Upon A Winter's Night
MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5
Pamela Clare
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Reunite with the MacKinnon brothers and their wives for Christmas - and a tale of love, new life, and redemption.
The war between Britain and the French is finally at an end, and the MacKinnons are looking forward to celebrating their first peacetime Christmas in five long years. While Iain and Annie have discovered that the pleasures of marriage grow deeper with time, Morgan and Amalie find themselves at bitter odds. Meanwhile, Connor and Sarah have a newborn son to cherish.
The family's preparations for the holidays are interrupted when Iain learns that Britain has not paid the Rangers for the summer's victorious campaigns. Unwilling to let men who fought under the MacKinnon name suffer deprivation at Christmastime, Iain, Morgan, and Connor leave the warmth of their frontier home for Albany. There, they find their happy Christmas, and even their freedom, at risk at the hands of a ruthless British officer who holds a grudge against them.
With the men gone, Annie, Amalie, and Sarah do their best to prepare for the festivities despite differing traditions, a raging bull - and the gnawing fear that their husbands won't make it home in time for Yule.
Events begin the day after the epilogue of Defiant ends. The story includes Joseph, Killy - and revelations about the fate of Lord William Wentworth.
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CHAPTER 1
December 18, 1760
North of Albany
His Majesty’s Colony of New York
Connor MacKinnon strode toward the barn, snow squeaking beneath his moccasins, the icy air biting his nose, sunrise a glimmer of gold in the east. "Madainn mhath," he called to his brother Morgan, who was busy chopping firewood near the woodpile.
Good morning.
Ax in hand, Morgan glowered at him, kicked a piece of firewood into the pile. "What’s so bloody good about it?"
Och, hell.
So that was the way of things.
Connor let his brother’s words go. To his way of thinking, there was much about this day that was good and right. The war was over. The MacKinnon farm had been prosperous, yielding a bountiful harvest to see them through the cold and dark of winter. Most of all, he and his brothers had each taken a bonny lass to wife and had five strong bairns between them — four lads and a lass.
Aye, God had been good to them.
If someone had told him this time last year that he’d be happily wed to the niece of his greatest enemy, Connor would have thought them daft. But such was the way of it, and he could not have felt more blessed.
You’re a lucky bastard, MacKinnon.
He entered the dark warmth of the barn. Cows lowed, eager to be milked, the air pungent with the scents of hay, leather, and manure. He passed the well-ordered and oiled horse tack and farm gear and walked to the back where Iain was already measuring out the morning’s portion of oats for the horses.
Iain looked up. "Madainn mhath."
"Dia dhuit." God be with you.
Connor patted Fríthe, his favorite mare, on her velvety muzzle. "Morgan’s in a rage again."
"Aye. So I noticed." Iain handed Connor a filled nosebag. "Annie says Amalie has forsaken his bed altogether."
Och, well, that would be enough to sour any man’s temper.
Connor slipped the nosebag onto Fríthe’s head, and the mare began to feed. "Yule is but a week hence. ’Tis no’ fittin’ that he and Amalie find themselves still at odds. Talk wi’ him, Iain. You are the eldest. He’ll heed your counsel."
Iain handed Connor another nosebag of oats. "I’ve tried talkin’ wi’ him, but he willna listen. ’Tis worry that drives him. I’ve no words to assuage such fears."
Nor did Connor.
These were not baseless fears, but fears born from harsh reality. Women perished in childbed every day, dying as they struggled to bring new life into the world. Only two weeks had passed since Sarah had given birth to little William, and Connor would never forget her long hours of suffering, the chilling sound of her cries, or the fear that had gnawed at him as he’d wondered whether she and the child would both survive.
And yet to hear Iain and Morgan speak of it, Sarah’s travail had been blessedly brief and easy compared to that which Amalie had endured. Last March, Amalie had borne Morgan twin sons and would certainly have perished had Rebecca, a skilled midwife and sister to their Mahican blood brother Joseph Aupauteunk, not been here to help with the birth.
Aye, Connor could understand why Morgan had refused to lie with his wife in the customary way. Morgan did not wish to see her suffer again, nor did he wish to risk losing her. But nine months had now passed since the twins’ birth, and Amalie’s patience seemed to be at an end. If, as Iain’s wife, Annie, had said, Amalie had forsaken Morgan’s bed altogether, there would be no living with either of them.
Connor carried the nosebag to Fiona’s stall, hung it gently on the mare’s head. "Somethin’ must be done. I dinnae wish to see Amalie weepin’ at Christmas, and I’ve grown weary of Morgan’s sharp tongue."
"As have I." Iain began to fill two more nosebags.
An idea came to Connor, which he kept to himself.
"How does Sarah fare?" Iain asked, breaking the momentary silence. "Last night couldna have been easy for her."
Last night, the English lord Connor had once vowed to kill had come back from the dead to pay them a visit. Lord William Wentworth, Sarah’s uncle, had crept up to their door in the dark of night, leaving a letter from England and a single chess piece — a king made of cracked black marble — on the step of their cabin. Alerted to his presence by the hounds, Connor and his brothers had tried for Sarah’s sake to find him and invite him in out of the cold. But the bastard had turned his horse’s head toward Albany and ridden as if Satan himself were at his heels, refusing to see them or to be seen by them. Though relieved to know her uncle, who’d been taken captive last summer by the Wyandot Indians, was alive, Sarah had been heartbroken by his refusal to see her.
"She’s keepin’ the chess piece in her apron pocket. I’ve seen her take it out and close her hand around it. But she’s no’ spoken a word of her uncle today."
"And the letter?"
Connor did not truly wish to talk about that, but he knew Iain would push him harder if he didn’t answer. "It lies atop her harpsichord."
Curse that letter!
Written to Wentworth, it revealed how Sarah’s name had been cleared of any taint and said that the scandal that had caused her parents to send her to the Colonies had been resolved. Connor knew he should welcome that news with a full heart, but, despite Sarah’s assurances that she loved him and wanted to remain with him, some part of him feared she would one day wish to leave the hardships and uncertainties of life on the frontier and return to London to reclaim her place in society.
Not that it would be easy for her to return should she wish it. All of Britain believed her dead, slain in the same battle in which Wentworth had been taken captive. But Sarah was descended from royalty. If she truly wished to return to England, her uncle would find a way to make it happen. What gently bred lady would truly wish to live in a frontier cabin working her hands to the bone when she could live in splendor with servants to tend her?
"She misses Wentworth." Iain handed Connor the feed bags.
"Aye, she does." Connor carried the feed bags to their two big draft horses, geldings named Dubh and Donaidh, patting them each on the neck. "How strange it is that I find myself bound to a man whom I once would gladly have slain."
Through Connor and Sarah’s union, noble MacKinnon blood mingled with that of the House o
f Hanover in newborn William’s veins.
"Aye, ’tis hard to fathom." Iain chuckled. "If ever you see him again, I suppose you’ll be callin’ him Uncle William."
Connor glared at his brother. "Not bloody likely."
"Your son bears his name." A grin tugged at Iain’s lips.
"I named him after William Wallace. ’Tis Sarah who thinks we’ve named him after Wentworth, and I willna dissuade her from believin’ that if it pleases her."
Connor had just started up the ladder to the hayloft to pitch hay into the cow pen when a voice came from outside. "Hallo in the house!"
He and Iain broke into grins as they recognized Joseph’s voice.
They strode out of the barn together in time to see Joseph, their Mahican blood brother, leap down from the seat of a small wagon, a shaggy gray horse in the harness. Wearing a thick bearskin robe to ward off the cold, a single eagle feather in his long dark hair, he nodded in greeting to them.
"Dinnae be tellin’ me you’ve taken to travelin’ by wagon," Iain teased. "Have you grown soft wi’out the war to keep you fit?"
Grinning, Joseph tied off the reins, his cheeks red from cold. "I am not the one who sits before a warm fire growing fat like an old bear."
"’Tis a shame you’ve no pretty wife to cook for you, but then I suppose no woman will have you," Iain mocked.
Connor walked forward, rubbed the horse’s muzzle. "Your wagon has seen better days, brother, but this is a fine animal."
"This is not mine." Joseph walked back to the bed of the wagon and drew aside a pile of woolen blankets to reveal Killy McBride, who’d fought with them through all five years of the war, lying there still and pale.
The wiry Irishman didn’t move or open his eyes.
"Is he dead?" Connor and Iain asked almost as one.
"Dead drunk." Joseph reached in, grabbed Killy by the wrist and drew him to a sitting position, the motion jarring Killy to confused wakefulness. "I found him in the streets. He’d been thrown out of White Horse Tavern for failing to pay for his rum."
Killy glanced about. "Hildie, my love?"
Joseph glared at Killy, then tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "He’s senseless. The wagon and horse are his."
Iain and Connor shared another glance.
"Hildie?" Connor asked.
"Gundhilda Janssen." Joseph strode toward the house, Killy hanging over his shoulder. "She’s the owner of the White Horse Tavern."
Connor followed after Joseph, Iain behind him. "The big Dutchwoman who nearly gelded Brandon when she caught him eyein’ her paps?"
"Aye," Joseph called back. "Killy has lost his heart to her."
"Miss Janssen?" Connor could scarce believe it. He glanced back at Iain. "Och, she’s fair enough, I suppose, but she’s near as tall as I am."
The top of Killy’s head didn’t even reach Connor’s shoulder.
Iain grinned. "Aye, and she has a temper."
The cabin’s door opened.
Annie, Iain’s wife, stood on its threshold, worry on her pretty face. "Is he sick?"
"He’s sufferin’ from the bite of the bottle," Iain answered. "Joseph found him lying in the street in Albany."
"Bring him inside afore he catches his death." Annie stood back to let Joseph pass. "Oh, Killy. What have you done to yourself now?"
With Killy safely in Annie’s care and the first of the morning chores done, Connor slipped quietly away.
* * *
The sun was good and up before Connor reached the old oak. It grew near the burnie that marked the western edge of their lands, the water now turned to hard ice. There, on a thick, gnarled branch, he spotted what he’d come for — mistletoe. Its green leaves and waxy white berries stood out against the rough, gray bark.
The priests and old women of Skye, where Connor and his brothers had been born, held mistletoe to be sacred. Green when other plants had died, mistletoe was said to be twice as powerful if it grew upon an oak. When hung above doorways, it kept evil at bay, blessing all who passed beneath it. And lads and lasses who kissed beneath it could be assured they would marry in the new year.
Connor wanted this to be a good Christmas for them all, for it was their first Yule since war’s ending, the first time the three brothers would be home, all of them together with their wives. He could not wait to surprise Sarah with the gold wedding band he’d bought for her, could not wait to slip it onto her finger. He wanted nothing to spoil the joy of the holiday for her.
Aye, the discord between Morgan and Amalie must end. Connor didn’t know if the stories about mistletoe were true, but if it could help unmarried lads and lasses to wed, perhaps it could mend hurts between a husband and wife.
He kicked off his snowshoes and began to climb.
* * *
Annie poured a cup of willow bark tea and handed it carefully to Killy, who was now awake and sober enough to sit up on the pallet the men had made for him in front of the sitting room hearth. "’Tis bitter, but it will help soothe your aching head."
Wincing at the sound of her voice, Killy accepted the tin cup. "Have you anything stronger — a little hair of the dog?"
She narrowed her eyes and frowned at him. "Nay, you’re no’ fittin’ to be at the rum. Now drink your tea."
In truth, it worried her to see him in this state — suffering from drink, thinner, pale. She’d always had a soft place for him in her heart. He would certainly attribute this to what he called his "Irish charm," and he had stood out as one of a handful of Irishmen in MacKinnon’s Rangers, a fighting force organized by Iain that had been made mostly of towering Highland Scots. But Annie thought her affection for him came in part because he’d been one of the first of Iain’s Rangers to be kind to her — and in part because she’d spent long days and nights tending him when he’d been wounded in battle.
The poor man’s scars proved that he’d lived a rough life—the garroting scar on his throat from the time the English had tried to hang him; dozens of scars on his face and hands from cuts, knife wounds, and graze marks from lead balls; and upon his head, beneath the blue Scotch bonnet he always wore, the patch of puckered, colorless flesh where he’d been scalped and left for dead.
Killy had nine lives, for certain, but it seemed to Annie that he was running out.
He grimaced as he drank, then handed her the cup, shuddering. "I’d just as soon drink my own piss as … Pardon me, ma’am."
She ignored his crude words, filling the cup with cold water and handing it back to him. "Drink. ’Tis only water."
He drank — then held out the cup for more.
She filled it again.
Downstairs, Amalie and Sarah were making Joseph a late breakfast and trading news with him, while he acquainted himself with little William. Iain was seeing to chores with Connor and Morgan. And Annie realized this might be the only chance she had to speak with Killy alone.
"Joseph tells us he found you in the streets. He says a passerby told him you were thrown out of a tavern because you could not pay. How did you come to be in such a state, Killy — and just a week afore Christmas?"
His scarred face turned red with anger — and then crumpled. Chin wobbling, he looked up at her. "It’s for love’s sake that I’m cast down."
So Killy had fallen in love.
"Who is she?" Annie took the cup and sat on a stool beside him.
"Gundhilda Janssen, the proprietress of the White Horse."
"The White Horse?"
"A public house, ma’am — a tavern." Killy’s face was transformed by a dreamy smile. "She is fair with yellow hair and bright blue eyes. She is buxom, too, aye, and strong. When she’s angry, her face comes alive. I’ve watched her toss grown men out on their arses, so I have."
Annie fought not to smile at this colorful description. "You wish to marry her?"
"Aye, I do."
"Does Miss Janssen no’ return your favor?"
Killy’s gaze dropped to the floor. "I cannot say."
 
; "Have you no’ spoken wi’ her or asked her father for permission to court her?"
"Her father is gone from this world. She has a younger brother who does her biddin’, so it is her favor I must win." His blue eyes filled with despair. "I’ve spoken winsome words to her, but she tells me I’m too far gone with drink to mean them and calls me a silver-tongued Irish devil. When I’m near her, I become a witless coward."
Annie fought back a smile. "You’re a Ranger, Killy, one of my husband’s most-trusted men. I’ve seen you laugh and jest in battle. You’re no’ lackin’ for courage. Surely it must be more terrifyin’ to face the enemy than to speak wi’ a lass — "
"Pardon me for sayin’ so, but you know naught of it." Killy’s smile vanished. "A woman must only say ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ to a suitor, while a man must win her heart or find himself rejected and without hope."