And although the two of them had reached a truce, it was an uneasy truce. They barely spoke a word to each other, yet she knew he wanted his weapons back, and he knew she was not going to return them until he departed. To his credit, he had not tried to take them from her, though she suspected he wanted very much to do just that. She had not really expected him to keep his promise.
He ought to be grateful. She had tended him, fed him, shared her medicines with him. What’s more, she continued to allow him to shelter under her roof. She might just as easily have forced him to sleep with his horse or demanded that he pack up his goods and gear and depart. Though he was still weak and sitting on horseback was painful for him, he’d not die from it.
Why hadn’t she forced him to ride on? Had the sight of him dismounting tight-lipped and in obvious pain after his short ride yesterday aroused sympathy in her heart? Or could it be that, although she did not entirely trust him, she felt a wee bit safer with him beneath her roof? Because he had kept his word thus far, did some part of her hope that he’d keep the second half of his promise—to protect her—as well?
Perhaps. But she didn’t want to think about that.
He was getting stronger, but it was clear his health was not yet fully restored. His face was still pale, and his strength seemed to fade much faster than she would have expected for a man of his size and apparent vigor. He slept a lengthy portion of each afternoon, taking to his bedroll when it seemed he could no longer stay on his feet.
And so their days had taken on a rhythm. Each day, he greased and repaired his traps, tended the horses, worked on a new pair of leather leggings, and slept, while she saw to the other animals, prepared meals, spun wool, chopped wood. And each night, he slept in the far corner on the floor, while she slept in her clothes, his pistol in her hand.
Bethie lifted the ax, was about to swing again, when a sharp pain spread across her lower belly. She gasped, lowered the ax, pressed her free hand against the pain. Quickly, the twinge lessened, began to pass.
’Twas not yet her labor, at least she didn’t think so. She’d had pains like these before, though they were becoming more frequent now. Her mother, who had borne nine children of which only Bethie had survived, had never shared with her the mysteries of birth, except to say it was a woman’s duty and God’s curse upon all women for the sins of Eve. And so Bethie did not know what to expect beyond great pain.
“You shouldn’t be doing that.” His deep voice startled her.
Without bothering to glance his way, she snapped at him. “I dinnae fear hard work, Master Kenleigh.”
She’d started to lift the ax again, when his large hand closed over hers on the wooden handle.
“Let me.”
The heat of his touch scorched her. She let go, stepped back, overwhelmed to be so near him. But when she looked up at his face, her breath left her.
He had shaved away his thick beard to reveal a face that was far bonnier than she could have imagined, with a strong chin, full lips, and cheekbones that now seemed sculpted and high. His scar looked more prominent, a thin line of white that ran the length of his left temple and cheekbone. His blue eyes seemed larger, more penetrating.
His hair hung damp and unbound to his waist, dark as a raven’s wing. He wore his new leggings and a fresh shirt of linsey-woolsey dyed a deep indigo blue. The ties at his throat were undone, exposing a sliver of tanned flesh and a scattering of soft, dark hair. At his side in its sheath hung a knife—one she had not discovered among his possessions.
She’d been afraid of him before, but now she was positively terrified. That was the only way to explain this strange and rapid beating of her heart.
Then it dawned on her. She felt her apron pocket. The pistol was still there.
“Aye, I could have taken it from you, but I did not.” He lifted a large piece of wood to the stump, lifted the ax, swung. The force of his blow split the wood cleanly in half, sent the pieces flying. “But an ax makes a deadly weapon, as well.”
He lifted another piece of wood onto the stump, raised the ax. Then, in a blink, he turned toward her, hurled the ax end over end like a tomahawk.
Bethie gasped, heard it whistle past her, missing her by inches.
Nicholas saw the blood leave her face, saw her sway on her feet. Cursing under his breath, he crossed the distance between them, slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her against him to steady her. “I did not do this to frighten you, Mistress Stewart, but to make a point. If I had wanted to kill you, I could easily have done so at any time—with the ax, the hayfork, the poker in your fireplace, this knife, or my bare hands. It’s time you trusted me and gave up this foolishness.”
She looked up at him through terrified violet eyes, her breast rising with each rapid breath. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she seemed to find her tongue. “L-let go of me!”
He released her, stepped toward the cabin, jerked the ax free from the log in which it was embedded. He had not intended to deal so forcefully with her, but the moccasin prints he’d discovered at the river, where he’d gone to bathe, had changed his mind. He needed his weapons back—for both their sakes. “You’re lucky it was I who came upon you and not one of the Delaware warriors who just passed by a mile north of here. They had arrows, spears, and rifles—more than a match for a woman with one pistol.”
She whirled toward him, both hands on her swollen belly. “You’re lyin’! You’re tryin’ to scare me!”
He smiled at her predictable reaction. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll prove it. It’s a war party. They’re traveling fast and light northward, but it’s a good bet they know you’re here. I tracked them a short distance, far enough to be reasonably certain they won’t double back tonight.”
He watched her eyes give play to her emotions—fear, suspicion, fury.
She slipped a hand into her pocket, withdrew the pistol, aimed it at him. “Lead the way.”
Nicholas kept the ax as he led her a short distance through lengthening shadows to the riverbank. Mindful of her condition, he asked her twice if she wanted to rest, but to her credit she shook her head and kept moving, pistol still in hand.
When he could hear the gurgling of water ahead, he motioned for her to stop and wait. Silently, he moved through the trees, his senses alert for any sound or movement. He checked for new tracks, watching the riverbank beyond for anyone who might be lying in wait. Then he motioned her forward.
Though he could tell she was afraid, she quietly moved toward him.
