by Pamela Clare
But Haviland went on. "When I look at you, MacKinnon, do you know what I see? I see the sons of a Jacobite traitor. One of your brothers was convicted of treason and only stands here today because he managed somehow to escape the hangman."
Iain cut Haviland off, his voice booming through the small room. "Morgan was never a traitor! Governor DeLancy himself pardoned— "
"And your younger brother — I’ve heard the rumors. I know that he seduced Wentworth’s niece and got her with child. Perhaps he arranged the attack that led to her death. Perhaps he— "
"Neach dìolain!" Connor lunged toward Haviland, only to come up short when he saw that Iain had already grabbed the bastard by the throat.
"Dinnae you be talkin’ about my brothers or poor Lady Sarah like that, Haviland, you filthy son of a whore!"
Haviland jerked away, a mix of fear and excitement on his face, calling to the sentries Connor had forgotten in his fury. "Arrest these men!"
In a heartbeat, redcoats filled the room, and Connor found himself and his brothers held at bayonet point as Haviland watched, gloating.
"Put them in irons. Take them to the guardhouse."
"Belay that order, and stand down!"
Connor’s head jerked around toward the sound of the familiar voice. And there in the doorway in full uniform, he stood. "Wentworth!"
CHAPTER 6
William saw the astonishment on the faces of the three MacKinnon brothers — and the shock they quickly hid at the sight of him. He saw a different kind of surprise on Haviland’s face and something else, too — fear.
He addressed the Regulars. "Stand down, I said! You are dismissed."
The Regulars hesitated for a moment, looking to Haviland, who spluttered, "Y-you are not in command here."
William turned to Cooke. "Has Haviland’s promotion been confirmed, Captain?"
"Aye, my lord, but even so, you are still the senior officer."
William turned back to Haviland. "I outrank you — in every way."
Satisfied, the Regulars hurried out of the room, most of them averting their gazes as they passed William, clearly trying not to look at him. He couldn’t blame them.
Even with a wig, his appearance was monstrous.
"Son of a whore." William strode toward Haviland, repeating what Iain MacKinnon had just called him. "Was your mother a whore, Haviland? I know nothing about her."
"My mother was a chaste and respectable woman." Haviland glared at him.
William glanced about the office that had once been his. His gaze fell upon the bookshelves to his left. "My mother is a royal princess, the daughter of our recently departed sovereign and aunt to His Majesty King George III."
Haviland hated being reminded of William’s royal bloodline, but William wasn’t bringing this up merely to irritate the man.
"I am aware of your lineage, my lord."
"Indeed." William turned and fixed Haviland with a hard gaze. "Why, then, do you dishonor me by breaking the promises I made to the MacKinnon brothers and their men on the Crown’s behalf? Word is all over Albany that MacKinnon’s Rangers have been denied their wages by the Crown."
Haviland opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, William pointed to five familiar tomes on the bookshelf. "Aren’t those my ledgers? Cooke, would you please examine them?"
"Certainly, my lord." Cooke retrieved the volumes, flipped through them, then held them out for William to see. "These are, indeed, your ledgers from Fort Edward."
Wentworth glanced down at his clerk’s familiar writing on the page. "You know full well that the Crown was obligated to pay the Rangers, Haviland, and yet you lied to MacKinnon. You dishonor the king and country you claim to serve — a reckless action for a man with your lofty ambitions."
Haviland gave a perfunctory bow, but there was loathing in his eyes. "I regret my actions, my lord. I simply do not understand what you see in these rough men."
"Your lack of vision where the Rangers are concerned is of little import to me. Your lack of character is. You will apologize to these men. Now."
William might have found the horror on Haviland’s face amusing had he not been so very ill and in so much pain.
Haviland spoke the words, but refused to look at the brothers. "My apologies."
"Captain Cooke, please take the Brigadier General into the next room and help him and his clerk determine the exact amount that is owed to each Ranger. See to it that the wages are counted out within the hour, and make some provision to see their pay delivered before Christmas Eve."
"Yes, my lord."
"Now leave us. Close the door behind you, and see that we are not disturbed."
"I am your most humble servant, my lord." Cooke gave a smart bow, then turned toward the door, motioning for Haviland to follow. "This way, sir."
Hatred blazing in his eyes, Haviland gave William a stiff bow and turned to go.
"One last thing, Haviland." William glared at him, at last letting his rage show. "If I hear that you have dishonored the memory of my dear belated niece again, if you even mention her name or repeat what you said today, I will not rest until I have had satisfaction. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, my lord. My apologies."
"Get out of my sight!" William waited until Cooke had closed the door behind him, then made his way with careful steps to the chair on the other side of his writing table and sat, his legs barely able to hold his weight.
Iain MacKinnon spoke first. "You are unwell."
"Does it please the three of you to see me thus? Do you revel to see that bastard Wentworth at last brought down?" He had not wanted them to see him in this condition — weak, scarred, in pain.
The three brothers frowned, shaking their heads in protest.
"I wouldna wish such sufferin’ on my worst enemy," Connor answered.
"Nor would I," Morgan answered.
Iain glared at him. "You misjudge us."
Perhaps Iain was right. Perhaps William had misjudged them all along.
He fought to keep his teeth from chattering. "How is Lady Anne?"
"My wife fares well, as do our children. She sends her regards."
Ah, sweet Lady Anne! How William would love to see her one last time. He had tried every means he could devise to win her to his bed, even asking her to be his mistress, but she had chosen Iain MacKinnon, a man without wealth or titles.
William turned his gaze to Connor and asked the question that had troubled him most these long months. "How is Sarah?"
"She is well. She gave birth to our son two weeks past. She named him William."
William already knew this, of course, but to hear it directly from Connor put his mind at ease. He found himself smiling. "How awkward that must have been for you to have a son named after me."
Not that it wasn’t also awkward for William. Connor MacKinnon, youngest son of an exiled Jacobite laird, was now William’s nephew by marriage, his barbarian Highland blood mingled with Sarah’s. No one in England would ever know this, of course, as everyone believed that Sarah had been killed last summer.
Then Connor drew something out of his coat, stepped forward, and held it out for William. "She bade me give you this."
A letter.
William took it, stared down at his name spelled out in Sarah’s delicate handwriting, and was overtaken by an unexpected rush of emotion. Unwilling to open it in front of anyone, he tucked it inside his waistcoat.
"She was sore fashed that you rode away and didna stop to see her."
"Does she speak well of me?" William had to know.
"Aye, my lord. She misses you and worries about you."
Had Connor MacKinnon just called him "my lord"?
By God, he had!
This so astonished William that he almost laughed.
Then Iain spoke. "You are welcome in our home. Let us procure a wagon and get you back to the farm where Annie can tend your hurts. She has a deft hand wi’ healin’. You’ll be s
trong again in no time."
William shook his head, their pity and this shift in their behavior toward him making him feel vulnerable in a way he’d never felt before. "I do not wish for Lady Anne or Sarah to see me like this."
Oh, how he hated to admit that!
Morgan frowned. "Dinnae be foolish! You fought like a soldier, a true warrior. There is no shame in that. Whatever scars you bear are marks of honor."
"And what of Sarah?" Connor asked. "She loves you. Helpin’ to care for you would bring her great joy. Also, she wants very much for you to see our son. If you were to come wi’ us and spend Christmas wi’ her, she — "
"No!" William spoke the word more sharply than he’d intended, perhaps because Connor’s words tempted him sorely or perhaps because, without laudanum, his pain was becoming most difficult to bear. "I said farewell to my niece on the battlefield. I would have her remember me as I was."
Morgan looked from Iain to Connor, then slipped out of his tumpline pack, reached inside, and drew out a small pot. "Spread this salve on your wounds mornin’, noon, and night. It burns like hellfire, but it will stop them from festerin’."
"’Twas this potion Annie used upon my back after you had me flogged and on Connor’s shoulder when he was shot," Iain said.
The brothers went on at length about the number of men whose lives and limbs the concoction had purportedly saved until William was quite convinced to try it no matter how horribly it stung.
He picked up the little pot. "My thanks."
"And dinnae be lettin’ the physicians bleed you," Morgan added. "They dinnae ken what they’re about. Willow bark tea is better for a fever than bleedin’ a man."
William forced himself to his feet, one hand on the writing table for balance. "Now it is time you went on your way. Cooke will see to it that the accounts are settled and the men paid, though it may take some time to reach all of them now that winter has set in. I regret that Haviland did not discharge his duty as he should have."
"’Twas no’ your doin’," Iain said. "Our thanks for comin’ to our aid today."
William looked from Iain to Morgan to Connor. During the long months of his captivity, he’d thought more than once about what he’d say to the MacKinnon brothers should he live to see them again. The horrors he’d seen, the pain he’d suffered, had given him a new appreciation for them and for their survival skills — and their endurance.
Still, he would not apologize. Aye, he had used foul means to press them into service, but their skill had helped ensure victory for Britain, winning accolades for William and turning the MacKinnon brothers and their men into legends.
Long after William’s name was forgotten on this frontier, men would still tell stories of MacKinnon’s Rangers.
He offered Iain his hand, struggling to find the right words. "It was an honor to be your commanding officer. I thank you for your service, however reluctant it might have been. You fought with uncommon valor."
"I cannae forgi’ nor forget what you did to me and my brothers, nor the wrongs you’ve done to Annie, Amalie, and Sarah," Iain said, taking his hand in a firm grasp, "but you are not wi’out honor. Let the enmity between us end here and now."
At those words, the weight on William’s shoulders grew lighter.
Morgan held out his hand. "You balanced the scales atween us when you helped me escape the hangman’s noose and secured my pardon. For my part, I forgi’e you."
"Of the three of you, I trusted you the most." William shook Morgan’s hand, then turned to Connor. "Tell Sarah that I…love her. Take care of her."
"I promise you she will be safe and want for naugh’ so long as there is life in my body." Connor clasped his hand, and they shook. "There have been days when I’ve cursed you. I once vowed to kill you. But many’s the time you came unexpectedly to our aid — such as today. It is those times I will remember."
Shivering with fever, William released Connor’s hand. "Farewell."
He sank back into his chair, unable to stand any longer.
"May God’s blessings go wi’ you," Connor said.
The brothers turned as one and walked out the door.
Iain paused in the doorway, looked back at him, and grinned. "Merry Christmas, Your Immensity."
As William watched them disappear down the hallway, he knew he would never see their like again.
CHAPTER 7
Sarah sat by the fire upstairs nursing little William. Down below, Annie and Amalie were busy preparing the Christmas Eve feast, the house filled with delicious scents — roasted turkey, freshly baked bread, cinnamon from pies. They’d spent most of the day cooking and baking, while Killy and Joseph had carried wood, fetched water for them, and tended to the outside chores.
All the gifts were made. The baking was done. Wood was cut and piled high. Christmas was upon them.
But the men were not yet home.
Sarah’s gaze was drawn once again to the window. Outside, heavy snow still fell, clouds concealing the late afternoon sunlight. Connor and his brothers would not make it home through this storm. Nor would she want them to try. If they should leave Albany and find themselves benighted in the forest or lose their way...
She looked down at her baby boy’s sweet face. His eyes were now closed, his tiny hands curved into little fists beneath his chin as he sucked contentedly.
"Your father will come."
God, please guide the men safely home to us!
Annie had said little about it, but Sarah knew she feared that Haviland had found some reason to detain them. Sarah prayed that was not true. She remembered only too clearly how much Haviland had seemed to hate Connor from the first moment he’d met him. She could not bear to think of him and his brothers spending Christmas in chains in the cold and dark of the garrison’s guardhouse.
She stroked little William’s cheek, seeing so much of Connor in his face. She rocked him until he’d finished feeding, then carried him to his cradle and covered him with a felt blanket, tucking a warm rabbit fur around him.
How horrified her mother would be to see Sarah covering her son with a fur, but the fur was soft to the skin and much warmer than the damask coverlet and itchy woolen blanket that Sarah had slept beneath as a child.
She bent down, kissed little William’s cheek.
From the distance, she heard that same dreadful bellowing, and knew that the bull was raging again. They’d been forced to bring him and Nessa inside the barn to protect them from the cold. But shut away from Nessa in its own stall, the animal had begun to crash its head against the stall gate, the water trough, the walls of the barn itself, defying even Amalie’s attempt to calm it.
Sarah hadn’t known any animal could be such trouble. What would Connor and his brother say when they got home and found broken planks and a bent water trough? Would they be grateful for the bull, or would they see it as a burden and her as foolish for having purchased it?
She left her sleeping son and rejoined Annie and Amalie downstairs just in time for Joseph to enter.
"That animal will not settle down." There were snowflakes in his dark hair, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He slipped out of his bearskin coat and hung it from one of the pegs by the door. "Let us hope tomorrow is a warm day, or my brothers may return to find themselves without a barn."
There was a glint of humor in his eyes, but Sarah saw nothing funny in this.
He bent down before the hearth and stretched out his hands to warm them, looking up at her, a grin on his face. "Don’t worry, little sister. All will be well."
Sarah rejoined Annie and Amalie in the kitchen and resumed peeling potatoes, ignoring the periodic bellowing from the barn. She, Annie, and Amalie talked and laughed as they worked, doing their best to remain of good cheer, while Killy and Joseph spoke together in the next room, played with Iain Cameron, and kept the dogs from getting underfoot.
Outside the window, snow fell harder, daylight fading and, with it, all hope that the men would make it home for Christmas.
Determined to have their husbands with them in spirit if not in body, the women set the table for eight, adding two extra places for Killy and Joseph, then lingered over the meal’s last preparations, arranging the Advent candles and holly wreath just so, fussing over the placement of a cup, building up the fire.
Annie wiped her hands on her apron. "’Tis time for supper."
She spoke the words with a smile on her face, but Sarah could see the worry and resignation in her eyes.
