Surrender

by Pamela Clare

Iain crept along on his belly, a knife between his teeth, the glow of the campfire to guide him. He’d waited and watched the French encampment until long past dark, when most of the supply party were asleep. Then he’d stripped down to his breeches and smeared his skin with bear fat and ashes to blacken it. Moving slowly and silently, he’d made it past the Wyandot sentries, nothing more than a passing shadow. The priest’s tent stood just ahead, illuminated from within by candlelight.

  He and Joseph had at first thought to waylay the supply train and take the priest that way, but Iain had deemed it too dangerous. He did not want to compound his sins by taking lives if he could help it, and there was little chance that the sudden appearance of a hundred Stockbridge warriors wouldn’t sow panic amongst the French soldiers and their Wyandot allies and cause them to open fire. And although Iain would have been happy to wave a white flag of truce, reveal himself, and ask the priest politely to come away with him, the price on his head was such that he’d never make it out alive. So he had chosen a path that was safer for everyone—except him. ’Twas his wedding, after all.

  Not that he was alone. Joseph and his men had surrounded the encampment just beyond the sentries and were ready to intervene should the worst happen. Iain prayed the worst would not happen.

  Using his forearms, he pulled himself forward inch by inch, listening for breathing, for footsteps, for the creak of leather, his gaze on the priest’s tent just ahead of him. He was no more than two yards away from it and was considering how best to enter—whether to cut the back of the tent open with his knife or whether to tempt the firelight and use the flap—when a young French officer popped out of the tent beside it, strode past the fire to the priest’s tent, and ducked inside. There came a mutter of voices as the two fell into discussion.

  Iain lay still in the shadows, watched, waited.

  The hoot of an owl. A cough. The shiver of wind through new leaves. Behind him, two Wyandot men argued in whispers about a woman. A log shifted in the fire pit, sending a shower of orange sparks skyward.

  Iain had begun to wonder if the officer and priest were sharing the tent when the voices from within grew silent and the officer emerged again.

  “Bonne nuit, Père Delavay. Dormez bien.”

  But the officer had taken perhaps three steps toward his own tent when he stopped, turned toward the shadows, and seemed to look right at Iain.

  His body coiled and ready to spring, Iain ignored animal instincts that told him to flee or fight, held his breath, and prayed he would not have to kill.

  Then the officer strode toward him, quick steps that showed no caution, one hand loosing his breeches.

  Och, for God’s sake! He’s come to take a piss.

  ’Twas a poor reason for either of them to die.

  Not daring to move a muscle, Iain could do nothing but watch as the officer, no more than three feet away from him, grasped his cock and drained it onto the soil near Iain’s face. Then, humming a tune beneath his breath, the officer tucked himself back inside his breeches, turned, and walked into his tent.

  Seizing his moment, Iain stood and, moving as swiftly and silently as he could, made his way to the front of the priest’s tent, lifted the flap, and ducked inside.

  The priest, an older man with a shock of gray hair, high cheekbones, and an extremely aristocratic nose, stared at him in utter shock and horror, his voice a dry whisper. “Mon Dieu!”

  “I am Iain MacKinnon, and I mean you no harm.” Realizing the knife in his hand carried a different message, Iain sheathed it. Then he crossed himself. “Forgi’e me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

  Annie listened to Killy’s tale, taking care to keep the stitches even, the setting sun leaving her precious little light by which to finish mending Brendan’s torn sleeve.

  “But the supplies had been so long aboard ship that the biscuits were turned to stone! Even the weevils had gone.”

  The men erupted into good-natured laughter at this familiar story, their hard day of drills and shooting at marks eased by supper and their nightly ration of rum.

  Despite her sorrows, she found herself smiling. “What did you do? Were you no’ terribly hungry?”

  “Aye, miss, and our bellies were makin’ a terrible din. Mack ordered us to open the hogshead and set it beneath the fort wall.” Killy, a born storyteller, paused for dramatic effect, a smile on his still-pale face. “Then he set us to droppin’ cannonballs on the biscuits to soften them.”

  The men guffawed.

  She found herself laughing with them. “Cannonballs?”

  “Aye, miss. We dropped a dozen six-pounders, and ’twas the hogshead broke first!”

  The strains of Dougie’s fiddle sang over the men’s howls of laughter as he tuned it, his nimble fingers already slipping into a jig.

  Annie set her mending on her lap. “’Tis grateful I am to have you back amongst us, Killy, for I love your stories.”

  A red flush stole into his face. “’Tis my Irish charm you cherish, miss.”

  “Aye, that, too.” She laughed, then rose from the tree stump that had served as her chair. “And now I’ll bid you all a good night.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  “A pleasant sleep to you, miss.”

  She walked toward Iain’s cabin through a warm breeze that promised summer, the cheerful sounds of men’s banter and Dougie’s fiddle behind her. A night heron flew with slow wing beats toward some hidden bog to fish. The western horizon blazed orange and pink, set aflame by the setting sun.

  Could Iain see it, too? Was he sitting safe beside Morgan and Joseph with his flask of rum? Was he sharing stories with them and laughing just like his men? Was he thinking of her, just as she was thinking of him? Or was he in desperate peril, fighting for his life, perhaps even wounded—or worse?

  You live your life wi’ death on your heels.

  For your sake, lass, I promise to stay one step ahead.

  Iain had been gone for twelve days—twelve long days and twelve longer nights. He’d said it wasn’t a dangerous mission but that it might be a long one, and these past twelve days had seemed an eternity. She’d done her best to hide her fears, to show the same courage Iain always showed. But every night she’d lain awake praying that he and the others were safe, her mind haunted by her own memories of the forest—the sound of war cries, of rifles firing, of men dying upon the ground.

  Keep your promise to me, Iain MacKinnon. God, help him keep his promise!

  Connor and the men were doing their best to keep her spirits up, she knew. Despite the weight of his duties, Connor found time to talk with her each day, taking breakfast or supper with her, making certain she had all she needed. Killy was still too weak for physical labor, but his tongue was as strong as ever, and he used it ordering the men to bring her firewood and water. Like angels, Iain’s men watched over her—rough angels that swore and liked their rum, but angels just the same.

  It had astonished her to learn they knew she was a Campbell. Iain told her he’d revealed her real name to them not long after he’d learnt the truth himself, judging it best for his men to hear it from him. She’d thought they’d hate her, but if anything they seemed more protective.

  Three times Lord William had summoned her, and three times he had been drawn away by something urgent. The first time, a fire had started near the powder magazine. The second time, the drawbridge had collapsed. The third time, a band of Abenaki had appeared on the edge of the forest as if preparing for an attack, and the fort had been called to battle readiness.

  Annie knew perfectly well the Rangers were behind these troubles. She’d heard McHugh and Cam laughing about the band of Abenaki with Brendan over breakfast.

  “You make a bonnie Indian, but were you no’ afraid they’d shoot?” Brendan had asked.

  “They cannae shoot to save their hides, laddie,” Dougie had answered.

  “They’re more like to hit themselves than their marks. Did you see their faces?” Cam had dissolved into laughter.<
br />
  It had stunned her to think they’d take such measures to keep Lord William away from her. If they’d been caught, they’d have faced a court-martial and surely a flogging.

  “You’re one of them now, lass,” Iain had told her before he’d departed. “There’s no’ a man amongst them who would betray your secret or let anyone harm you.”

  She’d come to realize that this ragtag band of men, these coarse Rangers, had become clan for one another, taking the place of kin left behind. Many of them had lost fathers at Culloden, and most had been driven into exile at the tip of an Argyll sword, but still they had accepted her. Even if their response was more out of love and loyalty to Iain than out of true affection for her, she was grateful.

  Yet, she knew they did care for her. And she knew something else about them—they were lonely, and she reminded them of all they’d left behind. She could see the longing in their eyes, hear the wistfulness in their voices when they spoke of home, see the yearning on their faces when Dougie played his fiddle. So many of them had sweethearts or wives and children they’d left far away in frontier villages, loved ones they hoped to protect by risking their own lives, battling the enemy of their enemy so they might have peace around their homes.

  Most of them had been with Iain for three years, returning to their families only when given leave at Christmas. How did they endure it? How could they stand living so far away from those they loved? How could their wives and sweethearts bear the constant fear and doubt of wondering whether they were still alive or whether death had already claimed them?

  Tears pricked her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks. Did she weep for the men and their families or because she feared for Iain? She could not say.

  But this she knew for certain: she would not allow Iain to send her away to Stockbridge.

  She found Connor waiting for her at the door to the cabin. She tried to wipe her tears away, but he had already seen.

  He frowned, his expression so like Iain’s, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “What is it, lass?”

  She shrugged, tried to smile. “I try to be strong, but . . . I fear for him.”

  “Och, is that all?” He rolled his eyes. Then he grinned. “Perhaps this will help.”

  He held up his hand, and Annie realized he was holding a small wreath.

  ’Twas a wreath of pink, yellow, and white forest wildflowers tied off with white ribbons.

  She took it from him, stared at it in amazement. “Wh-what—?”

  “’Tis a gift for your hair from Iain. He bids you to trust him. He asks you to dress quickly and to come with me across the river to where he awaits you in the forest.”

  It took a moment for her mind to grasp what Connor was saying. “This is from Iain? Iain is back?”

  Connor’s grin became a wide smile. “Aye, and he’s impatient to wed you. There’s a gown for you on the bed. Hurry, lass, and dress! He’s waitin’.”

  Chapter 27

  “Lie still, lass. We’re almost there.”

  Annie lay on her belly in the canoe, wrapped in a dark blanket to conceal her and protect her gown, while Connor, McHugh, and Cam swam alongside the little craft, guiding it through the current to the far bank of the river. Over there, somewhere in the darkening forest, Iain waited for her.

  Was she dreaming?

  She touched the soft silk of her new gown, felt the wreath of flowers in her hair, and her heart gave a leap. Iain was waiting to marry her.

  Her mind whirled with questions. How could he hope to marry her when there was still no priest or vicar? If he had returned, why was he not in camp? Why was she being ferried across the river to meet him in secret? Where had he come upon so lovely a gown?

  She had asked Connor all of these things, but he’d refused to answer, a big smile upon his face. “Och, quit hecklin’ me wi’ your wearisome questions, lass, and dress. It grows dark. Iain will tell you all you need to ken.”

  With trembling hands and barely able to breathe, she had removed her linen gown of green and rose stripes and slipped into the new one. Cut from silk the color of dusty rose and trimmed with delicate ivory lace, it fit as if it had been made for her and looked as if it had never been worn before. Only after she’d finished the laces had she realized it was to be her wedding gown. She would marry in silk and lace after all.

  She felt the keel scrape sand, heard the splash of moccasins in water, and lifted her head to find the three men bent double, dragging the canoe ashore, their clothes and hair sodden. Then powerful arms scooped her up, blanket and all, and Connor carried her quickly overland toward the distant line of trees.

  “’Tis no wonder he was able to bear you so long.” Connor adjusted her weight in his arms. “You wecht no more than a bairn.”

  Soon the rushing of the river was replaced by the whisper of the breeze through the trees and the sleepy chatter of birds settling amongst the branches. Deep into the forest they went, until they came to a meadow of green grass and wildflowers that opened to the sunset sky above.

  And Iain was there in the gloaming, waiting for her, whole and safe and alive.

  His long hair was damp, his face shaven, and she knew he’d had a bath in the river. He wore his leather breeches and leggings, but his shirt was of new linen. At his side was his claymore, the strip of MacKinnon plaid tied round its pommel.

  “Iain!”

  No sooner had she been placed on her feet than she was running toward him, aware of nothing but him. She leapt into his arms, felt his strength surround her, felt the warmth of his lips on her forehead, on her cheeks, on her mouth as he kissed her. And she kissed him back, parting her lips to taste him, twelve days and nights of fear and hunger melting away in the heat of his embrace.

  She heard men’s muffled laughter.

  “First the wedding, aye?” ’Twas Morgan.

  Slowly, she withdrew her lips from Iain’s, found herself looking into his blue eyes, her mind still filled with questions, but her heart elated.

  “You are the bonniest thing I’ve e’er seen, a leannan. Och, I have missed you.”

  Then someone coughed and spoke with a distinct French accent. “Shall we begin?”

  She turned her head, gasped.

  Beside Morgan and Joseph stood a man in black robes, a simple belt of rope round his waist, a rosary hanging from his hip.

  A Catholic priest.

  She stared up at Iain, stunned, angry, confused. “Wh-what . . . ?”

  “Pardon me, Father, I need to speak wi’ the bride.” Iain’s strong arm encircled her waist, and she found herself being led a short distance away. Then he lifted her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “I ken this is no’ as you wished it, Annie. I can see you’re angry wi’ me, and I dinnae blame you, for I took this upon myself wi’out tellin’ you. But what I have done could well be treason in the eyes of the Sassenach, and I would see you held blameless if I am discovered.”

  Furious and barely able to think, she glared at him. “What have you done, Iain MacKinnon?”

  He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “I’ve deceived my commander, kidnapped a French priest, and kept secrets from you because I wanted to protect you. Nay, listen to me, lass. Soon I’ll be off to Ticonderoga, and there’s a chance I willna return. What happens to you if I am slain and you begin to swell wi’ my bairn? I wouldna see you bear a child penniless and in shame. Be angry if you like. Shout at me. Blame me. Strike me if you must. But marry me now, here, in this place—while we still have time.”

  She sifted through his words, through the tempest of her feelings, her heart thrumming in her chest. She could see the concern in his blue eyes—and his uncertainty. And then it struck her: he had done all this—defied his commander, traveled hard leagues, and put himself in grave danger—not knowing whether she would accept him in the end.

  Then a strange stillness drifted over her, fury and confusion lifting from her heart and mind like a fog. Iain would be leaving for battle soon, and he might not return. What did a
ny of the rest of it matter?

  She glanced over at the priest, who watched her gravely, his face drawn with fatigue. Then she looked into Iain’s eyes, her own filling with tears. “Aye, Iain MacKinnon. I’ll marry you here, now, in this place—while we still have time.”

  He took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, then led her back to the priest.

  “Annie, this is Father Jean-Marie Delavay.”

  Unsure what to do—she had never met a Catholic priest before, nor a Frenchman—she released Iain’s hand and sank into a full curtsy. “Father.”

  “Rise and tell me your name, child.” His accent was thick, but his words were clear.

  She stood, suddenly feeling nervous. “Lady Anne Burness Campbell.”

  “Lady?”

  She heard Morgan’s whisper of surprise, felt it pass like a shiver through Connor, McHugh, and Cam, then glanced up to find Iain looking at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it. “Lady?”

  Did he not know? Had he not been able to guess from her name? “Aye.”

  Then Father Delavay was speaking, asking them first to kneel, then to rise, his words drifting over her as if from a dream, a mixture of Latin, English, and French. He bound their hands together in a strip of MacKinnon plaid, made the sign of the cross over them, speaking words of blessing both strangely familiar and utterly foreign to Annie.

  But through it all she saw only Iain. Iain holding her trembling hands. Iain prompting her when it was time to speak her vows. Iain promising to love, honor, and cherish her all the days of his life. Iain sliding a band of gold over her finger. Iain wiping tears of happiness from her face. Iain kissing her, lifting her off her feet, calling her his wife.

  And Annie called herself blessed.

  Iain watched as Annie danced with Morgan to the sound of Dougie’s fiddle and McHugh’s forbidden pipes, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her unbound hair wreathed in flowers. She hadn’t known the steps to the jig, so Morgan and Connor had taken it upon themselves to teach her, his men cheering her on. Graceful and light on her small feet, she had learnt quickly.