Defiant (50 page)

“For God’s sake, you daft Scot! You can make love to her later!” Killy shouted from somewhere behind them. “Show the lady!”

Chuckling, Connor let her go. “I’ve a wee gift for you.”

As she watched, he walked to the wagon, hoisted himself up into its bed, and pulled back a corner of the oilskin that covered its load.

And there, beneath the canvas, stood the harpsichord.

Sarah stared in mute astonishment, just able to make out its legs, which were wrapped in cloth and tied to the wagon bed, its body swathed in blankets and canvas. And then her vision blurred, tears blinding her. “Oh, Connor!”

He hopped to the ground, wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “I ken what it means to you, both for its music and as a memory of your uncle. I couldna leave somethin’ so precious
gatherin’ dust at Fort Edward. We, uh…
commandeered
one of the artillery wagons for it.”

This made the men laugh.

Bittersweet joy filled Sarah’s heart. “I’d never hoped to see it again. God bless you, Connor.” She turned to Iain and the Rangers. “God bless all of you.”

I
t was clear to Connor that they were going to have to wait till morning to move the harpsichord off the wagon and into the house. While the women cooked up a stew for the men, he, Connor, Iain, and Morgan discussed the matter at some length and decided the harpsichord should go in the room off to the side of the kitchen where Connor and Joseph had slept whenever they were home. That room would belong to Connor and Sarah now—at least until a house could be built for them next spring.

“Did you see her face?” Connor couldn’t help but smile, watching through the doorway as Sarah carried a basket of corn cakes out to the men, who had built a bonfire a stone’s throw from the front door.

Iain grinned. “I thought for a moment she might faint dead away.”

Morgan rested his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “I still cannae fathom all that she endured. She is sweet and true. ’Tis a joy havin’ her about. She works hard and doesna complain, but always has a kind and thoughtful word. She hums a cheery tune and sings like an angel. Amalie and I adore her, aye, and Annie, too.”

Connor frowned. “You’ve spent more time livin’ wi’ my wife than I have.”

“And now we’ve got a surprise for you, brother.” Iain retrieved the long rifle and the bottle of scotch from the wagon and held them out to Morgan. “A farewell gift to the three of us from the men.”

While Morgan turned the rifle over in his hands, reading the names of the men who’d fought with them through the war, some still living, some long dead, Iain and Connor told him of that last night on Ranger Island and the hard parting the next morning.

“They were good lads.” Morgan’s voice was tight when at
last he spoke, a telltale sheen in his eyes. “God bless them. I shall miss them. I doubt I shall ever see their like again.”

And then it came to Connor as it never had before that he wouldn’t be going away again. The fighting and killing were done. The war was over. And
this
was to be the rest of his life—the farm, his family, Sarah, children.

Somehow, he, who’d never thought about the future, had been blessed with a bright one.

C
onnor sat on a log, his arm around Sarah, her head resting on his shoulder, as they listened to the men reminisce about the final campaign of the war, passing a flask of rum from man to man, enjoying the warmth of the fire and fellowship one last time.

“Och, Morgan, you should have seen the look on that French lad’s face.” McHugh laughed. “Connor walked to the village gates, told them he was Connor MacKinnon of MacKinnon’s Rangers, and warned them they needed to lay down arms if they didna wish to be attacked. The lad ran down straightaway and threw the gates open wide!”

The men roared with laughter.

Connor found himself laughing with them.

“I thought he was going to piss himself.” Killy chuckled. “He heard the name ‘MacKinnon’ and went white as a ghost.”

The men exploded into laugher.

“Are you certain it was the MacKinnon name that frightened the lad?” Morgan grinned. “It might have been my brother’s uggsome face.”

Guffaws and howls.

Connor glared at Morgan. “Aye, and if you’d have been there, we couldn’ve used your head as a batterin’ ram and opened the gates that way.”

More laughter.

Dougie stood. “I think it’s time we had a tune.”

For a moment, Connor thought Dougie meant to retrieve his fiddle. Only when Dougie walked to the wagon and began to untie the knots in the ropes holding down the oilskin did Connor understand what he intended to do.

Connor drew Sarah to her feet and followed. He untied the last knot, sprang into the wagon bed, and, with Dougie’s help,
drew back the layers of canvas and blankets that protected the delicate instrument.

Sarah watched them, clearly surprised. “You…You mean for me to play? Now?”

“I didn’t help haul this bloody thing all the way out here for nothin’.” Killy laughed. “I mean to hear you play it before I go.”

“Play!”

“Aye, let’s have a song!”

A shout went up from the men, echoed by Annie, Amalie, Iain, and Morgan.

Connor saw both the hesitation and the desire on Sarah’s face. He hopped to the ground, took her hand, and lifted her into the wagon, words from his favorite Scottish bard coming to his memory. “If music be the food of love, play on.”

S
arah’s heart raced with excitement. For so long she’d had to ask permission to play, never able to sate her need for music. But tonight she’d been asked to play. It reminded her of those few precious nights on Ranger Island—except that this was her
home
.

She set her fingers upon the keys, played a few arpeggios, then closed her eyes and let the music flow. She played with joy for the end of the war. She played out the love she felt for Connor and her unborn child. She played for the memory of Uncle William.

When she was done, the night exploded in cheers and applause. She looked over to find Annie and Amalie with tears on their cheeks. Iain gaped openly at her, and Morgan, too, both of them on their feet and clapping.

“I’ve ne’er heard anyone play music like that,” she heard Iain say.

Morgan shook his head. “Nor I.”

She smiled to herself—and began to play one of Dougie’s jigs on the harpsichord, the notes coming from memory. She’d heard him play it a few times, after all.

Laughing, Dougie ran for his fiddle, and they played a sort of duet.

Soon, everyone was dancing or clapping—Annie and Iain, Amalie and Morgan, Killy and McHugh—while little Iain and the babies got their share of attention as they were handed from one
person to the next, kissed on their cheeks, and bounced on men’s knees.

“Och, you make an uggsome lass,” she heard McHugh shout to Killy.

“I’m a fair sight prettier than you,” Killy returned. “And I smell better.”

And she knew they all felt it, too—the joy that music could bring.

But where was Connor?

Her gaze darted here and there, seeking for him. She found him standing next to the wagon near her feet. And in his eyes she saw nothing but love.

I
t was late when Connor finally got his wife away from the harpsichord and into bed. He shut the door, drew in the string, and began to undress.

She lay back on the bed and watched him, wearing only her shift, the thin cloth clinging to her new, lusher curves. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He let his shirt fall to the floor, set his knife aside, and untied his breeches.

“For letting me play.”

“Och, well, I
do
expect you to return the favor.”

She looked up at him, puzzlement on her face. “What do you mean?”

He drew his breeches down and stepped out of them, then stood there naked, his cock already rising. “I let you play, so you must let me play.”

She seemed even more puzzled now, her gaze dropping to his groin. “B-but you do not play an instrument.”

He slid into bed beside her. “Och, but I do. I play
you
.”

He drew her closer, his hand sliding beneath the silk of her shift, lifting it up, drawing it over her head. Her breasts were fuller, her nipples darker, her belly a firm, round swell that made her seem even more womanly.

Och, she was beautiful!

She looked up at him, a smile on her lips, and spoke in an imperially British accent. “I am not a musical instrument.”

“Are you no’? I do this…” He lowered his mouth to her full nipples and flicked them with his tongue, then drew them into
his mouth and suckled her, relishing her sweet sighs. “And you moan.”

“When I do this…” He continued to suckle her, his hand sliding between her thighs, forcing them apart, touching her in the way he knew would give her greatest pleasure until she panted with desire. “…you whimper.”

“And when I slide inside you…” He settled himself between her thighs, nudged them wide apart, and entered her with one slow thrust, making her cry out. “…you sing for me.”

And then he was lost in loving her, his body joined with hers, months of suppressed need for her driving all other thoughts from his mind.

She came fast and hard, Connor catching her cries with his mouth, then following her over the edge into ecstasy.

They lay in one another’s arms as their passion cooled, nary a thought in Connor’s mind, his heart light, a feeling of warmth in his chest.

Sarah lay snuggled against him with her head on his shoulder, her fingers threading through the hair on his chest. “Making love with you is even more wonderful than making music.”

He drew her closer. “Och, Sarah, you
are
my music.”

W
illiam sat on his horse in the cover of the snowy forest, watching the farmhouse through the trees, his breath a white cloud before his face. Even at this distance he could hear the honeyed strains of a harpsichord. She was playing a Christmas carol. He knew it, had heard it as a child, but couldn’t remember its name.

“Is it Christmas?” He’d forgotten such a thing as Christmas existed.

“No, my lord. Christmas is yet a week away.”

William sat there listening, the music stirring something inside him, a bittersweet ache filling his chest. His vision grew strangely blurry, wetness spilling onto his face.

He wiped the moisture away—no doubt an effect of the extreme cold.

“My lord, we should be going.”

William held up his hand for silence. “Not yet.”

He’d traveled long, hard leagues to be here, had endured so much for the sake of this moment. He would not leave yet.

Barely aware of the cold or his own pain, he listened until the music stopped. He waited for it to begin again, wanting to hear more, the notes connecting him to the woman who played them. But all he could hear now was the sound of wind in the trees.

Only then did he realize it was growing dark, the sun about
to set somewhere behind the clouds. Snow had begun to fall in fat flakes. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. And still William was reluctant to ride on.

He knew Sarah had been delivered of a healthy son and that both mother and child were well. He knew, too, that they’d named the child William.

The gesture had surprised him, touched him.

“I know they would make you most welcome, my lord. There’s no reason to stay out—”

“No.” William did not want to be seen—not like this.

He wanted Sarah to remember him as he had been.

He reached into his pocket, drew out the cracked black king and the letter, and handed them to his man. “Place these carefully on their doorstep. Do not allow yourself to be discovered.”

“Aye, my lord. I am your most humble servant.”

And William waited.

S
arah nursed her newborn son to sleep before the fireplace in her bedchamber. He sucked contentedly, making sweet baby sounds, his eyes closed. He was almost two weeks old now, and she was still amazed by him—his tiny fingers and toes, his bright eyes, his dark downy hair, his sweet face.

Connor added more wood to the fire, stopping beside her, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Are you warm enough? ’Tis frightful cold outside tonight.”

Sarah nodded, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

And for a time, Connor simply stood there, looking down at her and the baby, his gaze gentle, his love as palpable to Sarah as the warmth of the fire.

He’d been there beside her through the long night of her travail, refusing to leave her side even for a moment, his love her refuge from the frightful pain. Annie and Amalie had been there, too, holding her hand, helping the midwife, Rebecca, Joseph’s sister, while Joseph, Iain, and Morgan had waited at the table, keeping the fires going and watching over sleeping children. Surrounded by such overwhelming love, Sarah had felt safe and cherished, her suffering soon forgotten.

“Call me if there is augh’ you need.” Connor bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, before walking downstairs to join his brothers for their nightly gill of rum.

This nightly ritual had continued even after Morgan and Amalie had moved into their own house next door, and it reminded Sarah of nights on Ranger Island, where men had gathered around the bonfires with their ration of rum to talk and jest. It must have felt soothingly familiar for Connor and his brothers to enjoy the fire, male company, and a nip of rum in the evening as they had during the war.

Most nights the men talked about the farm, planning the next day. But their conversations had often switched into Mahican these past few nights. She suspected they were plotting together about Christmas.

Of course, Sarah, Annie, and Amalie were plotting together as well, though it was much easier with the men out of doors most of the day. This was to be Sarah’s first Christmas with her new family, her first Christmas as a wife and mother, and as the holiday drew near, she grew more excited.

She’d stitched Connor three new shirts, embroidering the cuffs with small thistles as a symbol of his homeland. She’d taken white silk from one of her more elaborate gowns and, working quietly in the evening, had stitched petticoats for Annie and Amalie and pleated frocks for their children. She’d knitted warm winter caps for the men, quilting felt on the inside.