Defiant (44 page)

Below her, cannons lined the outer curtain wall, redcoats keeping a sharp eye out, as the last straggling line of British troops made their way along the La Chute River and up the embankment toward the fort.

They’d left Fort Edward three days ago. Sarah had packed only what she thought she’d need for the summer, leaving one trunk behind. The harpsichord, too, had to remain, as there was no way to transport it up the lake.

As they’d ridden out of the gate, Sarah had bid a silent farewell to an almost deserted Ranger Island, thinking of Killy, Dougie, McHugh, and the other Rangers who’d helped keep her safe. It was strange that she’d spent such a brief time on the island, for the place had left its mark upon her heart. She could still recall the scent of Connor’s cabin—the spice of his skin, wood smoke, forest.

The journey to Fort Ticonderoga had not been easy for Sarah. They’d traveled from Fort Edward along a rough road to the charred remains of another fort Lieutenant Cooke had called Fort William Henry, where they’d encamped for the night, Sarah under heavy guard.

“I regret you’ll have to sleep in a tent, but I have seen to every luxury—a bed with a feather mattress and pillow, a washtub should you wish to bathe, a carpet to cover the ground,” Uncle William had said when they’d arrived. “I hope you shall be comfortable.”

Sarah hadn’t found it in her heart to thank him. “I have been comfortable and content with far less.”

As she’d dined off porcelain in the cool spring air with Agnes, whose presence she could scarce endure, she’d thought she heard the sweet strains of Dougie’s fiddle in the distance, the sound putting a lump in her throat.

Yesterday had been the most difficult day of the journey—the whole of it spent on a whaleboat traveling up Lake George to make camp at a place they called Sabbath Day Point. It had been windy, and the pitching of the little boat on choppy waters had left her quite sick, unable to keep down anything she’d
eaten. Yet, despite her terrible queasiness, she’d found herself remembering another lake journey.

That journey had not been made in luxury and guarded by thousands of redcoats, but in great peril with nothing but the gear upon Connor’s and Joseph’s backs. She’d crossed the waters not in bright sunlight in a sturdy whaleboat, but under cover of night in a canoe made of bark and pitch and stitched together with tree roots. And though her life had been in danger, captivity had been behind her, and she’d felt alive and free, stars shining above her in an endless heaven.

Now a new captivity lay ahead of her, and no amount of luxury or safety could soothe the dread in her heart or quicken her listless spirit.

Where was Connor? What had become of him? Was he marching in the van with the rest of the Rangers? Was he still in the infirmary, perhaps feverish from wounds that had festered? Was he even still alive?

No one would tell her. Not Lieutenant Cooke. Not Agnes. And certainly not Uncle William.

She’d believed that Connor would come for her, that somehow he, Joseph, and his brothers would find a way to spirit her away. Annie had hinted that they had a plan, and Sarah had felt such hope. But Annie hadn’t come again, and now…

Connor, where are you?

She pressed her palm against the growing lump of her belly, the knowledge that Connor’s child was inside her helping to blunt the sharpest edge of her loneliness.

And then…

She saw him.

Connor walked amid a group of laundresses and camp followers behind a wagon bearing laundry supplies, a group of six Regulars on horseback guarding him. He held his arms in front of his body as if…

As if his wrists were shackled and he were chained to the wagon.

W
hy is he shackled? You rescinded the sentence.
Why
is he shackled?”

William did not have time for this. He had more than three thousand troops to billet for the night and a hapless fort
commander—Haviland—who had not adequately prepared for their arrival. “MacKinnon is not your affair. Do not mention him to me again. Go to your quarters and rest. You are quite beside yourself.”

“Connor saved my life! He
is
my affair! I will not rest until you tell me why you have him in shackles.”

William stood, slamming the stack of missives he’d been reading down on Haviland’s writing table. “He is in chains because I know he was plotting to abduct you—he, his brothers, Captain Joseph, even Lady Anne. He will remain confined until you sail for England.”

Sarah glared at him, then her eyes went wide. “You sent Annie away. She did not leave without saying good-bye. You
sent
her away!”

“You have your duty, and I have mine.” William struggled to rein in his temper. “Yours is to marry the man your father has chosen for you and to present your husband with a male heir. Mine is to protect you, to provide you with comfort, and to ensure your future, which I have tried to the best of my ability to do despite your lack of gratitude and penchant for scandal. You push me to the very edge, Sarah!”

Sarah’s eyes glittered.

Had he made her cry? Christ! Did she not understand he was doing this for her sake?

“You have done much for me, Uncle, but you have also lied to me and done great harm to the man I love.” Her voice quavered. “Protection. Comfort. My future. I would trade all of that—
all
of it—to live my life simply as Sarah.”

The irrational little chit! Did she really think she would enjoy life as a frontier farmwife?

“Lieutenant, please take my niece to her quarters and see that she is settled for the night. The journey has been hard on her, and she is overwrought.”

“I am your humble servant, my lord.” Lieutenant Cooke gave a perfunctory bow, his face lined with disapproval. “Come, my dear lady.”

T
he moment they passed through the gate at Ticonderoga, Connor was taken straight to the guardhouse and locked behind heavy iron bars. The French had built a sturdy gaol,
for there was no way out that he could find, nor any way to catch the ear of passersby.

“Och, by Saint Andrew’s trews!”

He needed to get out. Failing that, he needed to speak with Wentworth ere they left for Crown Point in the morning.

They were being followed.

Connor had tried to warn the lieutenant in command of his escort, but the man was as stupid as he was arrogant and had dismissed Connor’s concerns. It was not Joseph’s men who were pacing them, for they would have signaled Connor by now. Given the canoes he and his men had found on their scout, Connor would wager it was a large party of Wyandot, allies of the French—and the Shawnee.

He felt his gut knot at the very idea and what it could mean for Sarah.

He needed to find a way to get word to Iain. Although the British army surely outnumbered the Wyandot ten to one, the right terrain could make up for much of that difference, as Connor himself knew well. If this had been any other march, Joseph’s men would be guarding the army’s flank, watching for an enemy ambush, but Joseph was not here.

Connor had no idea where Joseph and his brothers had gone. His brothers had surely devised some means to take Sarah and free him. They would not try to take her on the long march northward, of course, for that was what Wentworth expected. Nor would they attempt anything so long as Connor was Wentworth’s prisoner, for then Connor would surely be hanged.

So when? And how?

I’ve no’ forgotten you, lass. We will be together again.

Connor would have Sarah as his true wife, even if he had to sail across the sea and harrow London to find her.

He sat, stood, paced. And then it came to him that this was almost certainly the cell in which Morgan had been imprisoned last spring, the thought strengthening his resolve. Morgan had found a way to free himself and claim his lady. Connor would do no less.

He heard the door open, and a recoat appeared, carrying his supper—a bowl of stew and biscuits. “My thanks, lad. I need to speak wi’ Iain MacKinnon. ’Tis a matter of some urgency regarding a war party that is stalkin’ us.”

The young redcoat eyed him warily. “What would the likes of you ’ave to say that Major MacKinnon would need to ’ear?”

“Do you ken who I am, lad?” Connor leaned in so that his face was close to the bars. “I’m Connor MacKinnon, his brother, and I’m in an ill temper.”

The lad’s face paled.

“Now go and deliver that message.”

The lad turned and fled.

Hoping to God his message reached his brother, Connor sat, carefully leaned his back against the wall, and began to eat. He was largely healed from the flogging, his appetite robust, his pain and dizziness gone. His back was still sore, his skin stiff and tight, but he was strong enough to march—and to fight.

W
hen the door opened an hour later, it was not Iain who entered, but Wentworth, followed by Lieutenant Cooke. A bored look in his face, Wentworth listened while Connor described what he’d seen. “I don’t believe you.”

“If I were layin’ out an ambush, why would I warn you? Did I no’ tell you of the Wyandot canoes we found on our scout?”

“You and your brothers are quite clever and capable of great deception. Your brother Iain managed to steal Lady Anne for himself from under my very nose. Your brother Morgan acted as a spy, managing to fool his captor completely. How many false Indian attacks have you feigned when trying to bend events to your advantage?” Wentworth turned to Lieutenant Cooke. “Lieutenant, tomorrow you shall take up the rear as MacKinnon’s personal guard to ensure he does not escape. If he attempts to do so, you are under orders to shoot him.”

“Och, shut your bloody gob, and hear me!” Had the bastard’s hatred for Connor blinded him? “Pull the Rangers out of the van, and let the grenadiers lead. Set Iain and the men to guard our flank, or failing that at least put additional men to watch over Sarah. If the Wyandot are following us, it could mean Katakwa is wi’ them.”

But Wentworth turned his back and walked away.

May 30

S
arah sat inside the covered wagon with one arm wrapped round her belly, one hand clutching the bench, the rocking of the wagon making her queasiness worse.

“Today is the last day of the journey, my lady.” There was more admonition than sympathy in Agnes’s voice. “You must take heart from that.”

Uncle William had told her it was at most a half day’s journey to Crown Point. Sarah had asked to walk, hoping to be spared long hours in a lurching wagon, but Uncle William had refused to permit it, going so far as to order the wagon covered. He hadn’t told her his reasons for either decision, but she could surmise them.

He believed Connor and his brothers meant somehow to take her today.

How this could be Sarah did not know. Connor was in chains. One of his brothers had been drummed from the fort with his wife and Annie, while the other had left Ticonderoga with his men early this morning to lead the army. That left only Joseph. Sarah had not seen him since that terrible night in Uncle William’s study. Connor had spoken to him in the Indian tongue, and Joseph had disappeared. But even if he were hiding somewhere nearby, he could not mean to take her from her uncle in the presence of more than three thousand Regulars.

If he tried…

Sarah did not want this to come to violence. She would not be able bear it should anyone come to harm because of her.

The morning waned. Twice Sarah had to lean out the back of the wagon to throw up, leaving her belly empty, but her queasiness did not end. Or perhaps those were butterflies in her stomach now.

She watched out the front of the wagon, looking past the wagoner to the small glimpse of forest beyond, leaves trembling in the breeze. It seemed they were in a valley, the hillside steep on either side, wildflowers scattered across the forest floor, the ground damp from last night’s rain. Although she could see its beauty, she could not take joy in it, her gaze ever seeking signs of Joseph or his men.

“My lady.” Agnes’s disapproving voice intruded. “You are humming.”

Sarah hadn’t realized it. “So I was.”

She resumed humming, slightly louder this time.

But the sound of her own voice was drowned out by a sudden howl and shrieking that seemed to rise out of the forest all around them. Even as Sarah hoped it was the Mahican war cry, she knew it was not. The rhythm, the pitch—they were wrong.

Cold shivers raced down Sarah’s spine as the first shots rang out, and she found herself caught in her own worst memory.

She threw herself to the floor of the wagon, dragging a screaming Agnes with her, musket fire exploding around them, her uncle’s voice rising above the din, calm and commanding.

“Take cover, and stagger your fire! Protect the women!”

“F
or Christ’s sake, Cooke, set me free! Let me fight!” Connor held out his shackled wrists.

In the distance, he could hear the
pop-pop-pop
of heavy musket fire, shouts and the war cry of the Wyandot. From the sound, it seemed to be about a half mile up the column, close to where Sarah rode with Wentworth—and where the valley was steepest.

They had been ambushed.

Lieutenant Cooke looked down at him from his mount, anger on his face, his pistol in hand and pointed at Connor. “The brigadier general feared you would attempt something like this today. Do not force me to shoot.”

“I’m no’ tryin’ to escape. Sarah is up there!”

Connor did not have time for this.
Sarah
did not have time for this. Every shot that was fired might be the one that ended her life, every moment that passed another chance for death to find her.

Mary, Mother of God, spare her for her sake and the child’s!

“How do I know your Mahican kin are not behind this?”

“Are you daft, man? Do you truly believe I would ask Joseph to fire on British troops? Unchain me afore the column collapses back on itself and we’re outflanked and massacred!”

Already the column was beginning to push backward, the attack causing the soldiers to retreat and forcing the men to bunch up, the lines tangling. Around them, horses whinnied, jerking at the reins, sensing death. The laundresses had begun to panic, the wagoners fighting to maintain control of their teams.