Lord William had not yet decided her fate. He’d sent Conall off to Albany without her, the entire question of her future set aside as he waited upon General Abercrombie, who had arrived unannounced more than a fortnight ago with a sizable escort, setting the fort astir with parades, drills, and inspections. Although the Regulars seemed excited to show their skill before their general, the Rangers didn’t bother to hide their disdain, calling him Mrs. Nanny Crombie for his inability to make decisions.
“Nanny Crombie is a curse upon this army,” Killy had told her. “He’s no more a warrior than I am the pope.”
But if the Rangers loathed General Abercrombie, the general seemed fascinated by them, touring their camp, watching each day’s drill, even calling upon them to stage a mock battle, which the entire fort had turned out to watch, except for Annie. She’d already seen them fight—and not in feigned battle, but amidst gore and death. She did not want to see it again, nor did she have the time.
She was determined to use the reprieve the general’s visit had bought her to show Lord William that she could be of service to him and his men—without being a wife or a camp follower. She’d cobbled together a list of tasks for herself, spending the day from dawn until dusk helping Dr. Blake. She tended soldiers, changed blankets and sheets, rolled bandages, mixed salves and poultices, ground herbs, cleaned the hospital, and even emptied chamber pots.
Aye, it was tiring work and at times frightening—the piteous cries of pain, the blood, the ever-present possibility of death. She hated seeing men suffer. Yet helping to ease their pain and despair gave her a feeling of fulfillment unlike any she’d known. For the first time in her life she was doing something that truly mattered.
She sat back on her heels, stretched the ache from her back. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone in a sky such as she’d never seen in gray, misty Scotland—wide as eternity and blue beyond imagining. The warm breeze carried smells that were new to her, the scents of the great forest awakening to spring. Honeybees, drowsy from their winter sleep, buzzed lazily about the garden, awaiting a feast of blossoms.
If only her spirits could be as bright as the sky.
She had not been herself lately, her feelings confusing even to herself. One moment she felt cross, the next near tears, and the next she was lost in daydreams. Always at the center of her thoughts was Iain.
Why would he not speak to her? Why was he avoiding her?
It had been three weeks since the night she’d foolishly fallen in the river and nearly drowned, three weeks since Iain had held her in Joseph’s sweat lodge, three weeks since he’d scorched her with his touch. In that time, she’d scarce seen him but from afar.
He rarely came to check on her, but sent one of his brothers or Killy instead. When he did cross her path, his manner was gruff and cold, as if he barely knew her. After all the kindness he’d shown her—and the heat they’d shared in the sweat lodge—how could he treat her like this?
Annie forced her mind back to her work, determined yet again to put Iain from her mind. She worked her way down the rows, silently recounting what the doctor had told her about each plant and its uses, her fingers busy in the rich soil.
The flowers of chamomile, when boiled, had a calming effect, soothed mild pains and agues, and aided in stomach complaints. When they were crushed and mixed with poppy heads, a poultice of chamomile flowers could reduce swellings from sprains and bruises. Her mother had often taken chamomile tea after supper to aid her digestion.
A poultice of cabbage leaves was good for cleaning festering wounds, healing ulcers of the skin, and treating burns—though it hadn’t seemed to help Conall’s powder burns nearly as much as the stinging salve she’d spread on him when Dr. Blake wasn’t looking.
Why had she touched Iain like that, running her hands over his wet, bare skin? Had the cold river, lack of breath, or her brush with death weakened her mind? What would Iain have done had he discovered her brand?
Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal tea was favored for use against fevers, colds, stomach pains, and liver ailments. Dr. Blake had told her some women used it to poison babes that had not yet quickened in the womb, sometimes killing themselves, too. But she remembered Uncle Bain’s physician giving her pennyroyal tea when, as a child, she’d had a bad cough.
Ragwort . . .
That night seemed like a dream to her now. Falling into the icy torrent, feeling Iain’s strong arm encircle her, and knowing then that she would live. Waking in his arms in the steamy darkness of the sweat lodge. Feeling his hard man’s body beneath her hands. Shattering with the pleasure he’d drawn from her flesh.
Is that what it was supposed to be like between men and women—the sweet burning, the aching need, the surge of ecstasy that spilled over into every inch of mind, body, and spirit?
Annie did not know.
Nor did she understand the change that had come over her. As if awakened to new life, her body seemed to have a mind of its own. All she had to do was think of Iain or glimpse him across the island and her blood felt thick, her breasts strangely heavy. Even the sound of his voice made her heart beat faster. And when she lay alone in his bed and the memory of his hands upon her was inescapable, her sex ached and grew wet for him.
But it was more than that. She longed to be held again as he’d held her afterward, as if she were something precious. She’d felt safe then. She’d felt at home.
At least until he’d spoken of Albany.
What frightens you, Annie?
She hadn’t been able to bear lying to him again, so she had told him nothing.
I cannae go to Albany.
You’ll go where I deem you safe.
Rosemary. It helped heal sicknesses of the mind, including headaches. Dr. Blake said it also purified the air and prevented fevers from spreading from one patient to the next.
Och, nay, Annie! How could you do such a thing?
Her face burnt with mortification anytime she thought of that night. Joseph had been sitting nearby in the dark. Had he heard her? Had he known? If so, he’d shown no sign of it. He’d opened the flaps and stood aside while Iain, still naked, had wrapped her in the bearskin and carried her to a nearby lodge, where she’d dressed alone before a warm fire.
Then Iain, who’d dressed outside in the cold, had escorted her, bundled in the warm bearskin, back to his cabin, where he’d built up the fire and left her to sleep.
“Remember my words, lass,” he’d said on his way out.
How could she forget?
If you stay here, you and I will lie together—as sure as the sun rises.
Something tickled in her belly at the memory, and she wasn’t sure if his words scared her, or if what she felt was excitement. Either way, she knew he was trying to frighten her into leaving the fort. But there was something he did not understand.
She had no place else to go.
Ragwort. Ragwort. An infusion of ragwort flowers served to cleanse the eyes. The leaves in a poultice could relieve the pain of aching joints. It looked to be the same herb Annie knew as staggerwort in Scotland, where it grew even in the high mountains.
Boneset. An infusion of boneset helped those with agues and other kinds of fevers to sweat. It also calmed the stomach and acted as a tonic. She had never heard of boneset and wondered why it had nothing to do with helping to set bones.
So much was new to her. So much had happened. Some days she felt like a straggler trying to keep up with her own life. One moment she was Lady Anne, living a life of comfort in Scotland, cherished by her mother, cosseted by her loving uncle. The next she was Annie Burns, living amongst rough Rangers and soldiers at a fort upon the American frontier.
Yet, as much as she missed Scotland and the comforts of the life she’d been born to, a part of her had begun to feel at home at Fort Edward. She’d grown accustomed to the drums and trumpets and the crudeness of the Regulars. It was hard to fear them when she cared for their hurts and sicknesses and listened to their prayers each day. And although she
lacked feminine company altogether, there were the Rangers. They treated her with respect and kindness, stacking firewood outside her door, fetching water for her, escorting her across the bateau bridge. Men of a sort she’d never have spoken with in Scotland, they reminded her of her brothers, and they made her laugh.
Dr. Blake’s face appeared at the back door, a smile on his face. “Miss Burns, I’ve something you might want to see. ’Tis the rattle from the end of a rattlesnake’s tail.”
Annie wasn’t so certain she wanted to see it, but she didn’t say that. “I’ll be right there.”
“Most impressive, Major.” General Abercrombie stared down the open field toward the shredded remains of a paper target, a smile of boyish excitement on his face. “I don’t know when I’ve ever seen such bold marksmanship.”
Iain said nothing.
Wentworth answered for him. “Major MacKinnon is unsurpassed at hitting marks, General, but survival on the frontier also depends on a man’s ability to reload quickly, doesn’t it, Major?”
Iain forced the anger out of his voice. “Aye, for certain.”
Satan’s hairy arse, how he hated this! For more than a fortnight, he and his men had been called on to perform like dancing bears for their supper, made to play at death for the amusement of a man who seemed to think war was a game. Iain would have refused, rank be damned, but Wentworth had made it clear that he had no choice.
“Do not make a mockery of this,” Wentworth had warned him in private. “General Abercrombie is not as convinced as I of the need for the Ranger Corps.”
Iain had laughed. “Will he send us home if we disappoint him?”
Wentworth’s face had gone cold as ice. “What I mean to say, Major, is that you are still bound by your oath and I by mine. Do you understand?”
“Threatened wi’ the noose again?” Hatred had flared in Iain’s gut. He’d leaned forward, glared down into Wentworth’s arrogant face. “One day this war will be over, and there will come a time for the settling of debts between us.”
Wentworth had merely smiled. “Today is not that day.”
At least his anger at Wentworth had helped him keep his mind off Annie—a bit.
He’d done everything he could to stay far away from her these past three weeks. He didn’t trust himself to be near her, not after what had happened in the sweat lodge. The feminine feel of her soft body, the musky scent of her arousal, the sweet sound of her cries as she’d come against his hand—the memory drove him mad at night, made him burn for her as he’d burnt for no other woman.
He’d have pushed Wentworth to send her to Albany, except for her words that night.
I cannae go there. Please dinnae send me there. ’Tis no’ safe for me.
He needed to find out what frightened her before he sent her onward. Of course, that meant spending time alone with her, talking with her, persuading her to trust him. How could he do that when he didn’t trust himself?
The general slapped him on the back, knocking him from his thoughts. “Don’t you agree, Major?”
“Aye.” Iain nodded. He had no notion what the general was talking about.
Today, Abercrombie had wanted to watch Iain and his men shoot at marks, so they had wasted God knew how much powder and shot destroying paper targets. To his great dismay, Iain seemed to have become an object of fascination for Abercrombie, who’d spent the past hour asking him to make one outlandish shot after the next. It wouldn’t surprise him if next the general asked him to hit the moon while standing on his head.
His brothers stood with the men off to one side, rifles still in hand, mocking grins on their faces. Behind them, Regulars stood on the ramparts, watching him through spyglasses. Bastards, the lot of them.
“I’ve heard you are able to load while on your back, then fire while lying on your abdomen. I should like to see a demonstration. Shall we say four shots?”
Iain met Wentworth’s amused gaze and silently wished him to hell.
Four paper targets with black circles at their centers were quickly set up far down the field while Iain settled onto his back in the dirt with his powder horn and a pouch full of balls and smaller shot. He took a deep breath and waited for the general’s word.
“Now, Major!”
His hands moving swiftly over the rifle, he loaded, flipped onto his belly, and fired. He didn’t have to look to know he’d hit the target.
One. Two. Three.
He had just flipped over to fire the fourth shot when a man appeared on the road from Albany, shouting and screaming, his shirt stained with blood.
Iain shifted his aim to the dark forest beyond, waiting to see if anyone pursued the poor man, whom he recognized as one of the sutler’s adult sons.
“Major?” The general was clearly waiting for that fourth shot and hadn’t seen the lad.
But Wentworth had. “We have trouble, General.”
“This doesna feel right.” Connor’s voice was barely a whisper, and he crept forward through the trees beside Iain.
“Aye.” Iain kept his gaze focused on the dark forest before them, misgiving prickling along his spine.
The sutler’s son had told them a party of Abenaki had ambushed the supply train he’d been riding a scant two miles from the fort and everyone but him had been slain. When asked how he’d managed to escape with his scalp, he’d said he’d hidden behind a slaughtered bullock and crept away on his belly until it was safe to run.
“They numbered no more than thirty, but they came at us of a sudden from the hills above,” he told them between sobs. “They killed everything, even the chickens.”
Not wishing to give the war party more of a lead than it already had, Iain had immediately called out his men. “Turn out, lads! The Abenaki have come a-courtin’!”
But Abercrombie had delayed them with needless wavering. “Perhaps the Regulars are best suited to this particular task, Colonel. Or perhaps a complement of Regulars should join the Rangers. What say you?”
Mrs. Nanny Crombie, indeed.
Now Iain and his men, with Captain Joseph and a small band of his men guarding their left flank, moved swiftly and silently through the woods just off the road. The remains of the supply train could not be far ahead.
And then he saw it—six wagons laden with provisions and pierced by arrows. The sutler and his men lay scattered on the ground amidst slaughtered livestock, scalped and lifeless. Two women—camp followers—lay naked and bloodied nearby, their bodies revealing just how cruelly they’d been used before they, too, had been killed and scalped.
Iain motioned for his men to move out. They would encircle the battle site to protect themselves from ambush before they moved any closer to the wagons.
He had taken but a few steps, when he heard Joseph’s warning whistle.
“Take cover!”
In the next instant, the forest exploded in a hail of gunfire.
The Abenaki had been waiting—and there were far more than thirty.
Chapter 20
The wounded began trickling in just after supper—at first just minor bullet wounds, then more serious injuries, including Cam with an arrow lodged in his thigh. They all told the same story. A force of more than two hundred French and Abenaki had ambushed them near the site of the attack on the supply train, and Iain and his brothers were still pinned down and under fire.
Annie tried to keep her mind on her work, cleaning the smaller wounds, offering strengthening drinks of rum and spoonfuls of laudanum, changing bloodied sheets, and providing two more willing hands when Dr. Blake needed them. But as the hours crept by and still more wounded arrived, she began to fear that Iain and his brothers would not return.
Lord William and the general strode into the hospital just after sunset. Lord William did not deign to notice her in the general’s presence but set about questioning the Rangers who were able to speak.
“The attack on the supply train was naugh’ but bait, Colonel.” Cam’s words were slurred from laudanum. “’Tis alm
ost as if the bastards are puttin’ all they have into killin’ Mack.”
Annie wiped blood from the floor, dread writhing in her belly like a snake.
“That’s not too surprising, as there is a rather high price on the major’s head, isn’t there, Sergeant?”
Lord William’s words left her stunned, and she listened in secret horror and outrage as he coldly told the general how Iain’s success against the French and their allies had led the French to put a price the equivalent of two thousand British pounds on Iain’s scalp—more if he were brought in alive. He made no mention of the fact that he’d forced Iain to fight this war by threatening to bear false witness against him.
Annie loathed him.
Then she remembered what Iain had told her the French would do to him.
They’d have tried to break me, to pry secrets from my mind. Then they’d have given me to the Abenaki, who would have tortured me to death wi’ great delight and merriment.
Her mouth went dry.
“The Abenaki in particular hate and fear Iain MacKinnon like the Romans hated and feared Hannibal. If you’ll recall, the major struck deep into their territory two winters past to destroy an Abenaki village that had sent several raiding parties against British farmsteads. He slew most of the warriors, burnt their homes, and left the women and children.”
“Ah, yes, I recall hearing something about that mission.” The general nodded and stroked his chin. “I heard he and his men nearly starved on the return journey and were forced to boil and eat their own belts.”
Annie remembered reading an account of that mission aloud to Brendan out of the Boston Gazette. It had seemed a nightmare. Yet Lord William and General Abercrombie spoke of it as if it were a mere curiosity.
“We boiled our belts and called it a feast.” ’Twas Cam who spoke, his voice strangely flat. “We wanted to boil the leather strings in our snowshoes, but Mack wouldna let us, sayin’ we needed them to get home. So we ate bark from the trees, frozen cattail roots, even boiled a pair of antlers we found along the way. We’d have perished had Mack not gone off on his own and brought down an old buck. How he did it, I dinnae ken. The rest of us could scarce stand.”