Surrender

  She called for him, cried for him, aching for release.

  And then it took her, frantic, violent pleasure pounding through her like a tide of fire. Her inner muscles quaked in ecstasy against his cock, clenching him again and again, until he cried out her name and came apart inside her.

  They sank together to the bed, both breathless.

  He rolled onto his back, pulled her against his sweat-slick chest, and kissed her hair. “I think perhaps my lady wife is no’ such a lady.”

  She lifted her head, fighting giggles. “Perhaps she’s a bit of a . . . radgie lady.”

  The rich, golden sound of his laughter made her smile. He was no longer the battle-weary man who’d saved her from the Abenaki. In the month they’d been married, the tension that had lined his face had faded. He smiled easily and laughed more often, and at times she felt she was seeing him as he’d been before Lord William had forced him into war. His brothers and his men had noticed the difference, telling him that marriage agreed with him, teasing him whenever he was the last to show for muster, asking him with knowing grins whether he’d slept well.

  “Aye, my wife is a radgie lady, but a lady just the same.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, the humor in his gaze turning to regret. “I must go, a leannan. They’ll be waitin’.”

  From outside came the sounds of Ranger Camp stirring to life, as his men gathered for his inspection.

  She forced herself to smile. “I know.”

  As she helped him shave and dress she thanked God that today he was going only so far as the training grounds. Tomorrow he would leave for battle.

  Fighting the sense of dread that threatened to overwhelm her, Annie took breakfast to Father Delavay, who, despite grave danger to himself, had chosen to remain in Ranger Camp until he felt called to move onward. Annie suspected his reluctance to leave had more to do with his desire not to watch the Rangers he’d blessed and broken bread with kill and be killed by his fellow Frenchmen. She could not blame him.

  Dressed in the garb of a Ranger so he could mingle amongst the men without standing out, he now had a small cabin to himself and spent his days in prayer and his evenings talking with the men, listening to their confessions, and teaching them about a faith most knew poorly. He was nothing like she’d expected a Catholic priest or a Frenchman to be, but reminded her of her grandfather—though her grandfather had never complained about anything as much as Father Delavay complained about the meals and lack of wine at the fort.

  “If I were British,” he told her, looking askance at the sausage and biscuits she’d brought him, “I would surrender just for the food.”

  “It cannae be that bad.” She couldn’t help but laugh, though she’d been unwilling to admit that even the smell of camp food turned her stomach these days.

  After making certain he had all he needed, she went to the hospital, where she spent the morning making salves, rolling bandages, and helping the doctor pack his medicines and instruments. He would be setting up a small tent hospital at the remains of Fort William Henry, where thousands of provincials and British Regulars were already encamped, preparing for the assault on Ticonderoga. Though she had asked to come with him and help, Iain had forbidden it.

  “I didna send you away to Stockbridge, Annie, but dinnae think to sway me on this,” he’d said, seeming almost angry that she should ask. “William Henry is blood-soaked ground, or have your forgotten? I’ll have you nowhere near it.”

  And so she had resigned herself to wait out the battle here at the fort, left behind with the sick and injured and a small force of Regulars, able to do nothing but pray.

  She arranged little jars in the leather pockets of a wooden chest, careful to make certain each was sealed. The heat made her gown stick to her skin, and sweat beaded at her nape and trickled between her breasts. She fought a wave of dizziness and found herself wondering how Iain and his men could train in the bright sun. Then she realized they were probably accustomed to the heat. After all, most of them had grown up here. While she’d been learning her table manners, practicing her needlework, and studying her lessons in cool, rainy Scotland, Iain had been learning how to shoot and track and climb trees to steal honey from bees’ nests—a skill he promised to put to good use for her when he returned.

  And he would return.

  He must return.

  She could not imagine her life without him.

  This past month had been the happiest she’d ever known. Never had she felt more alive. At times, it was hard to believe such joy could be real. Each morning she awoke in his arms, and each night she fell asleep sated from his loving. And although they each had their duties during the day—he drilling his men for the coming battle, she caring for the sick and injured in the hospital—they found time in the evening to talk and love and dream together.

  She’d shared her memories of her mother, father, and brothers and the beauty of their lands in Rothesay, while he’d told her of his clan and coming of age with Joseph and his brothers on the frontier. And late at night he’d spoken of his farm northeast of Albany and how one day, when the war was over and he was free again, he would reclaim it and build a home for her there.

  But as happy as these weeks had been, the shadow of war had hovered over them, and Annie had known their joy was fragile. She’d done her best to push her fear for him aside, refusing to let it darken whatever time they had together. But now that the hour drew near, she found it impossible to hold her fears at bay.

  What if he should be hurt or captured or killed?

  She knew every precious inch of his body, and though he was strong beyond most men, skin and muscle could not halt a lead ball or stand the blast of a grenade or the force of a cannon. She could not bear to think of him torn and broken upon the ground, dying as her father and brothers had died, in a pool of his own blood.

  And what of Morgan, Connor, and Joseph? Should one of them be grievously hurt or slain, Iain would blame himself and carry the crushing grief with him forever. What of the men?’Twas impossible that they should all survive.

  She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them away. The least she could do was show the same courage as the men. They were risking their lives, not she.

  “Mistress MacKinnon, I think these ought to go in that chest also.” Dr. Blake called to her from across the hospital, pointing to a row of little pots.

  She rose and took a step toward him. But the floor seemed to pull her down, the scrubbed boards rushing up at her, the room around her turning to shades of swirling gray. The last thing she saw was Dr. Blake’s startled face.

  Iain met General Abercrombie’s gaze and wondered how many times he would have to repeat himself. “The abatis is at least six feet high, and brush and branches are piled waist-deep the length of fifteen paces afore it. We cannae hope to force their breastworks wi’out first layin’ down heavy artillery fire. Men will become entangled in the branches and be cut down by the hundreds.”

  The general gave him an indulgent smile, smoothed his pale hands over the parchment map that lay on the table before them. “We have an army of almost sixteen thousand men, six thousand of which are trained British Regulars. I believe you underestimate their skill, Major. Rangers are not the only fighting men of worth in His Majesty’s army.”

  But Iain would not be silenced. “Not even British Regulars can fly, and when pierced by lead balls, they die just as quickly.”

  The other officers shifted uncomfortably around him, and the general looked at him through flat blue eyes, clearly angry.

  Then Wentworth spoke. “I’m afraid I must agree with Major MacKinnon, General. Heavy artillery fire is the key to breaching their entrenchments without undue loss of men.”

  Iain met Wentworth’s gaze. The two of them had barely spoken since the night of Iain’s wedding. Wentworth had issued commands through Cooke or summoned Iain to his office only long enough to speak a few terse words before dismissing him.

  Clearly, the mac-dìolain wasn’t ac
customed to being bested and didn’t like it. The fact that he was siding with Iain against Abercrombie proved only that he wasn’t a fool as well as a bastard.

  “Very well.” Abercrombie gave an irritated snort. “We’ll place the artillery here.”

  Iain watched as the general outlined his strategy in painstaking detail, and it became clear to him that, although Abercrombie was quite inventive when it came to transporting supplies and provisioning an army, he knew next to nothing about waging war. ’Twould be a miracle if they managed to take the fort.

  For three years, Iain had lived and breathed war, aware that each day might well be his last. He knew well the fear that besets a man in the last hours before the fray, knew the cold, dry taste of terror. But the thought of Ticonderoga filled him with some other kind of misgivings. This time something was different. And it was not hard to guess why.

  Annie.

  She was the last thing he’d expected. She’d taken him unawares with her apple-green eyes, her golden hair, and her sweet smile. She’d restored laughter, light, and hope to his life though he’d not known he’d lost them. She’d brought him back to himself.

  Never had he been so intimate with a woman, her every thought and feeling as important to him as his own. Never had his heart and body and soul belonged so completely to anyone. Never had his dreams or the days ahead mattered more to him.

  Never had he felt so mortal.

  “We’ll make camp here before continuing northward,” said the general, running his finger up Lake George to Sabbath Day Point.

  Heads nodded.

  Most of these officers had never been north of Fort William Henry, and Iain doubted whether they had any notion what they were facing. The forest alone might be enough to defeat them if they were not properly guided.

  “The supply trains will—”

  The door to Wentworth’s office burst open, and Brendan limped through it, out of breath. He gave a little bow. “Forgi’e me, but I’ve a pressing message for Mack.”

  The general glared first at Brendan, then at Iain, but Wentworth nodded.

  “The doc says Annie has swooned dead away!”

  Iain didn’t ask permission to leave.

  Annie woke to find herself lying on one of the little hospital beds, Dr. Blake looking down at her, a worried frown on his face. “What . . . happened?”

  “You fainted.” He pressed a cool, wet cloth to her forehead.

  “Fainted?” Her mind felt thick and slow.

  “I must say you gave my old heart a fright. But you’ve no fever. How do you feel?”

  “A wee bit dizzy. I fainted?” She’d never done such a thing in her life.

  “Yes, indeed. Have you been eating well?”

  “I’ve no’ had the stomach for food of late. ’Tis far too hot.”

  “Any pain? Headaches?”

  “Nay.” She sat up slowly. “It must be the heat. I am no’ accustomed to it.”

  “Perhaps.” The doctor didn’t sound convinced. “When was your last monthly?”

  The question, asked so bluntly, brought heat rushing into her cheeks. She’d never spoken to a man of such things before. But as she tried to remember, she realized she was late—by a month. She pressed a hand to her belly in shock.

  Could it be? So soon?

  “’Twas toward the end of April, I think.”

  “And now we’ve come to the end of June.” The creases on his forehead smoothed, and he smiled. “I suspect, Mistress MacKinnon, that you are with child.”

  “A bairn?” Iain stood just inside the doorway, a look of complete astonishment on his braw face. Then his gaze met hers, worry and wonderment in his eyes. “Lass?”

  Emotion swelled inside her, turning to a lump in her throat—amazement that she was already with child, joy to think Iain’s baby was growing within her, tenderness at the look of naked longing in Iain’s eyes. Never had she seen him so taken aback or so hopeful.

  Beyond words, she reached for him, felt his big hand enclose hers.

  Dr. Blake stood, smiled at Iain. “Your wife’s confinement should come in midwinter.”

  Iain looked at her as if she were fragile and might break. “Is she—?”

  “She is quite well. It is not uncommon for a woman in the early stages of breeding to feel dizzy or to have an unsettled stomach. She’ll be fine with a bit of rest.”

  When Iain met her gaze again, the affection in his eyes made her breath catch. “You didna ken?”

  Annie felt silly. How could she have missed the signs? “N-nay. I thought it was this dreadful heat.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze, smiled. “We shall have to cool you off.”

  “Mistress MacKinnon, I thank you for your help, but I believe your work here is finished for today. I recommend you spend the afternoon lying down.”

  She started to rise from the bed, but Iain scooped her into his arms.

  “If the doc says you’re to rest, that’s what you’ll be doin’. My thanks, Doctor.”

  It felt awkward to be carried through the fort past the curious stares of Regulars and Rangers alike, particularly as she didn’t feel unwell, but Iain would not put her down.

  “’Twas only a fainting spell, you daftie. I feel quite well. There is no need to—”

  “Uist, a leannan.” He pressed his lips to her temple, his voice gentle. “I like holdin’ you. Let me savor it while I can.”

  She felt a hitch of fear in her belly, her joy turning bittersweet at his words as the terrible truth hit her. Tomorrow he was leaving for battle. He might not live to see his child born.

  She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  I ain stayed with Annie until she fell asleep, helping her to undress, running a damp cloth over her naked skin to cool her, letting his hand rest on the curve of her belly just above her womb. It amazed him to think his son or daughter was already growing inside her.

  Her eyes closed, she smiled. “You are pleased?”

  He struggled to put his feelings into words. “I hadna hoped for so rich a blessing as this, Annie.”

  Despite her protests that she was not in the least tired, she soon fell fast asleep. He covered her with a linen sheet, kissed her cheek, and reluctantly left her side. Then, his thoughts filled with her and the new life she carried, he went back to the work of war.

  “Our battle plan is flawed, our leader a bletherin’ fool, and our enemy well prepared,” Iain told his officers. “Our task is to carry out our orders—and to be ready with a better plan so that Nanny Crombie’s strategy willna get us all killed.”

  He outlined Abercrombie’s line of attack over the same objections he himself had voiced. Why were the Rangers not being used to guide the army when they knew every inch of the forest around that fort? Why face the obstacle of the abatis when an attack from the La Chute River stood a much better chance of success? Why go ashore with the entire army in one place where the enemy could observe their movements?

  Iain gave the only answer he could. “Although Abercrombie delights in watching us shoot at marks, he doesna trust provincials to fight as well as Regulars.”

  Connor gave a snort of disgust. “Then he’s as big an idiot as Braddock.”

  They set to work, running through Abercrombie’s plan, playing it out against the terrain and the layout of the fort, plotting what action to take should aught go amiss.

  Only after the council was over and the other officers had left did Iain tell Morgan, Connor, and Joseph the news. “Annie is with child.”

  The three of them stared at him for a moment, then broke into broad grins.

  Connor turned to Morgan. “Tell me, brother, do you think it’s the quality of the farmer’s seed and the strength of his spade that make the crop, or is it the richness of the field he’s plowin’?”

  Morgan and Joseph broke into laughter.

  Then Morgan answered. “Surely, ’tis a bit of both, though in this case, I’d have to say I’ve seen our brother’s spade, and i
t’s no’ so strong nor so big as mine—”

  “Nor mine,” Connor added.

  “—so it must be a fine field he’s been plowin’, a fine field, indeed.”

  Iain was about to curse them both for idiots, when Joseph laid a hand on his arm and spoke in Muhheconneok. “Don’t let the cub’s jesting bother you. I see the question in your eyes. You know we’ll watch over her and the child if you don’t return.”

  Iain nodded and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he went off to exact a similar promise from Father Delavay. He didn’t see the look his brothers shared with Joseph or overhear the vow they made to one another—that if any one of the four of them were to make it back from Ticonderoga, it would be Iain.

  Chapter 29

  Annie awoke feeling muzzy-headed and more than a little queasy. She rose slowly, dressed, and looked out over a subdued camp from the door of Iain’s cabin, her heart sinking with the setting sun. Dougie was not tuning his fiddle tonight. Instead, he was cleaning his musket. The others likewise cleaned their rifles, sharpened blades and bayonets, refilled their powder horns, or packed their gear, talking quietly together.

  Iain walked amongst them, speaking with each one of them in turn, checking their gear, answering their questions, jesting with them. She saw the confidence he inspired in his men, the way their faces brightened when he spoke with them. Like a Highland laird of old, he was showing them they mattered to him, sharing his strength.

  And what would the wife of a Highland laird do?

  She wouldna stand here weeping, Annie.

  Fighting tears, she turned away from the door and began to lay Iain’s gear out on the bed, running her fingers over each item—his pistols, his powder horn, his claymore with its bit of tartan, his tumpline, his water skin. It seemed so long ago now that she’d first drunk from the water skin, first seen the MacKinnon colors tied round the pommel of his sword, first watched him dig through his pack.