It was truly a lovely day. Birds filled the sky, and the forest was rich with their tuneful chatter. Violets and bluebells bloomed beneath her feet, and a green mist of newborn leaves hovered on the branches of the trees. As she walked along the path to the river, Bethie found herself wondering when she’d last felt this carefree or happy.
Only one thing marred her joy—the knowledge that Nicholas would soon be leaving.
As disturbing as he might be, she was all but certain he would not go back on his word. He would not harm her or Belle. And he would protect them from any man who tried to do so. As long as he was with her, she’d be as safe as any woman could be in this untamed land.
But she could tell he felt restless. He seemed distracted, overwrought, as if many matters weighed on his mind. She realized she knew nothing about him—where he’d come from, whether he’d truly lived with the Indians, whether he had a wife and children waiting for him somewhere. She tried to forgive herself if in moments of fear she hoped there was no one waiting for him, wished he had no other life to return to, for she could only stay here as long as he remained.
Yet his mind seemed to stray far from here. She could see it in the way his gaze always sought the dark wall of the forest, in the tense lines of his face and the impatience that seemed to boil beneath his skin. Now that he was again hale and hearty, there was no reason for him to stay. And that meant the uncertain future Bethie had been trying so hard to avoid was drawing closer.
***
Nicholas let cold river water run over his naked body, welcomed its invigorating chill. He was beginning to feel strong again. Though he hadn’t recovered his full strength, he was no longer out of breath or dizzy. His injured leg was healing, as well, thanks to the salve Takotah had taught him to make long ago. And although it still hurt to walk or sit a horse, he was certain the wound would eventually heal completely.
He waded back to the riverbank, startled a breeding pair of mallards from the shelter of new reeds, reached for the leather pouch he’d dropped there. He dug to the bottom, withdrew soap and a sharpened knife. He spread the soap on his face, scraped the knife over his skin with quick strokes, felt the day’s growth of whiskers give way.
It was strange to shave regularly now when he had forsaken the habit for almost six years. He didn’t want to think about what had motivated him to start again—or admit that Bethie’s reaction when she’d first seen him clean-shaven had affected him. His shaving was a whim, nothing more.
He rinsed his face, took up the soap again, began to wash his body.
The river was running high and fast this year. Heavy snows had fallen in the mountains this past winter, and he expected that by the middle of next month, the river would overflow its banks. He’d have to wait to take Bethie back east until the middle of June. They had several rivers and creeks to cross to reach Paxton, and he wouldn’t risk losing her or the baby to the raging waters of the freshet.
Of course, he hated to wait that long. Spring had brought new life, but by summertime the Ohio wilderness would again be rank with death. He didn’t want Bethie and Belle anywhere near here when the Indians attacked. Even Paxton was too far west for his tastes. He’d rather see her settled in Philadelphia, which enjoyed the protection of an entire British garrison. But she belonged with her family, so he would take her to Paxton.
Still, the delay gave her time to heal. Already much of her strength had returned, though she tired easily due to night feedings and she hadn’t yet stopped bleeding.
He hadn’t discussed his plan with her yet, but he was certain she’d be grateful for his help in returning home. He knew she was afraid to be here, knew it hadn’t been her idea to come here in the first place. He remembered the look of terror on her face when she’d turned, her arms full of firewood, and discovered him outside her cabin that first morning. It was only a matter of time before that scenario played itself out again, only next time the man on the horse would be someone else.
Aye, she’d be grateful to be safely at home again.
God’s blood, but he couldn’t quit thinking of her. He’d believed her lovely before, but now she was positively breathtaking. Her waistline was pleasingly slender again, her hips rounded, her breasts full with milk. And she glowed with love for little Belle, happiness shining on her sweet face like a sunrise.
Unnerved by his reaction to her, he’d been doing his best to keep his distance. Fortunately, she seemed to want to stay as far away from him as possible. Skittish, easily startled, she pulled away from him any time he accidentally touched her, as if even the brush of his hand against hers unsettled her. How she could still fear him he knew not, but he’d begun to suspect her husband was the kind of man who hurt women. It gave Nicholas yet another reason to despise him.
Still, Nicholas supposed her fearfulness was for the best. If he were left to follow his own impulses, she’d soon have another babe in her belly. More than once, he’d found himself wanting to kiss the plush curve of her lips, to run his fingers through the long silk of her golden hair, to cup the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, savor their rosy tips, taste their milky nectar. But he tried to slam the door on such thoughts the instant they arose. To give in to such fantasies would only make his need for her worse. Already his body was growing persistent, demanding. He felt like a boy of seventeen again, his cock hard more often than not.
And if there were moments late at night when he watched Bethie nurse her baby in the light of the hearth and wished for all the world both mother and child were his? ’Twas only proof that he had not been himself of late.
Bethie was no whore who earned her living off of men’s lust. And lust was all Nicholas could ever truly give her. As soon as he could safely see Bethie and her baby girl to her family’s farm, he’d take his leave of them and return to the only life he was fit to live.
***
Bethie worked her way down the riverbank, keeping a safe distance from the swirling waters as she peeled soft moss from the earth and placed it in her bowl. She walked quietly, warily, remembering the war party that had passed this way only weeks ago. But the air was so sweet and the singing of the birds so lovely that she could not linger on dark thoughts.
On impulse she began to pick the wild violets that grew beneath the trees. They would make a pretty bouquet for the table. Or perhaps she would tie them at the head of Belle’s cradle. She followed the violets around a bend in the river, picking them in clusters of purple, white, and yellow, when a movement caught her eye.
Heart in her throat, she froze.
Nicholas.
He stood with his back to her in the river just around the bend, water up to the middle of his thighs.
And he was completely naked.
She meant to avert her eyes, to turn away, to flee before he saw her. But she could scarce breathe, much less move. She had never seen a fully naked man before. Oh, aye, she’d cared for Andrew in his illness and after death. But he had not looked anything like... this.
Nicholas’s body was all muscle, lean and hard. His thighs were heavy and corded, his bum twin mounds of smooth muscle that tightened and released as he moved his weight from one leg to the other. Dark, wet hair clung to his skin, hung down his powerful back all the way to his narrow hips. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged and stretched as he washed himself. His skin, bronzed from the sun, was slick and wet.
’Twas like stumbling upon some heathen river god.
