Surrender

  “Are you certain it’s the same family?” William stared unseeing out his darkened window, disbelief warring with complete and utter surprise.

  Annie Burns a convict?

  “Aye, my lord, quite certain. The location of the cabin, the wife’s advanced pregnancy, and the description of the girl fit quite neatly.”

  “Was the sheriff aware of the massacre?”

  “Aye, my lord. He told me Indians had most likely taken the girl back to their village to ravish, which he blamed on the Indian man’s unnatural interest in white women and on her uncommon beauty.”

  Uncommon beauty.

  A fitting, if inadequate, description of Miss Burns.

  “So the sheriff met her in the flesh?”

  “She was with Master Hawes when he registered her indenture. The sheriff seemed to remember her quite vividly, in part because of her beauty . . .”

  William had no trouble believing that.

  “. . . and in part because she insisted she was innocent, claiming to be the daughter of a Scottish earl and the victim of foul play.”

  Daughter of a Scottish earl.

  William turned on his heel, feeling in his bones that he’d come to the truth. “Under what name was she registered?”

  “Anne Campbell, my lord.”

  There were thousands of Campbells in Scotland, but not many of noble birth.

  William poured himself a brandy and tried to recall the various branches of Clan Campbell. He was most familiar with the Argyll Campbells, as they—

  The blood rushed from his head.

  Anne Campbell.

  Lady Anne Campbell.

  Niece of Bain Campbell, Marquess of Bute, a hero of Prestonpans.

  Daughter of the Earl of Rothesay, who’d died at Prestonpans.

  The moment it came to him, he knew he was right. A memory flashed through his mind of a quiet girl, not yet old enough to have breasts but destined to be a beauty. Her hair was a darker shade of golden blond now, the face that of a woman and not a child. But the eyes—those stunning green eyes—were the same.

  He’d met young Lady Anne while staying with Lord Bute on his way to visit the Duke of Argyll. He’d barely paid her any heed, despite her mother’s cloying attempts to draw his eye, for the girl was neither old enough to merit his sexual interest nor wealthy and English enough to be a suitable prospect for a wife. He had considered bedding her mother, however, a pretty widow not much older than himself.

  William swirled his cognac, recalled the night Miss Burns—Lady Anne—had been led into his presence. The blood had rushed from her face the moment she’d seen him, and she’d curtsied like a lady at court.

  “M-my lord.”

  The little minx had recognized him immediately. And yet she’d kept her identity secret, even though he was ideally placed in society to give her aid. In fact, she had lied to him. Why?

  “Did the sheriff say what kind of foul play Miss Burns claimed to have endured?”

  “Nay, my lord. He said only that he’d never met a guilty convict, as they all claim to be innocent.”

  “Of course.” William set the tulip snifter aside, opened the top drawer of his writing table, took a few sovereigns from the chest in which he kept his coin, and dropped them in an outstretched palm. “Excellent work. There’s a meal waiting for you in the officers’ mess. Speak of this to no one. Report to me first thing tomorrow. I’ll have a letter waiting for you to carry to port. You are dismissed.”

  “I am your most humble servant, my lord.”

  But William, lost in his thoughts, didn’t hear his man leave.

  How had Campbell’s niece come to be sold as a servant? Why had she not sought William’s help, knowing he had more power than most men to redress whatever wrongs had been done her? Why had Campbell failed to protect her, and why had she not sought to contact her uncle? He had questions aplenty, but not a single answer.

  Did Major MacKinnon know the woman he lusted after was both a convict and the daughter of a British peer? No, of course he didn’t. He and his men would no more tolerate an Argyll Campbell amongst them than they would embrace the House of Hanover. If the major were to discover her true identity, it would enrage him—perhaps to the point of violence—leaving Lady Anne no one to turn to in this vast wilderness except William.

  The very notion made William’s groin tighten.

  William would expose her, of course. And then he would offer her his protection. But before he could act, he needed to know her entire story. He didn’t want to inadvertently set himself at odds with Lord Bute. Bain Campbell, though only a Scot, was not without his allies in the House of Lords, foremost amongst them his cousin, the Duke of Argyll. He was also reputed to be deadly with the broadsword.

  William suspected Lady Anne would not willingly give him the truth about her situation, but he knew who would. He sat at his desk, set his brandy aside, and pulled out paper, ink, and quill, his mind already crafting the strategically worded letter he would write to her uncle.

  Chapter 24

  Iain looked at the lass who slept in his arms and felt his chest swell with an emotion he’d thought never to feel again and was loath to name. When he’d heard Jeannie had married another man, he’d thought the rage and pain would be the end of him. When she’d been killed three months later, whatever had remained of his feelings and his dreams had been buried in the cold earth with her, leaving him empty. He’d resigned himself to war, certain he’d not live to see the farm restored or to take a wife and father children.

  Now it seemed he would at least know the pleasures of a wife. He ought to have been angry with himself, for ’twas not fair to Annie that she must now wed a soldier, a man with no home, a man who was not free. But as he held her, his body replete, his mind almost empty, all he could feel was deep contentment.

  She stirred in her sleep, her sweet face like that of an angel. He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek, determined to do right by her for as long as God let him live.

  But how would Annie, who’d been raised a Protestant amidst wealth, her kin allied to royalty, feel about becoming the wife of an exiled Highlander, a Catholic, a man with nothing but the weapons and clothes upon his back? How would she feel about being wed by a priest and raising Catholic children? How would she feel about living her life on the frontier?

  She’d lain with him, given herself to him with abandon, and had seemed willing enough to wed him a week ago. ’Twas clear in the way her body responded to his that she was attracted to him. But he suspected part of her attraction was owed to her plight. She had curbed her tongue in the wild for fear he might abandon her or do her harm. Was she drawn to him now because he offered her food, shelter, and a man’s protection? One thing was certain: had the two of them met in Scotland, he the grandson of The MacKinnon, she the cosseted niece of a wealthy Argyll Campbell, she’d have not so much as deigned to speak with him.

  In the end, it mattered not how she felt. Iain would have it no other way. He would not shame her, nor would he leave her unprotected in case their passion had gotten her with child.

  And it had been passionate—beyond anything he’d known before. Certainly he’d taken pleasure in his share of women, but never had he felt anything like the rapture he’d found with Annie. Never had he been so aware of a woman’s every breath, every heartbeat, every tremor as he’d been with her. When at last he’d let himself go, it had been him—his life, his very essence—that had spilled from his body and into her.

  He had transformed her forever, taking her from maidenhood to womanhood, and yet it was he who was somehow changed.

  With a little sigh, she snuggled deeper into his chest, and the bearskin slipped to reveal a slender, pale arm. And then he saw.

  Bruises.

  There were fresh bruises on her upper arms and on one wrist. Deep, purple bruises.

  Holy Mary! Had he done that to her? He’d been angry, aye, and impatient in his need for her. But he hadn’t hurt her—had he? He didn’t re
member seeing bruises on her when he’d undressed her, so this must be his doing.

  She’s right. You are a barbarian, MacKinnon.

  He would have to be more careful of her from now on.

  Sure she would wake hungry, he slid out from beneath her, careful not to rouse her. If he didn’t get to the kitchens soon, there would be no supper left for the two of them. He washed the remnants of their union from his groin and saw flecks of blood on the cloth—her virgin’s blood. She would be sore. He would see to it she got a hot bath tomorrow morning.

  He dressed and quietly slipped out the door.

  Outside, the sun had already set, but the air was still warm, the feel of spring on the breeze. From the kitchens came the smell of frying fish, roasted venison, and corn bread. Dougie was tuning his fiddle to the sound of robust laughter as the men, their bellies finally full after six hard days on the trail, settled down with their rum.

  Iain walked toward the kitchens feeling strangely at ease and satisfied. When had he last felt this way? He couldn’t remember.

  Up ahead, Morgan spotted him and fell in beside him, his face grave. “How is she?”

  Beautiful, Iain wanted to say. Well and truly bedded. Mine.

  He held back the words, but could not help the smile. “She’s asleep.”

  “They’re going to try the bastard in a court-martial tomorrow afternoon. I hope he hangs.”

  Iain stopped, confused. “You hope who hangs?”

  Morgan stared at him as if he’d gone daft. “The redcoat who tried to rape her.”

  His fury building, Iain sat beside Connor’s hospital bed and listened while his brother recounted the attack on Annie. ’Twas the second time he’d heard the tale—the first being from Morgan. He didn’t know whom to hate most—the neach dìolain who’d hurt her, Wentworth for twisting the truth and driving him to a jealous rage, or himself for permitting Wentworth to control him.

  A redcoat had tried to rape Annie, and what she’d gotten from Iain instead of comfort was anger and lust. Sharp regret jabbed at his gut as he remembered his own words.

  You’ve washed his scent off you.

  I tried.

  She hadn’t been speaking of Wentworth, but of a man who’d tried to hurt her in the worst way a man could hurt a woman—and had left her feeling tainted. And what had Iain said?

  Good. I’ll be damned before I share you wi’ another man.

  Jesus God, what must she have thought of that?

  Well done, MacKinnon, you bloody arse!

  And yet, he didn’t wish to take back what he’d done after that—not for the world. He knew Annie hadn’t been unwilling. She’d melted in his arms as if she belonged there. She’d met his kisses and caresses with her own, demanding from him as much as he’d forced her to give. She’d lost herself in their loving every bit as much as he.

  “I am sorry I didna get to her sooner. If her scream hadna woken me . . .” The expression on Connor’s face changed from regret to anger. “I wish I’d killed him—that son of evil!”

  Iain put his hand on Connor’s uninjured shoulder. “You’ve no cause to blame yourself. You did all you could. I’m grateful you were here.”

  Morgan gave Connor a jab. “Thank the Almighty for that French ball.”

  Then Connor frowned. “I find it strange she didna tell you this herself.”

  “I didna gi’ her the chance.” Iain took a deep breath then switched to Gaelic so Dr. Blake, who was puttering nearby, could not understand him. He did not wish to dishonor Annie with careless words. “Wentworth told me . . . I thought she’d been with Wentworth. I went to her to claim her.”

  “Holy Mary!” Morgan glared at him in disgust. “When McHugh told me you’d given the order not to be disturbed, I thought you’d gone to comfort her. What did you do?”

  Iain looked at his brothers. “We need a priest.”

  “A priest?” His brothers spoke as one, still in Gaelic.

  “Och, well, that’s no problem. There are Catholic priests behind every bloody tree.” Then Morgan grinned. “My brother is marryin’ an Argyll Campbell.”

  “An Argyll Campbell?” Connor looked revolted, then stunned. “Our Annie?”

  Iain rose, eager to return to her. She deserved all the tenderness he could give her tonight. “Morgan will tell you about it. I dinnae want her to wake and find me gone. But we’ve her safety to consider. She lives under penalty of bondage, and Wentworth intends some ill for her—I can feel it. Ask Joseph to call a warriors’ council in two hours.”

  He thought of Annie lying naked beneath his bearskin.

  “Best make it three.”

  Still on the threshold of dreams, Annie felt lips touch her cheek. She stretched, felt the soft caress of fur against her skin. Something smelled wonderful. She opened her eyes and found Iain stretched out beside her, fully clothed, looking down at her, his gaze soft, a faint smile on his lips.

  “My sweet Annie.” He brushed his knuckles gently over her cheek.

  “You’ve brought supper.”

  “That I have. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  Then she met his gaze, and heat crept slowly into her cheeks, as memories of what they’d shared filled her mind. Did other women behave as she had, so lost in pleasure they lacked all restraint and cried out with abandon? The sounds she’d made had been more animal than human, certainly not the sounds a lady should make. And the way her body had sweated and strained beneath his—

  “You’ve no cause for shame, mo ghràid.” He spoke as if he could read her thoughts. “What passed between us—’tis as it should be between a man and his lass.”

  “You dinnae think me wanton?”

  He narrowed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and pretended to study her until her face burnt. Then he smiled. “Och, ’tis for certain you’re a lusty creature when your blood runs hot—ardent, eager, radgie.”

  She gasped at the last word, torn between laughter and shock.

  But he held his fingers to her lips, and his expression grew grave. “But there’s naugh’ of the wanton in you, lass. You came to me a maid, untouched and innocent. I willna forget that. I can only hope you dinnae come to regret it.”

  She saw the shadow of doubt in his eyes. Unwilling that he should suffer such uncertainty, she sat up, took his face between her palms, and met his gaze. “I’d never imagined such pleasure could be found wi’ a man. You were inside my body, but somehow’tis my soul you touched, Iain MacKinnon.”

  Then she kissed him. She kissed him as he had once kissed her—first his upper lip, then his lower, then the fullness of his mouth.

  He held himself still, the furrow of his brow and the catch of his breath the only sign that her words and her touch stirred him.

  Wanting him, she ran the tip of her tongue over his lips, then slipped it into the slick heat of his mouth. He moaned, met her tongue with the velvet caress of his own, following her lead, allowing her the mastery.

  When she at last broke the kiss, he lay on his back beneath her. “I’m yours, a leannan. Do wi’ me what you will.”

  At first she was taken aback and could do nothing but stare. Then, hungry for the feel of him, she found herself lifting the irritating cloth of his shirt over his head, baring his chest and shoulders to her touch. Remembering how he had pleased her, she sat up on her knees, leaned over him, and began to kiss his nipples as he had kissed hers.

  To her delight, his muscles tensed. She looked up to find him wearing a grin.

  “Aye, it feels good for a man, too.”

  Emboldened, she slid her fingers through the mat of dark curls on his chest and savored the feel of his muscles, laving his nipples with her tongue, tugging at them with her lips, feeling them harden in her mouth. She heard his breath rush from his lungs, felt his heartbeat quicken beneath her palm, and knew the joy of giving him pleasure.

  When next she looked up, she found his eyes squeezed shut and his head turned to the side, exposing the corded muscles of
his neck. One strong arm was thrown above his head, his fist clenched. His hair had fanned out across the dark bearskin, like the black of a raven’s wing against the night sky.

  He was so raw and braw, both fierce and bonnie. Her own pulse quickened, and heat flared deep in her belly, turning to cream between her thighs.

  She wanted more of him.

  With trembling hands, she sought to loose the ties of his breeches and was grateful when his big hands closed over hers to guide her. Then she sat back as he peeled the butter-soft leather away from his skin and tossed his breeches aside. He was completely naked now, just as she was, his shaft full and erect, his heavy sac with its dark curls drawn tight against his body. He lay back against the bearskin, his body an offering.

  Hesitantly, she slid her hands up the hard muscles of his thighs, feeling the rasp of his body hair against her palms, her gaze fixed on the part of him that was so new to her.

  His voice was a deep purr, urging her on. “Dinnae be afraid to touch me, a leannan. ’Tis time you came to ken my body, aye?”

  Driven by curiosity and desire, she reached out, took the weight of his sac in her palm, kneaded it gently, felt the round stones within. Then she grasped the length of him.

  “’Tis silky soft and yet so hard.”

  “The better to please you, lass.” His voice was rough.

  Slowly, she slid her hand up to the engorged crown, then ran her thumb over the bead of moisture that had emerged at the stretched and straining tip, rubbing it into his purplish skin.

  Breath hissed from between his teeth, and the muscles of his belly tensed. His shaft leapt in her hand. He moaned, whispered her name.

  Fascinated and excited to see that she could arouse him so, she circled the tip with her thumb again and again, stroking the length of him to call forth more moisture. But when none appeared, she leaned down and licked him, circling him with her tongue to wet him.

  “Sweet Jesus!” His entire body stiffened.

  Eager to please him, she licked him again and yet again, until she was taking the entire salty tip into her mouth and suckling him.