by Pamela Clare
She didn’t realize she’d spoken her questions aloud until he answered.
“I’m Major Iain MacKinnon, in command of MacKinnon’s Rangers. We dinnae wear uniforms except as each man sees fit. As for my men”—his gaze shifted to the dark forest behind her—“they’re out there somewhere, fightin’ to get home.”
She stared at him, felt she was seeing him for the first time. “You’re a Ranger?”
“Aye.” He didn’t seem particularly proud of it.
She’d heard of the Rangers, of course. Master Hawes had spoken of them many times, insisting to his wife that if it were not for Robert Rogers and the many companies of Rangers, this war would already be lost. To hear him speak, one might think Rangers were invincible. She’d thought his words nothing but tall tales, but watching Major MacKinnon, knowing what he had done for her this day, she began to wonder if the stories might be true.
“I’ve heard it said ’tis a great honor to serve in one of the king’s ranging companies.”
His head jerked up, and he glared at her, his gaze hard and piercing. “I dinnae fight for Britain, and the Hanoverian is no’ my king.”
Shocked, she could only stare at him, his traitorous words and the harsh tone of his voice like a slap across the face. Only the knowledge that her life depended on him kept her tongue still. Aware he was watching her, she struggled to cover her response and plucked another question from the air. “W-why are you no wi’ your men?”
In his eyes she saw the answer.
He wasn’t with his men because of her.
Iain pushed the whaleboat over the mud and into the water. A thin layer of ice still rimmed the lake, but the boat was heavy and sturdy enough to break through it. With one last shove, it floated free.
He held fast the line, tied it off on a nearby tree, and then set to work wrapping two sets of oars in cloth and setting one in its gunwales. The other he laid in the bottom of the boat. When the boat was ready, he turned back to get his gear. ’Twas time they left this place. They’d already been here too long. If the Abenaki had tracked him, they could not be far off.
He’d been surprised to find all but one of the boats intact. An animal, probably a catamount, had turned one into its winter den and worked several of the planks free. But the other three were still fit for use.
Pleased with this discovery, he’d decided to take a few minutes to treat her wounds. Her feet were badly cut and looked sure to fester if left untended. He ought to have realized the sting of that bloody salve might wake and frighten her. For his carelessness, he’d nearly been unmanned. There was nothing like being kicked in the stones to humble a man and make him call for his Maker.
He was grateful she was conscious. A few hours ago, he’d wondered if she’d ever wake again. Now she was clearheaded enough to ask questions—some of them vexing.
He hadn’t missed the way her face had flushed with anger when he’d disowned Britain and its German king. She’d said her name was Burns. He tried to remember what he knew about minor Highland septs—her speech was that of the Highlands, and he knew she’d understood him when he’d spoken Gaelic to her. But it had been many long years since he’d studied the clans. Did he perhaps have a wee Loyalist on his hands?
Iain tried to dwell on that mildly annoying likelihood and not her loveliness. He could not allow himself to be distracted by her silky golden hair. Or her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones. Or her apple-green eyes with their long, smoky lashes. Or her creamy-white skin, so pale and soft. Or the lush swell of her breasts. Or those sweet, rosy lips. If he did, he’d end up with his hair hanging from an Abenaki lodge pole and his scalped head on a French pike.
Besides, there were many miles to go between this place and Fort Edward. He couldn’t endure having a hard cock the entire way.
He found her where he’d left her, sitting in the clearing wrapped in his bearskin overcoat. Swallowed up by the overlarge fur, she looked small and helpless. He could tell by the way her gaze searched the trees that the approach of night scared her. But to her credit she kept quiet.
She spotted him, relief at war with wariness on her face.
She still didn’t trust him.
The realization annoyed him, even as he understood it. Hadn’t he proved himself to her when he’d saved her life?
He thrust his irritation aside, knelt down beside her to pack his gear together. “Put on the leggings and the moccasins. You’ll need them. Have you finished wi’ the salve?”
She wrestled with one of the leggings, seemed to be trying to put it on without lifting her skirts—an impossible task. “Aye.”
“Nay, you forgot one.” Iain took his water skin and poured a bit of water onto his neckerchief. Then he pressed it to her temple.
She winced.
“Hold still.” He carefully washed the congealed blood from her face and hairline. But the Abenaki’s tomahawk had split her skin open, and it oozed blood still. She needed stitching. “I’m afraid it calls for sewin’, lass.”
“Wh-what?” Her eyes flew wide.
“I’ll be quick. I’ve done it many times before.” He quickly dug through his gear and prepared a needle and thread.
“Nay! You willna sew upon me!” She stared at the needle in his hands.
“Are you afraid?”
Her chin came up. “Nay. But you are no’ a surgeon.”
“By the time we reach the fort, the wound will have closed, and the surgeon willna be able to stitch it cleanly.” He handed her his flask of rum. “Take a drink. It will strengthen you.”
Glaring at him, she accepted the flask, pulled the cork, drank deeply, then coughed.
Iain bit back a chuckle. “Rest your head in my lap, lass.”
She glowered at him, but she did as he asked. “I am no’ afraid.”
Suddenly Iain felt all thumbs. He was used to stitching the uggsome, furry faces of ruddy, stinking men, not the tender white skin of lovely young women. He turned her head just so, then ducked the needle beneath her skin and pulled it through.
A hiss of breath escaped her, but she did not cry out.
He pulled the stitch tight, tied a knot, heard her gasp again. He found himself wanting to kill the bastard who’d struck her once again—more slowly this time. “I dinnae wish to hurt you, lass.”
“’Tis no’ . . . so bad.”
He worked as fast as he could, wishing it were some Ranger’s hairy arse he was jabbing with his needle. But beyond the occasional gasp, she made no sound. “’Tis done. But now I need to put some salve on it.”
She nodded, a sheen of sweat on her forehead, her face pale.
Iain put the needle and thread away, retrieved the little jar, scooped salve onto his finger. “Take my other hand, lass.”
She hesitated. Then her small, cold fingers mingled with his.
The contact burnt him. He couldn’t stop himself from caressing the silk of her hand with his thumb. “Are you ready?”
She nodded.
Quickly, he dabbed the salve over the cut, worked it into the skin.
She whimpered, squeezed his hand, bit her lip, then lay still, her eyes closed.
Iain fought the urge to caress her cheek. “’Tis finished, Miss Burns.”
“Th-thank you. But I dinnae . . . feel so good . . . just now.”
Neither did Iain. There seemed to be no breath in his lungs. He helped her to sit, then stood. “I’m going to stow my gear in the boat. Be ready to go when I return.”
Iain checked his weapons, packed his gear together, then carried it to the boat, trying to clear his mind of her. The sun had set, leaving just a hint of rose on the western horizon. The moon would be near new, making it hard for him to spot danger tonight. Fortunately, the darkness would make it hard for danger to spot them as well.
He turned and strode quickly back toward the little clearing. He needed to destroy the other two boats, and then they’d be off. He’d gone but a few feet when the raucous cries of ravens rang out from th
e trees five hundred yards north of the clearing. Then the forest fell silent.
The Abenaki.
He ran.
Chapter 5
Annie gingerly touched the stitches on her temple. They were small and evenly spaced. Almost dainty. It hadn’t hurt too badly. Certainly it wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever felt. Nothing could compare to the agony of red-hot iron burning itself deeply into tender flesh.
Barbarian though he might be, Master MacKinnon seemed to have gone out of his way not to cause her pain. He’d even held her hand. Such a big hand. It had completely enclosed hers, made hers seem tiny by comparison. Big and yet strangely gentle. He’d caressed her with the callused pad of his thumb. Of course, he’d only been trying to comfort her. Nothing more. But somehow she’d felt more aware of that simple touch than any before it.
He’s a MacKinnon, Annie. Dinnae be forgettin’ that.
He confused her, left her feeling unsettled. He was a big man, a rough man, a man who lived by the sword. But he’d saved her life, shown her kindness, even compassion. He fought as the leader of a Ranger company. Yet his words were those of a traitor. There was something about him that frightened her, and yet . . . Something drew her to him, as well.
I dinnae fight for Britain, lass, and the Hanoverian is no’ my king.
Men like him had turned against their sovereign. Men like him had caused a war and brought bloodshed to Britain. Men like him had slain her father and her brothers and left them dead upon the cold ground.
Men like him. But not him.
He’d been but a child at the time, just as she had been.
Unsure what to think or feel, she slid her legs into the leather leggings. Did Indian women wear these? What strange garments they were. Then it dawned on her that, had she been wearing them this morning, she’d not have gotten scratched and cut on her legs.
She had just slipped the second moccasin on, when the major rushed into the clearing, pistols drawn.
“Run! To the boat! Now!”
Heart thrashing in her breast, she leapt up, but the pain in her feet and her head was excruciating and she found herself on her hands and knees, dizzy and fighting to stay conscious.
She heard a gunshot and a loud blast like a cannon and screamed. She looked up to see fire and smoke rising from what moments ago had been a boat. Bits of wood rained down around her.
“Go, Annie!” The major threw something onto the hull of the last remaining boat, pointed his other pistol, fired at it.
Another blast and a rain of timbers.
Then from behind her came a familiar, terrible sound.
War cries.
She forced herself to her feet, took two agonizing steps, then felt herself being scooped off the ground. She wrapped her arms around the major’s neck, hardly daring to breathe as he ran through the trees toward the lake.
Ahead through the gloom, she could see the boat bobbing gently in the water.
He ran into the water, dropped her in the little craft, then turned back to loose the line. “Row!”
She scrambled over the benches to the oars, grabbed them, dipped them into the water, and pulled. But the boat went the wrong way and hit ground. “Oh, mercy!”
“Oh, for God’s—!” He threw the line into the boat, thrust his shoulder into the bow, and pushed it out into the lake, running in the water until it reached his hips. “Row! The other way!”
Almost sick with panic, Annie reversed what she’d done before and felt the boat pull away from the shoreline. She rowed with all her strength.
The major leapt in. “Get down! Behind me!”
She let go of the oars, dropped into the belly of the boat, felt it jerk as he dug at the water with powerful strokes. She had no idea how far out into the lake they’d gone, when she heard a burst of gunfire, followed by the dull thud of lead against wood. She bit back a scream, prayed the boat would not sink.
She heard Iain curse, looked up to see blood blossom red against the sleeve of his shirt. But he kept rowing, the muscles of his back and shoulders straining as the boat moved through the water.
“Are you hurt, lass?” He glanced at her over his shoulder, still rowing hard.
“Nay.” She looked up at his bleeding arm. “But you’ve been shot!”
“’Tis nothing—only a nick. It can wait until morn. Stay down.”
For a moment there was no sound but the oars slicing through water.
More gunshots, but they sounded farther away now.
And then a single deep voice cried out from the shore. “Mack-in-non! Saba, Mack-in-non!”
Through the last of the light, Annie could just make out a handful of figures, Indians like those she’d seen this morning, watching them from the shore, flintlocks in hand.
Death’s clammy fingers had reached for her twice today.
And twice she had evaded their grasp—but only because of the major.
“Tell me, Miss Burns. Have you never rowed a boat before?”
“Nay, Major. I’m sor—”
“Dinnae call me that.”
“Is it no’ the proper form of address?”
“Call me MacKinnon or Mack or Iain or whatever you like, but no’ ‘Major.’”
“Aye . . . Iain.” It felt awkward to use his Christian name. “And you may call me Annie.” Then she remembered he already had.
“Can you load and fire a pistol, Annie?”
“Nay.” There was more. She thought he should know, given that they were on a lake. “And I cannae swim.”
She heard him swear. “You’ve no’ been out here long, have you, lass?”
She felt strangely ashamed, though she had no cause to.’Twas not her fault she’d never learnt to shoot guns or row boats or wrestle bears. The life she’d known had not demanded such things. “Three months.”
He gave a rather impolite snort. “Your lessons start tomorrow. Now get some sleep.”
But she couldn’t resist asking. “What did he shout to you, that Indian on the shore?”
For a moment he said nothing. “It was his way of saying he’d find me tomorrow.”
A cold chill ran up her spine.
Iain kept up the rhythm of his rowing and watched the woman who slept, exhausted, at his feet. It was nearing dawn, and he would have to wake her soon. But not yet.
Though her face was tranquil in sleep, the horror she’d lived through showed clearly enough. One of her eyes had blackened, and her temple was swollen and badly bruised as well. Stitches puckered her skin. She would have a scar—nothing could be done to stop it.
He felt the slow burn of rage in his stomach. ’Twas surely amongst the worst of sins to make war on women and children. Men were not men who sought to destroy the heart of innocence or to slay life at its beginning.
She shifted in her sleep, turning her face away from him, exposing the white column of her throat. The bearskin coat slipped open to reveal the soft swell of one breast.
It hit Iain with the force of a fist.
Raw, aching lust.
He’d been trying to ignore it ever since she awoke. But here in the dark, with only himself and the night for company, there was no point in denying it. He wanted her. He wanted to stow the oars, scoop her up in his arms, and kiss her to wakefulness. Then he would taste her creamy skin, feel the weight of her breasts in his hands, and bury himself in her tight heat, bringing them both pleasure until neither one of them could bear more.
Was she yet untouched? He remembered her repeated attempts to cover her legs with her skirts and guessed she was. Though it didn’t matter to him whether her maidenhead was intact or not, he liked the idea of being the man to initiate her into sex, of being the first man to suckle her, the first to penetrate her, the first to make her cry out in bliss.
Even with her black eye and her bruises, she was one of the loveliest lasses he’d ever seen. But it was more than that. There was something different about her, something that set her apart. She was courageous. She was strong. She w
as intelligent—even if she couldn’t row a blasted boat or swim or load a weapon.
She didn’t know how to curse very well either—something that would surely be remedied if she spent any time in Ranger Camp.
Oh, mercy!
Mercy certainly wasn’t what the Abenaki’d had in mind.
It had been close—far too close. Iain ought to have followed his gut instinct and left without taking time to sew her wound. It could have waited until morning. But he’d allowed himself to get caught up in her, to be distracted by her, by those eyes. And the two of them had almost paid the price.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Since he’d first seen her, he’d defied his orders, deserted his men, endangered his mission, and come close to allowing a war party he knew was behind him to move in for the kill.
Perhaps he’d simply gone without a woman for too long.
It had been two months since he and his brothers had visited Stockbridge, where young Muhheconneok women had welcomed them into their beds. There had been no shame in this mutual exchange of pleasure. Despite the tiresome preaching of that Puritan, Jonathan Edwards, shame was not the Muhheconneok way when it came to such things. ’Twas a pleasant way to spend the cold winter nights, nothing more.
Iain’s first taste of sex had come at the hands of Rebecca Aupauteunk, Joseph’s elder sister. Iain had been seventeen. She’d been at least twenty-five and skilled beyond his boyish imaginings. He’d learnt how to please a woman from her, just as he’d learnt to track and fight from her brother. Since then, there’d always been a Muhheconneok woman keen to bed him, and except for when he’d been wooing Jeannie, he’d been more than happy to oblige.
Had he not been bound to this war and carried a high price on his head, he might have taken a black-eyed lass from Stockbridge to wife. But he had nothing to offer a woman—not a home, not even a name.
Ever since Wentworth had used the threat of the gallows to coerce him into fighting this bloody war, the MacKinnon name had lain under a shadow, and the farm had languished in neglect. Fields once ripe with corn now lay fallow and overrun by brush and saplings. The livestock had long ago been sold to the British to feed the army, and the larder was empty. The cabin and barn had been burnt by a war party last summer and would need to be rebuilt. Although he and his brothers did what they could whenever Wentworth gave them leave, it was going to take them years to reclaim and rebuild what had once been a thriving farmstead.