MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night (4 page)

They found the place on Pearl Street, Connor following his brothers through the thick oaken door. Warmth hit him in the face, followed by the delicious scents of roasted meats, baking bread, spices, pipe smoke, and ale. The public rooms were well lighted, fat candles burning on each table, in sconces on the walls, and in iron chandeliers that hung from the oaken ceiling.

His stomach growled. "I swear I could eat an entire bullock myself."

"You’ll have to fight me for it," Morgan muttered.

They made their way toward a table near the fireplace, people staring at them and breaking into excited whispers.

"That’s the MacKinnon brothers as I live and breathe! If not for them, we’d all be
speakin
’ French today."

"I hear they’re exiled
Jacobites
who ate the flesh of their dead."

"They taught the French a lesson or two, so they did."

Like his brothers, Connor ignored these mutterings, slipping out of his gear and bearskin coat, and taking his seat on the wooden bench beside Morgan, his hand moving of its own accord to make sure the letter Sarah had written to Wentworth was still safe and dry in his shirt pocket.

"If you should happen upon him..." she’d said, clearly hoping they would find him at the fort.

"We
dinnae
ken that he is there. He might have boarded a ship and be well on his way to New York. Even if he is in Albany, we
cannae
be certain he will speak
wi
’ us." At the crestfallen expression on her face, Connor had softened his words. "I’ll do all I can to see that he gets this. I promise."

Keeping that promise would mean checking Wentworth’s old residence on Market Street, as well as every inn in town, not to mention the garrison.

"Is that she?" Iain spoke in Gaelic, his gaze fixed on someone behind them.

Connor glanced over his shoulder to see a tall woman wearing a plain blue gown and white apron and carrying four pints of ale in big, strong hands. She was not plump, nor was she thin, her frame large, her bosom and hips full and rounded. Her flaxen hair was braided and piled neatly upon her head like a crown, her cheeks flushed from exertion. "Aye.
’Tis
Gundhilda
."

The three brothers shared a glance, all of them fighting not to smile, an image in their minds of tough little
Killy
courting a woman who could, in all likelihood, pick him up and throw him.

And yet…

Morgan said it first. "She is fair of face, and her bosom…"

Connor nodded. "Aye. Her bosom."

’Twas
she who came to their table.

She glared down at them, but behind the anger, Connor saw something akin to hurt in her blue eyes, as if she knew they’d been talking about her — as if men always talked and
tittled
about her. From what he knew, she’d inherited the tavern from her father, as her brother was too weak-minded to run it himself. ’
Twould
be rough on a lass to be the proprietress of an alehouse.

"Tonight, we’ve shepherd’s pie with mutton and a pheasant stew." Her words were spoken with a faint Dutch accent he found charming.

"We’ve a small matter to discuss
wi
’ you afore we dine, Miss Janssen." Iain drew out his leather coin purse. "I’m Iain MacKinnon. These are my brothers, Morgan and Connor. We’ve come on behalf of
Killy
McBride to settle his debt to you."

CHAPTER 3

Hildie
Janssen looked down at the three MacKinnon brothers.

Did they truly believe she didn’t know who they were? There was no one in Albany who did not know of them and their deeds in the war. They were easily recognizable with their long dark hair and Indian markings. All three of them were big men, taller even than she, their arms thick, their shoulders broad.

Ja
, they were handsome men. Even she could see that.

But, in the end, that’s all they were — men.

She frowned. "Why does
Killy
not come himself?"

Not that she wished to see him again. He’d sat here under her roof drinking her rum and doing his best to make a laughingstock of her.

Iain MacKinnon glanced quickly at his brothers. "He, um…"

The youngest brother, Connor, spoke quickly. "He’s sick, miss."

"Sick with drink, I’d wager."
Hildie
was no fool.

She had grown up in her father’s
bierhal
and had been serving ale to men just like the MacKinnon brothers since she was a girl of ten. She’d heard what men said about women when they’d filled their bellies with rum. She’d felt the unwelcome burn of their leering glances and had had to fight off their groping hands since she’d first begun to develop breasts. She’d listened to their sweet words, only to have those words turn sour the moment they realized she wouldn’t lift her skirts for them. She’d learned at a young age how to protect herself, breaking more than a few wayward fingers, grabbing men who touched her by the stones and leading them by their cods to the door.

Now that she was thirty and five, well beyond marriageable age, men spoke sweet words only when they wanted to humiliate her, laughing as they tried to outdo one another with false praise for prettiness she no longer possessed. She knew she was not fair, nor even feminine. She was so much taller and bigger than most women, bigger even than many men, her face plain, her hair beginning to turn silver.

Even so, it hurt to be mocked. And, although her age and appearance made her the butt of men’s jests, that didn’t stop them from trying to get into her bed. The more they drank, the more they professed to love her, the strength of their passion for her a measure of how much they’d had to drink.

Apart from her brother, Bram, she had no use for men.

Killy
was the worst of them, sitting at her tables night after night, drinking her finest rum, speaking sweetly to her with his Irish lilt, making her dream of things that could never be. He was older and shorter than she, but he was handsome enough, his skin browned by the sun, the scars on his face giving him a rugged, devilish look she rather liked. She knew he’d earned most of those scars in the fighting with MacKinnon’s Rangers. She’d thought of him as a hero — until he’d begun to taunt her with poetry and nonsensical flattery. He’d meant none of what he’d said, but had merely been drunk and lonely for the pleasures of a woman’s company.

"Nay, miss," the youngest brother objected. "
Killy
was driven to drink only because he is heartsick for fear he has displeased you. He feels great affection for you."

Hildie
felt blood rush into her cheeks, the hurt inside her quickly swallowed by anger. They were teasing her, joining with
Killy
in a shared jest about her. But she would not allow them to mock her in her own tavern. "That Irish devil! You will stop your teasing now, or I’ll have Bram come and throw you into the snow. I’d have thought the three of you more honorable than this."

The brothers looked at each other, blank expressions on their faces.

"Have we given you offense, miss?" Iain MacKinnon looked confused.

"Do not think to taunt me, for I’ll not be having it — not here, under my own roof. I’ve no use for men’s drunken flattery and lies. If you wish to settle
Killy’s
debt, that will be one shilling six."

The brothers gaped at each other.

"One shilling six pence?" the youngest said, looking for a moment like he might rise to his feet. "How bloody much rum did that
bast
— "

The middle brother restrained him.

"One shilling six it is." Iain MacKinnon opened the coin purse, counted out the coins, and placed them one at a time in
Hildie’s
upturned palm. "He’d have paid it himself, but
Haviland
has not given him his wages for last summer’s campaigns. None of my men have been paid."

Hildie
was not surprised. She’d had more than one British officer bring his men in for food and drink and pay not a farthing for it.

The elder brother finished counting out the coins. "And that settles his accounts?"

"
Ja
." She ran a finger over the coins, counting. "What will you have tonight?"

Iain MacKinnon answered. "We’ll have both the shepherd’s pie and the pheasant stew. Bring plenty of bread and butter, too, and ale for the three of us."

Big men made for big appetites.

She closed her fist around the coins, gave them a nod, and turned toward the kitchens, only to find Connor MacKinnon following her.

He stopped her. "Miss Janssen, ’tis sorry I am if we left you
feelin
’ unsettled in any way, but we
dinnae
lie or jest
wi
’ you.
Killy
is undone by his affection for you."

"Bram!"
Hildie
shouted for her brother, who was carrying firewood in from the woodpile. "I’ll have you thrown out, MacKinnon!"

But MacKinnon was not cowed. "He told my sister-by-marriage that he is cast down for the love of you and would ask you to marry him if he thought you’d consent."

She felt her fist clench, the humiliation of having a man everyone in Albany knew and admired torment her like this almost more than she could bear.

MacKinnon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I swear to you on my honor as a Scotsman and a MacKinnon that I’m no’
jestin
’ or
deceivin
’ you."

Hildie
stared at the big Scotsman, unable to believe him and yet certain he would not swear such a thing on his honor unless it was true. But how could that be? "
Killy
truly spoke those words?"

"Aye, so he did."

"He…he was not drunk?"

"Nay, miss. He was on the
hurtin
’ side of the bottle, if you ken my
meanin
’. What man would lie about such a thing with a
poundin
’ head?"

Before she could think on this, MacKinnon drew something out of his pocket and held it out for her. It was a plant of some kind.

"
’Tis
mistletoe." He gave it to her. "
’Tis
said to possess magic. We believe that if a man and woman kiss beneath mistletoe at Christmas, they’ll wed in the new year. I bring it as a token of
Killy’s
affections."

Killy
had sent this for her?

Hildie
stared at it. She heard what MacKinnon said, but her mind could scarcely fathom it. Could all of
Killy’s
absurd, outlandish, sweet words have been sincere?

* * *

Sarah sat with Annie and Amalie, sharing their memories of Christmas while they stitched gifts for the men, taking advantage of their husbands’ journey to Albany to sew, knit, and embroider without fear of being caught and ruining their Christmas surprises. Cups of hot tea and Annie’s delicious shortbread sat on the table before them. Miraculously, the babies were all asleep. Iain Cameron played with wooden horses on the floor.
Artair
and
Beatan
, Iain’s enormous wolfhounds, dozed on the braided rug near the door as if keeping guard.
Killy
and Joseph were in the barn seeing to the heavy chores.

"After Mass, we lit candles and placed them in the windows, then set food and drink on the table in case the Virgin should call upon us during the night," Amalie said, speaking of her life in the
Ursuline
convent at
Trois-Rivières
, where she’d been raised. "I cannot say for certain, but I believe the Mother Superior enjoyed an extra meal and glass of wine on Christmas Eve."