Defiant (47 page)

“’Tis glad I am to see you safe and alive, mistresses. My wife is wi’ child and needs a safe place to rest while I visit the sutler.” It satisfied him deeply to claim Sarah thus. “Can she bide a wee here wi’ you?”

Connor needed to wash the dried blood off his body, then he needed to buy supplies for the journey home, but he did not want to risk bringing Sarah inside the fort, where there was too great a chance Haviland or one of the other officers might see her and recognize her.

“After what you done for us today, we’ll gladly ’elp your missus.”

He left Sarah in the hands of the women, who fretted and fussed over her, and found a secluded spot on the banks of the La Chute, where he bathed, treated the graze on his shoulder, and changed clothes. Clean again, he walked through the fort’s gate to the sutler’s. It felt strange to be safe behind high walls when a battle was being fought elsewhere. He was accustomed to being in the heart of the fray, not awaiting news of it from others. For so long his duty had been to his brothers, to his men. But now he had a wife to protect.

’Twas a sudden turn of events, but a welcome one.

Nothing was more important to him than Sarah’s happiness and safety.

He entered the dim sutler’s shop, the air inside heavy with the scents of salted meat, rum, and leather. He bought the tent, food and supplies for the return journey to Fort Edward, as well as other necessaries. A cotton gown to replace the stained and torn silk one Sarah wore. A linen bonnet to conceal her hair. Moccasins for her feet. A soft woolen shawl to keep her warm and hide her face if the need arose. Rose-scented soap, a brush and comb, a washcloth, a bone-handled toothbrush, tooth powder. Maple sugar candy to sweeten her journey.

As he paid for these things, their quality no doubt far beneath that to which she was accustomed, he found himself wondering whether she understood how much her life had just changed. Would she, a lass raised with every luxury, be happy here as the wife of a mere soldier?

He went to the kitchens, coaxed a bowl of stew out of the cook, and returned to find Sarah listening while the laundresses offered their advice on childbirth.

“They say puttin’ a knife under the bed cuts the pain in ’alf, but if that’s true…”

The women fell silent when they saw him, which pleased him greatly. Sarah did not need another worry on her mind. Nor did he.

He led Sarah to quiet spot beneath a stand of trees, gave her the stew and a spoon from his pack. “Eat, lass.”

Cooke found them just when Connor had finished putting up the tent. He spoke quietly, clearly not meaning for Sarah to hear. “The wounded are being taken to Crown Point. Haviland has assured me that I shall know immediately if the brigadier general is amongst them. He intends to depart on the morrow to take command of Crown Point and plans to leave Ticonderoga lightly garrisoned. He has ordered me to accompany him, but I insisted that I must carry out the brigadier general’s last orders. He was most vexed that I would not tell him what those orders are.”

“I just bet he was.”

S
arah could not endure waiting. The idleness was oppressive, each hour an eternity. She did what she could to occupy herself, even asking the laundresses to teach her their work. She
would soon be doing laundry for a husband and a child and yet she knew nothing about it. But even the hard work of stirring clothes in a dolly tub of hot water and pounding stains with a beetle could not take her mind from her sorrows.

Midday became afternoon, and afternoon became evening.

She had just finished washing the tin plates and forks she and Connor had used for their evening meal when she saw Joseph walk through the stockade gates, his men behind him. Dread made it hard for her to breathe, the dishes forgotten as he drew near. She felt a hand rest against her back.

Connor kissed her hair. “Whatever the news, Sarah, you dinnae have to bear the weight of it alone. Remember that, aye?”

Joseph nodded in greeting, exhaustion lining his bruised face.

Connor threaded his fingers through Sarah’s, led her toward their tent, and drew her down to sit beside him on the grass, his reassuring presence the only thing holding her together. Almost too afraid to hear what Joseph had to say, she waited.

Joseph knelt down before them. “We found the battle site and the wagons, but there was no sign of him. We searched amongst the dead, turning the bodies over, but we did not find him. We pursued the Wyandot, but they split into two groups. We kept after the largest group, slew many, and freed eight captives, but he was not amongst them. Either we missed his body somewhere in the trees, or he is with the other party.”

Sarah had prepared herself to hear that Uncle William was dead. She had prepared herself to learn that he’d been taken captive. But she hadn’t prepared herself for the agony of not knowing what had befallen him. “Then…we still know nothing.”

“I am sorry, little sister, but few taken captive by the Wyandot survive.”

Connor and Joseph spoke with each other, but Sarah heard nothing of it, her thoughts on Uncle William. Either he lay dead somewhere, his body now carrion for the wild animals, or he was a captive as she had once been—and subject to a cruel and torturous death.

Hot tears stung her eyes, words spilling from her lips. “Th-this is my fault! They came for me! Now so many are dead. Your men, Joseph! The soldiers! And Uncle William is…” Would she ever know what had happened to him? “If I hadn’t
caused a scandal, if only I’d stayed in New York, none of this—”

Connor pressed a finger to her lips to still her. “Dinnae you blame yourself for this. I willna hear it. None of this was your doin’. Your uncle made a warrior’s choice. He stayed behind because he kent I could get you out alive.”

Joseph took her hand and squeezed, sorrow in his eyes. “It is right and good to grieve those who are lost, but once we have grieved, our tears must dry. Your uncle gave his life to save yours. If you wish to honor him, then live each day of this new life you have been given knowing that it is a gift. Be filled with strength and joy.”

Sarah was touched by their words, some of her despair lifting. But sorrow still held her heart. “Thank you, Joseph, for searching for him. I am grateful that you are safely returned and that eight captives were freed.”

Pleading exhaustion, she rose, entered the tent, and lay down, tears running silently down her cheeks as she sent up prayer after prayer—for Uncle William, for poor Agnes, for Joseph’s men, for all the courageous soldiers, for young Thomas, and for dear Jane. She even said a prayer for Katakwa’s wife and children.

It wasn’t long before Connor was there beside her, a pail of hot water and a soft cloth in hand. Slowly, he undressed her, and with great gentleness he washed the reek of battle from her skin, his hand lingering on the hardening curve of her lower belly. Then he stretched out on the bearskin beside her, holding her close while she wept.

And in the darkness, he kissed her tears away.

June 3

C
onnor, Sarah, Joseph, and Cooke made the journey to Fort Edward in three days, escorted by Joseph’s men. When they reached the bateau bridge, they bade one another a good night, Joseph leading his men across the bridge to the Mahican lodges on the northern end of Ranger Island, Cooke turning toward the fort.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then?” Cooke had dressed as a Ranger for the journey, not wishing the scarlet of his uniform to give them away in the forest. He’d asked Connor to teach him what he needed to know to fight like a Ranger and had proved an apt pupil. Now, his jaw dark with stubble, tumpline pack upon his back, lines of weariness on his face, he looked every bit the Ranger.

“Aye, in the morn.” Connor turned to lead Sarah across the bridge but stopped, calling after the captain. “Cooke, you have my thanks. You’re a braw fighter and a good man.”

The weariness on Cooke’s face seemed to fade for a moment. “Thank you, Major. I have always thought myself a capable soldier. You have shown me there is still much for me to learn. Good night, sir, my lady.”

Ranger Island was all but deserted. Only Father Delavay and those who’d been too sick or injured to travel had been
left behind. Connor gave the Ranger call, and a shout went up, perhaps twenty men gathering round the bonfire as he approached, their faces breaking into broad grins.

“We kent you’d find a way to escape and steal your lassie.” Conall chuckled.

“Good to see you so hale, Conall. Men, we must speak. But first, if there are any able-bodied amongst you, fetch firewood to my cabin and heat water. We’ve had a long and difficult journey, and the lady must bathe and rest.”

“Aye, sir.” Conall dashed off.

Connor looked down at Sarah to find her smiling up at him, her sweet face lined with exhaustion.

“So you
were
plotting to steal me.”

“Aye, but your uncle suspected us and did his best to thwart us.”

It wasn’t easy for Connor to hold his tongue where Wentworth was concerned, but he had not told Sarah the threats Wentworth had made as he’d hung from the guardhouse ceiling barely conscious. Nor had he revealed that Wentworth had dismissed Connor’s warning about a possible ambush. Such knowledge would only hurt her.

The cabin was cold but warmed quickly once Connor got a fire going. Soon supper was eaten and the tub filled with steaming water.

Connor dug through his pack and drew out the soap, the washcloth, and her brush and comb. “Enjoy your bath.”

He turned to go.

Sarah didn’t want him to leave. “Bathe with me. I need you.”

His eyes darkened, and she knew he needed her, too. “Are you certain? I didna think you would feel desire after all that has happened.”

She reached for his hand. “There’s been so much killing, so much death. I want to feel alive again. I want you, Connor.”

Connor undressed and bathed her, washing her hair and rubbing the soreness from her muscles, teasing her with his hands until she ached for him. And then it was her turn to bathe him. She sat in the steaming water, watching while he shed his clothes, savoring the sight of his man’s body with its ridges and valleys. But when he turned to put his hunting knife on the table, she found herself staring.

His scars.

“Oh, Connor!”

She knew he’d received almost three hundred lashes, but she hadn’t seen him without his shirt before this minute. Red lines crossed his back in seemingly every direction, some of them deep grooves that were barely healed, others thin and curved. It staggered her to think of the pain he must have suffered, Uncle William’s wrath carved into his skin forever.

He walked naked to the tub. “I didna wish for you to see that, but I cannae think of a way to hide my skin from my own sweet wife. Dinnae let it fash you. If these stripes are the price I pay for my bride, then ’twas well worth it.”

How he could truly feel that way Sarah knew not.

She bathed him with as much tenderness as he’d bathed her, washing his hair and his body, every inch of him precious to her. She’d come so close to losing him, to living her life without him. She caressed and kissed the scars on his back, kissed his chest with its scattering of dark curls, stroked his length with her hand until he was hard. When he could take no more, he stood, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed, both of them dripping wet.

His possession of her quick and fierce, Sarah’s body coming alive in his arms, her heart pounding hard inside her, blood rushing through her veins. Release came swiftly, the two of them soaring over that sharp, quivering edge together.

She lay in his arms afterward, feeling replete, safe.

“If you are willing, wife, I should like for us to be wed on the morrow.”

And for the first time in what seemed ages, Sarah laughed.

O
nce again in British uniform, Cooke met them at the door to Wentworth’s quarters and promptly led them into Wentworth’s study, his countenance grave, something clearly troubling him. Connor thought it must be grief and the strangeness of going through the belongings of a man who was most likely dead. Sarah, too, was troubled, the sight of her uncle’s belongings in this familiar room clearly putting her in distress.

Cooke offered Sarah a chair. “My lady.”

Connor stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, rubbing soft circles over her exposed skin with his thumb.

Cooke went to Wentworth’s writing table, opened a secret drawer in its side, and withdrew what looked like a roll of parchment bound with Wentworth’s seal. He handed it to Connor. “If you please, Major.”

Curious, Connor broke the seal and found himself holding several sheets of parchment. They seemed to be legal documents of some kind, all signed by Wentworth’s hand. One by one, Connor read through them, his pulse beginning to pound. When he finished, he scarce knew what to say. He looked up at Cooke. “Is this real?”

“Brigadier General Wentworth intended to make good on his word to clear the MacKinnon name once the war was over. He had documents drawn up five years ago to be used should he be killed or taken captive. He gave me a standing order to deliver these documents to the sheriff in Albany should such a thing occur. He did not want the charges against you and your brothers to stand should you prove loyal and true to your word.”

Connor felt a rush of relief—and rage. He handed the documents to Sarah, fighting to control his voice. “And you knew, Cooke?”

“Yes, sir. It was I who followed you, asked about you, learned what there was to know about the MacKinnon brothers. At the time, it did not seem wrong. Men are pressed into service every day. Given your family’s history, it seemed right to demand some service to the Crown. I was new to the colonies and eager to impress my new commander.”

Connor had to fight not to shout. “You helped him steal our lives.”

Och, well, the lad had cods to admit it to Connor’s face.

“Yes, and I have long regretted that.” Cooke’s gaze dropped to the floor, then his chin came up. “What would you have done had you not been a Ranger? Would you and your brothers have remained on the farm, insensible to the sufferings of this war?”