Defiant

by Pamela Clare

  “What is in it?”

  “Dogbane. It willna hurt you. Drink.”

  While he watched, she brought the cup to her lips and drank, swallowing the bitter liquid in sips so as not to burn her tongue. When she had finished, he took the cup from her, and sat before the fire, reaching for the plate.

  “Come and eat.” He motioned to the floor beside him. “You must be hungry. You barely ate a bite last night.”

  She was hungry. She sat beside him and looked about for a fork or knife, but saw no utensils of any kind.

  “We eat wi’ our hands, lass. They’ll wash up fine afterward.”

  She followed his example, reaching first for an ash-covered cake made of ground corn, the grainy bread still warm. She tried to brush the ashes away with her hand, but when Connor ignored the ashes and ate his cake whole, she gave up and took a bite. Only then did she realize how hungry she was. She hadn’t had a proper meal since breakfast the day she was taken captive, and she found herself eating as quickly as she could.

  “Easy, lass. If you eat too fast you’ll make yourself sick. Besides, there’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry when this is gone.”

  Ashamed at her lapse in manners, Sarah sat up straighter, wiped the crumbs from her lips with greasy fingers, and chewed more slowly.

  “Now I’ve gone and made you feel bad.” He chuckled. “You’re hungry. Eat. I’m no’ tryin’ to find fault wi’ your manners. I just want your breakfast to stay in your belly.”

  Sarah ate more slowly, a heavy silence filling the lodge. How did one behave after sharing a night like last night? She didn’t know. She knew only that she was mindful of Connor in a way she’d never been mindful of anyone—every movement he made, the timbre of his voice, the now familiar scent of his skin.

  After the food was gone, Connor asked her whether she wanted more to eat. When she told him she was satisfied, he offered her fresh, cold water from his water skin, the moment strangely intimate as he held it to her lips, pouring it into her mouth while she tilted her head back and drank.

  He wiped droplets of water off her chin with his thumb, his touch sending frissons of awareness through her, her body responding unexpectedly to his familiar warmth.

  Startled by her own reaction, she drew back, her gaze colliding with his.

  He studied her for a moment, the emotion in the deep blue of his eyes unreadable. Then he got to his feet and sat on a bed platform on the other side of the lodge, a muscle working in his jaw. “We must talk, my lady. I’ve much to tell you ere we leave the village.”

  Sarah listened, disbelief warring with rage as he explained how Katakwa’s men would likely seek to ambush them once they’d left the village. “But we’ve done all their chief demanded. Surely she—”

  Connor held up his hand to quiet her. “Granny Clear Water will take no part in any attack. She cannot. She has shared food with us, smoked the pipe with us, eaten a wedding feast with us. But Katakwa’s warriors are free men and can do as they choose. They will seek to avenge their war chief.”

  It made no sense to Sarah. After all they had both suffered, why couldn’t they be allowed to leave in peace? “You won that fight. You spared his life when you could have taken it.”

  “The fight was between me and Katakwa. His men made no vows. Make no mistake, my lady. The moment we pass beyond hearing of the village, we shall be in grave danger. I must ask you to obey me wi’out question. Joseph and I will do all we can to protect you, but we need you to be strong, aye?”

  Sarah felt her chin come up. Did he think her weak? “I may be a woman and neither as strong nor courageous as you, Major, but after last night, I should hope you know that I will endure whatever I must to reach home again.”

  Emotion in his eyes grew sharp—and was gone. He rose, his face impassive. “Then let us prepare for the journey.”

  Chapter 10

  Connor checked the lacings on his leggings and moccasins to make certain they were tight and strong. Out here a broken lacing could cost a man his life. He glanced over to where Lady Sarah knelt packing strips of jerked venison into a leather pouch, then he turned to Joseph and spoke in Mahican. “I want you to stay close to the lady. It distresses her to be near me.”

  He thought back to this morning when he’d wiped drops of water off her chin with his thumb. She’d jerked back from him as if he’d burned her. And then, when he’d told her what they would face on their journey home…

  After last night, I should hope you know that I will endure whatever I must to reach home again.

  He didn’t blame her for her feelings. Aye, he had spared her the suffering Katakwa would have inflicted upon her, and he’d been as gentle as any man could have been, but in the end it was he who’d done the deed. She’d said she did not hate him, but that did not mean she felt at ease around him.

  Joseph looked up from his musket, which he had just finished cleaning. “She knows you better. She trusts you. But if that is what you want—”

  “It is.” Connor grabbed a few less important things from his pack—a spare hunting knife, a bit of chocolate, a small pot of vermilion—and started toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Joseph called after him.

  “To trade for a tunic for the lady. She’ll need something more than my shirt to keep her warm.”

  They left just before midday. Grannie Clear Water tried to escort them to the south side of the village to the trail Katakwa had used when he’d arrived with Lady Sarah. But Connor and Joseph had no intention of being guided into a well-prepared ambush. Instead, they headed due east, Connor savoring the look of vexation in Grannie Clear Water’s eyes.

  “Why do we leave by this path?” Lady Sarah asked, clearly sensing the confusion of the villagers around them.

  Joseph, in keeping with Connor’s request, answered her. “A war party lies in wait for us not far to the south of here. By heading first to the east and then to the north toward Fort Edward instead of south toward Albany, we avoid the trap and give ourselves some time. Katakwa’s men will circle back and pick up our trail, but by then we hope to be far ahead of them.”

  It wasn’t a flawless plan. Katakwa’s men knew the land far better than he and Joseph. They might guess their path, given that Fort Edward served as headquarters for the Rangers. Or they might catch up more quickly than Connor anticipated. Regardless, there were few alternatives.

  If only you truly were chi bai, laddie.

  He would give them all wings, and they would fly away, free as birds. But God had seen fit to give them legs, not wings, and leagues of cold, dark forest lay between them and safety.

  They moved into the shadows of the trees, the sounds of the village gradually fading behind them, a few young boys running alongside them, laughing and shouting to one another, showing one another how brave they were by touching Connor, the man who had defeated their war chief. Then, rosy-cheeked and out of breath, the boys turned back.

  Connor glanced over his shoulder at Lady Sarah, who’d fallen in behind him. “In the forest, we walk side by side to prevent one shot from killing two. Walk between me and Joseph that we might better protect you.”

  And the forest closed in around them.

  He felt his senses sharpen. His gaze searched the trees, watching for any movement—a branch that bobbed out of time with the breeze, a flash of color, the subtle shifting of dappled shadows that were not shadows but painted men. His ears were alert for anything out of the ordinary—the warning cries of birds startled from their perches, the snap of a twig, the whisper of an incoming arrow, unnatural silence. Even his sense of smell grew more acute out here where odors often warned of danger—the stink of a lurking bear, the scent of food cooking on an enemy’s cook fire…

  Or the lingering scent of wood smoke on a man’s skin and clothing.

  It was the latter that gave away the first sentry they encountered. The lad had probably come straight into the forest after breaking his fast at his mother’s heart
h. He had concealed himself in a thicket off to their left.

  “Can you tell us the best path to take east?” Joseph called to him in Shawnee, clearly having caught his scent, too.

  A young man slowly stood, his face painted in black and white to mimic the shadows, his eyes spitting fire at having been discovered so easily. “You don’t want to go east. You need to go south.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw Lady Sarah edge closer to him. “We willna let him harm you, lass.”

  Joseph answered the sentry in Shawnee, motioning eastward with a jerk of his head. “We go east to the river, where we will make a canoe and then take the river south.”

  The lad said nothing more, stepping back toward his post, glowering at them. He never saw the blow from Connor’s tomahawk that rendered him unconscious.

  Connor stood and walked on, his back to Lady Sarah. “Never leave an enemy capable of fightin’ at your back.”

  Out of breath, Sarah struggled to keep up with Joseph, her thighs aching, her heart beating hard. Without a word, he held out his hand and helped her over a fallen tree trunk, his gaze seeming to study her, as if looking for signs of weariness. But no matter how weary she was, she would not ask him to stop, nor did she wish to slow him.

  Somewhere in the reaches of this forest, Katakwa’s men stalked them.

  They hadn’t seen another soul since they’d passed that last sentry many hours past, but Connor and Joseph assured her the war party was out there. Connor had gone ahead to scout soon after they’d turned northward, and Sarah had not seen him since. Now sunset was fast approaching, the shadows deepening around them, the day’s warmth already gone.

  Not that Sarah was cold. Her doeskin tunic, skirts, and leggings warded off the chill far better than her gown and petticoats had done, and she didn’t have to worry about tripping on her hems or catching her skirts on shrubs and branches. Her fur-lined moccasins were tightly laced and very supple, enabling her to walk quickly despite the healing blisters on her feet.

  Still, she wasn’t accustomed to such exertions. Her thighs, sore from her forced march through the forest two days past, ached now. Her stomach was hollow with hunger. But she had endured being dragged by her tethered wrists through this same forest by a man who’d meant to enslave her. She could endure this.

  The ground grew steeper.

  How strange to think that two days ago, she’d done all she could to leave a trail, hoping to be followed. Now she was doing her best not to leave one, her gaze on her feet as she tried to step as Joseph stepped—light, swift, silent. She’d always been the best of her sisters when it came to dance lessons, their tutor praising her for her grace and poise. But out here, she felt clumsy, awkward, slow.

  She looked up, her gaze searching through the trees, but there was no sign of Connor. Thick stands of trees blocked her view, hidden hills and hollows giving an enemy countless places to hide. The mountainside was so steep she could reach out and touch the slope before her, a carpet of sodden leaves beneath her feet. Saplings and bushes arched into her path, their branches budded out, awaiting the warmth of spring.

  Something gave way beneath her foot, and she found herself falling.

  Strong arms caught her, held her fast.

  “We rest here.” Joseph led her toward a fallen log.

  Sarah shook her head and drew back, breathing hard. “I don’t need…to rest.”

  “Don’t be foolish. If you become so tired that you twist an ankle, we would have to carry you. Sit. Eat and drink. Restore your strength.”

  She sat, trying to catch her breath, frustrated with her own weakness. “I’m sorry. I’m trying…to keep up. You must think me…fainthearted.”

  He handed her an ash cake and a strip of dried venison from the pouch she had packed, his gaze meeting hers, his eyes dark. “That is not at all what I think of you, Sarah. For a woman who has spent only three days on the frontier, you show strength.”

  Feeling somewhat reassured by his words, she began to chew the salty meat, her gaze searching for some sign of Connor amongst the trees.

  He hadn’t spoken to her directly since he’d struck that first sentry unconscious, leaving Joseph to tell her whatever she needed to know. This was as it should be, she supposed. Connor was Joseph’s commander. It was right for him to take the lead. And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was avoiding her.

  You are imagining things, Sarah.

  It was surely her own unease that made her view his actions in such a way. No doubt he had seemed distant because his mind was bent upon more important matters than her tattered virtue—such as leading them all to safety. She should be grateful he was so devoted to his duty.

  And yet, she couldn’t deny that some part of her needed his reassurance, a kind word, even if she, herself, didn’t understand why. She knew only that last night had left her feeling unsettled, exposed, in need of answers to questions she couldn’t quite put into words. It was as if some secret part of her had been brought forth and laid bare before his eyes, a part of her that now lay irrevocably open and vulnerable.

  “He’s beyond the next ridge.” Joseph motioned with a toss of his head. “Don’t worry. He won’t stray far from us. Eat.”

  How had Joseph known she was thinking of Connor? For that matter, how did Joseph know where Connor was? She hadn’t seen the slightest sign of him.

  She watched Joseph while she finished eating, impressed by his skill. He stood beside her, one foot on the log, his dark gaze searching the forest, a striped feather tied to the end of a single braid, his hair hanging straight and black almost to his waist. Like Connor, he wore a checked shirt of homespun and beaded leggings, but where Connor wore breeches, Joseph wore a breechclout. A beaded tumpline crossed his chest, his pack against his back, a knife in a sheath at his side, a musket in his left hand.

  Though he was Mahican and Connor was Scottish, the two men seemed as close as brothers. They appeared able to read each other’s thoughts, anticipating what the other would do and say. It was a kind of closeness she’d never known with anyone—except perhaps Margaret.

  Of course, she hadn’t truly known Margaret’s thoughts, not until Margaret’s journal had been made public. If she had…

  If you had, what would you have done then?

  She did not know.

  Joseph caught her watching him. “Do you feel better?”

  He handed her the water skin.

  “Yes, thank you.” She drank, then handed the water skin back to him.

  “It will be dark soon. Then we will make camp, and you can rest.” He took her hand, drew her to her feet.

  “I wish all Indians were like you, Joseph.”

  He chuckled softly, his hand moving to her waist to guide her as she found her footing. “You might not say that if you knew me better.”

  Growing more cankersome by the moment, Connor worked without the light of a campfire, lashing pine boughs together for a lean-to, listening to Lady Sarah’s whispered conversation with Joseph.

  “Have you scalped men?”

  Of course he’s scalped men, lass! He’s a warrior. This is war.

  “Many.”

  Connor heard the hint of amusement in Joseph’s voice—and his already dark mood turned black.

  “Have you scalped women?” Lady Sarah asked the question hesitantly, as if she were afraid of the answer.

  Then why ask the bloody question?

  “No, not women, nor children either. I make war against men.”

  The next question caught Connor off his guard.

  “Has Major MacKinnon scalped men?”

  Connor felt himself stiffen, his hands falling temporarily idle in their task.

  “He and his brothers made a vow not to take scalps, not even if ordered to do so. They also vowed not to harm women, children, or servants of the church.”

  Joseph had answered her without answering, telling the truth, but not the whole truth. For Connor had taken that vow—but he had broken it
. Aye, he’d broken it, soaking the forests around Fort Ticonderoga in blood.

  “Surely, my uncle would not order his men to harm women, children, or priests, even Catholic priests.” There was absolute certainty in Lady Sarah’s voice, an unshakable faith that her uncle was above such bad dealings.

  How little you ken the mac-dìolain!

  Connor set the branches against the wooden frame of the shelter, then turned to face her. “Your uncle cares little for the lives of common folk, French, Indian, or British. He gave my brother a hundred lashes for savin’ a lass from ravishment and death at the hands of an Abenaki war party. He did not think her life worth savin’.”

  Connor did not tell her that he, too, had thought Iain mad for trying to save Annie. Three hundred French soldiers had been encamped not far away. Alerted by Iain’s musket fire, they’d come down on the Rangers like vengeful devils, pursuing them far south of the ruins of Fort William Henry. Good men had perished because of Iain’s actions. But in the end, it was Connor, not Iain, who felt ashamed of what he’d done—or hadn’t done—that fateful morning. If it had been left to him, sweet Annie, now his sister-by-marriage, would have died horribly.

  Of those who bore the MacKinnon name, Connor was the least.

  But none of that mattered now. The point was that Wentworth had flogged Iain for rescuing Annie, but when his own niece was in danger, he’d sent men to save her. Connor was certain Lady Sarah, as clever as she was, wouldn’t miss his deeper meaning.

  She did not disappoint him. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “That does not seem just, not when he sends you to rescue me.”

  Joseph glared at Connor, muttering under his breath in Mahican. “Why burden her heart with such knowledge?”

  Connor felt the anger leave him at Joseph’s fitting rebuke. He didn’t know what had made him speak thus to her, for Joseph was right. She hadn’t deserved that. She was not to blame for Wentworth’s actions. As much as Connor hated the bastard, Lady Sarah clearly cared for her uncle. “’Tis time for sleep. I’ll take first watch.”