by Pamela Clare
Those had been dark days and terrifying, but they had brought her together with him. She wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Then, on sudden inspiration, she took one of his knives, grasped a lock of hair at her nape, and cut through it. Then she tied a knot in one end and slipped the strands into the pouch that held his flints and shot. A part of him would remain with her in her womb; now a part of her would go with him.
“Eager to see me go?”
Startled, her heart aching with sadness, she whirled about. “Dinnae say such a thing!”
He shut the door behind him, came to her, and pulled her against him. “Och, Annie, forgi’e me. ’Tis but a soldier’s wont to make light of leavin’ for war.”
“I find no humor in it.” Her grief made her sound shrewish and angry.
He kissed her forehead, held her closer. “We still have tonight, lass.”
She pressed herself closer to him, held on to that hope. “Aye, we still have tonight.”
She watched as Iain packed his gear—laughing with him when he found that she’d set out his snowshoes and bearskin coat.
“I dinnae think I’ll be needin’ these.”
Then they shared a dinner of roasted beef and boiled potatoes, Iain coaxing her to eat, feeding her little bites over the objections of her wambly belly.
But though Annie longed to be alone with him, there were many things that seemed to require Iain’s attention, and their meal was interrupted time and again.
First came Morgan. “The flints they’ve given us dinnae fit our rifles.”
“Tell Abercrombie’s whoreson of a quartermaster that you’re under my orders to shoot him in the cods if he gets in your way, then take what we need.”
Then came Connor. “McHugh got into a brawl with three Regulars, and they’ve thrown him in the guardhouse.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Leave him there to stew awhile. They’ll let him out ere morn’.”
Then came Brendan and Killy, looking furious. Killy spoke for the two of them. “We’ve been told we’re to stay behind, Mack. You can’t mean to be leavin’ us here.”
Iain gave Annie’s hand a squeeze. “It’s true you willna be headin’ north to Ticonderoga wi’ us, but it’s no’ because I find you weak and dinnae trust you to fight. I’ve a different mission for you. I need you to watch over Father Delavay and Annie for me. ’Tis yet a secret, but Annie is wi’ child.”
The two Rangers’ frowns turned to grins, and they listened as Iain told them how there were only a handful of men he would trust with this mission and how Annie needed not only protection, but extra help about the cabin now that she was in a delicate way.
“Can I rely on you?”
Brendan nodded fiercely, his young face grave. “Aye, Mack.”
Killy grinned. “You’ll name the babe after me, of course.”
Iain dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Daft bloody Irishman!”
Annie waited until the men had gone to speak. “You are kind to spare their feelings.”
“I wasna tryin’ to spare them, Annie.” He looked at her gravely for a moment, then grinned. “But watch now—I asked them to keep the bairn a secret, which means all of Ranger Camp will ken afore you can blink. They’d tell the redcoats and the French nothin’, even under torture, but no Ranger seems to be able to keep a secret from another.”
And true enough, by the time Iain was finished with his meal—Annie had refused to swallow another bite—there were calls from outside for the two of them to come forth.
Iain led her out the door, and sensing her shyness, wrapped an arm about her shoulder.
His men cheered. Then one by one they stepped forward, filing past Annie, doffing their caps, bestowing their kindest benisons upon her and the bairn.
“A long life and happiness.”
“Thank you, Cam.”
“A long life and good health to you and the bairn.”
“Thank you, Forbes.”
“If it’s a lass, may she have your beauty, and if it’s a wee laddie, his father’s courage.”
“Thank you, Dougie.”
Iain watched as his men poured out their humble blessings upon Annie and their unborn child. He’d known they cherished her, but he’d not foreseen this. Something twisted in his gut to know that not all of them would return. And then he understood. On the eve of ugliness and death, his men were paying reverence to beauty and new life.
Annie looked every bit the high-born lady, receiving their attention with grace and gratefulness despite her own grief and worry, answering their words with her sweet smile though Iain could tell she was near tears. Yet, although she brought happiness to his men, he wanted her for himself.
As the last of his men filed past her, Iain took Morgan aside. “I’m putting you—”
“In command, aye, I ken. Go to her, Iain.”
Bidding his men to rest well, Iain led Annie back inside and closed the door behind them, shutting out the night. At last they were alone.
She stood with her face downcast in the flickering candlelight, her arms hugged round her, looking small and fragile and frightened. She drew a shaky breath, and he realized she was trying not to cry.
He drew her into his arms, kissed her hair. “Come, Annie.”
“I—I want to be strong like you, but—” Her voice broke.
“The Muhheconneok believe part of a woman’s strength lies in her tears. Dinnae be ashamed to weep, a leannan. You willna seem less in my eyes.”
She lifted her gaze to his, her green eyes glittering, wetness upon her cheeks. “I cannae bear the thought of losin’ you, Iain MacKinnon.”
He knew her anguish, for he could not stand the thought of leaving her to bear his child without him near, or of his son or daughter growing up fatherless. But he did not tell her that. “I’ve no intention of dyin’, Annie.”
“Make me forget, Iain. I need to forget—even if just for a while.”
“Aye, lass.”
He kissed her face, tasting the salt of her tears, intending to comfort her. But the moment his lips touched hers, need overwhelmed him. Gentleness gave way to a fierceness that shattered his restraint. He fisted a hand in her hair, angled her mouth to receive him, and kissed her with the roughness and desperation of a man facing the gallows. And she kissed him back, melting against him with a whimper, her fervor every bit a match for his.
They knew each other well, their hands tugging at lacings, pushing aside leather and linen, seeking the fastest path to skin, the truest ways to please. Then, naked, they fell upon the bed, limbs entwined, bodies impatient for union and release. He pushed her thighs apart and felt her hand close around his cock as she guided him eagerly into her welcoming heat.
“Annie, mo luaidh!” The slick, tight feel of her forced the breath from his lungs, sent fire spearing through his gut, making his cock jerk and his stones draw tight.
She called out for him, wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands sliding over the shifting muscles of his back and buttocks, gripping and kneading him as he drove himself into her. “Oh, Iain, I need you!”
Already on the brink, he buried himself deep inside her, grinding the thick root of his cock against her slick and swollen sex, determined not to find pleasure without her. She gave a long, throaty moan, her head tossing from side to side as he kept up a relentless rhythm, her inner muscles constricting around him.
He whispered nonsense against her cheeks, her lips, her throat, murmuring endearments in English, in Gaelic, in Muhheconneok. “Come for me, mo luaidh! Tha gràdh agam ort. Nia ktachwahnen.”
Then her breath caught in her throat, and she came, arching off the bed, her nails biting into his shoulders, fresh tears spilling down her temples. “Iain!”
She was the bonniest thing he’d ever seen, ecstasy mingled with sorrow on her lovely face as oblivion claimed her. The sight of her bliss stripped away his control, and with her name on his lips, he joined her in sweet forgetfulness.
�
��Iain?”
“Mmm?”
“If the bairn is a lass, I’d like to name her after our mothers—Mara Elasaid.”
“’Tis a bonnie name. And if ’tis a laddie?”
“Then we shall name him after his father.”
“Och, well, ’tis a grand idea. And what name would that be?”
“You daftie!”
Long into the night, Annie lay with her head against Iain’s chest, fighting to stay awake, knowing that if she slept, dawn would overtake her and Iain would leave. She listened to his slow breathing and the steady beat of his heart, savored the silky warmth of his skin, the firmness of his muscles, the rasp of his chest hair against her cheek. He felt so strong and alive, so vital, and she found it both cruel and terrible that anything should seek to rob him of life now.
They’d made love twice again, taking time for tenderness, lingering over the smallest pleasures. She had reveled in the feel of him, in his scent, in the bliss his body conjured from hers, committing every inch of him to her memory by touch, taste, sight, and scent. She had taken all he offered and denied him nothing.
Was it truly possible for the heart to withstand such a tempest of feelings—equal parts grief and joy, fear and hope? She hadn’t known love could be so sorrowful, nor joy such a source of sadness. Yet if this tumult was what it meant to love Iain with her entire being, body, mind, and soul, she would accept it.
“Annie?” Iain’s lips pressed against her cheek.
Her eyes flew open.
He stood beside the bed, already clad in his breeches, the sunrise glowing pink against the parchment window behind him.
She sat up with a start. “Nay!”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “’Tis well you slept. Dinnae blame yourself.”
She rose, feeling as if she were made of wood, and dressed. Then, as she had done so many times, she helped him to shave and dress, handing him his belt, his pistols, his knives, until he stood before her not her husband, but a warrior bound for battle. Tears scorching her throat, she walked with him out the door.
Outside stood Morgan, Connor, and Joseph.
Beyond the cabins, his men waited.
Joseph stepped forward and embraced her. “I’ll keep you and your baby in my prayers.”
“And you’ll be in mine.”
Then Connor pulled her against him and kissed her cheek. “Be well, lassie, and dinnae fret. We’ll be watchin’ over him.”
“Watch over yourself, Connor MacKinnon.” She smiled through her tears. “My baby will need uncles.”
“Fear not, Annie. All will be well.” Morgan took her, held her tight, kissing her temple. Then he whispered, “I’ll bring him back to you.”
“Be safe, Morgan. Please, be safe.”
Then the three of them turned and walked away, leaving her with Iain.
He turned to her, pulled her against him for one last embrace. “Tha móran ghràdh agam ort, dh’Annaidh.” My love lies upon you, Annie, and it always will.
The he did something she never would have expected. He dropped to his knees, grasped her hips, and pressed his lips to her belly just above her womb.
She twined her fingers in his hair, stifling a sob. “Tha móran ghràdh agam ort, a luaidh.”
Then he rose to his feet, gave her hand one last squeeze, and walked away, his fingers releasing hers one at a time, until her hand was empty.
“Bain Campbell, Marquess of Bute? On his way here? Are you certain?”
“Aye, my lord. If he hadn’t been detained by some unfortunate business in New York, he’d be here already. He should arrive tomorrow.”
William had been expecting some kind of reply from Campbell any day now, but not Campbell himself. “How extraordinary.”
“He must care deeply for his niece, my lord.”
“So it would seem.” He pressed a sovereign into his man’s hand. “Thank you. You are dismissed.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Oh, one last thing. You said he was detained by some unfortunate business. What sort of unfortunate business would that be?”
“It seems someone strangled a kitchen maid at the inn where the marquess was staying, and another maid accused him of the deed. He was questioned, an inconvenience that delayed his travel by several days.”
“I see. Thank you.”
With Lieutenant Cooke gone to battle this past week, William had become accustomed to seeing to his own wardrobe and morning toilette. He brushed yesterday’s powder off his jacket, slipped it on, then played with the lace at his throat, striving for symmetry.
He’d bitterly resented General Abercrombie’s decision to leave him in command of Fort Edward, knowing full well he’d earnt Abercrombie’s disfavor by repeatedly challenging the general’s strategy. Yet Abercrombie seemed to have as little talent for influencing minds as he did for planning battles.
William had sent a missive to London last week before his Regulars had marched north, describing his misgivings about the general’s plans for Ticonderoga, with instructions to present it to His Majesty should the effort at Ticonderoga fail. The letter would be proof not only that William was a more competent strategist than Abercrombie, but that he’d tried to save the day—and had been held back for doing so. His grandfather would be furious.
Unless Abercrombie won a clear victory at Ticonderoga, his days as a general were over. William would make certain of it.
William adjusted his wig on its stand and began to powder it.
It seemed Abercrombie had done William a favor, for he was about to have all of his questions regarding Lady Anne answered—and at a time when Major MacKinnon and the bulk of his men were occupied elsewhere. The handful of sick and injured Rangers and the dozen or so Stockbridge warriors MacKinnon had left behind would not hinder Lord Bute, who was still Lady Anne’s legal guardian. If Campbell wished to have her illegitimate marriage annulled and take her back to Scotland, no one had the authority to stop him.
Of course, William hoped he would choose a different course of action, one that left her in his own keeping.
William had prepared his own story, which had the virtue of being largely true. Lady Anne had been rescued from slaughter on the frontier, but had declined to reveal her true name. William had unfortunately not recognized her until it was too late to halt her disastrous marriage with Major MacKinnon. William would apologize, though Campbell could hardly hold him accountable when his niece had lied to him.
Then William would ask his questions. How had Lady Anne come to be on the frontier? How had she become indentured? Why might she wish to keep her identity secret?
The answers, together with the reunion of uncle and niece, would doubtless make for quite the diverting afternoon.
William brushed the powder from his hands, tapped his wig to remove the excess, then put it on, using the looking glass to guide him. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he strode downstairs to his office and began to sort through the many missives sent from the front. The most recent, dated the evening of July 5, announced the army’s arrival at Sabbath Day Point.
That was two days ago. With any luck, the battle for Ticonderoga had finally begun.
Iain lay on his belly on the mountaintop watching the British advance—such as it was. “Who wants to help me round up lost red sheep?”
Below and behind them to their right, a battalion of redcoats blundered blindly through the forest on a heading that would lead them west of the Ticonderoga peninsula.
Morgan took the glass from Iain, gazed through it, then shook his head. “Where the bloody hell do they think they’re goin’?”
Iain ordered his men to move out quietly, cursing Abercrombie for a fool. Rather than choosing the Rangers to guide the army, he’d sent Iain and his men off to guard their left flank and to hold the high ground against ambush. Now redcoats were scattered through the forest in small detachments—easy prey for Montcalm should he find them.
The mountainside was steep and
heavily wooded, offering both plenteous cover and many opportunities for ambush. Still, Iain led his men swiftly, hoping to prevent the first massacre of this campaign.
They’d been out for a week now, having spent several days at the ruins of William Henry building a fleet of whaleboats and bateaux to carry their entire force—the largest army Iain had ever seen—up Lake George. When they’d finally struck out on the water on July 4, the sight of the fleet had been awe-inspiring. Even Connor had gaped in amazement.
“Nanny Crombie kens how to launch ships, I’ll give him that.”
Landing was another thing. Already in their second day ashore, they had yet to approach the fort, which stood at battle readiness, its troops well aware that a British army was coming. There would be no element of surprise.
Iain reached inside his shirt, clasped the little medicine pouch Joseph had made for him yesterday. Inside was the silky lock of Annie’s hair. He’d discovered it as soon as he’d reached William Henry, had taken it out, and held it to his nose. It still smelled of her—musk and honey. How like Annie to surprise him in such a way.
Saying farewell to her was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Had she not been with child, it might have been easier. Women died in childbed every day, and many bairns did not live to take their first breath. Iain wanted to be with her when her time came. Yet he’d found peace to think that no matter what happened to him, their love would—God willing—take the shape of a child to bring her joy and to comfort her. He’d found greater peace still in Father Delavay’s solemn promise to baptize the bairn at birth—and to grant Annie baptism and last rites should the worst happen.
Iain had just turned their course in a more southerly direction, when there came the popping sound of gunfire from directly ahead. “It seems the wolves have found our sheep. Come!”
They moved through the trees as quickly as they could, keeping in formation, and found they’d already outflanked the French, who stood with their backs to them, firing upon Regulars, who were racing musket balls for cover.