Defiant (2 page)
Prologue
July 28, 1755
Albany, on the Hudson River
His Majesty’s Colony of New York
“I
didna kill anyone.” Connor MacKinnon glared at his two brothers, heavy fetters biting into his wrists and ankles, the iron cold and hard. “I swear it!”
Iain, the oldest, frowned. “Morgan and I bided the night at Oldiah Cooper’s tavern, and many saw us there. But you left and didna come back till the morn. Where did you go?”
Connor hated that look on Iain’s face—the one that said he believed Connor had been up to some mischief. “I bided the night wi’ Mistress Vandall.”
Morgan, who at four-and-twenty was just a year older than Connor, shook his head. “Her good man is but two days in the grave.”
“Aye, and I went to console her.”
Morgan gave a snort. “You’re a bloody saint.”
Connor grinned. “She felt much recovered when I left her side, I promise you that.”
Poor Kally had been married off to a man so old and unwell that he’d been unable to get a rising with any strength to it and had given his young wife neither pleasure nor children. So hungry had she been for a man’s touch that she’d all but come apart in Connor’s arms.
Aye, he’d bedded her well—and left her with a smile on her pretty face.
“Did anybody see you there?”
“Nay, I was cannie.” Connor couldn’t help but grin. “But Kally willna soon forget who was wi’ her last even.”
Iain glared at him, his voice dropping to an angry hiss as a guard passed their door. “Think, Connor! Would you ask the lass to tell all of Albany that you were in her bed? Are you after seein’ her branded a fornicator and flogged?”
“Nay.” He wished no harm to come to her on his account.
Morgan turned to Iain. “What are we goin’ to do?”
Connor gave the fusty straw an angry kick, his chains rattling. “We should have fought our way free when we had the chance!”
They’d been near the edge of town when a dozen redcoats had fallen on them and arrested them for murder. Connor had drawn his blade, as had Morgan beside him, both ready to fight, but Iain had stopped them.
“There’s no sense dyin’ over what is surely a mistake, lads,” he’d said as redcoats put irons around his wrists.
They’d been marched through the streets of Albany, past milling townsfolk who’d stared at them with suspicion, to the stockade that stood atop the hill, where they’d been thrown in leg irons and left to bide in this close and dank cell. And still they didn’t know whom they were supposed to have murdered.
Connor found himself on the sharp end of Iain’s gaze.
“What we’re goin’ to do is use our minds.” Iain raised his shackled wrists and tapped a finger to his temple. “Fightin’ would only serve to get us all killed. We didna murder anyone. All shall be set right.”
Connor did not share Iain’s sudden trust in English notions of justice. It was English justice that had put a German on the throne, stealing the crown from its true heir. It was English justice that had seen their elderly grandfather Iain Og MacKinnon, chieftain of Clan MacKinnon, chained aboard a prison barge for helping Bonnie Prince Charlie escape after Culloden. Aye, and it was English justice that had sent their father and mother with their three young sons away from their ancestral lands on the Isle of Skye and into exile.
But Connor would not gainsay Iain. Iain had always done right by his brothers, getting them out of difficulties every bit as bad as this one. As the eldest male in the family, Iain was by right
The
MacKinnon, their father having died more than three
years past. Connor owed Iain respect—and obedience when he could manage it.
One hour went by. Two. Then three.
Connor dozed, only to be awakened by the sound of a guard’s voice.
“On yer feet! There’s someone what wishes to speak with ye.”
Connor looked to his brothers and saw by their faces that they, too, were confused.
“Come, lads.” Iain stood. “We’ll soon put an end to this matter and be on our way.”
Connor got to his feet and followed his brothers, chains clinking, out the open door. There stood five redcoats with fixed bayonets flanking a young, bewigged British officer—a lieutenant by his uniform. His gaze fixed on Iain, then Morgan, then Connor, as if he were taking their measure, his lips pressing together in a disapproving line when he spied the bit of MacKinnon plaidie tied at Connor’s waist.
He spoke to the redcoats behind him. “Remove the clan colors.”
Connor stepped back, tried to block the advancing redcoats with raised hands. “Keep your bloody English—”
“Connor!” Iain’s shout stopped him. “’Tis just a bit of cloth.”
Connor gaped at his brother. MacKinnon colors just a bit of cloth? Had Iain gone daft?
Nay, this was about Jeannie Grant. Iain was besotted with her and determined to take her to wife. They’d come to Albany so that Iain could have their mother’s wedding ring made to fit Jeannie’s smaller finger. Old Man Grant had shown favor to Iain over her other suitors, but that favor would pass to another if it were known that Iain had found trouble with the English.
For his brother’s sake, Connor gritted his teeth and willed himself to stand still as the bit of plaidie was torn from him, crumpled in a redcoat’s fist, then tossed to the filthy gaol floor.
Iain addressed the officer. “There’s been some misunder—”
“The prisoners will not speak.” The lieutenant turned his back to Iain. “Bring them.”
Connor shared a glance with his brothers, the simmering anger in their eyes reflecting his own seething rage. Then a beefy hand shoved him from behind.
“Get moving, you!”
He stumbled forward, chains dragging at his feet as they
were marched back outside, down the hill toward the river, and into the heart of town, crowds gathering as they passed.
“Damn the Scotch!” someone muttered.
Then out of the corner of his eye, Connor spotted Kally. He met her worried gaze, warning her away with a slight shake of his head when she started toward him, distress on her bonnie face.
No’ now, lass.
Around the corner from the public square, they came to a grand, big house with tall glass windows, the Union flag flying from a staff above its wide front doors. The place had a familiar look about it, though Connor could not place it. He followed his brothers inside and up a flight of stairs, a sense of misgiving coming over him that grew with each awkward step. How could they be in this bloody predicament when they were innocent?
“We didna do it.” His words were answered with silence.
At the top of the stairs, the young lieutenant turned to the right and led them down a short hallway to a closed door. He knocked.
A deep and very English voice answered. “Enter.”
Connor found himself being shoved through the doorway after his brothers, the redcoats with the bayonets pressing in behind. There in the center of the room sat a foppish Sassenach officer playing chess, his bronze gorget shining, fine lace at his throat and wrists, his fingertips pressed together as he considered his next move. He took no notice of them, his gaze fixed on the checked board with its small marble figures.
Overcome with contempt, Connor opened his mouth to speak, but held his tongue at a warning glance from Iain.
Och, bloody hell!
The lieutenant who’d brought them bowed. “They are here, my lord.”
So the fop was not only an officer, but also a lairdie.
His Worshipful Lordship raised a finger for silence and continued to study the chessboard, giving Connor time to study him. His brows were dark, his features manly, his jaw cleanly shaven. But his skin was pale like a woman’s, his hands free of calluses—proof that he’d never done a lick of honest work in his accursed life.
Connor’s gaze wandered over the portraits of bewigged nobility on the papered walls, the bookcase with its
leatherbound tomes, the writing table with its lavish quill, crystal inkpot, and silver candelabra. Whoever he was, the bastard had wealth aplenty.
Then at last, the
Sassenach
laird picked up a black pawn and moved it forward one space.
He stood, turned to face them. He was of a goodly height, almost as tall as Connor, though Connor was certain he and his brothers outweighed him by a good two stone. Through cold gray eyes he gazed first at Connor, then Morgan. Then at last his gaze fixed on Iain and remained.
“I am Iain MacKinnon. These are my—”
A redcoat drove the butt of his musket into Iain’s gut, forcing the breath from his lungs and doubling him over.
Connor took a step toward him, fists clenched, his face hot with rage.
“You’ll speak when spoken to!” the younger officer shouted in Iain’s face.
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” His lordship dismissed his underling with a flick of his wrist, then turned and poured himself a brandy. “I know much about you, Iain MacKinnon. These two men beside you are your brothers, Morgan and Connor. You arrived in New York as boys and grew up on the frontier, where you spent time amongst the heathen and learned to speak several Indian tongues. Your father, Lachlan MacKinnon, died three winters past, your mother, Elasaid Cameron, several years earlier. Your grandsire was Iain Og MacKinnon, barbarian lord of the MacKinnon Clan and the Catholic traitor who helped the Young Pretender escape justice after my uncle’s victory at Culloden.”
At those words, Connor’s blood went cold. There wasn’t a loyal Highlander alive who didn’t loathe Butcher Cumberland to his very soul. Son of the Sassenach king, the bastard had broken the clans at Culloden, then ravaged the Highlands, slaughtering all who were loyal to Prince Charlie, burning villages to the ground, destroying crops, and leaving the survivors to starve. His men had been about to slay Iain though he was no more than a lad, when their grandfather had come down to face them, giving himself into captivity in exchange for Iain’s life.
If his lordship was the Butcher’s nephew…
Connor’s heart began to pound, his chest tight.
As if from a distance, he heard Iain’s voice. “Then you are—”
The
neach dìolain
smiled, brandy still in hand. “Lord
William Wentworth, third son of Robert Wentworth, Marquess of Rockingham, who is consort to Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Sophia. My grandsire—well, no doubt you can deduce who he is.”
A man would have to be a halfwit not to work it out.
His grandsire was the wee German lairdie whose arse befouled the throne.
Somehow—Connor couldn’t fathom it—Iain kept his tongue in check. “Why have you brought us here?”
Wentworth sipped his brandy, taking a good long time to answer. “From what I understand, you’re soon to be hanged for murder.”
Connor looked to Morgan and Iain, saw stunned surprise on their faces.
“We’ve no’ been convicted, nor has there yet been a trial.” How could Iain sound so calm when it was clear that the
Sassenach
had already judged them guilty? “The accusation is false. There’s been some kind of mistake.”
Connor could hold back no longer. “What evidence do you have against us?”
Wentworth set his drink aside and met Connor’s gaze. “Sometime during the night, the three of you encountered and killed Henry Walsh—the man you grappled with yesterday afternoon outside my window.”
That’s why this house seemed familiar. They had passed it yesterday on their way into town. Walking by, they’d come across a man beating a woman—a whore he’d used and wished to cheat of her fee—and had intervened, forcing him to pay. But the man had been alive and well when they’d left him.
“That’s a bloody lie! We didna—” Connor’s words were cut off as a musket butt struck him in the ribs once, twice, breath leaving his lungs in a rush of pain. Doubled over, he clutched his side, struggling to breathe.
When Iain spoke next, his voice was tight with rage. “Your men will no’ strike him again, or I’ll show you just how much
barbarian
blood runs in my veins!”
Wentworth’s reply was cool. “I’ve already seen you fight. In fact, it’s because of your
barbarian
blood, as you put it, that I’m prepared to offer you an…arrangement.”