by Pamela Clare
Lieutenant Cooke frowned. “They look like a troublesome lot, ill-suited to British military discipline, my lord. Good heavens, are those clan colors?”
William smiled. “I want to know who they are and what they’re doing here in Albany. Track their every move, Lieutenant, but take care lest they discover you. Hire someone if you must, but come dawn, I would know all there is to know about those three Scots.”
“I am your humble servant, my lord.” The lieutenant bowed his head respectfully.
“You are dismissed.” William turned away from the window and back toward his chessboard.
The pieces were set. It was time for a new game.
Iain MacKinnon fought to rein in his rage and followed the redcoat officer up the stairs, his movements made awkward by the heavy fetters around his ankles and wrists. Their shackles clinking, Morgan and Connor walked behind him, five soldiers with bayonets at their backs.
“We didna do it.”
Connor sounded like a lad about to feel the sting of his father’s belt strap. But the charge was murder. ’Twas far more than a beating they’d be in for if they failed to prove their innocence.
Iain and his brothers had been on their way out of town when a dozen redcoats had fallen on them and arrested them. Morgan and Connor had drawn their blades, ready to fight their way free, but Iain had stayed their hands.
“There’s no sense dyin’ over what is surely a mistake, lads,” he’d told his younger brothers as the redcoats had shackled his wrists.
They’d been arrested before a mob of gawking townsfolk and then taken to the fort that stood on the hill. There they’d been made to wait in a dank cell, where they’d had plenty of time to discuss the charge and make certain none of them had killed anyone. After all, they’d each had more than a gill or two of whiskey, and the night’s events were a wee bit foggy.
Connor’d said he’d spent his night between the thighs of bonnie Kally Vandall, consoling her over the loss of her much-older husband. Iain and Morgan had whiled their hours away at Oldiah Cooper’s tavern. Morgan had played at draughts and fondled the alewife’s plump daughter until lust overcame him and he’d taken her upstairs for a good tupping. Iain had sat alone with his ale and thought of Jeannie, with her long, honey-brown hair and big brown eyes.
When they got home again, Iain was going to wash, shave, put on his clean shirt, and ride to Jeannie’s father’s farm to ask his permission to wed his daughter. Old Master Grant favored him above her other suitors, Iain knew. The MacKinnon farm was fruitful, the larder well stocked with corn, smoked turkey, and venison, proving Iain’s skill with plow and hunting rifle. Only the formalities stood in the way of his taking Jeannie to wife. With any luck, they’d be sharing a marriage bed by summer’s end.
That’s why he and his brothers had come to Albany. Iain had paid the gunsmith a visit in hopes that the smithy could make his mother’s gold wedding band fit Jeannie’s smaller hand. Iain had measured her finger with a bit of string and brought the string with him. The gunsmith had been happy to oblige and had taken in fee the small bit of gold he’d cut from the ring.
It was thoughts of Jeannie that had kept Iain from fighting when the redcoats had taken them. The last thing Grant would want for his daughter was a man in trouble with the accursed English. Iain would settle this misunderstanding. Then he’d get his brothers out of Albany and back to the farm.
The redcoat officer reached the top of the stairs and led them down a short hallway to the right. Why they’d been brought here and not to some kind of court Iain knew not, but he didn’t like it. Something didn’t feel right.
The officer stopped and knocked on the only door.
A voice from within—imperious and very English—bade them enter.
Iain found himself being shoved with his brothers into a large room filled with foppish chairs, silver candelabra, and a great writing table of dark, gleaming wood. Portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Toward the center of the room sat a young bewigged Englishman, his fingertips pressed together as he contemplated the figures on a marble chessboard with furrowed brow. The bronze gorget at his throat proclaimed him an officer, while the glittering ring on his finger bespoke nobility.
Iain bit back the instinctive loathing that swelled inside him, shot a warning glance to his brothers. ’Twas not the time for an airing of their grievances with the Sassenach.
The young officer who’d let them into the room gave a respectful bow. “They are here, my lord.”
So he was a lord. And arrogant. He raised a finger for silence and continued to stare at the chessboard. After what seemed an eternity, he picked up a black pawn and moved it forward one space. Then he stood.
He was almost as tall as Iain, though of a lesser build. His skin was pale like that of a gentleman who disdained the sun, but his features were manly, even strong. His brows were dark, a sharp contrast to his white wig. Through cold gray eyes he gazed first at Connor, then Morgan. Then at last his gaze met Iain’s, and he seemed to measure Iain as if weighing his soul.
Impatience whipped through Iain’s belly. “I am Iain MacKinnon. These are my—”
The butt of a rifle slammed into his gut, drove the air from his lungs.
“You’ll speak when spoken to!” The younger officer shouted in Iain’s face.
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” The lordling gave a dismissive flick of his wrist, then turned toward his writing table and poured himself a brandy. “I know much about you, Iain MacKinnon. These two men beside you are your brothers, Morgan and Connor. You arrived in New York as boys and grew up on the frontier, where you spent time amongst the heathen and learnt to speak several Indian tongues. Your father, Lachlan MacKinnon, died three winters past, and your mother, Elasaid Cameron, several years earlier. Your grandsire was Iain Og MacKinnon, barbarian lord of the MacKinnon Clan and the Catholic traitor who helped the Young Pretender escape justice after my uncle’s victory at Culloden.”
My uncle’s victory at Culloden.
Those final words struck Iain like a fist, made his gorge rise. MacKinnon blood had stained the moor red that terrible spring day, a mere foretaste of weeks of slaughter that had followed, slaughter ordered by one man: the Butcher of Cumberland, son of the Sassenach king.
Iain tried to picture Jeannie’s face, fought to keep the hatred from his voice. “Then you are—”
The lordling turned to face him again, brandy in hand, an arrogant smile on his face. “Lord William Wentworth, third son of Robert Wentworth, Marquess of Rockingham, who is husband to Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Sophia. My grandsire—well, no doubt you can deduce who he is.”
Iain could.
Bloody King George.
A thousand curses passed through his mind—and with them a thousand questions. But only one mattered. “Why have you brought us here?”
Wentworth swirled his brandy, took a sip, swallowed. “From what I understand, you’re soon to be convicted of murder and hanged.”
Iain glanced over at his brothers, saw the look of disbelief on their faces. “We’ve no’ been convicted, nor has there yet been a trial. The accusation is false. There’s been some kind of mistake.”
Connor’s voice dripped with contempt. “What evidence do you have against us?”
Wentworth set his drink down, glared at Connor. “Sometime during the night, the three of you encountered and killed Henry Walsh—the man you grappled with yesterday afternoon outside my window.”
“That’s a bloody lie! We didna—” Connor’s words became a grunt as a rifle butt struck his ribs once, twice.
Fists clenched, Iain took a step toward Wentworth. “Your men will no’ strike him again, or I’ll show you just how much barbarian blood runs in my veins!”
Wentworth nodded to the redcoat, who backed away from Connor. “I’ve already seen you fight. In fact, it’s because of your barbarian blood, as you put it, that I’m prepared to offer you an . . . arrangement.”
Iain felt the hai
r on the back of his neck rise. “What kind of arrangement?”
“I’ll see to it personally that all charges against you and your brothers are suspended. In exchange, you’ll take up the leadership of a Ranger unit under my command and fight for your sovereign against the French and their Indian allies.”
The idea was so absurd it almost made Iain laugh. “You’re daft.”
“Am I? His Majesty needs men who know the land and the ways of the Indians if he is to successfully pursue his interests on this continent. And without my help, you and your brothers will surely be hanged.”
Iain felt his teeth grind. “What proof do you have against us?”
Wentworth gave a shrug. “Why, in addition to the dead body, any I choose to offer, of course.”
And then Iain understood. Unless he agreed to fight for the British against the French, fellow Catholics and traditional allies of the Highland clans, the three of them would die for a crime they did not commit. No Englishman’s court would take the word of a traitorous Catholic Highlander over that of their king’s bloody grandson.
Blood rushed to Iain’s head. “’Tis slavery!”
Wentworth answered in a voice as cold as winter. “’Tis your duty to serve your king, whether by your free will or not.”
The room seemed to press in on Iain. He fought to keep his voice steady. “If I accept, what will become of my brothers?”
“Your brothers will be free to go as they please, while you will be given beating orders and funds sufficient to piece together and outfit a company of one hundred fifty men such as you judge fit for ranging service. You will report to me at Fort Edward by August twenty-first and serve me until death releases you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.”
“Dinnae do it, Iain! Curse him!” Morgan then did exactly that, letting loose a stream of Gaelic that would have shocked Satan himself.
“I’m no’ afraid to die.” Connor’s voice held quiet resignation. “Let them hang us! We willna be the first Highlanders murdered by English lies, nor the last.”
Scarce able to breathe, Iain considered the unbearable choice that had been thrust upon him—kill Frenchmen for the hated English or die with his brothers in shame and agony.
But there was more at stake than that.
Jeannie. Sweet Jeannie.
Grant would not let his daughter wed a soldier. He wanted to settle her with a farmer, a man whose mind was bent on tilling the soil and raising a family, not fighting a war. If Iain took up his rifle and sword, she would surely be lost to him.
There was also the farm. It had been his father’s dream to see it thrive and become the foundation for a revived MacKinnon Clan in the Americas. ’Twas unending, backbreaking labor, demanding both sweat and soul. If he fought for the English, his brothers would have to plant and harvest and fend off the forest without his help.
And then there was the matter of honor. If he served the British king, slayer of his kin, he would have none. What was a man without honor?
“What say you?” Wentworth watched him with that measuring gaze.
“Bugger him, Iain!”
“Dinnae do it! Let them hang us!”
Iain looked over at Morgan and Connor, felt the weight of his brothers’ lives in his hands.
Then he closed his eyes, and sent a silent prayer skyward.
God forgi’e me.
Chapter 1
Inveraray, Scotland September 14, 1757
Lady Anne Burness Campbell huddled in the corner of the dank gaol cell, shivering. Tears streamed down her already tearstained cheeks, though she did not notice them. Her eyes stared unseeing into the darkness, and she paid little heed to the rats that poked about in the stale straw. What did rats matter now?
Any moment the sheriff’s men would come for her. They would drag her into the town square. Then they would brand her on the thumb, mark her for the rest of her life as a thief. Then they would send her over the sea in shame.
But she had stolen nothing. Nothing.
“O, Mamaidh!” Mother!
Her mother could not help her now. She’d died three weeks past, the breath choked from her body, her spirit shattered. Uncle Bain had claimed it was an accident, a terrible tragedy, but Annie had known better. She’d overheard the whisperings of servants, heard them speak of his unnatural appetites, his liking for the pain of others. She’d remembered the handful of people who’d died over the years, most of them young servant lads and lasses, their deaths explained away in like fashion. And then there was her mother’s warning.
If aught should happen to me, tarry not, but take my jewels and what coin I have and flee this place. Make your way to Glasgow and seek out your father’s old solicitor, Argus Seton. Dinnae trust your uncle Bain. I know you love him, but you cannae trust him. Do you understand, Annie?
Annie hadn’t understood. Not then. Not yet.
If only she’d known. If only her mother had told her. She’d have gotten them both away from him somehow. But her mother hadn’t been able to bear the shame of Annie knowing, and now it was too late. Her mother was gone.
Annie’s heart seemed to burst under the crushing weight of her grief, and she fought back a sob. How she longed to hear her mother’s voice, to feel her mother’s hand upon her hair, to see her sweet smile—simple tokens of a mother’s love. Annie hadn’t understood how precious they were until they had passed forever beyond her reach. How could she live without them?
She was alone.
Now she was to be branded and sent on a ship to a strange land—all at the hands of a man she’d loved and respected as a father.
’Twas like being swallowed by a nightmare.
Fear spread like a sickening poison through her belly. How badly would the hot iron hurt? Would she survive the journey? What sort of people would she be forced to serve?
Be brave, lass. Dinnae let your fear rattle you.
Her father’s voice, words he’d spoken so long ago, came suddenly into her mind. She’d been five, and he’d been teaching her to ride her pony. But the pony had seemed so high from the ground, and she’d been sore afraid. Only the sound of his voice and the reassurance of his smile had kept her in the saddle that long hour. And when she’d learnt to ride with skill and confidence, his praise had seemed like sunshine. It had been the happiest summer of her life.
Within the year, her father had died fighting for King George at Prestonpans, cleaved in two by a Jacobite claymore, her brothers cut down without mercy beside him—Robert, William, and Charles. Uncle Bain had fought beside them and, despite his own injuries, had protected their bodies with his claymore, spilling his own blood to spare them despoilment and earning a hero’s honor for himself.
Annie had been six.
For a time, she and her mother had remained in their home. But her father, though an earl, had not been wealthy. Pressed by creditors, overwhelmed by grief, her mother had been forced to sell the estate and live with Uncle Bain, her brother-by-marriage. A marquess and widower with one grown son who spent his time in London, Uncle Bain had seemed to welcome them at his nearby estate with open arms. Only after her mother’s death had Annie realized her uncle hadn’t taken them in out of the kindness of his heart.
If only her father or brothers had lived. Everything would have been different. If her father had lived—
Footsteps.
They were coming.
Annie tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. Her heart beat painfully in her breast. If she’d had anything in her belly, she might have been sick.
Be brave, lass.
She forced herself to stand on trembling legs, smoothed her skirts. Then she wiped the tears from her face. No matter what they did to her, she was still Lady Anne Burness Campbell.
The clanking of iron keys. The tumbling of the lock. The creaking of hinges.
A shaft of flickering light spilled into the cell, spread acr
oss both rats and straw as the door was pushed open wide and her two tormentors appeared. For three weeks she’d suffered their leering glances, listened to their vile blether, done her best to escape their grasping hands.
“Did ye miss me, lass?” The taller of the two, Fergus, gave her a repulsive smile and laughed. “Time tae come wi’ us.”
Wat, the shorter one, grabbed her roughly by the arm. “There’s a gentleman come tae see ye.”
“A gentleman?” Annie felt a spark of hope. Perhaps the sheriff had sent her letter to Argus Seton after all. Perhaps her father’s old friend had come to prove that she was, indeed, Lady Anne Campbell and not some thieving servant wench as her uncle claimed. “Take me to him.”
“‘Tak’ me tae him.’” Fergus mimicked her words, held out a pair of shackles. “She’s up and spake tae us as if we was her servant laddies come tae dae her biddin’.”
“Can we no’ humble her a bit wi’ a fast tup in the straw? She’ll no’ speak thus tae us efter we’ve had her on her back.”
Annie pretended their words did not touch her, as much for her own sake as to discourage them. She’d learnt quickly that acting like a frightened virgin only fed their wickedness. She held out her wrists, felt the dreaded touch of cold iron against her skin as Fergus locked the shackles in place.
“We’ve no time for that just now, Wat.” Fergus looked at her breasts, grinned. “Sorry tae disappoint ye, lass.”
The two men pushed her out the door of her cell and down a narrow arched hallway where fat yellow candles flickered in iron sconces against walls of crumbling gray stone. From behind a dozen small arched doors like hers came sounds of human misery—moans, murmurs, a woman’s wailing, curses, mad laughter—and Annie found herself wanting to run from this place, from the stench and the loneliness and the terror of it.
But perhaps she was leaving. She prayed with all her heart it was so. She tried to imagine who the gentleman might be, felt her heart lift. It had to be Master Seton. She’d written no one else. There was no one else.