He knelt, pointed to the overlapping tracks in the soft mud of the riverbank. “About a dozen warriors,” he whispered. “No women or children. A war party.”
She looked at the prints, looked at the moccasins on his feet. “How do I know you didna make those?”
Frustrated, he placed his right foot next to one of the footprints, placed his weight upon it. His footprint was much larger than the rest. “Do you believe me now?”
She shivered, pulled her gray cloak tight around her.
He took her by the elbow, led her back to the cover of the trees. “We need to get back before nightfall.”
She nodded, then turned toward him, held the pistol out to him. But fear and doubt lingered in her eyes. “If you betray me...”
He took the weapon from her, checked the impulse to touch her cheek. “I gave you my word.”
Without speaking, they hurried back through the darkening forest toward the cabin. He stopped her before they reached the clearing in which it stood, made certain no one was hiding in the cabin or lurking in the barn.
“Get inside. I want you indoors in case I’m wrong and they come back this way.” He was surprised to hear himself speak such words. Since when had she become his problem?
“Master Kenleigh.” She smoothed her hands on her apron.
“Aye.”
“You’ll be sleepin’ in the barn from now on.” In a whirl of gray wool skirts, she turned and walked—or rather waddled—inside.
Nicholas grinned despite himself, amused. Then he looked down at the pistol, checked it, blew out a surprised burst of air.
The damned thing was primed and loaded.
Chapter 5
Bethie awoke the next morning to the sound of splitting wood, startled to have slept so soundly. She couldn’t think of a time since the onset of Andrew’s sickness when she had truly slept. With a band of Delaware on the prowl, she ought to have been awake all night.
Instead, she’d slept deeply—and dreamt of her real father. She’d seen his smiling face, had watched his callused hands as he made a doll of cornhusks for her, had heard his warm voice as he laid the doll in her arms.
That’s my good lass.
In her dream, she’d felt happy and surrounded by the warmth of his love. It was as if all the troubles of life had been lifted from her shoulders, all her fears soothed, her needs quenched. Now only a bittersweet ache remained.
Outside, an ax cleaved wood.
She stretched, yawned, wondered how much of her good night’s sleep was due to the presence of a certain armed and handsome Englishman in her barn—and not in her cabin. Having him out of the cabin had restored her sense of privacy for certain. But hadn’t she also felt a wee bit safer knowing he was still nearby?
She sat up, shook her head. That made no sense. He had frightened her out of her wits yesterday. Aye, he had. And in more ways than one.
When he’d hurled that ax, he’d moved so quickly she hadn’t even had time to react. She’d expected to look down and find its blade buried in her breast. But he hadn’t been aiming at her. If he had, she’d have been dead before she could scream.
Then, when the shock of it had turned her knees to water, he’d quickly wrapped a strong arm around her, kept her on her feet. The heat of his touch—and the way it made her feel—was as unnerving as any band of roving Indians.
To think they had passed so close to her home... She shuddered.
Master Kenleigh had said he had been trying to make a point, and she’d believed at first that he sought merely to control her through fear. Then he’d led her through the forest to the riverbank, and she’d seen the truth for herself. He hadn’t been lying, at least not about that.
It was clear to her that he had spent much time living among Indians, had perhaps even been raised by them. She had never seen anyone move like that before—quiet and deadly as a cougar on the prowl. The sight of it had made her shiver, and she’d known she’d been right about him in at least one respect—he was dangerous.
She arose, feeling better rested than she had in weeks, dressed hurriedly in the chilly cabin, placed more wood upon the fire. She opened the door and was on her way to fetch water for washing and porridge, when she found a bucket, already filled with fresh water, waiting outside the door.
Surprised by his thoughtfulness, she picked it up, brought it inside, and shut the door behind her, making certain to leave the door string out. Then she poured water into the kettle to boil, using the rest to wash her face and hands. She was in the midst of brushing her hair when he entered, still limping slightly, arms full of firewood.
“Good morning, Mistress Stewart. I hope you slept well.”
