Read Online MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night by Pamela Clare - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pamela Clare
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have a son named after me."
Not that it wasn’t also awkward for William. Connor MacKinnon, youngest son of an exiled Jacobite laird, was now William’s nephew by marriage, his barbarian Highland blood mingled with Sarah’s. No one in England would ever know this, of course, as everyone believed that Sarah had been killed last summer.
Then Connor drew something out of his coat, stepped forward, and held it out for William. "She bade me give you this."
A letter.
William took it, stared down at his name spelled out in Sarah’s delicate handwriting, and was overtaken by an unexpected rush of emotion. Unwilling to open it in front of anyone, he tucked it inside his waistcoat.
"She was sore fashed that you rode away and didna stop to see her."
"Does she speak well of me?" William had to know.
"Aye, my lord. She misses you and worries about you."
Had Connor MacKinnon just called him "my lord"?
By God, he had!
This so astonished William that he almost laughed.
Then Iain spoke. "You are welcome in our home. Let us procure a wagon and get you back to the farm where Annie can tend your hurts. She has a deft hand wi ’ healin ’. You’ll be strong again in no time."
William shook his head, their pity and this shift in their behavior toward him making him feel vulnerable in a way he’d never felt before. "I do not wish for Lady Anne or Sarah to see me like this."
Oh, how he hated to admit that!
Morgan frowned. " Dinnae be foolish! You fought like a soldier, a true warrior. There is no shame in that. Whatever scars you bear are marks of honor."
"And what of Sarah?" Connor asked. "She loves you. Helpin ’ to care for you would bring her great joy. Also, she wants very much for you to see our son. If you were to come wi ’ us and spend Christmas wi ’ her, she — "
"No!" William spoke the word more sharply than he’d intended, perhaps because Connor’s words tempted him sorely or perhaps because, without laudanum, his pain was becoming most difficult to bear. "I said farewell to my niece on the battlefield. I would have her remember me as I was."
Morgan looked from Iain to Connor, then slipped out of his tumpline pack, reached inside, and drew out a small pot. "Spread this salve on your wounds mornin ’, noon, and night. It burns like hellfire, but it will stop them from festerin ’."
" ’Twas this potion Annie used upon my back after you had me flogged and on Connor’s shoulder when he was shot," Iain said.
The brothers went on at length about the number of men whose lives and limbs the concoction had purportedly saved until William was quite convinced to try it no matter how horribly it stung.
He picked up the little pot. "My thanks."
"And dinnae be lettin ’ the physicians bleed you," Morgan added. "They dinnae ken what they’re about. Willow bark tea is better for a fever than bleedin ’ a man."
William forced himself to his feet, one hand on the writing table for balance. "Now it is time you went on your way. Cooke will see to it that the accounts are settled and the men paid, though it may take some time to reach all of them now that winter has set in. I regret that Haviland did not discharge his duty as he should have."
" ’Twas no’ your doin’," Iain said. "Our thanks for comin’ to our aid today."
William looked from Iain to Morgan to Connor. During the long months of his captivity, he’d thought more than once about what he’d say to the MacKinnon brothers should he live to see them again. The horrors he’d seen, the pain he’d suffered, had given him a new appreciation for them and for their survival skills — and their endurance.
Still, he would not apologize. Aye, he had used foul means to press them into service, but their skill had helped ensure victory for Britain, winning accolades for William and turning the MacKinnon brothers and their men into legends.
Long after William’s name was forgotten on this frontier, men would still tell stories
Not that it wasn’t also awkward for William. Connor MacKinnon, youngest son of an exiled Jacobite laird, was now William’s nephew by marriage, his barbarian Highland blood mingled with Sarah’s. No one in England would ever know this, of course, as everyone believed that Sarah had been killed last summer.
Then Connor drew something out of his coat, stepped forward, and held it out for William. "She bade me give you this."
A letter.
William took it, stared down at his name spelled out in Sarah’s delicate handwriting, and was overtaken by an unexpected rush of emotion. Unwilling to open it in front of anyone, he tucked it inside his waistcoat.
"She was sore fashed that you rode away and didna stop to see her."
"Does she speak well of me?" William had to know.
"Aye, my lord. She misses you and worries about you."
Had Connor MacKinnon just called him "my lord"?
By God, he had!
This so astonished William that he almost laughed.
Then Iain spoke. "You are welcome in our home. Let us procure a wagon and get you back to the farm where Annie can tend your hurts. She has a deft hand wi ’ healin ’. You’ll be strong again in no time."
William shook his head, their pity and this shift in their behavior toward him making him feel vulnerable in a way he’d never felt before. "I do not wish for Lady Anne or Sarah to see me like this."
Oh, how he hated to admit that!
Morgan frowned. " Dinnae be foolish! You fought like a soldier, a true warrior. There is no shame in that. Whatever scars you bear are marks of honor."
"And what of Sarah?" Connor asked. "She loves you. Helpin ’ to care for you would bring her great joy. Also, she wants very much for you to see our son. If you were to come wi ’ us and spend Christmas wi ’ her, she — "
"No!" William spoke the word more sharply than he’d intended, perhaps because Connor’s words tempted him sorely or perhaps because, without laudanum, his pain was becoming most difficult to bear. "I said farewell to my niece on the battlefield. I would have her remember me as I was."
Morgan looked from Iain to Connor, then slipped out of his tumpline pack, reached inside, and drew out a small pot. "Spread this salve on your wounds mornin ’, noon, and night. It burns like hellfire, but it will stop them from festerin ’."
" ’Twas this potion Annie used upon my back after you had me flogged and on Connor’s shoulder when he was shot," Iain said.
The brothers went on at length about the number of men whose lives and limbs the concoction had purportedly saved until William was quite convinced to try it no matter how horribly it stung.
He picked up the little pot. "My thanks."
"And dinnae be lettin ’ the physicians bleed you," Morgan added. "They dinnae ken what they’re about. Willow bark tea is better for a fever than bleedin ’ a man."
William forced himself to his feet, one hand on the writing table for balance. "Now it is time you went on your way. Cooke will see to it that the accounts are settled and the men paid, though it may take some time to reach all of them now that winter has set in. I regret that Haviland did not discharge his duty as he should have."
" ’Twas no’ your doin’," Iain said. "Our thanks for comin’ to our aid today."
William looked from Iain to Morgan to Connor. During the long months of his captivity, he’d thought more than once about what he’d say to the MacKinnon brothers should he live to see them again. The horrors he’d seen, the pain he’d suffered, had given him a new appreciation for them and for their survival skills — and their endurance.
Still, he would not apologize. Aye, he had used foul means to press them into service, but their skill had helped ensure victory for Britain, winning accolades for William and turning the MacKinnon brothers and their men into legends.
Long after William’s name was forgotten on this frontier, men would still tell stories
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