MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night (11 page)

One with fair hair and green eyes stepped forward and clasped
Hildie’s
hand, a gracious smile on her pretty face. "I’m Annie, Iain’s wife. Welcome to our home. I’ll get you a pair of warm, dry socks and make you that cup of tea."

"Many thanks."

So this was Annie MacKinnon.
Hildie
had heard of her. All the news worth knowing made its way to the alehouse in time. It was said that Annie MacKinnon had been born a noble lady but had married Iain MacKinnon for love.
Hildie
was tempted to ask if this was true, but knew that to do so on so short an acquaintance would be unforgivably rude.

"The walk was long," she said instead.

Of course the walk was long,
Hildie
! What a foolish thing to say!

"Aye, ’tis a long journey when the sun is
shinin
’." Annie set the teakettle on the hob. "I
dinnae
think I’d have made it."

"I am Amalie — Morgan’s wife." A dark-haired woman stepped forward, her arms filled with two wriggling babies so alike in age and appearance that they could only be twins. She spoke with a French accent, but her features told
Hildie
that she was of mixed heritage — perhaps Indian and French. "You must be chilled to the very bone."

Hildie’s
toes ached, her fingers, too. "
Ja
. It was very cold."

Then
Hildie
remembered that Morgan MacKinnon had been thrown out of the Rangers for marrying the daughter of a French officer. Her gaze was drawn back to the babies. She’d never spent much time in the company of other women or with children, for that matter, her entire life spent meeting the needs of hungry men.

"These are our twins, Lachlan and Connor Joseph." Amalie set the babies on the floor, where they crawled about and babbled to one another. She took a pair of knitted socks from Annie, knelt down, and replaced
Hildie’s
sodden socks with the dry ones, hanging the wet ones to dry.

Hildie
wiggled her
tows
. "Thank you."

"Would you like some of Annie’s shortbread?" The third woman wrapped a warm shawl around
Hildie’s
shoulders, then presented her with a tray of small cakes. "I am Sarah MacKinnon, Connor’s wife."

Hildie
was surprised at Sarah’s refined tone and the crispness of her English. It was not the English spoken by frontiersmen and their families, nor even that of the British officers who’d stayed at the tavern. It was refined, like that of…

Hildie
felt her pulse quicken as she remembered what she’d heard this past summer, whispers in corners about Brigadier General Wentworth’s niece, whose name was Sarah. Some said Connor MacKinnon had seduced her and gotten her with child not long before she’d been killed by Indians. But one redcoat had insisted that Lady Sarah hadn’t been killed at all, swearing he’d seen her at Fort Ticonderoga with Connor MacKinnon after the battle, safe and very much alive. The other soldiers had laughed at him, but now
Hildie
knew he’d spoken the truth.

She found herself smiling at this happy realization — and at the thought that a high-born British lady was offering
her
something to eat rather than the reverse. "You are all very kind to welcome me into your home on Christmas Eve."

Annie smiled, setting a place for
Hildie
at the table. "You’re to be
Killy’s
bride, and he is as kin to us. That makes you kin, too."

Hildie
bit into the little cake, but was so taken aback by Annie’s kind words that it took her a moment to notice the taste. It was both buttery and sweet. She might not know anything about babies, but
Hildie
knew a great deal about food. "This is good! What do you call it?"

"Shortbread," Sarah answered. "Annie makes it. Have another."

Hildie
did. "You must teach me the recipe — that is, if you are willing."

"I’d be most happy to share it." Annie gave her a warm smile. "But tell me
Hildie
, did you truly walk this entire distance through deep snows on Christmas Eve just to see whether
Killy
wanted to marry you?"

"
Ja
."
Hildie
wiggled her toes again, her feet finally starting to warm. "No man has ever said he wanted to marry me before."

And for a moment,
Hildie
felt utterly exposed, her answer revealing too much about her to women whose beauty and youth left them unable to understand the woes and loneliness of an aging spinster.

But to her surprise, they smiled.

Amalie caught up one of the twins who was crawling too near the hearth. "I think it is very romantic."

"As do I." Sarah held out the tray of shortbread, offering
Hildie
another. "But what would you have done if he’d said ‘no’?"

Hildie
was spared having to come up with an answer when there came a hiss, something boiling over onto hot hearthstones. "Supper will be burnt by the time the men return if we don’t pull it from the fire. Here, let me help."

She stood, set the shawl carefully aside, and went to work.

CHAPTER 8

"Then the bull knocked the rod from Farmer Fairley’s hand, and I feared the beast would gore him. But Amalie stepped forward and struck it between the eyes, so she did. It hushed and followed her to the paddock, docile as a lamb."

Iain laughed along with everyone else, listening to
Killy
tell the story of Farmer Fairley and his arrival with the bull. Iain’s belly was full, their Christmas Eve feast one of the best he could remember, a few crumbs all that remained of Annie’s shortbread and the three apple pies.

"I threatened to turn him into a bullock and put him in my stew pot," Amalie said, her cheeks flushed from laughter.

"I am sorry for the trouble it caused you all," Sarah said, regret on her face.

"
Dinnae
fash
yourself, lass." Connor reached over, rested a reassuring hand atop hers. "No one was hurt."

"All has ended well, little sister," Joseph said in a soothing tone, his affection for Sarah clear. "Do not trouble yourself."

"I thank you for your generosity, Sarah," Iain said. "In truth, I’ve never seen an animal as fine as that one. With the calves he sires and the coin he brings us in stud fees, the farm shall prosper as it never has afore."

Sarah smiled. "I’m glad."

Dandling one of his twins upon his knee, Morgan turned to Connor and suggested they get the old scythe and plow repaired by a smithy so they could finish the planting and harvesting with twice the speed.

And it struck Iain as it never had before. The war was behind them. He and his brothers had, at long last, settled their differences with Wentworth. God willing, only peace lay ahead.

A sense of relief rolled through him, warm and precious.

There’d been a time when he’d despaired of living to see a winter’s night such as this one, a time when he’d been certain that he would die in battle with his brothers beside him, the MacKinnon farm abandoned, all trace of their family lost. But now the fighting was done, and his brothers were here with him. They were husbands now and fathers to a new generation of
MacKinnons
that would grow up on this land, surrounded by plenty and protected by the peace that their fathers had fought so hard to win.

He let his gaze travel around the room. Annie, holding sleepy Mara in her lap. Iain Cameron playing with
Artair
and
Beatan
near the hearth. Amalie, laughing and jesting with
Killy
about the bull, Lachlan in her arms. Sarah, nursing little William, while Connor sat close beside her.
Killy
trading glances with the wealthy woman who was about to become his bride.
Hildie
, looking bemused but happy, too. Morgan, with Connor Joseph on his knee.

Joseph leaned closer, speaking for Iain’s ears alone. "The Shining Spirit has been good to you, brother."

Sometimes it seemed to Iain that Joseph could read his mind.

"Aye, God has blessed us. There was a time when I’d no’ have been able to imagine such a night as tonight. But what of you, brother? When will you take a wife and father children? Is there no
Mahican
lass who can win your heart?"

Joseph narrowed his eyes. "You sound like my grannies."

Iain laughed, then stood, mug of ale in hand.

The room fell silent.

He lifted his mug. "Here’s to the women for a wonderful Christmas Eve feast, to
Killy
and
Hildie
on the occasion of their betrothal, to Sarah for her generosity in bestowing such gifts upon her family — and to the memory of those who gave their lives for the peace we enjoy this Christmastide."

Morgan, Connor,
Killy
and Joseph stood, raised their tankards, and drank.

Iain looked down at his newest sister-by-marriage. "Sarah, ’tis time for some carols. Would you like to play for us?"

Sarah’s face lit up as Iain had known it would. "I should be honored."

* * *

"
Adeste
fideles
laeti
triumphantes
/
Venite
,
venite
in Bethlehem."

Amalie did her best to sing along. She willed herself to seem as cheerful as the others as they sang
chants de Noël
— what the others called Christmas carols — in Scottish Gaelic, French, English, and Latin to the accompaniment of Sarah’s beautiful harpsichord. Children played at their feet or slept on the thick bearskin rug that stretched out near Iain and Annie’s sitting-room hearth.

Amalie was grateful that the men were safely home and happy that they’d made it back in time for Christmas Eve supper. It had been a fun evening, though Amalie’s thoughts had never strayed far from the argument she’d had with Morgan before he’d left for Albany.

He’d claimed she did not understand, but she did. He was afraid she would die in childbed, and so he gave her only part of himself. She could not deny that she still found pleasure with him, but that pleasure was incomplete. She missed the feel of his weight upon her, his deep thrusts inside her, the joy of being possessed wholly by him — and possessing him in return.

In truth, it was
he
who did not understand.

Dared she hope that he’d changed his mind on the long journey?

"
Venite
adoremus
/Venite
adoremus
/Venite
adoremus
/
Dominum
."

The song came to an end, and Amalie clapped with the others. The sound roused little Connor Joseph from his sleep. He whimpered, fussed. Amalie went to him, lifted her son into her arms, his twin, Lachlan, still asleep, thumb in his mouth.

"Sleepy lad!" Morgan ran his hand over little Connor’s dark hair, his warm smile and the gentleness in his eyes when he met Amalie’s gaze a peace offering. He looked so handsome, his dark hair drawn back in a queue, his jaw dark with stubble.

She willed a smile onto her face and sat in the chair that he offered her, fighting not to cry when he kissed her hair, her emotions at an edge. "
Merci.
"

They sang a few more carols, then Iain walked to the fireplace and drew from the mantel the heavy, leather-bound family Bible. Apart from Connor’s whimpers, the room fell quiet as Iain opened the thick book to a page marked with a red ribbon and began to read, his deep voice seeming to fill the room.