Surrender

  She reached for the next tree branch, tried to ignore the irksome voice in her mind and the horrible pain in her feet. She couldn’t help that she was of noble birth and knew nothing of this way of life. She was here only because men like Iain had killed her father and brothers, destroying her life and leaving her and her mother subject to her uncle’s cruelty.

  Men like Iain. But no’ Iain.

  He had saved her life. He’d kept her safe, shown her kindness, given her comfort. And if he’d also cursed her king and accused her kin of atrocities?

  Then they raped and slew them—grandmothers, wives, young lassies.

  Annie leaned against a tree, clenched her teeth to keep from moaning. She looked out, feeling almost dizzy, and saw the water still a good distance below them.

  “Lass, for God’s sake! Why do you torture yourself when I am willin’ to bear you?”

  Clinging to her anger, she took another step.

  Then a hand clamped hard over her mouth, and strong arms dragged her to the ground. His body was on top of hers, his hips pressing into the small of her back, his chest against her shoulders.

  He whispered against her temple. “No’ a sound.”

  Dread coursing through her, she nodded.

  He took his hand from her mouth, and she heard the quiet cock of his rifle.

  Then she saw.

  Out on the lake a stone’s throw from the shore, four small boats glided silently through the water, each carrying five or six painted Indian warriors. They looked much like the one who had struck her, each carrying a flintlock of some kind. They watched the shore as if searching for something.

  The boat!

  It lay upside down in the underbrush not far from the shore. If they found it . . .

  The pounding of her heart was so loud she was surprised they could not hear it. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her face to the snow, tried not to breathe.

  Soft lips touched her temple, whispered almost silently. “Easy, Annie.”

  She opened her eyes, saw that the boats were almost even with them now. The warriors gazed intently at the shore, their heads turning this way and that. Then one lifted his eyes to the hillside. He seemed to look right at her, his gaze sliding over her like a shadow.

  She felt Iain’s body tense.

  One of the warriors spoke, and for a moment she was certain they’d seen the boat. But they made no move to come ashore, and with agonizing slowness they glided up the lake and out of sight.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, felt Iain’s weight shift from her.

  Without warning, strong arms turned her to face him. Blue eyes bored into her. “I’m bearin’ you the rest of the way to the boat, and I’ll no’ hear a word against it.”

  ’Twas an hour before dawn when they reached the southern shore of Lake George. Though weary from hours of rowing and six days in the wild, Iain could not yet rest. He did his best to conceal the boat, then lifted Annie onto his back and carried her a short distance inland to await the dawn. He found a sheltered spot on the leeward side of a large boulder, then set her down and left her with his pistol while he scouted the vicinity. When he was certain no enemies were encamped nearby, he returned to find her sitting wide-eyed in the darkness, pistol cocked and in hand.

  She jumped. “Did you hear that?”

  Around them were only the sounds of the sleeping forest—the wind in the trees, the distant howl of wolves, the lap of water against sand and stone.

  “Hear what?” His words sounded bad-tempered, even to his own ears.

  “It sounded like a scream.”

  “Och, that. ’Twas a catamount.” He’d been short with her tonight, though he couldn’t say why. He’d gone back and forth all night between wanting to shout at her and wanting to drag her against him and kiss her witless. Like a bow strung too tightly, he felt ready to snap.

  Then he saw the fear on her face. He knelt down before her, brushed a strand of hair from her face, forced the anger from his voice. “Dinnae let it trouble you, lass. ’Tis far distant from this place and means us no harm. Come. It’s time for sleep.”

  Chapter 9

  It seemed to Annie she’d just fallen asleep, when Iain nudged her awake again. Her body achy, her mind dulled by fatigue and hunger, she sat up and saw that it was not long past dawn. Had she ever been this tired? What she wouldn’t give for just one more hour of sleep. Or a hot bath. Or porridge and a cup of tea.

  How could Iain look so alert and vigorous when she felt listless and painfully weary? They were alive only because of his labors.’Twas he who’d borne her through the forest on his back, he who’d rowed the boat through two dark nights, he who’d kept watch while she’d slept. ’Twas he who should be worn with fatigue.

  Humbled by her own weakness, she sat up straighter, tried to force the cobwebs from her mind. The least she could do was to press herself as hard as he pressed himself and to endure without complaint. She was no squeamish, spiritless lass, and although she might not have been born to this rugged life, she had her wits and at least some courage.

  If she’d understood him, they had most of a day’s journey before them, overland to Fort Edward. She could endure another day.

  Iain handed her the leather pouch of cornmeal. “Bide here a wee.”

  Then he headed off toward the lake with the tin bucket in his hand.

  She took a handful of cornmeal, chewed it, and washed it into her empty stomach with a mouthful of cold water from his water skin.

  It had been a long night. Wary after their encounter with the French ships the night before and determined not to fail Iain again, she’d made certain to stay awake and had watched the darkness glide past, reluctant even to breathe.

  Yet he’d seemed angry, his voice gruff the few times he’d spoken, his face hard. Perhaps he was in a temper over the things she’d said earlier about Culloden and the war. Or maybe he was still vexed with her for giving them away to the French on the ship. Or perhaps it was the poisoned rum, though that certainly had not been her fault.

  You take more lookin’ after than a bairn.

  She’d wanted to be helpful and had offered to take up the other set of oars and row, but he’d shaken his head.

  “A pair of oars in your hands would make a bloody din.”

  She’d felt ashamed to know he was likely right. And so the perilous, long watches of the night had passed in frosty silence, with Annie feeling useless and angry and afraid.

  Oh, how he confused her! One moment he held her and comforted her to help her nightmares pass. The next he belittled her, humiliated her.

  At least he hadn’t kissed her again.

  Why hadn’t he kissed her again?

  Each time she thought of it, her heart seemed to trip. The hot feel of his lips against hers. The scorching shock of his tongue in her mouth. The hard press of his body.

  Oh, Annie, I knew you would taste sweet.

  The memory of his words made her breath catch in her throat, and she realized she’d taken pleasure in it. She’d taken pleasure in his kiss.

  Even as the truth of it came to her, she rejected it. She’d been asleep and caught up in a dream when he’d stolen that kiss from her. ’Twas a deception of her dream that she’d enjoyed it. How could she, who’d been raised a lady, find any pleasure in kissing a traitor, a rough Ranger, a Highland barbarian?

  She looked up and saw the man who bedeviled her thoughts walking toward her. The shadow of beard on his chin had grown thicker and darker, and his black hair still hung, long and unbound, lending him a wild appearance. His shirt had come open at the throat, revealing a wedge of dark curls. She remembered what he’d looked like without his shirt, how it had felt to be held against that chest, and her breath caught again.

  He moved almost silently, his motions sure, agile, and smooth despite his size. He was, she realized, quite graceful. The very idea surprised her. Male grace was a quality she’d never thought of beyond the ballroom; either a man could dance a qu
adrille with skill and without stepping on her feet or he could not. But here was another kind of grace altogether—an untrained grace, an instinctive grace, an animal grace.

  He set the bucket down before her, then knelt beside his pack and took out the soap and cloth she’d seen yesterday, together with the little jar of salve. “The cold water will soothe your feet. Wash them if you like and put on more salve.”

  Surprised by his thoughtfulness, Annie took the cloth from his hand. “Thank you.”

  “Be quick about it. I’m goin’ scoutin’.” He rose and strode silently into the forest.

  She felt the water with her fingers, found it ice cold. She removed the moccasins, exposing her battered feet. Then she dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed it out, and rubbed the soap against it. Although she had every intention of washing her feet, she found herself pressing the cloth to her face instead.

  She almost moaned. It felt wonderful. The cold water made her skin tingle, washed away the grime, brought her back to life. Careful not to waste a drop, she washed her face, then her throat, water running in icy rivulets down her neck and beneath her gown. Next, she washed her feet and ankles.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  She glanced about her to make certain Iain was nowhere near. Then she sat up on her knees, let the bearskin coat fall to the ground, and slipped her gown and shift down her shoulders to her waist. All she needed was a few moments.

  She’d never been naked in the open air like this, and a part of her could scarce believe she was doing something so reckless. She dipped the cloth into the bucket, squeezed it, then stared in astonishment at her own body. Purple bruises stained her skin, caused by her tumble down the embankment. One of her breasts was scratched, and there was an angry red welt above her right hip. Death had made its mark on her.

  She shivered.

  Eager to put it all behind her, she washed quickly, first her breasts and belly, then her arms and shoulders. The breeze raised bumps on her wet skin, but the cold water soothed her bruises. As dirt and mud and dried blood washed away, she began to feel like herself again.

  “You’d tempt a saint, lass. But I am no’ a saint.”

  Annie gasped and covered her breasts with her arms.

  He stood not ten feet away, the butt of his rifle resting on the ground, his hand around the barrel, his gaze sliding blatantly over her.

  “Y-you ought no’ be watchin’.”

  “You ought no’ be naked.”

  Iain was surprised he could speak. At his first sight of her kneeling, bare-breasted and wet-skinned, the breath had rushed from his lungs. His thoughts had scattered like ashes in a gust of wind. He’d found himself rooted to the spot, his cock painfully hard, his anger and frustration from the past few days merging into sharp sexual need.

  Even scratched and bruised, she was bonnie. Her cheeks glowed pink with shame, her apple-green eyes wide with a maid’s innocent wariness. Her breasts were round and full, their rosy tips pinched from the cold. Her skin was creamy, her shoulders soft and curved.

  Iain had been raised to treat women gently, but he did not feel gentle just now. His mother’s Viking blood burnt in him, ancient and hot, urging him to fist his hands in her hair and bear her onto her back, to claim her in the most primitive way a man could, to plant his seed inside her again and again, whether she consented or no.

  One arm still shielding her breasts, she fumbled for her shift and gown.

  “Leave them off.”

  She stared up at him, clearly alarmed, and reached again for her gown.

  “I said leave them.” He closed the distance between them, knelt down beside her, only one thought on his mind: he had to touch her.

  Her breathing was ragged, and she trembled. Her eyes were huge and round.

  He reached out, took her wrists in his hands, and drew them one at a time to his lips, exposing her. “Dinnae hide your loveliness from me, lass.”

  Then he feasted on the sight of her. Her creamy breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath, their weight enough to fill his hands. Her puckered nipples looked as if a man had already sucked them to tight, wet peaks. One was marred by an angry red scratch. Behind her breastbone, her heartbeat fluttered like that of a wild bird.

  Desire lanced through him, sent a bolt of heat to his already aching groin, made it hard for him to breathe. He wanted to cup the weight of her breasts in his hands, to taste her, to draw her nipples into his mouth and tease them with his tongue and teeth.

  He ducked down, pressed his lips to the scratch, kissed it.

  She gasped, and her body jerked as if his lips had been a brand. “P-please dinnae—”

  Lust roared in his ears like the raging thrum of a heartbeat. His cock strained against the leather of his breeches, claiming the right to mate. “You’ve naugh’ to fear from me, Annie.”

  ’Twas an outright lie. If she knew what he was thinking, she’d likely slap him soundly—or scream and run.

  You’re a bastard, MacKinnon. Can you no’ see the lass is an innocent and sore afraid?

  Fighting to defeat his need for her, he released her wrists, picked up the cloth, and dipped it in the bucket. “Turn round. I’ll wash your back.”

  Covering her breasts again, she seemed to hesitate, then did as he asked.

  He squeezed out the cloth, lifted the heavy weight of her tangled hair over her shoulder, and pressed the wet cloth to her skin. He heard her tiny intake of breath, felt her shiver, saw the rapid beating of her pulse against the column of her throat. And the fire inside him grew hotter.

  Slowly, he ran the cloth over her silky skin, mindful of her bruises, his hand guiding the cloth over the soft angles of her back to the gentle swell of her hips below. Then he saw.

  Beneath the deep purple bruises caused by her fall were the fading yellow marks left by what could only be a leather strap. Someone had beaten her—repeatedly.

  Cold fury doused the heat in his blood, left him feeling disgust for himself. The poor lass was bruised and battered—and not for the first time—and all he could think of was having his will with her. The kiss was to blame. He’d allowed himself to take one taste of her, had found her more delectable than he’d imagined, and now he wanted more.

  ’Tis your own fault your breeches are tight, MacKinnon, you gobshite.

  But hadn’t he vowed not to let any man harm her?

  Aye, he had.

  If he couldn’t protect her from himself, he couldn’t protect her at all.

  He set the cloth aside, lifted her gown to her shoulders. “Here, lass. Cover yourself. It’s past time we left this place.”

  Annie held on to Iain’s broad shoulders as he carried her through the forest, his words ominous in her mind.

  “The Abenaki ken where we’re goin’, Annie,” he’d warned her. “We lost them along the lake, so their best chance of catchin’ us is to seek out our trail now or to wait in ambush along the road to Fort Edward. This is the most treacherous leg of our journey. You must be silent.”

  The charred ruins of the fort they’d passed—a monument to death—proved they now trod a dangerous path. Iain had called the place Fort William Henry and had stayed well clear of it, keeping to the shadows. “It fell last summer and many men, women, and children wi’ it.”

  Strange it was for Annie to think that last summer when the fort had been burning she’d been living in comfort in her uncle’s hall, blind to his depravity and to her mother’s suffering and all but unaware of the conflict in America. She’d not have been able to imagine what lay ahead of her—her mother’s death, her uncle’s cruelty, the terrors of war in a harsh new world.

  Master Hawes had once told Annie a man never hears the arrow that kills him, and in this vast land, she could understand how that might be true. The forest seemed to loom above her and around her, each hill, each stand of trees, each ravine and outcropping of rocks full of terrible possibility. Out there, somewhere, death was stalking them.

  Something moved in the sha
dows. A fox.

  A tree branch bobbed and swayed. A pair of squirrels.

  For a time, Annie forgot how distressing—and stirring—it had been to have Iain’s gaze hot upon her bare breasts. She forgot the way the look in his eyes had made her heartbeat falter. She forgot the strange warmth that had spread through her belly when he’d kissed the sensitive skin of her inner wrists. She forgot the way her skin had tingled at his touch when he’d washed her back. As Iain slowly picked a path through the undergrowth, uphill and down, over patches of lingering snow and exposed rock, she could think only of survival.

  It must have been midmorning when he stopped near a small creek to refill the water skin. He lowered her to the ground and lifted the weight of his tumpline pack from her shoulders. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and she knew it couldn’t be easy for him to carry her through such rough terrain over so many miles.

  “If you need to see to yourself, now is the time. But dinnae go far.” He knelt down beside the creek, held the water skin beneath a hole in the ice to fill it.

  Annie wandered with painful steps a short distance away from the creek and took care of her private needs. Then she walked back as quickly as she could. She sat next to Iain, watched him take a long drink from the water skin, her gaze focused on the shifting muscles of his throat.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Are you thirsty? Drink now, and I’ll refill it. I dinnae want to have to stop again.”

  She took the water skin and had just begun to drink when she heard it—a distant popping sound that could only be . . .

  Gunfire.

  In a heartbeat, Iain was on his feet, his brow furrowed in concentration as he listened. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled, and for a moment a look of deep weariness or remorse crossed his face.

  “Iain? What is it?”

  “My men. My brothers. They’re under attack.”

  Iain moved as quickly as he could, heading due south toward the fort. He did not want the battle to overtake them lest Annie find herself in the midst of fighting. The gunfire had ceased for a time, only to begin again, closer this time. Then it had stopped again. He didn’t need to be with his men to know what was afoot. He’d drilled them himself, knew every ploy, every trick, every scheme they might use in battle.