No, it was her manner that drew his attention. The last time he’d seen a woman curtsy like that, he’d been in Williamsburg at the governor’s mansion. And though her speech was clearly Scottish, it was not the heavy accent he’d expect from an illiterate villager. In fact, her choice of words indicated some level of education that ought to have been beyond her family’s means.
Then there was the way she had reacted when she’d first seen him. The blood had drained from her face, and he’d thought for a moment she would faint. Then she had called him by his courtesy title—“my lord”—a title of which she should know nothing.
Clearly, she recognized him from somewhere. Ought he to recognize her?
“Rise, Miss Burns.” William was surprised to find that her pleading gesture made him feel uncomfortable. “What would you have me do?”
She remained on her knees. “Please, my lord, spare him the lash, I pray you, and suffer me to take him food and a blanket tonight.”
“You ask much.” William found himself wondering what had happened out there in the forest. How far would she go to help Major MacKinnon? There was one way to find out. He reached down, clasped her cold fingers, drew her to her feet. “I give you leave to take him food, water, and a blanket. As for the rest—what are you prepared to offer me in exchange for leniency toward the major?”
Annie could not believe what she was hearing. She’d thought him a man of honor. Was he asking for her virtue? “Wh-what would you have me do, m-my lord?”
His gaze bored into her. “If I cut the number of lashes in half, would you be willing to offer me the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening?”
The pleasure of your company.
Annie felt dizzy, sick, her mind racing. Hadn’t she fled her uncle’s hall to preserve her virtue? Hadn’t she suffered gaol and branding and exile rather than surrender her virginity to any man’s misuse? Could she now yield her maidenhead to Lord William, knowing that lying with him would strip her of her innocence and reveal her brand, leaving her subject to his whim?
If she refused Lord William, she could walk away with her virtue intact, knowing she had done all she could honorably do for Iain’s sake. Iain would suffer the terrible punishment that Lord William, not she, had decreed for him. And she could go on living as Annie Burns.
But then she thought of Master and Mistress Hawes and the lies she’d told Iain. She remembered Iain’s kindness, the way he’d kept her warm at night. She remembered the feel of his skin beneath her fingers, the hot shock of his kiss. She remembered how he’d willingly offered up his life to save hers when the French had attacked.
If augh’ should happen to me, wait until my men overtake you and show them this.
She owed him the very breath in her body.
How can you think of building a new life on lies and the suffering of one who risked everything for you, Annie?
And so Annie weighed the terrible choice before her—refuse Lord William and abandon Iain to one hundred lashes and perhaps even death, or surrender her virtue and risk her freedom to see Iain’s punishment cut in half.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she glared at Lord William, seeing him with new eyes. “H-how can you pretend to enforce justice when you wreak wrongs upon the world? You are no’ an honorable man!”
Lord William seemed to measure her with his cold gaze. “Ah. So the answer is no.”
“Nay, my lord.” Her voice threatened to fail her. “The answer is . . . yes.”
Chapter 13
Iain leaned back against the wall of the cage they’d put him in and stared into the darkness. As soon as he was able, he would write letters to families of the men he’d lost. He always did. The letters would not make any widow’s grief one whit easier to bear. Nor would the act of writing the letters soothe Iain’s conscience. But his men deserved this much—that those who loved them should know they’d died as men.
His stomach growled, and he wished for a moment he’d had the foresight to tuck his pouch of cornmeal into his breeches. But it was no matter. He’d soon have greater discomforts to cope with than hunger. One hundred strokes were enough to do real harm to a man.
Was she still sleeping? He remembered how she’d looked when he’d left her, naked beneath his bearskin, her wet hair lying against his pillow, her lashes dark against her bruised cheeks. Her stitches were healing well and would need to be removed in a few days. When he was in the hospital being patched together tomorrow, he would have to remember to ask the surgeon to see to her.
He had no idea how long it would take him to heal, but once he was on his feet again, he’d do all he could to see Annie safely settled off the frontier in Albany or perhaps in Stockbridge. Rebecca Aupauteunk would take her in if Iain asked her to. Iain could help support Annie by bringing venison, turkey, and fish.
He could do no more for her than that. The summer campaigns were fast approaching, and much remained to be done in preparation. Wentworth was about as likely to grant him leave as he was to grow a human heart. But if she were still unmarried by war’s end . . .
What the bloody hell are you thinkin’, MacKinnon?
He was thinking of bedding her.
Nay, ’twas more than that. He was thinking of wooing her.
Och, for God’s sake! He was thinking of marrying her.
Are you mad, MacKinnon? You barely ken the lass.
Even as he rejected the notion, some part of him decided it was not so daft as it seemed. They were both from the Highlands. She was bonnie, strong, and spirited, qualities that would surely pass to her children, while he had the skill to protect her, provide for her—and show her what the passion in her Scottish blood was for.
Aye, but she was a Protestant and came from Loyalist roots, while he was Catholic and sprang from a clan that had stood by the Stuarts. Then there was the fact that he was bound to this war until its end. And had a price on his head. And was without a roof to shelter her.
A lass would be silly to pass up such a match, MacKinnon. Bloody grand idea.
He kicked at the straw in aggravation, felt the heavy tug of the iron on his ankles.
Nay, Annie was not for him, and the sooner he made peace with that fact, the better off he’d be. He would not be free to love any woman until war’s end.
And what if it’s too late, you hapless bastard? What if you’ve already fallen for her?
Iain quashed that voice like a pesky insect.
From beyond the door, he heard Connor’s voice. He got to his feet and, dragging his fetters with him, pressed against the iron bars to listen.
Then the door opened, and Connor himself appeared, carrying a lighted lamp.
“I’ve only a few moments. Morgan is right behind me wi’ your lass.”
Iain opened his mouth to tell Connor that Annie was not his and never would be, but that’s not what came out. “Annie’s comin’ here?”
“She’s come to coddle you wi’ a warm meal and a soft blanket.”
Iain found himself fighting to hide a stupid grin. “I could do wi’ a bite just now. I dinnae suppose Wentworth agreed to this.”
“Aye, he did.”
Then Connor told him how Annie had been distraught to hear he was going to be flogged and had demanded to speak with Wentworth, unaware that Wentworth had been trying to question her all day. Connor told him how she’d borne up well under Wentworth’s scrutiny, even contradicting him and challenging his notions of justice.
“Then she said, ‘I thought it was the job of the British army to safeguard the lives of His Majesty’s subjects, no’ sacrifice them like pawns for land.’ Och, he was angry wi’ her, and she didna seem to see it. She has a pretty way with words, your lass does.”
Iain’s grin faded as he thought of Annie grappling with the man he most hated. He didn’t like her being anywhere near Wentworth. “She is clever and has courage, but he will cast her out if she defies him.”
Connor’s face grew troubled. “I think it would be best if she were quickly
settled in her new home and gone from this place.”
Iain felt anger kindle in his gut. “You and Morgan dinnae like her. I can see it in the way you look at her.”
“Nay, ’tis no’ so. She is brave and bonnie and has a good heart. But I fear what may become of you if she stays. When Jeannie—”
“This has nothin’ to do wi’ Jeannie.”
Connor didn’t look convinced. “I didna come to argue wi’ you, but to tell you what has happened. When Wentworth at first refused to lessen your punishment, Annie sank to her knees and begged him to show you mercy.”
It took a moment for Connor’s words to sink in. “She did what?”
“Aye, she sank to her knees and begged him to spare you. I saw it wi’ my own eyes. The lass cares for you, she does.”
It sickened Iain to think of Annie on her knees before any man, let alone Wentworth. Knowing she’d done it for his sake only made his rage keener. “She shouldna have done that. I want nothing from that bastard, especially no’ his mercy.”
“Would you shut your gob and let a man speak? Wentworth threw everyone out of the room save Annie, and they spoke together for a goodly length of time. When she came out, she would no’ speak wi’ us except to say that Wentworth had cut your punishment to fifty lashes. And, Iain—she was pale as a ghost.”
Anger became foreboding. “Och, nay, Annie! He might own me, but I wouldna see him enslave her. What devil’s bargain has he forced upon her?”
“I dinnae ken, but I fear for her.” Connor’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he cast a glance toward the door. “There’s more. When she first laid eyes on Wentworth, the blood drained from her face. White as death she was—and shakin’. Then she curtsied as fine as any lady at court and called him ‘my lord.’ I’d swear she kent him and was sore afraid when she saw him.”
Iain stared at his brother, tried to make sense of his words. “That cannae be.”
“Are you so certain? What do you really ken about her, Iain?”
Had he not himself found her oddish and wondered about her? Iain brushed the question aside. “Did Wentworth show any sign that he kent her?”
“Nay, but who can tell? The bastard doesna let his thoughts show.”
“Keep a close watch on her, Connor. Send her away with Joseph if you must. Wentworth would think naugh’ of destroy-in’ her if it amused him.”
“’Tis no’ just him you need to worry about, but every randy bastard in the fort. She’s had more offers for a quick tumble in the past hour than a whore in a pub full of drunken sailors newly home from the sea.”
Iain pressed his face against the bars, spoke through gritted teeth, wishing to hell he weren’t locked up. “You tell them I’ll slit any man who dishonors her from brow to balls, and that includes Wentworth. While she is here, she is under my protection.”
Even as the sound of his threat died away, Iain could hear Morgan and Annie outside the guardhouse door.
“We’ll spread the word.”
Then the door creaked open, and Annie stepped inside.
Iain felt his breath leave him.
Her hair, no longer matted and tangled, hung in a glistening braid over her shoulder and down the front of her cloak. Her eyes were wide and flashed green even in the weak light of Connor’s lamp. She wore one of the gowns he’d bought for her, and from what he could see, it fit her well—perhaps too well—revealing the feminine beauty that her shapeless gray gown had hidden. Under one arm, she carried a blanket, over the other a basket covered by a cloth. On her bonnie face was a look of anguish.
Did she suffer out of concern for him—or because of Wentworth?
A redcoat stuck his head through the door. “One at a time. One at a time. The colonel doesn’t trust you to be in here all at once. It’s the girl’s turn. You two—out!”
“I’m worried for you, Iain.” Connor set down the lamp and walked away.
And Iain knew his brother wasn’t speaking solely of tomorrow’s flogging.
Annie glanced quickly about, her pulse skittering. She’d expected to find rats scurrying at her feet, but the guardhouse was nothing like the gaol in Inveraray. There were no screams, no cries of misery and despair. It smelled not of human waste and rot and mold, but of pine. Its walls were not of cold, damp stone but wooden planks. Its puncheon floor was clean, apart from scattered straw. Three cells were empty. In the fourth stood Iain.
For a moment she forgot why she’d come. She forgot the basket on her arm, the blanket in her grasp. She forgot the horror that awaited him tomorrow.
He had shaved away the dark stubble of his beard, leaving his face smooth and stunningly bonnie. His hair still hung unbound and long, but there was a gleam about it, and she knew he’d washed it. He wore a shirt of dark blue-and-white check that fell open at his throat to reveal dark curls and a hint of muscle. And though he still wore leather breeches, these were clean and without leggings—nothing but butter-soft buckskin from his hips to his moccasins.
She met his gaze, saw anger in his eyes. She could not blame him for it. He had saved her life, and because of it he was going to suffer.
Then the guard spoke, startling her. She’d forgotten he was there. “Get back in the corner, Major, and I’ll open the door so she can set your supper inside.”
“If I had it in mind to escape, you fool, I’d already be far from here.” Iain stepped backward into the far corner, his chains dragging heavily across the wooden floor.
The sound of the key in the lock sent a shiver up Annie’s spine.
Can we no’ humble her a bit wi’ a fast tup in the straw?
She fought to quell her sense of dread, forced those memories aside. ’Twas not she who was locked up, but Iain.
“Set it down on the floor, miss, and step out again.”
Aware of Iain’s gaze upon her, Annie did as the guard asked, leaving the basket of food and the blanket just inside the cell door,
The door shut with a clang, made her jump.
She smoothed her skirts, tried to mask her uneasiness. “I would speak wi’ the major alone. Please leave us.”
The guard grinned, raked her with his gaze. “So that’s how it is. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me lock you in with’im? For a week’s ration of rum, I’ll—”
“Watch your tongue if you want to keep it.” Iain spoke softly, but the menace in his voice was clear. “I willna always be in chains.”
The guard paled, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
For a moment the only sound was the clinking of Iain’s shackles as he came to meet her. He grasped an iron bar in each hand and looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “My thanks for the supper, Annie, but you shouldna be in here alone wi’ me.’Twill only give the men reason to tittle.”
“I—I thought you might be cold and hungry.”
“So I was, but I willna have you dishonor yourself for my sake.” There was an edge to his voice.
“I dinnae care what such men think. Their tongues are as filthy as their hides.”
“Would you have them say I tupped you in the guardhouse like a flea-bitten whore?”
His crude words shocked her, made her face burn. She looked down at her hands. “You’re angry. I dinnae blame you. I wouldna blame you if you hated the very sight of me. After all you did for me, to think you shall suffer—”
“Och, Annie! I am angry wi’ you, but no’ because I’m to be flogged. That is no’ your doin’, but Wentworth’s. I’m angry because you demeaned yourself by gettin’ on your knees before that bastard. Aye, Connor told me, and I was bloody fashed to hear it.”
Taken aback, Annie stared up at him. How could he be angry with her? Hadn’t she gotten on her knees for his sake? “I was but tryin’ to help the man who helped me.”
His eyes were hard as slate, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. “I didna save your life so you could cheapen it. And now I would ken the truth, Annie. What is the cost of Wentworth’s mercy?”
How did h
e know?
She shook her head, took a step back.
A hand shot out from between the bars, grasped her wrist in an iron grip. “Tell me!”
She felt her cheeks flame with both anger and humiliation. She’d said nothing to Iain’s brothers of her agreement with Lord William, and she’d not expected Iain to know aught of it. Trapped, she sought for words, but he was quicker.
“You dinnae have to answer. I can see it in your eyes. For the love of Christ, Annie! Why?” His face was a mask of cold fury.
Annie felt herself on the brink of tears. “I cannae bear to think of your sufferin’.”
Iain heard the despair in her voice. He rested his forehead against cold iron, closed his eyes, tried to rein in his rage. “You will go with my brothers to Wentworth, and you will tell him you’ve had a change of heart. All will be as it was before.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I cannae.”
He pulled her against the bars, shouted. “Do it, Annie, or so help me God!”
She jerked her arm free, rubbed it, and he realized he’d hurt her.
“I am no’ yours to order about, Iain MacKinnon! Do you no’ understand? I wouldna be able to live wi’ myself if I didna do all I can to spare you.”
“’Tis you who dinnae understand, lass. I’d have gone to the whipping post gladly and taken each one of a hundred strokes wi’out complaint, knowin’ you were safe and untouched. ’Twas a price I was willin’ to pay. But now what does my pain buy? I’ll have scars upon my back just the same, but you’ll be Wentworth’s whore!”
For a moment she looked as if she’d been struck, tears glistening in her eyes. Then she did something he could not have foreseen. She reached inside her bodice and pulled the strip of his plaid out from between her breasts. “I—I wanted you to have this. I thought it might bring you strength.”
Iain watched, bereft of speech, as she pressed the bit of wool into his palm, closed his fingers around it, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand.
“God be wi’ you, Iain MacKinnon.”
Before he could find his tongue, she had fled.