Defiant

  Chapter 33

  June 3

  Connor, Sarah, Joseph, and Cooke made the journey to Fort Edward in three days, escorted by Joseph’s men. When they reached the bateau bridge, they bade one another a good night, Joseph leading his men across the bridge to the Mahican lodges on the northern end of Ranger Island, Cooke turning toward the fort.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, then?” Cooke had dressed as a Ranger for the journey, not wishing the scarlet of his uniform to give them away in the forest. He’d asked Connor to teach him what he needed to know to fight like a Ranger and had proved an apt pupil. Now, his jaw dark with stubble, tumpline pack upon his back, lines of weariness on his face, he looked every bit the Ranger.

  “Aye, in the morn.” Connor turned to lead Sarah across the bridge but stopped, calling after the captain. “Cooke, you have my thanks. You’re a braw fighter and a good man.”

  The weariness on Cooke’s face seemed to fade for a moment. “Thank you, Major. I have always thought myself a capable soldier. You have shown me there is still much for me to learn. Good night, sir, my lady.”

  Ranger Island was all but deserted. Only Father Delavay and those who’d been too sick or injured to travel had been left behind. Connor gave the Ranger call, and a shout went up, perhaps twenty men gathering round the bonfire as he approached, their faces breaking into broad grins.

  “We kent you’d find a way to escape and steal your lassie.” Conall chuckled.

  “Good to see you so hale, Conall. Men, we must speak. But first, if there are any able-bodied amongst you, fetch firewood to my cabin and heat water. We’ve had a long and difficult journey, and the lady must bathe and rest.”

  “Aye, sir.” Conall dashed off.

  Connor looked down at Sarah to find her smiling up at him, her sweet face lined with exhaustion.

  “So you were plotting to steal me.”

  “Aye, but your uncle suspected us and did his best to thwart us.”

  It wasn’t easy for Connor to hold his tongue where Wentworth was concerned, but he had not told Sarah the threats Wentworth had made as he’d hung from the guardhouse ceiling barely conscious. Nor had he revealed that Wentworth had dismissed Connor’s warning about a possible ambush. Such knowledge would only hurt her.

  The cabin was cold but warmed quickly once Connor got a fire going. Soon supper was eaten and the tub filled with steaming water.

  Connor dug through his pack and drew out the soap, the washcloth, and her brush and comb. “Enjoy your bath.”

  He turned to go.

  Sarah didn’t want him to leave. “Bathe with me. I need you.”

  His eyes darkened, and she knew he needed her, too. “Are you certain? I didna think you would feel desire after all that has happened.”

  She reached for his hand. “There’s been so much killing, so much death. I want to feel alive again. I want you, Connor.”

  Connor undressed and bathed her, washing her hair and rubbing the soreness from her muscles, teasing her with his hands until she ached for him. And then it was her turn to bathe him. She sat in the steaming water, watching while he shed his clothes, savoring the sight of his man’s body with its ridges and valleys. But when he turned to put his hunting knife on the table, she found herself staring.

  His scars.

  “Oh, Connor!”

  She knew he’d received almost three hundred lashes, but she hadn’t seen him without his shirt before this minute. Red lines crossed his back in seemingly every direction, some of them deep grooves that were barely healed, others thin and curved. It staggered her to think of the pain he must have suffered, Uncle William’s wrath carved into his skin forever.

  He walked naked to the tub. “I didna wish for you to see that, but I cannae think of a way to hide my skin from my own sweet wife. Dinnae let it fash you. If these stripes are the price I pay for my bride, then ’twas well worth it.”

  How he could truly feel that way Sarah knew not.

  She bathed him with as much tenderness as he’d bathed her, washing his hair and his body, every inch of him precious to her. She’d come so close to losing him, to living her life without him. She caressed and kissed the scars on his back, kissed his chest with its scattering of dark curls, stroked his length with her hand until he was hard. When he could take no more, he stood, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed, both of them dripping wet.

  His possession of her quick and fierce, Sarah’s body coming alive in his arms, her heart pounding hard inside her, blood rushing through her veins. Release came swiftly, the two of them soaring over that sharp, quivering edge together.

  She lay in his arms afterward, feeling replete, safe.

  “If you are willing, wife, I should like for us to be wed on the morrow.”

  And for the first time in what seemed ages, Sarah laughed.

  Once again in British uniform, Cooke met them at the door to Wentworth’s quarters and promptly led them into Wentworth’s study, his countenance grave, something clearly troubling him. Connor thought it must be grief and the strangeness of going through the belongings of a man who was most likely dead. Sarah, too, was troubled, the sight of her uncle’s belongings in this familiar room clearly putting her in distress.

  Cooke offered Sarah a chair. “My lady.”

  Connor stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, rubbing soft circles over her exposed skin with his thumb.

  Cooke went to Wentworth’s writing table, opened a secret drawer in its side, and withdrew what looked like a roll of parchment bound with Wentworth’s seal. He handed it to Connor. “If you please, Major.”

  Curious, Connor broke the seal and found himself holding several sheets of parchment. They seemed to be legal documents of some kind, all signed by Wentworth’s hand. One by one, Connor read through them, his pulse beginning to pound. When he finished, he scarce knew what to say. He looked up at Cooke. “Is this real?”

  “Brigadier General Wentworth intended to make good on his word to clear the MacKinnon name once the war was over. He had documents drawn up five years ago to be used should he be killed or taken captive. He gave me a standing order to deliver these documents to the sheriff in Albany should such a thing occur. He did not want the charges against you and your brothers to stand should you prove loyal and true to your word.”

  Connor felt a rush of relief—and rage. He handed the documents to Sarah, fighting to control his voice. “And you knew, Cooke?”

  “Yes, sir. It was I who followed you, asked about you, learned what there was to know about the MacKinnon brothers. At the time, it did not seem wrong. Men are pressed into service every day. Given your family’s history, it seemed right to demand some service to the Crown. I was new to the colonies and eager to impress my new commander.”

  Connor had to fight not to shout. “You helped him steal our lives.”

  Och, well, the lad had cods to admit it to Connor’s face.

  “Yes, and I have long regretted that.” Cooke’s gaze dropped to the floor, then his chin came up. “What would you have done had you not been a Ranger? Would you and your brothers have remained on the farm, insensible to the sufferings of this war?”

  Connor had asked himself this question many times, but he’d never answered it. “I suppose we’d have joined the militia.”

  It was not like them to let other men bear their share of the burden.

  “Instead of being mere soldiers in the militia, you became Rangers—heroes to the families of this frontier. When I walk into a pub, nobody knows who I am, but they know you and your brothers. They won’t even permit you pay for your ale.”

  “We’ve already paid, Cooke. The men we’ve ordered into battle, the friends we’ve watched die. I had a ball dug out of my shoulder. Morgan nearly lost a leg and his life. Aye, we paid—in pain and blood.”

  And yet had Wentworth not forced them to fight for him, Iain would have married Jeannie Grant, not Annie, and poor Annie would have died a terrible death. Morg
an would never have been taken captive by the French and would never have met Amalie, who would most likely have become a nun. And Connor…

  He wouldn’t have been there to save Sarah from captivity.

  “I shall see these documents delivered at once to Albany. You and your brothers are free to leave the army. I ask but two things from you.”

  “Aye?” The lad had gall to ask them for anything.

  “See this war through to the end. The British army needs the Rangers, and the Rangers need a leader. They need you.”

  Connor would think on it. “And the second?”

  “I ask for your forgiveness.”

  Connor saw the regret on Cooke’s face.

  Sarah lifted her gaze to Connor’s and spoke out of turn, as if she hadn’t heard their conversation, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I find it most difficult to reconcile the uncle I loved with the man who did such terrible things.”

  And Connor knew what he must do—for Sarah’s sake.

  He met Cooke’s gaze. “I forgi’e you.”

  And five years of fury dissipated inside his chest, a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying lifting from his shoulders.

  Sarah and Connor were married with Captain Cooke, twenty-odd Rangers, and Captain Joseph and his men as witnesses. Father Delavay, whose presence on the island so shocked the poor captain that he could do nothing at first but stare, led them through their vows, binding their hands together with a strip of MacKinnon plaid.

  The bride, who had lost most of her gowns in the attack, wore a simple gown of cotton, a bouquet of wildflowers that Joseph had picked for her in her hands. Instead of jewels, most of which had been lost in the ambush, she wore a band of wampum at her throat. But what the men around her noticed most was her face.

  It shone with joy as if she were lit from within.

  The groom wore the MacKinnon plaid over a white muslin shirt, his sword at his hip, a dirk in his hose. He had no ring for his bride, but his gaze was fixed on her. When he promised to love her, to be faithful to her, to care for her, to worship her with his body, and to share his worldly goods with her, not a man present doubted he would do so until the day he died.

  Perhaps it was a sign of the blessings bestowed upon the happy couple, or perhaps it was mere chance, but when Connor kissed Sarah, she gasped and rested a hand on her belly, her eyes wide with wonder. “The baby—I felt it move!”

  “Sarah, it is time.”

  Sarah’s fingers fell still, the last notes fading to silence. She caressed the precious harpsichord keys with her fingertips, bent down, and pressed her cheek to the polished and gilt wood. She sorrowed less for the music she would not play upon it than for the man who had given it to her. It had been a beautiful gift, though not the greatest gift he had given her.

  Good-bye, Uncle William. I forgive you, and I love you still.

  She felt Connor’s hand on her shoulder.

  There was true regret in his voice when he spoke. “I wish we could bring it wi’ us, but it doesna fit in any of the wagons.”

  “I understand.” Not wishing to hurt Connor with her tears, she wiped them away and rose from the bench.

  Behind Connor stood Captain Cooke, waiting to bid her farewell.

  He bowed, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I have already dispatched a letter to London informing your parents of your tragic death. It is the first time I can recall being happy to write such a letter. I wish you every happiness in your new life. You are a lady of great talent and courage. Your uncle was very proud of you.”

  Sarah willed herself to smile. “I thank you for your faithful service to Britain, to my uncle, and to me, Captain. May God bless you and keep you safe—always.”

  The captain turned to Connor. “Major, I shall carry word of all that has happened to your brother Iain at Crown Point.”

  “You’ll inform him that our name has been freed of taint?”

  “Yes. Whether he remains with the Rangers will be his decision.” Cooke held out a hand, which Connor accepted. “I hope to see you again. It has been an honor serving with you.”

  “Likewise, Captain. God go wi’ you. And sorry about the wee mishap wi’ the bridge.”

  The men laughed.

  Sarah walked with Connor to the fort’s gates, where Joseph and his men waited to escort them. There the wagon had been made ready. Drawn by two draft horses, it held not only Sarah’s surviving trunk with gowns and petticoats, but supplies for the farm and her inheritance from Uncle William—his jewelry, some of his personal effects, and almost three thousand British pounds. It was a small fortune considering that Connor was paid only ten schillings a day. Although the money and jewelry belonged by right to her husband, Connor insisted that the coin was hers to do with as she pleased.

  Sarah did not relish the prospect of more travel. She’d had her fill of journeys. Never again did she want to sail on a boat, walk long leagues through a forest, float in a canoe, or ride in a wagon. She wanted to be home.

  But what would home be like?

  In her mind, she saw a cabin like the one they’d shared in the forest, with a greased parchment window and a stone hearth. There would be a kitchen garden not far from the door, a woodpile on the side of the house, and a small barn. And all around them would be the forest. She wondered how they would fit three families with five babies inside the cabin’s walls and how they would have any privacy, but she trusted they would make it work somehow.

  So convincing was this image of the small cabin in the woods that Sarah was utterly unprepared for the sight that awaited her when, two long days later, they came round a bend in the rutted road and the MacKinnon farm spread out before her.

  The house was wide and two stories high with windows of glass, not greased parchment. Beside it was a second house, very much like the first, but not quite finished. A large barn and several smaller sheds stood to the east of the houses. Tidy fields stretched along both sides of the road, their crops well tended. An orchard stood behind the barn, its trees leafy and green. Chickens strutted and pecked at the dirt. Horses grazed in a nearby paddock, cows and their calves in another. And on the periphery, downwind, was a pen with hogs.

  Sarah found Connor watching her, an amused grin on his handsome face. “Did you think you’d be livin’ in a hovel?”

  Their arrival was announced by two large gray dogs, which bolted from the front steps and bounded down the road toward them, barking, their shaggy tails wagging.

  “You witless beasts!” Joseph called to them, clearly feeling affection for them despite his words. He leaned down and scratched behind their ears. “They’re the dumbest dogs ever to walk on four legs.”

  Connor chuckled. “That’s Artair and Beatan. They’re not yet fully grown. Iain got them as pups this past winter. They help guard the livestock from wolves, or so Iain hopes.”

  No doubt alerted by the dogs, a man who looked very much like Connor stepped out of the half-finished house, musket in his hand.

  “That’s Morgan.” Connor gave the Ranger whistle and waved.

  Morgan waved back, setting his musket aside and walking to the front door of the main house. He opened it, said something, then stepped aside as Annie rushed out followed by another woman who must have been Amalie. By the time they reached the house, Morgan, Annie, and Amalie were waiting for them, a little dark-haired boy whom Connor called Iain Cameron toddling about at Annie’s feet.

  Joseph kissed Annie and Amalie on the cheek, then scooped Iain Cameron into his arms and tossed him high in the air, making the child squeal.

  Morgan looked from Connor to Sarah and back to Connor, catching the lead horse by the bridle, patting its thick neck. “What in God’s name…? How’d you get away?”

  “I’ve much to tell you, brother. But first, I should like you to meet my wife, Sarah Woodville MacKinnon. We were wed by Father Delavay last week.”

  “Felicitations!” Amalie smiled, her French accent sweet, her dark hair the longest
Sarah had ever seen, almost reaching the backs of her knees. Her eyes were neither green nor brown but both, the hue of her skin hinting at a mixed heritage.

  Annie reached up and took Sarah’s hand. “Welcome to the family, sister.”

  But Morgan looked even more worried. “I’ll see to the horses. You’d best go inside afore anyone sees you. I dinnae want the British army on our doorstep.”

  Connor leapt to the ground, walked around to Sarah, and made her shriek with surprise when he scooped her into his arms and carried her through the front door.

  He stopped just inside the doorway, the happiness on his face making him seem younger than his eight-and-twenty years. “Welcome home, Princess.”

  Morgan and Joseph helped Connor unload the wagon and settle the horses in the barn while the women went about making supper for the family and Joseph’s men set up camp in their accustomed place in the orchard, the dogs getting under everyone’s feet. Joseph joined them at the supper table, Iain Cameron upon his knee. When the supper dishes were cleared, Joseph told them of the attack on his village, while Connor shared all that had happened since Wentworth had drummed them from the fort.

  By the time Connor described Wentworth’s last words to him, Sarah and Annie had tears in their eyes, and Amalie’s face was pale, her eyes wide.

  Morgan eyed Connor gravely. “I’d never have thought him capable of such sacrifice.”

  It was then Connor came to the heart of it, telling Morgan of the papers Cooke had taken from Wentworth’s writing table and what they contained.

  “Cooke sent the papers wi’ a courier to the sheriff in Albany afore we left Fort Edward. We’ve been exonerated, Morgan.”

  Connor watched the expression on Morgan’s face turn to stunned surprise. Morgan rose and crossed the room, resting one hand on the mantel and looking down into the fire, as if he needed time to think all of this through. For a time, no one spoke.

  “Those papers—they were secreted away in his writing table all these years?” Morgan asked at last, his tone devoid of emotion.