Defiant (37 page)

Killy cleared his throat. “As you were sayin’, Connor?”

Connor glared at Killy. “Rangers, fall out!”

He pointed his pistol skyward and fired.

S
arah watched as weary recruits made their way back toward Connor, smoke clearing over the imaginary battlefield.

“Compared to the disciplined attacks of our Regulars, it looks like madness.” Lieutenant Cooke was kindly explaining the drill to Sarah. “However, there is an order to their actions. They stagger their fire so that the enemy is given no respite, and rather than standing in ranks, they take cover, each man fighting to his best advantage but with a common goal. While watching, imagine yourself in the forest…”

His words trailed off. “Pardon me, my lady. I forgot your recent ordeal.”

“Do not trouble yourself, sir.” She met Lieutenant Cooke’s kindly gaze and smiled. “It is true, however, that I do not need to imagine being in the forest, for I have been there and seen Major MacKinnon fight.”

“As have I.” His brow knitted in a frown. “Major MacKinnon’s eldest brother saved my life one day when a company of Regulars I was leading got lost in the forest. We were ambushed by French soldiers and under the most deadly fire. But the Rangers crept in and silently outflanked the French, who had outflanked us. Iain MacKinnon threw me to the ground and in almost the same breath fired at a soldier who’d been about to shoot me. I shall never forget it.”

“I am grateful you were spared, Lieutenant.”

“They’re about to try again.”

The blast of Connor’s pistol split the air.

The recruits ran for cover behind logs, loading their muskets, while some of the Rangers did the same. The rest of the Rangers, however, ran about shouting, screaming like Indians, and firing their muskets and pistols into the air, creating a terrible discord that surely sounded very much like real battle. The screams were especially painful to hear, the sound sending chills down Sarah’s spine.

Smoke lingered in the air, partially obscuring her view, the scent of gunpowder sharp in her nostrils. She watched recruits fire their muskets, then stumble toward cover. Some became encumbered in their gear, tripping or dropping their muskets. Others struggled to reload. Few struck their marks.

Along the walls beside her, Regulars jested with one another, mocking the Rangers with ill-mannered shouts, laughing at struggling recruits, until Lieutenant Cooke, noticing Sarah’s displeasure, commanded them to be silent or return to duty.

The drill ended. Connor examined the marks, then drew the recruits together. He and the other Rangers instructed them, showing them how better to aim while moving, how to reload while running, crawling, lying on one’s back.

Then they began again.

For long hours, Connor drilled his men, the air hazy with smoke. If Sarah had not been filled with admiration for him before, she was now. A true leader of men he was, inspiring when possible, reprimanding when necessary, driving his men on.

Some of the recruits seemed weighted down by frustration. Two or three walked away, heads down and shoulders drooping, looks of despair on their faces, their will to become Rangers broken. Others fought gamely on, returning to their starting positions time and again, refusing to be beaten. And slowly out of the chaos something like an organized attack began to take shape, more holes appearing in the marks.

Connor fired his pistol again.

On the plain, men sprang into action, moving steadily forward, loading as they moved, firing while the man beside them reloaded. Some crawled, some crouched, all moving toward some imagined enemy, each fighting for himself, but all striving in common purpose. And this time when Connor fired his second shot, ending the drill, the paper marks were full of holes, some torn and hanging in shreds.

The victorious recruits grinned, slapping one another on
the back, black gunpowder stains on their faces and fingers. Around them, the Rangers raised their muskets and let loose a bloodcurdling cry such as Sarah had never heard before, the sound of it making her start.

“Fear not, my lady. ’Tis the Mahican war cry,” Lieutenant Cooke explained. “The MacKinnon brothers learned it from their Mahican kin and taught it to their men. It is terrible to hear, but I have come to associate it with victory.”

Apparently, so had the Regulars. Men who had only hours ago mocked the recruits now broke into cheers.

But Sarah was barely aware of them, her gaze locked with Connor’s.

C
onnor closed his eyes, his mind fixed on an image of Sarah as he stroked himself, his cock aching with need for her. She lay beneath him, her slender legs spread wide, her bare sex opening for him as he buried himself inside her. She was tight, so tight, her moans heating his blood as he drove himself into her again and again, her taut nipples ripe for suckling.

He tightened his grip on himself, his hips thrusting into his closed fist.

Sarah, beautiful Sarah. He pounded his cock into her, reveled in the bliss on her face as she came, her quim clenching around him as she cried out his name.

Connor came with her, pleasure flooding his body, his seed shooting from deep inside him, spilling onto his fingers and bare belly. And for a moment he lay still while his breathing and heartbeat slowed, release fading into…emptiness. He opened his eyes, watched light from the fire dance on the ceiling of his cabin.

This is how it would be. For the rest of his life, this is how it would be.

He would want her, need her, love her—and he would not be able to speak a single word to her, much less make love to her again. They would never again be closer than they’d been today. The thought left a hole where his heart ought to have been, the pain sharp and bleak. And yet if this were the price he had to pay for those few stolen days, those brief hours of happiness, he would gladly pay it.

And he
had
been happy.

The weight he’d carried with him this past year had seemed to slip from his shoulders when he’d been with her. She had accepted him as he was, even knowing the ugliness inside him. In her eyes, he’d been a man. He’d felt whole again. But now that weight had returned, and with it the grief of losing her.

Och, Sarah, lass!

He slowly rose, crossed the cabin, and poured water from a pewter pitcher into a wooden bowl, washing the seed from his hand, cock, and belly, his mind turning to rum. But drink would not help him, not truly.

How could he abide this? How could he withstand this hell?

’Twas only last night that he’d dined with her, spoken with her, held her hands. Only one night without her, and yet eternity stood before him.

And then he knew what he had to do.

He dragged on his breeches, pulled a shirt over his head, and slipped his feet into his moccasins, sheathing his hunting knife at his waist. Hesitating for only a moment, he opened the door and walked into the night to find Ranger Camp quiet, those who were not on watch asleep in their cabins. He crossed the camp to a cabin that had once belonged to a subaltern but had now been set aside for a greater purpose.

He hesitated once more, uncertain whether he could face this, yet knowing he’d already put it off for far too long. He rapped quietly with a knuckle, waited.

He heard the wooden bar shift, the hinges squeaking as Father Delavay opened the door, his kindly old face peering through the crack.

“I ken ’tis late, Father, but I must speak wi’ you.”

“Come in! Come in!” Father Delavay smiled, opening the door, then closing it behind Connor, his French accent soothing. “It has been a very long time since you last shared your heart with me.”

Connor fell to his knees and crossed himself. “Forgi’e me, Father, for I have most grievously sinned.”

May 10

S
arah stood naked before the looking glass, fighting another wave of nausea, her gaze on her belly, her heart beating franticly in her chest. She slid her hand over the almost imperceptible curve of her abdomen, feeling an unmistakable hardness beneath her palm. Her gaze shifted to her breasts. Her nipples were darker, her breasts fuller, heavier. And, oh, how they ached!

Was she with child?

She had not felt anything move inside her, no quickening, but what other explanation could there be for these changes? Or for her relentless nausea. Or the bone-deep weariness she’d felt these past weeks. Or for the fact that her monthly still had not begun.

Oh, Connor, help me! I am so afraid!

The sickness had started a fortnight past, even the scent and sight of food making her queasy. Thus far she had managed not to throw up in front of Agnes or Uncle William, though she feared Agnes was becoming suspicious of Sarah’s frequent trips to the outdoor privy. And though Sarah wanted nothing more than to sleep, she could not lie abed all day lest she further rouse the meddlesome lady’s maid’s doubts.

How long could Sarah hide this? What would happen when her condition became apparent? Would Uncle William cast her out, send her back to Governor DeLancey? What would Papa
do to her when she returned to London with a large belly? Where would she give birth? Who would help her? Would she survive it? What would become of the child?

Connor’s child and hers.

Sarah’s pulse beat in thready strokes, dizziness driving her to sit on her bed. She drew in several deep breaths, fighting not to vomit, dread coiling thick and dark in her stomach. Slowly, the worst of her nausea subsided, leaving cold panic in its wake.

And Sarah knew there was only one thing she could do. Somehow, she had to hide her condition and get word to Connor. And no matter what occurred, she must not let Uncle William know that Connor was the baby’s father, for she knew Connor was right.

Uncle William would kill him.

But hiding her condition would not be easy with Agnes helping her to dress each day. One day soon Agnes would find that Sarah’s clothing no longer fit as it once had, her stays and skirts too tight about the waist, her bodices too snug. The only answer was for Sarah to see that Agnes lost her situation and was returned to Albany so that Sarah could dress herself, arranging her skirts to hide her belly as it grew. Hopefully, she’d be able to get word to Connor before Uncle William discovered the truth. And then Connor would find a way for her—

An impatient knock came at the door.

“My lady, have you finished with your bath?”

Sarah grabbed for her shift, drew it over her head. “One moment, Agnes.”

Mindful that she could not seem distressed, she walked to the door and unlocked it, willing herself to smile. “May is such a lovely month, is it not?”

“If you say so, my lady. I myself prefer autumn.”

“I should like a bit of fresh air.” Sarah turned, walked to a window, and threw it open, leaning out and taking in a deep breath as nausea once again curled up the back of her throat. “The ivory silk today, I think, Agnes.”

Connor, help me!

S
ilent and still, Connor lay on his belly, looking down from the summit of Rattlesnake Mountain on Fort Ticonderoga with his spying glass. Now in the hands of the British, it had
been a French stronghold for four long years. More than fifteen hundred British soldiers, including many Rangers, had died in the first attempt to take it, their cries piteous, their blood staining the soil red. Then, last summer, the fort had fallen without a battle, the French fleeing northward at Amherst’s approach.

Connor had led his men here to let the new recruits test their mettle at scouting while still safe in British territory, the third day of a ten-day practice scouting mission to Crown Point and back. He’d sent a party of recruits down to spy with orders to report back with the number of guards on duty at the main gate and in the redoubts without getting caught, and now he watched as they slowly crept along the embankment of the La Chute River.

Beannachd leat!

Blessings go with you, brother!

The echo of Morgan’s farewell shout echoed in Connor’s mind. Morgan had been shot on that same riverbank a little more than a year ago. Since that night, Connor had not been able to look down on this place without feeling haunted by all that had happened since, the innocent blood on his hands burning.

But now…

Connor looked down upon that sandy bank, feeling some measure of peace. Father Delavay had listened to Connor’s confession and had granted him absolution, not only for breaking his vow and killing innocent lads, but also for taking Sarah’s maidenhead, likening the slaughter to a kind of madness, a sickness of the spirit, but calling Connor’s actions toward Sarah the lesser of two evils.

Father Delavay had bidden him to do penance through the night by stripping himself naked, kneeling upon the bare earth, and praying the rosary for the souls of those he’d unjustly slain. Father Delavay had promised to pray for Sarah, urging Connor to make his love for her pure by putting his carnal thoughts of her aside. Shivering with cold, wooden beads clutched in his hands, Connor had willingly done as Father Delavay demanded, praying unceasingly through the dark watches of the night. And when the sun had arisen, its light striking him full upon the face, a great sorrow had been lifted from his heart.

As for his carnal thoughts about Sarah…

Och, he was trying!

He could banish lustful thoughts from his mind, at least for a time, but he could not make himself quit missing her, needing her, loving her. For, although a great burden of guilt had been lifted from him, the burden of this
grá
—of this
love
he felt for Sarah—had not.

Joseph came up beside him, silently joining him on his rocky perch. Joseph had brought his warriors on this mission to teach the newest amongst them how best to fight alongside the Rangers. As Connor’s men crept nearer to the redoubt, Joseph’s youngest warriors guarded their flank.

“These children you think to make Rangers—I do not think they can fight.” Joseph grinned, holding his hand out for the spying glass.