Her heart beat like a hammer against her breast, and for one wrenching moment, she knew he was going to kill her. Or worse.
If only she had the rifle! If only she could get inside the cabin, bar the door. But he stood between her and refuge. She took several steps backward, was about to run into the darkness of the forest, when he sagged against his horse.
Blood. It had soaked through the leather of his leggings on the right side, darkened the back of his right leg all the way to his moccasin. Was ithisblood? Aye, it must be. He had tied a cloth around his upper thigh to staunch the flow.
He was injured, weak, perhaps nigh to collapsing. Some part of her realized this, saw it as the chance she needed.
She ran, a desperate dash toward the cabin door, toward safety, toward life. She had only a few steps to go when arms strong as steel shot out, imprisoned her.
“Oh, no, you don’t!”
“Nay!” She screamed, kicked, hit, fought to free herself through a rising sense of terror.
“Ouch! Damn it, woman!”
The click of a pistol cocking. The cold press of its barrel against her temple.
She froze, a terrified whimper in her throat.
His breath was hot on her cheek. “I have no desire to harm you or the child you carry, but youwillhelp me, whether you wish to or not! Do you understand?”
She nodded, her mind numb with fright.
Pistol still in hand, he forced her to hold the stallion’s reins while he unsaddled it and carried its burdens inside the cabin. Then he watched as she led the animal to a stall in the barn, settled it with hay and fresh water from the well. And although she had hoped he might fall unconscious, he showed no further sign of pain or weakness apart from a bad limp.
“Get inside, and boil water.”
She crossed the distance from the barn to the cabin, her stomach knotted with fear, the heat of his gaze boring into her back. Then she saw the firewood scattered on the ground. She stopped, turned to him, half afraid to speak lest she provoke his ire. She had no doubt this man was capable of killing. “I—I’ll need the wood.”
Blue eyes, hard and cold as slate, met hers. He nodded—one stiff jerk of his head.
She eased her way down, began to fill her arms.
Nicholas watched the woman pick up firewood. She had no idea how close she had come to escaping him moments ago on her doorstep. Dizzy from blood loss, he had found it surprisingly difficult to subdue her, had been forced to wield the threat of his pistol. He could not risk getting close enough for her to knock it from his grasp. He was fast fading, and without the weapon he would not long be able to bend her to his will. He had no doubt that if given the choice, she would leave him out here to die, even kill him herself.
He didn’t blame her. There was only one rule on the frontier—survival. A woman without male protection could not be too careful, particularly a young and pretty one. And even heavy with child, she was a beauty.
How old was she? Nicholas guessed eighteen. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, her skin flawless and kissed by the sun. A thick braid of sun-streaked honey-blond hair hung down her back to her waist. Her curves, enhanced by her pregnancy, were soft, womanly, and easily apparent despite the plainness of her gray woolen gown. And although she was great with child, she’d felt small in his arms. Her head just touched his shoulder.
He looked on as she struggled to stand. Though she was obviously very near her time, she was surprisingly graceful and was soon back on her feet and walking toward the cabin, arms full, her braid swaying against the gray wool of her cloak with each step.
Nicholas followed, but even this small effort left him breathless. His heart hammered in his chest, fought to pump blood no longer in his body. The Frenchman’s blade had gone deep, and though it had failed to sever his tendons and drop him to the ground as the bastard had no doubt hoped, it had clearly cut into a major blood vessel.
He’d left Fort Detroit early in the morning almost a week ago, having earned more than enough from his pelts to replenish his supplies. He’d traveled south for most of four days before he got the feeling he was being followed. The signs were subtle—the twitching of Zeus’s ears, the cry of a raven startled from its perch somewhere behind him, a prickling on the back of his neck. He’d urged Zeus to a faster pace, kept up his guard, hadn’t stopped to rest or eat until well past nightfall.
They’d attacked just after midnight. The first had sprung at him out of the darkness and might have succeeded in killing him had Nicholas not been awake and waiting. And while he’d grappled with the first, the second had leapt from hiding to deal a surprise deathblow. Nicholas had quickly dispatched the first attacker, but the second managed to slash his thigh before Nicholas had buried his knife in the man’s belly. He’d recognized them both from the fort—French trappers who weren’t ready to relinquish the Ohio Valley to the English.
Nicholas had realized immediately he was badly hurt. He’d have treated the wound himself had he been able to see it and reach it with ease. Instead, he’d tied a tourniquet around his leg and had reluctantly ridden through the night hoping to cross some farmstead where aid might be available.
As he’d grown weaker, he’d all but resigned himself to death. He was already dead inside. What did it matter if his body died, too? Wasn’t that what he’d secretly been searching for all these years? But just before dawn, he’d heard a gunshot to the east and had followed it until he’d heard the sound of someone chopping wood. He hadn’t expected it to be a woman, much less a woman alone.
He hadn’t asked a soul for help in more than six years. It galled him to have to do so now. He followed the woman inside. “Build up the fire.”
The cabin was small with a puncheon floor that looked as if it had been newly washed. The only light came from a small window covered with greased parchment. A rough-hewn table sat in the center of the room, a hand-carved bedstead against the far right wall. In the far left corner on the other side of the fireplace sat a cupboard and before it a loom, a spinning wheel, and a rocking chair. Dried onions, herbs, and flowers hung from the rafters, a feminine touch that for one startling moment reminded him of the cookhouse on his plantation. A rifle leaned against the wall beside the door.
Nicholas checked the rifle to make certain it was not primed and loaded. Next he removed his bearskin coat and his jacket, tossed them over one of the wooden chairs.
Black spots danced before his eyes. He pulled out another chair, sat, watched as she stirred the fire to life and poured water into the kettle to boil. “You’ll need thread and a strong needle.”
