Surrender

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Surrender Page 9

by Pamela Clare


  “After Culloden.” If she could have pulled the words back, she would have.

  For a moment he said nothing, his gaze seeming to pierce her. “Aye, lass, after Culloden. And after that butcher Cumberland and his pawn Argyll had ridden the clans down and killed every man wi’ a sword and many women and children besides.”

  “That is no’ true! Argyll wouldna kill wom—”

  In one motion, he sat up, pressed his face close to hers, his eyes blue fire. “The armies of Cumberland and Argyll forced women to watch as their men and sons were slaughtered like cattle. Then they raped and slew them—grandmothers, wives, young lassies.”

  His words were lies. They had to be. The men of her clan would not kill innocent women and children. Trembling with anger, she fought to keep her voice steady, tried to remember that her life depended upon this man. “Did you see it wi’ your own eyes, or are these the bitter tales told by those who lost the war and wished to malign the victors?”

  “I was a stripling lad then, no’ yet strong enough to wield a claymore, but that didna hinder them from tryin’ to run me through as they did many of my friends and cousins. ’Twas my grandfather who stopped them, who traded his life for mine. But they didna have the decency to fight him and let him die with honor. Instead they locked him on a stinking prison ship and took away his lands. Aye, I saw it, lass, and I tell you Cumberland could teach the Indians a thing or two about brutality.”

  My grandfather. Locked him on a prison ship. Took away his lands.

  And Annie understood. Iain wasn’t just a MacKinnon. He was the grandson and namesake of The MacKinnon—the chieftain of the MacKinnon Clan.

  No wonder he loathed King George. ’Twas in his blood.

  Just as loyalty to Britain was in hers.

  “Why do you fight for the king if you feel no love for him?”

  “I was given a choice between dyin’ at the end of a noose or fightin’.”

  She felt a hitch of fear in her belly. “S-so you are a convict.”

  He laughed. “A Catholic Scot need no’ be guilty to be hanged. Nay, lass. My brothers and I were falsely accused of murderin’ a man and given the choice of facin’ trial already condemned or fightin’ for Britain.”

  Murder.

  The word sent chills up her spine and reminded her how little she knew about the man who had saved her. Was he capable of killing? Aye, for certain. But murder?

  “I can see the doubt in your eyes, Annie, but you’ve no cause to fear me. The murder charge was but a plot to force us into service. We murdered no one.”

  Silence stretched sharp-edged and cumbersome between them.

  Pulse still racing, she looked up, found him watching her through impenetrable eyes. She sought for a way to guide their talk back into safer waters. “D-do you miss it? Do you miss Scotland?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Sometimes I miss the water, the smell of the sea, the rise of the Cuillin Mountains. I miss my clansmen. I miss our village ceilis wi’ their songs and dancin’, the heather in the hills. But I’ve been here for almost half my life. For me, the Highlands of Skye are but a memory. And you, lassie, where are you from?”

  He asked the question as if it were no more than mere conversation, but she was not so easily fooled. She hesitated.

  He swore under his breath. “Do you think me heartless, Annie? I dinnae care where your loyalties lie. I’d no’ abandon a wee woman alone in the wilderness were she the daughter of Argyll himself.”

  She looked into his eyes, saw he meant what he said.

  “I’m from Rothesay near . . .” Suddenly she found it impossible to speak. In her mind, she saw the sun rising bright over Wemyss Bay, smelled the mingled scents of field and shore, and heard the cries of the gulls as they soared over the water toward the sea. But it was lost to her. Like her father, her brothers, and her mother, Scotland was gone.

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks, her heart aching with such grief that she was certain she could not bear it. She fought it back, subdued it.

  He sat up, took off his neckerchief, dabbed gently at her tears. “Why did you come here?”

  “My mother . . . died, and there was no one left. I had nothing, no home, no family.”

  “Except here.”

  Here? Master and Mistress Hawes. Guilt gnawed at her, and she could not look him in the eyes. “Aye.”

  “How long have you been in the colonies?”

  “Four months.” Four long, lonely months.

  “’Tis no wonder you miss Scotland. You’ve no’ had the kindest welcome, and now you’ve lost the last of your kin.”

  “Aye.” She felt ill, and tears burnt her eyes afresh. She did not deserve his kindness or his compassion. She had run, leaving Master and Mistress Hawes to face death alone. And she had once again lied to him.

  “I see on your face that you still blame yourself, lass.” He leaned in close, ran his thumb down her cheek. “There’s nothing you could have done for them.”

  She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him the truth, the whole sordid tale. She wanted to feel clean again. If it were true that he, too, had been falsely accused of a crime, perhaps he would believe her. Yet, if he didn’t believe her and turned her over to the sheriff, she’d find herself sold again, perhaps to an even crueler master or mistress. She could not take that risk. “Please, I cannae . . .”

  He nodded. “Lie back and rest. I’ll watch over you. We leave at sunset.”

  Annie lay down on the pallet of pine boughs, let him draw the bearskin overcoat up to her chin. But it was long ere she drifted to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Iain cleaned his rifle and pistols and watched the lass sleep, his mind full of her.

  He had no doubt now that her kin had been Loyalists during the Forty-Five. She’d said she was from Rothesay. If his memory did not mislead him, Rothesay was in Campbell country, on the Isle of Bute. ’Twas likely the men of her family had fought beside their laird at Culloden, spilling Scottish blood on Scottish soil.

  Her ignorance of the savagery that had followed Culloden had infuriated him, and yet he could not fault her for it. She’d have been no more than a bairn at the time, a wee lassie bouncing on her father’s knee. ’Twas unlikely the men of Rothesay had tarnished their triumphant return by telling their wives and daughters how they’d raped and murdered their way through the Highlands.

  She stirred in her sleep, her brow troubled as if with a bad dream.

  He reached out and caressed her cheek. His touch seemed to calm her, and a strange feeling of protectiveness swelled in his chest.

  The frontier was hard on women—that much was certain. Hunger, sickness, and bloodshed each took their toll. Any woman who survived these might perish in childbed or die from the grief of burying too many bairns. ’Twas an unforgiving land that gave beauty and gentleness no quarter.

  Yet it seemed to him that Annie was more out of place in the wilderness than most women. Though she was courageous and strong and had fought hard to save her own life, he could not deny there was something oddish about her.

  When he’d rubbed the salve onto her feet, he’d found them strangely smooth and uncallused. It seemed she’d never gone barefoot a day in her life, as impossible as such a thing might be.

  And her hands. Though chapped, they bore only fresh calluses as if she’d rarely done a lick of work. He’d held the one, stroked it, felt the silk of her touch upon his skin.

  Nor was the tone of her speech what he might expect from a poor Highland lassie. ’Twas more primsie, like that of a woman who’d had the benefit of some teaching.

  Yet her ill-fitting woolen gown, poorly made and threadbare, was the sort he’d expect the poorest crofter’s wife to wear.

  Aye, there was something oddish about her.

  But that was not for him to fathom. Once he got her safely to the fort, she’d no longer be his concern. He’d face whatever penance was due him for defying orders, then put her—and the
mounting need he felt for her—behind him. Wentworth would likely send her on to Albany with the next dispatch. Then she’d have to make her way as best she could.

  Iain wrapped the cleaning cloth around the ramrod of the last pistol, thrust it down the barrel, trying not to think of Annie alone in Albany. ’Twas a rough town full of hard men who would think nothing of deceiving her, using her, and leaving her in the streets. But there was little he could do to ease her path once they left the forest. He was not a free man.

  He glanced at the western horizon, guessed he had an hour of daylight yet. He needed to watch the lake, see if he could spot any war parties or ships on the water. He also needed to scout the site around their camp and down to the boat to make certain no enemies had been prowling about or lay in ambush. Then, with the last rays of sunlight to guide them, they’d set out once more.

  If all went well, tonight would be their last night on the lake.’Twould take them to the lake’s southern shore. From there, they’d be forced to continue on foot after some hours’ rest. He would not chance the road to Fort Edward in the darkness.’Twould be the most dangerous leg of their journey.

  He began to pack his gear, reluctant to wake her just yet.

  “Bind her to the table. Bare her legs.”

  “Nay, Uncle, please! For the love of your brother, dinnae—”

  The glowing iron.

  His hateful caress against her inner thigh.

  “Here, I think. Any man you try to love shall find it—and discard you.”

  “Nay, please!”

  Horrible burning pain.

  Her own screams.

  Annie struck at the man who held her fast, a sob trapped in her throat. “Nay!”

  “Shhh, lass. ’Tis but a dream.”

  “Nay, please!” Disoriented, the claws of her nightmare still dragging at her, she opened her eyes and found herself in the Ranger’s arms. “I-Iain?”

  “Aye, lass. You’re safe.” He held her close, stroked her hair, his voice a soothing rumble in his chest. “I’ll no’ let any man harm you—no’ while there is still breath in my body.”

  Her mouth slick with the taste of horror, her body trembling, she clung to him. He felt strong and warm, something steady in a world gone mad. Slowly, her trembling subsided, the lingering fog of her nightmare dissolving in the refuge of his strong embrace.

  “I . . . I’m sorry.” Feeling suddenly awkward, she lifted her head from his chest and looked away from him. The last time he’d held her like that, he’d kissed her.

  His hands cupped her cheeks, and he forced her to meet his gaze. There was no reproach in his eyes, only concern. His thumbs wiped away tears she’d not known she’d shed. “You’ve no cause to be sorry. There is no shame in a bad dream.”

  The way he said it gave her pause, and she found herself wondering. “Do you have them—nightmares?”

  His eyes filled with shadows, and he looked off into the forest. “Aye, lass. Aye.”

  Then he stood, and she saw he wore his gear, everything but his tumpline pack. “Are we goin’?”

  “No’ quite yet. I’ll scout around camp and down by the boat first. Then I’ll come back for you.” He pulled a pistol from the waist of his breeches, turned the barrel away from her, and then held it out for her. “If you should hear gunfire, hide up amongst those rocks. If I survive, I’ll be back for you. If no’ . . .”

  Icy fingers clutched at her stomach as she took the pistol from him and felt its deadly weight in her hand. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be killed and leave her alone in this wilderness. Suddenly her uncle’s malice seemed far away and trifling. “Can I no’ come wi’ you? If they kill you, I’ll perish anyway, from hunger if naugh’ else.”

  He seemed to consider this, then shook his head. “Nay, lass. Stay here. Bide a wee. I’ll be back afore you can miss me.”

  Then he strode silently down the hill and left her alone.

  Time seemed to creep by as she waited, the sun dipping lower on the horizon. She huddled deeper into the bearskin coat, drew back into the lean-to, the silence of the forest and the twilight seeming to press in upon her.

  He would come back. He must come back.

  She looked at the pistol in her hand, felt a shiver creep up her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. How far away her old life of comfort seemed, how strange and terrifying this new one. If the time came, would she be able to pull the trigger and kill a man?

  She thought of the Indian who’d struck her, the one she’d hit with the rock.

  Aye, she could kill.

  She tried to shift the direction of her thoughts, found herself running through the steps of loading a pistol, practicing them in her mind.

  ’Tis no’ hard to load a weapon when you’re sittin’ in a patch of sunshine wi’ the wee birdies singin’ in the trees. ’Tis somethin’ very different to load and reload under fire wi’ the screams of the dyin’ around you.

  Nor did it seem so easy in the twilight surrounded by the furtive noises of the forest.

  And then it struck her. She ought to prepare herself. She ought to have powder and shot ready in case she needed to reload. Surely, he’d left both for her in his pack.

  She reached for it, searched through it for a spare powder horn and shot.

  A small tin bucket. A clasp knife. A fork. A small horn of salt. A tin cup. A flask of rum. A tin plate. The jar of salve. Cloth for bandages. A sliver of lye soap in a cloth. Candles. Needle and thread. A bit of ginger wrapped in parchment. But no powder and no shot.

  She felt a pique of temper. Why teach her to reload if he did not give her the means to do so? She would ask him just that when he returned. He would return.

  Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry and thirsty. Though she could not in good conscience eat another handful of cornmeal, as he was rationing it for both of them, she could at least slake her thirst. She looked for the water skin and, when she didn’t find it, realized he must have taken it with him. Hesitantly, she reached for the flask of rum, remembering how it had burnt her throat. She uncorked it, sniffed it, and then brought it to her lips.

  “Annie, no!”

  She gasped, nearly dropped the flask, saw Iain rush toward her from out of the trees.

  “Christ, woman, what in God’s bloody name do you think you’re doin’?” He dropped to his knees before her, jerked the flask from her hands, corked it. “Did you drink from this? Annie, tell me!”

  She shook her head. “N-nay.”

  Iain felt a warm rush of relief—and a surge of anger. He fought the desire to throttle her. “What in the name of the Almighty are you doin’ searchin’ through my gear?”

  “I—I was looking for powder and shot, and I got thirsty.”

  “Do you ken what this is?”

  She lifted her chin. “Rum.”

  “Aye, it’s rum. Poisoned rum! The good rum’s in the flask I keep on me. If you’d have taken so much as a swallow of this, you’d be dyin’, and there’d be naugh’ I could do to stop it!”

  She blanched, and her eyes grew wide. “P-poisoned rum? Why—?”

  “If I’m captured, whoever takes me prisoner will surely pilfer through my gear just like you did.” He saw an embarrassed flush creep into her cheeks. “If I’m lucky, they’ll pass the flask around and die before they can kill me or get me back to their camp.”

  “Mercy!”

  When he’d seen the flask against her lips, he’d felt a moment of sheer terror. To think what would have happened if he’d have come but a moment later . . .

  He tossed the water skin into her lap. “Drink, blast it! Then we go.”

  “You might have told me.” She grabbed the skin, pulled out the stopper, drank.

  Still furious, he rammed the flask back into his pack. “I didna think you’d go creepin’ through my pack like a thief.”

  She thrust the water skin at him, and her face turned scarlet. “I am no thief.”

  The pricking of his conscien
ce told him she was right. He ought to have warned her. But he wasn’t used to being in the wild with anyone who wasn’t a Ranger. In truth, he’d all but forgotten the bloody flask was there. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her this, but he was still angry—angry with her for giving him such a shock, angry with himself for failing to warn her.

  “You take more lookin’ after than a bairn.”

  A look of hurt crossed her face. Then she did something he did not expect. She crawled out of the lean-to, stood, and with halting footsteps, walked off down the hill.

  Iain walked beside Annie, one eye on the forest, the other on her. He hadn’t thought she’d make it this far. He knew from her ashen face and her uneven breathing that each step hurt terribly. He tried to dismiss the voice in his head that told him this was his fault. ’Twas her silly female pride that demanded she walk on her battered feet, not he.

  The ground grew steeper, the snow slick and icy from thawing and freezing again. He was about to tell her to watch her step, when she slipped.

  He caught her about the waist. “Careful, lass. ’Tis steep and slippery from here. Perhaps you should take my hand.”

  For a moment she sagged against him. Then she pulled away and, ignoring him, used trunks of trees and saplings to steady herself as she continued down the hill.

  “Bloody stubborn wench!” He swore under his breath.

  Annie heard him swear, knew he was angry with her. But he could go jump off the nearest cliff. He’d called her a thief—or so near as made no difference. But she had taken nothing. If he’d left her with powder and shot, she’d not have gone near his pack. And how was she to know the rum was poisoned? He ought to have told her. He ought to have apologized instead of raising his voice at her and scolding her like a child.

  You take more lookin’ after than a bairn.

  She was not a child. If she needed his help it was only because she was in the middle of an unfamiliar land and injured. If she were at home in Rothesay, she’d not need him for anything.

  Because you’d have servants to do it all for you, Annie.

 

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