by Kris Tualla
He dropped his breeches to the floor. “Should I light the lamp?” he whispered.
“If you’d like.”
Nicolas lit a piece of tinder with the embers of the banked fire. He used it to light the oil lamp and turned the wick as low as he could. The pale yellow light bathed Sydney’s body in a warm glow and soft shadows that enhanced her rounding shape.
Nicolas’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at her. Her breasts were round, her bottom was round and her belly was round. He sat on the bed and lifted her nightgown to her shoulders, caressing the wonderfully curved sculpture that she was.
“De er slik vakker.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re so beautiful.”
Nicolas’s arousal engulfed him and he molded himself to her back. He cupped a warm breast with one hand and her belly with the other. Holding her heaviness with a reverence that bordered on worship, he buried his face in her hair and rubbed his erection between her thighs, imagining that he was inside her. When he finished, he didn’t move, but simply lowered one hand. Sydney leaned into him. She put her hand over his and guided him. She was so hot, so damp. His fingers slid easily through the valleys of her quim. She turned her face into her pillow to muffle her cries of release.
Nicolas felt an immediate change in her belly. Her womb tightened, growing hard inside her abdomen. He could clearly feel its contours. Sydney held her breath and didn’t move.
“Does that hurt?” he whispered.
“No.”
“What is it?”
She didn’t answer at first. “A contraction, I believe. But it’s not labor.”
As abruptly as it hardened, her womb relaxed. Sydney rolled over and looked at Nicolas, her eyes were wide and black as the night around them. She looked terrified. So was he.
“I’d better go.” Nicolas retrieved his breeches from the floor, kissed her, then snuffed the lamp. “Sleep well min madonna.”
Sydney closed the door to Nicolas’s study.
“We need to talk privately.” She pulled a chair close to him.
His eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Are you well?”
“I believe so. But I feel we need to stop.”
“Stop?” Nicolas stalled to re-group. He knew what she meant, but her words hit him harder than he would have expected. Loneliness of an unusual sort unfurled around him.
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Stop being together. At night.”
“Why?” He knew the answer, but wasn’t ready to concede.
“Because I’m afraid of hurting the baby!” she blurted.
Nicolas leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t surprised by Sydney’s decision, but he was surprised by his reaction to it.
He would miss her.
A lot.
Not just the physical release, he could do that for himself. He would miss her comforting presence in the dark, the warmth of her body as she wrapped herself around him. He would miss her soft moans and gasping cries as she abandoned herself to his touch. He was startled by his emotional response.
He felt like crying.
Nicolas swallowed the lump that choked him.
“I understand, Sydney. If you believe it’s best.” He couldn’t look, just then, at her expressive face, her fertile rounded body, her transparent eyes.
“I do, Nicolas. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Your decision is the right one.” He opened the drawer that held the flask.
November 6, 1819
Nicolas continued the unending task of chopping wood for the manor’s ten fireplaces. Winter always approached faster than he expected, and frost had replaced dew for weeks now. The pile of logs on the back porch reached its roof, and the stack by the root cellar grew each day. In spite of the cool weather, his shirt stuck to him and sweat dripped from his brow. He paused to wipe it away and rest his arms on the long-handled axe. The autumn sun lowered in a hazy yellow sky. His stomach growled and he wondered what was for dinner.
“Nicolas!” Sydney called him from the house.
He walked out of the trees behind the stable. “Over here!” he answered and waved his arms.
“Have you seen Stefan?” she shouted. Stuart McAvoy was with her. Nicolas hefted the axe over his shoulder and trotted toward the house. Stefan was supposed to be at the McAvoy’s home.
“What do mean, have I seen Stefan?” he asked when he was close enough to be heard. The look on Stuart’s face made Nicolas’s heart drop. “Isn’t he at your place with Alex?”
“Aye, he was. But I went to find them and I couldna. I hoped that they showed up herre?” His mild Scots accent thickened to a full-on brogue when he was upset.
Nicolas turned to Sydney. “Have you seen them?”
“No.” Sydney’s eyes were dark hollows.
Nicolas looked at the sky. “It will be dark soon. Come on then, Stuart. Let’s find our boys.”
Nicolas recruited John to help with the search. Nicolas took his rifle, his hunting dirk, and tucked his pistol into the waist of his breeches
Sydney grabbed his arm as he turned to leave. “Shall I send for
Rickard?”
He paused, but need outweighed his irritation with the man. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”
The search party spread out and headed east from the Hansen estate. They each took turns shouting the boys’ names so they could hear any response, no matter how soft. Soon, Nicolas heard Rickard’s voice to the south of him, and a little piece of his fear fell away. Bless Sydney. And Rickard.
The sun faded and allowed the half moon to assume the task of lighting the sky. The temperature continued to drop as the men made their careful way through the forest. Nicolas was skilled at tracking and his eyes swept back and forth for signs. He found none, but refused to panic. They would find the boys, as long as he remained calm.
And he strove to remain calm; but the idea that he might lose his only child twisted his belly until his gut felt like hot iron on a farrier’s anvil. He knew he hadn't treated the boy the way a father should treat a son. Maybe this was his punishment. Or maybe it was a test. Either way, he mustn’t fail.
It was his turn; he shouted Stefan’s name.
Nicolas pushed aside a low-hanging pine bough. He felt sap on his hand and he tried to rub it off. Somewhere, a wood fire burned. He crunched a pine cone underfoot. Nicolas’s ears stung with cold and his chest clenched with worry, wondering if Stefan had a hat. His eyes never stopped moving. A tiny forest creature scampered from the path of his heavy boots, clicking back at him in protest.
Nicolas stopped walking. He found the crackling leaves underfoot distracting. He closed his eyes and breathed through his open mouth. Clouds of steam formed around his face. He listened with every tightly-coiled inch of his frame.
He made out Stuart’s faint voice far to his left. There was John, on his left, but closer.
There was Rickard to his right, God bless him.
Silence.
There was no breeze to rattle the trees. No canine howl, no flap of wings, nor hoot from any owl. Only cold, still air. Nicolas tilted his head back and slowly breathed in. His heart beat slow and hard. He could feel the vein in his neck throbbing.
“Stefan! Alex!” Nicolas’s deep, thunderous call echoed off the
distant cliffs. He waited, eyes still closed. Then Nicolas turned his head, did he hear something?
He put the entire capacity of his lungs behind the next shout. “Stefan!”
There was something. To his right and in front of him. Nicolas began to trot toward the sound. After he covered about forty yards, he stopped.
“Stefan!” His booming voice cut through the forest.
And he heard it; a very faint Pappa? from the same direction. Nicolas broke into a run and called his son’s name as he moved. He heard Rickard, behind him on his right, crashing through the forest in pursuit.
Nicolas skidded to a stop on the damp, dead leaves carpeting t
he forest floor. “Stefan!”
“P-pappa!”
Nicolas turned in a circle and searched for the source of the voice. He saw his son, another thirty yards away, climb out from behind a fallen, rotting log. Stefan tilted his head forward and ran through the dim moonlight into Nicolas’s outstretched arms.
“Where’s Alex?” Nicolas demanded as he prepared to shoot his pistol into the air.
Stefan pointed to the log. Alex’s pale face glowed in the dark above its edge.
“Come on out, son.” Nicolas walked toward him. “You’re not in trouble. Are you hurt?”
Alex shook his head. He hunched and covered his ears when the shot from Nicolas’s pistol rang out. There were immediate answering shots from Stuart and John.
“We saw Indians, Pappa! We hid from them!” Stefan’s eyes were huge and his grip dug into the muscle of Nicolas’s thigh. Alex climbed over the log and made his tentative way toward Nicolas, chin down and hands tucked in his armpits. He did not appear to believe the claim that they were not in trouble.
“Nick?” John’s voice was faint.
“This way!” Nicolas shouted. Rickard appeared, his breath coming in gasps. He leaned over and rested the heels of his hands on his knees. Nicolas grinned, though his own chest heaved. He turned his attention back to Stefan.
“You saw some Indians, did you?” He kept his voice calm.
Stefan nodded and looked at Alex for confirmation as he shivered and stomped his feet, “I think four.”
“I only saw three,” Alex stated with authority. He hugged himself for warmth and his breath made smoky clouds.
“Did they have horses?”
“They had one.” Stefan frowned at Alex. This time, Alex did not correct him. Stefan screwed up his mouth. “They were real dirty.”
“They were dirty,” Alex confirmed. “And their horse was all bony lookin’.”
“Alexander Stuart McAvoy!” Stuart’s gruff voice was a mix of anger and relief. “What werre ye thinkin’ of, laddie?” He stepped to his son and lifted him in one seamless motion. Stuart held his son close to his chest. He buried his face in the boy’s neck, as Alex’s arms circled his.
“I am sorry, da,” Alex’s muffled apology gave way to sobs of relief. “We got lost.”
Nicolas looked down at Stefan as John joined the group.
“What were you about, son?”
“Alex w-wanted to go fishing and s-so I wanted to g-get the fishing box Sydney gave me for m-my birthday,” Stefan’s voice was very small and his teeth clacked from the cold.
“And you thought you could find your way home?”
“Alex said h-he knew a sh-short c-cut.” His lower lip hid in his teeth and the corners of his mouth tugged downward. He sniffed and wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his greatcoat.
Nicolas picked up his son. They were eye to eye. “Do not try that again, eh, Stefan? Do you hear me? Until perhaps you are eight.”
“Yes, P-pappa,” Stefan nodded, tears still in check.
Nicolas opened his greatcoat. Stefan slid his icy hands under Nicolas’s arms and tucked his head under his father’s chin. He wrapped his legs around Nicolas’s waist. The woolen greatcoat covered him completely, and Nicolas’s exertion-heated body leeched warmth. He sighed and closed his eyes.
“I don’t want to lose you, son. I don’t.” Nicolas swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. “I love you.”
Stefan hugged his father much harder than he ever had, as far as Nicolas could remember. “I love you, too, Pappa.”
Sydney paced through the house.
No one ate dinner; the food was kept warm on the stove. Maribeth milked the cow and fed the chickens and sheep, as she did every night. Sydney fed the horses in John’s absence. Addie puttered in the kitchen. And every one of them strained to hear the sound of voices outside.
Two hours after they left the house, Sydney heard Nicolas. She threw the front door open as the group climbed the porch steps. A cry of relief escaped her when she saw Stefan in his father’s arms. Nicolas set him down and he ran to Sydney. She knelt to catch him and pull him close.
“Where were you, little man?” she asked past the lump in her throat. “We were so worried about you!”
“Me an’ Alex got lost on the short cut ‘cause we were trying to come get my fishin’ box an’ we saw Indians an’ we hid from them an’ it got dark an’ we were real cold an’ Pappa found us!” It all came out in one breathless rush.
“I see.” Sydney brushed Stefan’s hair from his face. “I bet you’re hungry.”
“I am. And so is Pappa! His stomach’s makin’ the most loudest sounds!”
“Well then you had better go wash up.” Sydney stood and shifted her gaze to the owner of the ‘most loudest’ sounds. Nicolas rolled his eyes and blew a breath of relief from rounded cheeks.
“I'll be headin’ for home now.” Stuart still held Alex. “Jenny’ll be a mite worried aboot the boy.”
“Alright.” Nicolas extended his hand. “God speed.”
Stuart shook his hand, stepped down the porch steps and set Alex on the wagon seat. He waved as they pulled out of the yard. Nicolas waved back, and then turned to face Sydney, his voice low.
“The boys saw Indians.”
A shock of fear slid through Sydney. “Is that a danger?”
“No… we’re on good terms in the territory.”
Sydney slipped her arm around Nicolas’s waist. “I knew you would find him.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, “There was no other choice.”
Chapter Thirty
November 10, 1819
“Go west?” Sydney set a basket of apple-cinnamon muffins on the table. “What do you mean?”
Nicolas grabbed one and dropped the hot pastry on his plate. “Every winter I make two hunting trips to the mountains southwest of here.”
Sydney gave Nicolas a puzzled look that made it obvious his point was not clear.
“For pelts. To sell for income,” he explained.
“Oh.” Sydney sat in her chair and woodenly salted her eggs. Nicolas was leaving! “How long are you gone?”
“Usually about four weeks.” Nicolas waved a hand back and forth. “Sometimes six.”
Her stomach twisted. Sydney looked down at her eggs, though all she tasted was her bile’s metallic bitterness. She counted weeks and months. She didn’t dare look up again.
“How soon will you leave?” Addie asked.
“I reckon I could leave by the end of the week. It’s a bit early in November, but that would get me back here around mid-December or so.”
Sydney stood, her chair legs complaining loudly across the oak floor. Just as well—she couldn’t find her own voice. She left the kitchen, abandoning her unfinished meal.
It was November and she began to believe the child she carried would be born at full term. Though she wasn’t so confident as to consider names, she was no longer on edge, fanatically evaluating each twinge. That meant she needed to decide about getting married.
And the man she wanted to marry, the father of her child, was leaving and wouldn’t be back for a month. Or more.
When Nicolas returned, assuming that all went well and he did indeed return in a timely manner and all in one piece, there would be a scant five or six weeks until her expected confinement. Sydney felt that was calling things a bit too close. Perhaps he truly had no intention of ever marrying her.
That afternoon she was huddled in the drawing room, pondering both the ramifications of this new development, and the late fall weather that matched her foul mood. A movement in the doorway diverted her attention.
Rickard had come to see her.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” she demurred, smoothing her hair and her gown. “Please, come sit.”
“I hope I'm not unwelcome,” he said with a twinkling grin.
“Of course not.”
She served him tea and together they watched the drear
y day outside the large window. A strong wind earlier in the week blew all the remaining leaves off the trees, and now the denuded branches formed stark webbed scars in the lowering sky. It would probably rain before morning, perchance even snow.
Distracted, Sydney met Rickard’s various attempts to draw her into conversation with politeness, but no real engagement. After a while, he stopped talking. Ticks of the mantle clock measured the long silence. She sipped her cooling tea and wondered if Rickard knew that Nicolas was leaving.
“What’s transpired, Sydney? You’re not yourself today.” The darkness of his chocolate voice startled her.
Sydney caressed the teacup in her diminishing lap. “Nicolas is leaving. For a month or more. It puts me in an awkward circumstance.”
“Hunting for pelts.”
“You knew he was going?”
“I hoped he wouldn’t this time.”
Sydney shrugged her lack of control over the infuriating man.
“I still intend to marry you if he doesn’t,” Rickard assured her.
Sydney’s eyes snapped to his. “Are you in love with me?”
Rickard smiled softly and set his cup down. “Perhaps. I’ve never been in love so I can’t tell for certain.”
“Is the stallion truly reconsidering his track? ” she prodded.
He shrugged. “I do admire you and value your friendship.”
Sydney winced as she recognized her own words. “Is that enough?”
Rickard pulled his chair close to Sydney’s. He lifted her hands and her skin tingled. “It’s a good place to begin, I expect. And to be honest, the thought of marrying you hasn’t filled me with terror.”
“Your wooing skills are spectacular,” she teased.
He looked adorably contrite. “Ah, Sydney, admit it. We’re both reaching an age where our chances of having families are diminished.”
Sydney offered the sacrifice. “What about Nicolas?”
“I know how much you love him, Sydney.”
