Surrender

by Pamela Clare

  William had no difficulty believing this either. “Our losses?”

  Lieutenant Cooke cleared his throat again. “Four, my lord. Nine wounded, two gravely.”

  “Where are Major MacKinnon and this woman?”

  “They arrived with the rest of the corps, my lord. Captain MacKinnon said he and the men overtook the major several miles from the fort.”

  “How did the major manage to get ahead of his own men while carrying a wounded woman on his back?”

  “Captain MacKinnon did not explain that, my lord.”

  “Where is the major now?”

  “Seeing to his wounded, my lord.”

  William rose, strode to his window, pondered what he’d just been told.

  William wholeheartedly believed that the Rangers were essential to winning this war. It took a savage to defeat a savage, and the colonies were rife with such men. America nurtured the human detritus of Europe’s civilized nations. Lesser sons of lesser sons. Heretics. Petty adventurers. Bondsmen. Convicts.

  Amongst the Rangers, the MacKinnon brothers were perhaps the best fighting men he’d ever seen—headstrong Highland Gaels who’d been raised in part by Indians. They knew the New York frontier like few others, and there were no better marksmen in the world. ’Twas their great delight to shoot at marks for sport even when not at war.

  It was because of their skill that he tolerated their insolence. In truth, he’d found their treasonous insults—and their uncompromising hatred of him and his family—quite refreshing. No one had dared to call him a “wee German princeling” before he’d met Iain MacKinnon.

  William prided himself on his understanding of human nature. He derived great pleasure from watching people struggle with their lives, and then make completely foreseeable decisions. He enjoyed measuring people’s minds and abilities and observing as they rose—or sank—to meet his expectations. He found it quite diverting to use what he knew about people to predict and even manipulate their actions.

  But he could not have predicted this.

  Apart from treasonous speech, Major MacKinnon was as dedicated a commander as any military leader could hope to find. William trusted him—aye, he trusted him—to lead his men through the direst of straits with a clear mind. He trusted him to carry out his mission without fail. He trusted him to put military objectives ahead of personal ones. For three years MacKinnon had done just that.

  But stopping to rescue this woman and abandoning his men constituted a grave breach of discipline. It wasn’t something William could ignore. At best, it meant MacKinnon had gotten randy and earnt a sound flogging. At worst, it signified desertion and mutiny and was punishable by death.

  William turned to his lieutenant. “Have Major MacKinnon report to me at once. And bring the woman. I would see the Scottish flower who inspired the major to risk the gallows.”

  Chapter 11

  Iain looked down at Lachlan Fraser’s unconscious face, ran the names through his mind, each like a knife to his chest.

  Peter. Robert Wallace. Robert Grant. Gordie. Jonny Harden.

  Loyal men and true—all dead. First four, now five.

  Before nightfall, Lachlan would be joining them.

  A painful weariness crept over Iain. This was his doing. Every one of them might yet be alive had he not forsaken his mission. And then there were the wounded.

  Young Brendan might lose his leg. Conall had bad powder burns on his belly—a shot had ignited his powder horn—and he might yet perish. Andrew had been struck on the head and hadn’t awoken.

  The rest, thank God, would recover.

  “Mack!” Brendan called him from across the hospital.

  Iain touched his hand to Lachlan’s forehead, whispered a prayer to the Virgin Mother, crossed himself, then threaded his way past empty beds to Brendan’s side. “Rest easy, lad.”

  “Is the lassie safe? Did you get her back alive?” Brendan’s freckled face was wet with sweat, his eyes bright with fever. “I hear she’s fine and bonnie.”

  “Aye.” Iain thought of her sleeping in his cabin. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of his men talking about her. “And, aye, she is.”

  “I’m glad you did it, Mack.” The boy shivered. “W-why are we fightin’ if no’ to keep our women s-safe?”

  Iain pulled the blanket up under the boy’s chin. “Morgan tells me you fought like a true Scotsman.”

  Brendan’s face glowed with a warrior’s pride. “I’m no’ afraid of the French.”

  But Iain could see fear in the lad’s eyes. He placed a reassuring hand upon the boy’s shoulder, forced a smile onto his face. “Rest, laddie.”

  “Mack, if they take my leg, w-will you be here wi’ me?” The boy shivered again. “I’ll be braver if you’re here.”

  Iain nodded. “If it comes to that, I’ll be right beside you.”

  “Thanks, Mack.” A look of gratitude spread across the lad’s face. “God bless you!”

  “And you.” Iain stood and strode out of the hospital, suddenly needing air in his lungs.

  What special sort of hell had he crafted for himself? To see the consequences of his actions, to carry on his hands the blood of men who’d trusted him, to regret their deaths and yet to be sure he’d do nothing differently if given a second chance—’twas a burning torment.

  Iain had taken no more than a few steps when he met Connor, who motioned him to the side of the hospital, gnawing on a piece of salt pork.

  “Wentworth has sent for you. Cooke claims he’s goin’ to see you hang.”

  “Cooke is a bletherin’ fool. He likes to stretch a tale. It makes him feel important.”

  “And what if you’re wrong and that bastard truly wants to see you hang? Cooke says Wentworth is callin’ what you did desertion.”

  Iain hadn’t imagined Wentworth would go so far. Then again, it should not surprise him. Hadn’t Wentworth proved his twisted sense of justice when he’d forced Iain and his brothers to fight this accursed war? “If he wants to hang me, he has to try me in a court-martial first.”

  “The men willna stand for it. To a man, they’re ready to help you escape, if you must. You need but say the word.”

  “I cannae do that.” He clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You and Morgan and the men—you all would pay the price.”

  Connor cursed under his breath. “This is all on account of her. If it hadna been—”

  Iain found himself clutching the front of his brother’s shirt, hissing in his face. “Watch your tongue, lad. Annie is no’ to blame for any of this, and I willna hear you speak ill of her. She is an innocent.”

  ’Twas the strange look on Connor’s face that stopped Iain. Stunned by the force of his own rage, he released his brother, stepped back.

  “I meant her no insult, but too many good men have died for her already. I wouldna see you dancin’ in the four winds for her sake.”

  “No one is goin’ to hang.” Iain had something he needed to do. “Can you and the men distract Cooke for a couple of hours so he cannae summon me?”

  “That bumptious half-wit?” Connor grinned. “Aye—wi’ pleasure.”

  There was one other thing. “And, Connor, promise me that if augh’ should befall me, you and Morgan will watch over Annie and see her safely settled off the frontier.”

  Connor hesitated, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes full of doubt.

  “Promise me.”

  “Does she mean so much to you?” Connor’s gaze seemed to measure him. “Aye, Iain, I give you my word. We’ll watch after your lass.”

  “She is no’ my lass.” Iain glared at him, then strode off toward the sutler’s.

  From behind him came his brother’s voice. “Now who’s full of blether?”

  When Iain reached the cabin, he found her sound asleep, the strip of MacKinnon plaid in her hand. There was a time in his people’s history when that would have meant something, when his colors would have laid a claim upon her.

  Your lass.

  That�
�s what Connor had called her. But she did not belong to him. He was not free to wed. Wentworth had seen to it that he and his brothers were bound to Fort Edward until war’s end, and Iain could not ask any woman to bind herself to a man who, like as not, would leave her a widow—and any child she bore him fatherless.

  Nay, she was not his. She would be leaving the fort soon, on her way to Albany to start a new life. He would be staying here.

  She lay on his bed, covered by his bearskin overcoat, her hair still wet. Only when he saw her tattered gown and chemise on the floor did he realize she was naked. She must have been so tired that she’d crawled from the washtub straight onto his bed, forgetting her clothes. Or perhaps she’d felt clean and had not been able to force herself back into the filthy garments.

  He added more wood to the fire, picked up the tattered bits of wool and linen, and threw them onto the flames. She would no longer need them. He had seen to that.

  He was not a wealthy man. His family had been stripped of their riches before being exiled. Once the grandson of a powerful chieftain, he now carried his worldly goods on his back and dreamt not of holdings and halls, but of rich, dark earth that crumbled in his hands in the spring and yielded a bountiful harvest in the fall. But he also drew a major’s pay, and as he rarely spent his coin, it had grown to a small but respectable sum.

  He opened the canvas bag and took out the goods he’d bought from the sutler and his sons. A wooden comb for Annie’s hair. Two shifts of soft, white cotton. Cotton stockings with silk garters. Linen petticoats. Stays. A linen gown of deep green and pink stripes, and another of broad pink and ivory stripes. A cloak of soft gray wool. Shoes that seemed impossibly small. Satin ribbons for her hair.

  He’d never bought women’s clothing before. His only experience with what woman wore—all those skirts and strange undergarments—came from undressing them. But Stockbridge women did not wear all of this frippery. The sutler had been the one to tell him what was needed and to guess at Annie’s size. Of course, there was very little women’s clothing to be found at the fort, only what officers’ wives had traded or left behind. He hoped these would fit her.

  Iain stacked the clothing on the table where she’d see it when she woke. Then for a moment he simply watched her sleep, unsettled emotion stirring inside him. He knew she was exhausted. She’d barely been awake enough to eat or bathe. He hoped her dreams would be free of troubles. She’d endured a lifetime’s worth of horrors these past days. Nor had her life before been easy, judging from the bruises on her back.

  Outside he could hear shouts, and he knew his men were making mischief in an effort to keep Cooke at bay. Quickly, he took off his clothes. Then he grabbed his razor and stepped into the cold bathwater. Wentworth was waiting.

  Snug beneath the fur, Annie slept. She did not wake when Iain bent down to kiss her cheek. She did not wake when Morgan and Connor barricaded the door to the cabin to keep Lieutenant Cooke from disturbing her. She did not wake when the two brothers entered to check on her and stoke the fire.

  Nor did she dream.

  Iain glanced over at a furious Cooke, who stood dripping wet in white wig and uniform—the result of some unfortunate mishap with the bateau bridge that had sent him plunging into the chilly Hudson—and tried not to grin. His men had done their work well.

  Wentworth sat in a gilded chair in front of his writing table, one arm lifted to flaunt the ivory lace at his wrist, his uniform immaculate, every hair of his powdered wig in place. His cold gray eyes bored into Iain. He was quieter than Iain had ever seen him, and that meant he was angrier than Iain had ever known him to be.

  “Thus far, Major, I have heard little to my pleasure. You freely admit you disobeyed my orders?”

  “Aye, Your Gracefulness.”

  Wentworth stood and walked toward him with slow measured steps, his heels clicking on the waxed wooden floor. “Have you forgotten there’s a rather high price on your head? The enemy is waiting quite breathlessly for you to make a mistake.”

  “Nay, I have no’ forgotten.”

  “Did you realize that by opening fire you’d be alerting the French to your whereabouts?”

  “Any idiot of a private would ken that.”

  “Did you consider that men under your command might be killed as a result of so rash a decision?”

  “Aye, though I prayed they wouldna.”

  “Your prayers were apparently not enough.” Wentworth’s nostrils flared and he leaned forward until his face was inches from Iain’s. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, every word articulated with precision. “Five men have died thus far, and the lives of two still hang by a thread. They lost their lives because the man they trusted to lead them brought a force of three hundred—”

  “I ken why they died!” Iain’s temper snapped. “I will live wi’ that anguish for the rest of my life. But you were no’ there. You didna see her spill out of the forest at my feet. You didna watch her fightin’ wi’ all she had to stay alive. If I’d have left her to be raped and murdered, I’d no’ be able to live wi’ myself.”

  “Can you live with the unnecessary deaths of your men?”

  “If I must, aye. They were trained Rangers, men accustomed to war. At least they had a fightin’ chance.”

  “Did it not occur to you that the Crown might view this woman as expendable, while your highly trained Rangers are not?”

  “I dinnae weigh human lives in so cold a fashion as the bloody Crown.”

  “War demands sacrifice, Major MacKinnon.”

  “Dinnae try to tell me the cost of war, pretty wee prince! While you sit in here wi’ your brandy and warm fire, my men and I live and breathe war. Hang me if you wish. Flay the skin off my back. But I could no more have left her to be murdered than I could have killed her myself.”

  Wentworth’s nostrils flared again, then he strode slowly over to his window, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Very well, Major. Tomorrow at dawn you shall be taken from the guardhouse to Ranger Camp, where you shall be flogged to the count of one hundred lashes.” Then he glanced over at Cooke. “Put him in irons.”

  Annie awoke feeling befuddled and very, very hungry, the strip of Iain’s plaid in her hand. Hadn’t she given it back to him? She’d certainly meant to. She sat up, glanced about, tried to remember where she was. A claymore rested on hooks above the door. Snowshoes hung beside tools on the far wall. A rifle stood in the corner and on the mantel a crucifix.

  Iain’s cabin. She was in Ranger Camp at Fort Edward. Outside the window of greased parchment it was growing dark. Evening already?

  A strong fire burnt in the fireplace, proof that Iain had been there recently. She looked down at the bed, realized the blankets had not been turned down, nor was there any other hollow in the blankets save the one she’d made. She had slept alone.

  Then she realized with a shock that beneath the bearskin she was naked. What had happened to her gown and shift? She crawled to the foot of the bed and searched for her gown around the washtub, but it was no longer there. She glanced about the room, but could not find it. Then she saw the table.

  With a delighted gasp, she leapt from the bed. Pain in her feet nearly made her legs buckle. She winced and then hobbled across the small cabin, careful to keep the coat wrapped round her. There on the rough-hewn table were stockings and a clean white shift and petticoats and two gowns of lovely colors. Though they were simple gowns, they were at that moment the most beautiful garments she’d ever seen.

  She glanced over at the door, saw the latch string was out. She quickly pulled it in for privacy. Then she let the fur fall from her shoulders and began to dress, feeling an excitement she hadn’t known for months.

  The stockings fit perfectly. The shift and petticoats also fit well. She had trouble lacing the stays by herself, and when she did succeed in drawing them tight, the whalebone pressed painfully against her bruises. Still, she hadn’t worn stays since Mistress Hawes had stolen her clothing, and for once she felt pr
operly dressed.

  She ran her hands over the two gowns, chose the one with the slender green and pink stripes, then slipped it on. Feeling almost giddy, she smoothed her skirts, adjusted the sleeves of her shift so they hung properly, then looked down at herself. Apart from the bodice, which was a bit tight, the gown fit as if it had been made for her.

  How had he come by such lovely things out here? How was she ever going to thank him? She had no coin with which to pay him, nor anything to trade. Perhaps he had mending she could do. Or perhaps she could clean for him. She had no talent for cooking.

  Then her gaze fell upon the wood comb, and tears pricked her eyes. She picked it up, ran her fingers over the delicate carving in the handle, and then combed away her tangles.

  She’d just braided a ribbon into her hair when someone knocked on the door.

  “Miss Burns. It’s Captain Morgan MacKinnon, Major MacKinnon’s brother. If you’re awake, I would speak wi’ you.”

  Hesitantly, she opened the door and saw a man who resembled Iain so closely that there was no mistaking him for anything other than kin. Tall like Iain, Morgan MacKinnon had the same blue eyes and dark hair, but his hair was a bit shorter and pulled back in a leather thong. “Colonel Wentworth, the Sassenach commander, wishes to speak wi’ you.”

  “Where is Iain?”

  Morgan ducked through the doorway, propped the door open, then dropped into a chair, his face troubled. When he looked at her, his eyes held no warmth. “Iain took a terrible risk in savin’ your life. Did he tell you that, lass?”

  Annie sat and smoothed her skirts, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. “Nay.”

  A voice came from the doorway. “Five of his men are now dead and eight lie wounded because he chose to save you over doin’ his duty.”

  “Did you have to say it like that, Connor?”