by Pamela Clare
Then Nicholas took the linsey-woolsey of his shirt in his hands, tore it down the middle, exposing his scarred body.
The crowd fell into hushed whispers.
“I burned in the fires of the Wyandot. I know about living and dying and surviving. And I know about killing. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed a hundred. And what you want isn’t justice—it’s vengeance!”
From deep in the crowd came a shout. “What’s wrong with vengeance?”
Shouts of agreement, curses.
Bethie waited until it was silent again, raised her voice. “I know you are angry. But more killin’ cannae bring back those you have lost. Is this what your loved ones would want—for you to endanger the lives of innocent people?”
For a moment there was silence as the men seemed to ponder this.
Their leader, the man who stood before Nicholas, spoke up. “Only those who oppose us need fear harm. We’ve not come to fight the people of Philadelphia, though they showed no mercy for us when we were being cut down!”
More shouts of agreement.
“You are brave men and strong, and I see you’re no’ afraid to fight. But you cannae overcome the entire city. If you march into Philadelphia today, you’re goin’ to die. Your blood will be spilled for nothin’! Is that what your wives and children would want?”
Silence stretched, heavy and pregnant, beneath the weight of the gray sky.
Bethie looked into Nicholas’s eyes, saw that his anger had softened.
Their leader’s gaze shifted from Bethie back to Nicholas. “What would you have us do, Kenleigh?”
“Choose men to represent you and present your grievances to the city fathers for redress. The rest of the men should go home to their families.”
“That might work for a man like you, an Englishman wi’ powerful friends.” The man nodded toward Jamie and Alec. “But who are we to trust?”
Nicholas’s father answered, his voice strong, unwavering. “Benjamin Franklin. I assure you he will listen to you, treat fairly with you.”
The men in the crowd seemed to consider this.
Bethie felt the tide begin to turn. “I have met him! He’s a good man, and an honest one.”
“And how do we know he’ll be willin’ to meet wi’ us?”
Alec answered. “I give you my word. I am Alec Kenleigh, Nicholas’s father. I am a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses and have the honor of calling Franklin my friend.”
Someone snorted. “Why should we believe an Englishman?”
Jamie raised his voice. “England is far from here, friend, and we are all colonists. What you suffer, if left unchecked, will come to our doorsteps soon enough. Besides, there will be plenty of time for killing later—if we’re lying.”
Bethie added her word to theirs. “If you cannae trust them, then trust me! I am a daughter of this frontier, and I promise you—”
“Believe nothin’ my stepdaughter says! She’s an Englishman’s whore!”
Bethie felt as if she’d been struck.
Malcolm!
He pushed through the throng on his horse toward the front of the line. “And dinnae believe him, either! Nicholas Kenleigh killed my son!”
It happened so quickly.
Malcolm raised his pistol, pointed it at Nicholas’s bare chest.
“Nay!” Bethie heard herself scream, heard what sounded like several shots being fired.
She didn’t realize Malcolm had changed targets until the ball struck her in the shoulder.
Searing pain.
Her own startled gasp.
The swirl of gray sky as she fell from Rosa’s back.
Darkness.
* * *
The first thing Bethie became aware of was pain. Her left arm seemed to be on fire.
The second was the deep baritone of Nicholas’s voice, the feel of his strong arms around her. “Bethie?” He sounded anxious.
Then she heard his father speak. “We must get her back. I’ve bound it as best I can. The ball passed cleanly through, and the bleeding is not bad, but she needs a surgeon.”
A surgeon? What had happened?
“I’ll ride ahead, fetch the best I can find to the inn.” That was Jamie.
Then she remembered.
Malcolm! He’d shot her!
She struggled to open her eyes, saw Nicholas’s worried face looking down at her. “Malcolm . . .”
“Easy, Bethie. He won’t bother you again.”
“How’s the lass? Poor thing!” This voice she didn’t recognize. Then she saw his face, remembered. He was one of the frontiersmen from Paxton. He’d been standing in front of Nicholas, talking with him. Their leader. “I never did like that man, but I cannae believe he would try to kill his own daughter. It’s a good thing your father and uncle are fast with a gun and aim true, Kenleigh. We’ll bury the bastard off the side of the road here and be done wi’ him.”
Malcolm was dead? But then what would happen to . . .
“My mother . . . we must . . . help her.”
“Shh, love. Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take care of it.” Then Nicholas spoke to the leader of the frontiersmen. “I’ll send Franklin a message as soon as I’m able and ask him to meet with you this afternoon.”
“Very well, Kenleigh. We’ll send the men home and await Franklin here. But tell me—did the Quakers truly roll cannon into the town squares for fear of us?”
“Aye, they did. If you wanted to lay bare their hypocrisy, you’ve done it. It’s a lesson they won’t soon forget. Now I must tend to my wife.”
“May God go wi’ you both.”
“I’m sorry, Bethie. I know this is going to hurt.” Then Nicholas scooped her into his arms and stood.
She gritted her teeth against the pain as he lifted her onto the stallion’s back and mounted behind her.
* * *
The next thing she knew she was lying in their bed in the inn. Nicholas sat beside her, his face lined with fatigue and worry. “Nicholas.”
He smiled at her, his gaze tender. “I’m here, love. How do you feel?”
“Thirsty. And my arm hurts.”
He lifted her head, held a cup of cool water to her lips. “The ball passed through the flesh of your shoulder. The surgeon says it should heal cleanly if we can keep it from festering.”
She drank, sank back against her pillow. “Wh-what happened? Did they listen?”
He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “Aye. Most are on their way back home. Ben met with their leaders this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to help. I wanted—”
“You did help, Bethie. I don’t know if we could have stopped them without you. What you did was incredibly brave. But it doesn’t change the fact that you defied me again, and this time you were almost killed.” The tone of his voice told her he was still angry with her.
“Do you forgi’ me?”
“It’s not a matter of forgiving you, love. Do you know the dread I felt when I realized he had fired at you instead of me? Do you know how afraid I was when I saw you fall? My God, Bethie, in that moment I thought I’d lost what matters most to me! I don’t ever want to feel that way again!”
She saw the anguish in his eyes, raised her right hand to touch the whisker-rough skin of his face. Then she remembered. “I’ve ruined the wedding, have I no’?”
He chuckled. “You’re not getting out of it that easily.”
* * *
The wedding was delayed for two weeks to allow Bethie to heal. They sought to bring Nicholas’s mother northward from Virginia, but she had fallen ill with a fever and could not attend. When the grand day arrived, Bethie was scarcely ready for it. As the carriage turned onto Second Street and Christ Church loomed into view, she felt close to tears.
So much had happened these past few days. As her shoulder had healed, Jamie had journeyed to Paxton to fetch her mother from the wretched cabin—or, if she proved unwilling to leave, to at least tell her of Malcolm’s de
ath. But when Jamie had arrived, he’d found her already dead and buried. When Jamie looked into the matter, no one seemed to know how or when she had died.
Bethie knew Malcolm had killed her mother in a rage over Richard’s death. The guilt of having carried that news weighed heavily upon her, though Nicholas tried hard to persuade her that any guilt belonged solely to her stepfather.
“You did all you could, Bethie.” He’d held her as she’d wept. “You asked her to come away with you, and she chose to stay with him instead.”
Bad blood will out.
’Twas another mark against her family, another source of shame. But it hadn’t deterred Nicholas or his father from bringing her into their family.
She fingered the lace of her bodice, barely able to believe this was real. Any moment now she expected Nicholas to tell her that it was all a mistake. Or perhaps his father would think it through, change his mind, and demand that his son marry a woman of breeding.
She felt Alec take her hand, give it a reassuring squeeze. “Everything will be fine, Bethie.”
Across from her, Jamie dandled Belle on his knee. Dressed in a gown of white satin, the baby looked like a tiny angel, her short, golden hair a halo.
Nicholas had ridden ahead of them to the church with Master Franklin, who had agreed to act as a witness. They were there, inside the church, waiting for her now.
The last time she’d been married, Bethie had been dragged to the church, bruised and battered and in deepest shame. This time she’d been treated like a princess. She nervously smoothed the expanse of ivory silk brocade that was her wedding gown. Embroidered with tiny golden roses and shot through with threads of real gold, it was a gown fit for a queen. It had been Alec’s wedding gift to her. Around her throat hung a cross of real gold, a gift from Jamie and the symbol of Saint Bride, or Saint Bríghid as she was known in Ireland—the homeland of both Jamie’s wife and of Bethie’s transplanted Scottish ancestors.
“’Tis identical to the cross my wife wears,” Jamie had explained when she’d looked at him in surprise. “Wear it as a reminder that you need never be ashamed of who you are or where you come from.”
Bethie had been so deeply touched she’d scarce been able to speak.
The carriage drew to a halt, and a hired footman opened the door.
Alec lifted her to the ground. “Watch your skirts.”
Jamie alighted behind them, a giggling baby in his arms, strode up the walk ahead of them and through the church’s doors.
Her pulse tripping, Bethie let Alec guide her up the walkway, through the doors, then froze. Ahead of her before the altar, with Master Franklin and Jamie beside him, stood Nicholas. He wore a velvet jacket and breeches of deepest midnight blue. His waistcoat and stockings were of ivory silk, and the brass buckles on his shoes gleamed gold. He was clean-shaven, his long hair brushed back and bound at his nape. But what she noticed was the look on his face—a combination of intoxicating male desire and unbridled love that left her breathless.
Her knees nearly gave way.
“He’s waiting for you, Bethie.”
She nodded, forced herself to speak. “W-would you walk with me down the aisle? I have no father to give me away, and I fear my legs will no’ carry me.”
Alec smiled gently down at her, his blue eyes warm. “Why do you think I’m standing here with you, my sweet? From now on, I’m your father. You have a family, Bethie. You’ll never be alone again.”
And in that moment Bethie’s misgivings melted away. With Alec to steady her, she walked down the aisle to join her life to that of the man she loved.
Chapter 32
Nicholas looked out the carriage window onto Kenleigh land, felt his blood sing. After all this time, after all these years, he was almost home.
How strange it all seemed—and how familiar. The broad, blue sky. The scent of river, pine forest, tilled earth. The fields lying empty, their bounty harvested and stored away for winter. He’d been born here, raised here. He’d learned to swim, ride, shoot here. Someday he would die and be buried here.
It wasn’t the end he had expected for himself. He had expected to die alone on the frontier, the screams in his mind finally silenced by a chance arrow to the back, the teeth and claws of a cougar, the biting cold of a bitter winter. But Bethie had lifted that fate from him, had broken him open with her violet eyes, soft lips, and generous heart, had brought him staggering from the darkness into daylight.
He turned away from the window, took her hand in his, felt the warm gold of his wedding band heavy upon her finger. She looked up at him, and he could see beyond the smile on her face to the worry that hid behind her eyes.
Nicholas couldn’t blame Bethie for feeling nervous. She’d gone from having no real family to being part of an enormous extended family that bridged two continents. Being loved and cared for by so many people would be a new experience for her, one Nicholas desperately wanted for her.
He leaned down, whispered for her ears alone. “It will be fine, love. You’ll see. My mother will adore you—and Belle.”
She squeezed his hand, and for a moment anxiety showed on her face. “I dinnae want to disappoint you, Nicholas.”
He kissed her forehead. “You won’t.”
Then Belle giggled, drawing her mother’s gaze. Across from them, his father and Jamie entertained the baby, making ridiculous faces, tickling her tummy, nibbling her tiny toes. Almost seven months old, she looked more and more like her mother each day, the same golden hair, the same sweet face, the same violet eyes. Nicholas had already prepared the paperwork necessary to adopt her. Isabelle would be a Kenleigh before the new year.
Bethie laughed. “You’re spoilin’ her. She’ll be the most coddled lass in the county.”
Jamie bounced the baby on his lap. “No, that honor goes to Emma Rose.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.” His father looked so contrite that Nicholas almost laughed. “I find I can deny her nothing. She reminds me so very much of her mother.”
Jamie chuckled. “And that doesn’t terrify you?”
“Indeed, it does. In a few years, I’ll have to keep her under lock and key.”
“How many offers of marriage have you received for her? I’ve lost count.” Jamie helped Belle stand and bounce on her chubby, little legs.
“Seven.”
Bethie gaped at them. “How old is she?”
His father and Jamie answered together. “Nine.”
“Oh, my!” Bethie laughed.
At their words, regret suddenly pressed down on Nicholas. Emma Rose was nine. Alec, William, Matthew, Sarah, and Elizabeth were all married to people he’d never met. They had children of their own, nieces and nephews he’d never seen. They lived in homes he’d never visited.
Jamie and Bríghid had five children, one of whom they’d named in memory of him, never expecting to see him again. Fionn and Muirín, Bríghid’s brother and his wife, had three children and were expecting another soon. Only Ruaidhrí, Bríghid’s restless younger brother, was still unmarried. Now captain of his own ship, he was more often at sea than at home.
So much had changed, and he’d missed all of it.
His father seemed to read his mind. “They’re all here—everyone except Ruaidhrí, of course. They’ve waited so long. They’ve all come to welcome you home, Nicholas.”
And suddenly, as the full weight of what he’d done to all of them hit him, Nicholas wanted to stop the carriage. He needed to breathe, to think, to rein in his emotions.
He felt Bethie squeeze his hand. “Nicholas?”
His father leaned forward, rested a hand on Nicholas’s knee. “It’s going to be fine, son.”
“My God, I’ve been so selfish! I never—”
“None of that matters, son. What matters is that you’re finally home.”
Jamie handed Belle back to Bethie. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Nicholas. Hell, after all you’ve been through, it’s a miracle you’re sane.”
B
ut he heard another voice, his mother’s voice, pleading with him, begging.
Please, Nicholas, don’t go!
Then his own voice, cold and lifeless.
I regret to inform you, madam, that your son is dead.
He met his father’s gaze, let the words come, for it was the truth. “Of all the wrongs I have done in my life, the most terrible has been to hurt those I most love.”
His father’s eyes held only compassion. “So it is for all of us.”
He felt the carriage turn the last bend in the road, knew Kenleigh Manor had come into view. He took a deep breath, steeled himself.
Bethie could sense Nicholas’s anguish, taste his deep regret. She wanted to comfort him somehow, but knew there was little she could do.
“There’s your new home, Bethie.” Jamie pointed out the window.
She leaned forward, thought she might faint. The house was made of red brick and stood three stories high, with wide steps out front and a porch with four white columns. There were glass windows everywhere. It seemed unbelievably grand, hardly a fitting home for the daughter of Scots-Irish redemptioners.
“I’m afraid I shall get lost inside so big a house!” She stared in amazement at Jamie and her father-in-law, both of whom smiled kindly back at her.
Nicholas caressed her hand with his thumb. “One day it will belong to our children, Bethie—all of this.”
The estate included the miles and miles of land they had traveled from the river—how many hundreds of acres she could not guess.
She looked into his eyes, still stunned. “’Tis more lovely than I could ever have imagined.”
Somewhere a bell clanged in welcome, and she saw children rush out onto the steps, followed by well-dressed men and women—Nicholas’s family.
Her family.
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered and swirled, and before she could catch her breath, the carriage had rolled to a stop.
Nicholas took her hand, kissed it, and it touched her that he should feel concern for her, when she knew that he was consumed inside by his own feelings.
