“Are you cert—”
“Aye. Do it!”
She hurried to the cupboard, withdrew the jug once more, then returned to the bed. With a jerk, she pulled the cork free, then poured fiery liquid into the wound, and set the jug aside.
Not so much as a sound escaped his lips.
She took a fresh strip of linen, sat beside him, blotted the excess.
“A pouch of ointments... in my saddlebags. The big pocket. Fetch it.” He sounded weaker.
“Aye, in a moment. Should you not first have somethin’ to strengthen you? You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She reached for the tin cup with the whiskey mixture, lifted his head, held it to his lips. “Swallow.”
To her great relief, this time he drank.
The sight of her eyes—lovely eyes almost the color of violets—would be the last thing Nicholas remembered.
Chapter 3
Nicholas was on fire. Every inch of his chest, belly, and back seemed to burn, pain ripping even into his sleep. The ropes chafed his wrists and ankles, imprisoned him, made his right leg ache.
Lyda was again cleaning his wounds, rubbing ointment into his burns, her fingers like glass shards against his tortured skin. He would have killed her, would have broken her neck had he been able to free himself.
But she knew that, and so she kept him bound.
How long had he lain here, drifting in and out of consciousness, half mad with pain and fever? Hours? Days? Weeks? And why was he still alive? Why had they spared him?
Screams.
Josiah and Eben! The Wyandot were burning them, tormenting them. But they were already long dead, weren’t they? Why then could he still hear them?
“Nicholas! For God’s sake, help us!”
Nicholas awoke with a jerk, caught between the nightmare and wakefulness, his heart pounding, his body covered with sweat. He struggled to open his eyes, found himself lying on his stomach in someone’s bed, his head on a pillow. His right leg throbbed, burned. His head ached. His throat was parched as sand, and a strange aftertaste lingered in his mouth.
From nearby came the swish of skirts, the sound of a log settling in a fire, the scent of something cooking.
Where was he?
Through a fog he tried to remember. He’d been attacked. The Frenchmen from the fort. He’d lost a lot of blood, had ridden in search of help. The cabin. The woman.
Bethie was her name. Elspeth Stewart.
She’d helped him, cleaned his wound, cauterized it—not altogether willingly.
Nicholas lifted his head, started to roll onto his side to take in his surroundings, found he could not.
His wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts.
Blood rushed to his head, a dark surge of rage, of dread.
“You’re awake.” Her voice came from behind him. “You must be thirsty.”
“You little bitch!” He pulled on the ropes, his fury and dread rising when they held fast. “Release me! Now!”
“I—I cannae do that—no’ yet. I’ve made broth. It will help you regain—”
“Damn your broth, woman! Untie me!” He jerked on the ropes again, outraged and alarmed to find himself rendered powerless. Sharp pain cut through his right thigh.
