by Pamela Clare
It was the loss of freedom that grieved her—and the certain knowledge that she would never marry, never raise children of her own. By the time she was free again, she’d be thirty-two, far beyond marriageable age. No man would find her desirable then.
And then there was the brand. What man would want to take a marked woman—a supposed convicted thief—to be his wife and the mother of his children?
Any man you try to love shall find it—and discard you.
It would accomplish nothing to protest her innocence. She knew from bitter experience that no one would believe her.
Fighting the despair she felt whenever she allowed her mind to wander down this path, Annie picked up the milk pail and had taken but three steps toward the barn door, when she heard Mistress Hawes scream. Her first thought was that the time of her mistress’s travail had come. Then she heard a sound that stopped her heart.
A dozen wild, shrieking cries.
Indians!
The air rushed from her lungs, her pulse like thunder in her ears.
Gunshots. More screams—bloodcurdling and agonized.
And Annie knew. Her master and mistress were dying—or dead.
She was alone.
Panic turned her blood to ice. She stood in the middle of the barn as if frozen, unable to breathe, staring at the half-open barn door, expecting death to charge toward her at any moment. She’d heard the stories, tales of rape, torture, and butchery that made quick death seem a blessing. But she didn’t want to die.
It was the smell of smoke that roused her.
They were burning the cabin. Nay, not just the cabin. Tendrils of smoke curled through the cracks in the barn walls, followed by sharp tongues of flame.
The horses whinnied in alarm, reared. The cow and calf bawled.
An idea only half formed in her mind, Annie dropped the milk bucket, freed first the cow and its calf, then the horses. Driven by instinct, the animals pushed through the barn and out the door.
Annie knew it was her only chance. Praying the animals would distract the attackers, she ripped the greased parchment out of the back window, lifted herself over the sill, and fell to the snowy ground below, her heart slamming in her breast.
From the other side of the barn by the cabin came cruel whoops of victory. Above her, gray smoke rolled into the early-morning sky. Before her lay a snowy field—and beyond it the dark line of the forest.
She leapt to her feet and ran, only one thought on her mind—survival.
The wooden brogues, too large for her feet, made her stumble. She kicked them off, lifted the gown, and dashed barefoot toward the safety of the trees, heedless of the snow’s icy chill. She’d just reached the forest when an arrow whizzed past her cheek.
They’d seen her!
A scream stuck in her throat, she darted blindly amongst the trees, driven by raw terror, with no idea of where she was going. Branches slashed at her skin, tore at her gown and her hair. Sharp stones and tree roots, hidden by the snow, cut at her bare feet, stubbed her toes, sought to trip her. The dark gloom of the forest closed in around her, made it hard to see.
Her lungs ached for want of breath. The muscles in her legs burnt. Her bruised feet throbbed. But still she ran. She ran until it seemed her heart would burst, until her legs were made of lead, until her breath came in sobs.
And they followed.
She could hear them laughing behind her, shouting to one another in French and some strange heathen tongue. They were running her down, hunting her like a pack of dogs, and they were enjoying it. They were predators, and she nothing but prey.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, tears of fear, of desperation, of anger. She did not want to die like this—alone in a strange land, her body fodder for wild animals. Her mind had just latched on to the words of a prayer when the ground seemed to disappear beneath her.
Down she fell, over ice and jagged rock, until she found herself lying on her belly beside a frozen creek, her face in the snow. Stunned, she lay for a moment, confused, out of breath, almost unable to move.
And then she heard it. Someone breathing hard.
She lifted her face, looked up the steep embankment, saw an Indian man. His head was bare, save for a feathered scalp lock, and his dark face was striped with red and black. Dressed in painted animal hides, he stared down at her, lips stretched in a cruel smile, then shouted back to his companions with words she did not understand.
Horror spread through her like venom, turning her stomach, leaving her mouth dry as kindling. She could see in his eyes that he planned to kill her. But not straightaway.
Shivering from cold, from fear, from pain, Annie forced herself onto her hands and knees and looked into his dark eyes. She heard herself speak, her words a hiss from between clenched teeth. “You dinnae have me yet!”
She stood, willing her unsteady legs to hold her. She would not die lying helplessly on the ground like a wounded animal.
On the embankment above, four more Indians and one French soldier appeared. The one who’d found her made his way down the steep slope, a hatchet in his hand.
Her strength all but spent, she reached down, picked up a rock, backed away from him, waiting for the right moment.
But his companions had seen. They shouted down what must have been a warning, for he looked at her closed hand and laughed.
The rock hit him squarely in the mouth, turning his mocking grin to blood.
For a moment he gaped at her as if in surprise, then he spat out a tooth, his eyes filling with rage. In the time it took Annie to take a single step backward, he’d closed the distance between them, his hatchet raised.
She had just enough time to wonder if she’d find her family waiting for her in heaven before pain exploded against her skull.
Chapter 3
Iain watched from the cover of the forest, anger grinding in his gut, as the tall Abenaki moved in on his victim.
The young woman, her body bruised and bleeding from her tumble, forced herself onto her hands and knees, her tangled golden hair dragging in the snow. “You dinnae have me yet!”
Something twisted in Iain’s chest at her soft Scottish burr, at her feminine courage, at her desperate desire to live. She didn’t have a prayer.
Poor, brave lass.
Iain and his men had broken camp and moved quickly through the forest to discover the source of the gunfire, Captain Joseph and his men guarding their flank. They’d known a party of French and Abenaki was nearby, but they’d had no idea how close, until this lass had spilled out of the forest like some pagan tree spirit, blood-hungry warriors behind her.
Now she stood barefoot, shivering in the snow in her shapeless gray gown, hair the color of sunlight hanging in a tangle to her hips. She reached down and grabbed a rock.
“Beware of this one,” one of the Abenaki shouted down to his friend with a grin. “She has a stone, and she wants to use it on your thick skull.”
Iain found himself raising his rifle to his shoulder and cocking it.
Morgan pulled the rifle down. “Iain, are you daft? You ken our orders. It’s best no’ to watch. There’s naugh’ you can do for her. Come away.”
As with any scouting mission, he and his men were supposed to move in secret through the forest and engage the enemy only when ambushed. They were to take no prisoners, unless ordered to do so. Nor were they to join in any battles they might encounter along the way, not even to protect British frontier families. Stealth was their chief aim.
Iain had given his word to obey Wentworth, and he had kept it. But Iain had his rules, too. MacKinnon’s Rangers took no scalps. They wore no uniforms. They killed no servants of the Church. Nor did they make war on women and children. From where Iain crouched amongst the trees, he could see no difference between allowing the Abenaki to kill the lass and killing her himself.
Iain jerked his rifle from his brother’s grasp just in time to see the young woman hurl the stone into the Abenaki’s face—and felt savage delight when she
struck her target. “To hell with Wentworth! I cannae sit idly by and let them rip her to pieces!”
“I grieve for the lass, too, but you risk too much! You’ll endanger the men, and Wentworth will have you flogged!”
“Let him.” Iain raised his rifle again, but he was too late.
The warrior struck her in the temple with the back of his tomahawk, and she fell like a broken doll to the snow.
Iain knew a moment of sharp regret before he realized she was not dead.
Even as the Abenaki warrior reached beneath his breechclout to free himself, she moaned, rolled onto her belly, and struggled to crawl away.
The warrior planted his moccasin in the middle of her back, held her down, while his friends clambered down the rocky slope, vultures eager for a taste of her young body.
Bloodlust pounded through Iain’s veins. They would all die. “Morgan, take the men and go. Make for the rendezvous point, but dinnae wait for me. If I am no’ there by dawn, keep movin’, aye? Complete the mission no matter what happens to me. I wouldna see Wentworth blame you.”
Morgan’s face showed he did not understand. “I ken why you’re doin’ this. She reminds you of Jeannie! But Jeannie’s dead, Iain, and you cannae help her now!”
Iain ignored the jolt of pain triggered by Morgan’s words. He’d been a hundred miles away when a war party had attacked Grant’s farm and slaughtered every living thing—man, woman, and beast. By the time he’d returned, Jeannie had been two weeks in her grave, her new husband beside her.
No, he couldn’t help Jeannie. But he could help this poor lass, whoever she was.
Connor, breathless from a scout, squatted down beside them. “There’s a force of about three hundred French and Abenaki a mile east of here. This must be their scoutin’ party. They’ve burnt out a farmstead about a mile to the north, slaughtered and scalped the man and his good wife—and she far gone with child. Joseph and his men are keepin’ an eye on the main company of the French to make certain they dinnae surprise us.”
Then Connor paused. “What in God’s name are you doin’, Iain?”
Morgan answered. “He’s gone daft.”
Iain ignored them, aimed the rifle at the Abenaki’s cold heart. “Morgan, get the men out of here. You’re in command now.”
“Let us at least fight beside you! There are six of them and one—”
“I said go! That’s an order, Captain!”
“Blast it, Iain! This is mad!” Morgan swore, hesitated for a moment, then moved silently off to do as he’d been ordered.
It was Connor’s turn to be defiant. “Have you lost your bleedin’ mind? Wentworth will have your balls for breakfast, and you’ll call the main body of the French down on our heads! Good men—men who’ve followed you since the beginning—will die!”
Connor spoke truly. The sounds of fighting and the disappearance of their scouting party would lead the French here, and they’d be able to track Iain and his men through many miles of forest, all the long way back to Fort Edward. The mission itself would be at stake. Was one woman’s life worth that much risk?
All Iain had to do was turn away. Follow orders. Let the Frenchman and the Abenaki have her. He’d seen death before, watched his men die, even left the dying to fend for themselves when duty had demanded it. Why, then, could he not leave her?
The lass tried to roll over, kicked, and screamed when the warrior began to lift her skirts from behind.
“Curse me for a fool, but I cannae abandon her. This is of my choosin’. Leave me to it. I’ll rendezvous wi’ you if I can. Go! Now!” Iain waited until Connor had disappeared into the trees behind him, whispered his clan’s motto.
“Audentes fortuna iuvat.” Fortune assists the daring.
Then he squeezed the trigger.
The ball pierced the Abenaki’s chest, and he fell lifeless beside the struggling woman.
Iain dropped his rifle, pulled his pistol free, aimed, and fired, sending the Frenchman sprawling.
With no time to reload and the element of surprise lost, Iain rushed from the cover of the forest, a war cry on his lips, a tomahawk in one hand, a knife in the other.
Startled but ready to fight, the four remaining Abenaki held their ground, answered his cry with cries of their own.
Iain hurled his tomahawk, caught the nearest one in the chest. He heard something whistling through the air and ducked to the right to avoid a war club. Then he spun about and sank his knife deep into the belly of the man who’d tried to strike him.
He heard snow crunching behind him, pulled his knife free, whirled, and threw it just as a blast from a rifle rang out. The warrior fell to the ground, Iain’s knife in his shoulder and a bullet wound in his throat, proof his brothers hadn’t followed orders but were watching over him like a couple of bloody hens. He’d kick them squarely in the arse later. But for now he had other problems.
Left only with his claymore, Iain reached behind his head, drew it from his tumpline pack, and adjusted its familiar weight in his hands.
The lone survivor, a young Abenaki barely old enough to go to war, stared at him and his long blade, terror on his painted face. “Mack-in-non?”
Iain answered in Abenaki. “Oho, MacKinnon nia.” Aye, I am MacKinnon.
The young warrior’s eyes grew wide, and he stared at Iain as if seeing an evil spirit come to life. For a moment he looked as though he would turn to flee. Then he raised his chin, tightened his grip on his knife, and charged.
He died with Iain’s blade buried deep in his chest.
Iain pulled his sword free, wiped it clean on the young Abenaki’s leather shirt, then turned toward the woman.
Hurt and no doubt terrified, she had crawled beneath some nearby undergrowth. Like a wild thing, she had gone to ground. Blood flowed freely from the wound on her temple where she’d been struck. Her feet, too, were bleeding.
He strode over to her, sword still in hand, knelt beside the bushes, and reached for her. “Come, lass, it’s over now.”
But rather than taking the hand he offered, she scooted deeper into the underbrush. “N-nay! Nay!”
Iain felt a stab of annoyance. “I just finished savin’ your life, woman! You’ve no cause to fear me.”
Then he saw her eyes. Her pupils were wide, and she seemed to look through him. He’d seen that look in men’s eyes before. She was hurt, in shock, and weak with cold.
He thrust his sword into the snow, yanked his tumpline pack over his head, and slipped out of his bearskin overcoat. Then he dropped to his knees, reached into the bushes, grabbed her around the waist, and carefully pulled her to him. He needed to warm her or she would die.
“Nay!” She cried out, a desperate, anguished plea, and fought him with surprising strength, kicking, hitting, twisting in his arms.
But she was injured and a woman and much smaller than he. He forced her into his coat, then held her fast against him, whispering repeatedly into her ear. “You’re safe now, lass. I willna hurt you.”
He knew the exact moment when her mind heard him. Her body went limp. Her head sank against his chest, and she shivered. “I-I’m s-so c-cold.”
He pulled the bearskin overcoat tightly around her. “My coat will warm you. Rest here while I scout us a path. I willna go far.”
But she had already fainted.
Annie was having the strangest dream. It seemed she was riding on the back of a great bear. He was not a fearsome bear, and he made no move to devour her. Instead, he bore her along through endless reaches of forest, keeping her warm with his soft, thick fur.
Sometimes it seemed the bear became a man. With a bonnie face and fierce blue eyes, he whispered to her, gave her water to drink, and held snow to her temple where her head ached so horribly. She wanted to ask this man his name, to ask him about the bear, to ask what had happened to her, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.
And so, lost in her dreams, she drifted.
Iain adjusted the weight of the woman on his back, pulled t
he tumpline down to the broadest part of his chest.
She whimpered in her sleep.
He was certain the constant pressure of the rope across her back hurt her, but it needed to be tight to hold her in place. If the war party caught up with them, he would need to run for cover. For her to fall from his back at such a moment would surely mean death for both of them.
He slipped his hands beneath her thighs to support her legs, checked to make certain his overcoat still covered her, then stood and made his way down the snow-covered hillside. The day had warmed considerably since the morn, and the snow was soft and gave way beneath his snowshoes. He still wore them backward and needed to be heedful of each step, lest he trip and plunge them both downhill.
While she had lain unconscious at the site of the attack, he’d taken what they needed from the men he’d killed—powder, shot, and an extra set of knives and pistols for himself; a pair of leather leggings and fur-lined moccasins for her. Then he’d cleaned his sword, knife, and tomahawk and primed and loaded the firearms. After he’d tied the leggings around her calves and slipped the warm moccasins onto her bleeding and nearly frozen feet, he’d scouted the area around the forest and quickly come up with a plan.
He’d stomped over the site of the battle in his snowshoes to confuse anyone who might try to guess numbers. Then he’d headed off at a run through the forest in the opposite direction from that which he planned to travel. When he reached the edge of a nearby cliff, he’d stopped on one foot, so as to imitate a man in midstride. He’d pulled himself into a tree, put his snowshoes on backward, and carefully lowered himself into his own tracks. He’d backtracked to her side in that fashion, hoping the Abenaki would follow his trail and conclude that he’d run off the cliff or, if they were superstitious, that he’d turned into a great bird and taken flight.
