Defiant (43 page)

“Connor never spoke a word of this to me. When I asked him why, he said he didn’t wish to upset me by speaking ill of a man I loved.”

Annie smiled. “The MacKinnon men are very protective of their women.”

If only Sarah
was
Connor’s woman. But her father had given her to another, and nothing Sarah could do would change that. “If I might ask, how did you meet your husband?”

Boot steps again. And again they passed by.

Speaking with her soft Scottish burr, Annie quickly told Sarah how she’d been sold falsely into indentured servitude and how Iain had turned aside from a scouting mission to save her life when the homestead where she’d been living was attacked by a war party of French and Abenaki. “Lord William recognized me from a visit he’d paid long ago to my uncle, Lord Bute, and tried all means, fair and foul, to win me to his bed, but—”

Before Annie could finish, Sarah interrupted her. “You are of noble birth?”

“Aye. I was born Lady Anne Burness Campbell of the Argyll Campbells. My father, the Earl of Rothesay, died wi’ my brothers at Prestonpans.”

Connor’s brother had married a loyalist—a woman of noble blood.

Sarah’s fingers fell still. “I am happy for you that you and Iain are together. I wish I could remain and live as Connor’s wife and raise our child together, but my father has arranged a match for me in London. I do not wish to marry the man my father has chosen. Lord Denton is loathsome to me. Nor can I bear to think of returning to London and leaving my baby behind, but such choices are not mine to make.”

Annie took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Take heart, Sarah, for there are always choices.”

W
illiam rose. He’d known she would come. “Lady Anne, how good it is to see you. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Despite two children and her plain cotton gown, she was as
lovely as ever, her womanly shape fuller than he remembered, her skin still creamy and flawless, those green eyes of hers filled with trepidation. He had never stopped thinking of her, never stopped wanting her. Even now, his pulse beat faster.

She gave a slight curtsy. “My lord.”

He gestured toward a chair, waited until she’d taken her seat, then resumed his. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come on Lady Sarah’s behalf to ask that you permit me to raise her baby when it is born. I have two children—”

“No. It is absolutely out of the question.”

“But why, my lord? Would it no’ be best for the child to live amongst kin?”

“Do you think I would permit a child of royal blood to be raised in a nest of Catholics and Jacobites?” William found himself on his feet, angry that she had come to discuss this particular subject. He’d thought she would come to plead for mercy for MacKinnon. “The child shall be given to a loyal British family to be raised as is fitting for its mother’s lineage. No one but I shall know where it resides.”

“I dinnae ask this for Connor’s sake. I ask it for Sarah’s. She is sick in her heart to think that her child must be left behind to be raised by strangers. She finds comfort in the thought that it might live with its father’s family.”

“When Sarah has other children, she will forget her bastard. I will not allow MacKinnon to profit from his misdeeds by gaining a son or daughter out of my niece.”

“Connor is an innocent man, and in your heart you ken that! You have punished him unjustly! He saved Lady Sarah’s life when most men, including you, would have failed. It is not he who betrayed you, my
lord,
but you who betrayed him!”

Her words lanced through him, guilt stirring the anger inside his chest.

Lady Anne’s voice took on a pleading tone, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Please, I beg you, let the child come to me. I will suckle it at my own breast and raise it with all the love I give the children of my body.”

“No.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “You are a cruel and evil man!”

She stood, turned, and was gone.

May 19

“S
arah!” Connor jerked awake, his mouth thick with the taste of laudanum, his heart pounding.

Amalie’s face swam into view. “Hush,
mon pauvre frère
. Drink.”

Connor drank from the tin cup Amalie raised to his lips, the cool water sliding down his parched throat. “What day is it?”

“It is the nineteenth of May.”

He’d been in the infirmary for five days now, and still he felt as weak as a pup. “I must get back on my feet.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The sternness in Amalie’s voice was softened by her French accent. “If you try to leave, I’ll go and find Morgan again, and you know what he’ll do.”

A vague memory of Morgan threatening to bind him to the bed flashed through Connor’s mind. “Fetch him if you wish, but I cannae be lyin’ abed forever. If Sarah should need me…”

He grasped the edge of the bed and pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain as he slowly sat, dizziness assailing him, making the room spin.

“You do not need to worry about Sarah. She is well and sends her love. Annie went to see her again today. That odious lady’s maid caught her this time, but Wentworth did not send her away.”

“Why would he?” Connor fought to steady himself, his hands splayed on the bed on either side of him. “The bastard
covets her. He always has. Does Iain ken she’s been there and that Wentworth has seen her?”

“Yes.” Amalie handed him the tin cup again once more, then spoke in French, apparently not wishing anyone nearby to understand her words.
“Ne t’inquiète pas pour nous, Connor. Iain et Morgan sont ici, et Joseph et ses guerriers ont établi leur campement vers le nord.” Do not worry about us, Connor. Iain and Morgan are here, and Joseph is encamped with his warriors to the north.

Connor drank, her words reassuring.

He heard a little noise—and what he’d thought was a bundle of blankets on the bed behind Amalie moved.

Amalie rose from where she’d knelt on the floor and sat on the bed beside the bundle, lifting a wee bairn into her arms. “
Allons, mon doux garçon. Il est temps pour toi de faire la connaissance de ton oncle.” Come, my sweet boy. It is time for you to meet your uncle.

She held the baby so that Connor could see him. “This is Connor Joseph.”

The baby—Connor’s namesake—lay quietly in his mother’s arms, his wee hands bunched into tiny fists. He was dark of hair like his parents, his eyes blue like Morgan’s. Not quite strong enough yet to hold up his head, he nevertheless looked over at Connor, his gaze open and innocent. Connor felt a hitch in his chest to think that a child like this one—
his
child—was now growing inside Sarah.

“Would you like to hold him?”

“Hold him? I dinnae think I…” But Amalie did not wait for his answer, and he found himself cradling the baby against his chest, its little cheek resting on the white bandages that were wrapped around him, one little hand raised to its mouth. Connor stroked the bairn’s downy hair, marveled at its little eyelashes, its fingers, its toes, able to see both Morgan and Amalie in the child’s face. It was so little, so helpless, utterly innocent.

“And this…” Amalie reached over and lifted Connor’s sleeping twin into her arms “…is his older brother, Lachlan Anthony.”

“They are bonnie lads.” It amazed Connor to think that Amalie had carried both of the bairns inside her when she herself was so small. “Morgan wrote that it was a difficult travail.”

Amalie nodded. “Yes, it was very hard, but Morgan was there beside me. His strength helped carry me through.”

And Connor felt a pang in his chest to think that Sarah would have to endure childbirth without the comfort of loved ones, without him. And the moment her suffering was over, another sort of anguish would begin as the child was taken from her. Neither of them would ever know whether she’d borne a son or a daughter, whether it was fair or dark of hair, whether it eyes were light blue like hers or dark blue like his.

He looked over at Amalie, saw the happiness on her face as she gazed at her sleeping son. And it struck Connor as monstrous and cruel that anyone should try to sunder a mother and child.

Or a husband and wife.

He’d been wrong to think that it was right for him to let Sarah go. They’d given themselves to each other, each for the sake of the other, and if that was not true marriage, nothing was. Through that giving, she’d come to love him and he to love her, and their love had created a child.

Connor would be dead ere anyone took Sarah’s baby away from her—or took Sarah away from him. He ducked down, pressed a kiss to Connor Joseph’s head.

“I must speak with Morgan.”

R
edcoats arrived before Morgan came.

Amalie, wee Lachlan in her arms, was thrust aside. “No, please! He is not healed!”

“Keep your bloody hands off her!” Connor was jerked to his feet and placed in shackles, a half-dozen redcoats crowded around him.

“Move, you.” A redcoat gave Connor a shove, his hand pressing square in the middle of Connor’s back.

Blinded by pain, Connor stumbled, fighting to keep his legs from buckling as he was marched from the infirmary across the parade grounds to the guardhouse.

There, he found Wentworth waiting for him.

Wentworth said nothing, but stood there watching as Connor was locked in a cell with a cot, a blanket, and a chamber pot.

Connor willed himself to remain on his feet, refusing to let Wentworth see how weak he truly was. “Have you come to revel in your executioner’s handiwork?”

Wentworth’s gaze traveled over him. “What am I going to do with you, Connor MacKinnon? I cannot hang you without a
court-martial, but I cannot convene a hearing without exposing Sarah to further scandal. I cannot send you to the front lines with orders that one of my men shoot you during battle because none of them would agree to do it.”

Connor gave a snort. “Pity you dinnae ha’ the courage to do it yourself.”

Wentworth ignored him. “I cannot continue to flog you because I would face an open revolt from the Rangers, and I’m not certain your pain continues to serve a purpose.”

Rage flashed through Connor to hear his agony dismissed so lightly. “What purpose did my sufferin’ ever serve apart from satisfyin’ your pride?”

“I cannot set you free because I know you will plot with your brothers and Captain Joseph to take Sarah from me. Indeed, I’m certain you are already conspiring to some end, using clever Lady Anne as your messenger. Therefore, I have no choice but to keep you locked up until Sarah is delivered of your bastard and has set sail for England.”

Chains would not keep Connor from claiming Sarah, but he did not say this. “You son of evil! You cannae keep an innocent man in irons!”

“I do not care if you are guilty or innocent. I must keep you close and confined if I am to protect Lady Sarah.”

“Protect her? You would return her to a life of misery. She’s naugh’ but chattel to you, breedin’ stock to be traded in marriage against her will, a slave to—”

“You know
nothing
of my feelings for my niece!” Wentworth’s face went red with rage. “She is worth more to me than you could ever comprehend!”

“If you truly loved her, you wouldna take her child from her, nor would you force her to marry a man she finds loathsome, the very man responsible for her troubles. Her happiness would matter more to you than her duty—or yours!”

Wentworth seemed to struggle for control, a mask of ice sliding over the anger on his face. “I shall supply you with books to read, food and rum, but you shall be permitted no visitors, aside from myself or the doctor. I have drummed your brother Morgan from the fort, together with his wife and Lady Anne. The Mahican have also been barred from the fort and have left to escort Morgan and the women home. You are alone, MacKinnon.”

Enraged that Wentworth had seen to block them on so many fronts, Connor pressed himself against the cold bars. “You
want
to believe I lay wi’ her for the sake of revenge, for you cannae bear to think that a simple Highlander could have more honor than you do.”

Wentworth’s gray eyes grew harder, his face colder. “In one week, we depart for Crown Point. The Rangers shall march in the van. Lady Sarah shall travel with me, under heavy guard. You shall bring up the rear in chains. When we reach Crown Point, you shall be transferred to a prison barge. When Lady Sarah’s confinement is at a safe end, so shall yours be. But if Lady Sarah is abducted, I shall see you and your brothers hanged for murder.”

S
arah peered out the window once more. She’d waited all day yesterday and the day before, hoping to see Annie again, eager for her companionship and some word of Connor. But Annie hadn’t come.

“Are you expecting someone, my dear?”

Sarah whirled about to find Uncle William behind her. She hesitated to answer, uncertain how he would feel about her friendship with Connor’s sister-by-marriage. He hadn’t seemed pleased to find her with Annie three days ago, but he hadn’t made Annie leave either. “I was hoping Mistress MacKinnon might come to visit again. I so enjoy her company.”

He frowned. “I believe she left for home two days past. In fact, I’m almost certain. There was no reason for them to stay, given that we’re soon to depart for Crown Point.”

Sarah’s heart sank. “Oh. I see.”

Now there was no one with whom she could speak freely, no one to give her news of Connor, no one she could trust. But that wasn’t the only reason her spirits had plummeted.

Annie hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye.

May 29

S
arah stood high on the ramparts of Fort Ticonderoga, looking out at the azure expanse of Lake Champlain and the vastness of the forested mountains that surrounded it, the hills
blanketed in green. Sunlight glistened on the water, made it seem alive, the sky reaching in a cloudless arc from horizon to horizon. And Sarah could not help but marvel at the beauty of the landscape—or to think again of Margaret and how she would have loved to paint it.