Connor had asked himself this question many times, but he’d never answered it. “I suppose we’d have joined the militia.”
It was not like them to let other men bear their share of the burden.
“Instead of being mere soldiers in the militia, you became Rangers—heroes to the families of this frontier. When I walk into a pub, nobody knows who I am, but they know you and your brothers. They won’t even permit you pay for your ale.”
“We’ve already paid, Cooke. The men we’ve ordered into battle, the friends we’ve watched die. I had a ball dug out of my shoulder. Morgan nearly lost a leg and his life. Aye, we paid—in pain and blood.”
And yet had Wentworth not forced them to fight for him, Iain would have married Jeannie Grant, not Annie, and poor Annie would have died a terrible death. Morgan would never have been taken captive by the French and would never have met Amalie, who would most likely have become a nun. And Connor…
He wouldn’t have been there to save Sarah from captivity.
“I shall see these documents delivered at once to Albany. You and your brothers are free to leave the army. I ask but two things from you.”
“Aye?” The lad had gall to ask them for anything.
“See this war through to the end. The British army needs the Rangers, and the Rangers need a leader. They need you.”
Connor would think on it. “And the second?”
“I ask for your forgiveness.”
Connor saw the regret on Cooke’s face.
Sarah lifted her gaze to Connor’s and spoke out of turn, as if she hadn’t heard their conversation, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I find it most difficult to reconcile the uncle I loved with the man who did such terrible things.”
And Connor knew what he must do—for Sarah’s sake.
He met Cooke’s gaze. “I forgi’e you.”
And five years of fury dissipated inside his chest, a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying lifting from his shoulders.
S
arah and Connor were married with Captain Cooke, twenty-odd Rangers, and Captain Joseph and his men as witnesses. Father Delavay, whose presence on the island so shocked the poor captain that he could do nothing at first but stare, led them through their vows, binding their hands together with a strip of MacKinnon plaid.
The bride, who had lost most of her gowns in the attack, wore a simple gown of cotton, a bouquet of wildflowers that Joseph had picked for her in her hands. Instead of jewels, most of which had been lost in the ambush, she wore a band of wampum at her throat. But what the men around her noticed most was her face.
It shone with joy as if she were lit from within.
The groom wore the MacKinnon plaid over a white muslin shirt, his sword at his hip, a dirk in his hose. He had no ring for his bride, but his gaze was fixed on her. When he promised to love her, to be faithful to her, to care for her, to worship her with his body, and to share his worldly goods with her, not a man present doubted he would do so until the day he died.
Perhaps it was a sign of the blessings bestowed upon the happy couple, or perhaps it was mere chance, but when Connor kissed Sarah, she gasped and rested a hand on her belly, her eyes wide with wonder. “The baby—I felt it move!”
“S
arah, it is time.”
Sarah’s fingers fell still, the last notes fading to silence. She caressed the precious harpsichord keys with her fingertips, bent down, and pressed her cheek to the polished and gilt wood. She sorrowed less for the music she would not play upon it than for the man who had given it to her. It had been a beautiful gift, though not the greatest gift he had given her.
Good-bye, Uncle William. I forgive you, and I love you still.
She felt Connor’s hand on her shoulder.
There was true regret in his voice when he spoke. “I wish we could bring it wi’ us, but it doesna fit in any of the wagons.”
“I understand.” Not wishing to hurt Connor with her tears, she wiped them away and rose from the bench.
Behind Connor stood Captain Cooke, waiting to bid her farewell.
He bowed, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I have already dispatched a letter to London informing your parents of your tragic death. It is the first time I can recall being happy to write such a letter. I wish you every happiness in your new life. You are a lady of great talent and courage. Your uncle was very proud of you.”
Sarah willed herself to smile. “I thank you for your faithful service to Britain, to my uncle, and to me, Captain. May God bless you and keep you safe—always.”
The captain turned to Connor. “Major, I shall carry word of all that has happened to your brother Iain at Crown Point.”
“You’ll inform him that our name has been freed of taint?”
“Yes. Whether he remains with the Rangers will be
his decision.” Cooke held out a hand, which Connor accepted. “I hope to see you again. It has been an honor serving with you.”
“Likewise, Captain. God go wi’ you. And sorry about the wee mishap wi’ the bridge.”
The men laughed.
Sarah walked with Connor to the fort’s gates, where Joseph and his men waited to escort them. There the wagon had been made ready. Drawn by two draft horses, it held not only Sarah’s surviving trunk with gowns and petticoats, but supplies for the farm and her inheritance from Uncle William—his jewelry, some of his personal effects, and almost three thousand British pounds. It was a small fortune considering that Connor was paid only ten schillings a day. Although the money and jewelry belonged by right to her husband, Connor insisted that the coin was hers to do with as she pleased.
Sarah did not relish the prospect of more travel. She’d had her fill of journeys. Never again did she want to sail on a boat, walk long leagues through a forest, float in a canoe, or ride in a wagon. She wanted to be
home
.
But what would home be like?
In her mind, she saw a cabin like the one they’d shared in the forest, with a greased parchment window and a stone hearth. There would be a kitchen garden not far from the door, a woodpile on the side of the house, and a small barn. And all around them would be the forest. She wondered how they would fit three families with five babies inside the cabin’s walls and how they would have any privacy, but she trusted they would make it work somehow.
So convincing was this image of the small cabin in the woods that Sarah was utterly unprepared for the sight that awaited her when, two long days later, they came round a bend in the rutted road and the MacKinnon farm spread out before her.
The house was wide and two stories high with windows of glass, not greased parchment. Beside it was a second house, very much like the first, but not quite finished. A large barn and several smaller sheds stood to the east of the houses. Tidy fields stretched along both sides of the road, their crops well tended. An orchard stood behind the barn, its trees leafy and green. Chickens strutted and pecked at the dirt. Horses grazed in a
nearby paddock, cows and their calves in another. And on the periphery, downwind, was a pen with hogs.
Sarah found Connor watching her, an amused grin on his handsome face. “Did you think you’d be livin’ in a hovel?”
Their arrival was announced by two large gray dogs, which bolted from the front steps and bounded down the road toward them, barking, their shaggy tails wagging.
“You witless beasts!” Joseph called to them, clearly feeling affection for them despite his words. He leaned down and scratched behind their ears. “They’re the dumbest dogs ever to walk on four legs.”
Connor chuckled. “That’s Artair and Beatan. They’re not yet fully grown. Iain got them as pups this past winter. They help guard the livestock from wolves, or so Iain hopes.”
No doubt alerted by the dogs, a man who looked very much like Connor stepped out of the half-finished house, musket in his hand.
“That’s Morgan.” Connor gave the Ranger whistle and waved.
Morgan waved back, setting his musket aside and walking to the front door of the main house. He opened it, said something, then stepped aside as Annie rushed out followed by another woman who must have been Amalie. By the time they reached the house, Morgan, Annie, and Amalie were waiting for them, a little dark-haired boy whom Connor called Iain Cameron toddling about at Annie’s feet.
Joseph kissed Annie and Amalie on the cheek, then scooped Iain Cameron into his arms and tossed him high in the air, making the child squeal.
Morgan looked from Connor to Sarah and back to Connor, catching the lead horse by the bridle, patting its thick neck. “What in God’s name…? How’d you get away?”
“I’ve much to tell you, brother. But first, I should like you to meet my wife, Sarah Woodville MacKinnon. We were wed by Father Delavay last week.”
“Felicitations!” Amalie smiled, her French accent sweet, her dark hair the longest Sarah had ever seen, almost reaching the backs of her knees. Her eyes were neither green nor brown but both, the hue of her skin hinting at a mixed heritage.
Annie reached up and took Sarah’s hand. “Welcome to the family, sister.”
But Morgan looked even more worried. “I’ll see to the horses. You’d best go inside afore anyone sees you. I dinnae want the British army on our doorstep.”
Connor leapt to the ground, walked around to Sarah, and made her shriek with surprise when he scooped her into his arms and carried her through the front door.
He stopped just inside the doorway, the happiness on his face making him seem younger than his eight-and-twenty years. “Welcome home, Princess.”
M
organ and Joseph helped Connor unload the wagon and settle the horses in the barn while the women went about making supper for the family and Joseph’s men set up camp in their accustomed place in the orchard, the dogs getting under everyone’s feet. Joseph joined them at the supper table, Iain Cameron upon his knee. When the supper dishes were cleared, Joseph told them of the attack on his village, while Connor shared all that had happened since Wentworth had drummed them from the fort.
By the time Connor described Wentworth’s last words to him, Sarah and Annie had tears in their eyes, and Amalie’s face was pale, her eyes wide.
Morgan eyed Connor gravely. “I’d never have thought him capable of such sacrifice.”
It was then Connor came to the heart of it, telling Morgan of the papers Cooke had taken from Wentworth’s writing table and what they contained.
“Cooke sent the papers wi’ a courier to the sheriff in Albany afore we left Fort Edward. We’ve been exonerated, Morgan.”
Connor watched the expression on Morgan’s face turn to stunned surprise. Morgan rose and crossed the room, resting one hand on the mantel and looking down into the fire, as if he needed time to think all of this through. For a time, no one spoke.
“Those papers—they were secreted away in his writing table all these years?” Morgan asked at last, his tone devoid of emotion.
“Aye.” Connor held tighter to Sarah’s hand, knowing it had been hard for her to relive the horror of the battle—or to be reminded of her uncle’s treachery and his death.
“And Cooke kent we were innocent?” Morgan asked.
“Aye, he did. He asked me to forgi’e him ere we said farewell. He is a good man and a good soldier. He did much to aid Sarah, and fought beside me to bring her to safety. I couldna deny him my pardon.”
Morgan nodded. “Does Iain ken?”
“Cooke said he would tell him as soon as he reached Crown Point. If I ken our brother, he’ll stay wi’ the men and see this war through to the end.”
“Aye, for certain.” Morgan turned to face them once more. “I still cannae fathom Wentworth would do this—give his life for another.”
Sarah’s face crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I know he has wronged you all, and I am sorry for what he has done. I hope that the manner of his death helps to assuage your anger with him. He was my uncle, and I…I cannot help but love him and mourn him.”
Connor looked from Morgan to Annie to Amalie, then at last to Sarah. “We ken he was your kin. There’s none of us will speak ill of him again.”
Annie reached across the table and took Sarah’s hand, giving her a tremulous smile. “He paid heed to his heart at last.”
“J
oseph leaves in the morn’ to rejoin Iain at Crown Point.” Connor held Sarah in his arms, replete from their loving.
“You intend to go with him.”
How had Sarah known?
“’Tis my duty—to you, to Iain, to the men.” He rested his hand above her swelling womb. “I’ll be back afore the child is born. I wouldna leave you to face your time alone. Morgan will be here to watch over you.”
“Can you not write to Iain and convince him to come home? Your name has been cleared. He no longer needs to fight.”
“Should I ask him to abandon the men who’ve fought beside us these five years, men who are yet bound by contract to the army?” Conner held her closer. “Nay, lass. Nor can I bide here on the farm in safety when Iain and Joseph are in peril. We started this together. We must finish it together.”
“Is it selfish of me to want my husband safe beside me?” Sarah’s voice trembled. “I lost Uncle William. I could not bear it if I should lose you.”
“Shhh.” He kissed her hair. “That willna happen. But if we want peace, we must first earn it. I cannae ask other men to bear that burden for me.”
“B
e well, little sister.” Joseph gave Sarah a kiss on the cheek.
Sarah fought not to weep. “I shall wear your wampum and pray for you every day.”
He smiled. “Do not be afraid. We shall see each other again.”
“Och, aye, we shall. He is forever here, eatin’ our food, drinkin’ our cider.”
Sarah smiled at Connor’s jest, but when he drew her into his arms and held her one last time, she found it impossible to hold back her tears. “I cannot bear to think of you in the thick of battle once again. Now that I know what it is like…”
“Easy, Princess. Dinnae fret for me.” He kissed her. “Think only on growin’ our child. Soon, this war will be over, and I’ll be home to stay.”
She stood before the house, watching as he and Joseph walked away, whispering a silent prayer as they disappeared around the bend, tumpline packs on their backs. She felt someone beside her and looked over the see Annie, little Mara in her arms.