“My God, Bethie! I can’t hold back, not anymore! You’re too sweet, too tight!” His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed as if in pain.
“Then don’t hold back!” She bent down, kissed his sweat-slick chest. “Love me, Nicholas!”
With a feral growl, he rolled her onto her back, wrapped her legs around his waist, looked into her eyes. “No man but me!”
Then he was thrusting into her, deep and hard, his shaft driving against some secret spot inside her, drawing frantic cries from her throat. His lips were on her mouth, her eyelids, her cheeks, her throat. His voice was a ragged whisper. “No man but me!”
Her body trembled at the power of his words, the potency of his loving, as he carried her up and up and up to a place she’d never been before. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, tears that cleansed, tears that purified, tears that washed the past away.
Precious torment. Sweet surrender. Shattering bliss.
“Nicholas!” She cried out as the force of it hit her, drew the life from her body, and gave it back again, pleasure showering her like tears, like rain, like starlight.
“No man but me!” His body shuddered, and she heard his deep groan, as he, too, succumbed, spilling himself inside her.
Then, in the stillness, he kissed her tears away.
Chapter 25
The siege lengthened through July, and with it came heat, hunger, deprivation. The people of Fort Pitt were woefully low on everything but water. Of firewood for cooking and washing there was precious little. Food was just as scarce, as the Delaware and Shawnee, having already killed or driven off most of the wild game, also fed off the king’s garden—and kept it under near-constant watch.
Nicholas led almost daily forays, some into Lower and Upper Town to gather whatever wood they could from the burnt cabins, and some into the garden and fields after spelt, vegetables, cattle, even the occasional startled rabbit. Though they left the fort at different times of day and from different ports and sometimes managed to take the Indians by surprise, they came under attack each time, risking their lives and sometimes gaining little for it. So far they’d lost only one man, a militiaman who’d taken a ball to the belly while tending the cattle. Two others had been injured.
There could be little doubt as to who was faring better thus far. As hungry soldiers watched from the ramparts, Indian canoes traveled up the rivers loaded with corn harvested from the surrounding farmsteads. And although the Indians had not yet launched another direct attack, they were always present around the fort, coming right up to the walls in the dark of night, hiding in the ditch, penetrating the glacis, frightening people with their death whoops. And just so the English could see their strength, they openly crossed the rivers out of range of the cannon, many hundreds of them. Although Captain Écuyer had told messengers sent by the chiefs that Fort Pitt had supplies and ammunition to outlast a siege of three years, Nicholas knew that unless reinforcements arrived, they would not survive three months.
***
“You take my portion.” Bethie slid her slice of salted pork onto Nicholas’s plate, ignored her growling stomach. “I am no’ hungry just now.”
“Bethie, eat.” Nicholas frowned at her, tossed the precious slice back onto her plate.
“But you work much harder than I. You need a man’s portion.” She started to toss it back, but the scowl on his face stopped her.
“You’re feeding a baby. Eat!”
She ate her meager breakfast, watched as he cleaned his pistols and long rifle, realized what he was doing. “You’re going out again today.”
He looked down the barrel of the rifle, slid the cleaning rod down its length. “Aye. The corn is ripe, and Écuyer doesn’t want it falling into Indian hands.”
“Why must it always be you? Can no one else lead them this time?” She stood, paced the length of the room, a knot of fear in her belly.
“We’ve been through this before. The men trust me to lead them and—”
“And you know every beanpole and row of that garden now. Aye, I know. But surely the men who planted and tended the bloody garden know it just as well.”
“Aye, but how many of them are good marksmen? How many of them have faced down a charge of painted warriors?” Nicholas stood, set his rifle on the table, pulled her into his arms. “Most of them are privates, like young Fitchie. They’ve seen little of real battle. If we’re not able to harvest the spelt and the corn, we’ll starve before help arrives.” He paused, smiled. “Of course, we can always eat the dogs.”
Bethie laughed despite her fear. The captain’s loathing for barking dogs—and the settlers’ resulting hatred for him—had become fort legend. “How can you jest about something so grave?”
He nuzzled her ear. “It made you laugh, didn’t it?”
Then he kissed her, a gentle, languorous kiss, and she tasted the salt on his lips.
These past three weeks with him had been wondrous, the most precious of her life. Yet it seemed that love came at a price. Never had she felt more keenly the fear of loss, for never had she stood to lose so much. If aught were to happen to Nicholas...
Right now, in this moment, he was alive and strong. How she wished she knew some words of enchantment, a bewitchment to keep him safe until help could arrive.
“What will we do if reinforcements dinnae come?”
