by Pamela Clare
Annie supposed Killy was right. She’d never been in the position of trying to win a man’s affection. Iain had not courted her in any traditional way, their love for one another taking them both by surprise.
"When you return to Albany, you must convince her that what you feel for her is true by speakin’ with her when you’re off the drink. It would be better for you to ken where her heart lies than to pine away for her."
The stubborn Irishman shook his head. "’Twould be a fool’s errand. She could never love a penniless, battle-scarred old carcass like me."
Annie could tell that he truly believed this. "And so you drank your last shilling."
"It wasn’t so much rum as you might be thinkin’." He gave a chuckle, then frowned. "Oh, aye, it was. But it might have been more had I been paid. The Crown hasn’t yet seen fit to pay any of us Rangers for last summer’s campaigns."
"How can that be?"
"Haviland says we Rangers fought on behalf of the Colonies, not for that bastard King George. Er … Pardon me, ma’am."
But Annie scarce noticed the insult to her sovereign, stunned as she was to think that Brigadier General Haviland had refused to pay the very men whose sweat and blood had helped the British to win the accursed war. That must be why Killy was so thin. He likely hadn’t had a good meal in months.
And the other Rangers? Some had families, children to feed.
"Does my husband ken this, Killy?"
CHAPTER 2
Iain jabbed at the embers in the bedroom fireplace, his anger as hot as the blaze. He fought not to shout lest he wake the bairns, his words coming out in a gruff whisper. "By God, ’tis an outrage! Those men risked their lives for Britain, sufferin’ hardships Haviland cannae imagine, and now the mac dìolain refuses to pay them? The bastard hasn’t a shred of honor!"
Iain had spent much of the evening discussing Killy’s news with his brothers, and they had decided to leave for Albany in the morning to take up the matter with Haviland in person, while Joseph and Killy stayed to watch over the women and children. Though Iain hated to leave home so close to Christmastide, neither he nor his brothers could abide the notion that the men who’d fought under the MacKinnon name for five long years should be denied their due and made to suffer want, especially at Christmas when lack was so keenly felt.
"Do you think Haviland will listen to you?" Wearing only her shift, a shawl around her shoulders, Annie sat in the rocking chair, brushing her long hair, the flaxen strands gleaming like gold in the firelight. "If he has no honor, what is to stop him from clappin’ the three of you in irons?"
She spoke the words calmly, but Iain could sense her fear. Her worries were not just fretful imaginings.
’Twas a journey to Albany almost six years past that had started all of this. Wentworth had watched Iain fight a man who’d been about to kill a whore he’d used but didn’t wish to pay. Impressed by Iain’s skill, Wentworth had taken Iain and his brothers prisoner on false murder charges. He’d given Iain a choice between being hanged together with his brothers or fighting for the British as the commander of a ranging company. Not wishing to see his brothers die for naught, Iain had chosen the latter.
He put more wood on the fire, then turned to his wife. "Haviland cannae press us into service, if that is what you fear. The war is over."
"That doesna mean he willna find upon some other treachery. You ken as well as I that he doesna care for you or the Rangers." Her strokes grew agitated, her hand gripping her silver-handled hairbrush tightly.
"Come, mo leannan. I willna allow harm to befall us." Iain took the brush from her hand, set it aside, and drew her onto her feet and into his embrace. He held her tight, kissed her hair, the feel of her precious in his arms. His gaze traveled from little Mara, who would soon be one year old, to Iain Cameron, soon to be two, and he silently cursed Haviland again. "I hate to be leavin’ you and the bairns so near to Christmas, but I must."
Annie looked up at him, cupped his cheek with her palm, understanding in her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. "I knew you’d be goin’ the moment Killy told me. If there’s augh’ you can do to right this wrong, you must go. Your men are as kin to us. Their troubles are our troubles."
Iain looked into the eyes of the woman he loved and wondered not for the first time how he’d been so lucky as to win her for himself. "If only I’d known sooner, this would already be behind us."
Why had the men not told him?
Killy said the men thought Iain and his brothers already knew. But, although it was true that neither Connor nor Iain had received a farthing for last summer’s campaigns, they’d thought little of it. For one, they had no need of the coin, the farm more than prosperous enough to sustain the three brothers and their families. For another, Connor had spent part of the campaign season in irons, while Iain had been pressed back into service after the campaigns had already begun. They had assumed that Wentworth had cut off Connor’s pay and hadn’t had time to place Iain on the rolls before the Wyandot had taken him captive.
"Let us pray that all will quickly be set to rights and you’ll be safely home by Christmas Eve." She turned her head to the side, rested her cheek against his chest, her slender arms holding him close.
He tucked a finger beneath her chin, ducked down, and brushed his lips over hers. "Will you send me away wi’ a proper farewell, wife?"
A smile tugged at her lips. "But Killy and Joseph are sleepin’ in the next room, and the children…"
He slid his fingers into her hair. "Then you'd best no’ scream, aye?"
His mouth closed over hers, and they kissed long and slow, desire rising in a rush of heat as their tongues curled together. He felt Annie’s nimble fingers unbuttoning his shirt and reached down to untie the fall of his breeches. Because of Annie’s monthly, it had been at least a week since they’d taken their pleasure together, and he was as eager for her as she was for him.
He broke the kiss, let his shirt fall to the floor, shucked his breeches and moccasins, watching while Annie walked to the bed, her movements seductive. She turned to face him, lifted her chemise over her head, and let it fall, baring herself to his gaze, a smile that promised paradise on her lips.
"My sweet Annie." His cock was already hard, standing against his belly, the heat in his blood leaving him radgie. He closed the distance between them caught her in his arms, and kissed her as they sank to the bearskin together in a tangle of limbs. His hands were upon her and hers on him, seeking, stroking, rousing one another, their urgency growing with each shared breath.
They’d been wed more than two years now, and Iain was more in love with her, more in lust with her, than he’d been when he’d taken her to wife. The blazing passion of their first months together had given way to a deep, slow burn that needed but the merest touch to burst into flame. And those flames consumed him now.
Pulse pounding, he kissed and tasted her, teasing her breasts with his tongue, drawing her nipples to tight peaks with his lips, one hand busy between her thighs, stroking her where she was most sensitive. Her quiet whimpers and sighs heightened his arousal, her wetness proof of her need.
He raised himself above her, settled himself between her parted thighs, and for a moment he let his gaze move over her, in awe of her body and what it could do. Not only did she bring him great pleasure, but she had also given life to his children. Aye, motherhood had changed her, but only in ways that made her more desirable. Her breasts were larger, her hips more womanly. There were also faint silver lines on the soft curve of her belly. Though Annie had at first feared they would dampen his desire for her, those lines only made him want her more. For like the blue designs etched into the skin of his arms that had heralded his arrival into manhood, they were her warrior marks — proof of the pain she had endured for the love of him.
She was beauty. She was joy. She was life.
God’s blood, he loved her.
He slid inside her with a single, slow thrust, her slick quim hot and tight around him. W
ith slow, steady strokes, he bent his mind and body to her pleasure, the sweet distress on her face filling him with a sense of satisfaction as her need grew more desperate, her nails digging into the skin of his back, her hips rising to meet his thrusts, her pulse pounding beneath his lips. With a soft whimper, she arched off the bed, clinging to him as she came, her body trembling.
"Mo leannan." He whispered endearments against her skin, his heart soaring to see the bliss upon her face.
And then he, too, claimed his peak, losing himself inside her.
* * *
They left just after dawn, trudging through deep snows in their bearskin coats, snowshoes strapped to their thick winter moccasins. It was faster to walk than to try to drive a wagon. There were no wheels to get stuck in drifts or break on ice, and the exertion kept them warm.
It reminded Morgan of his days as a Ranger — walking with his brothers through the forest, tumpline pack upon his back, a rifled musket beneath his arm. It felt good to exert himself, physical toil helping to release his anger and frustration. But even the sight of the forest blanketed in snow did not lift his spirits.
He and Amalie had slept apart again last night. He’d gone to bed to find her asleep on a pallet in the next room near their twin sons’ cradles. Enraged to see her thus, he’d awoken her and demanded she return to their bed.
He was only trying to protect her, but that’s not how she saw it. "Do you not want me, Morgan? Do you feel no desire for me?"
He’d tried again to explain. "I love you, Amalie, and wish only to spare you sufferin’. We’ve two strong sons, and I’ll ask no more from you. I willna risk you in childbirth again, nor would I see our sons grow up motherless."
"You cannot make that choice for me. You are acting out of selfishness and wish only to free yourself from fear. Where is your faith, Morgan?"
He’d lost his temper then. "Your years in the convent have blinded you to the harshness of this life."
Tears had filled her eyes. "If I cannot lie with you as your wife, I will not lie with you at all."
When he’d realized that nothing he could say would coax her beneath the bearskin again, he’d offered her the bed and had slept on the floor himself. It had been a cold and lonely night and had been followed by a colder morning — and a hard parting.
Amalie had seen him off as any good wife would, making certain he had food aplenty for the journey. But there had been no joy in her eyes, only sadness. "God go with you, Morgan. Be safe."
It felt wrong to leave her now. Everything inside him wanted to turn and head back to the cabin, the discord between them leaving a heaviness inside him that nothing save the resolution of their troubles could dispel. And yet he had a shared duty toward the men who had fought so hard under the MacKinnon name during the war. His own troubles would have to wait.
Perhaps when he was in Albany, he could find a gift fitting for her, some way to prove to her that he did love her, no matter what she might believe.
* * *
They reached Albany just before sunset, entering through the southwestern gate near the river, turning left at the Dutch Reformed Church and walking up Jonker Street toward the British garrison on the hill above town. They passed the chandler, the butcher, two bakers, and Oldiah Cooper’s tavern where they’d often quenched their thirst.
Connor had always liked Albany with its busy streets and shops. Some of the doorways they passed were decorated with pine garlands — surely the homes and establishments of the city’s Dutch inhabitants, who had already celebrated St. Nicholas’s Day with their Sinterklaas, who, their legends told, arrived by ship bearing gifts for children. ’Twas a strange tradition, though Connor would never say so to a Dutchman.
Most people were indoors enjoying the warmth of their fires and a good meal, their day’s work done. Others hurried by, huddling deeper in their coats for warmth. Some watched Connor and his brothers pass by, recognition on their faces.
The MacKinnon brothers were well known here.
They reached the garrison, entered the gate, and made their way toward Haviland’s headquarters, where they found two young redcoats standing guard and shivering at the door.
It felt to Iain, as the eldest, to speak for the three of them. "I’m Iain MacKinnon. These are my brothers. We’re here to speak wi’ Haviland."
The lads’ eyes went wide, surprise and a hint of fear on their faces.
One of them found his tongue. "Is the Brigadier General expectin’ you?"
"Nay, but he will speak wi’ us just the same," Iain answered.
The lads looked at one another, and then the one who’d spoken turned, opened the door, and dashed inside.
Iain switched to Gaelic. "I fear we’ve arrived too late in the day. ’Tis likely Haviland is fillin’ his belly and will refuse to see us."
"You’re no’ thinkin’ of forcin’ our way past his guard, are you?" Morgan asked.
Connor would stand beside Iain if that was his plan, though he thought it unwise. "’Tis a sure way to find ourselves in the guardhouse."
"I’ve no desire to spend Yule in chains. If he willna see us now, we’ll come back in the morn’ — and every morn’ until he does."
It was not long before the young redcoat returned. Judging from the new look of contempt on his face, Haviland had shared his loathing of the Rangers with the lad. Like far too many of his ilk, Haviland couldn’t abide the thought that mere Colonials might know more about fighting and surviving in the wilderness than trained British troops. But the Rangers and Colonial militias had more than proved their worth in the winning of the war, and no amount of disregard from Haviland or his men could change that.
The lad looked down his nose at them. "The Brigadier General is dining with his guests and cannot be bothered by the likes of you just now. He says to come back at ten sharp in the morning."
Well, that was something.
Iain looked into the lad’s eyes until the boy began to squirm, likely regretting the haughty tone he’d taken. "Ten sharp then."
They turned and headed back down Jonker Street with naught left to do but make their way to the White Horse Tavern, where they had business with the buxom proprietress — and where they might get warm food and a room for the night.
They found the place on Pearl Street, Connor following his brothers through the thick oaken door. Warmth hit him in the face, followed by the delicious scents of roasted meats, baking bread, spices, pipe smoke, and ale. The public rooms were well lighted, fat candles burning on each table, in sconces on the walls, and in iron chandeliers that hung from the oaken ceiling.
His stomach growled. "I swear I could eat an entire bullock myself."
"You’ll have to fight me for it," Morgan muttered.
They made their way toward a table near the fireplace, people staring at them and breaking into excited whispers.
"That’s the MacKinnon brothers as I live and breathe! If not for them, we’d all be speakin’ French today."
"I hear they’re exiled Jacobites who ate the flesh of their dead."
"They taught the French a lesson or two, so they did."
Like his brothers, Connor ignored these mutterings, slipping out of his gear and bearskin coat, and taking his seat on the wooden bench beside Morgan, his hand moving of its own accord to make sure the letter Sarah had written to Wentworth was still safe and dry in his shirt pocket.
"If you should happen upon him..." she’d said, clearly hoping they would find him at the fort.
"We dinnae ken that he is there. He might have boarded a ship and be well on his way to New York. Even if he is in Albany, we cannae be certain he will speak wi’ us." At the crestfallen expression on her face, Connor had softened his words. "I’ll do all I can to see that he gets this. I promise."
Keeping that promise would mean checking Wentworth’s old residence on Market Street, as well as every inn in town, not to mention the garrison.
"Is that she?" Iain spoke in Gaelic, his gaze fixed on someone behi
nd them.
Connor glanced over his shoulder to see a tall woman wearing a plain blue gown and white apron and carrying four pints of ale in big, strong hands. She was not plump, nor was she thin, her frame large, her bosom and hips full and rounded. Her flaxen hair was braided and piled neatly upon her head like a crown, her cheeks flushed from exertion. "Aye. ’Tis Gundhilda."
The three brothers shared a glance, all of them fighting not to smile, an image in their minds of tough little Killy courting a woman who could, in all likelihood, pick him up and throw him.
And yet…
Morgan said it first. "She is fair of face, and her bosom…"
Connor nodded. "Aye. Her bosom."
