With one last glance about the cabin, Nicholas blew out the lamp.
Apart from the glow of the fire, the cabin fell into darkness.
Bethie began to pray, but her prayer scattered into fragments when she felt the mattress sag beneath his weight as he crawled over her to the other side of the bed.
The ropes creaked as if in protest of his intrusion.
“Excuse me, love.” His voice was inches from her ear as he lay down beside her.
His scent was all around her.
And then he reached out and pulled her against him. She felt the hilt of his hunting knife and the outline of his two pistols inside the waistband of his breeches. How had he sneaked them into bed without her seeing?
His lips touched her cheek. He whispered. “Turn toward me. Put Belle between us.”
Unable to hide her trembling, she did as he asked, found herself staring into his eyes. She mouthed the question that was burning within her. “Is it true?”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I would never hurt you, Bethie, or your baby. I gave my word.”
It wasn’t an answer. She asked again. “Is it true?”
“Is what true? That I killed my wife and baby? Or that I tupped women in the open where everyone could watch, including my Wyandot wife?”
She said nothing, waited for his answer.
“Aye, Bethie. It’s true.” A look of anguish filled his eyes, then he closed them. “Go to sleep.”
***
Nicholas watched Bethie sleep, listened to the deep, slow breathing of their unwanted guests. He’d bet his life that neither Mattootuk nor Youreh was truly sleeping, despite the occasional snore. They were feigning sleep, just as he was. They were waiting until they felt certain he was asleep before making their move.
It wasn’t hard to stay awake. Regret was a knife in his gut, cutting him, shredding him. Today his past had caught up with him, and the price was almost more than he could bear.
He would never forget the look in Bethie’s eyes—the shock, the fear, the revulsion, as if he’d broken a promise, betrayed her, shattered her world. She now thought him the worst sort of murderer, not to mention an adulterer. And wasn’t he?
He had brought about Lyda’s death, and that of the child she carried, as surely as if he’d pointed a gun at her head and fired. But he was not an adulterer. He had never agreed to marry Lyda, never agreed to live under her roof, never agreed to plant a child inside her. And when she’d left him no choice, he had merely bested her at her own game. With terrible consequences.
But would Bethie understand?
Nicholas didn’t think so. She was afraid of men, had trouble trusting them. This wouldn’t be the sort of thing she would ignore or forget.
Perhaps Lyda had gained her revenge after all, obtained at the hands of her brother.
Why should Nicholas care? As soon as he had delivered Bethie safely to her family, he would leave her behind, head back into the wilderness, forget her.
No. No matter how far west he traveled, he would never forget her.
God, she was beautiful, so young and innocent. He wanted to touch her, to run his fingers over the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lips. He wanted to kiss her again, to watch her come alive with passion in his arms, to feel her heart pound in her breast just because he had touched her.
And Belle—so small, so helpless. She lay asleep between them, hands clenched into tiny fists. She resembled her mother in every detail.
He would gladly give his life for either of them.
Something jerked Nicholas out of his thoughts.
Silence.
The deep, slow breathing had stopped.
