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fireplace to refill the cup once more, the truth of his words dashing to pieces her sense of safety.
    “Are you sayin’ I should never set you free, Master Kenleigh?”
    “No, Mistress Stewart. I’m saying that unless you plan to keep me a prisoner forever and care for me as if I were a babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot, sooner or later you will have no choice but to trust me.”
    She walked back to the bed, felt her step falter. In truth, she hadn’t thought about how or when she would release him when she’d bound him to the bed. Nor had she considered what keeping him bound would mean. She’d been thinking only of a way to restrain him and deprive him of his weapons, and she had accomplished that. A babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot? Good heavens! She reached the bed, sat, held the cup once more to his lips.
    “Very well. I shall cut you free. But you shall first swear to me by all you hold sacred that you willna do anythin’ to harm me or my baby or to deprive us of our hearth and home.”
    He swallowed, licked broth from his lips. Then a queer look came over his face. He stared at the tin cup, then gaped at her.
    “You drugged me!”
    How did he know? “I-I gave you medicine to ease your pain—and make you sleep.”
    He laughed, a harsh sound. “You drugged me so that you could bind me and take my weapons.”
    He stated it so plainly that Bethie could find no words to soften the truth of what she’d done. She rested a hand protectively on her belly, felt her baby shift within her.
    “Y-you left me no choice.”
    Nicholas saw the defiant tilt of her chin, noticed the pink that crept into her cheeks. He noticed, too, the way her hand softly caressed the swollen curve of her abdomen as if to calm the small life inside her.
    What would I have done in her place?

    He dismissed the question—and the irritating impulse to defend his previous actions toward her. There was only one rule in the wild—survival. He’d only done what he’d felt he had to do to stay alive.
    And so had she.

    “Very well, Mistress Stewart. I swear that I will not harm you or your child or try to take from you that which is yours.” His next words surprised him. “And for the short time I shelter under your roof, I swear to protect you from any man who would.”
    What in hell had inspired him to say that? She was not his problem. Clearly, whatever potion she’d given him had addled his mind.
    For a moment she stood as still as a statue, her gaze seeming to measure him in light of the words he had just spoken.
    “Very well, Master Kenleigh.”
    She took up his hunting knife, which had lain on the table, then disappeared out of his range of vision. He felt her fingers pulling on the rope that bound his left ankle, felt the cold blade of his knife slide between the rope and his skin. A few tugs later, his left ankle was free. In a matter of moments, only the bonds around his left wrist remained. He rolled onto his back, watched her as she rounded the bed with agonizing slowness. He could feel her doubt, her trepidation. Her violet eyes wide, she watched him as if he were a wild animal that might attack at any moment.
    “I promised not to harm you. I am a man of my word.”
    The cool touch of a blade. A few sharp tugs.
    His wrist was free.
    Quickly she backed away from the bed, out of his reach, his knife still in her grasp.
    Nicholas pushed himself up onto his elbows. Outside the parchment window, all was dark. Nighttime already? Slowly he sat, let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, touched his feet to the wooden floor. The muscles in his right thigh screamed in angry protest. Dark spots danced before his eyes. The cabin swam.
    Nicholas drew air into his lungs, felt the labored beating of his heart. He cursed his weakness, knew he had come terribly close to dying. It would take days, perhaps even weeks, for him to regain the blood he had lost and, with it, his strength.
    “You see, Mistress Stewart?