Defiant (45 page)

“What is happenin’?”

“Are we under attack?”

Connor saw the moment Cooke made his decision.

“If you betray me…” Cooke drew his sword and swung, cleaving iron, leaving Connor with iron bracelets, a few links of chain dangling from each.

Connor unfastened the iron bands, throwing them to the ground. “Get the wagons off the road! They’ll block the retreat. Anyone who’s no’ a soldier should flee back to Ticonderoga straightaway!”

Lieutenant Cooke dismounted, handing his reins to a young redcoat. “Ride back to the fort. Tell Haviland we’re under attack and ask him to send reinforcements.”

Connor turned to the terrified laundresses. “You lasses pick up your skirts and follow him. Run! Dinnae stop till you reach the gates!”

The women did not hesitate.

Lieutenant Cooke walked to a nearby wagon and tore back the canvas cover. “Your effects, MacKinnon.”

Connor ran to the wagon and found his tumpline pack with his musket, powder horn, bag of shot—and his
claidheamh mòr
. He slipped into his pack, loaded his musket and pistol, fixed his bayonet. “You’re a brave soldier and true, Lieutenant, but you’re no’ a Ranger. Do as I bid you, and we might get out of this alive.”

“Into the battle together, MacKinnon?”

Cooke beside him, Connor set off at a run.

Be strong, Sarah! I’m comin’ for you.

H
er heart a hammer, Sarah crouched between two overturned wagons, Agnes lying slain some few feet away. Uncle William shielded Sarah with his body as he reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, his face blackened with gunpowder and slick with sweat, his wig coming unbound. Smoke stung her eyes, the air choked with the scent of gunpowder, blood, death. Dead and dying men lay all around, some in red uniforms, others in naught but breechclouts and their own painted skins.

And Sarah feared they were doomed.

“Save your cartridges! Do not fire until they leave cover!”

Her uncle shouted orders to those of his men who were still alive, Regulars offering courageous resistance, laying down staggered fire upon their attackers, who charged at them in groups and shot them from the cover of the forest. But cut off from the rest of her uncle’s troops and seemingly surrounded, they could not escape, nor could they hold out much longer.

She kept expecting the Rangers to charge down from the north or Joseph’s men to arrive suddenly from the south, shouting their terrible war cry, but no one came. Instead, the fight seemed to be spreading up and down the ranks as the attackers outflanked the army, men’s shouts and musket fire sounding in the distance, confusion reigning over all.

God protect and save us, and Connor, too!

She pressed a hand to her belly, terrified for the little life inside her, for Uncle William, for herself, for Connor. How would Connor defend himself with his wrists in shackles? Chained to the wagon, he wouldn’t even be able to run.

A terrible cry went up, and four painted men spilled out from amongst the trees, headed straight toward her and Uncle William. A volley of musket fire rang out, and three men fell. Uncle William raised his pistol and fired, killing the last one.

But there would be more, and Uncle William had only two cartridges left.

Without pausing to think, Sarah left the cover of the wagon,
crawling toward the body of a slain soldier some dozen feet to the left of the overturned wagons.

“Sarah, no! Stay down!”

Ignoring Uncle William, she quickly collected the poor soldier’s cartridges and grabbed his pistol, tossing the weapon and cartridges back to Uncle William, before reaching for the soldier’s musket. But no sooner had she closed her hand over its still-warm barrel than someone grabbed her by her hair, jerking her head back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver, felt a cold blade press against her throat. And knew she was about to die.

As if from a distance, she heard Uncle William cry out for her.

And then through the smoke she saw him.

Connor!

He ran through the fray toward her, his shirt torn at the shoulder, blood staining his clothes, face, and hands, his tomahawk in one hand, his hunting knife in the other. “Sarah!”

But he was too far away to help her. Instead, he would watch her die.

Then, in one smooth motion, he dropped to one knee, swung his musket from over his shoulder, aimed, and fired.

The hand that held her hair went loose, and a man fell lifeless to the ground beside her, knife in his limp fingers, his brown eyes empty.

Sarah grabbed the knife, tucked it into her skirts, and crawled back to the wagon again, dragging the musket she’d scavenged with her and handing it to Uncle William, who reloaded, upbraiding her all the while for exposing herself to danger. But she heard not a word he said.

Hardly daring to breathe, she watched as Connor ran through the battle toward her. A warrior leapt at him, tomahawk raised to strike. Connor caught the tomahawk with his own, pivoted, and cut the man’s belly open with his hunting knife without so much as breaking his stride. He leapt over the dead and injured as he ran, twisting out of harm’s way, striking down one warrior with a blow from his tomahawk, another with a slash of his knife. He was awful to behold, moving with a natural grace—swift, agile, deadly.

His name was Death, and Hell followed with him.

The Bible verse she’d so often read came back to her. But Connor was no deathly horseman, no demon. He was her
guardian angel. And he had come for her, brave Lieutenant Cooke beside him, bringing with him a chance for life.

C
onnor ran toward Sarah, scarce able to believe that she was alive amidst such bitter carnage. She sat near Wentworth in the shelter of two wagons that had been pushed together at right angles and tipped on their sides, offering them shelter to the north and east, the contents of her trunks spilled on the ground around them. Her gown was torn, her face smudged with dirt and gunpowder, her hair spilling out of its pins and around her shoulders. She’d seen him, her gaze now fixed upon him, hope shining in her eyes.

Ahead of him, a Wyandot warrior lay atop a redcoat, his knife about to slit the lad’s throat. Without stopping, Connor struck the base of the Wyandot’s skull with his tomahawk.

“Major, get down!” Cooke shouted from behind him.

Connor dropped and rolled as Cooke fired. He caught just a glimpse of the man who’d been about to shoot him and was on his feet again.

Another twenty feet. Fifteen.

Shots rang out, a ball grazing his collarbone, the pain white hot.

Ten feet. Five.

He reached behind him, grabbed Cooke, and flung himself and the lieutenant into the shelter of the wagons.

“Connor!” Sarah rose onto her knees, threw herself against him.

Connor knew there was not time for this, and yet he could not stop his arms from encircling her and holding her tight, war and Wentworth be damned. In a moment, he would have to bid her farewell—and this time it would be forever.

“Sarah, lass! Och, thank God you’re still alive!”

“What is our situation, Major?”

Major? Hadn’t Wentworth stripped him of his rank?

“’Tis dire.” He saw no reason to spare Sarah the truth. “You are outflanked and cut off from the rest of the troops. The Regulars have taken grievous losses. I dinnae ken what’s become of the Rangers, but—”

“The Rangers are already at Crown Point. I sent them ahead early, hoping they would flush out anyone who lay in ambush.”

“What the bloody…?” Connor knew the unspoken truth. Wentworth had sent the Rangers ahead because he’d feared some plot to take Sarah and had wanted to cut Connor off from Iain and the men.

If only Wentworth had trusted him…

He drew a breath, tried to control his rage. “We outnumber the enemy, but the Wyandot ken this land and chose the site of their ambush well. You cannae hold out much longer. ’Tis only a matter of time afore every person trapped in this little valley is either slain or taken captive. If I were to choose between dyin’ and being’ taken alive by the Wyandot…”

The Wyandot, called Huron by the French, had a taste for fire.

“Understood, Major.” Wentworth reloaded his musket, then his pistol.

Shots rang out, and somewhere a soldier screamed.

Connor raised his musket, waited for movement. He saw a flash of red amongst the ferns at the base of a hemlock and fired, quickly reloading.

“We are all going to die here?” There was fear in Sarah’s eyes, but no tears.

Och, she was brave!

But
she
was not going to die here, not if Connor could help it.

“There is yet a small chance that some few might slip away unseen. Take Sarah and head south beyond the Wyandot lines. Go back the way we came, turnin’ toward the lake when the road begins to head downhill. If you follow the lakeshore southward, you can make your way around the battle and back to Ticonderoga. The Wyandot ken that path, too, so the way will be perilous, but if you dinnae go soon, afore the Wyandot outflank us entirely, your escape will be cut off. I’ll keep up a steady fire, try to distract them and keep them from followin’, while you and Cooke get Sarah to safety.”

Sarah stared up at him through wide eyes. “B-but you said the valley will soon be overrun and every man here slain or taken captive.”

“Aye, ’tis so. But we cannae all flee. ’Tis you they’re after. I feel it in my soul. If every man here runs at once, the Wyandot will follow, and they will stop us all. Someone must remain to
command the troops, keep up a steady fire, and distract them from pursuing you.”

And Connor could see in her eyes that she understood.

She shook her head, clutching his shirtsleeve. “No, Connor, you must come with us! I cannot let you die for my sake!”

“I would happily lay down my life if it meant the savin’ of yours.” He raised her trembling hand to his lips, kissed it, saw her eyes fill with tears. There was no time for farewells or confessions, and so he gave her the only words he had. “My love lies upon you, Sarah, and not even death can change that. Keep a song of me in your heart, aye?”

Connor took her hand from his, placed it in Wentworth’s, the sudden pain of knowing he would not see her again hitting him hard in the chest. “Take her, Wentworth. When you clear the wagons, run as fast as you can southward. Dinnae give them time to aim. I’ll cover for you so long as I can. Cooke, you ken the way. Watch over Sarah, aye?”

Connor’s throat grew tight. He would never know if she made it out alive.

God, I pray, give me the strength to live the next hour well.

Cooke eyed him with great solemnity. “I will, Major. I give you my word to watch over her—and the child.”

But something was amiss, for rather than taking Sarah and leading the way, Wentworth sat there, his gaze on his niece, a strange expression on his face.

W
illiam saw tears of grief fill Sarah’s eyes. He saw something else there as well, something he scarce recognized and was loath to acknowledge.

Love.

He had never believed in romantic love, the idiocy that led poets to write sonnets. Even his affection for Lady Anne could not be called love—it was more a case of thwarted lust colored by…affection.

But what he felt for Sarah…

It was a kind of love—not lustful, but paternal. Even as Sarah swore she could not let MacKinnon die for her, so William swore he would not let her die for anything—not if it meant he and all the world should perish.

The sound of the battle seemed to fade around him. Snatches of conversation flashed through his mind, shouted words, pleas.

I send you because you are the best, and I want my niece back whole and unharmed.

She chose love!

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 w
ould matter more to you than her duty—or yours!

Protection. Comfort. My future. I would trade all of that—all of it—to live my life simply as Sarah.

I would happily lay down my life if it meant the savin’ of yours.

William had a sudden urge to laugh. He’d always thought himself a student of human nature. He’d always derived amusement from observing others and exploiting their passions and weakness for his own ends. He enjoyed predicting people’s actions and using what he understood about them to direct their behavior.

But never would he have predicted this.

Yet, the moment his decision was made, he felt light, as if every care had been lifted from his shoulders. And he could see as if with otherworldly prescience Sarah weeping for him in the days and years to come, holding him in her heart as dearly as she held MacKinnon, telling her children about him. He would not be remembered as the uncle who had flogged the man she loved and had sent her back to London and a future she did not want. Instead,
he
would be the man who had given his life for hers and set her free.

Had he done a single, selfless thing in his life? He very much doubted it.

Perhaps this would make up for a lifetime of laziness in that regard.

The chaos of the battle returned, and William knew he had very little time.

“Major, your rank and all privileges are hereby restored.” He drew a leather purse of gold sovereigns from his pocket and pressed it into MacKinnon’s hand. “I cannot protect Sarah the way you can. Take her. She is yours. Keep her safe at all costs.”

“What?” MacKinnon stared at him, at the purse in his hands. “Have you gone daft?”

“Lieutenant, you have served me faithfully and well these many years. I hereby raise you to the rank of captain and order you to return to Fort Edward with Major MacKinnon.”

Cooke’s expression hardened. “If you remain behind, my lord, then so shall I.”

“No! There are certain documents—you know of what I speak. They must be given to the authorities. I am relying upon you, Captain. All of my coin, jewelry, and the harpsichord go to my niece, but in secret. You are to report to Haviland that Lady Sarah Woodville was slain by the enemy. Do you understand?”