Dear God, his dreams had him spilling in the night like a boy of sixteen!
It wasn’t that Bethie was a slow learner or unwilling to kiss. It was her natural talent and eagerness that was killing him. Each night he held her soft, pliant body in his arms, kissed her with every bit of passion and skill he possessed, and she returned his passion measure for measure.
Nor was it that his kisses had no effect on her. She came alive in his arms, her body melting against his, her lips soft, her tongue eager to spar. She arched against him, moaned, clung to him in feminine surrender. Last night, she had scattered bites across his throat, nipped his lips, even bitten down gently on his tongue. It had taken every ounce of his resolve not to lift her shift, part her thighs, and impale her right there before the fire.
The trouble was that she never asked for anything more.
“I will do nothing that you do not ask me to do,” he’d said.
Would she be content with kissing forever? Did she not long to follow her passion, to see where it led? Was she trying to drive him mad?
With another curse, he stomped over to the place where his trap had landed, pulled it from a tangle of underbrush, examined it. One of the joints was bent. It wasn’t bad, just enough to ensure that the trap didn’t spring fully shut. He carried it back to the spot where Zeus grazed in contentment, draped it across his saddle, took out another.
It was easy for the stallion to be content. He had a small harem of two mares to keep him satisfied and had already planted foals inside both of them. Bethie had taken it in stride, said she had expected as much.
“Lucky bastard.” Nicholas stomped back to the riverbank, where he had chosen to place his trap.
Surely Bethie’s husband was to blame for this. He had taught her to fear men. He had abused her. He had taken her sweet body to bed, had spread her legs, and hurt her. It was a good thing the son of a bitch was already dead. For God’s sake, the man hadn’t even kissed her!
Nicholas picked up a rock, brought it down hard on the stake that held his trap in place, forcing the stake deep into the mud.
And then it dawned on him. If her husband hadn’t kissed her, perhaps there were other things he hadn’t done. As hard as it was to imagine, perhaps he had simply lifted her shift, spread her thighs, and rammed himself into her. Perhaps she had no idea what pleasures could follow kissing—all the touching, tasting, licking, and...
A spray of crows scattered across the sky a half mile to the north, their raucous cries echoing through the forest. Then all was silent.
Bethie!
Nicholas pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and ran.
***
Bethie knelt in the dirt, freed the row of marjoram from the weeds that threatened to engulf it. Nicholas had told her not to bother planting a kitchen garden this summer, to save her seeds for planting elsewhere. But that didn’t mean she had to neglect her herbs. The wet winter meant the plants were especially healthy and robust this year. ’Twas a shame she would soon leave them behind. But she didn’t want to think about that.
Isabelle cooed cheerfully from her basket in the nearby shade. She was growing so fast. She had already begun to sleep through the night once in a while.
That was more than Bethie could say for herself. She hadn’t slept well since the first night Nicholas had kissed her. Instead, she had lain awake until late into the night, listening to his breathing, wanting... Wanting what?
If only she knew.
Every time he kissed her was better than the last. Never had she imagined that the simple touching of lips, the swirl of a tongue could leave her feeling so desperate, so needy. Each taste of him made her hungry for more, until she felt she could never be satisfied.
Nicholas. Nicholas.
Her mind seemed always to be filled with thoughts of—
A hand fisted brutally in her hair, jerked her painfully to her feet. She would have screamed had a hand not closed over her mouth.
Out from behind her strode two Indians. Both wore a mix of Indian and white man’s garb—leather leggings and breechcloths with homespun shirts. Their heads were bald apart from scalp locks.
One walked inside the cabin, knife drawn, rifle in hand.
The other strode toward the shade, toward little Isabelle.
Chapter 11
The slick taste of terror filled Bethie’s mouth.
Belle! Dear God, not Belle!
