by Pamela Clare
A kindly man bowed from years of working over his ledgers, he would see to it she was set free and the jewels restored to her, together with all the belongings she’d left behind in her uncle’s hall when she’d fled. And then, when they were safely away from Inveraray, the first thing she would ask for was a hot bath and a soft bed. For three long weeks, she’d had neither.
They came to another hallway, but instead of going up the stairs as they’d done when she’d been taken before the judge, they turned left toward stairs that descended into darkness.
Annie stopped, stared down the dark stone stairway, alarm creeping up her spine. “Wh-where are you takin’ me?”
Fergus gave her a shove, almost sent her toppling. “Ye’ll see soon enough, lassie.”
With each step, Annie’s doubt and dread grew. The public rooms of the gaol were upstairs, not below stairs. If her father’s solicitor had come for her, surely he’d have been left to wait upon her above.
Be brave, lass.
But she didn’t feel brave. By the time they reached the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, she was trembling again.
Fergus grabbed the iron handle, pushed the door open.
Uncle Bain.
Annie felt the blood rush from her head, felt herself sway on unsteady legs, her last hope shattered.
The man she’d once loved as a father stood before the fire in the middle of a room that was filled with devices the purpose of which could only be cruelty. Wearing no wig and dressed only in his shirtsleeves, he looked disheveled, his face lined with fatigue as if he had been unable to sleep. His gaze was hard upon her, but he spoke to the guards. “Leave us.”
Chuckling, Fergus and Wat forced her through the door, shut it behind her.
“I trust they haven’t laid hands upon you, lass. I’ve paid them well.” He looked so like her father—the same blue eyes, the same smile, the same square jaw. It had been easy to love him, easy to trust him. But he was nothing like her father. “Those stupid little men. They think I’ve come to ravish you. Is that what you think? Aye, I can see that it is. Would I do that to my brother’s dear child, my own blood?”
Annie lifted her chin. “W-why have you come here?”
“Why, to give you one last chance, lamb. You need but say the word, and I’ll have my carriage brought round. You’ll be home by midday in your own chamber, sittin’ in a hot bath before the fire with a warm cup of chocolate. I’ll have cook make your favorite meal—partridge with sage stuffing, glazed pears, cakes—and tonight you’ll sleep in your own bed.”
The thought of her chamber with its treasures and comforts brought fresh tears to her eyes. Her books. The porcelain doll her father had given her for Christmas. The silver-handled brush that had belonged to her grandmother. The portrait of her parents newly wed. Her feather-soft bed. She could almost feel the hot water of the bath, smell the rose-scented soap, taste the partridge. She longed for home, longed to leave this place, longed for the nightmare to end.
Perhaps she could go with him. He would drop the charge against her, and she could act the part of the contrite and loving niece until another chance to escape came along. Aye, she could do that. There’d be no more rats, no brand, no ship carrying her across the sea.
A part of her longed to throw herself into his arms, to beg his forgiveness, to love him with all her heart, just as she once had. She longed to believe him, to forget her mother’s words, to retreat into the life she knew.
Dinnae trust your uncle Bain. I know you love him, but you cannae trust him.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “W-what promise can you give me that you willna harm me or seek out my bed?”
A look of revulsion crossed his face. “Who put such notions into your head, Annie? I have loved you, raised you as my own, treated you as a daughter. Have I ever harmed you?”
A lifetime of happy memories flashed through her mind. Uncle Bain bouncing her on his knee and telling her tales of ancient Scottish history. Uncle Bain buying her a blooded mare for her birthday. Uncle Bain teaching her to dance a quadrille.
Annie had taken a step toward him when another image came into her mind: her mother lying dead, her cheeks stained with tears, deep purple bruises round her throat.
She looked into her uncle’s face, a face she’d once held dear, and saw the animal that lurked beneath his skin. Then she heard herself laughing. “Have you ever harmed me? I am here, am I no’? Is it no’ because of your lies that I am locked in wi’ rats and filth and men who have more hands than wits and cannae keep a decent tongue in their mouths?”
“Och, Annie, forgive me! I was angry. After all I’ve done for you, I couldna bear it to know you’d left my home like a thief in secret. It willna happen again. If you wish to go to Glasgow, we shall go to Glasgow.”
And Annie understood. She would never have another chance to escape him. He would guard her every step, watch her day and night. Where she went, he would go. She would be every bit as much a prisoner under his roof as she was here. It would only be a matter of time until she shared her mother’s fate.
Horrified at the choice she must make, she could scarce speak. “Oh, Uncle!”
A victorious grin spread across his face. “That’s my Annie. You’ve learnt your lesson, so let’s be off home.”
She shook her head, backed away from him. “Nay, I willna go wi’ you.”
For a moment he gaped at her, as if astonished. Then his face grew cold. “You prefer to stay here and face what awaits you?”
Then she spoke the words she knew would seal her fate, words that terrified her, words she’d longed to hurl against him for three long weeks. “I—I saw you wi’ my mother the night she died. Y-you killed her like you killed the others—for the sake of your own twisted pleasure!”
His nostrils flared, and a look of rage such as she’d never seen came over his face. He walked toward her slowly, menacingly. He reached out, took a lock of her hair, rubbed it between his fingers, his blue eyes cold. Then he laughed. “What would a prim little virgin know of pleasure?”
He stepped back from her and clapped his hands to bring Fergus and Wat back through the door. Then he strode to the fire and pulled out a branding iron Annie had not noticed before. “Bind her to the table. Bare her legs.”
Panic surged through her, made her heart beat so hard she thought it might come apart. “Nay, please! Uncle, you cannae do this! I’m to be branded in public! In public!”
But her cries were drowned out by men’s laughter.
Rough hands grabbed her, pulled her over to a wooden table. Despite her desperate struggles and screams, the men soon had her on her back, her skirts lifted to her hips, her legs held apart and bound fast, her drawers torn aside.
Her uncle approached the table, a queer look on his face. In his hand was the hot iron, the letter T at its end glowing orange.
“Nay, Uncle, please! For the love of your brother, dinnae—”
“You have no idea how much this pains me, Annie, but I cannae have you here spreadin’ lies.” Then he stroked the sensitive flesh of her naked inner thigh. “Here, I think. It willna mar your beauty, but any man you try to love shall find it—and discard you.”
“Nay, please!”
A hiss against her thigh.
Terrible, searing pain.
The sound of her own screams.
Chapter 2
March 20, 1758 Near Otter Creek New York frontier
Instinct awoke him. Only men who wanted to wake up dead slept until dawn this deep in enemy territory. They were but one day’s march south of Ticonderoga, too close to the French to take risks.
Iain MacKinnon opened his eyes, found himself staring into his brother Morgan’s bewhiskered, sleeping face. On the other side of Morgan, Connor was still snoring.
Iain gave Morgan a jab. “Wake up.”
Morgan’s eyes opened, and he yawned.
“Och, hell, you stink!” Iain sat up.
“And you smell like a daisy.�
� Morgan stretched, then shook Connor.
Iain ducked out of the lean-to they’d built last night, pulled his bearskin overcoat tightly around him, and looked about. Several inches of new snow had fallen while they’d slept, and the air was cold. Grabbing his rifle, which stood primed, loaded, and corked just inside the shelter, he headed off into the trees to take a piss.
Already his men were stirring. Some had already packed their gear and now stomped about to warm themselves. After almost three years of fighting, rising early was their habit. Strong Scotsmen and stubborn Irish, they didn’t need him to nag at them like some old fishwife.
’Twas their fourth day out on a routine scout up to Ticonderoga. Their mission was simple—determine how many troops the French were sheltering, observe the fort’s supply lines, and mark any changes made to the fort itself since their last scout. Clearly, the redcoat generals were planning to attack the fort come summer.
“MacKinnon.”
“Dougie.”
“Dia dhuit, Mack.” God be with you.
“Dia dhuit fhein, Cam.” And with you.
Iain relieved himself, listened to the sounds of camp coming quietly awake. He couldn’t deny the pride he felt in his Rangers, in their woodcraft, their marksmanship, their ability to survive. There were no better fighters in the colonies, no men better suited to the challenge of this war. ’Twas an honor to lead them, an honor to fight beside them. If it came to it, ’twould be an honor to die beside them.
Still, no amount of pride could vanquish the remorse Iain felt for the men he’d lost or the Catholic blood he’d spilled. The French had always been the Highlanders’ truest allies, the English their most reviled enemies. To kill French Catholics for the German Protestant who ruled over Britain seemed an abomination.
This was not the life he had wanted. It was not the life he had chosen. It had been forced upon him by that whoreson of an English lord. In truth, Iain was little more than a bondsman, a servant whose job it was to fight at his master’s command. No matter that they called him “Major” and “Ranger.” Wentworth had forced him to fight for Britain at the point of a gun. His brothers, unwilling to let him face danger alone, had joined him as his officers. And so they had all been ensnared.
For nigh on three years, Iain and his Rangers had done as Wentworth asked of them, harrying the French at every turn, confusing their plans, dogging them through bog and forest. They’d faced the enemy in battles that had left scores of good men dead and sent countless Frenchmen and Indians to hell. They’d done things to stay alive no civilized man could comprehend. Sometimes he wondered if they still deserved to be called men.
He’d always imagined that by the age of eight-and-twenty he’d be settled with a wife at his side and bairns at his knee. In his mind, he’d seen fields of ripening corn, chickens that scattered at his sons’ and daughters’ feet, fattened cattle and hogs, an orchard of juicy apples, stacks of sweet hay drying in the sun. He’d pictured teaching his sons to hunt and track, watching his daughters grow into womanhood under his wife’s gentle hand, perhaps living to see his children have children of their own.
He’d always imagined he’d marry Jeannie.
He’d certainly never imagined this.
Ahead in the darkness, a sentry called out the sign. “King George’s codpiece.”
A familiar voice returned the countersign. “Empty.”
Iain tied the fall of his breeches, watched Captain Joseph approach. “Aquai.” Hello, old friend.
White teeth flashed in the darkness. “Aquai. Is this bunch of old women rested?”
Iain grinned. “Aye. And those weakling children you call warriors?”
“They’re ready enough.”
The two walked back into camp, planning their strategy for the day. Iain and his Rangers would take the lead and scout to the rendezvous point, while Captain Joseph and his men would take the rear and watch for any French force that tried to sweep down upon them from Ticonderoga.
Iain trusted Joseph as a brother and knew Joseph and his men would fight to the death beside him if necessary. He’d known Joseph since he was a lad of sixteen. Joseph and his father had approached the MacKinnon farm one autumn afternoon, bringing gifts of corn and dried venison that had helped Iain and his family endure that first hard winter in their new home. Though the sight of Indians on her doorstep had terrified Iain’s mother, a fast friendship had been struck between his family and the neighboring Muhheconneok people, many of whom were Christian—though not of the one true Church, as Iain’s father had pointed out many times.
Iain and Joseph had become men together, had earnt their warrior marks side by side. And although Iain knew it had pained his father to see his three sons become more like the Muhheconneok with each passing day, what they had learnt from their Indian neighbors had kept them all alive and enabled the farm to thrive.
“We’ll see you at the rendezvous tonight.” Joseph put a hand on Iain’s shoulder, grinned. “Let us know if you need to stop and rest. Perhaps my men can carry your gear for you.”
“Take care that you don’t get lost in the woods, friend. If you do—”
From afar came the sound of gunfire.
Annie watched the milk squirt into the tin bucket, grateful for the warmth of the cow’s teats against her chilled fingers. After three months of daily practice, she was able to do the milking quickly without losing a single precious drop. Mistress Hawes could not justify taking a strap to her now.
Not that her mistress needed a reason to strike her. No matter how hard Annie tried, she could not seem to please her. Mistress Hawes found fault with everything Annie said or did. She even claimed to know what Annie was thinking.
“Ye be thinkin’ yer ower guid tae be servin’ the likes o’ us, do ye no’, lassie?” she’d said last night when she’d found Annie rubbing her sore, chapped hands with a bit of rabbit fat she’d scraped out of the cook pot.
“Nay, Mistress,” Annie had answered.
But her words hadn’t come fast enough to stop her mistress from rapping her knuckles with a wooden spoon. Annie had been sorely tempted to grab the spoon from Mistress Hawes’s hands and throw it in the hearth fire.
’Twas a boon that Mistress Hawes was now heavy with child. Annie was quicker and more agile than she and was learning to guess her temper. More than once Annie had been able to avoid being struck by hurrying to a safe distance. But Mistress Hawes would not be with child much longer. And Annie could do nothing to stay Master Hawes’s hand if he took a notion to punish her for some imagined sin or misdeed. Though he rarely struck her, each blow from his hand rattled bone.
Though Uncle Bain struck his servants upon occasion, Annie had never done so, nor had her mother or father. A few of their servants had been with the family for generations—the fact of which they boasted with pride. Betsy, who’d been Annie’s lady’s maid since Annie was old enough to wear stays, had been more a friend and confidante than a hireling. But after a few months of servitude, Annie couldn’t help but wonder whether Betsy had felt the same friendship or whether she’d found serving Annie to be a hateful chore. Did she miss Annie as much as Annie missed her?
The weight of Annie’s misfortune pressed in on her, shadowed by grief, regret, desolation. Could she endure fourteen long years of this?
Last night, she’d dreamt she was safe in her father’s hall in Rothesay. They’d all been there, her father and mother, Robert, William, and Charles. They’d been preparing the main hall for Christmas, hanging mistletoe and holly, laughing and singing. She’d felt so warm and happy, as if the past seven months of her life had never happened.
“Stay wi’ me,” she’d told the others, suddenly afraid they might leave her.
Her father had reached out and taken her hand. “We’re always wi’ you, Annie.”
Yet, too soon she’d opened her eyes to find herself alone, lying on a straw pallet beneath a crude ceiling of hewn logs, nothing left of her dream but a bittersweet ache.
&
nbsp; Tears stung her eyes, blurring udder, milk, and bucket. Wary of being caught weeping—it would surely lead to another beating—Annie wiped the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her coarse woolen gown. It was not really her gown, of course. Mistress Hawes, seeing that Annie’s gown and petticoats were much finer than her own, had demanded that Annie switch with her the day Master Hawes had purchased Annie’s indenture. She’d taken Annie’s coat, her gloves and her boots as well, and forced Annie to wear her crude wooden brogues.
“’Tis nae fittin’ that ye be wearin’ such a goun an yer mistress be wearin’ auld woolsey.”
It didn’t matter that Mistress Hawes was taller than Annie, nor that her shoulders were wider and her feet larger. Mistress Hawes had demanded that Annie remove her clothing that instant. Annie’s only consolation was the knowledge that her boots pinched Mistress Hawes’s toes.
’Twas strange to think that that gown, borrowed from Betsy the night she’d tried to flee her uncle’s home, should be seen as finery. It was by far the humblest, least lovely gown Annie had ever worn. After all, her goal had been to disguise herself until she’d made her way to Glasgow. Her mother’s jewels sewn into the hems of her petticoats, she’d fled in the dark of night and made it as far as the main road before her uncle had caught her.
Now she wore the brand of a thief, a mark of shame seared into her skin in a hidden place, a place it had pleased her uncle to maim. Transported far from home, she was the property of another until fourteen years should pass or death should claim her. ’Twas her punishment for defying her uncle, for knowing the vile truth about him.
Annie stood and set the pail aside, careful not to spill the milk. She untied the cow, let it wander back to its wee calf, then carried fresh hay and oats to the horses. When she’d first arrived, she hadn’t known a thing about caring for cows or plucking down from a goose or cooking ashcakes. Yet such things were now her life.
It wasn’t the hard work she minded or even the rough means of living. Nor was it the vastness of the wilderness, the war with the French, the fear of marauding Indians, or the haunted howls of wolves at night, though at first these things had frightened her. She would gladly have accepted all such hardships to evade her uncle.