Defiant (16 page)

The lad said nothing more, stepping back toward his post, glowering at them. He never saw the blow from Connor’s tomahawk that rendered him unconscious.

Connor stood and walked on, his back to Lady Sarah. “Never leave an enemy capable of fightin’ at your back.”

O
ut of breath, Sarah struggled to keep up with Joseph, her thighs aching, her heart beating hard. Without a word, he held out his hand and helped her over a fallen tree trunk, his gaze seeming to study her, as if looking for signs of weariness. But no matter how weary she was, she would not ask him to stop, nor did she wish to slow him.

Somewhere in the reaches of this forest, Katakwa’s men stalked them.

They hadn’t seen another soul since they’d passed that last sentry many hours past, but Connor and Joseph assured her the war party was out there. Connor had gone ahead to scout soon after
they’d turned northward, and Sarah had not seen him since. Now sunset was fast approaching, the shadows deepening around them, the day’s warmth already gone.

Not that Sarah was cold. Her doeskin tunic, skirts, and leggings warded off the chill far better than her gown and petticoats had done, and she didn’t have to worry about tripping on her hems or catching her skirts on shrubs and branches. Her fur-lined moccasins were tightly laced and very supple, enabling her to walk quickly despite the healing blisters on her feet.

Still, she wasn’t accustomed to such exertions. Her thighs, sore from her forced march through the forest two days past, ached now. Her stomach was hollow with hunger. But she had endured being dragged by her tethered wrists through this same forest by a man who’d meant to enslave her. She could endure this.

The ground grew steeper.

How strange to think that two days ago, she’d done all she could to leave a trail, hoping to be followed. Now she was doing her best
not
to leave one, her gaze on her feet as she tried to step as Joseph stepped—light, swift, silent. She’d always been the best of her sisters when it came to dance lessons, their tutor praising her for her grace and poise. But out here, she felt clumsy, awkward, slow.

She looked up, her gaze searching through the trees, but there was no sign of Connor. Thick stands of trees blocked her view, hidden hills and hollows giving an enemy countless places to hide. The mountainside was so steep she could reach out and touch the slope before her, a carpet of sodden leaves beneath her feet. Saplings and bushes arched into her path, their branches budded out, awaiting the warmth of spring.

Something gave way beneath her foot, and she found herself falling.

Strong arms caught her, held her fast.

“We rest here.” Joseph led her toward a fallen log.

Sarah shook her head and drew back, breathing hard. “I don’t need…to rest.”

“Don’t be foolish. If you become so tired that you twist an ankle, we would have to carry you. Sit. Eat and drink. Restore your strength.”

She sat, trying to catch her breath, frustrated with her own
weakness. “I’m sorry. I’m trying…to keep up. You must think me…fainthearted.”

He handed her an ash cake and a strip of dried venison from the pouch she had packed, his gaze meeting hers, his eyes dark. “That is not at all what I think of you, Sarah. For a woman who has spent only three days on the frontier, you show strength.”

Feeling somewhat reassured by his words, she began to chew the salty meat, her gaze searching for some sign of Connor amongst the trees.

He hadn’t spoken to her directly since he’d struck that first sentry unconscious, leaving Joseph to tell her whatever she needed to know. This was as it should be, she supposed. Connor was Joseph’s commander. It was right for him to take the lead. And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was avoiding her.

You are imagining things, Sarah.

It was surely her own unease that made her view his actions in such a way. No doubt he had seemed distant because his mind was bent upon more important matters than her tattered virtue—such as leading them all to safety. She should be grateful he was so devoted to his duty.

And yet, she couldn’t deny that some part of her needed his reassurance, a kind word, even if she, herself, didn’t understand why. She knew only that last night had left her feeling unsettled, exposed, in need of answers to questions she couldn’t quite put into words. It was as if some secret part of her had been brought forth and laid bare before his eyes, a part of her that now lay irrevocably open and vulnerable.

“He’s beyond the next ridge.” Joseph motioned with a toss of his head. “Don’t worry. He won’t stray far from us. Eat.”

How had Joseph known she was thinking of Connor? For that matter, how did Joseph know where Connor was? She hadn’t seen the slightest sign of him.

She watched Joseph while she finished eating, impressed by his skill. He stood beside her, one foot on the log, his dark gaze searching the forest, a striped feather tied to the end of a single braid, his hair hanging straight and black almost to his waist. Like Connor, he wore a checked shirt of homespun and beaded leggings, but where Connor wore breeches, Joseph wore a breechclout. A beaded tumpline crossed his chest, his pack against his back, a knife in a sheath at his side, a musket in his left hand.

Though he was Mahican and Connor was Scottish, the two men seemed as close as brothers. They appeared able to read each other’s thoughts, anticipating what the other would do and say. It was a kind of closeness she’d never known with anyone—except perhaps Margaret.

Of course, she hadn’t truly known Margaret’s thoughts, not until Margaret’s journal had been made public. If she had…

If you had, what would you have done then?

She did not know.

Joseph caught her watching him. “Do you feel better?”

He handed her the water skin.

“Yes, thank you.” She drank, then handed the water skin back to him.

“It will be dark soon. Then we will make camp, and you can rest.” He took her hand, drew her to her feet.

“I wish all Indians were like you, Joseph.”

He chuckled softly, his hand moving to her waist to guide her as she found her footing. “You might not say that if you knew me better.”

G
rowing more cankersome by the moment, Connor worked without the light of a campfire, lashing pine boughs together for a lean-to, listening to Lady Sarah’s whispered conversation with Joseph.

“Have you scalped men?”

Of course he’s scalped men, lass! He’s a warrior. This is war.

“Many.”

Connor heard the hint of amusement in Joseph’s voice—and his already dark mood turned black.

“Have you scalped women?” Lady Sarah asked the question hesitantly, as if she were afraid of the answer.

Then why ask the bloody question?

“No, not women, nor children either. I make war against men.”

The next question caught Connor off his guard.

“Has Major MacKinnon scalped men?”

Connor felt himself stiffen, his hands falling temporarily idle in their task.

“He and his brothers made a vow not to take scalps, not even
if ordered to do so. They also vowed not to harm women, children, or servants of the church.”

Joseph had answered her without answering, telling the truth, but not the whole truth. For Connor had taken that vow—but he had broken it. Aye, he’d broken it, soaking the forests around Fort Ticonderoga in blood.

“Surely, my uncle would not order his men to harm women, children, or priests, even Catholic priests.” There was absolute certainty in Lady Sarah’s voice, an unshakable faith that her uncle was above such bad dealings.

How little you ken the mac-dìolain!

Connor set the branches against the wooden frame of the shelter, then turned to face her. “Your
uncle
cares little for the lives of common folk, French, Indian, or British. He gave my brother a hundred lashes for savin’ a lass from ravishment and death at the hands of an Abenaki war party. He did not think
her
life worth savin’.”

Connor did not tell her that he, too, had thought Iain mad for trying to save Annie. Three hundred French soldiers had been encamped not far away. Alerted by Iain’s musket fire, they’d come down on the Rangers like vengeful devils, pursuing them far south of the ruins of Fort William Henry. Good men had perished because of Iain’s actions. But in the end, it was Connor, not Iain, who felt ashamed of what he’d done—or hadn’t done—that fateful morning. If it had been left to him, sweet Annie, now his sister-by-marriage, would have died horribly.

Of those who bore the MacKinnon name, Connor was the least.

But none of that mattered now. The point was that Wentworth had flogged Iain for rescuing Annie, but when his own niece was in danger, he’d sent men to save her. Connor was certain Lady Sarah, as clever as she was, wouldn’t miss his deeper meaning.

She did not disappoint him. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “That does not seem just, not when he sends you to rescue me.”

Joseph glared at Connor, muttering under his breath in Mahican. “Why burden her heart with such knowledge?”

Connor felt the anger leave him at Joseph’s fitting rebuke. He didn’t know what had made him speak thus to her, for Joseph was right. She hadn’t deserved that. She was not to blame for Wentworth’s actions. As much as Connor hated the
bastard, Lady Sarah clearly cared for her uncle. “’Tis time for sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

He checked his weapons while Joseph motioned Lady Sarah over to the lean-to with its soft pallet of pine boughs.

“We sleep here? Like this?”

’Tis no’ the feather bed to which you’re accustomed, is it, Princess?

“Lie beside me and share the bearskin for warmth. You’ve nothing to fear. I won’t hurt you.” There came a quiet rustling of boughs as Sarah settled at Joseph’s side. “Now sleep.”

And Connor felt his teeth grind.

What the devil is wrong wi’ you, laddie?

With only starlight to guide him, he strode away from the camp uphill toward a rock outcropping that would give him a view of the landscape, enabling him to see anyone or anything that might approach. He climbed to the top of the outcropping and settled in, musket loaded and ready to fire, his bearskin coat tucked beneath him to keep the cold stone from freezing his arse.

He drew one deep breath, another, his gaze roving over the forest. Thick fog blanketed the hilltops. In the distance, a wolf howled. An owl sought its prey on silent wings, a black shadow against the darkened sky. But nothing and no one approached the camp.

And slowly Connor felt his jaw unclench.

An ill temper had smoldered inside him all day. By the time they’d turned northward, he’d felt like a lit fuse—dangerously close to exploding. As much as he’d like to blame their current peril, he knew his bad humor had less to do with the pursuing Shawnee and more to do with Lady Sarah.

She shrank from his touch, but not from Joseph’s. She could barely meet his gaze when she spoke with him, but she conversed easily with Joseph. And now when it might have been Connor lying beside her and sharing the warmth of that bearskin, she lay curled against Joseph. He could see them in his mind’s eye, Joseph holding her against his chest, his arms around her, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Are you envious, laddie?

Aye, by God, he was! It was he who’d fought for her, he who’d bled for her, he who’d claimed her, not Joseph. If any
man was going to talk with her, guide her, or lie beside her, it ought well to be him!

Whose thinkin’ was it to have Joseph bide wi’ her?

That had been his idea, of course—and a bloody grand idea it was.

But he’d kept himself away from her for her sake. Or perhaps he’d done it for the sake of his own conscience. For try though he might, he hadn’t been able to shake thoughts of her from his mind—her scent, the taste of her skin, the sweet feel of her beneath him. He could not remember last night without feeling desire for her.

Aye, he’d had a taste of her, and he wanted more.

Along with desire came the sharp edge of guilt—guilt for failing to win her freedom by fairer means, for hurting her, for finding pleasure in her body when she’d found none in his. For wanting her still.

He’d watched her struggle up the mountainside, her honey-gold hair in a long braid down her back, her cheeks pink from the cold, her gaze searching the hillside as if she feared that Katakwa’s men lurked behind each and every tree. And he’d felt drawn to her even across the distance.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Had he gone without the pleasures of a woman’s company for so long that—

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker. He peered southward through the darkness, but saw nothing. He’d begun to think he’d imagined it, when it came again, and this time he saw it clearly—the flames of a distant campfire.

“W
ake, my lady.”

It seemed to Sarah that she had just closed her eyes when a voice interrupted her dreamless sleep. Her mind dulled by weariness, she did not heed the voice at first, but snuggled deeper into the reassuring warmth beside her.

A callused hand stroked her cheek, and the voice—Connor’s voice—grew more insistent. “Lady Sarah, you
must
wake. Katakwa’s men are nearby.”

Katakwa
.

Katakwa’s men are nearby.

Katakwa’s men.

Sarah’s heart gave a thud, and she came fully awake only to find herself pressed against a man’s chest, her fingers clasping the green-checked homespun of his shirt. “Connor?”

“Aye, lass.” He drew away from her, his voice a whisper. “I took Joseph’s place two hours ago to catch a bit of sleep, but now it’s time for us to be goin’.”

And she remembered.

She’d had to share a bearskin with Joseph for warmth, lying with her body pressed against his. She’d lain down to sleep with Joseph—and had awoken with Connor. The thought left her feeling unsettled, heat rising in her cheeks. Yet it was nothing compared to the indignity of having been forced to sleep beside
Katakwa on that first terrible night of her captivity. And at least she’d been warm.