lust is a need quickly satisfied. What I want takes time.” He dipped the cloth in the water again, squeezed it. “I want to bring you pleasure—to touch every part of you, kiss every part of you, taste every part of you. I want to make you come again and again, until you’re weak and sleepy and there’s nothing in your world but the scent of me, the taste of me, the feel of me.”
He heard her little intake of breath, watched a blush rise from her breasts to her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to his again, a look of confusion on her face, and shook her head. “But ’tis no’ like that for women.”
He touched the cold, wet cloth to the valley between her breasts, allowed his knuckles to graze one of her nipples, felt her heart skip beneath his palm. “It can be.”
She shivered. But fear lingered in her eyes. Her hands were fisted at her sides, her body tense, proof she was still forcing herself, still fighting, still afraid.
He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. She’d been terrified of him since the first moment she’d seen him, and that was his own damned fault. Only when she’d drugged him and tied him to her bed—
The memory stopped him, gave him pause.
What would she do now if he gave up control, if he put that same power in her hands?
He dropped the cloth in the water. Guided by instinct, he brushed aside any unease about his scars, his lingering memories of Lyda. He slowly loosed the ties of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the floor. Then he took up the cloth, pressed it dripping wet to his chest, gently placed her hand atop it.
She gaped at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and he saw her pupils dilate.
“I’m burning up, Bethie. Put out the fire.”
Bethie could not breathe, could barely think, not with him watching her through those dark eyes, not with his skin so hot beneath the cloth. She slid the linen slowly over the hard planes of his chest, over his scars, over the wine-colored silk of his nipples. Then she moved lower, explored the ridges of his belly, felt his muscles jerk against her touch, saw the demanding bulge straining against his buckskin breeches.
Tendrils of panic snaked into her throat.
She swallowed them.
For as nervous as it made her to see such clear evidence of his physical need, she wanted him more than she ever had, and some part of her thrilled to know her touch affected him just as much as his did her. Before she realized what she was doing, she let the cloth fall to the floor at their feet and caressed him with her bare hands, hungry for the feel of him.
But rather than sating her need, each moment she touched him only made her want him more. His body was so different from hers, so hard, so strong. She fanned her fingers across the mat of dark curls on his chest, let her fingertips trace the curls where they trickled in a line down his belly and disappeared beneath his breeches.
“Untie them.” His voice was tight, restrained, and she could tell he was holding back. “I want you to see me, to see what you do to me, to know that, no matter what I feel, I won’t hurt you.”
Even as he spoke the words, she knew some part of her wanted to do this. She remembered that day by the river when she had watched him bathe, remembered the shock she’d felt seeing that part of him—her fear, her fascination, her body’s reaction.
She reached for the ties of his breeches with trembling hands, felt his strong hands close reassuringly over hers to help her. And then it was done. He guided her hands beneath the skin-warmed leather, over his hips, over the muscled roundness of his buttocks, over his corded thighs, as he peeled the leather away from his skin and let it slip to the floor.
His sex sprang free, stood rigid against his belly, rising thick and hard from a nest of dark curls. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy.
Something clenched deep in her belly. Heat seemed to spread from her womb, turned to liquid between her thighs. She felt herself falter.
“The sight of me frightens you.”
She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Now I know why it hurts.”
He cupped her bare shoulders, ran his hands down the length of her arms, took her hands in his. “It should never hurt, Bethie. When a man enters a woman’s body, it should bring her as much pleasure as it brings him.”
His words made her light-headed. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. But she’d lived with Andrew for four years, had lain beneath him, and had hated every moment of it. And before that . . .
But this was Nicholas, not Andrew. Not Richard.
Nicholas made her feel things she’d never felt before.
“Nicholas, I . . .” How could she explain this jumble of feelings inside her? How could she make him understand?
Before she found the words, he bent down and brushed his lips lightly over hers.
That simple touch, light as the sweep of a butterfly’s wings, made the heat inside her explode.
With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him as his mouth claimed hers in a melting kiss. Sensation overwhelmed her. The sweet rasp of his damp chest hair against her nipples. The thrust of his tongue deep in her mouth. The caress of his hands as they moved over her hot skin.
And then he stopped, releasing her. He turned and strode with a panther’s grace to the bed.
Bethie’s heart almost stopped. Had it gone this far? Were they really going to—
But then he did something she could never have imagined. He lay down on his back in the center of the bed, stretched his arms above his head, and closed his fists around the bedposts.
“My body is yours, Bethie. Touch me anywhere you want, any way you want. I won’t let go of these bedposts until you say I can. I put myself in your hands. Whatever happens now is up to you.”
For a moment she could do nothing but stare at him, her heart a hammer behind her breast. Even lying submissively on his back, he glowed with male strength and virility. No matter what he might pretend, he was not the submissive sort. And she realized he was doing this for her sake, trying to make her feel safe.
Whatever happens now is up to you.
Drawn to him despite her fears, Bethie crossed the room, sat on the bed beside him, let her gaze run the length of him. And then, with only her need for him to guide her, she rose to her knees, bent over him, kissed him.
True to his word, he did not release the bedposts, but met her kiss full-on, lifting his head from the pillow, invading her mouth with his tongue, teasing her swollen lips with his.
But suddenly she wanted to taste more of him, just as he had tasted her that night by the brook. She traced kisses across his beard-roughened jaw, down his throat, over the crest of his Adam’s apple to his chest, licking his nipples as he had licked hers.
“Bethie!” His body jerked, and breath hissed from his lungs. But he did not release the bedposts.
She had never touched a man like this, had never felt attracted to a man’s body before Nicholas, hadn’t realized how much pleasure there was to be found in touching and kissing a man. It was as if some deep-seated hunger had awoken within her. She wanted more.
Emboldened by his response, she kissed her way across his chest, down the line of dark curls to his belly, letting her fingers find their eager way over the ridges and valleys of his muscles. She could feel the male power of him, feel the shifting of his muscles, the tension in his body as he deliberately restrained himself. He could overpower her in a heartbeat if he so chose. And yet he kept his word.
She dipped her tongue into his navel.
His grip tightened around the bedposts, and he groaned, a sound of pure male need.
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