Defiant (34 page)

“Both.”

Not all recruits made it through the first few weeks. Killy knew this. Those who lacked the physical strength, the endurance, or the cods for this kind of warfare would be better off in the colonial militia.

“Drillin’ recruits until they drop won’t make you forget her.”

Connor glared at Killy. “What are you ravin’ about, Irishman?”

“You know very well what I’m sayin’. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you at that cabin that you’d gone and fallen for her.”

Connor leaned down, getting nose to nose with Killy, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. “
Uist!
The men will start to tittle! I’ve no’ fallen for her or for any woman!”

Killy arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Don’t be thinkin’ you can deceive this old man. I’ve been makin’ a fool of myself over women since before you were born. You’ve been in a foul temper ever since she left the island, and these poor lads are payin’ the price for it.”

Connor bit back a string of curses, but Killy was right.

Connor had been in an angry mood ever since Wentworth’s arrival. He’d known the day would come when Sarah would return to her own world, leaving his behind. But he’d been unprepared for the emptiness he’d felt at her going.

Then he’d watched Wentworth receive her with such indifference. The lass had almost lost her life, yet when she’d reached for her uncle and begun to run toward him, as any lass would upon being reunited with her kin after such an ordeal, Wentworth had stopped her with a single icy glance. She was his niece, and he’d denied her his embrace.

The man had no heart.

It had hurt Connor to see her treated thus, and he’d found himself fearing for her. When she told Wentworth the truth about Lady Margaret, as he knew she meant to do, would Wentworth beat her as her parents had done? Would he lock her in her chamber, feeding her only bread and water? Would he berate her, curse her, turn his back on her?

If he hurt her, Connor would kill him.

But for now, he needed to turn his mind to the training of his
men. “After this run, we’ll allow them to rest and regain their strength. And, Killy, say naugh’ of your suspicions to the others. I wouldna see the lass suffer shame on my account. She is blameless, and there is much at stake.”

“Aye, Connor. My gob is shut.”

Connor glared at him. “And pigs can fly.”

“A
tribade.” William poured himself another glass of scotch—his second of the morning. Now he understood why his sister had refused to tell him. This was entirely unexpected. “Do you know what that means, Sarah?”

“Yes. It was explained to me.”

This surprised him. “By whom?”

She seemed to hesitate. “Major MacKinnon.”

“You spoke of this with the major?” William was not pleased, though he knew MacKinnon, with his inflated sense of honor, was unlikely to breathe a word of it to anyone. “I hope you swore him to secrecy.”

“Yes, of course.”

William was torn between pity for his niece and rage toward her parents. His brother-by-marriage was as cowardly as he was rich, and his sister as pious as she was stupid. Had they but an ounce of will and wit between the two of them, they might have turned this to Sarah’s advantage, decrying the journal as false, styling her an innocent victim, allowing the blame to fall upon Lady Margaret, whose suicide offered a clear testament of her guilt. Instead, they’d squandered their one and only chance to save their daughter’s reputation. And now Sarah, the brightest star in the familial firmament, apart from William himself, would have to live with the terrible consequences.

He turned to face her, found her watching him, her eyes revealing her every emotion. “I’m not going to beat you, Sarah. I’m not even going to berate you. God knows, I cannot blame you for seeking to evade my sister’s iron hand.”

“Then you believe me?”

“Yes, of course.” He strode to the window, looked out onto the parade grounds. “What you seek is not my help, but rather a miracle. If I were your cousin, I would immediately offer for your hand. As your uncle, I cannot. Nor can I persuade my dear sister or your father to pursue any course of action other than
the one they choose. As you may know, there is little affection between me and your mother.”

“I do not wish to live out my life as a spinster, but I fear the kind of man Papa and Mother will choose for me. I had hoped you might be willing to help me find a suitable husband—a man I can respect, who would value me as I am, who would take my part against society, and who would permit me to continue my study of music.”

It was on the tip of William’s tongue to tell her that such a man would be rare if he existed at all, but she went on.

“He does not have to be handsome, so long as he is not revolting like Lord Lard.”

William turned to face her, amused. “Lord
Lard
?”

“Lady Margaret’s cousin.” Sarah frowned in apparent revulsion. “He offered for my hand not long before word about the journals spread, but Mother would not have him. He must weigh a full twenty-two stone—and he is Anglican.”

“So he is both a glutton and a heretic.” William’s sister would not approve.

Sarah nodded. “Also, I do not want a husband so old that he cannot give me children.”

“Many women would consider that to be the ideal match—a man too old to bed them and well on his way to the grave. A year or two later, the blushing bride is a merry widow, free to live as she chooses on her late husband’s money.”

“Uncle!” There was a look of genuine shock on Sarah’s face. “I do not wish to spend my days waiting for my husband to die!”

William had forgotten how very sheltered Sarah was. He turned back to the window, her rebuke making him strangely uncomfortable. “I assure you, there are a great many British wives who do just that.”

“I shall not be one of them.” Then her voice began to quaver, her anguish palpable. “I do not care if my husband is rich or poor, noble or common, handsome or plain, so long as he does not take Papa’s money and then spend the rest of our marriage mistreating me for something I did not do.”

If William had been in London, it would not have been difficult to round up a stable of suitable husbands and then use his influence to see that all other prospective suitors for Sarah’s hand suddenly lost interest. He might even have been able to win His Majesty to Sarah’s side. But he was far from London.

Still, there was no question that William would help Sarah.

“You ask much from a husband.” He turned to face her. “I shall send dispatches to London tonight. I have several acquaintances who may be able to assemble a list of suitable husbands—men of liberality who are of noble birth but little means.”

She gave him a grateful smile, relief naked on her face. “Thank you, Uncle. I am most grateful.”

“I do not wish to give you false hope, Sarah. We shall do all we can, but in the end you shall have no choice but to marry the man your father chooses. That is a daughter’s duty.”

“Yes, my lord.” Her smile dimmed.

He wanted to see her smile again, not accustomed to seeing worry and sadness on her face. “Governor DeLancey is a friend and close ally, but I cannot abide his treatment of you. I have decided to keep you with me for as long as the war permits. To celebrate your safe return, I shall host a dinner party five days hence and invite my officers to dine with us.”

This news had the desired effect.

“Thank you, Uncle!” She looked up at him, anticipation on her face. “Will you invite Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph? Any celebration ought to include them. It is because of them that I survived.”

“Inviting Captain Joseph is out of the question. You understand, of course.”

“No, I’m afraid I do not. Captain Joseph—”

“But if you wish it, I shall invite the major.”

At this, Sarah smiled.

April 10

S
arah stood before the looking glass, pleased by her reflection. Her new lady’s maid, Agnes, might lack Jane’s sweetness and affability, but she was quite skilled at dressing hair. She’d drawn Sarah’s tresses up, gathering them in a soft knot of small loops just above her nape and allowing their length to hang down past Sarah’s shoulders in long, thick curls she’d made with a hair iron. “It’s lovely.”

Agnes, her own hair drawn in tight, gray curls against her scalp, pressed her lips together in a frown. “Your uncle would no doubt find the painted ivory silk more suitable. Young virgin ladies ought to display their innocence, not their flesh.”

Sarah was not a virgin, but a grown woman, and tonight she would see Connor for the first time since Uncle William’s arrival—if Connor accepted the invitation.

Please let him come!

Oh, how she missed him! How she ached to see him!

Sarah had chosen her light blue embroidered satin in part because the color very nearly matched her eyes and in part because, though its skirts were modest, its bodice was less so. Sarah wanted to feel beautiful tonight. She wanted Connor to notice her and to know she was thinking of him. But, of course, she could not tell Agnes this.

“The panniers on the painted silk are so wide that I should
take up an entire room by myself.” It was very nearly the truth. “I’ve no wish to walk sideways through the doors and amongst my uncle’s officers.”

Already Sarah could hear men’s voices drifting upstairs from below. It would not be a large dinner party—only a half dozen of Uncle William’s staff officers and Connor.

“If you’re going to persist in this stubbornness, you ought to wear a lace tucker.” Agnes strode to the chest of drawers, searching for the named article. She paused in her search, drew out a stack of folded cotton cloths. “When was your last monthly?”

Heat flooded Sarah’s cheeks. No one had ever asked her such a question. “
That
is none of your affair!”

Agnes put the cloths away and took out a lace tucker. “Your uncle wishes me to care for you in all matters of the body.”

Sarah met the woman’s gaze. “My uncle certainly did not mean for your care to extend to such…
private
matters. I am not a girl of fourteen. I am nearly nineteen. My monthly flux is no concern of yours—or his.”

“Very well.” Her lips flattened by a frown, Agnes draped the tucker over Sarah’s shoulders, drew it together in the front, and tucked it into the bodice of Sarah’s gown.

But Sarah was no longer the girl who hid beneath kerchiefs and layers of lace. She removed the cloth. “No. I prefer the gown without the tucker.”

Agnes’s frown deepened. “Your uncle—”

“My uncle will not care.” Sarah pressed the tucker back into Agnes’s hands, then smoothed her hands over her skirts, the clusters of gold embroidered flowers rough against her palms compared to the shimmering softness of the silk satin.

She met her own gaze and drew a breath.

Dinner would soon be served. It was time for her to go downstairs.

“Are you certain you won’t remove the heathen beads?” Agnes had already tried to remove the wampum once without asking.

Sarah repeated words Connor had spoken to her not so long ago, at last understanding them. “My wampum stays on. It is a part of me.”

Joseph might not be invited simply because he was Indian, but his gift to her, and the memory of his courage, would be
with her for all to see. He was her brother now, and she would not forget him or fail to honor him as such.

She dismissed Agnes for the night, then made her way down the narrow staircase, her gaze searching for Connor amongst the red uniforms. There was Lieutenant Cooke and beside him Colonel William Haviland, who had arrived yesterday afternoon. Uncle William was speaking with three officers to whom she had not yet been introduced.

But Connor was not there.

Disappointment made her steps falter, her heart seeming to sink inside her breast. She stood at the base of the stairs for a moment, one hand holding her skirts, the other clenched around the baluster.

“My niece arrives.” Uncle William smiled at her, his officers turning toward her.

She willed a smile onto her face and walked toward the group of men, giving her uncle a light curtsy and taking his arm when he offered it. As Uncle William began introducing her to his men, she smiled, greeting each of them in turn, her tongue somehow finding words on it’s own, her thoughts bent entirely upon Connor.

“Your uncle did not tell us you were a great beauty,” said Colonel Haviland. “I had rather imagined you as a child.”

“You are too kind, sir. The last time Uncle William saw me I
was
a child.”

Uncle William had said Connor likely would not attend, though he’d not told her why he was so sure of this. At the time, Sarah had been certain Connor missed her every bit as much as she missed him and would want to find any possible pretext to spend time near her, even if they could only speak to each other from across a crowded room. It seemed she’d been wrong.

“Many prayers were spoken on your behalf, my lady.”

“I am most grateful, sir, for those prayers were answered.”

Did Connor not understand that she would soon leave for New York and then for England, and they would never see each other again? What if Sarah had already spoken her last to him? What if she should never again hear his voice, see his face, feel his touch? The very thought was unbearable.

“We were all so relieved when we received word that you were safe, my lady.”

Perhaps she could prevail upon Uncle William to permit her
to visit Ranger Island under the pretext of performing some errand.

So caught up in her thoughts was she that it took Sarah a long moment to realize the room had fallen silent and that the men, including Lord William, had turned toward the door. Her gaze followed theirs, and her breath caught in her throat, the reply that had been on her lips forgotten.

Connor.

He stood just inside the doorway. But this was not Connor as she’d last seen him, a Ranger clad in buckskin and homespun, a dark growth of stubble upon his chin. This was a Highlander, a MacKinnon, grandson of a Jacobite laird.