For five years they and their men had fought side by side—MacKinnon’s Rangers and Captain Joseph’s Mahican warriors. Together they’d hounded the French and their Indian allies, fighting them in forest and field, ambushing their supply trains, spending their own blood to turn the tide of this accursed war. There were no fiercer fighters in the colonies, no men more feared by the French and their Indian allies.
If only their men were with them tonight.
But the winter had been long and cold, and the Rangers had not yet mustered. Most of Connor’s men were still wintering with their wives and bairns, growing fat and lazy, and Joseph’s warriors were warm in their lodges in Stockbridge. None of them were due to report to Fort Edward for a fortnight.
Connor and Joseph had been in Albany to order supplies for spring when a company of grenadiers had marched out of the stockade and down toward the river as if the town were under attack. Connor had learnt that two women and a boy had been taken by Indians about ten miles south of town. He and Joseph had gone straight to the stockade to urge Colonel Haviland to call back the grenadiers and send them instead, only to meet with Colonel Haviland’s scorn.
“Do you expect me to believe, Major, that a rustic and an Indian can succeed where His Majesty’s trained soldiers cannot?”
Then Wentworth had arrived. In a cold fury, he’d upbraided Haviland, ordering him to recall the grenadiers. Then he’d dispatched Connor and Joseph. “Do whatever you must, Major MacKinnon, but bring the captives back safely.”
Connor had never known Wentworth to show concern for captives before, and his surprise must have shown. Then he’d seen something on Wentworth’s face he’d never seen before—fear.
“One of the women is my niece,” Wentworth had confessed, his mask of ice cracking. “Lady Sarah Woodville—she is young and gently bred. I would not see her suffer harm. Do whatever you must to protect her and return her to me. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Connor understood only too well. Wentworth cared about these captives only because one of them was kin. “For a moment, I thought you’d grown a heart.”
He and Joseph had gathered their gear and set out straight away, but precious hours—and two innocent lives—had been lost thanks to Haviland and his fecklessness.
He’s no’ the only man wi’ innocent blood on his hands, is he, laddie?
Nay, he wasn’t.
In the distance, a wolf howled, its call answered by another, a cold wind moving like a whisper through the tall pines as darkness fell.
Daylight gone, they had no choice but to stop for the night. They could not track what they could not see, and if they should miss something and lose the trail, they would waste hours finding it again in the morn.
Without a word, they began to make camp.
Lord William stood at his window staring unseeing into the darkness, the fingers of his left hand worrying the cracked marble chess piece he always kept in his vest pocket—the black king Lady Anne had broken two summers past.
This was his fault.
When Sarah had written to him begging him to let her leave the dreary isolation of Governor DeLancey’s home, he’d had misgivings, but he’d ignored them. At the time, he’d been worried about smallpox and measles, both of which had hit Albany hard this winter. He hadn’t imagined it possible that Indians would dare strike so close to town with a thousand of His Majesty’s troops billeted here.
He’d been wrong.
How he wished now that he had denied her request and admonished her to bear out her exile with fortitude and grace. But the thought of seeing his niece again had appealed to him, so he had relented, arranging for her passage northward. Bright eyed, inquisitive, and talented beyond measure upon the harpsichord, she had always been his favorite.
The last time he’d seen her had been six years ago, just prior to his voyage to the colonies. She’d been but twelve years old and still very much a child. Though her body had shown no sign of approaching womanhood, it had been clear to all that she would grow to become a woman of surpassing beauty. His sister, secretly a severe Lutheran, had restricted her daughters to long hours of daily Bible study and needlework to prepare them for marriage. She’d been openly distressed by her youngest child’s beauty and passion for music, deeming both dangerous to Sarah’s immortal soul.
But William had found Sarah refreshing and had indulged her when occasion allowed, secretly taking her to hear chamber music, lending her books about history, art, and music theory. Perhaps his sister had been right to restrict Sarah. Perhaps she’d seen something in her daughter that William had not.
Last summer, Sarah had caused such a scandal that her father had sent her away, depositing her in New York with Governor DeLancey, an old family friend. When William had inquired as to the nature of the scandal, his sister had written to say that decency forbade her even to mention it. Even knowing his sister’s penchant for exaggeration when it came to matters of sin, William had been intrigued by this, but the summer campaigns had prevented him from inquiring further. He’d hoped to hear the unspeakable truth of it from Sarah on this visit.
But now she was out there somewhere, a captive of men who would not hesitate to do unimaginably cruel things to her.
As second in command of His Majesty’s forces in the colonies, William had heard all the tales—accounts of torture, maiming, rape. They’d always just been words on parchment to him, nothing more than the cost of war. This one burnt alive, that one beaten and sold, this one adopted and forced into heathen marriage.
But the thought of Sarah enduring such a fate . . .
In truth, William didn’t give one whit what happened to the other two captives so long as Sarah was returned to him alive and unscathed. MacKinnon had probably guessed as much. He’d seen the disgust on MacKinnon’s face when MacKinnon had heard that one of the captives was William’s niece.
For a moment, I thought you’d grown a heart.
How could William expect a man like MacKinnon to understand that Sarah was worth more than a thousand common frontierswomen?
“Pardon me, my lord.” Cooke’s voice came from the doorway.
William turned to face him. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
Cooke bowed neatly. “I asked local churches to hold observances this evening so that prayers might be said for your niece. Services at St. Peter’s begin in half an hour.”
“Well done. Thank you.” It was then William remembered he was in a state of undress, his wig sitting forgotten on his desk, his coat draped over a chair with his cravat.
“If I may be of any assistance, my lord . . .”
William gave a consenting nod, his gaze drawn back to the window.
“Don’t worry, my lord. Major MacKinnon will find her.”
Connor took a sip of rum, trying to read the letter Morgan had sent him by firelight. He knew what it said by heart, but still cherished each word, the news it held warming him more than the fire. Morgan was now a father twice over. His bonnie wife, Amalie, had come through a difficult travail and borne him twin sons. Morgan had named one of the wee bairns Connor Joseph in honor of Connor. Och, aye, and in honor of Joseph, too.
“His mother is Indian.” Joseph smiled and puffed out his chest like a tom turkey, feathers and all. “He’ll be a warrior like me.”
Connor lifted his gaze from the parchment. “She’s only one quarter Indian. The rest of her is French, aye? He’s a MacKinnon. He’ll be bonnie and braw—like me.”
They’d been having this wee argie-bargie since Morgan’s letter had arrived two days ago and were clearly no nearer to resolving their difference of opinion. Knowing it was time to sleep, Connor folded the letter and carefully stowed it with his gear.
Joseph sat on the bed of spruce boughs beside him. “What do you expect she’s like?”
“Who?”
“Lady Sarah Woodville. Wentworth showed you a likeness of her.”
“She looked like a spoiled princess, unable to do a thing for herself. She’l
l likely be after us to serve her tea and crumpets on the way back to Albany.” Connor lay down, his feet toward the fire, the anger he’d felt all through the day spilling out. “Wentworth never gave a damn when other women were taken. He had Iain nearly flayed alive for savin’ Annie. But when his niece is stolen . . .”
Connor let the thought go unfinished. There was no need to explain.
“She is not to blame.” Joseph lay down and drew the bear skin up over both of them, his body pressed against Connor’s for warmth. “Whatever Wentworth has done—she is innocent.”
Connor closed his eyes. “Och, would you let a man sleep!”
A vague sense of guilt stirred in his chest. He quashed it.
The lass’s kin had laid waste to the Highlands, shedding MacKinnon blood, and her uncle had enslaved Iain through deceit. What kind of woman could spring from the loins of a clan such as that? Whatever else she might be, it wasn’t innocent.
But the image of Lady Sarah, young and beautiful, was there before him and would not leave his mind. And in his dreams she was weeping.
PAMELA CLARE began her writing career as an investigative reporter and columnist, working her way up the newsroom ladder to become the first woman editor of two different newspapers. Along the way, she and her team won numerous state and national journalism awards, including the 2000 National Journalism Award for Public Service and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Colorado Society of Professional Journalists. A single mother with two sons, she lives in Colorado at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Visit her website at www.pamelaclare.com.
Berkley Sensation Books by Pamela Clare
EXTREME EXPOSURE
HARD EVIDENCE
UNLAWFUL CONTACT
NAKED EDGE
BREAKING POINT
SURRENDER
Pamela Clare, Surrender
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