MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night

Upon A Winter's Night

MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5

Pamela Clare

---

Reunite with the MacKinnon brothers and their wives for Christmas - and a tale of love, new life, and redemption.

The war between Britain and the French is finally at an end, and the
MacKinnons
are looking forward to celebrating their first peacetime Christmas in five long years. While
Iain and Annie
have discovered that the pleasures of marriage grow deeper with time,
Morgan and Amalie
find themselves at bitter odds. Meanwhile,
Connor and Sarah
have a newborn son to cherish.

The family's preparations for the holidays are interrupted when Iain learns that Britain has not paid the Rangers for the summer's victorious campaigns. Unwilling to let men who fought under the MacKinnon name suffer deprivation at Christmastime, Iain, Morgan, and Connor leave the warmth of their frontier home for Albany. There, they find their happy Christmas, and even their freedom, at risk at the hands of a ruthless British officer who holds a grudge against them.

With the men gone, Annie, Amalie, and Sarah do their best to prepare for the festivities despite differing traditions, a raging bull - and the gnawing fear that their husbands won't make it home in time for Yule.

Events begin the day after the epilogue of
Defiant
ends. The story includes Joseph,
Killy
- and revelations about the fate of Lord William Wentworth.

---

CHAPTER 1

December 18, 1760

North of Albany

His Majesty’s Colony of New York

Connor MacKinnon strode toward the barn, snow squeaking beneath his moccasins, the icy air biting his nose, sunrise a glimmer of gold in the east. "
Madainn
mhath
," he called to his brother Morgan, who was busy chopping firewood near the woodpile.

Good morning
.

Ax in hand, Morgan glowered at him, kicked a piece of firewood into the pile. "What’s so bloody good about it?"

Och
, hell.

So that was the way of things.

Connor let his brother’s words go. To his way of thinking, there was much about this day that was good and right. The war was over. The MacKinnon farm had been prosperous, yielding a bountiful harvest to see them through the cold and dark of winter. Most of all, he and his brothers had each taken a bonny lass to wife and had five strong
bairns
between them — four lads and a lass.

Aye, God had been good to them.

If someone had told him this time last year that he’d be happily wed to the niece of his greatest enemy, Connor would have thought them daft. But such was the way of it, and he could not have felt more blessed.

You’re a lucky bastard, MacKinnon.

He entered the dark warmth of the barn. Cows lowed, eager to be milked, the air pungent with the scents of hay, leather, and manure. He passed the well-ordered and oiled horse tack and farm gear and walked to the back where Iain was already measuring out the morning’s portion of oats for the horses.

Iain looked up.
"
Madainn
mhath
.
"

"
Dia
dhuit
."
God be with you.

Connor patted
Fríthe
, his favorite mare, on her velvety muzzle. "Morgan’s in a rage again."

"Aye. So I noticed." Iain handed Connor a filled nosebag. "Annie says Amalie has forsaken his bed altogether."

Och
, well, that would be enough to sour any man’s temper.

Connor slipped the nosebag onto
Fríthe’s
head, and the mare began to feed. "Yule is but a week hence.
’Tis
no’
fittin
’ that he and Amalie find themselves still at odds. Talk
wi
’ him, Iain. You are the eldest. He’ll heed your counsel."

Iain handed Connor another nosebag of oats. "I’ve tried talkin’
wi
’ him, but he
willna
listen.
’Tis
worry that drives him. I’ve no words to assuage such fears."

Nor did Connor.

These were not baseless fears, but fears born from harsh reality. Women perished in childbed every day, dying as they struggled to bring new life into the world. Only two weeks had passed since Sarah had given birth to little William, and Connor would never forget her long hours of suffering, the chilling sound of her cries, or the fear that had gnawed at him as he’d wondered whether she and the child would both survive.

And yet to hear Iain and Morgan speak of it, Sarah’s travail had been blessedly brief and easy compared to that which Amalie had endured. Last March, Amalie had borne Morgan twin sons and would certainly have perished had Rebecca, a skilled midwife and sister to their
Mahican
blood brother Joseph
Aupauteunk
, not been here to help with the birth.

Aye, Connor could understand why Morgan had refused to lie with his wife in the customary way. Morgan did not wish to see her suffer again, nor did he wish to risk losing her. But nine months had now passed since the twins’ birth, and Amalie’s patience seemed to be at an end. If, as Iain’s wife, Annie, had said, Amalie had forsaken Morgan’s bed altogether, there would be no living with either of them.

Connor carried the nosebag to Fiona’s stall, hung it gently on the mare’s head. "
Somethin
’ must be done. I
dinnae
wish to see Amalie
weepin
’ at Christmas, and I’ve grown weary of Morgan’s sharp tongue."

"As have I." Iain began to fill two more nosebags.

An idea came to Connor, which he kept to himself.

"How does Sarah fare?" Iain asked, breaking the momentary silence. "Last night
couldna
have been easy for her."

Last night, the English lord Connor had once vowed to kill had come back from the dead to pay them a visit. Lord William Wentworth, Sarah’s uncle, had crept up to their door in the dark of night, leaving a letter from England and a single chess piece — a king made of cracked black marble — on the step of their cabin. Alerted to his presence by the hounds, Connor and his brothers had tried for Sarah’s sake to find him and invite him in out of the cold. But the bastard had turned his horse’s head toward Albany and ridden as if Satan himself were at his heels, refusing to see them or to be seen by them. Though relieved to know her uncle, who’d been taken captive last summer by the Wyandot Indians, was alive, Sarah had been heartbroken by his refusal to see her.

"She’s
keepin
’ the chess piece in her apron pocket. I’ve seen her take it out and close her hand around it. But she’s no’ spoken a word of her uncle today."

"And the letter?"

Connor did not truly wish to talk about that, but he knew Iain would push him harder if he didn’t answer. "It lies atop her harpsichord."

Curse that letter!

Written to Wentworth, it revealed how Sarah’s name had been cleared of any taint and said that the scandal that had caused her parents to send her to the Colonies had been resolved. Connor knew he should welcome that news with a full heart, but, despite Sarah’s assurances that she loved him and wanted to remain with him, some part of him feared she would one day wish to leave the hardships and uncertainties of life on the frontier and return to London to reclaim her place in society.

Not that it would be easy for her to return should she wish it. All of Britain believed her dead, slain in the same battle in which Wentworth had been taken captive. But Sarah was descended from royalty. If she truly wished to return to England, her uncle would find a way to make it happen. What gently bred lady would truly wish to live in a frontier cabin working her hands to the bone when she could live in splendor with servants to tend her?

"She misses Wentworth." Iain handed Connor the feed bags.

"Aye, she does." Connor carried the feed bags to their two big draft horses, geldings named
Dubh
and
Donaidh
, patting them each on the neck. "How strange it is that I find myself bound to a man whom I once would gladly have slain."

Through Connor and Sarah’s union, noble MacKinnon blood mingled with that of the House of Hanover in newborn William’s veins.

"Aye, ’tis hard to fathom." Iain chuckled. "If ever you see him again, I suppose you’ll be
callin
’ him
Uncle
William."

Connor glared at his brother. "Not bloody likely."

"Your son bears his name." A grin tugged at Iain’s lips.

"
I
named him after William Wallace.
’Tis
Sarah who thinks we’ve named him after Wentworth, and I
willna
dissuade her from
believin
’ that if it pleases her."

Connor had just started up the ladder to the hayloft to pitch hay into the cow pen when a voice came from outside. "Hallo in the house!"

He and Iain broke into grins as they recognized Joseph’s voice.

They strode out of the barn together in time to see Joseph, their
Mahican
blood brother, leap down from the seat of a small wagon, a shaggy gray horse in the harness. Wearing a thick bearskin robe to ward off the cold, a single eagle feather in his long dark hair, he nodded in greeting to them.

"
Dinnae
be
tellin
’ me you’ve taken to
travelin
’ by wagon," Iain teased. "Have you grown soft
wi’out
the war to keep you fit?"

Grinning, Joseph tied off the reins, his cheeks red from cold. "I am not the one who sits before a warm fire growing fat like an old bear."