Surrender

by Pamela Clare

  Annie looked away, her mind shifting to her encounter with Lord William.

  “What is it, Annie?” Iain’s voice grew grave. “Tell me.”

  “This evening, Lord William offered to make me his mistress.” She recounted Lord William’s proposal, telling Iain everything except for the fact that she’d pleaded for his release. “He even offered to let me keep the bairn, saying that raisin’ another man’s child would be a ‘just comeuppance.’”

  Iain looked gravely into her eyes, his knuckles caressing her cheek. “He’s right. You could return to Scotland and live a life free of worryin’ that your husband has been shot or taken by Indians, free of the fear of hunger, free of toil. You could wear fashionable gowns, be pampered by servants, and find a wealthy man to marry you in the accepted church. But I am no’ so selfless a man as to let you go, Annie.”

  She turned her head, kissed his palm. “And I am far too selfish a woman to want to leave. I want to live my life beside you, no matter what may come. My love lies upon you, Iain MacKinnon.”

  “As mine lies upon you.”

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  Epilogue

  January 24, 1759 Ranger Island, Fort Edward The Colony of New York

  Iain sat bundled against the winter cold in his bearskin overcoat, his gaze fixed on the fire before his feet, a flask of rum in his hand. From his cabin came another cry, this one longer and more desperate than any before it. And then—quiet.

  He closed his eyes, released the breath he’d been holding, the sound of Annie’s suffering like a knife to his chest, all the more so because he was the cause of it. He would have fought any foe for her, suffered any torment, spilled his own blood to protect her, but against the pain and perils of childbirth, he could do nothing. Had he ever felt such fear, such helplessness?

  If anything should go amiss, if she should die . . .

  Even the thought turned his stomach, bile rising at the back of his throat. He fingered the wooden cross that hung around his neck, sending a silent plea to the heavens.

  Mary, Mother of God, help her! If a life must be taken, I offer mine!

  Connor, Morgan, Killy, McHugh, and Dougie sat around the fire waiting through the long, cold night with him, working through their month’s ration of rum, while the rest of the men huddled around other fires, jesting and songs having long since lapsed into a worried silence.

  It seemed no one was asleep tonight.

  Annie’s pains had started just after supper, quickly growing fierce. Iain had sent for Betsy and Rebecca, Joseph’s sister, who had arrived at Fort Edward one week ago so that she could attend Annie during her travail. As midwife to the Mahican women of Stockbridge, Rebecca was practiced in such matters—more so than Dr. Blake, whose services Wentworth had offered and Iain had refused. Although the evening had begun with song, ribald japes, and an air of celebration, the disposition of the men had become grave as the long watches of the night had passed and Annie had yet to deliver.

  Iain had reminded himself again and again that every man here had been born of woman, that women gave birth every day. The thought left him feeling more than a little in awe of lasses, but it did not ease his fear, nor could it assuage the ache he felt in his chest each time he heard her cry out.

  Rebecca had come out twice to report on Annie’s progress, her reassurance the only thing holding Iain together. “The first time is always the hardest. Her cries do not mean she is dying. Yes, it hurts, but it will not hurt her.”

  That had been hours ago.

  Now, the sun was rising, the eastern horizon rimmed in pink. A mist hung over the frozen river and amongst the trees, every man’s breath a cloud of white.

  Another long wail. And another.

  Then the door to his cabin opened.

  Iain was on his feet and all of the men with him.

  Rebecca leaned out, her gaze finding Iain. “She wants you beside her.”

  Fearing the worst, Iain followed Rebecca on wooden legs, only to find Annie dozing on a birthing stool, naked apart from a blanket round her shoulders, her forehead beaded with sweat, her face lined with pain and fatigue.

  He knelt beside her, took her hand, caressed her cheek. “Annie?”

  She opened her eyes, gave him a weak smile. “You’ve seen so much death, Iain. Now see life.”

  And for a moment, he could do nothing but look into her eyes, astonished to think that she should allow him to share in this most private of womanly moments. “Are you certain, lass?”

  She smiled again. “Aye, you daftie.”

  Betsy drew up a footstool. “Sit here if you like.”

  No sooner had he sat beside Annie than he felt her grip on his hand begin to tighten, her strength surprising him as the next pang took her. She cried out, her body trembling as she fought to push their child from her body, Rebecca crooning softly to her, assuring her that all was well.

  And then he saw.

  As she pushed, the top of the bairn’s head appeared.

  “The baby has your dark hair.” Rebecca smiled up at him. “It won’t be long now.”

  As the pain slowly passed, Annie sagged against him, her hold on his hand going limp, her eyes drifting shut. He held her head against his shoulder, kissed her hair, stroked her cheek, grateful for the chance to offer her at least some comfort.

  The next pang brought forth more of the bairn’s head, the next still more, until Annie’s pain was unrelenting.

  “Oh, it hurts!”

  “Yes, it does.” Rebecca supported the baby’s head with a wet cloth. “But see how your body stretches? Your baby is almost born. Reach down, and touch it.”

  “Here, lass.” Iain guided Annie’s hand, watched the pain flee her face, her lips curving in a smile the moment she felt the hard little curve of the wee bairn’s head, her fingers stroking its dark, damp curls.

  Then another pain came, and, scarce able to breathe, Iain held Annie as she pushed out the head with a scream, her anguish turning to laughter as the bairn slipped out of her body and into Rebecca’s waiting hands.

  A hard lump in his throat, Iain could do nothing but stare in wonder as Annie raised their newborn to her breast, still laughing, a bright smile on her face.

  She glanced down, lifted one of the bairn’s legs aside, then smiled up at him. “We’ve a son!”

  Annie had given him a son.

  He blinked, felt something wet on his cheeks, and realized it was tears.

  Annie lay back in the bed, her son swaddled and sleeping in her arms. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more exhausted or more contented than she did in this moment. She gazed at her son’s sweet face, overwhelmed by the love she felt for him. Everything about him was perfect, from his tiny, hungry mouth, to his dark blue eyes, to his wee fingers and toes.

  She looked over at Iain, who sat beside her, his face lined with fatigue, his eyes bright with happiness. “He has your look about him.”

  Iain kissed her cheek. “Och, well, we’ll no’ hold that against him, aye?”

  Annie laughed. “You daftie.”

  Iain met her gaze. “’Tis time.”

  Reluctant to let go of her baby even for a moment, Annie kissed his soft cheek, then handed him into his father’s arms.

  “You’re certain about the name? It pleases me greatly, but I would know you are content as well.”

  She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. “Aye. ’Tis a good way to remember dear Cam.”

  She watched as Iain carried the baby to the door, something stirring in her breast to think that both father and son were hers to love forever.

  Rebecca opened the door, then stood aside.

  Iain filled the doorway, raised their son for all who stood outside to see, his voice steady and strong. “We’ve a strong son, and his name is Iain Cameron MacKinnon.”

  Ranger Camp exploded with cheers.

  And Annie called herself blessed.

  Lord William sat at his writing table in his dressing gown,
absentmindedly rubbing the cracked king with his fingers, his mouth thick with the taste of brandy, his head aching from drink and lack of sleep.

  What a fool he was! Lady Anne was giving birth to another man’s child, and he was losing sleep as if it were his own get. He cared little for the child, of course, other than the grief it would cause her should it be stillborn or perish. As for Lady Anne, he felt rage at the very thought of her suffering. Leave it to MacKinnon to get her with child so quickly. A woman like Lady Anne should never have to endure such a thing, her beauty and her life worth far more than any child, far more than—

  He heard footsteps, then a knock at the door. Barely able to breathe, he sat up, tucking the king in his dressing robe pocket. “Come.”

  Lieutenant Cooke stepped inside, saluted smartly, then smiled. “Her travail is over, my lord. Lady Anne has been delivered of a healthy son! Both mother and child are well.”

  William felt a heady rush of relief and sank back in his chair.

  “Shall I convey your felicitations?”

  William drew a deep breath. “Aye, Lieutenant.”

  As Lieutenant Cooke left to do his bidding, William found himself wondering what gift he could give Lady Anne.

  April 15, 1759 Albany on the Hudson River The Colony of New York

  Iain awoke to the sweet sound of Annie’s singing.

  “As I cam in by Strichen town one misty mornin’ early, I heard a lassie sair lament for her true love nae returnin’.”

  He opened his eyes and watched as she rocked the baby and held him to her breast. Her gaze was fixed on little Iain Cameron’s face, one of her fingers gripped tightly in his wee fist, a look of contentment on her bonnie face. Her golden hair spilled in a silken tangle over her shoulder, a contrast to their son’s downy dark curls.

  A feeling as warm as sunlight swelled in Iain’s chest. He could have watched the two of them forever. He was the luckiest man alive, and well he knew it.

  Iain would never know why Wentworth had suddenly released him, passing the command of the Rangers to Morgan, though he suspected it had something to do with the bastard’s lingering affection for Annie. Wentworth had summoned him a few days after little Iain’s birth, thanked him for his service, and dismissed him from the army on the condition that he agree to return if the Rangers should have dire need for him. Though Iain had at first refused to part from his brothers or his men, his brothers had insisted.

  “Each time we go on a mission, I see the fear in Annie’s eyes, and I pray to God I ne’er have to tell her you’ve been killed or taken,” Morgan had said. “I dinnae think I have the courage for that.”

  “You’ve got a bonnie wife and a wee son,” Connor had said. “They need you. Now you can go back to the farm and build a home for all of us. This war cannae last forever.”

  And so Iain had waited until Annie had healed and the snow had melted. Then he’d packed their worldly goods, including the small chest that held Annie’s inheritance, into a wagon and hooked the wagon to a sturdy team of oxen.

  “God go wi’ you, my lady!” Betsy, who had married Brendan just before Christmas, had wept openly at being separated from her former mistress. “I shall miss you!”

  Annie had smiled through her tears. “We shall see each other again. I promise.”

  With Joseph and his men to escort them through the forest, Iain had taken up the reins and left Fort Edward behind, Annie and baby Iain beside him.

  “Beannachd leat!” Morgan had called after them. Blessings go with you!

  Connor had waved. “And keep a warm meal ready!”

  Though his brothers had bid them farewell and even Wentworth and Cooke had watched them depart from the walls, the Rangers, busy preparing for their next mission, hadn’t turned out to see them off. That more than anything had made him realize he was no longer one of them. He was no longer a Ranger. Though he’d wished to take his leave of them in some fitting way, perhaps it had been for the best, for they were still bound to war, while his life lay elsewhere. Still, their seeming indifference to his going had left a strange emptiness in his gut.

  He would never forget them—those living and those he’d watched die.

  He and Annie had been in Albany for a week now. Iain had used the time to buy livestock, feed, and supplies and to hire the wagons needed to haul it all out to the farm. ’Twould take a year’s hard labor to win the land back from the forest, but first he would have to rebuild the cabin and barns. He’d promised Annie a roof over her head and a fire in the hearth within a week, and he meant to keep that promise.

  “So I’ll gang back tae Strichen town, for I was bred and born in, and I’ll get me anither lad tae marry me in the mornin’.”

  She looked up, caught him watching her, and smiled. “Do you know, little Iain, that your da’ is a braw man? Aye, he is. And an honorable one.”

  Iain rose, crossed the room, and pressed a kiss to Annie’s cheek. “A good morn’ to you, a leannan. And to you, young laddie.”

  Then he set about washing and getting dressed. The wagons would be loaded and waiting for them, and he wanted to depart within an hour.

  Today, after nearly four years of war, he was going home.

  Annie shifted the baby’s weight in her arms and watched field and forest roll by. At first they’d traveled a well-worn road past farms with cattle and bleating sheep. Then the farms had grown sparse, gradually giving way to forest. Now the road was thick with grass, and they rarely passed a cabin or haycock, the only sound the creaking of the wagons, the clucks and lowing of their livestock, and the occasional word from one of the wagoners behind them.

  She would never tell Iain, but she’d been sad to leave Albany. It had been exciting to see shops and churches again, to read newspapers with news, to mingle with throngs of people in the street and speak with other women. Iain had bought three lovely new gowns for her, together with cloth, needle, and thread so that she might stitch clothes for the baby.

  Wherever she’d gone, she’d been treated with as much deference as the wife of Iain MacKinnon as she’d known as Lady Anne, daughter of the Earl of Rothesay. Everyone in Albany seemed to have heard of her husband and read of his exploits in the papers. And though some seemed leery of him—perhaps because Lord William had yet refused to clear Iain and his brothers of murder—it was plain that most people felt they owed him a personal debt for keeping the French and their Indian allies at bay. Some had even refused his coin.

  And Annie had come to realize she was the wife of a living legend.

  Though it had been hard to leave Albany behind, she knew how much it meant to Iain to return to his home. But she also knew what to expect. The cabin and barns had been burnt to the ground. Weeds and underbrush choked the fields. The orchard was overgrown with saplings. They would have to sleep in a lean-to for a time, just as they’d done in the wild when they’d first met, but even after the cabin had been rebuilt, life would be a struggle.

  “It willna be easy, Annie,” Iain had warned her. “At first we’ll depend on what I bring in with my rifle and traps for food, but by next year’s harvest, the land will begin to yield for us again, and there will be plenty. I promise you’ll ne’er go hungry.”

  But even had he told her they would live on nothing but dry cornmeal and river water, Annie could not have denied him this or tainted his excitement with worries. She knew how he longed to rebuild what had been lost. Even now she could see the anticipation on his face.

  “We’re almost on MacKinnon land.” He glanced down at her and smiled.

  Annie looked about for a cairn or landmark. “How can you tell?”

  His hands busy with the reins, he pointed with a nod of his head. “That wee burn marks our southern bounds.”

  They crossed the little creek, wheels splashing through water and jarring over stone, and then started round a bend in the road.

  Iain frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “Smoke.”

  And then Annie smelled
it, too—just the faintest hint of wood smoke carried on the breeze. With it came the sound of knocking, a distant beating sound. Iain had warned her they might find squatters on the land—perhaps Indians, perhaps deserters—and that he might have to shed blood to free it again.

  “If that happens, keep hidden,” he’d warned her. “If they’re Indians, chances are they’re Stockbridge or Six Nations, will ken my name, and willna seek to harm us, but deserters are no’ likely to welcome us or to treat a woman well.”

  Suddenly, Annie found herself wishing Joseph and his warriors were still with them. Once they’d reached Albany, Joseph had turned back to the fort so that he’d be able to accompany Morgan and the men on their mission. Now it was just Iain and the five wagoners behind them—hired men who, though in awe of Iain, might flee for safety rather than fight.

  Iain took up his rifle and laid it across his lap, slowing the oxen as they rounded the bend.

  And then they heard it.

  The Rangers’ warning whistle.

  Annie saw the surprise and confusion on Iain’s face and wondered, too, how this could be. Had Morgan and Connor encountered trouble and sought refuge here? Had someone learnt the call and decided to use it to deceive and waylay Iain?

  She held the baby close, her gaze fixed ahead.

  Then the road grew straight again, and the forest fell back to reveal fields of dark, tilled earth, a house and a barn standing in the distance. Men worked everywhere—plowing the fields, tending the orchard, hammering upon the barn and cabin.

  For a fleeting moment Annie thought the land had been taken over by squatters—a whole clan of them. But then one of the men in the fields raised his head and grinned.

  “It’s about time you were gettin’ here, Mack. Would you leave all the toil for us?”

  Killy!

  Breath left her lungs in a rush, and a hard lump formed in her throat. “M-mercy!”