Bethie placed the bandage in the basket with the others she had rolled, then reached for another strip of linen. Isabelle lay beside her on a thick lynx fur, gazing about with bright blue eyes and sucking on her hand.
Nicholas had arranged for Bethie to spend a few hours each morning working in the hospital, provided Private Fitchie stayed with her—and provided she agreed to return straightaway to their quarters should the alarm sound. Bethie had agreed to his conditions, though she felt he was still making too great a fuss over one soldier’s rudeness. Besides, what was the good of her helping in the hospital if she were to abandon it when her help was most needed? But Nicholas had insisted.
“There are some things a woman shouldn’t see, Bethie,” he’d said.
And so she rolled strips of linen into bandages she hoped would never be needed, made beds she hoped would remain empty, helped prepare salves she hoped would never be used, all the while listening to the surgeon, Dr. Aimes, talk about everything from treatments for different fevers to today’s topic—the many causes for the fall of the Roman Empire.
He poured out a measure of laudanum for a soldier who had broken his ankle. “For civilization to triumph, man must conquer his inner beast. The failure of Rome, madam, was its acceptance of the barbarian.”
Bethie scarce heard him, her mind on Nicholas. For three nights now she had lain in his arms, felt the magic of his hands and mouth upon her. Never had she thought she would ache for a man’s touch, his kisses, his embrace. Never had she thought a man could make her writhe with pleasure or plead for release. But Nicholas had shown her a new world, one she had not known existed. Now she could hardly wait each evening until the sun had set and Isabelle had fallen asleep. She wanted him, was greedy for him.
She was learning to please him in the same way he pleased her, with her hands, with her mouth. She had watched in awe the first time he’d reached his peak in her hands and spilled his seed across his belly. Like ribbons of melted, white silk it had shot from inside him, as his body shuddered with the power of his release, a look of intense pleasure, or pain, on his face.
He had never pressured her for more, never tried to enter her body. And for that she was grateful. And yet... Every time she drew near to her climax, she felt a deep need for him inside her, an empty yearning, as if that part of her truly longed to be filled by him. But she said nothing, hindered by the memory of Andrew’s painful thrusts and Richard’s rough probing.
Nicholas. Nicholas.
He had made these past three days the happiest of her life. And yet there were shadows.
Everyone believed she was his wife and Isabelle his daughter. It would be so easy to get lost in the daydream, to let herself believe it. But it was a lie, a misunderstanding that Nicholas had not challenged—in order, he said, to keep her safe. It pained her to deceive people who had been so kind to her—Annie, Minna, Goody Wallace, even Private Fitchie. They thought her the wife of an officer, a woman worthy of respect. In truth, she was naught but a widow, the daughter of a poor Scots-Irish farmer who’d tried to hack a living out of this unforgiving land—and had failed.
They weren’t the only ones she was deceiving. Just as Nicholas had allowed everyone to believe she was his wife, she had allowed him to believe that it was Andrew, not Richard, who had taught her to fear a man’s touch. She and Nicholas had never spoken of it, but she could tell that was what he thought. The thinly veiled contempt in his voice every time he mentioned her husband told her that.
What would he do if he knew the truth about her? What would he do if he learned it was her stepbrother who had come to her bed night after night? The tenderness in his eyes would disappear, and he would look at her with disgust and loathing. She would be tainted in his eyes, ruined.
Whatever else happened, she couldn’t bear that.
Voices at the door broke through her thoughts, brought her back to the moment.
Private Fitchie pushed the door open, and two men entered supporting a third between them.
Bethie gasped.
’Twas the man who had touched her.
He wore no shirt, and blood was spattered on his arms and shoulders.
“So there’s the soldier they flogged this morning. I was expecting to see him sooner or later.” Dr. Aimes stood, pointed to a bed. “Lay him on his abdomen over there. Water and bandages if you please, madam.”
“He fainted, Doctor. They had to wait until he came round again to finish it. Thirty-nine lashes and not a peep. He can be right proud of that, so he can.”
“Thank you, Private. That will be all.”
The two soldiers turned and left, casting Bethie furtive looks.
Thirty-nine lashes.
Bethie felt dizzy. It was not so much the sight of his torn and bloodied back that sickened her, as it was the knowledge that this was how he’d been punished for dishonoring her. Looking at him, she wondered if the punishment fit the crime. After all, he hadn’t hurt her.
“Madam? Water and bandages?”
She grabbed several bandage rolls, placed them on the bed beside the unconscious soldier, then poured fresh water in the copper bowl the doctor used for such things.
“Does the sight of blood upset you?” He began to wash the blood and bits of torn flesh from the soldier’s back.
“Nay. ’Tis no’ the sight of his wounds that startled me, Doctor, but knowin’ that this happened because of me.”
“Nonsense! Private Huntley was punished because he behaved in a manner unbecoming a British soldier. As it is, he got off lightly. I’ve seen men receive as many as a thousand lashes.”
