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

by Pamela Clare

  “She doesna look like him.” Malcolm sneered, lifted his gaze to Nicholas. “She doesna look like either of them.”

  Bethie ignored the insinuation. “Doesna Christian charity demand you invite us in, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm looked at her, then at Nicholas, seemed to bite back whatever words he’d been about to speak. “Come in if you must, but dinnae be expectin’ to stay for supper.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it.” Nicholas offered Bethie his arm, and she took it, grateful to feel him beside her.

  They followed Malcolm through the door.

  Bethie stared about in shock and dismay. The cabin was filthy, the floor covered with dirt, dried leaves, crumbs, dead flies, mouse droppings. A rancid smell that could only be rotten straw from bedding gone sour permeated the air, together with the stench of unwashed bodies. Grease, melted wax, and bits of food stuck to the surface of the rickety wooden table that in her childhood had been bright and newly hewn.

  Most shocking of all was her mother. She sat at the table, paring potatoes, fear in her eyes, an old and weary woman who was not yet forty. It hurt Bethie to see her like this, careworn and aged and afraid.

  “What’s wrong, Bethie? Do you no’ like what you see?” Malcolm went to stand on the opposite side of the table beside her mother. “Your daughter’s lookin’ down her nose at us, Greer.”

  Her mother looked up at her, fear and despair in her eyes. “Why have you come here, lass? Why?”

  Bethie tried to ignore her mother’s rejection. “We’re on our way to Philadelphia, Mother. I—I wanted to see you again, to show you your granddaughter. This is Isabelle. She was born at the end of March.”

  Her mother’s gaze rested on Isabelle for the briefest of moments before it dropped to her potatoes. “Pray she didnae curse your womb as you did mine.”

  The words hurt like a blow, cut much deeper. “W-would you like to hold her?”

  “I’ve supper to prepare. Can you no’ see that?”

  Bethie swallowed the tears that welled up inside her. She chided herself for ever thinking things could be different. Her mother had never loved her.

  “I’ve come with news of Richard.” She saw and felt Malcolm go rigid, and her stomach knotted.

  “How come you by news of him? He went back east to find work as a seaman.”

  Bethie steeled herself against the rage she knew would come. “I saw him at Fort Pitt. He was wearin’ a British uniform, servin’ under—”

  His fist would have hit her squarely on the cheek if Nicholas had not caught Malcolm’s wrist in midair.

  Nicholas wrenched Malcolm’s arm behind his back, forced him up against the far wall, knife at his throat. “Men who hurt women are my favorite men to kill. Touch her, and I’ll send you straight to hell—with a smile on my face!”

  Malcolm struggled, but Bethie could see he was no match for Nicholas’s greater strength. “My son would never join the English!”

  Bethie started to answer, but it was Nicholas who spoke first.

  “Your son was serving at Fort Pitt under the command of Captain Simeon Écuyer. Écuyer tried him in a court-martial and sentenced him to death by firing squad after he beat my wife and tried to rape her in our quarters. Your son, Master Sorley, is dead.”

  “’Tis her fault! She bewitched him, seduced him, led him to a path of sin!”

  Bethie squeezed her eyes shut against Malcolm’s vile words. It seemed like only yesterday she’d stood here, bleeding and beaten, as he shouted similar words at her, then sent her away.

  “Leave Bethie out of this! He found that path on his own, and he paid the price.” Nicholas sounded enraged, and Bethie feared for a moment he might truly kill her stepfather.

  “I dinnae believe you, English! He cannae be dead! ’Tis lies meant to torment me!”

  “It’s the truth, old man. I fired the shot that killed him. I watched him die. Live with it.” Nicholas released Malcolm, and Bethie watched as her stepfather crumpled to the floor, a broken man.

  Then her mother stepped forward from the shadows, met Bethie’s gaze, pointed a bony finger at her. “Get out! Go! Is it no’ enough that you shame me before my husband! Will you now destroy our hopes, bring grief into our home?”

  Bethie blinked back her tears, even as the pain caused by those words hit home in her breast. She tried one last time. “Come with me, Mother! Come away from here! Come away from him! You dinnae need to live with him any longer! I’m goin’ to find work in Philadelphia and—”

  “He is my husband! I’ll no’ go wi’ you! Get out! You are no’ welcome here!”

  Bethie felt Nicholas slip his arm round her waist. “Let’s go, love. You’ve done all you can. Leave them to the life they’ve chosen.”

  With one last look at her mother, Bethie allowed him to guide her out the door and back to the wagon. Numb, she said nothing as he lifted her into the seat, nothing as they rolled down the rutted road back toward Harrisburg. But when they rounded the bend and were out of sight of the cabin, Nicholas reined the horses to a stop and took her into his arms.

  Then Bethie let the tears come.

  * * *

  They arrived in Philadelphia late one afternoon in September when the first hint of autumn was in the air. Bethie gaped in amazement as Nicholas drew the carriage to a stop before an inn under the sign of The Three Crowns.

  “You cannae mean to stay here!”

  He lifted her and Isabelle to the ground. “Aye, I do.”

  He led her up the stone steps and through the door. Inside, stylishly attired gentlemen sat around polished tables eating, drinking, talking, smoking. A few looked over their shoulders toward the door at her and Nicholas. She felt out of place in her gown of plain blue linen—no matter that it was the finest gown she’d ever worn.

  A tall, older woman walked toward them, dressed in a gown that shimmered and dripped with lace. “Master Kenleigh! It’s been . . .”

  “At least seven years, madam.” He strode forward, took the woman’s hand, bent to kiss it. “I see those years have in no way withered your beauty.”

  “It’s a good thing you look like your father, or I’d not have recognized you.” She look him up and down, a frown on her face.

  “Are you criticizing my tailor, madam?” Nicholas gestured toward his linsey-woolsey shirt, leather breeches, and beaded moccasins with a look of feigned insult on his handsome face.

  Bethie thought him ruggedly handsome, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. But clearly this woman did not. “I suspect, Master Kenleigh, that you’ve not seen a tailor in seven years either.”

  Nicholas smiled, chuckled. “How right you are, Matilda, dear.”

  Bethie watched them speak amicably, realized she was seeing yet another side of Nicholas she’d not known existed. Who was this man who spoke so easily with a woman who ought to have been far above his station? Who was he that he could afford to stay here? Surely the innkeeper didn’t take payment in pelts!

  “Matilda, I’d like to introduce my wife, Elspeth.”

  “Your wife?” Matilda’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she took Bethie’s work-roughened hand between her silky-smooth ones, smiled. “Felicitations are in order, Master Kenleigh. Welcome to The Three Crowns, my dear. We shall do all we can to keep you comfortable.”

  “Thank you, madam.” Bethie didn’t know whether she should curtsy or what she should do. And how long was Nicholas going to keep up this lie about her being his wife? They were no longer in the wilderness among strangers. They were in Philadelphia among people who knew him, who knew his family.

  Nicholas seemed to realize she felt uncomfortable. “Matilda, we’ve traveled a long way, and I would see my wife and daughter quickly settled. If you would be so kind, I’ll take your best room with a cradle for Isabelle. Please send up some supper and a bottle of good wine when you can. After supper, I think my wife would like a hot bath.”

  “I can’t give you my best room, as it’s already taken. But I’ve another
that will do nicely.” The woman turned, gave instructions to an eager lad of about fourteen. “I’ll show you upstairs.”

  Nicholas offered Bethie his arm, and the two of them followed Matilda up the stairs and down a hallway to a corner room.

  Matilda unlocked the door, handed Nicholas a large, brass key. “Supper will be up soon. A cradle is already on its way. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Matilda. I can see we’re in good hands, as always.”

  Bethie stepped through the doorway, felt as if she’d stepped into a dream. The room was much larger than her cabin. The bedstead itself was enormous, with a coverlet so lacy it might have been a lady’s gown. There was a polished table, chairs covered with rich, embroidered cloth, and in the corner a tall mirror.

  She felt dizzy, almost sick. All these months she’d known there were things about him that didn’t make sense, but now it all came together. His fine speech. His reading. His bottomless purse. He was no trapper. He was no soldier, nor even an officer.

  Feeling she’d been deceived, she turned to face him. “Who are you?”

  * * *

  Nicholas sat below in the public rooms, his third—or was it his fourth?—brandy almost gone, feeling like an ass. He ought to have realized that bringing Bethie here would make her feel uncomfortable—and lead her to demand an explanation. But he had stupidly assumed that a short answer would be enough and that, in the end, she might be pleased to learn that the man who wanted to marry her—the man who had already claimed her as his wife before the entire world—was wealthy beyond her imagining.

  She had listened while he’d listed the properties he would inherit in England and Virginia and told her of Kenleigh Shipyards, where for three generations his family had built ships for the Royal Navy and merchant marine. Then she’d flown into a rage, tears streaming down her face.

  “You misled me, Nicholas Kenleigh! You let me believe you were a trapper, then perhaps a soldier who’d been kidnapped by Indians and then fled the war. But none of it was the truth!”

  “Every bit of it was the truth!”

  “How can it all be true? How? And what of your Indian wife and her baby? I’ve never demanded an explanation, never asked you to tell me what happened to them. I’ve trusted you all this time. But now I find you’re no’ the man I thought you were! And I’m wantin’ the truth—all of it!”

  But he’d never spoken to anyone of what had happened that summer. Oh, aye, he’d told them Eben and Josiah had been tortured and burned to death. His own scars were plain enough that anyone who saw them knew that he, too, had been tormented. But he’d never said more than that. And never had he told anyone about Lyda.

  When he’d faltered, Bethie had picked up Belle and made for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I dinnae belong here. I’m goin’ to find a place to stay among my own kind. Maybe your Matilda will hire me to work downstairs in her kitchens.”

  He’d blocked her path. “You’re going nowhere!”

  “You cannae tell me what to do! We both know you’re no’ really my husband!”

  “In every way but one I am your husband, Bethie, and you will not leave this room!”

  “Fine, Master Kenleigh. If I cannae leave, then you must, for I cannae stand to be near you!”

  Most of his life he’d had to watch out for scheming parents who wanted to entrap him in marriage to their daughters because of his wealth. To think that he should now lose the woman he loved because he was propertied—well, there was some kind of perverse irony in that, but he’d had a bit too much brandy to work it out.

  Damn her!

  An annoying voice inside his head reminded him that it wasn’t just about the money. It was about truth. Bethie had asked for the truth, and he had refused to give it to her.

  The darkness inside him yawned deep and wide, a chasm he’d kept blocked off through sheer will for six long years. She’d already rent a fissure through that weakest spot in his defences, already come terribly close to letting that darkness escape.

  So she wanted the truth. All of it. Well, then, he would give her the truth.

  He tossed back the last of his brandy and, ignoring the curious glances of those around him, strode toward the stairs.

  * * *

  “He’s here!”

  Alec Kenleigh dropped the knight he’d been about to move against Jamie Blakewell’s queen, stood, stared at the innkeeper. “My son is here? In Philadelphia?”

  Matilda leaned toward him as if about to impart a great secret, whispered. “He’s here—in The Three Crowns, sir!”

  Jamie stood. “It’s about bloody time! I was beginning to think Écuyer had made the whole thing up.”

  Alec could scarcely believe what he’d just heard. “Are you certain it’s him?”

  “Aye, sir. I spoke with him, settled him in his room. He’s here with his wife, a lovely young woman, and their baby—a girl, I believe. He asked for the best room, but I could not give it to him, as you’ve already taken it.”

  Alec started for the door. He’d waited six long years for this moment, six years of watching his wife, Cassie, suffer the anguish of not knowing whether her son was alive or dead, of watching his daughter, Elizabeth, blame herself for her brother’s abrupt departure, of watching every member of his family suffer for the love of a young man who’d turned his back on them. Six terrible years of wondering what he might have done different, of feeling helpless, of fearing he would never see his eldest son alive again.

  “Alec, wait!” Jamie blocked his path. “Do you think it’s wise to go charging into his room at this late hour? He’s got a wife and a baby. They might well be sleeping.”

  “Damn it!” Alec met Jamie’s gaze, realized his brother-by-marriage was right. Jamie knew Nicholas better than anyone. The two were only four years apart in age. Although Nicholas was Jamie’s nephew, they were more like brothers.

  “We’ve waited six years, Alec. What’s one more night? We came to bring him home. The last thing we want to do is barge through his door and provoke an argument.”

  Alec closed his eyes, took a deep breath, every fiber of his being desperate to see his son and heir. “Aye, you’re right. But I won’t leave here without him.”

  “No. We won’t leave here without him.”

  Alec turned back to Matilda, took her hand in his. “Thank you, madam, for informing me. Please let me know immediately if Nicholas makes to depart. Wake me, if you must.”

  “Of course, sir, as you wish. ’Tis always my pleasure to be of service to your family.” She turned and left, closing the door behind her.

  Jamie settled himself before the chessboard. “Were you about to take my queen, or did I imagine that gleam in your eye?”

  Alec strode to the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, his emotions in turmoil. “I’m afraid I’ve lost interest in the game. My God, he’s here!”

  Jamie chuckled. “Lovely. You forfeit. I win.”

  Chapter 28

  Bethie lay on the bed and wept, feeling as if her heart were being trampled. The pain of it astonished her.

  Nicholas. Nicholas. It wasn’t only that he had deceived her. He had refused to tell her the whole truth when she had asked him for it. She had all but begged him to explain, and he had walked away rather than trust her with his secrets. And what truth he had shared meant they could never be together, not as husband and wife.

  Voices drifted into her memory as if out of a mist.

  “You are heir to your father’s estate. I’m certain he would have preferred you to make a dynastic match and marry a woman of your own class, not the daughter of Scottish rustics, no matter how lovely and pleasant she might be.”

  “You go too far, Écuyer.”

  “Perhaps. But bad blood will out, as they say.”

  As much as she hated to agree with Captain Écuyer about anything, he was right. Nicholas’s father was English gentry, a man of property. He would want his heir to mar
ry a woman of good family, a woman who could advance his family’s connections and fortune, not the daughter of Ulster redemptioners, a woman whose parents lived in filth, a woman with shameful secrets in her past.

  Bad blood will out.

  If only she didn’t love him, it would make things so much easier. She would be able to nurse her anger, turn her back on him, start a new life here in Philadelphia without sparing a thought for him. But she did love him. With all that she was and ever would be, she loved him. And she knew she would spend every day of the rest of her life missing him, wanting him, longing for him.

  Already she longed for him. Where had he gone? Had he taken a room for himself down the hall? Had he left the inn, gone to walk the city streets? Was he downstairs conversing with those well-dressed gentleman she’d seen earlier today?

  She tried to imagine him dressed like that—all lace, powdered wigs, and velvet—and could not. The Nicholas she knew wore buckskin and linsey-woolsey. He bathed in icy rivers, rode bareback, moved through the trees like a ghost. He could kill without hesitation, but he was also gentler than any man she’d ever known.

  Aye, she loved him. But she might as well have fallen in love with the moon. He was beyond her, and if he lacked the sense to see it, she did not. As a trapper, he would have found a good and devoted wife in her. As the son of gentry, he could only find regret and shame.

  She sat, wiped the tears from her face, removed her gown, feeling oddly detached from her own actions, as if some other force were making her body move, for certainly she lacked the will. She crossed the room in her shift, checked on Isabelle, ran her hand over her daughter’s downy head. She had just turned back toward the bed, when someone jiggled the door handle.

  Nicholas’s angry voice came from the other side. “Bethie, open the door.”

  Fury warring with relief, Bethie walked to the door, hesitated. It would only make things harder on her if she shared her bed with him again. But she could almost feel him through the door, and she wanted nothing more than to touch him again, to kiss him, to feel him beside her, even if it was for just one night.