Defiant

by Pamela Clare

  Joseph seemed unafraid, meeting Chilosee’s gaze, the menace in his voice as he answered unmistakable. As he spoke, she understood only one word—MacKinnon.

  Crack.

  In the distance, a musket fired.

  Connor!

  Sarah’s heart beat a staccato rhythm behind her breast. Was it Connor who had fired? Or had he been shot? Did he lie dead or dying on the forest floor?

  Chilosee glanced about, seemed to realize that he was alone, the three men who’d drunk the rum now silent. He ran toward the spot where Joseph’s gear lay and grabbed his musket, crouching down as he moved. Then his gaze traveled over the wall of forest around them—until it came to rest on Sarah.

  And in his eyes Sarah saw death.

  He bent down, grabbed a flaming brand out of the fire, and tossed it in the kindling at Joseph’s feet, then ran toward Sarah, musket in one hand, knife in the other.

  “Joseph!”

  But then Chilosee was there. He cut the cords that bound her to the tree. But before he could grab her, she rolled to the side, reached into her leggings, and drew out her knife, certain he meant to kill her. She slashed out at the hands that grabbed for her, heard Chilosee grunt, heard his musket fall to the ground. Then a big hand grabbed her wrists and pinned the hand that held the knife over her head, another hand encircling her throat, as Chilosee’s weight came down upon her, rage in his eyes. He spoke angry words she couldn’t understand, glaring down at her. And for a moment, she thought he meant to choke the life from her body.

  Then he rose, fisted a hand in her hair, and dragged her painfully to her feet, turning her away from the encampment and toward the forest.

  And they both froze.

  Connor.

  He stood before them like an avenging angel, blocking their path, his claymore raised. There was blood on the blade, on his hands, on his shirt and face. His blue eyes were cold, fierce, almost feral. His gaze traveled lightly over her, then fixed on Chilosee. Then he spoke in Chilosee’s tongue, his words rough, guttural.

  Chilosee answered, his arm encircling Sarah’s throat, cutting off her breath, his knife pressed beneath her chin. He was using her against Connor, forcing Connor to choose between saving her and saving Joseph. A cruel choice, a terrible choice.

  Rage, fierce and hot, flared to life inside her. She gripped the knife Joseph had given her tightly in her hand, then jabbed over her shoulder, striking blindly at Chilosee’s face.

  He made a strange noise, jerked back, suddenly releasing her.

  The knife was wrenched from her hand as she pitched forward onto her hands and knees, gulping in sweet, fresh air.

  Joseph.

  She staggered to her feet and turned toward him, but Connor, seeing that she was safe, turned and ran. He cut the cords that bound Joseph to the stake with a single swing of his sword, and Joseph leapt from the knee-high flames, beating his hands against the smoking fringes of his breechclout and leggings.

  Weak with relief to see both men unhurt, Sarah sank to her knees, her hands reaching instinctively to clutch her throat, rubbing away the lingering ache.

  And then she saw.

  Chilosee lay still on the ground nearby, her knife buried deep in his left eye.

  She tried to look away from the gruesome sight, but couldn’t, her body beginning to tremble. She didn’t hear Connor call her name, didn’t see the glance he shared with Joseph. But then Joseph was there, cupping her chin in his hand, looking her over, his thumb tracing the sore spot on her cheek where Chilosee had struck her.

  He called something to Connor over his shoulder, then met her gaze and grinned. “Bravely done, little sister.”

  And as he took her hands and drew her to her feet, the full weight of it hit her.

  She had killed a man.

  Chapter 12

  Connor set a punishing pace, ignoring the pain of the wound in his shoulder, pausing only to wash the blood off his hands and face and to clean his blades. Anyone encamped nearby would have heard the young Shawnee’s musket fire and would be drawn to the site of the battle, whether looking to fight or searching for plunder. Connor wanted to be far away by nightfall.

  He led them north toward the lake the Mahican called Lake of the Tall Reeds. Not only would the water enable them to evade anyone sent to track them, but the journey would also be easier on the lass. Though she struggled to keep up with Joseph, she did not weep, and she did not complain. Still, he could tell from the dark looks Joseph sent him that Joseph believed he was pushing her too hard. But better this than to force her to witness further fighting—or to lose her to the Shawnee.

  No woman should have to do what she’d done today.

  Connor could still remember the first time he’d killed a man. He’d been scarce seventeen, his warrior marks barely healed, when a tall Wyandot had ambushed him and Morgan and tried to steal the buck they’d hunted down. The Wyandot had knocked Connor’s musket from his hands and was about to drive his hunting knife into Connor’s breast, when Connor drew his claidheamh mòr from his pack, knocked the Wyandot’s blade aside, and sundered the warrior’s head from his body. Though the village had celebrated his victory, Connor hadn’t been able to forget the surprised look in the man’s eyes when he’d seen Connor’s sword and realized that he was about to die.

  How many men had Connor killed in the years since then? He did not know. But he had been raised to be a warrior. Lady Sarah had not.

  It had taken more strength than he’d known he possessed not to charge to her side the moment he’d freed Joseph from the fire. He’d wanted to hold her in his arms, to comfort her, to see for himself that she was not gravely harmed. But he’d feared his touch and the blood on his hands and clothes would only add to her distress. So he’d held himself back, leaving it to Joseph to console her.

  He glanced back over his shoulder and down the hillside. Even from a distance he could see the lines of strain on her face. She’d had little sleep and even less to eat, and still she trudged doggedly onward, driven perhaps by her noble blood or by her own strength. Aye, the lass was resilient and had more than her share of courage.

  She said something to Joseph, and he replied. Then his hand closed over hers as he helped her up the steep slope.

  And Connor felt his jaw tighten.

  God’s blood, MacKinnon! Get your mind off the lass and on the journey! You led her into one ambush already today.

  Aye, and it would not happen again.

  He drew his gaze back to the path ahead, the mountain sloping downward, the lake just visible through the trees. If they were lucky, they’d find a canoe submerged in the water not far from shore, weighted down by a cargo of stones. If not, they’d have no choice but to spend precious hours making one. At least the forest here was rich in birch, cedar, and spruce—all they needed to make a small craft.

  But would they have the time?

  Connor doubted they would see the Shawnee again. The village had spent the very flower of their manhood on a vain quest to kill him, recapture Sarah, and assuage Katakwa’s pride. They would not risk sending others. As it stood, it would be years before the village recovered its strength. But this land was home to more than the Shawnee, and most of the nations living here had strong ties to the French. Given the price that the French had placed on his scalp…

  Something moved in the underbrush ahead.

  Connor froze, held his breath.

  A doe stepped out from amongst the trees on slender legs, her ears twitching, her belly swollen with this spring’s fawn, her head turning this way and that as she watched for danger. Clearly sensing him, she moved quickly onward, making her way toward the lake, thirst calling her to drink.

  Connor waited for her to pass, then worked his way down the mountainside, stopping on a promontory that gave him a view of the entire lake below. He drew out his spying glass. The reeds for which the lake had been named rustled in the cold breeze. Geese glided silent upon the water, red-winged blackbirds waiting amongst the reeds f
or spring to come. In the distance, a bull moose foraged for tender birch sprouts along the shoreline, its growing antlers still covered in thick velvet.

  But there was no sign of any two-legged creatures.

  Connor tucked the spying glass away and looked westward toward the sun. Hidden behind clouds, it sat low in the sky. He walked down to the shoreline and searched for a sheltered place in which to make camp.

  “Connor calls you ‘brother.’ Was he raised amongst your kind?” It helped Sarah to talk. As long as she kept talking and kept moving, she didn’t have to think about what had happened—or what she’d done.

  “He was a boy of twelve summers when my father and I came across his family. They had built a small cabin on Mahican land and were trying to farm. We watched them for a time, and when autumn came we knew they would starve. Though some thought we should drive them away or let them starve, my father and I brought corn and venison and befriended them. My father taught Connor and his brothers woodcraft—how to hunt, how to fight, how to survive.”

  Now Sarah understood why Connor seemed to be just as Indian as he was Scottish. “You grew up together.”

  “We became men together.” Joseph took her hand, helping her as she clambered up a stretch of bare rock. “After their mother died, our village adopted them. My father made them part of our clan, the Muchquauh, the Bear Clan.”

  “How many brothers does Connor have?”

  “You seem very curious about him.” Joseph grinned. “Besides me, he has two—Iain, the eldest, and Morgan, the middle brother.”

  “So Connor is the youngest.” Sarah was also her mother’s last child.

  “We call him ‘the Cub.’” Joseph chuckled, clearly amused by this.

  “Where are Iain and Morgan now?”

  “They live on the MacKinnon farm with their wives and children. They were both Rangers. Iain led the Rangers until your uncle freed him. Then Morgan led them, but was cast out for marrying the daughter of a French officer.”

  Joseph’s answers only filled Sarah’s mind with more questions. What did he mean when he’d said Uncle William had “freed” Iain? Which brother had her uncle ordered flogged? Where was the farm? Was Joseph a Ranger, too? But she feared some of her questions might be perceived as impolite, so she did not ask them. Besides, speaking while trudging uphill had left her quite breathless.

  Joseph motioned to a fallen log ahead. “You should rest.”

  Sarah sat, smoothing her skirts out of habit.

  Joseph lifted his water skin from around his neck and handed it to her. “Drink.”

  As she reached for the water skin, an unwelcome image of Chilosee’s men passing the flask of poisoned rum came to mind, followed by others. Joseph bound to the stake, firewood at his feet. Men writhing in agony as poison leached the life from their bodies. Connor, covered in other men’s blood, running to free Joseph from the flames, sword in hand. Chilosee dead on the ground, her knife deep in his eye.

  Joseph pressed the water skin into her hands, calling her back to the moment. “What you did this morning—killing Chilosee—it was the act of a warrior. Do not regret ending his life.”

  How had he known the direction her thoughts had taken?

  She drank deeply, then handed the water skin back to Joseph. “I am not sorry that he is dead. I am not sorry that I killed him, though I think I shall find it difficult to forget the sight of him lying there. What troubles me is that I took a man’s life and feel not one whit of remorse.”

  There. She’d said it.

  Joseph raised one moccasin-clad foot, set it down on the log beside her, and looked down at her, his dark eyes seeming to study her. “Before the war, a white man named Jonathan Edwards came to Stockbridge to teach my people about sin, but I doubt even he could see sin in this. You defended yourself against a man who would otherwise have killed you and your friends. Perhaps you feel no regret because your spirit knows you did what was right.”

  Sarah met Joseph’s gaze, his words lifting some of the weight from her heart. She smiled. “You are a wise man, Joseph.”

  And she realized it was true.

  This man whom many in London would regard as nothing more than an ignorant savage had a deep wisdom about him of a kind she’d never encountered before.

  He grinned. “And you are strong, little sister.”

  Then his head came up, his gaze searching the forest behind her, his fingers closing around his musket. He smiled.

  Connor appeared. He spoke not a word to Sarah, but looked to Joseph instead. “If you’re done coddlin’ Lady Sarah, there’s a good place to make camp no’ far ahead.”

  Connor’s gaze met Sarah’s for the briefest moment, then he turned and was gone.

  Later, Sarah would not be able to explain why she’d said it. Perhaps she trusted Joseph, or perhaps she was too tired to keep her thoughts to herself. “Why will Connor not speak to me? Have I given him offense?”

  Joseph met her gaze. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Connor left camp, where Joseph was preparing spruce pitch and Sarah was stitching the birch-bark hull of their canoe together with split spruce roots. He walked along the edge of the lake with his pack looking for a sheltered place amongst the reeds to bathe, clean the graze on his shoulder—and cool his temper. How was it that she could smile for Joseph and yet not for him? She and Joseph conversed with ease and familiarity, but for Connor she had only wary glances.

  Dinnae act a fool, MacKinnon! You ken why.

  Aye, he did, but that did not make his sense of guilt easier to bear.

  He hadn’t gone far when he came to a place where a high wall of shale jutted out into the water, trees low to the ground on one side. He waded in the water to the other side of the wall and stripped off his clothes, setting his weapons on the ground near his moccasins and draping his bloody shirt over a nearby tree branch, the slippery shale cold beneath his feet. Then he walked out into the lake, carrying a sliver of soap with him.

  The water was icy cold. He sucked in an involuntary breath, his cods drawing tight against his body in protest as he walked in up to his waist, the cold silt of the lake bed oozing between his toes. Then he rubbed soap over his chest—and for an instant was taken aback by the womanish, soft feel of his hairless skin.

  Och, bloody hell!

  He’d forgotten about that.

  He washed the blood from his body. Some of it belonged to the men he had slain. Some of it was his—a cut on his forehead, scratches on his arms, the wound on his left shoulder where that musket ball had caught him. Another few inches to the right, he’d be a dead man. But warned by the sound of the warrior’s footsteps, Connor had rolled to the side in time to avoid a mortal wound, throwing his knife as he went and ending the lad’s life ere he could reload or move in on Connor with his tomahawk.

  Aye, the devil had taken his due today. Sometimes it seemed to Connor that the killing would never end.

  He washed first his body, then his hair. Then he ducked beneath the surface to rinse away the soap, the water so clear he could see small fish hiding in the shelter of the reeds. And in the silence of the water, he lingered, seeking…

  A moment’s stillness? A new baptism? Absolution?

  You’ll no’ find that here, laddie.

  And still, he stayed underwater, the lake’s chill soothing the aches in his muscles, smoothing the sharp edges of his temper. Only when his lungs ached for breath did he return to the surface. Feeling calmer, his body clean again, he turned back toward the shore—only to discover that his shirt was gone. A clean shirt of plain homespun he recognized as Joseph’s was draped over the branch in its place.

  Thinking Joseph had left it there for him, he strode naked to his pack, drew out a comb, and pulled the tangles from his hair, allowing his body to dry before he drew on his breeches, the sound of splashing coming from somewhere nearby. ’Twas most likely an animal—perhaps a duck washing its feathers or a raccoon looking for a meal. But the splashing persisted, and Con
nor realized it was being made not by something but rather by someone.

  Moving silently now, he took up his hunting knife and moved toward the sound on bare feet. There, fifty paces away, he found Sarah, kneeling at the lake’s edge swishing something in the water.

  His bloodied shirt.

  She was washing it.

  A warm feeling spread behind his breastbone. “You didna need to trouble yourself, lass.”

  Sarah was so caught up in what she was doing that she didn’t hear Connor approach. Startled by the sudden sound of his voice, she shot to her feet, lost her balance—and almost toppled into the lake. “Oh!”

  She felt a strong arm catch her about the waist and found herself hauled against the hardness of his bare chest, his shirt now floating in the water near their feet.

  “I didna mean to frighten you.” He looked down at her with a slight smile on his face, his voice warm, his gaze soft. His wet hair clung in thick tendrils to his chest and shoulders. His skin filled her head with the scents of soap, pine, and leather—pleasant scents, masculine scents.

  “I—I didn’t hear you coming.” She looked away, unable to bear the directness of his gaze, his touch warming her even though his skin was cold, his very nearness unsettling. “You’ve done so much for my sake. I—I wanted to wash it for you to repay your kindness in some measure. Regrettably, it seems I have little skill as a laundress.”

  He released her and stepped back. “Och, well, blood doesna easily wash away.”

  The words were spoken lightly, but the warmth had left his voice.

  She glanced up, found the smile gone from his lips, his expression unreadable, his gaze hard. Had she done something to offend him?

  Clearly, she had. But what?

  Why don’t you ask him?

  Thinking to follow Joseph’s counsel, Sarah had come here to do just that, but now that it came to it, she was afraid she already knew the answer.