Bethie blinked, woke from her living nightmare. She was not in her bed. She was not in the loft. She was in Fort Pitt in the quarters she shared with Nicholas. Nicholas, who had taught her to read. Nicholas, who had saved her life. Nicholas, who had made love to her, who’d brought her bliss.
She hardened her heart against Belle’s weeping, hoped Richard wouldn’t notice her daughter, and walked forward on trembling legs until she stood between him and the cradle. “N-nay, Richard! I—I am n-no’ a frightened little girl, but a woman. Get out!”
His step faltered. His smile became a look of mild disgust. “Aye, ’tis true. You are no’ the bonny wee lass you once were—all yellow hair, big eyes, and long legs, thin and wary like a wild rabbit. I remember when you started to grow paps. Small and sweet they were, but no’ now. Still, a woman or no’, I want to finish what we started.”
At his words, tendrils of nausea snaked through her belly, and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard, her mind racing for some way out of this. “H-he’ll kill you! If you touch me, he’ll kill you!”
He reached out as if in defiance, grabbed her arms, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh as he dragged her against him. He looked down at her through flat brown eyes. “And how is he goin’ to hear of it? Do you want him to share in our family secrets?”
And in one terrifying instant, she saw the awful choice before her. She could submit, suffer Richard’s touch, and keep her taint hidden. Or she could fight him, knowing full well he would hurt her, knowing that her bruises would betray her disgrace to Nicholas, to the whole world.
The breath left her lungs in a single sob, and she closed her eyes against her fear, her dread, her grief.
Nicholas!
Chuckling to himself, Richard forced her step-by-step backward toward the bed, his fingers biting into her arms, his voice slick with lust. “Go ahead and weep, lass. I like it.”
Her reaction came so swiftly, it surprised even her. Fueled by white-hot rage, Bethie drove her knee into his groin with all the force in her body.
Richard grunted, crumpled, lay writhing on the floor.
She dashed past him, grabbed the poker from the cold hearth, ran back, placed herself between her baby and the man who had all but ruined her life. “Get out, Richard! Crawl out like the animal you are! So help me God, you will no’ touch me again!”
Ashen-faced and trembling, Richard slowly got to his feet. Still bent double, he turned as if to go. Then he spun about, lunged for her.
Bethie swung the poker, aimed for his head.
But he caught it, wrenched it from her grasp, threw it to the floor.
Before she could take a single step, he grabbed her by the hair, hauled her up against him, forced her to meet his gaze. “Bitch! If you’ve unmanned me, I’ll kill you!”
She ignored the pain in her scalp, glared at him. “You were never a man, Richard!”
Pain exploded in her skull as his fist connected with her cheek, sent her sprawling across the bed. A flash of lights. Swirling gray. The taste of blood.
Driven by equal parts of fear and fury, she fought her way back to consciousness, saw him unbuttoning his breeches, tried to roll away, to reach the other side of the bed.
Rough hands clawed at her, pulled her back. “You’re no’ goin’ anywhere until I’ve finished wi’ you, Bethie Stewart—Englishman’s whore!”
“You will no’ touch me! No’ again!” Desperate, she screamed, kicked, scratched, struggled with all her strength. Her nails tore skin from his face, left four bright streaks of red.
He howled in outrage, hit her again and again, left her spinning on the edge of pain and forgetfulness.
From far away, she could hear Belle crying.
And then he was upon her, his legs forcing hers apart, his body holding hers helpless against the bed.
She heard herself whimper, felt the wet slide of tears down her cheeks, struggled to speak. “Nay!”
Richard laughed. “This is goin’ to be good!”
The creak of the door on its hinges. Richard’s surprised gasp.
“Get the hell away from her!”
Nicholas!
Bethie’s last thought as darkness pulled her under was that he knew.
