by Pamela Clare
He could see it in his mind.
They’d been outnumbered else they would not have been retreating toward the fort so quickly. They’d formed a circle to keep themselves from being outflanked and had then laid murderous fire upon the French and their Abenaki allies. When the French lines had broken, the Rangers had fallen back, hurrying toward the fort.
But the French lines had re-formed and advanced once more. And so his men had drawn into a circle again, switching with the man beside them between firing and reloading so the enemy was constantly under fire. But what had happened next?
The silence told Iain nothing.
Had the French claimed the victory? Or had the French lines faltered again, leaving his men to retreat through the forest once more?
Those weren’t the only questions that troubled his mind. How many good men had been killed? How many were struggling through the forest wounded who might yet lose their limbs or lives? How many had been taken prisoner and now awaited brutal and agonizing deaths at the hands of their captors? And what of Morgan and Connor?
Iain had known this might happen. He’d known their mission might be endangered. He’d known he might well lose men, perhaps even his brothers. And still he’d defied orders. He would have to live with the bloody cost of his decision forever.
Yet he did not regret saving Annie’s life.
He felt her upon his back, warm and soft and alive, and that feeling of protectiveness again surged from his gut. She did not deserve what had befallen her. He could no more have watched her die than he could have slain her with his own hands.
Not for the first time he wondered who had beaten her. Was it the man Connor had found dead in the snow—her kin? It must have been. There was no one else.
Annie did not seem the submissive sort of woman who would abide a beating without fighting back. Then again, if they were her only kin, perhaps she’d felt she had to endure whatever the man had thrust upon her or risk losing the roof over her head. If such were the way of it, then Iain was grateful the bastard was dead. Men who beat women didn’t deserve the life their mothers gave them.
A doe sprang from the shadows, interrupting his thoughts and forcing his mind back to the moment. He could not allow himself to become distracted. The ground had grown steep and rocky, offering an enemy many places to hide. He had just spotted a jutting prow of rock, one his men had used to ambush the French in the past, when the gunfire began afresh.
And this time it was almost on top of them.
Chapter 10
Iain ran uphill toward the prow of rock as the forest not far behind them exploded with rifle fire and shouting. He needed to find cover for Annie. Then he would take position and fight.
The slope was steep and icy, and his snowshoes slipped as he ran. He ignored the burning in his legs, forced himself to run harder.
Behind them the shouts and shooting drew nearer.
He reached the jutting wall of rock, leapt behind it, and helped Annie from his back.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide, but she did not yield to panic despite the battle that now drew perilously close.
“Keep your head down, lass.” He lifted the tumpline pack from her shoulders, then took her by the hand, bent low, and led her uphill.
What appeared to be a prow of rock on one side was a low rock wall on the other. Only down by its sharp bow, where the earth had washed away completely, leaving the stone exposed, was there room for a man to stand up straight without being seen. ’Twas what made it such a perfect place for an ambush. Unassailable from the north, its south side offered a man a place where he was concealed and yet could spot and shoot his enemies with ease.
Iain settled Annie in a small crevice, handed her a pistol, powder, and shot. “Stay down. Dinnae fire until he’s afore you, and then shoot to kill. Do you hear me, Annie?”
She nodded, the same look of frightened courage on her face that he’d seen when she’d faced down the Abenaki. She clasped his hand. “Be careful, Iain.”
Iain wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps the madness of battle was already upon him. Perhaps her fear and resolve touched something inside him. Perhaps he simply wanted to do it.
He fisted his hand in her hair, ducked down, and kissed her.
Annie had known he was going to kiss her the moment before he did it, and still the heat of his lips surprised her. It lasted for only a heartbeat, but in that moment Annie forgot to be afraid.
He pulled back from her, stroked her cheek, and gave her a lopsided grin. “I didna ken you cared, lass.”
Then he was gone, creeping beside the rock wall on his belly until he was a dozen feet or so away from her. He looked out over the wall for a moment, his expression grave. Then he lay on his belly again and turned his gaze to her.
“There are French and Abenaki below us. They’re trying to get round my men. They dinnae ken we’re here, so I should be able to pick them off like ducks on a pond. But if they feel pressed, they might seek shelter here. If they do, stay hidden, aye?”
“Aye.”
Was he daft? Did he truly think she’d rush out and try to fight French soldiers?
But he had already turned away from her and was once again peering over the rock. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, cocked it, aimed, and seemed to wait. Then he whispered something that sounded like Latin—and fired.
The blast startled her, made her jump.
“Easy, Annie.” He had flipped onto his back and was already reloading, his hands moving quickly over the weapon. Then he flipped over onto his belly, cocked the rifle, and fired again. His motions were practiced and smooth, the actions of a man who’d fought many battles.
Annie watched, both terrified and fascinated, as he reloaded and fired with speed that ought to have been impossible, flipping from his belly to his back and to his belly again. As if drawn by some dark enchantment, she sat up taller and slowly turned to look over the wall. Beyond the bottom of the hill, the snow was spattered with blood. French soldiers lay dead upon the ground, the bodies of Indians beside them. Many dozens of others hid behind trees, their backs to the rock wall, their weapons aimed into the darkness of the forest. Distracted by the near-constant fire of Iain’s men, they clearly had no notion that Iain was behind them.
Iain fired again, and another man fell.
Blood. The reek of gunpowder. Cries of pain.
“For the love of God, Annie, get down!”
She sank back down, feeling queasy. She did not want to see.
Iain aimed for an officer, fired.
The man pitched forward onto his face and lay still.
Iain reloaded, counting the seconds. He’d been trying to match the fire of his men, timing his shots with theirs so as not to give away his position. He rolled onto his belly, aimed, and watched the French lines break.
Panicked soldiers, deprived of their leader, turned to retreat and stumbled over the bodies of their fallen compatriots. And still Iain’s men kept up their fire, holding their positions and picking off the frightened French as they fled for cover.
“Aye, boys, that’s the way.” Iain aimed at a tall Abenaki, fired, reloaded.
But even as he felt pride and relief at the Rangers’ imminent victory, he knew that he and Annie were now in mortal danger. The French and Abenaki were running up the hill toward the cover of the rock wall.
’Twas what he had feared.
He crept on his belly to where Annie sat, huddled in his coat, the horror of war upon her face. ’Twas a horror he had hoped to spare her, but there was naught he could do for it now.
He drew his claymore over his head and loosed the strip of MacKinnon plaid that had always decorated the pommel. “The lines have broken, but the French are fleeing our way. Bide here, lass. Be silent. Dinnae use the pistol unless you must. If augh’ should happen to me, wait until my men overtake you and show them this. My brothers will guide you to safety.”
He pressed the bit of woolen tartan into her palm and closed her fing
ers around it.
She looked up at him, surprise and dread on her pretty face. “Iain—!”
Something stirred inside him to learn she feared for him. He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh, lass.”
Then he thrust his sword back into his pack and turned away from her. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he dragged himself forward using his forearms until the wall of rock was high enough that he could sit. He grabbed his rifle, cocked it, aimed.
He did not have to wait long. The first of the retreating French appeared at the end of the wall almost at once.
He fired.
A soldier fell to the ground, a look of confusion in his eyes as the light left them.
Iain tossed the rifle aside, drew his pistols, and charged.
Annie watched in horror as Iain ran toward the stream of French survivors. Two men fell as he fired his pistols, another when he struck with his hatchet. But there were so many of them and only one of him. Where were his men?
She looked back over the wall, saw only French and Indians, and some detached part of her realized she and Iain might well perish in this fight.
She did not want to die. She did not want Iain to die.
At the bottom of the hill, Iain had drawn his claymore. Although some of the French had fled away from the wall into the forest or farther up the hill, others turned on him, the only obstacle between them and cover. And she understood.
Iain had placed himself between her and the enemy. He would remain there until the French were defeated—or until he fell.
Unwilling to watch but unable to turn away, Annie saw a French soldier try to spear Iain with his bayonet only to fall, his chest cleaved open. Another raised a pistol but lost his arm. Yet another fell, his bowels spilled onto the snow.
Annie knew what a Highlander with a claymore could do, but she had never thought to witness the brutality of it. It sickened her, terrified her. But as Iain swung the deadly blade yet again, she knew he was shedding blood for her sake. He was fighting to save her life—again.
More French soldiers pressed toward him, driven forward by shots fired by the Rangers still concealed in the forest. One soldier passed Iain, then turned and raised his rifle. But Iain did not seem to see him. His back was turned, his blade clashing with another soldier’s bayonet.
Before she realized what she was doing, Annie found herself on her feet, gliding as if by some spell down the hill, the pistol gripped in her hands. The French soldier saw her just before she pulled the trigger, his eyes widening in surprise.
Two things seemed to happen at once: the pistol leapt in her grasp, and the soldier fell to the ground, writhing.
Stunned by what she’d just done, Annie stared at the weapon that smoked in her hands, at the man who now lay still in the snow.
What happened next, Annie could not say.
A bloodcurdling cry rose from the forest, as if the forest were possessed of demons. Rough men poured out of the shadows, driving the French before them. And Iain was there, bearing her to the ground, his body a shield, his weight heavy upon her.
Iain heard Morgan shouting orders to the men behind him, recognized Connor’s victory shout. But even as he offered a prayer of gratitude for his brothers’ lives, his hands searched Annie’s trembling body for wounds.
“Is the lass hurt?” Morgan knelt down beside him. “I saw what she did. I had the bastard in my sights when she fired.”
“What she did was defy my orders for a second time, and she’ll be lucky if I dinnae flay her alive for it.” Iain pulled Annie to a sitting position, fear for her safety turning to blazing fury. “Blast it, Annie! I told you to stay where you were. You’re bloody lucky you were no’ shot.”
Her gaze met his, her green eyes glazed and filled with shadows. “I-Iain?”
Iain understood those shadows only too well. She was in shock. She had witnessed the full horror of war. Worse, she had killed a man. Like a young soldier after his first battle, she was struggling to cope. ’Twas an anguish no woman should have to bear.
His rage broke like the tide against the shore, and before he could think, he pulled her hard against him, held her, stroked her hair. “You foolish, brave woman! Why do you no’ obey me?”
“What the bloody hell is he doin’?” Connor asked from somewhere behind them.
Morgan answered. “I think he’s punishin’ her.”
“If he tries this on the men, they’ll mutiny.”
They reached the fort in the early afternoon, Joseph’s men behind them. Iain sent Morgan into the fort to make a full report to Wentworth while he bore Annie across the bateau bridge to the island that served as Ranger Camp. She’d been silent since the battle, and he knew she was near the end of her endurance.
He carried her through the door to his cabin, sat her on a wooden chair before the fire, then sent one of his men after a hot meal and another after water and the wooden washtub used in the laundry.
“The washtub?” Killy gaped at him in disbelief. “You’ve a mind to do a bit of laundry?”
“Nay, for God’s sake! ’Tis for a bath for the lass.”
Killy’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared beneath the brim of his Scotch bonnet, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “Aye, Mack.”
Cam returned first, carrying a basket of biscuits and butter and a large tin plate heaped with slices of boiled beef, sizzling pork sausages, and boiled potatoes.
The smell made Iain’s mouth water and his stomach rumble. “Set it on the table, and go feed yourself, Cam.”
“Aye, Mack.” Cam’s gaze fell admiringly on Annie, lingering a bit too long for Iain’s taste. “Poor lass.”
“Sergeant?” Iain resisted the urge to grab the younger man by the shoulders and throw him out of the cabin.
Cam set the food down then hurried out the door.
Iain walked over to Annie, pulled the bearskin coat from her shoulders. “Come, lass. Time for a hot meal.”
Annie felt like she was drifting through a world of shadows. She knew they’d outdistanced the battered French. She knew they’d reached the fort safely. But it all seemed far away, as if it were happening in someone else’s life—or perhaps a dream. There’d been shooting and dead men lying upon the snow. And she had killed a soldier.
’Twas the smell of food that roused her.
It had been three days since she’d eaten anything but cornmeal. She felt Iain guide her to the table and stared at what seemed a feast—boiled beef, browned sausages, bread, butter, potatoes. Before she could catch herself, she grabbed a piece of bread and a sausage and began to eat greedily.
It tasted like heaven.
Iain sat beside her, touched a hand to her shoulder. “Slowly, lass. You’ll make yourself sick else.”
’Twas only then Annie realized she was eating with her fingers and gobbling her food like an animal. “Forgi’e me.”
He slid a tin fork across the table. “There’s naugh’ to forgi’e. Here.”
They shared the meal in silence, she eating with a fork and he with a knife, until Annie could not swallow another bite.’Twas much sooner than she’d expected.
“Your belly has withered a bit,” he explained. “You’ll be hungrier in the morn. Now let’s get you a bath, and then you can sleep.”
A bath sounded heavenly, but she was so tired. She watched through heavy eyelids as a scarred old Ranger carried a wooden washtub through the door, then filled it with buckets of steaming water.
“Annie?” Iain’s voice woke her.
She hadn’t realized she’d drifted off.
“Your bath is ready, lass. There’s soap on the chair and some linen for you to dry yourself. I’m goin’ out. Take your time. Put out the latch string when you’re finished.”
He turned to go.
She reached out, grasped his hand. “Thank you, Iain. For savin’ my life. For this kindness. For all of it.”
He took her hand, bent to kiss it, then was gone.
Annie shed the moc
casins and leggings first, then her gown and chemise. Then she sank into the hot water with a sigh.
It was finally over.
The news took Lord William utterly by surprise.
“They have returned, my lord, and they have with them a young woman. Captain MacKinnon was somewhat vague on the major’s actions, but it seems Major MacKinnon rescued the young woman, by all accounts a Scottish rustic, from ravishment and slaughter at the hand of the enemy.”
William studied the pieces on his chessboard without truly seeing them while Lieutenant Cooke related to him the rest of Morgan MacKinnon’s report.
The Rangers had reached Ticonderoga and observed the fort from the nearby summit of Rattlesnake Mountain. They’d watched as sixteen bateaux filled with gunpowder and other ordnance had been unloaded and had spotted forty-three Wyandot Indians entering the fort. They’d estimated the troop strength at some seven hundred French and Canadian partisans and again as many Indians.
But on the first morning of their return journey, they’d come across a group of French and Abenaki scouts that had attacked a frontier family and were about to rape and slay its lone survivor—a young woman.
“Captain MacKinnon claims the woman was fleeing and all but stumbled into their camp, necessitating action. Because she was wounded in the attack, the major sent his men ahead without him and reportedly carried her on his back the entire way here, if one can believe such a thing.”
William had no difficulty believing it. He’d seen these Rangers in action and knew them to be uncommonly robust and capable of extraordinary physical feats. “Were they pursued?”
“Aye, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke cleared his throat, a sure sign he was about to deliver news he feared William would find displeasing. “A force of three hundred French and Indians harried them to within a few miles of our gates. Under Captain MacKinnon’s command, the Rangers fought off three assaults, the last of which broke the enemy’s will. The captain estimates French losses to be nearly one hundred thirty.”