by Pamela Clare
He strode amongst them, checking on their injuries, praising their courage, offering what assurances he could.
“Mack.” Dougie’s eyes were filled with grief. Cam had been his best friend.
Iain clapped his right hand on Dougie’s shoulder, gave him a squeeze, sharing his sorrow. “He fought well. Sweet Jesus, I shall miss him.”
Dougie nodded, tears on his stubbly cheeks. “He was a brave man and a good friend.”
“How’s that eye, McHugh?”
“I can still see wi’ it.”
“Och, well, then. You get first watch.”
After making certain his men were settled, he sought out his brothers and set up his pallet beside them—pine boughs with a woolen blanket for warmth. He sat, accepted the flask Morgan shoved under his nose, and took a deep drink of rum. Then he passed the flask on to Connor, who had an impressive black eye and a row of stitches on his cheek.
“You look bonnie.”
“And you.” Connor grinned, raised the flask, and drank.
“’Tis clear out of the three of us whose face God favors most.” Morgan took the flask back, his smile flashing white in the gloaming. “Not a scratch.”
Connor gave a snort. “I think the Almighty confused your face for your arse and wanted you to be able to sit.”
Iain lay back on his pallet, stared up at the stars, and thanked God that his brothers had made it through the battle alive and whole. So many had not. Then he pulled the medicine pouch from his shirt and kissed it. Tomorrow would take him home to Annie.
Trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder, he closed his eyes.
’Twas in the middle of the night that Joseph awoke him. “You have guests.”
Killy and Brendan.
Iain sat bolt upright, a knot of fear in his gut. “Annie.”
Killy nodded, his old face lined with fatigue. “Her uncle has come for her. He arrived yesterday. We came as fast as we could.”
Iain was packing his gear before Killy finished speaking, anger burning away his pain and weariness, his blood pumping hard in his chest. “Did he say why he’d come?”
The men shook their heads.
“What the bloody hell?” Connor sat up, blade in hand.
Beside him Morgan awoke.
“She fears he means to take her back to Scotland,” Brendan answered. “She wouldna let us fight him, Mack. She asked us not to shoot, not even when he took her from the island. She said he’d make us pay and she didn’t want to see more Rangers die for her sake.”
So Bain Campbell had Annie. Wentworth must have written to him. The bastard!
“We set a watch on Wentworth’s quarters—that’s where he’s got her stayin’—then we set off to fetch you.”
“You’ve done well. Stay and take some rest.” He slipped into his tumpline pack, adjusted the pistols in his waistband. Then he turned to his brothers. “Morgan, you’re . . . What the bloody hell do you two think you’re doin’?”
“We’re comin’ wi’ you.” Morgan stuffed his gear into his pack and stood, powder horn slung over his forearm.
Connor slipped into his pack, adjusted its weight. “Do you think we’d let you face this whoreson of a Campbell alone?”
He looked into his brothers’ eyes. “Abercrombie will call this desertion. If we’re caught, we’ll be shot. I cannae ask this of you.”
Then Morgan stepped forward. “If I’d been in command on that snowy March morn’, I’d have done my duty. To my everlasting shame, I’d have left the lass to be raped and murdered. But you took the risk and paid the price, and now you’ve got a bonnie, sweet wife and bairn on the way. I’ll no’ let you lose that. Nor will I suffer any man to harm Annie again.”
Connor nodded. “I swore to watch over her for you. How do you ken you’ll come back through the forest alive? If aught should befall you, someone will still need to go after Annie.”
It made sense, but they were taking a terrible risk.
Joseph leaned his head in between them. “If you women are done blathering, my men and I have canoes waiting.”
Iain turned to Killy and Brendan. “My thanks, men, for your aid. Killy, tell McHugh he’s in command now. If Nanny Crombie sends for us, tell him we’ve gone berry pickin’.”
Then Iain followed Joseph off toward Lake George, Morgan and Connor behind him.
Annie looked up from her sewing, saw Uncle Bain’s head lolling, his eyes closed. Lord William sat at his desk, reading through seemingly endless piles of correspondence. If only Uncle Bain would begin to snore. Then Annie would know it was safe to speak.
Shaken by her encounter with her uncle, horrified by what he’d said, she’d spent most of the afternoon locked in the bedroom with Betsy. Only when Lord William had returned had she ventured forth, desperate to speak with him in private. But Uncle Bain hadn’t left her side once.
She’d been about to give up and seek her bed, when a knock came at the door and a courier entered bearing dispatches from Ticonderoga. One look at his face and Annie knew the battle had not gone well.
Lord William took the letters and read through them one at a time, his face impassive. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Any idea when I can expect the army’s return?”
“The general expects to reach William Henry by tomorrow. With so many wounded, the journey overland is likely to take another full day, Colonel.”
“Very well. Dismissed.”
The courier saluted and was gone.
Barely able to breathe, Annie stood, waited.
Lord William arose and walked to his window, his fists clenched behind his back. But when he spoke, his voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “His Majesty’s companies have suffered a resounding defeat. Losses are high. Nearly all of the officers are either injured or slain. The general attacked without artillery. Our columns never breached Montcalm’s breastworks.”
Annie’s knees turned to water, and she sank back into her chair. “Wh-what of the Rangers, my lord?”
He turned to face her, picked up one of the dispatches, glanced at it. “The reports say the Rangers also sustained heavy losses, though it seems Major MacKinnon survived the battle. He and his remaining men covered the retreat. No word after that.”
She released the breath she’d been holding, her heart holding to one fact.
Iain had survived the battle.
“I am deeply grieved for our losses, my lord. Good night—and thank you, my lord.”
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard her uncle speak.
“Prepare an escort. I leave with my niece in the morning.”
Chapter 32
Annie held tight to Betsy, who trembled with fear.
“He’ll kill us, he will!”
“He’s no’ goin’ to hurt anyone—no’ again.” Annie wished she were sure of that. She felt the press of the knife against her hip, resolved to use it if her uncle tried to harm her.
Out in the hallway, Uncle Bain shouted once more for her to unlock the door. “If you dinnae open it now, lass, I’ll take it out on your backside wi’ my belt!”
“You may speak wi’ my husband when he arrives. Until then I’ll no’ leave this room!”
It happened all at once. A crash as the door flew open. Betsy’s terrified scream. Uncle Bain’s fist in her hair, yanking her painfully to her feet.
“Get downstairs! That carriage is waitin’!”
Then Lord William was there. “Control your temper, Campbell. Do as you like later, but do not strike her under my roof. Might I escort you, my lady?”
“Mind your own affairs, Wentworth.” Uncle Bain released her with an angry grunt.
Fighting tears of desperation and rage, Annie accepted Lord William’s arm. “Come, Betsy. Iain will find us along the way.”
Clinging to that hope, she let Lord William lead her down the stairs and outside to the waiting carriage. “The Stockbridge will escort you as far as Albany,” he told her, as if he was sending her on a pleasant outing with a c
haperone.
“My husband willna like it that you’ve allowed me to be taken from your own home against my will. I belong to him, as does the bairn I’m carryin’.”
“Lady Anne, your marriage was outside the established church and is therefore invalid. According to British law, you have no husband, and your child has no father.”
“Then British law is unjust!” Her voice quavered with rage and unshed tears.
“Perhaps.” Lord William helped her into the carriage. “As for the matter of your indenture, your uncle left a goodly sum to compensate Major MacKinnon for his purchase of you.”
She sat, adjusting her skirts, tears spilling down her cheeks. “How can anyone buy that which is not for sale? ’Tis theft!”
Lord William closed the carriage door. “I suspect the courts would honor the sale if the major chooses to contest it, as it places you in the care of your noble uncle.”
“There is naught that is noble about him.” She spoke the words, not caring if Uncle Bain heard her.
Lord William took her left hand, lifted it to his lips in farewell. “I wish we had become reacquainted under different circumstances, my lady. You are a most remarkable woman.”
Then, in one swift move, he slid Iain’s golden wedding band from her finger.
Annie cried out in dismay, reached for it, the loss of it like a blade to her heart. “Nay, you cannae—”
“That bit of gold belongs to MacKinnon. Lord William will see that he receives it.” Her uncle chuckled as he settled in across from her, Betsy pale and shaking beside him.
“You bastard! You would take from me something so precious?” She spat the words at her uncle, her cry becoming a sob as she realized she was truly being taken from the fort.
His gaze met hers, and in his eyes, blue eyes so like her father’s, she saw her own death—and Betsy’s. “Where you’re goin’, you’ll have no need for gold rings.”
A chill crept up Annie’s spine, and she reached with her mind to feel the reassuring pressure of the knife against her hip.
Iain will come for you, Annie. You know he will.
She looked to Lord William, wondering if he’d heard her uncle’s clear threat.
Lord William glanced furtively toward her uncle, then his lips moved.
As the carriage lurched forward, Annie could have sworn he’d said, “Be ready for anything.”
Iain and his brothers arrived with Joseph at Fort Edward just before noon and made straight for Wentworth’s quarters. They shoved the guards aside and interrupted Wentworth in the midst of a conversation with one of his aides.
Wentworth dismissed the young officer at once. “What took you so long, Major?”
Iain reached down, grabbed Wentworth by the lace at his throat, and yanked him to his feet. “Where’s my wife?”
Wentworth met his gaze, his gray eyes cool. “She left with her uncle two hours ago.”
“If aught should happen to her—”
“Let me guess. You’ll kill me. Now that you’ve made that clear, why don’t the four of you do what you can to refresh yourselves? I’ve got horses waiting for us. Captain Joseph’s men agreed to dawdle on the trail and to watch over Lady Anne. We ought to be able to catch them long before they near Albany.”
Astonished, Iain released him. “What are you sayin’?”
“I’m telling you there’s still time to save Lady Anne.”
They’d set out almost immediately, Iain taking time to spread salve on his aching shoulder and to array himself for a different sort of battle. While he’d dressed, Joseph and his brothers had sung the war songs, Joseph fanning smoke against him with an eagle feather, his brothers sharpening his claymore and dagger. Iain had closed his mind to fear, to any imaginings of Annie’s despair, to any emotion that might weaken him.
Be strong, a leannan. I’ve no’ forsaken you.
The Regulars at the fort had stared at him, most with wide, frightened eyes.
Wentworth had merely nodded. “I see we are ready.”
Soon Iain was sitting astride one of the cavalry horses, riding down the road for Albany, his brothers, Joseph, and Wentworth beside him, his claymore hanging heavy against his back. He asked the question he’d wanted to ask since they’d left the fort. “Why do you aid us? Is Campbell no’ one of your kind? Was it no’ you who brought him down upon us?”
“Bain Campbell is a depraved murderer, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Wentworth’s voice dripped with disgust. “I’d never have contacted him had I known the truth of the matter.”
“And how did you learn the truth?”
“I have my means.”
Iain had no doubt that was true.
“You must remember that you are injured and fatigued from battle and from your forced night march, while Campbell is well rested,” Wentworth warned him. “He is a formidable opponent with the broadsword and played a significant role in helping His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, devise a method to counter the Highlanders’ charge at Culloden.”
Iain knew well the story of that battle. He knew how the British army had drilled to attack not the warrior before them, but the unprotected left side of the next man down. Campbell deserved to die for that reason alone. Yet, although many a Highlander had been cut down that way, it had been musket balls that had won the day for Cumberland, a claymore no match for a weapon fired at a distance.
“Don’t tell me you fear for my safety.”
“I am risking much, Major.”
“Aye, that’s true.” Iain turned to his brothers. “Lads, keep a watch on the wee princeling so that he doesna scratch himself on a branch or lose a button.”
“I cannot afford for you to be killed.” Wentworth sounded vexed.
“Och, well, I wouldna want to die and leave you with a bunch of thorny questions to answer.” Iain hadn’t been able to keep himself from laughing, his brothers and Joseph with him. “Dinnae fret, Your Gracefulness. Bain Campbell willna survive this day.”
Annie bit back a moan, the jostling of the carriage and the stifling heat making her unsettled stomach worse. How she was going to make it all the way to Albany without being sick she did not know. She held Betsy’s hand tighter, breathed slowly, tried to still her queasiness.
Then again, her sick belly was the least of her worries. If Uncle Bain had his way, she’d likely never reach Scotland alive. But he wouldn’t kill her here. It was too close to Lord William, too close to Iain and the fort. He would wait until he was alone with her.
Be ready for anything.
As soon as they’d gotten outside of the fort, Annie had realized something was afoot. ’Twas a small group of Joseph’s men that had been sent as their escort, not British Regulars. She’d been too upset to think on it before.
“They know I’m Iain’s wife,” she’d whispered to Betsy when Uncle Bain had stopped the carriage to relieve himself. “They are as kin to him. See how a warrior walks close to each door where he can see us? They willna let my uncle harm us. You must be prepared.”
Annie knew the Stockbridge were looking for ways to slow the journey. If the false ambush hadn’t told her that, the two fallen trees that blocked the road certainly had. But still they moved forward, wheels creaking, leagues of lush, green forest passing by her, Albany growing ever nearer.
What if Iain was killed in the retreat? What if he was injured and cannae come for you?
The questions struck at her like blows. A wave of nausea rolled through her, and this time she couldn’t help but moan.
“’Tis no more than you deserve, spreadin’ your thighs for a Catholic, a mere soldier. How ashamed your father would be.” Her uncle looked at her with revulsion. “Tell me—what did MacKinnon say when he saw your bonnie brand?”
Annie opened her eyes, met his gaze, smiled. “He swore one day to kill you.”
Uncle Bain laughed, but not before Annie saw the fear in his eyes.
And then she heard it—the birdcall that wasn’t a bird.
The
carriage rolled slowly to a stop.
“What in God’s name is it now? I wish Wentworth had sent us off wi’ disciplined British Regulars instead of these—”
The doors of the carriage were jerked open. She felt strong arms seize her about the waist, heard Betsy scream, and thought she saw someone press the point of a bayonet against Uncle Bain’s throat.
Then she found herself looking into Morgan’s face as he pulled her from the carriage and led her to a safe distance. “I’ve got you, lass.”
“Oh, Morgan!” Annie wrapped her arms about him, relief to know she was safe adding to her joy at seeing him alive and unhurt.
She looked about her, seeking Iain. Beside her stood Betsy, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. Over by the carriage, Connor, his eye blackened and stitches upon his cheek, took the reins from the unconscious wagoner. Rifles at the ready, Stockbridge stood amongst the trees, surrounding the carriage and blocking the road.
“Where is—?”
Morgan pointed with a nod of his head.
She looked, and the sight of him drove the breath from her lungs.
Iain stood in the middle of the road twenty paces before the carriage. Like a Highlander of old, he wore the MacKinnon plaid, his right shoulder bare, his claymore clasped powerfully in his right hand. The long hair at his temples was done in thick warrior’s braids, the rest hanging dark down his back. But the top half of his face was painted not in Gaelic blue but Indian vermilion, and Indian markings decorated his arms instead of armbands.
“Bain Campbell! Stand forth, and draw your blade!” Iain’s challenge echoed through the forest.
And she knew. Iain meant to fight Uncle Bain to the death, not as a Ranger with his rifle, but as a Highland man, blade to blade.
Fear uncoiled like a serpent in her belly.
Few could best her uncle at swordcraft.