While she struggled with the tea, Nicholas tossed wild onion onto the fish, flipped them once more, and pulled the corn cakes from the ashes. There was no butter, as she was accustomed to, but this would help her rebuild her strength and keep up her milk for Isabelle. He put half of the fish onto his tin plate, together with a couple of corn cakes and a fork, carried it to her, then sat to eat his from the pan with a spoon.
“Thank you.” She took one small bite, moaned, took another larger bite, then ate with a dainty abandon that would have shocked the women of Virginia’s stuffy drawing rooms. “This is tasty.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve had to survive on my own cooking for a long time now. I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.”
She lowered her fork, licked her lips in an unconscious gesture that made Nicholas’s blood heat by several degrees, then looked at him through guileless eyes. “Why do you live out here alone? Do you no’ have family?”
Nicholas felt his good humor vanish. But it was an innocent question. “Aye, I have family—parents, brothers, sisters—in Virginia. I left home at the outset of the war and never went back.”
Bethie watched the smile vanish from his face and knew she’d asked the wrong question. She finished her meal in silence. She watched as he cleaned up, set more water on to boil.
“It will be dark soon. You should try taking a quick bath in the creek. The cold water will make you feel better.”
“But—”
“I won’t watch.” He reached into his saddlebags. “You can use my soap.”
Soap in hand, she struggled to her feet, gritted her teeth against her aching muscles, and walked stiffly to the water’s edge. She turned to face him. “Do I have your word you willna watch?”
“Aye, Mistress Stewart. I’ll keep my eyes instead on your charming daughter.”
She watched as he gently laid her shawl over Isabelle. Then she wandered a short distance downstream, out of his direct sight and slipped off his shirt and her shift, dropping them on the sandy bank. She tested the water with her toes, yanked her foot back. It was ice cold.
Not wishing to be a coward, she stepped slowly into the rushing water until it reached her thighs. Then she ducked beneath the surface and began hastily to wash herself with his soap. Although the water was colder than any she’d ever bathed in before, she felt some of her pain begin to slip away. By the time her bones ached from the chill, she was clean from head to toe and feeling much refreshed.
Nicholas watched, his promise broken to bits, as Bethie walked carefully over wet stones back to the bank, squeezing water from her long hair. Water ran in rivulets down her satiny skin, over her full breasts, over the soft curve of her belly, through the nest of blond curls that covered her sex, down her shapely thighs. Her rosy nipples were drawn tight against the chill, and her skin glowed pink.
His cock sprang to life, stretched the buckskin of his breeches. His testicles ached for release. He found himself wanting to pick her up, carry her to this bed of furs, pleasure her with his hands and mouth and cock until she trembled with need and begged him to take her over the edge. Then she lifted her leg to take a step... and he saw the deep, purple bruises on the insides of her thighs.
“Hell!” Caught between irritation and the frustration of pent-up desire, he rummaged roughly through his saddlebags until he found his little crock of salve. By the time she returned, he had managed to gain some control of himself. “Feel any better?”
She smiled, her face as sweet as sunlight, and sat beside him on the moss. “Aye.
He handed her the salve. “Spread this on the skin between your legs. And next time you’re in that much pain, let me know. You won’t last out here if you don’t take care of yourself.”
She gaped at him, eyes wide. Then a rosy blush suffused her cheeks, and she looked away. “You watched.”
There was no way to deny it, so he didn’t bother. “Only a little. Now put that on your thighs and the burn on your cheek. When you’re finished, I’ll get the tangles out of your hair.”
She glared at him, then turned her back to him.
He tried not to think about the fact that she wore no drawers and now sat with her legs parted, so that she could spread ointment on her inner thighs. Instead, he focused on her hair, long golden strands, as soft as silk. Without a comb, he had only his fingers to separate the snarls. He waited until she finished, then took up her hair, starting at the ends and working his way up. “Too bad it’s dark. Otherwise, we might have practiced your reading a bit tonight.”
“You saved the book?” She sounded pleased.
“It was tucked away in my bags when the fire hit and so was spared. Did you think it lost?”
Bethie tried to answer, but he was doing something wonderful to her nape with his fingers, and the only sound that came from her mouth was a sort of purr.
“Does that feel good, Bethie?” His voice was deep, carried the husky tones she now recognized as desire.
“Oh, aye.” She felt it, too—a strange heat, an awareness, a longing. “Kiss me, Nicholas!”
He groaned, a primal, male sound. Then he pulled her into his arms, laid her gently down on the furs, stretched out beside her. For an instant he gazed deep into her eyes, a look of barely restrained emotion on his face. Then his mouth claimed hers in a fierce kiss.
If Bethie thought she knew how good it was to be kissed by him, she soon realized she was blissfully mistaken. In front of the hearth in the cabin, his mouth had teased her, tempted her, but now it possessed her, consumed her.
She parted her lips, surrendered to the velvet invasion of his tongue, the terror and exhaustion of the past two days yielding to the hard press of his body against hers. Lost in the taste of him, the feel of him, lost in his scent, she found in herself a fervor to match his. She returned his kiss, arched against him, wanting...
