Lacking breath to scream, she kicked, fought, tried in vain to roll away.
This could not be happening! She would not let it happen! Not again!
“Damn it, Bethie! Stop!”
The panic she had suppressed moments earlier surged through her with renewed strength, and she was blind to all else. Air at last filled her aching lungs, and she screamed. “Stop!”
But his strength was unyielding. Strong arms forced her roughly onto her back, and the weight of his body held her fast.
Then suddenly he released her.
She crawled quickly away, sobbing for breath, then turned and stared in horror at the man she had almost come to trust.
And then she saw.
Beside him on the ground lay a large piece of cloth, gray woolen cloth from her skirts. It was scorched black and smoldering. The front of his shirt was also scorched. The sharp smell of burnt wool hung in the air between them.
Her gaze rose until it met his.
“Your skirts... on fire.” His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. “Are you hurt?”
She couldn’t hear his question, began to tremble uncontrollably.
Alarmed by her silence, Nicholas crawled to her, lifted what was left of her torn and scorched skirts, ran his hands over her slender legs, searched them for burns. Her skin was soft and creamy white, unscathed by the flames. And he realized as she stared at him in shocked silence that it was not the knowledge that her skirts had been on fire that made her tremble.
“Bethie.” He pulled her against his chest, held her, his relief that she was safe grappling with concern for her obvious suffering. He knew it was a measure of how shaken she was that she did not try to pull away from him. Even so, he was grateful she allowed his touch. She felt soft and precious in his arms.
When he’d realized the back of her skirts was afire, he’d felt a jolt of genuine fear such as he hadn’t known in years. For one horrible moment a vision had flashed into his mind’s eye: Bethie on fire, her body horribly burned, her violet eyes lifeless. On raw instinct, he’d leapt after her, cast her to the ground, thrown his body on the flames to squelch them.
She’d clearly thought he was trying to hurt her.
No, she’d thought he was trying torapeher.
He could think of only one reason a woman would react with such intense fear, lashing out in a desperate panic. Someone had violated her before. Someone—some man—had hurt her in the worst way a man could hurt a woman. And even as the revolting thought came to him, he knew in his gut he was right.
So many things suddenly made sense to him—her skittishness, her excessive modesty during Isabelle’s birth, her decision to sleep fully clothed, to drug him and tie him to the bed. She so greatly feared a man’s touch that she had all but stepped into the hearth fire to avoid him, for God’s sake!
Nicholas found himself itching to bury his knife in the whoreson who had placed such fear in her. Had it perhaps been her husband? Nicholas didn’t believe for one moment she had loved the man despite what she’d said earlier. She hadn’t called her husband’s name once as she’d labored to bring forth his child, hadn’t mentioned him as she’d held little Isabelle in her arms for the first time. In truth, for a woman recently widowed, she seemed remarkably unburdened by grief. Perhaps her husband had been the sort of brute who took the notion of wifely duty too seriously and had forced Bethie to submit to his lust. If so, she was well rid of him.
Or perhaps it had been marauding Indians. Aye, perhaps that was it. Nicholas had seen her reaction when he’d told her that Obwandiyag of the Ottawa, known to her as Pontiac, was gathering all of the tribes in the region to his side for a renewed war on settlers. The color had drained from her face. Her breathing had become erratic, shallow, and her hands had begun to shake, just as she trembled now.
Nicholas ignored the voice that warned him to keep his distance, held her closer, overcome by a rush of tenderness for her. He fought to keep the anger that seethed inside him from his voice. “I frightened you. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to explain. In a moment you’d have been engulfed by flames.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didna mean... I didna know... I thought...” She shivered.
“I know.”
“Th-thank you, Nicholas. If you hadna—”
“Shhh, love. It’s over.”
He heard her gasp, felt her hands tug on his shirt.
She pulled away from him, looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You’ve been burned!”
He could feel the sting, but it was little worse than the pain of sunburn. “’Tis nothing, Bethie, truly.”
But she was already on her feet and tugging on him to follow her toward the well. “Come. We’ll put cold water on it.”
