Surrender

  His blood ran warm with rum—and lust. Soon he would lift her off those dainty feet and carry her to his cabin and across the threshold and lay her upon his bed and take her for the first time as her husband. But he would not interrupt the celebration—not yet.

  He’d ordered an extra ration of rum for every man, except those on guard duty, and had managed to find a bottle of wine for Father Delavay, who, seeing Ranger Camp from the far side of the river, had decided to stay for a few days.

  “These are your men?” he’d asked.

  “Those on the island, aye.”

  “Are they Catholic?”

  “Aye, to a man. Most are sons of Culloden. The rest are from Ireland.”

  The priest had stood there, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, his brown eyes reflecting firelight, his expression grave. “Now that I am here, I should hear their confessions—though from the looks of them, that might take some time. Can you bring me to them?”

  “Aye, Father, and ’twould be most generous of you, but if you are found, you will most likely be hanged for a spy and I for a traitor.”

  Father Delavay had smiled. “I came to this land in search of adventure. It seems to have found me.”

  And so after talking it through with his brothers and Joseph, Iain had sent Annie back across the river with Father Delavay, Connor, McHugh, and Cam, while he, Morgan, Joseph, and Joseph’s men trekked upriver and through the forest to arrive from the south as if returning from Stockbridge. He’d sent word to Wentworth that his mission had been successful, then he’d crossed the bateau bridge to find Annie waiting for him.

  His men had cheered to hear news of his marriage, but they had fallen into stunned silence when Father Delavay had emerged from Connor’s cabin to stand in the shadows. Some had crossed themselves. Others had gaped in disbelief.

  “Why the solemn faces?” Father Delavay had raised his arms as if in exasperation. “This is a wedding celebration, no?”

  Then Dougie had taken up his fiddle once more, and somberness had turned to merriment.

  Now Killy was dancing with Annie, the old dog not much taller than she but just as nimble of foot. He whirled her about, drew an excited squeal from her throat, then stepped back and showed her his fastest Irish steps.

  “Your men love her.” Joseph stood beside Iain, a sip of rum left in his tin cup.

  Wentworth did not allow the Stockbridge to drink rum, a rule that most ignored.

  “Aye, they do.” And so do I.

  It amazed Iain to think that Annie was now bound to him as his wife. Courageous, bonnie, bright, kind, and passionate—aye, radgie—she was everything a man could hope for. She’d seemed so vulnerable in the forest, at first angry and taken aback by what he’d done, then frightened by the unfamiliar ceremony. Her willingness to set her anger aside and to trust him, turning to him to guide her through the sacred rite, had touched him deeply.

  “I still don’t understand what it means that she is a ‘lady.’”

  Iain had heard Morgan and Connor trying to explain the idea of nobility and peerage to Joseph and his men earlier—and failing. The idea that some were born more deserving or with better blood than others was strange to them. “Think of her as being the daughter of a great sachem and ‘lady’ as a title of respect.”

  “Ah, then she has great knowledge passed to her by her ancestors.”

  Annie laughed as Cam stepped in and took the dance from Killy. “My turn, my lady.”

  Lady Anne.

  Iain ought to have realized her father was a peer. If her uncle was cousin to the Duke of Argyll, almost certainly she’d been born to a lord and his lady. “Well, nay. In Britain, ’tis more about power, wealth, and lands than knowledge.”

  “Europeans are strange.”

  “Aye, for certain.” But Iain was done talking and watching other men dance with Annie. He stepped forward and gave Cam a good-natured shove. “Unhand my wife.”

  He’d just wrapped his arm round her waist and spun her about, when Annie gasped and the laughter and music died, the last notes leaving McHugh’s pipes with a strangled wail.

  And there, unannounced, stood Wentworth and Lieutenant Cooke with an escort of a dozen armed Regulars.

  Iain felt prickles of warning run up the back of his neck.

  “It seems we have interrupted a celebration, Lieutenant.” Wentworth glanced coldly at Iain, then shifted his gaze to Annie.

  “Indeed, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke also looked at Annie, disapproval in his eyes.

  Iain stepped forward, placing Annie behind him. “Morgan, did you forget to invite the German princeling to my wedding?”

  “Och, it seems I did. Forgi’e me, Your Immensity.”

  While Cooke looked distraught, Wentworth merely smiled. “It seems felicitations are in order. Congratulations, Major. But how was this accomplished with no vicar or chaplain? For I’m certain I did not give the chaplain permission to join anyone in marriage.”

  Iain thought quickly, only too aware that Father Delavay was still in Connor’s cabin. If the priest were discovered, it would almost certainly mean the gallows for them both. “’Twas by proxy at the hands of a priest I ken outside Albany.”

  For a moment Wentworth looked startled, then the mask fell back over his face. “The Crown does not recognize Catholic marriages, as well you know.”

  “The Crown can bugger off!”

  The shout came from somewhere behind him, and Iain found himself hoping the rum hadn’t warmed his men’s blood to the point of foolishness. He would not risk a battle with Annie in the middle.

  “Uist!” He shouted at his men, then met Wentworth’s gaze and spoke with deadly calm. “If you choose to view my bairns as bastards, that is of no concern to me. Annie is my wife, and she will remain wi’ me as my wife, subject only to my rule. I will suffer no man to dishonor her or lay a hand upon her so long as I live.”

  Annie heard the strength in Iain’s voice, felt the silence stretch dark and heavy between him and Lord William, the air thick with old hatred and unspoken threats. Did Lord William not know he was playing with fire? Already Captain Joseph’s men had surrounded him and his escort. Many of the Rangers stood with knives unsheathed, and one or two had their rifles at hand. Lord William and his men wouldn’t make it out alive if it came to fighting.

  Then Lord William’s gaze locked with hers. “Step forward, Miss Burns.”

  Annie felt her heart trip. She took a step, but Iain blocked her path with a raised arm.

  “What do you want wi’ her?”

  But Lord William didn’t answer. Instead he strode slowly forward until he stood just before her. Then he took her hand in his, bowed slightly, and raised it to his lips.

  “Forgive me, Lady Anne. I ought to have intervened sooner and protected you from this fate. If only you had trusted me . . .”

  Annie felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart beat so hard it drowned out the rest of his words, and the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet. “M-mercy!”

  She saw William reach for her, but Iain had already wrapped a strong arm round her waist and pulled her against him.

  “Easy, a leannan. I willna let him harm you.” His voice came as if from far away. “What is it you want, Wentworth?”

  Annie saw William smile. “I would never harm her, Major, for your wife is more than she seems. Her real name is not Annie Burns but Lady Anne Burness Campbell, and she is no frontier lass, but cousin to my friend the Duke of Argyll.”

  She heard someone laughing, heard the laughter spread until the men were lost in snorts and guffaws, but she could not laugh with them. If William knew who she was . . .

  “I ken my wife’s name.” Iain’s words sent the men into new spasms of mirth.

  Lord William looked as if he’d been struck. She saw the astonishment on his face and beneath it the rage, and some part of her realized he’d meant to hurt Iain with this knowledge. But when he again spoke, his voice was cold and calm, and his words
chilled her to her soul.

  “Then, Major, you also know she is under penalty of indenture for fourteen years and that, with her rightful master slain in an Indian attack—a matter about which she was not truthful—her indenture remains to be resold.”

  “I am the rightful owner of her indenture!” Iain’s shout seemed to silence the night.

  Annie stared up at him in astonishment, wondering how he had managed such a thing, then back at Lord William, who for the second time in as many moments looked staggered.

  A muscle jumped in William’s cheek, and his nostrils flared. “Show me the papers.”

  Morgan reached inside his shirt, produced a bundle of parchment, and handed it to Lord William, who broke the seal and read through the papers in obvious haste, tilting the pages toward the firelight.

  When he lifted his gaze, all trace of anger had vanished, and there was a slight smile on his face. He handed the papers back to Morgan. “Everything seems to be in order. Well played, Major. Very well played, indeed.”

  “’Tis no’ a game, but my wife’s life.” Iain’s voice carried an edge of loathing.

  “Ah, just so.” Lord William looked down at Annie, his gaze softening. “You have no further need for him, Lady Anne. If you wish it, I’ll have this marriage annulled and lift you from squalor and shame back to a life of grace. Do you truly wish to be bound to this frontiersman, this Catholic, this man with no name, no title, no wealth?”

  Fury pushed Annie’s fear aside. “He has a name. He is Iain MacKinnon, grandson of Iain Og MacKinnon, chieftain of Clan MacKinnon. And I would be nowhere but at his side.”

  Lord William’s gaze hardened. “I pray you do not regret your choice too soon.”

  As she watched him walk away, Annie felt a surge of relief so strong it made her tremble, but behind it came a swell of dread. Now that Lord William knew who she was, there was nothing to keep him from sending word to Uncle Bain.

  She tried to reassure herself, told herself there was little Uncle Bain could do now that she was married and indentured to the same man. But even as the fiddle started up again, she could not shake the niggling fear that if Uncle Bain wished to harm her, he’d let nothing stand in his way.

  “When would you have told me?”

  Iain stroked the bare curve of Annie’s hip, his mind empty, the heat of their mating cooling into sleep. “Told you what, a leannan?”

  Her fingers played with the line of hair on his belly. “That you’d bought my indenture.”

  He’d wondered how she’d react. “I hadn’t decided. A part of me wanted to tell you tonight so you wouldna worry, but a part of me hoped never to tell you, to slip the papers into the fire fourteen years from now and watch them burn while you slept, never the wiser. ’Tis no’ befitting a woman’s dignity to be owned by her husband.”

  She lifted her head and looked down at him through soft green eyes. “I willna lie and say it doesna feel strange to think you are by law my master. But I trust you, Iain. What you have done . . . You’ve saved my life again.”

  Iain remembered the look of shock and rage on Wentworth’s face and felt a deep satisfaction. The bastard had hoped to force Annie to seek his protection by turning Iain and his men against her. ’Twas a heartless way to win a woman to one’s bed.

  “I told you I’d protect you, and I meant it.” Then he told her how, knowing in his gut that Wentworth meant her harm, he and his brothers had met with Joseph and his best warriors to discuss how best to protect her and had come up with a plan. He and Joseph had pretended to argue, giving Joseph an excuse to withdraw and Iain a reason to follow. Then, once out of sight of the fort, they’d split up, Morgan heading to Albany to buy her indenture and a few wedding gifts while Iain had gone north with Joseph and his men to kidnap a priest. He’d told her how they’d encountered Father Delavay a day’s march north of Ticonderoga and how he’d persuaded the good father to come with him.

  “I didna tell you because I didna want you to worry or to blame yourself if aught went amiss.”

  “Kidnapping a priest is—oh, Iain!” She glared at him. “And what would have happened had you been slain?”

  “But I wasna slain, a leannan, and for my troubles I have a lovely new wife.”

  “’Twas a chancy plan, Iain. At least you’re safe. But, please, no more secrets. I am a woman, no’ a bairn.”

  He cupped her soft backside and grinned. “Thank God for that.”

  She frowned, and her eyes narrowed.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Och, very well, no more secrets.”

  “And dinnae think to spirit me away to Stockbridge in the mornin’. Aye, I know very well that is your plan, but I willna be parted from you.”

  “’Tis for the best, Annie.”

  “Please, Iain, I cannae bear the thought of bein’ so far away from you.”

  And because he felt the same way, he relented. “Very well. You can stay—for now.”

  She smiled, the kind of smile that made his belly knot up and his groin grow heavy. Then she climbed on top of him and ran her hands up his chest. “How might I serve you, Master?”

  He groaned, shocked by her willingness to play such a game. Hungry for her, he gripped her hips and drew her upward, until the musk and spice of her sex rested just above his mouth. A soft golden fuzz covered her pink flesh, a reminder of pleasures past. He parted her, heard her whimper.

  “Feed me, wench.”

  William dashed his empty snifter on the cold hearthstones, the shattering glass but the merest expression of the rage that consumed him. He’d been outplayed and outmatched, and he hadn’t seen it coming. Checkmate.

  Clearly, the major had taken advantage of the time he’d been away to do more than mend his differences with Captain Joseph—if, indeed, the two of them had truly quarreled. ’Twas tantamount to desertion and worthy of another flogging at the least, but William would never be able to prove it, just as he would never be able to prove the Rangers were behind the fire by the powder magazine, the “Abenaki” attack, and the broken drawbridge.

  The major was too clever, too skilled, his men far too loyal.

  Tonight William had expected to destroy whatever feelings the major had for Lady Anne by revealing her true name. He’d been certain the major and his men would turn against her, forcing her to beg William for his help and protection. But the major had already known her name—and had already accepted her. And she had chosen him.

  A MacKinnon and an Argyll Campbell?

  It made no sense. Why had Lady Anne trusted the major with the truth but lied to him? The MacKinnon and Argyll Campbell clans were foes, whereas Lady Anne’s family had long been aligned with the Crown. Why would she marry a man who had far less to offer her than William did? The major had purchased her indenture, but William would have been able to see her sentence abolished. How could she turn against her class? She’d chosen straw, bearskins, and ale when William would have given her feather beds, silks, and the finest wines.

  He stood and began to undress, tossing his wig carelessly onto his dressing table, trying to sort out the pieces. Like any puzzle, the state of affairs concerning Lady Anne could be put into order, and once ordered, it could be controlled.

  Perhaps being rescued had sent her into flights of romantic fancy where the major was concerned. How she, a woman who’d been gently bred, could find the major appealing with his sun-browned skin, Indian markings, and long hair, William knew not. The man was scarcely more than a savage. But women were not always subject to logic when it came to sex.

  He kicked off his shoes, slipped out of his stockings, and blew out the candles. Then he stripped off his breeches and drawers and lay down naked upon his bed to stare up at the ceiling in the dark. Outside his window, the fort slept. Even Ranger Camp had fallen silent.

  He closed his eyes, tried not to imagine Lady Anne in the major’s bed, failed. His cock stretched and filled with his want for her. He grasped himself and stroked lazily.

  The tr
ouble with this puzzle was that too many pieces were still missing. William needed answers, and there was only one person left who might give them to him—Bain Campbell, Lord Bute. William hoped to receive a reply from the marquess within the month, before leaving for the campaign at Ticonderoga. And then they would see.

  A sense of restored calm settled over William.

  The pieces were still moving.

  The game was not over yet.

  Chapter 28

  “My wife is a lady.” Iain’s words roused Annie from dreams, his voice a deep rumble, his breath warm against her neck. “And no proper lady would want a man to touch her like this.”

  His hand nudged its way between her thighs to cup her sex from behind, his fingertips pressing in slow circles right where she needed it most. Delight shivered through her, waking her fully. When he slipped his thumb inside her, she couldn’t help but moan.

  “Mmm, it seems the lady does like it.” He stroked her inside and out, nibbling and nipping the skin beneath her ear, the heat of his erection pressing against her lower back.

  “Oh, Iain.” Her peak came quickly, pleasure shuddering through her, silky and hot.

  He carried her through it, prolonging her bliss with his practiced touch until the last tremors had faded to honeyed stillness. But he was not finished with her—not yet.

  “What would my lady wife think if I were to draw her up onto her knees and take her from behind, wild and rough?”

  She could feel his urgency, and her need for him flared anew. “Aye, Iain! Please!”

  In a heartbeat, she found herself on her hands and knees, her legs forced apart, his hands grasping her hips, the thick head of his cock prodding her. Her cry mixed with his deep groan as he buried himself in her slick heat.

  “Och, Jesus, lass!” He thrust into her hard, filling her, stretching her, impaling her, his rhythm fierce, ruthless, perfect.

  She felt his stones slap against her, his cock striking that sensitive place inside her, the slippery friction scorching and sweet. His fingers reached around to tease her tender, swollen bud, his lips hot against her shoulders as he kissed her and whispered against her skin. The combined delight was almost more than she could bear.