Ride the Fire (11 page)

She bit her lip and, unable to bear the penetrating warmth of his gaze, looked at the backs of her own hands, suddenly aware how close to him she stood. Heat, like that of a fever, radiated off his body and through the wet cloth, seemed to seep into her. Beneath her left hand, she could feel the ridges and valleys of his abdomen, the slow rhythm of his breathing; beneath her right, the firm planes of his chest and the steady beating of his heart.

But she could feel something else, as well—the puckered crests of countless scars. Some were round and looked like burns, pinched circles of colorless flesh. Those she had seen from a distance yesterday. Others appeared to be cut marks, thin lines of faded silver against his sun-browned skin. Not only did they cover his chest, but also his sides, disappearing behind the muscled strength of his arms. She didn’t have to look to know she’d find them on his back, as well. Without thinking, she reached with her right hand, gently ran her fingers over one of the burn marks, her heart filled with compassion for him.

“Such cruelty! Who did this to you?”

Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the chorus of countless songbirds.

“The Wyandot.” His voice was rough, strained. “I was taken captive years ago.”

She looked up, saw the bleakness in his eyes, and his words of weeks ago came back to her.

‘Tis only pain.”

And yet he willingly threw himself on my burnin’ skirts to save me.

“Belle.”

“Aye. Go to her.”

But just before she turned, she caught in his eyes a glimpse of anguish so deep that it nearly broke her heart. Nicholas stacked another load of firewood in his arms, struggled to make sense of his own feelings, tried to understand what had happened this morning.

He hadn’t spoken of the Wyandot to anyone since he’d left home, had barely spoken of them to his family. He had tried to put those ceaseless hours of unbearable agony—and the even worse horror that had followed—behind him, hoping through his own silence to somehow silence his memories. He had ignored curious glances, overlooked surprised gasps, pretended not to hear even the most pointed questions. Until today.

Why was Bethie different? Why had the gentle brush of her fingers over his chest drawn the air from his lungs? Why had her soft words loosed his tongue?

He had expected to see disgust or pity in her eyes, as he thought he’d seen the day before when she’d watched him at the river. Instead he’d seen compassion and the bright sheen of tears. It had disarmed him, opened a gaping fissure inside him, and for a moment the darkness within him had seemed nigh to escaping. He’d wanted to push her away, but found he could not.

‘Twas the first time in six long years a woman had touched him of her own choosing and not for the pelts he could give her. And Bethie’s touch had scorched him to his core.

Aye, he cared about Bethie. He couldn’t deny that. Nor could he deny that his desire for her was growing. But she had her own shadows. Someone had abused her, had taught her that a man’s caress was hateful, a thing to be feared, not savored. And what a shame it was. A woman as beautiful and sweet as Bethie was made for pleasure. Suddenly Nicholas found himself wishing he could be the man who healed that deep hurt and initiated her into the delights of sex. How he longed to be the one to awaken her desire, to drive her hunger to a fevered pitch, to make her cry out in delight. How he ached to sheath himself inside her and feel her melt around him as one climax after another claimed her. The thought of it sent blood rushing to his cock, made him harder than the firewood in his arms. And even as the idea came to him, even as a part of him rejected it wholly, he began to wonder how he might accomplish this.

Could he, who trusted no one, win her trust? Could he, with his scarred body, heal the wounds hidden within hers? Could he, as a man, heal the pain caused by another man? He knew there was passion inside her, knew she felt some attraction to him. He’d seen it on her face yesterday as she’d watched him bathe. He’d seen it this morning in the way her eyes had grown dark and her breath had quickened as she’d held the wet shirt against his chest. This time, even the sight of his scars had not banished the look of feminine need on her face. But how could he show her that it was safe to touch him, to want him, to give herself to him, when such feelings clearly made her afraid?

Bethie deserved better than that. She deserved the love of a husband, a man to protect her and watch over her and Belle and the other children she would bear. And Nicholas knew he could not be that man. He did not deserve to be that man. Sooner or later, the darkness inside him would drive him back into the wild, back to the vast emptiness where he could forget.

Twas far better never to touch her than to risk hurting her. Yet even as he acknowledged this, he knew that unless she stopped him, he
would
touch her. He would run his fingers through the sun-drenched silk of her hair. He would kiss her lips, savor their fullness with his tongue. He would feel the velvet of her nipples grow hard beneath his palms. He would part her thighs, taste her sweetness, bury himself in her liquid heat, feel her muscles clench in climax as they milked him to orgasm.

Such thoughts did nothing to quiet his erection, which strained against the leather of his breeches until he felt he might burst. Unable to do a damned thing about it, he strode to the cabin, his arms full, and nudged the door open with his boot.

Bethie sat in the rocking chair, humming a quiet lullaby to the baby at her breast. She did not look up, but gazed down at her daughter, a look of dreamy happiness on her sweet face.

He walked to the hearth, stacked the firewood as quietly as possible, closed the door, drew in the string. He’d taken to sleeping in the cabin again since the night Isabelle was born, and Bethie had yet to ask him to leave. If he’d possessed any sense, he would already have moved his bedroll back into the barn, where the sight and scent of her wouldn’t taunt him. Clearly, he was an idiot. Without glancing in her direction again, he strode to his bedroll in the corner and lay down to try to sleep.

But his body was tense with unspent energy, taut with lust, and sleep would not come. Cursing silently, he reached into one of his bags, dug around until his fingers closed over hard leather. Then he withdrew the book he’d purchased on a whim last time he’d been in Philadelphia, the latest satire by that French fellow, Voltaire. But though the words danced on the page before his eyes, in his mind he could see only Bethie.

Bethie laid Isabelle in her cradle, pulled the soft furs up to her little chin, gazed longingly at her own bed. If she was lucky, Belle would awaken only once tonight and she could get some sleep.

She began to fasten the front of her gown, but stopped. With the arrival of spring, sleeping in her clothes had become uncomfortably warm. When Andrew was alive, she’d slept in her shift. But she hadn’t dared to do so since. First, she’d been alone and afraid to be caught unprepared by some danger. Then Nicholas had come out of the forest, and she’d been afraid to do anything that might draw his attention. But hadn’t he proved himself to be trustworthy? Hadn’t he slept in the cabin for more than a month now without once trying to creep into her bed? Besides, there was no reason for him to see her. She could disrobe now while he was asleep, then wait under her covers until he had risen in the morning. She would be so much more comfortable without the bulk of her gown, and it would be easier to nurse Isabelle.

Clad only in breeches, Nicholas lay on his side on his bedroll, propped up on one elbow, his blue eyes looking straight at her.

He said nothing, but continued to watch her, the skin of his bare chest golden in the firelight.

Then she saw the book in his hands. For a moment, she did not quite comprehend, and then she gaped at him, astonished. “You can read!”

The corners of his lips turned up in a slight smile.

“Aye.”

Forgetting her state of undress, she asked the first thing that came to mind. “How did you learn?”

He seemed to hesitate. “My parents wished me to have an education.”

Slowly he sat up, his gaze fixed on her, book still in hand, the muscles of his abdomen and chest shifting as he moved. With his long, dark hair spilling over one shoulder almost to the floor, he looked every bit the Indian, apart from his blue eyes.

Bethie took one step backward, forgot her question, alarmed as much by the strange fluttery feeling in her belly as the heat in his eyes.

“Teach me?”

“To read.”

Learn to read? Twas something she’d never dreamed of doing. Neither of her parents had been able to read, and though her father had often spoken of sending his daughter to the nearby minister’s home for teaching, her mother had needed her help about the farm and had refused to spare her. Malcolm could read and had insisted that Richard learn his letters so that he could read the Bible, but he’d kept Bethie at home because she was a girl.

“Your stepfather is a bloody idiot.”

She gasped to hear Malcolm Sorley spoken of with such casual contempt. No one had dared speak ill of him—until now. Why did the words frighten her? Did she expect him to storm through the door to punish her? Malcolm was nowhere near here.

“ Tis no more than the kindness you’ve shown me, helping me when I was injured, tending my horse, sharing your hearth and home.” His voice was velvet, as dark and deep as midnight.

She felt heat rise into her cheeks. “You repaid that debt many times over the night Isabelle was born.”

“There are no debts between us, Bethie, no ledger to tally when we leave this valley. You have shown me kindness, and I would but do the same. I’ll teach you to read, and one day you can teach Isabelle.”

She glanced at Isabelle, who slept soundly in her cradle, imagined one day sharing such knowledge with her daughter.

A skill wasted on women.