Surrender

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 - Inveraray, Scotland September 14, 1757

Chapter 2 - March 20, 1758 Near Otter Creek New York frontier

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Teaser chapter

Berkley Sensation Books by Pamela Clare

Riveting, exciting . . . Pamela Clare delivers what readers want.

—Connie Mason, New York Times bestselling author

Pamela Clare is a fabulous storyteller whose beautifully written, fast-paced tales will leave you breathless with anticipation. She creates heroes, heroines, and villains with the ease of a master that draw the reader irresistibly into the story, making them part of the pain, the fear . . . and the passion.

—Leigh Greenwood, USA Today bestselling author

Praise for the MacKinnon’s Rangers Novels

SURRENDER

"Be forewarned that this is not a book you’ll put down lightly. Once you start, you’ll be hard-pressed to do anything else but travel along on this journey filled with action, danger, fantastically vivid historical events and written in almost liquid prose: nonstop and ever-flowing words that blend together in a lifelike portrayal of colonial times and the people who stood up to almost unimaginable hardships, written only as Pamela Clare can write them . . . Surrender is a must-have . . . I can’t recommend this book highly enough."

—Romance Reader at Heart

"An astonishing story. All you need to do is open the cover and read page one to know you’re being taken on an incredible journey and beginning one of the most exciting books ever written. Surrender is nothing short of genius, a work of art, written by a master storyteller. Pamela Clare pens a story so gut-wrenching, so intense, so deeply moving that you can barely put it down. There are wonderful one-liners that make you laugh along with the most beautiful words of love you’ll ever read. It’s an intense drama with unforgettable characters and a hero and heroine you’ll hold in your heart forever. Surrender to Surrender."

—Fresh Fiction

Trust me, you do not want to miss this exciting and HOT start to what promises to be a fabulous new series. I have loved all of Pamela Clare’s novels from the first one and this is one that I hated to see end . . . Great plot and characters as well as some very memorable supporting characters . . . If you love historical romance, be sure to pick this one up soon!

—Night Owl Romance

This is fantastic historical romance that uses the backdrop of the French and Indian War to tell a terrific tale of love. The story line is action packed . . . and never slows down until the final exhilarating climax . . . Fans will treasure this keeper and look forward to more MacKinnon thrillers.

—Midwest Book Review

Engrossing . . . This is a book to savor.

—The Romance Reader

Ms. Clare writes a compelling story that I found difficult to set aside. I was totally submerged in the characters and the story through the very end. I’m anxiously awaiting the next two novels where we will learn more about Iain’s brothers.

—Once Upon A Romance

"[Surrender] has its fill of adventure . . . The author evokes her setting wonderfully . . . Readers looking for a passionate romance and plenty of adventure will likely enjoy this story."

—All About Romance

UNTAMED

Captivating . . . Clare’s detailed attention to the history of alliances forged and battles fought near Fort Ticonderoga adds authenticity, and the characters evolve and change with a realism that readers will love.

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Sizzling sensuality, touching emotions, and great historical detail make this a sure winner . . . Magnificent . . . You need only to read the first page to know that you are beginning another historical romantic masterpiece by Pamela Clare, a master storyteller who always delights readers . . . Untamed will leave you breathless and cheering with its attention to historical detail, characters you can almost reach out and touch, a story line that’s deeply riveting, and a love story that will melt your heart as only these MacKinnons, Highland warriors, Scottish brothers, can do . . . You must always keep a Pamela Clare book on your keeper shelf. She is not just a read, she is a reread."

—Fresh Fiction

Riveting. Clare cleverly combines history and fiction to bring us a tale full of drama and sensuality, with well-drawn characters and continuous action.

—RT Book Reviews

A great tale . . . The story line is action packed but owned by the fleeing lead couple and the historical backdrop that makes this clearly must-reading for Colonial America romance fans.

—Midwest Book Review

This story had me from the first page. Pamela Clare is a master storyteller who writes stories steeped in historical settings that are so vivid you feel you are walking alongside the main characters as you view the story through their eyes. This one has it all. It is a story of honor, deception, loyalty, passion, duty, forgiveness, faith, and, above all, love. The main characters are strong and beautifully matched. They complete [each] other so perfectly . . . The love scenes are just to die for, and this story brought tears to my eyes more than once, as well. I highly recommend this stirring and wonderful series to anyone who loves a good love story.

—Night Owl Romance

"Surrounded by the lush backdrop of the historical wild frontier, Untamed is the extraordinary story of how Morgan and Amalie find a once-in-a-lifetime love. The pages are filled with danger, excitement, and suspense. Compelling characters, a seemingly impossible conflict, and one of the most magnificent men I’ve ever read about make Untamed unforgettable . . . Every moment they share is incredibly sensual and erotic. I fell in love with Morgan. Amalie is perfect in every way for him. Untamed is the ultimate angst-filled romance . . . Untamed is perfect."

—Joyfully Reviewed

Both hero and heroine are strong, deep characters whose romance feels believable . . . This is a good read.

—Curled Up With a Good Book

"A powerful story about two people who discover love despite war and betrayal . . . I felt truly invested in the characters in Untamed and found the time period captivating. Morgan has now taken the lead as my favorite hero of the year."

—All About Romance

Berkley Sensation Books by Pamela Clare

EXTREME EXPOSURE

HARD EVIDENCE

UNLAWFUL CONTACT

NAKED EDGE

BREAKING POINT

SURRENDER

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

A Leisure Book mass-market edition / November 2008

Berkley Sensation mass-market paperback edition / December 2011

Copyright © 2006 by Pamela Clare.

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With love for my sons, Alec and Benjamin.

You will always be the best and

most important thing I have ever done.

Acknowledgments

With special thanks to Catrìona Mary Mac Kirnan for giving Iain and his brothers their Scottish Gaelic voice, Gary Zaboly for his meticulous drawings and research, Eileen Hannay for answering ten thousand questions and sharing the magic of Rogers Island with me, and Timothy Todish for his work on Robert Rogers’s journals. This series would not be the same without you.

I’d like to thank Natasha Kern for her tireless support and Cindy Hwang, my editor, for giving me the chance to revisit this series and breathe new life into its pages. I truly couldn’t bear to leave these characters behind, and because of you, I don’t have to. Additional thanks go to Leis Pederson for her kindness and help through the years.

I’d also like to offer heartfelt and lasting thanks to you, my readers, who’ve clamored to see the MacKinnon’s Rangers series continue. Your enthusiasm for Iain, Morgan, Connor, and the men—yes, even Lord William—means so very much to me.

Personal thanks to: Michelle White, Mary White, Sue Zimmerman, Kristi Ross, Libby Murphy, Ronlyn Howe, Jennifer Johnson, Suzanne Warren, Sara Megibow, and the wild women of RBL Romantica and Rebel Writers Refuge.

Thanks most of all to Robert Rogers and his Rangers, men who did the impossible back when doing the impossible was harder than it is today. They suffered unimaginable hardship on behalf of a people who have largely forgotten them.

To learn more about Robert Rogers and Rogers’ Rangers, visit the Rogers Island Visitors Center at www.rogersisland.org, or visit Rogers Island (Ranger Island) in Fort Edward, New York, a forgotten historical treasure.

PROLOGUE

July 28, 1755 Albany on the Hudson River The Colony of New York

If Lord William Wentworth needed proof that he had come to the outermost edge of civilization, he need only look out his window. In the dusty street below, a man who looked as if he’d never bathed rutted with an even filthier whore, pounding into her from behind with the mindfulness of an animal. A dog relieved itself in the dirt a few feet away. Two painted Indians strode by, seemed not to notice the tupping pair.

William supposed he ought to find the display below revolting. Instead, he felt mild amusement. He’d been in the colonies for four months now, and thus far the inhabitants had not ceased to provide diversion—nor the vastness and beauty of the land to stir his blood.

Behind him, Lieutenant Cooke, the young officer assigned to him, struggled to excuse Braddock’s recent devastating defeat. The general had no experience fighting in such dense forest against so ruthless a foe, my lord. He expected the French and their allies to fight with honor, not shoot from the shadows like brigands.

Did he not have Indian scouts and provincials of his own to advise him? William spoke without turning from the window, his gaze fixed on the coarse activity below. The man had come and was tucking himself back into his breeches.

Aye, my lord. Lieutenant Cooke fell into an uncomfortable silence.

They had come to the unpleasant truth of it.

Why did Braddock fail?

The whore smoothed her tattered skirts, then turned to the man and held out a grimy hand for her fee.

Please, my lord, the general is but weeks in the grave. It hardly seems polite—

I did not call you here to eulogize General Braddock but to analyze his defeat. If you wish to advance in rank and one day lead men into battle, you must learn from the strategic errors of others. Is that understood, Lieutenant?

Aye, my lord.

Tell me, then. Why did Braddock fail?

He chose not to heed the advice of his provincials, and he offended his Indian fighters, many of whom abandoned him.

The man in the street, having eased the ache in his groin, apparently didn’t wish to pay. He struck the whore across the face, knocking her to the ground.

In sum, the general failed to recognize his own limitations. It was a mistake William was determined not to make. Braddock was an arrogant fool who paid for his hubris with his life—and the lives of his men.

Y-yes, my lord.

The whore struggled to her feet, a sagging breast threatening to fall free of her low bodice. She leapt for the man, teeth and claws bared.

What must be done if His Majesty is to prevail in the struggle for this continent, Lieutenant?

The man struck the whore again, and a knife appeared in his hand.

W-we must learn to fight as the heathen fight, my lord.

Or take into His Majesty’s service those who do. William was so caught up in the tasteless little drama below that he scarce heard himself speak.

The man’s arm cut an arc through the air. The whore jumped back, stepped on her hems, fell backward with a shriek.

William was about to shout through the open window to interrupt imminent bloodshed, when a tall man—a trapper or frontiersman by the look of him—appeared out of nowhere. In the time it took William to blink, the trapper had subdued the man, dropped him to the ground, and ripped the knife from his grasp.

William had never seen any man move that quickly. Was the trapper part Indian perhaps? His dark hair hung well past his shoulders. His skin was brown from the sun, and Indian designs decorated his forearms, but he was dressed like a European in leather breeches and a simple shirt of homespun. Well over six feet, he carried a bundle of furs and what appeared to be a broadsword on his back. Around its handle was bound a strip of plaid.

An exiled Highlander.

In one hand, he held a rifle. A knife rested in its sheath at his left hip, a pistol at his right. A powder horn hung from his left shoulder, and around his waist was a leather pouch for flints and shot.

William watched as the Highlander—who had been joined by two other men so like him in dress and appearance they could only be his brothers—sorted out the dispute and forced the man to pay.

Enraged, the man tossed a coin into the dirt.

The whore grabbed it, bit it, then fled.

Lieutenant Cooke appeared at William’s side. Is ought amiss, my lord? I’ll have those miscreants driven beyond the palisade, if you wish.

William shook his head, smiled at the look of disgust on Cooke’s youthful face. Are you familiar with the Ranger Corps, Lieutenant?

Most certainly, my lord. The ranging companies served His Majesty well during Governor Shirley’s War. Just the other day, General Johnson spoke of the need to outfit more such companies for this conflict.

In the street below, the Highlander helped the man he’d bested to his feet, handed him back his knife. But outraged, the man lunged as if to plant his blade in the Highlander’s heart. The Highlander neatly sidestepped the blow, a grin on his face, then kicked the man’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling.

I’m in agreement with Johnson and have been charged with raising a company of Rangers to serve under my command at Fort Edward. If I am to succeed, it is men like those I must persuade to join me.

Lieutenant Cooke frowned. They look like a troublesome lot, ill-suited to British military discipline, my lord. Good heavens, are those clan colors?

William smiled. I want to know who they are and what they’re doing here in Albany. Track their every move, Lieutenant, but take care lest they discover you. Hire someone if you must, but come dawn, I would know all there is to know about those three Scots.

I am your humble servant, my lord. The lieutenant bowed his head respectfully.

You are dismissed. William turned away from the window and back toward his chessboard.

The pieces were set. It was time for a new game.

Iain MacKinnon fought to rein in his rage and followed the redcoat officer up the stairs, his movements made awkward by the heavy fetters around his ankles and wrists. Their shackles clinking, Morgan and Connor walked behind him, five soldiers with bayonets at their backs.

We didna do it.

Connor sounded like a lad about to feel the sting of his father’s belt strap. But the charge was murder. ’Twas far more than a beating they’d be in for if they failed to prove their innocence.

Iain and his brothers had been on their way out of town when a dozen redcoats had fallen on them and arrested them. Morgan and Connor had drawn their blades, ready to fight their way free, but Iain had stayed their hands.

There’s no sense dyin’ over what is surely a mistake, lads, he’d told his younger brothers as the redcoats had shackled his wrists.

They’d been arrested before a mob of gawking townsfolk and then taken to the fort that stood on the hill. There they’d been made to wait in a dank cell, where they’d had plenty of time to discuss the charge and make certain none of them had killed anyone. After all, they’d each had more than a gill or two of whiskey, and the night’s events were a wee bit foggy.

Connor’d said he’d spent his night between the thighs of bonnie Kally Vandall, consoling her over the loss of her much-older husband. Iain and Morgan had whiled their hours away at Oldiah Cooper’s tavern. Morgan had played at draughts and fondled the alewife’s plump daughter until lust overcame him and he’d taken her upstairs for a good tupping. Iain had sat alone with his ale and thought of Jeannie, with her long, honey-brown hair and big brown eyes.

When they got home again, Iain was going to wash, shave, put on his clean shirt, and ride to Jeannie’s father’s farm to ask his permission to wed his daughter. Old Master Grant favored him above her other suitors, Iain knew. The MacKinnon farm was fruitful, the larder well stocked with corn, smoked turkey, and venison, proving Iain’s skill with plow and hunting rifle. Only the formalities stood in the way of his taking Jeannie to wife. With any luck, they’d be sharing a marriage bed by summer’s end.

That’s why he and his brothers had come to Albany. Iain had paid the gunsmith a visit in hopes that the smithy could make his mother’s gold wedding band fit Jeannie’s smaller hand. Iain had measured her finger with a bit of string and brought the string with him. The gunsmith had been happy to oblige and had taken in fee the small bit of gold he’d cut from the ring.

It was thoughts of Jeannie that had kept Iain from fighting when the redcoats had taken them. The last thing Grant would want for his daughter was a man in trouble with the accursed English. Iain would settle this misunderstanding. Then he’d get his brothers out of Albany and back to the farm.

The redcoat officer reached the top of the stairs and led them down a short hallway to the right. Why they’d been brought here and not to some kind of court Iain knew not, but he didn’t like it. Something didn’t feel right.

The officer stopped and knocked on the only door.

A voice from within—imperious and very English—bade them enter.

Iain found himself being shoved with his brothers into a large room filled with foppish chairs, silver candelabra, and a great writing table of dark, gleaming wood. Portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Toward the center of the room sat a young bewigged Englishman, his fingertips pressed together as he contemplated the figures on a marble chessboard with furrowed brow. The bronze gorget at his throat proclaimed him an officer, while the glittering ring on his finger bespoke nobility.

Iain bit back the instinctive loathing that swelled inside him, shot a warning glance to his brothers. ’Twas not the time for an airing of their grievances with the Sassenach.

The young officer who’d let them into the room gave a respectful bow. They are here, my lord.

So he was a lord. And arrogant. He raised a finger for silence and continued to stare at the chessboard. After what seemed an eternity, he picked up a black pawn and moved it forward one space. Then he stood.

He was almost as tall as Iain, though of a lesser build. His skin was pale like that of a gentleman who disdained the sun, but his features were manly, even strong. His brows were dark, a sharp contrast to his white wig. Through cold gray eyes he gazed first at Connor, then Morgan. Then at last his gaze met Iain’s, and he seemed to measure Iain as if weighing his soul.

Impatience whipped through Iain’s belly. I am Iain MacKinnon. These are my—

The butt of a rifle slammed into his gut, drove the air from his lungs.

You’ll speak when spoken to! The younger officer shouted in Iain’s face.

That’s enough, Lieutenant. The lordling gave a dismissive flick of his wrist, then turned toward his writing table and poured himself a brandy. I know much about you, Iain MacKinnon. These two men beside you are your brothers, Morgan and Connor. You arrived in New York as boys and grew up on the frontier, where you spent time amongst the heathen and learnt to speak several Indian tongues. Your father, Lachlan MacKinnon, died three winters past, and your mother, Elasaid Cameron, several years earlier. Your grandsire was Iain Og MacKinnon, barbarian lord of the MacKinnon Clan and the Catholic traitor who helped the Young Pretender escape justice after my uncle’s victory at Culloden.

My uncle’s victory at Culloden.

Those final words struck Iain like a fist, made his gorge rise. MacKinnon blood had stained the moor red that terrible spring day, a mere foretaste of weeks of slaughter that had followed, slaughter ordered by one man: the Butcher of Cumberland, son of the Sassenach king.

Iain tried to picture Jeannie’s face, fought to keep the hatred from his voice. Then you are—

The lordling turned to face him again, brandy in hand, an arrogant smile on his face. Lord William Wentworth, third son of Robert Wentworth, Marquess of Rockingham, who is husband to Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Sophia. My grandsire—well, no doubt you can deduce who he is.

Iain could.

Bloody King George.

A thousand curses passed through his mind—and with them a thousand questions. But only one mattered. Why have you brought us here?

Wentworth swirled his brandy, took a sip, swallowed. From what I understand, you’re soon to be convicted of murder and hanged.

Iain glanced over at his brothers, saw the look of disbelief on their faces. We’ve no’ been convicted, nor has there yet been a trial. The accusation is false. There’s been some kind of mistake.

Connor’s voice dripped with contempt. What evidence do you have against us?

Wentworth set his drink down, glared at Connor. Sometime during the night, the three of you encountered and killed Henry Walsh—the man you grappled with yesterday afternoon outside my window.

That’s a bloody lie! We didna— Connor’s words became a grunt as a rifle butt struck his ribs once, twice.

Fists clenched, Iain took a step toward Wentworth. "Your men will no’ strike him again, or I’ll show you just how much barbarian blood runs in my veins!"

Wentworth nodded to the redcoat, who backed away from Connor. "I’ve already seen you fight. In fact, it’s because of your barbarian blood, as you put it, that I’m prepared to offer you an . . . arrangement."

Iain felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. What kind of arrangement?

I’ll see to it personally that all charges against you and your brothers are suspended. In exchange, you’ll take up the leadership of a Ranger unit under my command and fight for your sovereign against the French and their Indian allies.

The idea was so absurd it almost made Iain laugh. You’re daft.

Am I? His Majesty needs men who know the land and the ways of the Indians if he is to successfully pursue his interests on this continent. And without my help, you and your brothers will surely be hanged.

Iain felt his teeth grind. What proof do you have against us?

Wentworth gave a shrug. Why, in addition to the dead body, any I choose to offer, of course.

And then Iain understood. Unless he agreed to fight for the British against the French, fellow Catholics and traditional allies of the Highland clans, the three of them would die for a crime they did not commit. No Englishman’s court would take the word of a traitorous Catholic Highlander over that of their king’s bloody grandson.

Blood rushed to Iain’s head. ’Tis slavery!

Wentworth answered in a voice as cold as winter. ’Tis your duty to serve your king, whether by your free will or not.

The room seemed to press in on Iain. He fought to keep his voice steady. If I accept, what will become of my brothers?

Your brothers will be free to go as they please, while you will be given beating orders and funds sufficient to piece together and outfit a company of one hundred fifty men such as you judge fit for ranging service. You will report to me at Fort Edward by August twenty-first and serve me until death releases you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.

Dinnae do it, Iain! Curse him! Morgan then did exactly that, letting loose a stream of Gaelic that would have shocked Satan himself.

I’m no’ afraid to die. Connor’s voice held quiet resignation. Let them hang us! We willna be the first Highlanders murdered by English lies, nor the last.

Scarce able to breathe, Iain considered the unbearable choice that had been thrust upon him—kill Frenchmen for the hated English or die with his brothers in shame and agony.

But there was more at stake than that.

Jeannie. Sweet Jeannie.

Grant would not let his daughter wed a soldier. He wanted to settle her with a farmer, a man whose mind was bent on tilling the soil and raising a family, not fighting a war. If Iain took up his rifle and sword, she would surely be lost to him.

There was also the farm. It had been his father’s dream to see it thrive and become the foundation for a revived MacKinnon Clan in the Americas. ’Twas unending, backbreaking labor, demanding both sweat and soul. If he fought for the English, his brothers would have to plant and harvest and fend off the forest without his help.

And then there was the matter of honor. If he served the British king, slayer of his kin, he would have none. What was a man without honor?

What say you? Wentworth watched him with that measuring gaze.

Bugger him, Iain!

Dinnae do it! Let them hang us!

Iain looked over at Morgan and Connor, felt the weight of his brothers’ lives in his hands.

Then he closed his eyes, and sent a silent prayer skyward.

God forgi’e me.

Chapter 1

Inveraray, Scotland September 14, 1757

Lady Anne Burness Campbell huddled in the corner of the dank gaol cell, shivering. Tears streamed down her already tearstained cheeks, though she did not notice them. Her eyes stared unseeing into the darkness, and she paid little heed to the rats that poked about in the stale straw. What did rats matter now?

Any moment the sheriff’s men would come for her. They would drag her into the town square. Then they would brand her on the thumb, mark her for the rest of her life as a thief. Then they would send her over the sea in shame.

But she had stolen nothing. Nothing.

O, Mamaidh! Mother!

Her mother could not help her now. She’d died three weeks past, the breath choked from her body, her spirit shattered. Uncle Bain had claimed it was an accident, a terrible tragedy, but Annie had known better. She’d overheard the whisperings of servants, heard them speak of his unnatural appetites, his liking for the pain of others. She’d remembered the handful of people who’d died over the years, most of them young servant lads and lasses, their deaths explained away in like fashion. And then there was her mother’s warning.

If aught should happen to me, tarry not, but take my jewels and what coin I have and flee this place. Make your way to Glasgow and seek out your father’s old solicitor, Argus Seton. Dinnae trust your uncle Bain. I know you love him, but you cannae trust him. Do you understand, Annie?

Annie hadn’t understood. Not then. Not yet.

If only she’d known. If only her mother had told her. She’d have gotten them both away from him somehow. But her mother hadn’t been able to bear the shame of Annie knowing, and now it was too late. Her mother was gone.

Annie’s heart seemed to burst under the crushing weight of her grief, and she fought back a sob. How she longed to hear her mother’s voice, to feel her mother’s hand upon her hair, to see her sweet smile—simple tokens of a mother’s love. Annie hadn’t understood how precious they were until they had passed forever beyond her reach. How could she live without them?

She was alone.

Now she was to be branded and sent on a ship to a strange land—all at the hands of a man she’d loved and respected as a father.

’Twas like being swallowed by a nightmare.

Fear spread like a sickening poison through her belly. How badly would the hot iron hurt? Would she survive the journey? What sort of people would she be forced to serve?

Be brave, lass. Dinnae let your fear rattle you.

Her father’s voice, words he’d spoken so long ago, came suddenly into her mind. She’d been five, and he’d been teaching her to ride her pony. But the pony had seemed so high from the ground, and she’d been sore afraid. Only the sound of his voice and the reassurance of his smile had kept her in the saddle that long hour. And when she’d learnt to ride with skill and confidence, his praise had seemed like sunshine. It had been the happiest summer of her life.

Within the year, her father had died fighting for King George at Prestonpans, cleaved in two by a Jacobite claymore, her brothers cut down without mercy beside him—Robert, William, and Charles. Uncle Bain had fought beside them and, despite his own injuries, had protected their bodies with his claymore, spilling his own blood to spare them despoilment and earning a hero’s honor for himself.

Annie had been six.

For a time, she and her mother had remained in their home. But her father, though an earl, had not been wealthy. Pressed by creditors, overwhelmed by grief, her mother had been forced to sell the estate and live with Uncle Bain, her brother-by-marriage. A marquess and widower with one grown son who spent his time in London, Uncle Bain had seemed to welcome them at his nearby estate with open arms. Only after her mother’s death had Annie realized her uncle hadn’t taken them in out of the kindness of his heart.

If only her father or brothers had lived. Everything would have been different. If her father had lived—

Footsteps.

They were coming.

Annie tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. Her heart beat painfully in her breast. If she’d had anything in her belly, she might have been sick.

Be brave, lass.

She forced herself to stand on trembling legs, smoothed her skirts. Then she wiped the tears from her face. No matter what they did to her, she was still Lady Anne Burness Campbell.

The clanking of iron keys. The tumbling of the lock. The creaking of hinges.

A shaft of flickering light spilled into the cell, spread across both rats and straw as the door was pushed open wide and her two tormentors appeared. For three weeks she’d suffered their leering glances, listened to their vile blether, done her best to escape their grasping hands.

Did ye miss me, lass? The taller of the two, Fergus, gave her a repulsive smile and laughed. Time tae come wi’ us.

Wat, the shorter one, grabbed her roughly by the arm. There’s a gentleman come tae see ye.

A gentleman? Annie felt a spark of hope. Perhaps the sheriff had sent her letter to Argus Seton after all. Perhaps her father’s old friend had come to prove that she was, indeed, Lady Anne Campbell and not some thieving servant wench as her uncle claimed. Take me to him.

‘Tak’ me tae him.’ Fergus mimicked her words, held out a pair of shackles. She’s up and spake tae us as if we was her servant laddies come tae dae her biddin’.

Can we no’ humble her a bit wi’ a fast tup in the straw? She’ll no’ speak thus tae us efter we’ve had her on her back.

Annie pretended their words did not touch her, as much for her own sake as to discourage them. She’d learnt quickly that acting like a frightened virgin only fed their wickedness. She held out her wrists, felt the dreaded touch of cold iron against her skin as Fergus locked the shackles in place.

We’ve no time for that just now, Wat. Fergus looked at her breasts, grinned. Sorry tae disappoint ye, lass.

The two men pushed her out the door of her cell and down a narrow arched hallway where fat yellow candles flickered in iron sconces against walls of crumbling gray stone. From behind a dozen small arched doors like hers came sounds of human misery—moans, murmurs, a woman’s wailing, curses, mad laughter—and Annie found herself wanting to run from this place, from the stench and the loneliness and the terror of it.

But perhaps she was leaving. She prayed with all her heart it was so. She tried to imagine who the gentleman might be, felt her heart lift. It had to be Master Seton. She’d written no one else. There was no one else.

A kindly man bowed from years of working over his ledgers, he would see to it she was set free and the jewels restored to her, together with all the belongings she’d left behind in her uncle’s hall when she’d fled. And then, when they were safely away from Inveraray, the first thing she would ask for was a hot bath and a soft bed. For three long weeks, she’d had neither.

They came to another hallway, but instead of going up the stairs as they’d done when she’d been taken before the judge, they turned left toward stairs that descended into darkness.

Annie stopped, stared down the dark stone stairway, alarm creeping up her spine. Wh-where are you takin’ me?

Fergus gave her a shove, almost sent her toppling. Ye’ll see soon enough, lassie.

With each step, Annie’s doubt and dread grew. The public rooms of the gaol were upstairs, not below stairs. If her father’s solicitor had come for her, surely he’d have been left to wait upon her above.

Be brave, lass.

But she didn’t feel brave. By the time they reached the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, she was trembling again.

Fergus grabbed the iron handle, pushed the door open.

Uncle Bain.

Annie felt the blood rush from her head, felt herself sway on unsteady legs, her last hope shattered.

The man she’d once loved as a father stood before the fire in the middle of a room that was filled with devices the purpose of which could only be cruelty. Wearing no wig and dressed only in his shirtsleeves, he looked disheveled, his face