His hair hung unbound, long and dark, gleaming warrior braids at his temples. He wore a shirt of whitest muslin over which was draped a great kilt of red, green, and white, presumably the MacKinnon colors. The heavy wool was arranged in thick pleats and held in place at his waist by a wide black belt. A great swath of plaid hung over his right shoulder, its end tucked beneath the belt, the plaid’s hem reaching his knees. On his feet were brogues of black leather with polished brass buckles, hose of white wool covering the muscles of his lower legs to the knee. In the band of his hose was a dirk with a handle of horn, a dagger sheathed at his hip.
He met her gaze, gave a slow bow of his head. “My lady.”
Somehow Sarah found the breath to speak. “Major MacKinnon.”
But her rush of joy at the sight of him was cut short.
“This is an outrage!” Haviland huffed. “I shall have him removed at once and locked in the guardhouse, my lord.”
Alarmed, Sarah looked from the enraged Colonel Haviland to Uncle William, who held up his hand for silence. Though his countenance was solemn, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Major MacKinnon, won’t you join us?”
“But, my lord, he is clad in outlawed rebel attire. The Dress Act expressly forbids—”
“I am not blind, Colonel, and I am familiar with our laws.”
Sarah fought back a smile.
Colonel Haviland lowered his voice, leaned in toward Uncle William. “He was invited to pay his respects to your niece, my lord, and he has the gall to—”
“I
am
payin’ my respects to the lass!” Connor’s deep voice filled the room, cutting Colonel Haviland off altogether.
But Sarah understood, even if the others did not, and her throat grew tight to think of the honor he’d done her tonight, attending not as one of her uncle’s officers, not as a Ranger, but as his truest self—Connor MacKinnon, the man.
He came to stand before her, took her hand, bent to kiss it, his lips warm and soft, the contact sending frissons of awareness skittering up her arm. “My lady.”
Aware that Uncle William was watching, Sarah fought to conceal the great surge of love that welled up inside her, secreting it away behind a mask of cool reserve. “Welcome, Major.”
C
onnor looked into Sarah’s eyes and knew he’d been a fool to come.
Like a vision, she stood resplendent before him in a gown of shimmering blue the color of her eyes, the cloth embroidered with tiny flowers made of gold thread. The gentle swells of her breasts were exposed above her bodice, her hair drawn back from her face, soft honey-gold curls hanging over one shoulder. The gown’s skirts were overly wide at the hips—an oddity of court fashion, no doubt—but this only had the effect of making her small waist seem tiny, her rounded hips even fuller.
It did not help matters that Connor knew what lay beneath the gown.
You should’ve stayed in your cabin, lad.
Aye, that he should have.
But it was too late now, for he was here.
Part of Connor wanted to fall at her feet and tell her that his days were dark, bereft of light, music, and joy without her, his nights beset by troubled dreams. He wanted to tell her that the very sight of her made his heart sing. He wanted to tell her that no lass had ever been more beautiful, more gracious, or more gifted than she.
But he could say none of this.
Reluctantly, he released her hand. “’Tis a joy to see you lookin’ so well.”
And she
did
look well, her bruises healed, the dark circles gone from beneath her eyes, her creamy skin seeming to glow
in the light of so many candles. And he wondered if she’d found the will to tell Wentworth why her parents had sent her away.
Her lips curved in a sweet smile. “If I am well, it is only because you, Captain Joseph, and Uncle William have done so much to ensure my safety.”
It was then he noticed she still wore the band of wampum Joseph had given her, the purple and white shells glittering at her throat. He knew she wore it to honor Joseph, who ought to have been here to partake in the celebration but who, by virtue of his Indian blood, had not even been invited. And Connor’s admiration for her grew.
As the others drifted into conversation, she lowered her voice. “How is Joseph?”
“He fares well, my lady. He sends his good wishes. The men send theirs as well. They miss the beauty of your playin’.” He paused for a moment, then spoke for her ears alone. “As do I.”
“Please give them all my regards.” The words were spoken evenly, but Connor saw in her eyes that she longed to say more.
But then Wentworth was calling them to sup.
Connor had never dined at Wentworth’s board before, but he knew from Iain that he could expect a rare feast. And, indeed, there was a sight to make the mouth water.
While Connor’s men sated their hunger on boiled beef, salted pork, tatties, and ash cakes and slaked their thirst with spruce beer and rum, Wentworth’s table groaned under tureens of soup, dishes of roasted turnips, potatoes, and carrots, and plates of boiled fish, roasted beef, and duck. Bottles of wine stood amongst the dishes, each place set with white-and-blue porcelain plates and bowls, fine crystal glasses, and silver forks, knives, and spoons.
So many dishes. So many glasses. So much gibbletry.
What need had a man of such things just to fill his belly? No wonder he’d had to show Sarah how to eat with her fingers.
Connor sat where he was asked to sit, Haviland across from him, Wentworth at one end of the long table, Sarah at the other. Not entirely certain how to comport himself at such a table, he resolved to watch as the others served themselves, then do as they’d done.
But Sarah had anticipated his difficulty and, with a subtle touch, glance, or gesture, guided him through the meal,
showing him which fork to use and how to hold it, which glass took the red wine and which took port.
Although the fare was unsurpassed, the conversation left much to be desired, as Wentworth’s officers, apart from Cooke, made fools of themselves, trying to impress Sarah with tales of their own military prowess. Haviland was in the midst of exaggerating his role in last summer’s capture of Fort Ticonderoga, where he would assume command next week—assuming Connor didn’t kill him first.
The fort fell wi’out a fight, the French fleein’ at our approach, as you bloody well ken, you neach dìolain!
Weary of Haviland’s boasting and hearing the men speak only of themselves, Connor cut across them. “Lady Sarah is an accomplished musician.”
Sarah’s face flushed at these words, her gaze meeting his.
Haviland glared at Connor, clearly vexed at no longer being the topic of discussion. “Whatever does a Scottish rustic know of music?”
“We Scots are quite fond of music.” Connor kept the tone of his voice mild.
“Jigs? Reels? You call that music? And those pipes? Only Gaels would create a musical instrument that, when played, sounds like some wild animal dying.” Haviland laughed at his own jest, though the others had the good sense to remain silent. “At Culloden, we shot the pipe players just to silence the infernal instruments.”
Connor felt blood rush to his head, rage white hot in his gut.
Before he could respond, however, Sarah spoke. “I found the music in Ranger Camp to be delightful. Musically speaking, there is little difference between a jig or a reel and a violin suite. As for an instrument that sounds like a dying animal, sir, I suggest you listen to a new player trying to master the oboe.”
The men chuckled, Haviland looking truly fashed to have been thus rebuked. And Connor’s anger was blunted—for the moment.
“What MacKinnon says is true.” Wentworth, who’d said little until now, smiled. “When Lady Sarah was but five years old, I brought her to court, where she performed in a private audience before His Majesty.”
The men all gaped at her.
Connor shared their surprise. He hadn’t known this.
Lieutenant Cooke leaned in, ever solicitous. “You must have been terrified!”
Sarah dabbed her lips, lips Connor wished he could kiss, with her serviette. “On the contrary, sir. I was so little that I did not understand the honor being done me. In fact, I scarce remember it.”
Wentworth leaned back in his chair, adjusting the lace at one wrist. “She entered the room, curtsied, then had to be lifted onto the harpsichord bench, where she sat on upon a cushion. She began to play, and when His Majesty laughed, delighted by her, she stopped, politely asked him to be quiet, then went back to playing.”
The men laughed.
Connor saw something on Wentworth face he’d never seen before—true affection. And he found himself wondering how he’d gotten into this predicament, how he’d come to care for the niece of the man he most hated, the man he’d vowed to kill.
Then, in the next moment, Wentworth was called away. When he reappeared, he asked his officers to join him to discuss a matter of some importance. “We shan’t be long. Major, do try to be good company.”
And then Connor and Sarah were alone. They both rose, rounding the table to stand before one another.
“Connor, I—”
“Sarah, lass, have you—”
They spoke at the same time, the masks each of them had been wearing all evening falling away. Connor waited for Sarah to speak.
“I have missed you so very much! I cannot bear being parted from you!” She reached for his hands.
It was in Connor’s mind to pull away. But his fingers threaded with hers, and he drank in the feel of her, the contact setting his pulse to racing. “Have you told him?”
She nodded. “He believed me, just as you did.”
“I am glad.” Connor felt a weight and a worry slide from his shoulders.
“Uncle William says he’ll help me to find a husband if he can. I told him the qualities I wanted in a husband only to realize
later that the man I had described was
you
. Oh, Connor, how can I marry any other when I love—”
“Shhh.” He pressed his fingers to her lips to still her, traced them with his thumb, aching to kiss her. “We cannae be together. You ken that. Wentworth would see me dead afore he suffered me to touch you. Do you truly believe you’d be happy livin’ in a wee cabin, wearin’ homespun instead of silk, suppin’ on venison and johnnycakes, livin’ wi’ the dangers of the frontier outside your front door?”
“Yes, if it meant I could be with you!” She glared up at him, defiant. “I’ve never been happier than I was when I was with you.”
“We had our time, a few sweet stolen days. No one can take that away from us, and I will treasure it in my heart till my last breath. But now we must let each other go—each of us for the sake of the other. I do not wish to see you further shamed and alone, nor do you wish to see me flogged, gelded, or hanged. Nay, lass. Your uncle cares for you. He’ll help you find a good man who will cherish you, give you children—”
Something bumped against the wall.
They quickly resumed their seats, just as Wentworth entered again.
Wentworth held up a black silk scarf. “Stand, my dear, while I blindfold you. I’ve a surprise for you.”
Clearly still shaken from their private conversation, Sarah stood, submitting trustingly to the blindfold. “A surprise?”
“To celebrate your safe return.” Making certain she could not see, Wentworth led her from the room. “Come along, Major.”
Connor picked up his wineglass—what he really need was a bottle of strong scotch—and followed, his pulse still pounding. He stepped through the doorway and stopped, his heart giving a hard knock, his throat going tight.
Wentworth stopped Sarah and removed the blindfold. “Behold.”
Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks, and for a moment Connor feared her knees would give way. “Oh!”
She took one step, then another.
The harpsichord stood against the wall, its gilt sides painted with elaborate floral designs and cupids, the top raised to show
a pastoral scene with a Greek temple and white horses, a matching bench with a black velvet cushion set before it.
She turned back to look at Wentworth, tears on her cheeks. “Oh, Uncle!”
Wentworth held out his arms. “You may express your pleasure.”
Sarah rushed into Wentworth’s arms, pressing a shy kiss against his cheek before withdrawing again, her gaze meeting Connor’s.
Something in his chest was breaking, the pain sharp, but Connor managed a smile. “I would hear you play, my lady.”
She smiled, walking toward it as if it were a shrine. “It is beautiful!”
She drew out the bench, arranged her voluminous skirts, and sat. But rather than playing, she ran trembling hands lightly over the two rows of keys, caressing them like a lover. With a shaky breath, she positioned her fingers, her hands seeming impossibly small for the task. Then she closed her eyes—and began to play.
A few simple notes at first, those notes quickly fell into a rhythm, one delicate hand building on the music played by the other, the notes weaving together, repeating, spilling over one another. Her fingers did not stumble as she played, moving flawlessly over the keys, music filling the room until it seemed impossible it should be the work of only two hands, the beauty of it making the ache in Connor’s chest swell.
And it hit Connor with the force of a lead ball, ripping his chest wide open.
He loved her. He loved Lady Sarah—daughter of a Sassenach marquess, great-granddaughter of the heretic who sat upon the throne, niece of the man he’d vowed to kill. He loved her with every fiber of his being, with his very soul, with everything he was and everything he ever would be. He would never be able to stop loving her.
His beautiful Sarah.
Wentworth’s Sarah. Lady Sarah Woodville.
Some part of him cried out that she
was
his. They’d been wed according to the traditions of the frontier. He’d taken her maidenhead. He’d made love to her, and she’d made love to him, and they’d found joy in it. She had never repudiated him, nor he her. She was
his
!
But then he tried to picture her at the MacKinnon farm, milking cows, sweeping and scrubbing, darning his socks by firelight, Wentworth visiting for Christmas, sleeping in the loft above the barn, his grandnephews and grandnieces crawling on his lap.