by Pamela Clare
Her captor draped an animal fur around her shoulders and motioned toward a blanket he’d placed on the ground near the fire, indicating that she should lie down on the ground beside him. But she would not lie with him.
And then she saw.
At the edge of the firelight, an Indian sat stitching a fresh scalp to a small wooden hoop. Attached to the scalp was a long, red braid.
Major Connor MacKinnon gently turned the bodies over—one of the lasses and the lad, both tomahawked, both scalped.
Och, Christ!
He’d warned that arrogant bastard Haviland that sending redcoats had been a mistake. War parties often killed captives if pressed. But Haviland, who didn’t know his head from his arse, hadn’t listened. And now two of the three who’d been taken were lost.
And so young.
Connor crossed himself and whispered a prayer for them, then looked more closely at the lass’s face, her features hard to see in the gloaming. But it was not she.
It was not Wentworth’s niece. He’d stake his life on it.
Wentworth had showed him a likeness of her. A small locket painting, it had revealed a beautiful young girl with hair the color of honey and bright blue eyes, her cheeks pink, a playful smile on her rosy lips. The poor lass lying here on the cold ground was far plainer with bright red hair. Connor gave her cold, lifeless hand a squeeze, then turned away.
There was nothing he could do for her or the lad now.
Nearer to the frozen stream, Joseph held up a pair of battered shoes and torn stockings.
Connor reached out, touched them. The ties on the shoes were of lace, the shoes themselves of finest leather, the stockings silk. “They must be hers. Such frippery takes coin.”
Joseph set the shoes and stockings aside. “The Shawnee think to confuse us by putting her in moccasins.”
The trick might have worked had he and Joseph been redcoats or even unseasoned farmers new to the frontier. But Joseph was war chief of the Muhheconneok people, and Connor had grown up beside him, adopted together with his brothers by the Mahican when he was but a stripling lad. They had learned to track, hunt, and fight together, earning their warrior marks under the stern headship of Joseph’s father. They knew this land every bit as well as the Shawnee and could not be fooled by such attempts at cunning.
“She’ll be movin’ faster wi’ moccasins on her feet.”
They pressed on, eager to make up for lost time by covering as much ground as possible before darkness fell, following a trail that most others would have missed—a few bent stalks of dried grass, a thread from the lass’s skirts caught on a clump of sedge, an overturned rock. They did not need to speak, each anticipating the other’s actions, enabling them to move quickly and silently.
For five years they and their men had fought and bled together—MacKinnon’s Rangers and Captain Joseph’s Mahican warriors. They’d hounded the French and their Indian allies, fighting them in forest and field, ambushing their supply trains, distressing them to the very walls of their own forts and towns. The Rangers depended on Joseph and his men every bit as much as the Mahican depended on the Rangers.
If only their men were with them tonight.
But the winter had been long and cold, and the Rangers had not yet mustered. Most of Connor’s men were still wintering with their wives and bairns, growing fat and lazy, while Joseph’s warriors were warm in their lodges in Stockbridge. None of them were due to report to Fort Edward for a fortnight. Still, Connor and Joseph had each dispatched a runner with orders that any man who was able should make haste to Albany and track them.
Connor and Joseph had been in Albany to drum up recruits for spring when a company of grenadiers had marched out of the stockade and down toward the river as if the town were under attack. Connor had learned that Indians had attacked a stranded ship about three miles downriver and had taken two women and a boy. He and Joseph had gone straight to the stockade to urge Colonel Haviland to call back the grenadiers and send the two of them instead, only to meet with Colonel Haviland’s scorn.
“Do you expect me to believe, Major, that a rustic and an Indian can succeed where His Majesty’s trained grenadiers cannot?”
Then the wee German lairdie had arrived.
In a cold fury, Wentworth had upbraided Haviland, ordering him to recall the grenadiers. Then he’d dispatched Connor and Joseph. “Do whatever you must, Major MacKinnon, but bring the captives back safely.”
Connor had never seen Wentworth in such a state, nor had he known Wentworth to show concern for captives before. And there’d been something on Wentworth’s face Connor had never seen—fear.
“One of the women is my niece,” Wentworth had confessed, his mask of ice cracking. “Lady Sarah Woodville—she is young and gently bred. I would not see her suffer harm. Do whatever you must to protect her and return her to me. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Connor understood only too well. Wentworth cared about these captives only because one of them was kin. “All this concern for a few captives—for a moment, I thought you’d grown a heart.”
Wentworth’s eyes had narrowed. “Do not think to seek redress of your grievances against me by neglecting or harming my niece. Stray but a little, and I shall recall your eldest brother into His Majesty’s service.”
Connor ignored the threat—the same threat that had hung over his head these past months. “If you believe me capable of such a thing, then why send me?”
“I send you because I have no choice!” Wentworth had hissed the words from between clenched teeth. Then some of the rage had left him. “I send you because you are the best, and I want my niece back whole and unharmed.”
Connor and Joseph had gathered their gear and set out straightaway, but precious hours—and two innocent lives—had been lost thanks to Haviland and his fecklessness.
Haviland is no’ the only man wi’ innocent blood on his hands, is he, laddie?
Nay, he wasn’t.
In the distance, a wolf howled, its call answered by another, a cold wind moving like a whisper through the tall pines as darkness fell.
Daylight gone, they had no choice but to stop for the night. They could not track what they could not see, and if they should miss something and lose the trail, they would waste hours finding it again in the morning.
Without a word, they began to make camp.
My dearest Uncle, I most humbly beseech Your Lordship that you forgive my Boldness and make haste to aide me. Such Affronts and Sorrows have I faced of late, that I must plead for Your Lordship’s Protection. I dare write nothing that other Eyes might behold, so I shall say no more. I humbly beseech Your Lordship to grant me Permission to travel to Albany that I might lay bare my Plight to you in person. Please, I pray you, Uncle, if ever Your Lordship held me in Affection, help me now.
Yours most bound and forever,
Sarah Woodville
Lord William looked up from the letter and stared out the window into the darkness, the fingers of his left hand worrying the cracked marble chess piece he always kept in his vest pocket—the black king Lady Anne had broken two summers past.
This was his fault.
When Sarah had written to him pleading for his help, he’d had misgivings, but he’d ignored them. At the time, he’d been worried about smallpox and measles, both of which had hit Albany hard this winter. He hadn’t imagined it possible that Indians would dare strike so close to town with the war all but won and three thousand of His Majesty’s troops billeted here.
He’d been wrong.
How he wished now that he had denied her request and employed some other means of learning the truth of her situation, but the thought that she might truly need his help had overthrown all else, so he’d relented, arranging for her passage northward. Bright-eyed, inquisitive, and talented beyond measure upon the harpsichord, she was the only member of his rather large and unpleasant family about whom he gave a damn.
The last time he’d seen her had been six years ago just pr
ior to his voyage to the colonies. She’d been but twelve years old and still very much a child. Though her body had only begun to show signs of approaching womanhood, it had been clear to all that she would grow to become a woman of surpassing beauty. William’s sister, secretly a severe Lutheran, had restricted her daughters to long hours of daily Bible study and needlework to prepare them for marriage and motherhood. She’d been openly distressed by her youngest child’s beauty and passion for music, deeming both dangerous to Sarah’s immortal soul.
But William had found Sarah refreshing and had indulged her when occasion allowed, secretly taking her to hear chamber music and lending her books about history, art, and music theory. He’d even let her play privately on the harpsichord before His Majesty, her skill astounding and delighting the old man. But perhaps his sister had been right to restrict Sarah. Perhaps she’d seen something in her daughter that William had not.
Last summer, Sarah had caused such a scandal that her father had sent her away, depositing her not in the family’s estates to the north, but on the other side of the world in New York with Governor DeLancey, an old family friend. When William had inquired as to the nature of the scandal, his sister had written to say that decency forbade her even to mention it. Even knowing his sister’s penchant for exaggeration when it came to matters of sin, William had been intrigued by this, but the summer campaigns had prevented him from inquiring further. He’d hoped to hear the unspeakable truth of it from Sarah on this visit.
But now she was out there somewhere, a captive of men who would not hesitate to do unimaginably terrible things to her.
As second in command of His Majesty’s forces in the colonies, William had heard all the tales—accounts of cruelest torture, maiming, rape. They’d always just been words on parchment to him, nothing more than the cost of war. This one burnt alive, that one beaten and sold, this one adopted and forced into heathen marriage.
But the thought of Sarah enduring such a fate…
In truth, William didn’t give one whit what happened to the other two captives so long as Sarah was returned to him alive and unscathed. MacKinnon had probably guessed as much. William had seen the disgust on the Highlander’s face when he had heard that one of the captives was William’s niece.
For a moment, I thought you’d grown a heart.
How could William expect an uncultured brute like MacKinnon to understand that Sarah was worth more than a thousand common colonial women?
“Pardon me, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke’s voice came from the doorway.
William turned to face him. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
Cooke bowed neatly. “I asked local churches to hold observances this evening so that prayers might be said for your niece. Services at St. Peter’s begin in a half hour.”
“Well done. Thank you.” It was then William remembered he was in a state of undress, his wig sitting forgotten on his desk, his coat draped over a chair with his cravat.
“If I may be of any assistance, my lord…”
William gave a consenting nod, his gaze drawn back to the window.
“Don’t worry, my lord. Major MacKinnon will bring her safely home.”
Connor took a sip of rum, trying to read Morgan’s letter by firelight. He knew what it said by heart, but still he cherished each word, the news it held warming him more than the fire. Morgan was now a father twice over. His bonnie wife, Amalie, had come safely through a difficult travail and borne him twin sons. They had named one of the wee bairns Connor Joseph in honor of Connor. Och, aye, and Joseph, too.
“His mother is Indian.” Joseph smiled and puffed out his chest like a tom turkey, feathers and all. “He’ll be a warrior like me.”
“She’s only part Indian. The rest of her is French, aye?” Connor grinned. “He’s a MacKinnon. He’ll be bonnie and braw—like me.”
They’d been having this wee argie-bargie since Morgan’s letter had arrived two days ago and were clearly no nearer to resolving their difference of opinion.
“It is good to see you smile again, brother.” Joseph sat on the bed of hemlock boughs beside him. “It has been too long.”
Connor ignored Joseph’s words and the worried look he knew he’d find in Joseph’s eyes, folding the parchment and tucking the letter carefully away. Joseph was as bad as Iain, fussing over him like an old fishwife.
“I cannae help but worry,” Iain had said when Connor had seen him just after Christmas. “You’ve no’ been yourself since last summer. This war has changed you.”
Of course the bloody war had changed him! Hadn’t it changed them all?
Connor had been a lad of but three-and-twenty when he and Morgan had followed Iain to war, his thought given only to food, drink, and bed sport. War had seemed an adventure to him in those early days—drumming up recruits, shooting at marks, camping with the men on Ranger Island. But soon those men had started dying, cut down by muskets, bayonets, and tomahawks, carried away by swift rivers, frozen to death in deep snows.
He had buried so many friends, so many good men.
When Wentworth had released Iain from duty, Connor had felt deep relief, knowing that his eldest brother was out of harm’s way and settled with his wife on the farm, where the next generation of MacKinnons would grow up, kept safe by the battles the Rangers fought and won. But then Morgan had been lost, taken captive by the French and declared dead by their lying commander. What Connor had done after…
Nay, he would not think on it.
He was not the only one changed by this war. Didn’t they all bear scars, Iain, Morgan, and Joseph every bit as much as Connor? Aye, they did. There was no reason for Iain and Joseph to fash themselves over him. Connor knew that Iain blamed himself that Connor was still at war—and for the fact that the MacKinnon name still lay in taint of murder. But that blame lay solely with Wentworth.
Aye, Wentworth was a bastard, a true son of evil.
Never mind that the whoreson had, upon occasion, aided Iain and Morgan. Soon the war would be won, and Connor would keep the vow he’d made, settling the score with the wee German lairdie who had forced this upon them. And then…
And then what, laddie? If you live to see that day, what will you do besides drink rum every night to keep the ghosts at bay?
Perhaps he would serve as a scout for the British, who would surely have need of someone to help them make peace with the Indians and explore their new claims. Or perhaps he would go to live with Joseph, helping to train a new generation of Mahican warriors to fight. Whatever he did, he did not think he could return to farming with his brothers.
The last time he’d stayed at the farm, he’d felt such restlessness that it had nearly consumed him. Unable to sleep without rum in his belly, feeling closed in by the walls of the farmhouse he’d helped build, he’d felt out of place amidst the easy rhythms of farm life and in the gentle company of Annie and Amalie. He’d cut his long-awaited Christmas leave short by two days, strangely eager to return to Fort Edward and war.
“What do you expect she’s like?” Joseph asked, cutting across Connor’s thoughts.
“Who?”
“Lady Sarah Woodville. Wentworth showed you a likeness of her.”
“She looked like a spoiled princess, unable to do a thing for herself. She’ll likely be after us to serve her tea and scones on the way back to Albany.” Connor lay down, his feet toward the fire, the frustration he’d felt all through the day spilling out. “I cannae fathom what she was doin’ on her way to Albany—a lass wi’ royal blood on the frontier alone in wartime?”
“Perhaps she missed her uncle.” Joseph shrugged, not seeming troubled. “Perhaps she has an adventuresome spirit.”
But the more Connor thought on it, the stranger it seemed. What was such a highborn lass doing traveling about the colonies without her kin? What kind of father would permit an unmarried daughter to travel halfway around the world alone? The sea was wide and perilous, and many who set sail died ere they reached these shores. Those who survive
d the voyage arrived to find a land at war. Though towns far from the frontier were safe, Albany was not. It was the last outpost of civilization on a blood-soaked landscape.
Her father might be a nobleman, but he was also a fool. Unless…
Had the lass been caught up in some kind of scandal?
The thought gave Connor pause. “Do you suppose she’s here because she’s wi’ child?”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Joseph lay down on the bed of boughs beside Connor. “I cannot recall ever seeing Wentworth so distressed.”
“Wentworth never gave a damn when other women were taken. He had Iain nearly flayed alive for savin’ Annie. But when his niece is stolen…”
Connor let the thought go unfinished. There was no need to explain.
“She is not to blame.” Joseph drew the bearskin up over both of them, his body pressed against Connor’s for warmth. “Whatever Wentworth has done—she is innocent.”
Connor closed his eyes. “Hold your whist, and let a man sleep!”
A vague sense of guilt stirred in his chest. He quashed it.
The lass’s kin had taken the throne from its true heir. They’d laid waste to the Highlands, shedding MacKinnon blood. Her uncle had enslaved Connor and his brothers through deceit. What kind of woman could spring from the loins of a clan such as that? She was probably here because she’d bedded half the lads in her father’s stables and now had a big belly.
Whatever else she might be, she surely wasn’t innocent.
But the image of Lady Sarah, young and beautiful, was there before him and would not leave his mind. And in his dreams, she was weeping.
Chapter 2
Sarah felt someone shake her roughly—and awoke to discover that the nightmare was real. She was a captive, and dear Jane and the boy were…
Dead.
Memories from the previous day rushed back. The attack on the riverbank. The terrible flight through the forest. The horror of seeing the Indians stitch upon Jane and Thomas’s scalps while she sat nearby too afraid even to weep. The humiliation of having to lie beside her captor through the night just to keep from freezing.