Defiant (3 page)

Still holding his side against the pain, Connor glanced back
and forth between Iain and Wentworth, knowing that nothing good could come of an agreement with so despicable a man.

“What kind of arrangement?” Iain didn’t trust the bastard either. Connor could hear the misgiving and hesitation in his voice.

“I’ll see to it personally that all charges against you and your brothers are suspended. In exchange, you’ll take up the leadership of a Ranger unit under my command and fight for your sovereign against the French and their Indian allies.”

Connor opened his mouth to shout the bastard down.

But Iain laughed. “You’re daft!”

“Am I? His Majesty needs men who know the land and the ways of the Indians if he is to successfully pursue his interests on this continent. And without my help, you and your brothers will surely be hanged.”

Iain wasn’t laughing now. “What proof do you have against us?”

“Why, in addition to the dead body, any I choose to offer, of course.”

And then it was clear.

This Sassenach lordling had contrived all of this to press Iain into service. He’d watched Iain struggle with this Henry Walsh yesterday, had seen he was good in a fight, and wanted Iain’s sword. And unless Iain agreed to fight for the British, the three of them would hang.

Connor’s pulse pounded in his ears, his heart thrumming with rage.

“’Tis slavery!” Iain’s face was unnaturally pale.

Wentworth voice dripped with icy arrogance. “’Tis your duty to serve your king, whether by your free will or not.”

But the man who sat upon the throne was
not
their king.

When Iain spoke next, his voice quavered with suppressed fury. “If I accept, what will become of my brothers?”

Och, for the love of God! Was Iain truly considering the whoreson’s offer? ’Twould be better to die at the end of a rope!

“Your brothers will be free to go as they please, while you will be given beating orders and funds sufficient to piece together and outfit a company of one hundred fifty men such as you judge fit for ranging service. You will report to me at Fort Edward by August the twenty-first and serve me until death
releases you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.”

“Dinnae do it, Iain! Curse him!” Morgan shouted, before switching to Gaelic. “Let the devil bugger him—and the whore of a mother who bore him!”

“I’m no’ afraid to die.” Connor met Iain’s gaze, saw the anguish in Iain’s eyes, and spoke in English so the lordling could hear. He would not let his life be used against his brother. “Let them hang us! We willna be the first Highlanders murdered by English lies, nor the last.”

Wentworth watched Iain through cold eyes. “What say you?”

“Bugger him, Iain!” Connor shouted.

“Dinnae do it!” Morgan urged. “Let them hang us!”

Iain looked over at Morgan and Connor, resignation on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, drew a breath. “I accept.”

Connor watched the joy and youth drain from Iain’s face, saw the astonishment on Morgan’s. Then he looked over at the bastard
mac an uilc
who had brought this down upon them. And in that moment he made a silent vow.

One day, Lord William Wentworth would die at his hand.

March 20, 1760
Northwest of Albany

L
ady Sarah Woodville struggled to keep up with her captor, her lungs aching for breath, a dagger-sharp stitch in her side. Taking no pity on her, he drew her onward, holding fast to the leather cord that bit into her wrists. Her toes and fingers were pinched from cold, her thighs burning from the steep uphill climb. Each step was agony, her feet blistered, heels rubbed raw by the wet leather of her new shoes. And yet she dared not ask him to stop nor even slow him.

She knew he would kill her.

She’d been sailing with Mrs. Price, her chaperone, and, Jane, her new lady’s maid, from New York up the Hudson River toward Albany, where she’d planned to plead with Uncle William to aid her, when the captain had encountered ice floes that all but blocked the river. He’d tried to navigate his way around them, but he’d run the ship aground on a sandbar just off the western bank. Apologizing profusely for his error in judgment, he’d sent straightaway for help, assuring Sarah that Albany was not far upriver.

But Mrs. Price’s stomach had been unable to tolerate the awkward tilt and rocking of the stranded ship. To help ease her
mal de mer,
the captain had rowed her, Sarah, and Jane ashore, together with a few other passengers who likewise felt queasy.
But they’d no sooner set foot on the embankment than she’d heard a musket fire and the captain had fallen dead.

Then the most terrible screams that could be conceived had come out of the forest, followed by painted men with muskets, knives, and hatchets. And within a matter of moments, everyone who’d left the ship, apart from Sarah, Jane, and a young boy, had been slain, their bloody scalps hanging from beaded belts.

Uncle William will send soldiers. He might even send his Rangers.

Sarah had counted eight attackers, but she could see only three now—her captor and the two who held Jane and the boy. Only rarely did the Indians look back at their prisoners, and then never with concern, their faces terrible to behold, painted in shades of red and black, their heads shaved bare apart from a single lock of hair that hung from each man’s scalp, their bodies clothed in tanned and painted hides.

And to think that only yesterday she’d told Jane she hoped to see an Indian.

How long they walked Sarah could not say. The pain in her feet became unbearable, and yet she had no choice but to bear it, following where she was led. The Indians picked a path through towering pines, avoiding the snow whenever they could, the ground slanting upward, dark forest all around them. And then in the distance, Sarah heard it—the spirited tattoo of military drums.

Soldiers!

The Indians heard it, too. They stopped, spoke to one another in hushed words Sarah could not understand. Jane leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath, her thick red hair having fallen from its pins to hang down her back in a long braid. The boy glanced up at Sarah, fear in his green eyes, his face smattered with freckles. Dressed in homespun, he had the look of the frontier about him. How old was he? Nine? Ten? Had his family been amongst those slain?

The poor child!

Sarah’s mind drifted to thoughts of her own family. What would they do when they got word she’d been taken by Indians? Would Papa and Mother regret sending her away, or would they blame her for having left the safety of New York? If only she’d been the daughter Mother had wanted her to be and not so bent upon her music. There would have been no scandal, and she
would be safely at home in London, far from this wild and terrible place.

The boy moved closer to her, as if seeking a mother’s comfort.

Do not think only of yourself, Sarah, for shame! You are eighteen. He is but a child.

She smiled, offering him silent encouragement.

Then their captors turned and looked down at them as if noticing them for the first time. The one who held her tether reached out, took a lock of her hair between his fingers and rubbed it, his dark eyes boring into hers. She felt her heart shrink under his cold stare, but willed herself to meet his gaze unflinching, refusing to let him see how deeply he frightened her.

Never reveal your true self to those who do not truly love you.

Lady Margaret’s words came to her, an echo from long ago and far away.

Then again she heard it—the beating of drums.

As abruptly as they had stopped, the Indians began to move again, dragging Sarah and the others along, faster this time, first uphill, then down, until the pain in Sarah’s feet was so excruciating she had to fight not to cry out, tears in her eyes. Then, at last, the Indians stopped, giving them leave to rest near a frozen stream at the base of the hill, even releasing their bonds, as if they knew their captives were too exhausted to escape.

One of the Indians handed Sarah a water skin and motioned for her to drink. This she did and gratefully. But when she reached to hand the skin to Jane, it was yanked from her grasp.

Her captor knelt down before her, a pair of moccasins in his hands, and she watched, astonished, as he discarded her tattered shoes and torn stockings, bathed her blisters in water from the water skin, then slipped soft, warm moccasins over her feet. His face a mask of cold indifference, he stood and strode off to talk with the others.

And for a moment, Sarah was alone with Jane and the boy. She met the boy’s gaze. “You’re a very brave young man. What is your name?”

“Thomas Wilkins, miss.” Thomas gave her a sad smile, his gaze dropping to her moccasins. “I think they’re goin’ to be keepin’ you alive at least.”

His words caught her by surprise. “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

“They gave you water and moccasins, but not us.” His gaze dropped to her feet again. “They think our soldiers can’t track you if you’ve got moccasins on your feet.”

“But what about you, Thomas, and you, my sweet Jane?”

Not much older than she, Jane had been Sarah’s most faithful companion since she’d been sent to New York to stay with Governor DeLancey. Jane hadn’t turned up her nose at Sarah like the others, but had shown her sympathy and understanding despite the scandal. Since Lady Margaret’s death, she had been Sarah’s only friend.

She gave Sarah a tremulous smile. “You shall go on, I think, my lady. But I fear we two shall be tomahawked in this lonely place.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold slid down Sarah’s spine. “
No!
Do not say such a thing! They gave me moccasins only because my feet were blistered.”

But a glance told her Jane’s feet were blistered, too.

Then the Indians returned. One hauled Sarah upright while the other two went to stand behind Jane and Thomas. Jane met Sarah’s gaze, reaching with bound wrists to clutch the boy’s hands between hers. “We shall be brave, shall we not, Thomas?”

“No!” Sarah cried, panic like ice in her blood, her knees going weak. “Please—”

A rough hand closed over her mouth, strong arms lifting her off the ground, forcing her to turn away as Jane’s voice called after her.

“God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!”

F
or hours, they walked through endless stretches of darkening forest, Sarah struggling to keep up, the soldiers’ drums no longer to be heard, wolves howling in the distance. But as they went on, a strange thing happened. She became less afraid, as if the bonds on her wrists—and the men who held her captive—were nothing more than a dream.

Surely, Jane and young Thomas would be along soon. Perhaps they were being taken through the forest by a different path. Or perhaps the soldiers had found and freed them. Those same soldiers would likely find her at any moment and free her, too.

But night fell, and still she saw no glimpse of Jane or Thomas.

Then, through the dark, she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. As they drew near, she realized it was the Indians’ encampment. Surely, Jane and Thomas were waiting there for her. New vigor filled her weary limbs, and she hurried forward, eager for the fire’s warmth and some sign of her companions. But they were nowhere to be seen.

Confused, fighting despair and exhaustion, she sat before the fire, shivering, her woolen traveling cloak offering little protection against the cold, her gown tattered and damp. She drank when she was made to drink and ate when food was placed in her hands. Once, she started to hum without realizing it—the air from Master Handel’s keyboard suite in E major—only to be struck across the face.

She gasped, held her cheek, fighting tears. Until this morning, her biggest fear had been being forced to marry a man she could not love—or living the rest of her life alone in shameful spinsterhood, so tainted by the scandal that even her family’s wealth could not procure a desirable match. How insignificant those troubles now seemed! She would likely be killed ere either fate could befall her.

Her captor draped an animal fur around her shoulders and motioned toward a blanket he’d placed on the ground near the fire, indicating that she should lie down on the ground beside him. But she would not lie with him.

And then she saw.

At the edge of the firelight, an Indian sat stitching a fresh scalp to a small wooden hoop. Attached to the scalp was a long, red braid.

M
ajor Connor MacKinnon gently turned the bodies over—one of the lasses and the lad, both tomahawked, both scalped.

Och, Christ!

He’d warned that arrogant bastard Haviland that sending redcoats had been a mistake. War parties often killed captives if pressed. But Haviland, who didn’t know his head from his arse, hadn’t listened. And now two of the three who’d been taken were lost.

And so young.

Connor crossed himself and whispered a prayer for them,
then looked more closely at the lass’s face, her features hard to see in the gloaming. But it was not she.

It was not Wentworth’s niece. He’d stake his life on it.

Wentworth had showed him a likeness of her. A small locket painting, it had revealed a beautiful young girl with hair the color of honey and bright blue eyes, her cheeks pink, a playful smile on her rosy lips. The poor lass lying here on the cold ground was far plainer with bright red hair. Connor gave her cold, lifeless hand a squeeze, then turned away.

There was nothing he could do for her or the lad now.

Nearer to the frozen stream, Joseph held up a pair of battered shoes and torn stockings.

Connor reached out, touched them. The ties on the shoes were of lace, the shoes themselves of finest leather, the stockings silk. “They must be hers. Such frippery takes coin.”

Joseph set the shoes and stockings aside. “The Shawnee think to confuse us by putting her in moccasins.”