Nicholas stood, followed, mostly because he liked the feel of her small hand in his.
“Take off your shirt.” She released his hand, began to draw water from the well.
He hesitated for a moment, aware that he would be baring his scars to her again, then did as she asked, strangely pleased by the worry on her face.
Bethie grabbed the ruined shirt from his hands, dipped it in the full bucket, squeezed it out, her gaze dropping to his reddened chest. Regret coursed through her. When had she last done something so stupid? Even the littlest girl knew better than to drag her hems too close to the hearth. “Oh, this is my fault! If I hadna been so careless—”
“It’s not bad. Don’t blame—”
She pressed the sodden cloth against the hard wall of his reddened chest and belly, heard his quick intake of breath, felt his muscles jerk in response. “Oh, I’m sorry! I dinnae mean to hurt you!”
His chuckle surprised her, and she looked up to see not a look of pain on his face, but a smile, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his dark hair and skin. “You didn’t. It was the shock of cold water, nothing more.”
She bit her lip and, unable to bear the penetrating warmth of his gaze, looked at the backs of her own hands, suddenly aware how close to him she stood. Heat, like that of a fever, radiated off his body and through the wet cloth, seeming to seep into her. Beneath her left hand, she could feel the ridges and valleys of his abdomen, the slow rhythm of his breathing, beneath her right, the firm planes of his chest and the steady beating of his heart.
But she could feel something else, as well—the puckered crests of countless scars. Some were round and looked like burns, pinched circles of colorless flesh. Those she had seen from a distance yesterday. Others appeared to be cut marks, thin lines of faded silver against his sun-browned skin. Not only did they cover his chest, but also his sides, disappearing behind the muscled strength of his arms. She didn’t have to look to know she’d find them on his back, as well.
Without thinking, she reached with her right hand, gently ran her fingers over one of the burn marks, her heart filled with compassion for him. “Such cruelty! Who did this to you?”
Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the chorus of countless songbirds.
“The Wyandot.” His voice was rough, strained. “I was taken captive years ago.”
She looked up, saw the bleakness in his eyes, and his words of weeks ago came back to her.
’Tis only pain.
At last she understood. He hadn’t feared the heated blade because he’d already survived much worse. The Indians had tormented him with fire, had forced him to endure untold pain.
And yet he willingly threw himself on my burnin’ skirts to save me.
She felt tears prick her eyes, wanted to speak, to offer him some comfort, to thank him, but at that moment, Isabelle began to cry. “Belle.”
“Aye. Go to her.”
But just before she turned, she caught in his eyes a glimpse of anguish so deep that it nearly broke her heart.
***
Nicholas stacked another load of firewood in his arms, struggled to make sense of his own feelings, tried to understand what had happened this morning.
He hadn’t spoken of the Wyandot to anyone since he’d left home, had barely spoken of them to his family. He had tried to put those ceaseless hours of unbearable agony—and the even worse horror that had followed—behind him, hoping through his own silence to somehow silence his memories. He had ignored curious glances, overlooked surprised gasps, pretended not to hear even the most pointed questions. Until today.
Why was Bethie different? Why had the gentle brush of her fingers over his chest drawn the air from his lungs? Why had her soft words loosed his tongue?
He had expected to see disgust or pity in her eyes, as he thought he’d seen the day before when she’d watched him at the river. Instead he’d seen compassion and the bright sheen of tears. It had disarmed him, opened a gaping fissure inside him, and for a moment the darkness within him had seemed nigh to escaping. He’d wanted to push her away, but had found he could not.
’Twas the first time in six long years a woman had touched him of her own choosing and not for the pelts he could give her. And it had scorched him to his core.
Aye, he cared about Bethie. He couldn’t deny that. Nor could he deny that his desire for her was growing. But she had her own shadows. Someone had abused her, had taught her that a man’s caress was hateful, a thing to be feared, not savored. And what a shame it was. A woman as beautiful and sweet as Bethie was made for pleasure.
Suddenly Nicholas found himself wishing he could be the man who healed that deep hurt and initiated her into the delights of sex. How he longed to be the one to awaken her desire, to drive her hunger to a fever pitch, to make her cry out in delight. How he ached to sheathe himself inside her and feel her melt around him as one climax after the next claimed her. The thought of it sent blood rushing to his cock, made him harder than the firewood in his arms. And even as the idea came to him, even as a part of him rejected it wholly, he began to wonder how he might accomplish this.
Could he, who trusted no one, win her trust? Could he, with his scarred body, heal the wounds hidden within hers? Could he as a man heal the pain caused by another man?
He knew there was passion inside her, knew she felt some attraction to him. He’d seen it on her face yesterday as she’d watched him bathe. He’d seen it this morning in the way her eyes had grown dark and her breath had quickened as she’d held the wet shirt against his chest. Even the sight of his scars had not banished the look of feminine need on her face this time. But how could he show her that it was safe to touch him, to want him, to give herself to him when such feelings clearly made her afraid?
As he might gentle a timid mare, he would have to approach her with kind words and soft caresses that would not provoke her fear. He would have to control himself, to rein in his desire, so as not to frighten her with the force of his own need. He would have to win her trust and arouse her slowly. He would have to wait until her hunger was such that she overcame her fear, came to him, begged him to please her.
