Defiant

by Pamela Clare

  No’ now, lass.

  Around the corner from the public square, they came to a grand, big house with tall glass windows, the Union flag flying from a staff above its wide front doors. The place had a familiar look about it, though Connor could not place it. He followed his brothers inside and up a flight of stairs, a sense of misgiving coming over him that grew with each awkward step. How could they be in this bloody predicament when they were innocent?

  “We didna do it.” His words were answered with silence.

  At the top of the stairs, the young lieutenant turned to the right and led them down a short hallway to a closed door. He knocked.

  A deep and very English voice answered. “Enter.”

  Connor found himself being shoved through the doorway after his brothers, the redcoats with the bayonets pressing in behind. There in the center of the room sat a foppish Sassenach officer playing chess, his bronze gorget shining, fine lace at his throat and wrists, his fingertips pressed together as he considered his next move. He took no notice of them, his gaze fixed on the checked board with its small marble figures.

  Overcome with contempt, Connor opened his mouth to speak, but held his tongue at a warning glance from Iain.

  Och, bloody hell!

  The lieutenant who’d brought them bowed. “They are here, my lord.”

  So the fop was not only an officer, but also a lairdie.

  His Worshipful Lordship raised a finger for silence and continued to study the chessboard, giving Connor time to study him. His brows were dark, his features manly, his jaw cleanly shaven. But his skin was pale like a woman’s, his hands free of calluses—proof that he’d never done a lick of honest work in his accursed life.

  Connor’s gaze wandered over the portraits of bewigged nobility on the papered walls, the bookcase with its leatherbound tomes, the writing table with its lavish quill, crystal inkpot, and silver candelabra. Whoever he was, the bastard had wealth aplenty.

  Then at last, the Sassenach laird picked up a black pawn and moved it forward one space.

  He stood, turned to face them. He was of a goodly height, almost as tall as Connor, though Connor was certain he and his brothers outweighed him by a good two stone. Through cold gray eyes he gazed first at Connor, then Morgan. Then at last his gaze fixed on Iain and remained.

  “I am Iain MacKinnon. These are my—”

  A redcoat drove the butt of his musket into Iain’s gut, forcing the breath from his lungs and doubling him over.

  Connor took a step toward him, fists clenched, his face hot with rage.

  “You’ll speak when spoken to!” the younger officer shouted in Iain’s face.

  “That’s enough, Lieutenant.” His lordship dismissed his underling with a flick of his wrist, then turned and poured himself a brandy. “I know much about you, Iain MacKinnon. These two men beside you are your brothers, Morgan and Connor. You arrived in New York as boys and grew up on the frontier, where you spent time amongst the heathen and learned to speak several Indian tongues. Your father, Lachlan MacKinnon, died three winters past, your mother, Elasaid Cameron, several years earlier. Your grandsire was Iain Og MacKinnon, barbarian lord of the MacKinnon Clan and the Catholic traitor who helped the Young Pretender escape justice after my uncle’s victory at Culloden.”

  At those words, Connor’s blood went cold. There wasn’t a loyal Highlander alive who didn’t loathe Butcher Cumberland to his very soul. Son of the Sassenach king, the bastard had broken the clans at Culloden, then ravaged the Highlands, slaughtering all who were loyal to Prince Charlie, burning villages to the ground, destroying crops, and leaving the survivors to starve. His men had been about to slay Iain though he was no more than a lad, when their grandfather had come down to face them, giving himself into captivity in exchange for Iain’s life.

  If his lordship was the Butcher’s nephew…

  Connor’s heart began to pound, his chest tight.

  As if from a distance, he heard Iain’s voice. “Then you are—”

  The neach dìolain smiled, brandy still in hand. “Lord William Wentworth, third son of Robert Wentworth, Marquess of Rockingham, who is consort to Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Sophia. My grandsire—well, no doubt you can deduce who he is.”

  A man would have to be a halfwit not to work it out.

  His grandsire was the wee German lairdie whose arse befouled the throne.

  Somehow—Connor couldn’t fathom it—Iain kept his tongue in check. “Why have you brought us here?”

  Wentworth sipped his brandy, taking a good long time to answer. “From what I understand, you’re soon to be hanged for murder.”

  Connor looked to Morgan and Iain, saw stunned surprise on their faces.

  “We’ve no’ been convicted, nor has there yet been a trial.” How could Iain sound so calm when it was clear that the Sassenach had already judged them guilty? “The accusation is false. There’s been some kind of mistake.”

  Connor could hold back no longer. “What evidence do you have against us?”

  Wentworth set his drink aside and met Connor’s gaze. “Sometime during the night, the three of you encountered and killed Henry Walsh—the man you grappled with yesterday afternoon outside my window.”

  That’s why this house seemed familiar. They had passed it yesterday on their way into town. Walking by, they’d come across a man beating a woman—a whore he’d used and wished to cheat of her fee—and had intervened, forcing him to pay. But the man had been alive and well when they’d left him.

  “That’s a bloody lie! We didna—” Connor’s words were cut off as a musket butt struck him in the ribs once, twice, breath leaving his lungs in a rush of pain. Doubled over, he clutched his side, struggling to breathe.

  When Iain spoke next, his voice was tight with rage. “Your men will no’ strike him again, or I’ll show you just how much barbarian blood runs in my veins!”

  Wentworth’s reply was cool. “I’ve already seen you fight. In fact, it’s because of your barbarian blood, as you put it, that I’m prepared to offer you an…arrangement.”

  Still holding his side against the pain, Connor glanced back and forth between Iain and Wentworth, knowing that nothing good could come of an agreement with so despicable a man.

  “What kind of arrangement?” Iain didn’t trust the bastard either. Connor could hear the misgiving and hesitation in his voice.

  “I’ll see to it personally that all charges against you and your brothers are suspended. In exchange, you’ll take up the leadership of a Ranger unit under my command and fight for your sovereign against the French and their Indian allies.”

  Connor opened his mouth to shout the bastard down.

  But Iain laughed. “You’re daft!”

  “Am I? His Majesty needs men who know the land and the ways of the Indians if he is to successfully pursue his interests on this continent. And without my help, you and your brothers will surely be hanged.”

  Iain wasn’t laughing now. “What proof do you have against us?”

  “Why, in addition to the dead body, any I choose to offer, of course.”

  And then it was clear.

  This Sassenach lordling had contrived all of this to press Iain into service. He’d watched Iain struggle with this Henry Walsh yesterday, had seen he was good in a fight, and wanted Iain’s sword. And unless Iain agreed to fight for the British, the three of them would hang.

  Connor’s pulse pounded in his ears, his heart thrumming with rage.

  “’Tis slavery!” Iain’s face was unnaturally pale.

  Wentworth voice dripped with icy arrogance. “’Tis your duty to serve your king, whether by your free will or not.”

  But the man who sat upon the throne was not their king.

  When Iain spoke next, his voice quavered with suppressed fury. “If I accept, what will become of my brothers?”

  Och, for the love of God! Was Iain truly considering the whoreson’s offer? ’Twould be better to die at the end of a rope!


  “Your brothers will be free to go as they please, while you will be given beating orders and funds sufficient to piece together and outfit a company of one hundred fifty men such as you judge fit for ranging service. You will report to me at Fort Edward by August the twenty-first and serve me until death releases you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.”

  “Dinnae do it, Iain! Curse him!” Morgan shouted, before switching to Gaelic. “Let the devil bugger him—and the whore of a mother who bore him!”

  “I’m no’ afraid to die.” Connor met Iain’s gaze, saw the anguish in Iain’s eyes, and spoke in English so the lordling could hear. He would not let his life be used against his brother. “Let them hang us! We willna be the first Highlanders murdered by English lies, nor the last.”

  Wentworth watched Iain through cold eyes. “What say you?”

  “Bugger him, Iain!” Connor shouted.

  “Dinnae do it!” Morgan urged. “Let them hang us!”

  Iain looked over at Morgan and Connor, resignation on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, drew a breath. “I accept.”

  Connor watched the joy and youth drain from Iain’s face, saw the astonishment on Morgan’s. Then he looked over at the bastard mac an uilc who had brought this down upon them. And in that moment he made a silent vow.

  One day, Lord William Wentworth would die at his hand.

  Chapter 1

  March 20, 1760

  Northwest of Albany

  Lady Sarah Woodville struggled to keep up with her captor, her lungs aching for breath, a dagger-sharp stitch in her side. Taking no pity on her, he drew her onward, holding fast to the leather cord that bit into her wrists. Her toes and fingers were pinched from cold, her thighs burning from the steep uphill climb. Each step was agony, her feet blistered, heels rubbed raw by the wet leather of her new shoes. And yet she dared not ask him to stop nor even slow him.

  She knew he would kill her.

  She’d been sailing with Mrs. Price, her chaperone, and, Jane, her new lady’s maid, from New York up the Hudson River toward Albany, where she’d planned to plead with Uncle William to aid her, when the captain had encountered ice floes that all but blocked the river. He’d tried to navigate his way around them, but he’d run the ship aground on a sandbar just off the western bank. Apologizing profusely for his error in judgment, he’d sent straightaway for help, assuring Sarah that Albany was not far upriver.

  But Mrs. Price’s stomach had been unable to tolerate the awkward tilt and rocking of the stranded ship. To help ease her mal de mer, the captain had rowed her, Sarah, and Jane ashore, together with a few other passengers who likewise felt queasy. But they’d no sooner set foot on the embankment than she’d heard a musket fire and the captain had fallen dead.

  Then the most terrible screams that could be conceived had come out of the forest, followed by painted men with muskets, knives, and hatchets. And within a matter of moments, everyone who’d left the ship, apart from Sarah, Jane, and a young boy, had been slain, their bloody scalps hanging from beaded belts.

  Uncle William will send soldiers. He might even send his Rangers.

  Sarah had counted eight attackers, but she could see only three now—her captor and the two who held Jane and the boy. Only rarely did the Indians look back at their prisoners, and then never with concern, their faces terrible to behold, painted in shades of red and black, their heads shaved bare apart from a single lock of hair that hung from each man’s scalp, their bodies clothed in tanned and painted hides.

  And to think that only yesterday she’d told Jane she hoped to see an Indian.

  How long they walked Sarah could not say. The pain in her feet became unbearable, and yet she had no choice but to bear it, following where she was led. The Indians picked a path through towering pines, avoiding the snow whenever they could, the ground slanting upward, dark forest all around them. And then in the distance, Sarah heard it—the spirited tattoo of military drums.

  Soldiers!

  The Indians heard it, too. They stopped, spoke to one another in hushed words Sarah could not understand. Jane leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath, her thick red hair having fallen from its pins to hang down her back in a long braid. The boy glanced up at Sarah, fear in his green eyes, his face smattered with freckles. Dressed in homespun, he had the look of the frontier about him. How old was he? Nine? Ten? Had his family been amongst those slain?

  The poor child!

  Sarah’s mind drifted to thoughts of her own family. What would they do when they got word she’d been taken by Indians? Would Papa and Mother regret sending her away, or would they blame her for having left the safety of New York? If only she’d been the daughter Mother had wanted her to be and not so bent upon her music. There would have been no scandal, and she would be safely at home in London, far from this wild and terrible place.

  The boy moved closer to her, as if seeking a mother’s comfort.

  Do not think only of yourself, Sarah, for shame! You are eighteen. He is but a child.

  She smiled, offering him silent encouragement.

  Then their captors turned and looked down at them as if noticing them for the first time. The one who held her tether reached out, took a lock of her hair between his fingers and rubbed it, his dark eyes boring into hers. She felt her heart shrink under his cold stare, but willed herself to meet his gaze unflinching, refusing to let him see how deeply he frightened her.

  Never reveal your true self to those who do not truly love you.

  Lady Margaret’s words came to her, an echo from long ago and far away.

  Then again she heard it—the beating of drums.

  As abruptly as they had stopped, the Indians began to move again, dragging Sarah and the others along, faster this time, first uphill, then down, until the pain in Sarah’s feet was so excruciating she had to fight not to cry out, tears in her eyes. Then, at last, the Indians stopped, giving them leave to rest near a frozen stream at the base of the hill, even releasing their bonds, as if they knew their captives were too exhausted to escape.

  One of the Indians handed Sarah a water skin and motioned for her to drink. This she did and gratefully. But when she reached to hand the skin to Jane, it was yanked from her grasp.

  Her captor knelt down before her, a pair of moccasins in his hands, and she watched, astonished, as he discarded her tattered shoes and torn stockings, bathed her blisters in water from the water skin, then slipped soft, warm moccasins over her feet. His face a mask of cold indifference, he stood and strode off to talk with the others.

  And for a moment, Sarah was alone with Jane and the boy. She met the boy’s gaze. “You’re a very brave young man. What is your name?”

  “Thomas Wilkins, miss.” Thomas gave her a sad smile, his gaze dropping to her moccasins. “I think they’re goin’ to be keepin’ you alive at least.”

  His words caught her by surprise. “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

  “They gave you water and moccasins, but not us.” His gaze dropped to her feet again. “They think our soldiers can’t track you if you’ve got moccasins on your feet.”

  “But what about you, Thomas, and you, my sweet Jane?”

  Not much older than she, Jane had been Sarah’s most faithful companion since she’d been sent to New York to stay with Governor DeLancey. Jane hadn’t turned up her nose at Sarah like the others, but had shown her sympathy and understanding despite the scandal. Since Lady Margaret’s death, she had been Sarah’s only friend.

  She gave Sarah a tremulous smile. “You shall go on, I think, my lady. But I fear we two shall be tomahawked in this lonely place.”

  A chill that had nothing to do with the cold slid down Sarah’s spine. “No! Do not say such a thing! They gave me moccasins only because my feet were blistered.”

  But a glance told her Jane’s feet were blistered, too.

  Then the Indians returned. One hauled
Sarah upright while the other two went to stand behind Jane and Thomas. Jane met Sarah’s gaze, reaching with bound wrists to clutch the boy’s hands between hers. “We shall be brave, shall we not, Thomas?”

  “No!” Sarah cried, panic like ice in her blood, her knees going weak. “Please—”

  A rough hand closed over her mouth, strong arms lifting her off the ground, forcing her to turn away as Jane’s voice called after her.

  “God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!”

  For hours, they walked through endless stretches of darkening forest, Sarah struggling to keep up, the soldiers’ drums no longer to be heard, wolves howling in the distance. But as they went on, a strange thing happened. She became less afraid, as if the bonds on her wrists—and the men who held her captive—were nothing more than a dream.

  Surely, Jane and young Thomas would be along soon. Perhaps they were being taken through the forest by a different path. Or perhaps the soldiers had found and freed them. Those same soldiers would likely find her at any moment and free her, too.

  But night fell, and still she saw no glimpse of Jane or Thomas.

  Then, through the dark, she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. As they drew near, she realized it was the Indians’ encampment. Surely, Jane and Thomas were waiting there for her. New vigor filled her weary limbs, and she hurried forward, eager for the fire’s warmth and some sign of her companions. But they were nowhere to be seen.

  Confused, fighting despair and exhaustion, she sat before the fire, shivering, her woolen traveling cloak offering little protection against the cold, her gown tattered and damp. She drank when she was made to drink and ate when food was placed in her hands. Once, she started to hum without realizing it—the air from Master Handel’s keyboard suite in E major—only to be struck across the face.

  She gasped, held her cheek, fighting tears. Until this morning, her biggest fear had been being forced to marry a man she could not love—or living the rest of her life alone in shameful spinsterhood, so tainted by the scandal that even her family’s wealth could not procure a desirable match. How insignificant those troubles now seemed! She would likely be killed ere either fate could befall her.