Without needing a command, the Rangers took cover as one, aimed, fired.
Iain reloaded, aimed, and spotted a British officer trying valiantly to rally his men, unaware that the French were thick behind him. The officer shouted to his men, steadied them, bringing order to the chaos. But the French were reloading. If the officer didn’t take cover quickly, he was going to be full of holes.
And then Iain saw his face.
Lieutenant Cooke.
Iain knew he had just a few seconds. Motioning for Cam and Morgan to cover him, he ran into the fray, driving himself into Cooke’s back and knocking him to the ground just as the French launched a salvo of lead.
Cooke lay facedown beneath him, stunned, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Iain rolled onto his back, reloading as he went, then flipped onto his belly, took aim, and fired, Ranger gunfire exploding from the trees all around him, scattering the French lines.
Beside him, Cooke gasped, coughed, then gaped at Iain in astonishment.
“Good day, Lieutenant.” Iain grinned. “Miss me?”
Chapter 30
It was late morning of the next day when William welcomed Bain Campbell, Lord Bute, to Fort Edward and with him a young woman he claimed was Lady Anne’s former maid. He seemed most anxious for William to understand how his niece had come to be in this position and insisted that the maid give her account of it.
“She was there and abetted Annie,” he said.
William listened to the young maid’s faltering explanation and knew it for a lie. No British court would transport a young woman of noble birth for stealing jewels from her uncle’s house. It simply would not happen.
Ever.
Nor did William believe Lady Anne capable of the schemes Campbell attributed to her—deceiving him, defying him to run off with a wealthy merchant’s son, stitching stolen jewels into her skirts as an ill-gotten dowry. Though she had lied to William, he knew she was not a practiced liar. She couldn’t even feign poor table manners with any consistency. Nor was she the sort of woman who used men to acquire wealth—and much more the pity. Otherwise she’d have made her way into William’s bed and not Major MacKinnon’s.
“I begged her no’ to do it, my lord, but she didna listen to me. She left me no choice but to find my lord Bute to stop her, my lord.” The maid’s voice quavered with unshed tears and audible regret.
No choice.
Unless William was very much mistaken, the young maid had been coerced into offering him this account. If her bowed head and trembling hands hadn’t told him that, Bain Campbell’s bullying manner and hovering presence would have. He stood over her, his gaze fixed hard upon her, as if speaking his words through her.
Rather than getting answers, William found himself with still more questions—and the niggling feeling that Campbell himself was in some way accountable for his niece’s plight. He had no doubt the young woman—Lady Anne’s former lady’s maid—knew the truth. Perhaps he could find a way to spend a few moments alone with her.
“You cannae imagine how hard these past months have been, wonderin’ where she was, hopin’ she was alive and in good health. I cannae thank you enough for your letter.” Campbell stood in his shirtsleeves and breeches, without even a wig upon his head. He was a large man, outweighing William by easily three stone, his arms thick from a lifetime of brandishing a broadsword.
William smiled and gave a courtly bow of his head, wondering if Campbell knew how transparent his lie was. If he’d wanted to know where Lady Anne was living, he might easily have traced her path as far as Albany and then to the cabin of her first master. And yet it was clear from Campbell’s disheveled appearance and his manner that he was truly distressed—whether for Lady Anne’s sake or for some other reason William could not yet discern.
“I am grateful to have been of service. But I’m afraid her circumstances have changed since I penned that missive. Your niece is married.”
Campbell looked thunderstruck, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide. “Married?”
“Aye. The officer who rescued her married her in secret. He also owns her indenture. I’m afraid it may be difficult to remove her to Scotland, if that is your aim.”
Campbell laughed, sat, burying his face in his enormous hands. When he lifted his head and met William’s gaze, he was still smiling, but his rage was palpable. “Who is this officer?”
“Major Iain MacKinnon, commander of MacKinnon’s Rangers.”
Campbell leapt to his feet. “A MacKinnon? From Skye?”
William nodded. “Major MacKinnon is the grandson of Iain Og MacKinnon.”
“An exiled Jacobite? A Catholic?” He spat the words in obvious distaste.
“Unfortunately, I did not recognize her soon enough to prevent the two of them from becoming infatuated, nor did I know of the union until it had been consummated.” If he’d known who she was, he’d have taken her himself.
Campbell began to pace. “You are no’ to blame. The fault lies solely with this MacKinnon. ’Twas a Catholic wedding, you say? Then it matters not. She’ll return with me to Scotland, and that will be the end of it. Take me to her.”
As William led Campbell through the fort toward Ranger Camp, he wondered whether writing to his old acquaintance had been a terrible misstep.
“Well, ’tis a grand day for Britain. We’ve reached the fort.”
Iain took position behind a wide trunk, his rifle loaded and ready, his body taut with the anticipation of battle.
His men’s quiet sniggers passed like a whisper through the forest.
The Rangers were ready.
Ahead through the trees lay the barrier of the abatis and behind it the hastily built breastworks, little more than a high wooden wall padded with soil. Along the entrenchments, the hats and musket barrels of French soldiers bobbed as they rushed to their posts.
The enemy was ready as well.
Iain could see why Abercrombie thought his army could make short work of Ticonderoga. The breastworks themselves could be easily blasted to bits with cannon. But it was not the breastworks that worried Iain—it was the abatis. A thick snarl of branches skirted a chin-high wall of tree trunks, rendering the ground all but impassable. Any soldier who tried to cross it would find himself entangled and stopped short, an easy mark for the French sharpshooters.
Iain gauged the distance between his position and the French guns, sweat trickling down his temples, his chest, his back. ’Twas a hot day. “We’re in range of their marksmen. Keep your heads down, lads.”
The sound of the drums drew near, marking the approach of the artillery and the infantry. Humiliated by yesterday’s wandering in the wilderness, Abercrombie had seen to it that the army had gotten off on the right path this morning. Not that he’d used the Rangers as guides, or even thanked them for rescuing his lost companies the day before. In truth, he seemed to resent the Rangers’ help and had shouted in Iain’s face when Iain had led Lieutenant Cooke and the lost Regulars back into camp—together with more than one hundred and fifty French prisoners.
“You’ve exceeded your orders, Major! You were commanded to take and hold the high ground for the army’s advance, not to guide or take captives!”
Iain had shouted back. “The army wasna advancin’. Would you rather I’d let your men be cut down afore the battle was even joined?”
At least Lieutenant Cooke had been grateful. “I may have underestimated you and your men. I see now why Colonel Wentworth tolerates your insubordination. Your woodcraft is unmatched. You saved my life. You saved the lives of my men. Thank you, sir.”
’Twas the first time Cooke had called him “sir.”
The sound of the drums drew near, the beat counting off the last moments of men’s lives.
’Twas a cadence Iain had heard too many times, one usually followed by gunshots, the deep roar of cannon, the screams of the dying.
He reached for the medicine pouch inside his shirt, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it.
> Dinnae fret, lass. I’ll be home soon.
Then Connor spoke in a loud voice. “It occurs to me that it makes no sense for us to whisper and sneak about when the British army announces its arrival wi’ drums and bright red uniforms.”
The men howled with laughter.
But something was wrong. Though Iain could see those telltale red uniforms through the trees to his right, there came no squeak and scrape of wheels. And that meant . . . no artillery.
At a shouted command, the rhythm of the drums changed, ordering the Regulars into attack columns. Men hurried into formation, their boots a dull thud on the forest floor, their buckles and bayonets rattling, their breathing heavy.
“Och, for the love of God, nay!”
But it was too late, and there was nothing Iain could do. The orders had been given.
Morgan took aim. “Abercrombie will rot in hell for this.”
His heart pounding hot with rage, Iain raised his rifle to his shoulder. “God be wi’ you, lads. God be wi’ us all.”
Annie made careful stitches in the linen, the wee bed gown almost finished after two afternoons of sewing. The cloth, needle, and thread had been a gift from Iain. He’d left it wrapped in canvas beside the hearth when she’d not been looking, together with a letter asking her not to worry and assuring her he’d be home as soon as he could. Though it was perhaps a bit early to be stitching baby clothes—the bairn had not yet quickened—the work helped to keep her mind off her fears, which had surely been Iain’s purpose.
In the shade of Killy’s cabin, Father Delavay was trying to explain the Immaculate Conception to a handful of Rangers.
“The words Immaculate Conception betoken not Christ, but the Virgin,” he said, his French accent curling around the words in a way Annie found pleasing.
“’Tis because she got a big belly wi’out the mess of a man’s spunk,” offered Brendan.
Annie felt herself blush to the roots of her hair and bent her gaze upon her sewing.
“Non, mon Dieu! It is because she was born free of sin, you silly Scotsman!”
And for the first time in more than a week, Annie found herself smiling.
Iain had been gone eight long days, each harder to endure than the one that came before. During the day, she moved about as if in a fog, her body in Ranger Camp, her heart and mind with Iain. At night she lay awake in the dark and prayed.
God, watch over them. Keep them safe.
Bring him back to me whole and alive!
How strange that she was sitting under a cheerful blue sky, the sweet songs of birds around her, when a few days’ march to the north armies were killing and dying. It seemed nature paid little heed to the struggles of men—or the heartaches of women.
Was this how her mother had felt when her father and brothers had marched away to fight at Prestonpans? Annie remembered the morning well. Her mother’s tears. Her father’s crushing hug. Her brothers’ boisterous teasing. The mist. The scent of autumn. The cold floor against her bare feet.
Her father and brothers had departed for war looking braw and invincible to her six-year-old eyes, though her thoughts had been more on her hungry belly and the porridge she had yet to eat than on what might betide them.
Four days later, Uncle Bain, stained with gore, had brought the news.
“They’re lost, Mara. All of them.”
Her mother had fallen to the floor with a heartrending wail and had lain there sobbing, the sound of her cries terrifying to Annie, who hadn’t understood—not yet.
O, Mamaidh!
Lost in her memories, Annie didn’t realize she was weeping until a tear fell upon the linen. She quickly wiped her tears away, her mother’s sobs still raw in her heart.
Nearby, the men were laughing about something—Annie hadn’t heard what.
Then came the warning whistle, a sound Annie had learnt to recognize.
The laughter died, and the men rose to their feet.
“You’d best be gettin’ inside, Father.” A pistol had appeared in Killy’s hand. “You, too, Mistress.”
As Father Delavay hurried away, Brendan peeked round the cabin toward the river. “Wentworth’s crossin’ the river. He’s got six redcoats and two people wi’ him—a big man I’ve no’ seen afore and . . . a young lassie!”
“A lassie?”
Men scurried to have a look, jostled to see, murmuring their appreciation.
“Och, she’s a bonnie young thing,” Brendan said.
Annie joined them, hazarding a curious glance round the corner, her spirits lifting at the thought of another woman’s company.
And she saw.
She took a panicked step backward, bumping into Killy. The blood rushed from her head, and her mouth went dry, her heart knocking against lungs bereft of breath. Even from a distance, she recognized them—his long stride, his broad shoulders, her pale blond hair and willowy form.
Uncle Bain. And Betsy!
Dear God, poor Betsy!
“N-nay!”
“Who are they, Mistress?” Killy stood before her, pistol in hand.
“H-he is Bain Campbell, Marquess of Bute—my uncle.” Her voice was a whisper, her tongue barely able to speak his name. “And she is . . . was my lady’s maid.”
“We’ll no’ let him hurt you.” Brendan put himself between her and the approaching party, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. “Form up, lads. Annie, get inside!”
The men leapt to their feet, rifles at the ready, knives and tomahawks in hand.
But Annie knew she could not hide behind the Rangers—not this time. Uncle Bain would not hesitate to kill should they confront him, nor would the Rangers let him take her against her will without a fight. Men would die. And if her uncle were amongst them, these brave men would pay with their lives.
She had no choice but to face Uncle Bain without them.
With trembling hands, she clutched the tiny bed gown to her stomach, felt the warm weight of Iain’s gold band on her finger. She was no longer the vulnerable and innocent lass her uncle had branded and sent away. She’d known the love of a good man. She’d seen the horrors of war. She’d even killed.
She would not let him hurt her—not again.
Nor would she let him harm any of the Rangers or sweet Betsy.
Her mind raced, seeking a way out. “Killy, Brendan, please dinnae fight him. If you do, you will surely die, and I cannae bear to see any more Rangers perish for my sake. I must go to him.”
Brendan shook his head. “I dinnae like this. Mack asked us to watch over you, and that’s what we should be doin’.”
“She’s right, Brendan. Kill that bastard, and you’ll either be hanged outright or spend the rest of your life hidin’. Have you got a plan, Mistress?”
“I’ll go speak wi’ him. Let him think you mean to defend me. But dinnae fight him.”
“Why is he here?”
“I dinnae ken, Killy. I suspect he means to take me to Scotland or . . .”
Or kill me so that he can bury the truth about my mother wi’ me.
“You cannae mean to go wi’ him.”
“Nay, Brendan. But someone must get word to Iain. If he doesna come quickly . . .”
Uncle Bain could not simply murder her beneath Lord William’s roof. Nor could he take her from the fort against her will. She was a married woman and carried her husband’s child.
But your marriage was Catholic. He willna honor it.
Nay, he would not honor it. But there was something he couldn’t brush aside. She was indentured. Not only did the bairn inside her belong to Iain, but by law so did she. Uncle Bain would have to buy her from him, and Iain would not sell her—if he yet lived.
And what if Uncle Bain challenged Iain to fight?
The question struck her like a blow, stirring the fear in her belly. Uncle Bain was known for his prowess with the claymore. But she could not think of that now. She must keep her wits about her.
“We’ll see to it, Mistress.” Killy pressed
the smooth handle of a small knife into her hand. “You take this. We’ll be keepin’ a watch on you as much as we’re able.”
The escort drew near.
She tucked the blade into her skirts. “I must go to him.”
“God be wi’ you, lass!”
Annie lifted her chin and willed herself to walk on legs gone coggly with fear toward the man who had tried to destroy her life. But with each step, her fear lessened, turning to fury. By the time she stood before him, it was not fright that made her tremble.
“Annie.” Uncle Bain’s gaze traveled over her, distaste flickering through his eyes at the sight of her clothes and the almost-finished bed gown in her hand. “Och, lass, you cannae be breedin’ by that—”
“You mac an uilc!” She took a step back. “Why have you come? Have you no’ done enough to hurt me?”
Before she could react, he pulled her into his embrace, his arms steel, his voice menacing. “Do aught to shame me, Annie, and your wee maid will pay the price, just as she did the night you tried to flee.”
Annie heard the heavy clicks of a dozen rifles being cocked. “Do aught to harm me or Betsy, and the men behind me will kill you.”
He stiffened, gave a snort. “They wouldna dare.”
“They are my husband’s men and have sworn to live or die at his command, no’ Lord William’s. They care neither for Britain nor for nobility. They know what you did and hold their fire now only because I asked it of them.”
Slowly, he released her and stepped back, his gaze fixed on the Rangers behind her. “I’ll have them flogged.”
“You are no’ in command on this island. My husband is. And if he returns from Ticonderoga to find you here, you’ll ne’er see Scotland again.”
Uncle Bain looked down at her and laughed, his eyes those of a stranger. “By the time MacKinnon returns, you’ll be gone.”
Iain heard the drums beating out the order to cease the attack, caught sight of a French officer aiming a musket at a wounded soldier from the Black Watch, and pulled the trigger one last time. The officer jerked and fell out of sight, his shot unfired, his cry lost amidst the moans of the wounded and dying. Iain reloaded and aimed again as the redcoats pulled back into the cover of the forest, but the attack was over.