by Pamela Clare
Then he’d used the tumpline to hold her on his back as he’d done many times with wounded men. Wrapped in his greatcoat and pressed against the warmth of his back, she’d soon quit shivering and had seemed to fall into a deep sleep. As much as he’d wanted to treat her injuries, chiefly the cut on her temple, their survival depended on keeping ahead of the Abenaki.
Fortunately, she was a much lighter burden than any of his Rangers, so she didn’t slow him down. She was a sight bonnier, and she smelled better, too. What was her name? How old was she? Her face was youthful and fair, but her body was soft with a woman’s curves, and her courage spoke of strength beyond that of a mere child.
You dinnae have me yet!
She had stared her own death in the face and defied it. Many a grown man would have wept and begged.
Iain would do all he could to make certain her bravery was not wasted. He had resolved to travel through the night, bearing her all the way if necessary. Although the main body of the French would likely pursue his men, the Abenaki would be after blood. They would send a war party after him, hoping to catch him and take him back to their village so the women could assuage their grief over their lost sons, husbands, and fathers by torturing the man who’d killed them. Still, it was unlikely their thirst for vengeance would drive them to forgo meals and sleep. If Iain’s ruse with his snowshoes had worked, he’d gained perhaps an hour on them. By walking through the night and the following day, he hoped to stretch that lead to several hours.
The hunter could afford to rest. The hunted could not.
Above his head, a raven took flight from the bare branches of a tall pine, its wings all but silent on the wind. He stopped, listened, but heard nothing other than the chatter of birds.
But the Abenaki were out there. He could feel them.
The enemy was not Iain’s only worry. ’Twas yet a three-day journey back to Fort Edward, and he carried provisions for only one person, most of the company’s provisions being packed away and tied onto sleighs. The cornmeal in his pouch was enough to fill his belly when he was pressed and had no time to hunt, but he was used to deprivation. He knew how to ignore hunger pangs, how to force mile after mile from his body without sustenance. It was certain she did not.
And then there were his Rangers. They knew the land around Lake George better than any group of men alive, white or Indian. They were hardy, trained to endure, trained to fight, trained to survive. But they were outnumbered two to one. If the French managed to outflank them and set up an ambuscade, they would suffer grievous losses. And their deaths would be on Iain’s head. If anything were to happen to Morgan or Connor . . .
He’d had most of a day to consider his own actions. He’d defied Wentworth’s orders, endangered his brothers, his men, and the mission, all for one woman. There would be hell to pay when he reached the fort—provided he did, indeed, reach the fort. And yet, he could not bring himself to regret what he’d done.
You dinnae have me yet!
She’d wanted so desperately to live, had fought ferociously to save herself. Had he left her to suffer rape and a torturous death, her screams would have haunted him forever. ’Twas enough to be haunted by the faces of the men he’d slain.
Oh, aye, he supposed her plight had put him in mind of Jeannie, and it was true that some part of him had never quit grieving for Jeannie or for his life that might have been. But well he knew this lass was not Jeannie.
It came down to this: the lass had needed him, and he would no longer have been able to call himself a man had he turned his back on her and let her be ravished and slaughtered, no matter what his orders.
He reached the base of the hill, crossed a frozen creek, and then followed it east, toward Lake George, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. He’d abandoned the idea of meeting his brothers at the rendezvous point. He didn’t want to lead the Abenaki war party in their direction, nor did he care to risk an encounter with the main body of the French. For the sake of his men and for his own sake, he was on his own.
But he was not without a strategy. He and his men had hidden four whaleboats at the mouth of this creek last December when the lake had frozen over. Though there was little chance the boats had remained undiscovered and intact these many months, it was worth the lost time and effort to make certain. He’d preserve his strength, leave less of a trail for the Abenaki to follow, and make better speed toward the fort if they were to travel by boat at night and rest ashore during the day. ’Twould be easier on the lass as well.
To be sure, traveling in the dark on the lake brought its own risks.
Chapter 4
’Twas the pain that roused Annie. Like cold hellfire, something burnt her feet. And then she felt it—a man lifting her skirts, his hands on her calves.
A spark of memory.
The Indian man with the hatchet. He was trying to . . .
Fear surged through her, brought her fully awake. She screamed, kicked blindly at him, felt her heel drive into his groin.
“Och, Jesus!” He groaned in pain.
She fought the dizziness that threatened to suck her down, tried to get to her feet.
But he was stronger, faster, and very angry. In a blink, he’d thrown his body over hers, pinned her on her back, and clasped his hand over her mouth to silence her. Then he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, his voice tight with pain.
“Kickin’ a man in the stones is a strange way to thank him for savin’ your life, lass.”
As he spoke, Annie became aware of three things. The first was his Highland burr. He was no Indian. The second was the color of his eyes. Blue they were, like a mountain loch, and full of fury. The third was his body. Raw and braw, the length of it pressed against her, his strength seeming to burn through her woolen gown. She found it strangely hard to breathe.
“Holy Mother of—!” The man groaned again, breath hissing through clenched teeth. “I ken what it must seem like for you to wake and find me wi’ my hands on you, but I was no’ tryin’ to dishonor you. In fact, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive. And if you’re as smart a lass as I think you are, you willna scream again. There’s an Indian war party not far behind us bent on vengeance, and unless you want to lead them straight here, you’d best be silent, aye?”
She nodded, heart still pounding.
Slowly, he released her and sat back on his heels. “Now lie still, and let me tend your wounds.”
He was a strapping man, tall and almost twice her weight. His hair, thick and dark as midnight, hung unbound almost to his waist. He was dressed in leather breeches and a shirt of homespun, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Strange markings decorated his forearms and wrists, black lines and geometric shapes. A small wooden cross hung about his neck on a leather thong. And his face—bonnie it was, yet also manly. His square jaw was covered with a dark growth of whiskers. His nose was straight, apart from a small widening where it had apparently once been broken. A small scar above his left brow gave him a slightly sinister look. Only his lips, which were unusually full, and his eyelashes, which were oddly long for a man, softened his otherwise starkly male features.
Then something caught her eye. A claymore. It stood, blade thrust into the ground, beside his gear. Tied around its handle was a strip of a Highland tartan. ’Twas against the law to flaunt clan colors, and they marked him for what he was—the member of a traitorous clan, the son of Jacobites, a barbarian. Alarm shivered up her spine. “Y-you’re a MacKinnon.”
The words were out before she could stop them.
A hint of fire in his eyes, he glanced up at her. “If that displeases you, lass, I can leave you here for the next savior who comes along.”
She didn’t need him to tell her there would be no other. She tried to sweeten her tongue. “I-I’m grateful for your help.”
She sat up slowly, her head throbbing. Her gaze was drawn to the strange markings on his arms. Aye, he was a barbarian—like the men who had killed her father and brothers.
She dare no
t trust him.
She had no choice but to trust him.
Her life depended upon him.
He reached into a small clay jar, scooped something onto his finger, then rubbed it onto a cut on her right ankle. It stung like fire.
She gasped at the pain, tried to slap his hand away. “What are you doin’?”
He caught her wrist, touched the salve to another cut. “’Tis a salve that will keep your wounds from festerin’.”
“Oooh, mercy! It burns! What is in it?”
He grinned. “I dinnae ken. ’Tis a remedy made by the old grannies of the Muhheconneok people. Try though I might to get those old women to yield their secrets, they tell me I am only a man and that I should fetch more meat and ask fewer questions.”
Muhhec . . . The word he’d just spoken seemed impossible, like something that ought to have gotten stuck in his throat, and yet had not. “You have friends amongst the Indians?”
“Aye, my brothers and I have lived as friends with the Muhheconneok from the time we came to this land. We learnt much from them, lived with them and fight beside them. Now, shall I put this on you, or would you rather do it yourself?”
The brand! Had he seen it?
She quickly pushed her skirts down over her knees. “I—I’ll do it.”
He thrust the jar of salve into her hands, then stood. “Be sure to put it on every cut. We’ve a long journey ahead of us, aye? I cannae have you fallin’ ill wi’ fever.”
She sniffed the salve, not sure she could trust this strange concoction or the man who’d given it to her, and smelled something akin to turpentine. She was about to ask him what he meant by a long journey, when she caught sight of her own feet. Black-and-blue they were, swollen and covered with scratches and deep cuts. Her legs were also scratched and bruised, though not as badly. It looked as though she’d run through broken glass.
Without warning, the full weight of what had happened pressed in on her, sounds and images filling her mind. Agonized screams. Her flight through the forest. Falling down the embankment. The Indian man’s mocking leer. The rock. The raised hatchet.
She touched a hand to her left temple, winced at the pain, felt something sticky. When she drew her fingers away, she saw blood. “Oh, mercy . . .”
The forest seemed to spin. Her stomach pitched and rolled. Her body shook.
She fought to draw air into her lungs, leapt to her aching feet, stumbled headlong toward the nearest tree.
Strong arms shot out of nowhere and lowered her to the ground. “Where in God’s name do you think you’re goin’?”
“Please! I’m goin’ to be sick!” Her stomach lurched.
“Then be sick here, lassie. You are no’ fit to be dashin’ off like this.”
She had no choice now and lost the meager contents of her stomach in the snow while he held back her hair. When it was over, she felt shaky and weak and utterly humiliated.
But she remembered. She remembered the gunfire and the Indian man who’d been about to rape her falling dead beside her. The sounds of fighting, of dying. A man with a sword.
He truly had saved her life.
She took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. “The others . . . back at the cabin? They’re . . . d-dead?”
“Aye. My regrets for your sorrow, lass.” His voice was deep, gentle.
She bore Master and Mistress Hawes no affection, but to think they’d come to such an end, and their innocent, unborn child with them, brought tears to her eyes—and the gnawing pain of guilt to her belly. “I was in the barn. I—I heard them screamin’, and I . . . I ran. I should have tried to save them. I should have stood beside them.”
“You’d have been killed, too. There is no shame in tryin’ to live another day.”
She shook her head, felt tears spill onto her cheeks. “I was afraid. I ran. I left them.”
“You’ve no cause to punish yourself. I dinnae ken when I’ve seen so brave a lass. When the time came, you fought wi’ courage that would do a man proud.” His words were soothing, a balm.
“D-did you find them? Did you bury them?”
“My men found them, but there was no time to bury them. I’m sorry.”
In disbelief and fury, she glared at him. “We cannae leave them to be eaten by animals. ’Tis uncivilized, heartless!”
He gave a harsh laugh. “You’re a long way from civilization.”
Sick with remorse and furious, she tried to stand. “I must go back! ’Tis my duty!”
A muscle in his jaw clenched. He gripped her arms and gave her a little shake. “Your duty now is to survive. There’s naugh’ you can do for your kin except pray for their souls. Besides, their bodies lie a good day’s march from here, and there’s an Abenaki war party out for our blood.”
Kin? He thought Master and Mistress Hawes were her kin? She almost laughed.
And then, slowly, it became clear to her.
Her master and mistress were dead, and her indenture papers had surely burnt with the cabin. There was no one around who knew she was a convict, no one who knew she was bound by a fourteen-year indenture. Only the sheriff who’d registered Master Hawes’s purchase of her, the captain who’d brought her over, and the others who’d been transported with her would recognize her. But they were a handful of people on a vast continent and far away.
She was free.
The realization left her stunned.
Could it be that easy? Could she simply walk out of the forest and begin a new life? Could she take back at least part of the future that had been stolen from her? Could she escape the misery her uncle had planned for her?
“What’s your name, lass?”
She’d been so lost in her thoughts that his question startled her. She opened her mouth to answer, caught herself. She could no longer be Lady Anne Burness Campbell or even Annie Campbell. “Annie Burns.”
Shame assailed her. She’d never lied before, not like this. But was it really so grave a sin if it helped to unmake a worse lie, a grave injustice? Was she wrong to reclaim the freedom that had been taken from her if it meant being dishonest? She did not know.
“Do you have family nearby? A husband or brother perhaps?”
“Nay. They . . . were the last.” She closed her eyes, sickened by her own words. She was lying to him and did not deserve his sympathy.
“’S duilichinn orm gun do dh’fhuladh thu.” I regret that you should suffer.
The soft, sweet sound of Gaelic made her throat tight and brought fresh tears to her eyes. She struggled to rein in her warring emotions, and for a moment they sat in silence.
“I’m Iain MacKinnon, Miss Burns. If you’ll tend to your wounds, I’ll get the boat ready. ’Tis almost sunset, and we’ve tarried overlong as it is.” He glanced about as if looking for signs of trouble, then rose and strode through the trees.
“Where are you takin’ me?” She wiped the tears from her face, tried to think of the days to come, not the past. She looked at her surroundings for the first time and saw that they sat in the middle of a small clearing. Through the forest to her left she could discern what looked like a lake, but she saw no boat.
“Fort Edward. ’Tis a hard two or three days’ journey from here, depending on what befalls us.” He reached what appeared to be a mound and began to brush the snow aside as if digging for something. “We’ll make better time on the water, and it will be easier on you. You willna soon want to walk on those feet, aye?”
Fighting the pricking of her conscience, she forced her mind to the task at hand. She dabbed a finger into the salve, found a particularly deep scratch on her left shin, and rubbed the salve onto it. She gasped and bit back a moan, shocked by the intense burn. The burning slowly faded and became a tingle. She took more salve, held her breath, dabbed another cut. Once she knew to expect the pain, it became easier to bear.
She tried to distract herself with conversation, asking questions from between gritted teeth. “How is it you happened to find me this mornin’? Do you have
a farm nearby?”
Now he seemed to be tossing aside undergrowth and branches he’d uncovered, revealing the dark, wet earth beneath. “Let’s just say you almost found me.”
She got the feeling he was trying not to answer her. “Where are we?”
“On the eastern shore of Lake George, south of Ticonderoga.”
His words meant little to her. “How did we get here?”
“I walked wi’ you on my back.”
Stunned, she gaped at him. “The whole way?”
“You are no’ so heavy, lass. I’ve carried grown men before and over much greater distances.”
The extent of what he’d done amazed her. Not only had he fought uneven odds to save her life—she remembered counting five Indians and one Frenchman—but he’d borne her as a burden through miles of forest.
Her mind flashed on her dream. The bear.
She set the salve aside, smoothed her skirts over her legs, and looked up at him. “Master MacKinnon, I . . . I’m sorry I kicked you.”
He bent down, grabbed what looked like a bit of dirty rope, but did not bother to look her way. “You’re forgiven. But dinnae do it again. I’ve no desire to live as a monk.”
She felt her cheeks flush at his words. “What I’m tryin’ to say is . . . What in heaven’s name are you doin’?”
“Gettin’ our boat ready.” He pulled on the rope, which seemed to run into the earthen mound, and the mound seemed to shift. It was no earthen mound, but a piece of earth-covered canvas. And beneath it were four small boats. Made of cedar, they were flipped upside down.
Annie watched as Master MacKinnon ran his hands over their hulls, as if inspecting every inch, then lifted one onto its side, carefully tipped it over onto its keel, and began to inspect the inside. Three sets of oars were lashed to the benches. She was about to ask him if these were his boats when she saw the words MAJ. MACKINNON painted on the bow.
She looked up at him again, remembered his words.
My men found them.
Was he some kind of military commander? If so, it helped to explain how he’d been able to fight so many men and survive. But where was his uniform? And where were his men?