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

by Pamela Clare

  “Aye. As we discussed, I’ve checked their rifles and fire-locks, seen to it every man among them has powder, fresh flints, and shot as is fit for his weapons. Most are solid marksmen and will have no trouble—”

  “Fire!”

  The shout came from the music bastion.

  Nicholas climbed the embankment, saw a column of thick, black smoke rising from the forested hill to the east.

  Écuyer labored up behind him, stood beside him, fought to catch his breath. “They’ve attacked another farmstead.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “They’re just trying to get your attention. I suspect they’re hoping you’ll order a detachment to repulse them.”

  “An ambuscade?”

  “Aye.”

  Lieutenant Trent shouted from below. “Should I sound the alarm, Captain?”

  “No, Lieutenant. This is of no concern to us. Back to work!” Écuyer faced Nicholas again, the fire apparently forgotten. “I want you to assemble a force of twenty men to serve as escort to the farmwomen, who are to turn out to cut spelt and gather what vegetables—”

  “Women, Captain?” Nicholas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You would send women outside these walls?”

  Écuyer glared at him. “Under armed escort, Master Kenleigh. Is it not their job to do such chores at home on their farms? Let them prove their worth by offering some service to their sovereign.”

  Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest, looked down at the older man. “I doubt there’s a man here who would willingly send his wife—”

  “Any woman who refuses is to be locked in the guardhouse! Be ready by noon. Is that understood?”

  “No, sir. If I do this, I do it my way—colonial volunteers, men of my choosing, and no bloody drum and fife. There’s no reason to warn Shingiss we’re on our way out.”

  “You try my patience, Kenleigh.”

  “I’m certain I do. But you don’t know these ‘colonials,’ as you call them. I do. Lock their wives up, and you’ll have a riot. Send women up against seasoned Delaware warriors, and you’ll lose the respect of every frontiersman here.”

  Écuyer’s jaw clenched, and he lowered his voice. “Very well, Kenleigh. Noon.”

  * * *

  Nicholas entered the darkness of the underground passage that led through the east ravelin, nodded to the fifty-odd men who stood crowded together, sacks, scythes, and weapons in hand. Most were German farmers, stout men and strong.

  “We’ll need a picket at the wood redoubt and two or three men to join me in keeping watch on the forest to the east. The rest will move quickly row by row, first cutting the spelt, then, if we have time, harvesting whatever is ripe. If we fall under attack, make an orderly retreat to this spot. No one is to pursue the Delaware into the forest, is that clear?”

  The men nodded gravely.

  “Two hours. No more.”

  * * *

  Bethie closed the front of her gown, handed a well-fed and contented Belle across the table into Annie’s arms. ’Twas Annie’s custom to visit with her after the midday meal if she could spare the time. “The truth is, Annie, I dinnae know that much about him. He willna speak of his travail with the Indians, willna tell me what happened.”

  Annie cuddled Belle against her shoulder, patted the baby’s back. Her face grew grave. “All I know is what I’ve heard others say. ’Tis said he was taken captive by the Wyandot while tryin’ to save the lives of two young soldiers.” Then she lowered her voice, leaned toward Bethie. “The two young soldiers were burnt alive, they say, while he was tortured and made to watch. They say he’s lived alone in the wild since, mad from pain and grief.”

  Bethie felt her temper quicken. Who dared say such a thing about Nicholas! “He’s no’ mad!”

  “’Twas not I who said it, lamb. He’s a good man, to be sure, and a brave one. Why, when I heard he was leadin’ the men out into the fields today, I—”

  “What?” Bethie’s stomach dropped to the floor.

  “Didn’t ye know, lamb? He’s leadin’ a force of men out to cut the spelts and harvest what food they can. They left at midday.”

  “He didna see fit to tell me.” Bethie stood, torn between fury and fear. “Can you watch Belle for me, Annie? She won’t be hungry again for a while.”

  “Aye, but there’s nothin’ ye can do for him until he returns. He likely kept it to himself so as no’ to worry ye.”

  Bethie scarce heard her as she hurried to the door. “Thank you, Annie.”

  She opened the door and froze.

  Richard!

  Icy terror shot through her, froze the breath in her lungs.

  She’d caught only a glimpse of her stepbrother. At least she’d thought it was him. One moment he was there, standing not thirty feet away from her door, an oily look upon his face. The next he was gone, vanished in the crowd.

  Had she imagined him? The man she’d seen had the same reddish-blond hair, the same square face, the same freckles, the same filthy smirk. But he’d worn a redcoat uniform, and Richard had always hated the English. Perhaps she had merely seen a soldier who looked like him.

  Why, then, had he looked directly at her?

  “Ma’am, are you well?” Private Fitchie’s face swam into view.

  Bethie clutched the door frame, drew in a deep breath, tried to quiet her pounding heart.

  Annie’s hand settled reassuringly on her shoulder. “Bethie, lamb, what is it? Ye’ve gone as pale as a ghost!”

  “I—I’m fine.” But she shook from head to toe.

  “Fitchie, help me get her inside.” Annie, with Belle still in her arms, took one of Bethie’s arms, while Private Fitchie took the other.

  Bethie sat in the chair Private Fitchie pulled out for her. “I’m fine, truly I am. I—I thought . . . for a moment, I . . .”

  “Be a peach, Private, and fetch her some fresh water. Be off wi’ ye.” Annie settled her girth in a chair beside Bethie. “Now, lamb, tell me—”

  From outside came the sound of rapid gunfire, the blare of a trumpet.

  Private Fitchie stopped still in the doorway, turned to face them. “The alarm! We’re under attack!”

  For the second time in as many minutes, Bethie’s heart seemed to stop. “Nicholas!”

  Chapter 22

  “Fall back! Quickly!” Nicholas reloaded, aimed for a Delaware wearing a British officer’s coat and gorget, fired. “Go!”

  The warrior fell back amid rows of waist-high Indian corn, his death scream lost amid the war whoops and gunfire. There were probably fifty more just like him hiding out there, some in the corn, some in the trees on the edge of the forest.

  Nicholas ducked behind the shelter of an apple tree, reloaded.

  Men dashed past him, bags of radishes, summer squash, fresh greens, beans, peas, sheaves of spelt clutched to their chests. Most were already well behind him on their way back to the ravelin, but a few had dropped their burdens to fight. He needed to get them out of here.

  “The rest of you—fall in behind me! Make for the glacis!”

  An arrow sang past his shoulder, landed harmlessly in the dirt.

  He found the warrior who had fired it, put a ball through his throat, then reloaded.

  Men scrambled low to the ground, ran backward, reloading and firing as they went.

  The blast of a howitzer. The whine as the ball arced through the air. The explosion of impact.

  Stunned silence.

  The Delaware apparently hadn’t planned on facing down artillery.

  “Go! Now!”

  Behind him came the sound of retreating feet as the remaining men turned and ran straight for the cover of the glacis. Once inside, they’d be only footsteps away from the safety of the ravelin, bearing a sizable harvest.

  But Nicholas stood his ground.

  Ahead of him, on the main path that bisected the garden stood Shingiss. The upper half of his face was painted with vermilion, a scar clearly visible where a hunter’s bullet had grazed his forehea
d long ago. A single eagle feather stood up from his scalp lock. Turkey feathers hung from his pierced ears. A copper ring hung from his nose, and many strands of wampum decorated his throat. His breechcloth, belt, and the deerskin mantle that hung over his right shoulder were embroidered with quills, wampum, and moose hair. His hands were empty and turned palms up in a stance of peace.

  Nicholas lowered his pistol. “Hé, Shingiss, Sakima Lenape.” Greetings, Shingiss, Great Chief of the Delaware.

  Shingiss acknowledged his greeting, spoke to him in Delaware. “Ken-lee. You fight with these Long Knives?”

  Nicholas searched for the right words. The man Shingiss had met years ago would not have been here. “I stand beside men who want only to feed their wives and children and to live in peace. Why do you make war upon them?”

  “We make war upon those who take our lands, kill our game, treat us like animals, bring sickness, deny us weapons and trade. My people go hungry on their own land.”

  It was true, every word of it. Governor Amherst had placed strict limits on the goods being traded to Indian people of all nations, forced them into a state of poverty and hunger, denied them rifles for hunting, as well as powder and lead. He meant to weaken them, drive them away. But clearly it was a policy that had blown up in Amherst’s face.

  “You speak the truth, Shingiss. I have seen this. And yet you will not bend the ears of the English or turn their hearts toward your words by slaughtering their women and babies still at the breast.”

  “They cannot remain. Is not the land east of the mountains enough for them?”

  “The men whose families you have killed came here from lands even farther away than the English. They came because they had no food.”

  Shingiss’s face grew taut with anger. “They kill all the game in their own hunting grounds and come over the sea to take from ours! They are a savage, sickly people who do not know how to live. They cannot stay!”

  “They have no place else to go.”

  “Will you die with them?”

  “If I must.” Nicholas met the chief’s gaze head-on. “My woman and her baby are here. I would not risk them falling to a Lenape warrior’s arrow or coming under a Shawnee knife.”

  “So Ken-lee has taken a woman.” A faint smile played on Shingiss’s otherwise grim visage. “If you wish to leave this place and lead her over the mountains, none of my men will stop you. No one of them will raise a hand to you or your woman. I give you my word.”

  “Thank you, great Sakima. I will think upon what you have said. I ask you to hear me as well. It is better to make a new treaty with the English than to fight them.”

  “No, Ken-lee. The time for words and treaties is past. We will fight. Go, Ken-lee. Return to your woman. Lie with her. When the fort is taken, I will do what I can to see that you are both spared.”

  “Làpìch knewël, Shingiss.” I will see you again. Nicholas turned and walked down the path toward the fort.

  He’d gone but a few steps when he heard someone running toward him through the corn. A catch of breath as muscles tensed. The whoosh of a tomahawk as it swung toward his skull.

  Nicholas dropped to his knees, the tomahawk missing him by inches. Then in one move, he pivoted, slit the belly of his attacker wide open with his knife.

  The warrior, a young man of perhaps eighteen, stared at Nicholas in surprise, fell to the ground with a groan, clutching his intestines.

  Shingiss gave an outraged shout, and Nicholas knew it was not directed at him. The young warrior had shamed his chief by attacking Nicholas. Now the boy would die unmourned.

  Nicholas wiped his blade off in the dirt, stood, walked back to the fort without once looking over his shoulder.

  * * *

  Bethie stood on the ramparts, a scream caught in her throat. She’d seen Nicholas take his leave of the chief, watched in silent horror as a painted warrior, war club raised, had run stealthily up behind him. She’d seen Nicholas drop, turn, and kill the man with one cut of his blade.

  Barely able to breathe, she watched him approach the fort until he disappeared in the shadow of the glacis. Then she hurried to the front gate to meet him. But she wasn’t the only one.

  By the time she reached the gate, a small crowd had gathered, mostly made up of men who’d been part of the foraging party. The quartermaster barked orders at the men, tried to direct the flow of vegetables and grain to the various kitchens and storehouses, but few people seemed to pay him any heed. When Nicholas crossed the drawbridge and walked through the gate, a cheer arose, not only from those gathered at the gate, but from the men on the ramparts.

  “Bloody well done, Kenleigh!”

  “You showed that bastard!”

  “Good show, Lieutenant!”

  She took in the sight of him all at once—the blood on his shirt, the wind playing in his hair, the sweat on his brow, the power of his stride, the dark rage in his eyes—and she wanted nothing more than to slap him soundly across the face. She might have done exactly that, had he not taken her by the arm and pulled her callously through the throng and across the parade grounds back toward the officers’ barracks.

  Private Fitchie hurried after them, a look of terror on his face. “I tried to keep her in the barracks, like you said, sir, but she wouldna listen!”

  “What in the hell were you doing up on the ramparts? You shouldn’t be out of our quarters during an alarm!” Nicholas walked so quickly she had to run to keep up.

  “Dinnae talk to me like that!” She jerked on her arm, but he held fast. “You didna see fit to tell me you were goin’ into danger. I had to learn it from Annie!”

  “I didn’t realize, madam, that your approval was required.”

  “Oooh! My approval? You haggis-headed bawheid!”

  Annie stood in the doorway, a smile tugging at her lips, Isabelle in her arms.

  Bethie felt a surge of waspish temper. What did Annie find so amusing?

  “If you want to call me names, love, I suggest you try calling me something I can understand.” Nicholas pressed Bethie up against the wall, kissed her roughly. “Otherwise, I’m likely to miss the insult.”

  How dare he kiss her! She pushed him away. “Fine! You’re a foolish arse! You do understand those words, do you no’?”

  Nicholas glared at her. “Annie, do you mind? I need to talk to my wife.”

  He wanted to talk? Fine! She had a few more things to say. “How about ‘bastard’? Is that clear enough?”

  Annie smiled. “Belle and I will pay a visit to the tradin’ post. Ye take as long as ye need. Come fetch her when ye’re . . . um, done.”

  Bethie barely heard her. “Or ‘whoreson’? Do you understand that one?”

  “Thank you, Annie.” Nicholas reached out, grabbed Private Fitchie by his collar. “Don’t let anyone disturb us. Do you understand? The first person to open this door dies!”

  “Aye, sir. But . . .”

  Bethie didn’t know when she’d felt so angry. “Maybe ‘bloody idiot’?”

  Nicholas held a hand over her mouth, stifled her curses. “But what? Speak up, Private!”

  “You will no’ hurt her, sir . . . will you?”

  “She’ll be lucky if she escapes with her life!” With that, Nicholas pulled Bethie none too gently through the doorway, slammed the door behind them, and dropped the bar in place.

  He turned to face her, a look of raw masculine fury on his face, his eyes blue fire. With a growl, he jerked her against him, captured her lips with his, forced his tongue deep into her mouth.

  This was no gentle kiss, no attempt at seduction. It was raw, savage, brutish.

  It was wonderful.

  Bethie found herself kissing him back, her passion every bit as rough as his. Tongues invaded, twined, stroked. Teeth nipped, bit, ravished. Hands tore at clothing, thrust it aside, sought tender skin. And then they stood naked, fevered flesh against fevered flesh, panting their desire.

  Almost beyond reason, Nicholas pulled her with him onto the b
ed, rolled onto his back so that she was astride him. Then he settled her so that her woman’s mound pressed against his aching erection. “Let my cock do for you what my tongue does.”

  For a moment she looked confused, even afraid. But then he rocked against her, flexed her hips, showed her exactly what he meant. Her eyes closed, and she gave a long, throaty moan.

  Slowly, she moved over him, her hands resting on his chest, her warm, wet folds sliding over his shaft as her most sensitive flesh rubbed against the length of him. He knew the exact moment she found the most pleasurable angle, because her breath broke and her thighs drew taut against his hips.

  “Oh, God, Nicholas!” Her pace increased, and so did the pressure.

  He was close, so close to where he wanted to be, so close to being inside her. He could feel her core pulse against him, knew she was more than ready for him, knew he could bury himself inside her with one clean thrust. He heard breath hiss from between his teeth, focused on the sweet glide of her wet woman’s lips over his cock, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the pebbled hardness of her nipples against his palms. It was enough. It would be enough.

  It was never enough. He could never get enough, not enough of Bethie.

  He could tell she was desperate now. Small whimpering noises escaped her throat. Her head was thrown back in sensual abandonment as she ground herself against him. Then her breath caught in her throat, and every muscle in her body seemed to tense.

  She came with a cry. “Nicholas!”

  The sight of the rapture on her face pushed him over the brink. He heard himself groan, a deep, guttural sound, as the bliss of orgasm slammed through him.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Shingiss’s men came out of the forest a second time, tried to shoot or drive off horses and cattle grazing in the fields around the fort.

  “They’re trying to draw our forces outside the walls, trying to provoke a battle,” Nicholas warned Écuyer. “The animals will return on their own.”

  But the captain, outraged over the substance of Shingiss’s remarks to Nicholas, didn’t listen. Instead, Écuyer waited until the Indians had seemingly gone back into the forest, then sent a small party of men out to round up the animals under military escort.