MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night (2 page)

"
’Tis
a shame you’ve no pretty wife to cook for you, but then I suppose no woman will have you," Iain mocked.

Connor walked forward, rubbed the horse’s muzzle. "Your wagon has seen better days, brother, but this is a fine animal."

"This is not mine." Joseph walked back to the bed of the wagon and drew aside a pile of woolen blankets to reveal
Killy
McBride, who’d fought with them through all five years of the war, lying there still and pale.

The wiry Irishman didn’t move or open his eyes.

"Is he dead?" Connor and Iain asked almost as one.

"Dead drunk." Joseph reached in, grabbed
Killy
by the wrist and drew him to a sitting position, the motion jarring
Killy
to confused wakefulness. "I found him in the streets. He’d been thrown out of White Horse Tavern for failing to pay for his rum."

Killy
glanced about. "
Hildie
, my love?"

Joseph glared at
Killy
, then tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "He’s senseless. The wagon and horse are his."

Iain and Connor shared another glance.

"
Hildie
?" Connor asked.

"
Gundhilda
Janssen." Joseph strode toward the house,
Killy
hanging over his shoulder. "She’s the owner of the White Horse Tavern."

Connor followed after Joseph, Iain behind him. "The big Dutchwoman who nearly gelded Brandon when she caught him
eyein
’ her
paps
?"

"Aye," Joseph called back. "
Killy
has lost his heart to her."

"Miss Janssen?" Connor could scarce believe it. He glanced back at Iain. "
Och
, she’s fair enough, I suppose, but she’s near as tall as I am."

The top of
Killy’s
head didn’t even reach Connor’s shoulder.

Iain grinned. "Aye, and she has a temper."

The cabin’s door opened.

Annie, Iain’s wife, stood on its threshold, worry on her pretty face. "Is he sick?"

"He’s
sufferin
’ from the bite of the bottle," Iain answered. "Joseph found him lying in the street in Albany."

"Bring him inside afore he catches his death." Annie stood back to let Joseph pass. "Oh,
Killy
. What have you done to yourself now?"

With
Killy
safely in Annie’s care and the first of the morning chores done, Connor slipped quietly away.

* * *

The sun was good and up before Connor reached the old oak. It grew near the
burnie
that marked the western edge of their lands, the water now turned to hard ice. There, on a thick, gnarled branch, he spotted what he’d come for — mistletoe. Its green leaves and waxy white berries stood out against the rough, gray bark.

The priests and old women of Skye, where Connor and his brothers had been born, held mistletoe to be sacred. Green when other plants had died, mistletoe was said to be twice as powerful if it grew upon an oak. When hung above doorways, it kept evil at bay, blessing all who passed beneath it. And lads and lasses who kissed beneath it could be assured they would marry in the new year.

Connor wanted this to be a good Christmas for them all, for it was their first Yule since war’s ending, the first time the three brothers would be home, all of them together with their wives. He could not wait to surprise Sarah with the gold wedding band he’d bought for her, could not wait to slip it onto her finger. He wanted nothing to spoil the joy of the holiday for her.

Aye, the discord between Morgan and Amalie must end. Connor didn’t know if the stories about mistletoe were true, but if it could help unmarried lads and lasses to wed, perhaps it could mend hurts between a husband and wife.

He kicked off his snowshoes and began to climb.

* * *

Annie poured a cup of willow bark tea and handed it carefully to
Killy
, who was now awake and sober enough to sit up on the pallet the men had made for him in front of the sitting room hearth. "
’Tis
bitter, but it will help soothe your aching head."

Wincing at the sound of her voice,
Killy
accepted the tin cup. "Have you anything stronger — a little hair of the dog?"

She narrowed her eyes and frowned at him. "Nay, you’re no’
fittin
’ to be at the rum. Now drink your tea."

In truth, it worried her to see him in this state — suffering from drink, thinner, pale. She’d always had a soft place for him in her heart. He would certainly attribute this to what he called his "Irish charm," and he
had
stood out as one of a handful of Irishmen in MacKinnon’s Rangers, a fighting force organized by Iain that had been made mostly of towering Highland Scots. But Annie thought her affection for him came in part because he’d been one of the first of Iain’s Rangers to be kind to her — and in part because she’d spent long days and nights tending him when he’d been wounded in battle.

The poor man’s scars proved that he’d lived a rough life—the garroting scar on his throat from the time the English had tried to hang him; dozens of scars on his face and hands from cuts, knife wounds, and graze marks from lead balls; and upon his head, beneath the blue Scotch bonnet he always wore, the patch of puckered, colorless flesh where he’d been scalped and left for dead.

Killy
had nine lives, for certain, but it seemed to Annie that he was running out.

He grimaced as he drank, then handed her the cup, shuddering. "I’d just as soon drink my own piss as … Pardon me, ma’am."

She ignored his crude words, filling the cup with cold water and handing it back to him. "Drink.
’Tis
only water."

He drank — then held out the cup for more.

She filled it again.

Downstairs, Amalie and Sarah were making Joseph a late breakfast and trading news with him, while he acquainted himself with little William. Iain was seeing to chores with Connor and Morgan. And Annie realized this might be the only chance she had to speak with
Killy
alone.

"Joseph tells us he found you in the streets. He says a passerby told him you were thrown out of a tavern because you could not pay. How did you come to be in such a state,
Killy
— and just a week afore Christmas?"

His scarred face turned red with anger — and then crumpled. Chin wobbling, he looked up at her. "It’s for love’s sake that I’m cast down."

So
Killy
had fallen in love.

"Who is she?" Annie took the cup and sat on a stool beside him.

"
Gundhilda
Janssen, the proprietress of the White Horse."

"The White Horse?"

"A public house, ma’am — a tavern."
Killy’s
face was transformed by a dreamy smile. "She is fair with yellow hair and bright blue eyes. She is buxom, too, aye, and strong. When she’s angry, her face comes alive. I’ve watched her toss grown men out on their
arses
, so I have."

Annie fought not to smile at this colorful description. "You wish to marry her?"

"Aye, I do."

"Does Miss Janssen no’ return your favor?"

Killy’s
gaze dropped to the floor. "I cannot say."

"Have you no’ spoken
wi
’ her or asked her father for permission to court her?"

"Her father is gone from this world. She has a younger brother who does her
biddin
’, so it is her favor I must win." His blue eyes filled with despair. "I’ve spoken winsome words to her, but she tells me I’m too far gone with drink to mean them and calls me a silver-tongued Irish devil. When I’m near her, I become a witless coward."

Annie fought back a smile. "You’re a Ranger,
Killy
, one of my husband’s most-trusted men. I’ve seen you laugh and jest in battle. You’re no’
lackin
’ for courage. Surely it must be more
terrifyin
’ to face the enemy than to speak
wi
’ a lass — "

"Pardon me for
sayin
’ so, but you know naught of it."
Killy’s
smile vanished. "A woman must only say ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ to a suitor, while a man must win her heart or find himself rejected and without hope."

Annie supposed
Killy
was right. She’d never been in the position of trying to win a man’s affection. Iain had not courted her in any traditional way, their love for one another taking them both by surprise.

"When you return to Albany, you must convince her that what you feel for her is true by
speakin
’ with her when you’re off the drink. It would be better for you to ken where her heart lies than to pine away for her."

The stubborn Irishman shook his head. "’
Twould
be a fool’s errand. She could never love a penniless, battle-scarred old carcass like me."

Annie could tell that he truly believed this. "And so you drank your last shilling."

"It wasn’t so much rum as you might be thinkin’." He gave a chuckle, then frowned. "Oh, aye, it was. But it might have been more had I been paid. The Crown hasn’t yet seen fit to pay any of us Rangers for last summer’s campaigns."

"How can that be?"

"
Haviland
says we Rangers fought on behalf of the Colonies, not for that bastard King George.
Er
… Pardon me, ma’am."

But Annie scarce noticed the insult to her sovereign, stunned as she was to think that Brigadier General
Haviland
had refused to pay the very men whose sweat and blood had helped the British to win the accursed war. That must be why
Killy
was so thin. He likely hadn’t had a good meal in months.

And the other Rangers? Some had families, children to feed.

"Does my husband ken this,
Killy
?"

CHAPTER 2

Iain jabbed at the embers in the bedroom fireplace, his anger as hot as the blaze. He fought not to shout lest he wake the
bairns
, his words coming out in a gruff whisper. "By God, ’tis an outrage! Those men risked their lives for Britain,
sufferin
’ hardships
Haviland
cannae
imagine, and now the
mac
dìolain
refuses to pay them? The bastard hasn’t a shred of honor!"

Iain had spent much of the evening discussing
Killy’s
news with his brothers, and they had decided to leave for Albany in the morning to take up the matter with
Haviland
in person, while Joseph and
Killy
stayed to watch over the women and children. Though Iain hated to leave home so close to Christmastide, neither he nor his brothers could abide the notion that the men who’d fought under the MacKinnon name for five long years should be denied their due and made to suffer want, especially at Christmas when lack was so keenly felt.

"Do you think
Haviland
will listen to you?" Wearing only her shift, a shawl around her shoulders, Annie sat in the rocking chair, brushing her long hair, the flaxen strands gleaming like gold in the firelight. "If he has no honor, what is to stop him from
clappin
’ the three of you in irons?"

She spoke the words calmly, but Iain could sense her fear. Her worries were not just fretful imaginings.

’Twas
a journey to Albany almost six years past that had started all of this. Wentworth had watched Iain fight a man who’d been about to kill a whore he’d used but didn’t wish to pay. Impressed by Iain’s skill, Wentworth had taken Iain and his brothers prisoner on false murder charges. He’d given Iain a choice between being hanged together with his brothers or fighting for the British as the commander of a ranging company. Not wishing to see his brothers die for naught, Iain had chosen the latter.