by Pamela Clare
“They’ve uprooted the whipping post and are threatening to toss it in the river, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke’s young face was red with indignation.
William sipped a cup of tea, considered what damage he might inflict with his white knight, and mulled over this new development.
Full of rum, the Rangers had grown restless just after midnight, demanding that their major be pardoned and released. William had immediately sent troops across the bateau bridge to warn them that any insurrection would be dealt with swiftly and severely. They’d responded by playing forbidden tunes on those infernal pipes of theirs, until the entire fort was roused from sleep and the Regulars were demanding to march out and face them in battle.
Now, apparently, the Rangers thought to stop Major MacKinnon’s sentence from being carried out by getting rid of the whipping post.
William supposed that made sense to a drunken mind. “Where are Major MacKinnon’s captain and lieutenant?”
“Captain MacKinnon has gone to dissuade the Stockbridge Indians from abandoning the fort in protest over the flogging, while Lieutenant MacKinnon is reportedly keeping watch on Miss Burns and trying to settle the men.”
William pressed his fingers to his temple, feeling the beginning of a headache. So the Stockbridge were in rebellion as well. He ought to have anticipated this. Their allegiance to the MacKinnon brothers was fierce, as they considered the three Highlanders kin. William hoped Captain MacKinnon would prevail upon them to remain. Their skills had proved to be invaluable, on par with those of the Rangers.
“Turn the cannon atop the flag bastion toward Ranger Camp. Fire three six-pound rounds over their heads. Let’s see if we can’t sober them up. Then impose an immediate curfew for both Rangers and Regulars. Anyone not on duty who is found out of his quarters will join Major MacKinnon at the whipping post—once it is standing again.”
“Aye, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke gave a perfunctory bow, but did not turn to carry out William’s orders.
William looked up from the chessboard, met the younger man’s gaze. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Why do his men defend him when he cost five of their companions their lives?”
“Loyalty, Lieutenant. Loyalty.”
Doubt still showed on Cooke’s young face. “Aye, my lord.”
Annie sat on the edge of the bed, having long since given up on sleep, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. For hours she had listened as the Rangers cursed her king and country, threatening bloodshed if Lord William did not release Iain. From beyond the door came shouts, blasphemies, and the wail of pipes. Then, somewhere not far from the cabin door, men began to sing, their words slurred from drink, their voices rough with rage.
“An-diugh, an-diugh, gu reusantach/Dhuinn èirigh ann an sanntachas!” Today, today, ’tis right for us / to rise up in all eagerness!
’Twas a Jacobite song, a song of rebellion, a song that could get a man hanged back home.
If they knew you were a Campbell . . .
And yet, though shocked to hear treasonous words shouted within sight of the fort, some part of her raged with the Rangers, fury and helplessness knotted together inside her at the thought of the wrong that would be done to Iain in the name of justice. But a part of her was afraid, as well—both for Iain’s men and for herself.
Surely, Lord William would not let such open defiance go unchallenged and unpunished. Each of the Rangers might yet find himself bound to the whipping post—or, worse, the gallows. As for herself, she was one woman, separated by a wooden door from two hundred drunken men who had every reason to blame her for what was about to befall their leader. She knew Morgan and Connor would not permit them to harm her, but the two of them could not be in all places at once.
“A-nis a Theàrlaich Stiùbhairt, nam biodh an crùn a th’ air Rìgh Seòras ort—” Now Charles Stewart, if you were wearing the crown that King George has—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Cannon fire!
The walls around her seemed to shake with the throaty roar. Was Lord William firing on his own men?
Without thinking, she stood and ran in quick, painful steps to the door, raised the bar, and looked out into the stunned silence. Through the darkness she could see the shapes of men, their heads turned toward the fort, the sulfurous scent of gunpowder carried on the night wind. Then one dark shape broke away from the others.
“What in God’s name are you doin’, lass?” Connor strode toward her. “Get back inside. This is no time to be walkin’ about in naugh’ but your chemise.”
“But the cannon—”
“’Tis just Wentworth’s way of tellin’ us he doesna like our singin’, isn’t that so, lads?”
“Or McHugh’s pipe playin’!” someone called out.
The men laughed.
Connor shouted over his shoulder. “Off to your beds, the lot of you! By order of His Holiness we’re now under curfew. Any man found out of his cabin joins Iain at the whipping post!”
Amidst oaths and curses that singed Annie’s ears, men shuffled off to their cabins.
Connor bent down and took up a load of firewood, then carried it inside. He spoke not a word to her as he set it beside the hearth and began to feed the fire.
Annie drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders and spoke the words she’d wanted to say all evening. “’Tis sorry I am that Iain’s kindness toward me has brought this upon you all.”
Connor jabbed at the fire, then set the poker aside, a muscle tensing in his jaw. He turned toward her. “This isna your doin’. I dinnae blame you.”
But his gaze was hard, the set of his face stern, and as he turned and walked outside again, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling that in the quiet of his own heart, Connor—as well as Morgan and every Ranger on the island—wished Iain had left her to the Abenaki.
Iain had heard the shouts and curses and had realized the men were drunk and rioting. Then he’d heard McHugh’s pipes—and he’d known the situation was grim. He’d cursed, paced his cell, and cursed some more. What in the bloody hell were Morgan and Connor doing? And what of Annie? Were they watching over her?
Then the cannon had fired—three six-pounders.
Now there was silence.
He hated being caged, hated feeling helpless. If he were out there, he’d be able to knock some sense into his men’s drunken skulls and stop the mayhem. He’d be able to make certain Annie was safe. He’d be able to confront Wentworth.
He’d asked to speak with the bastard a half-dozen times, planning to demand his full sentence be restored and Annie released from any vow. But Wentworth had, of course, ignored him. Why would the man give up rights to Annie’s sweet body in exchange for the lesser pleasure of leaving more stripes upon Iain’s back?
The thought of Wentworth touching her enraged Iain to the point of violence. He would stop it. Somehow, he would stop it.
And then it came to him. What if Annie wanted to share Wentworth’s bed? Hadn’t Connor said she’d seemed to know Wentworth and had even curtsied to him?
But he also said she seemed to fear him, you lummox. Why would she want to lie wi’ him if she’s afraid of him?
Iain sat, stared at the strip of his plaid in his hand, and rubbed his thumb over the coarse wool, his thoughts crowded by anger and doubt. Unable to sleep and with nothing else to do, he waited for dawn.
Chapter 14
Lord William accepted Lieutenant Cooke’s assistance with his golden sash and gorget, then straightened his cravat, making sure the lace spilled freely down the front of his waistcoat. Having slept but little, he was in an ill temper and disposed to flog Major MacKinnon himself as punishment for a night’s lost repose.
“The whipping post has been recovered and stands where it should.” Cooke handed William his overcoat. “No one will be tardy for morning muster today, I’d warrant. Most of the troops are already awake.”
This did not surprise William. The Regulars held the Rangers in contempt not only because Rang
ers did not share their scarlet uniform, but also because Rangers received the same or even better pay than British soldiers though they were but colonial rustics. None of them would want to miss the sight of Major MacKinnon covered in bloody stripes.
“I hear that some of the men are wagering over how many lashes it will take to make the proud Major MacKinnon cry out.” Lieutenant Cooke reached for William’s already powdered wig. “The odds are running three to one that he’ll break before the count reaches fifty.”
William sat, allowing the lieutenant to place the wig upon his head. “You know that I do not approve of wagering, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, my lord.” The disappointed tone in Lieutenant Cooke’s voice told William that the young lieutenant had himself placed a wager.
So his men thought Major MacKinnon would break. A part of William hoped they were right. It would certainly humble the Ranger Corps if their leader were to scream and plead. But William had presided over dozens upon dozens of floggings through the years and knew that one could never predict how a man would react to extreme pain. He’d seen strong men scream and weep, while men barely old enough to grow beards bore their punishment in stoic silence. Major MacKinnon had more pride than most men—and uncommon strength. It would be no easy thing to defeat his will.
Wig in place, William stood, brushing the loose powder off the sleeves of his overcoat. “Thank you, Lieutenant. See to it the horses are brought round.”
Outside his window, dawn had begun to break.
William took tea at his writing table, sipping gratefully, the hot liquid helping to clear his head and smooth the roughest edges off his temper. He found himself thinking not of Major MacKinnon’s flogging, but of Miss Burns and how very much he was looking forward to his visit with her this evening. How would she bear up to seeing her rescuer under the lash, she who had been willing to do anything to spare him?
He’d just finished his second cup of tea when he heard Lieutenant Cooke approach with the horses. He reached for the tricorn with the gold trim and red-and-white cockade, set it upon his head, and went outside to meet them.
They rode to the brig, waiting on their horses as Major MacKinnon was brought forth in wrist irons and fetters by an escort of four guards.
Far from looking like a man who’d spent a sleepless night contemplating the limits of pain, the major seemed ready for a fight. “What a fine fair morn’ it is, aye, Your Worship? I didna think you had the courage to face me.”
William refused to dignify this comment with a response. There was no need. His men, appropriately shocked by the major’s disrespect, responded for him.
“Watch your tongue, you!” The quartermaster gave Major MacKinnon a shove. “The lash will take some of the piss out of him, my lord.”
Lieutenant Cooke glared down at MacKinnon. “For a man about to face the lash, you seem greatly lacking in both humility and respect, Major.”
But Major MacKinnon ignored them, his gaze fixed on William. “You may have bent me and my brothers to your will, but I willna suffer you to lay a hand on Miss Burns. She is under my protection. Whatever she agreed to do for my sake, I now disavow for hers. I’m to be given the hundred lashes I’ve earnt, and you are to keep yourself far from the lass. Touch her, and’tis your balls will be flyin’ from yonder flagpole.”
Shouts of protests from Lieutenant Cooke and others all but drowned out the last words, but William understood them nonetheless. Major MacKinnon had just threatened to geld him.
And William felt his disposition improve.
Intriguing.
Miss Burns had been willing to sacrifice her honor to lessen Major MacKinnon’s suffering, while the major was demanding to have his pain doubled to protect Miss Burns’s honor.
William kept his face impassive. “I assure you, Major, the fair Miss Burns is in no danger from me.”
But William could see that Major MacKinnon did not believe him.
Annie dressed in the light of the fire, exhausted from the long sleepless night, her emotions raw and confused. Today, the sunrise brought not renewed hope, but a sense of terror.
She would have dreaded this flogging even were Iain a stranger. She’d never been able to bear it when Uncle Bain punished his servants, and had at times aided them in hiding their transgressions. Nor was she one who liked to stare when their carriage passed some poor soul suffering in the pillory.
But Iain was not some faceless stranger, and her heart ached for the agony he must soon endure. He had saved her life with skill and daring few men possessed. And though at first he’d seemed to her little more than an exiled Highland barbarian—a shockingly bonnie one—she had seen such kindness in him as to find her mind changed. For he possessed many of the noble qualities she’d been reared to look for in a gentleman, while Lord William, by ordering this flogging and then using her concern for Iain to compel her into his bed, reminded her of her uncle—nobleman on the outside, barbarian within.
’Twas as if her world had once again been tilted on its uttermost edge.
So much had happened these past four days. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had slept before Master and Mistress Hawes’s hearth in the vastness of the forest. Now they were dead, and Annie, who hadn’t told a lie in her life, had become a queen of deception—and bargained away her maidenhead.
Meanwhile, the man who had risked his life to save hers was about to pay for his kindness with pain and flesh. Already the first bloody fingers of dawn reached above the dark outline of the forest. It would not be long.
Had he slept? Was he afraid?
Did he condemn her?
Now what does my pain buy? I’ll have scars upon my back just the same, but you’ll be Wentworth’s whore.
Iain’s words had haunted her thoughts all night, and she’d found herself wondering whether he was right. Would she have done better by him to let him bear the full brunt of his punishment even at the risk of death? Was she wrong to try to ease his torment by enduring dishonor herself?
He certainly thought so. But he didn’t know what she knew. He didn’t know she had lied to him about Master and Mistress Hawes. He didn’t know she lived under penalty of indenture. He didn’t know she was an Argyll Campbell.
He didn’t know the woman he was protecting wasn’t real.
Annie Burns was not real.
But why can she no’ become real?
Had she not suffered enough as a result of Uncle Bain’s betrayal? Had not her uncle’s greater lies already stripped her of all that was hers—her home, her possessions, her name? Why could she not take back her life, claiming a new name and forging a new life in exchange for the one that had been stolen?
Her rebellious thoughts gave her hope—but they did not soothe her conscience.
Yet one thing she knew she must do. She must learn to make her own way in the world. She could not be dependent upon others for her survival, nor could she wait for them to set her life aright. As soon as Iain was healed, she would make her way to New York or to Philadelphia and find work as a seamstress or a lady’s maid. She would start again.
And if Wentworth should get you with child?
A cold shudder ran through her. Though he was a handsome man and of royal blood, she could not bear the idea of lying with him and feeling his hands upon her. The thought of him kissing her as Iain had kissed her left her feeling nauseated and afraid.
And what of your brand? If he should find it—
A knock on the door made her jump.
Dread like cold iron in her belly, she rose, crossed the small room, and opened the door.
Connor stood there, his face grim. “Come. It’s time.”
In the distance, she heard the rhythmic beating of drums.
Annie shook her head, stepped back. “I cannae—”
“Aye, you can, and you will.” He forced his way past her, grabbed her cloak, and thrust it in her face, his voice gruff. “You will do him the honor of witnessin’ his sacrifice if I have to drag you kickin’
and screamin’ every foot of the way.”
Was that how they saw it? If she watched Iain suffer, would he and his men feel she had shown him respect? How strangely these frontiersmen thought.
She could not do this. She did not want to do this.
She nodded. “If I can give him any comfort by bein’ there, then I must.”
She slipped into her cloak and moccasins and followed Connor out into the chilly March morning. The sky was palest blue tinged with pink to the east. A breeze carried aloft the mingled scents of wood smoke and frying salt pork. Dogs nosed about here and there for scraps. Yet Annie noticed none of it, the day seeming cold and dark and empty.
By the time she and Connor reached the western side of the cabins, the Rangers had already turned out in ranks. Though she could not say they stood neatly at attention like British Regulars, they had managed to form lines and seemed alert, despite a night of drinking and rampaging. They turned their heads to look at her as she passed.
Her step faltered.
“They mean you no harm.” His hand resting against her lower back, Connor guided her off to one side to where Morgan stood.
Morgan looked down at her, his face grave. “Morn’, lass.”
Connor gave a grunt of disgust. “Look at them—the Sassenach vultures.”
Annie followed the direction of Connor’s gaze, saw the ramparts of Fort Edward crowded with curious soldiers who had come to point and watch. She felt a surge of rage at their callousness. How could anyone find pleasure and humor in this?
Morgan spat on the ground. “They’ve been waitin’ for this day for a long time—a chance to see Iain MacKinnon brought low.”
Annie wanted to ask Morgan why this was so, but her gaze happened upon the whipping post, and her stomach fell to the ground. It stood before them, hewn from the trunk of some unlucky tree, a band of iron affixed on each side to restrain the wrists of the man being flogged.
“Mercy!”
“You’ve come to the wrong place for that, lass.” Morgan gave a cruel laugh.