Untamed (13 page)

And then he told her how Iain had found Annie alone in the forest, the sole survivor of a massacred homestead, about to be raped and slain by a group of French and Abenaki warriors, and how he’d violated his orders to save her life, enduring a hundred lashes as punishment. He told her how Iain had defied their commander to keep her near him, how he’d kidnapped a French priest in order to marry her though she was Protestant, and how he’d faced her depraved uncle in battle, almost losing his own life to save hers.

As he told Amalie his brother’s story, he watched the play of emotions over her face—horror, surprise, distress, even longing.

“He must love her very much,” she said when he had finished.

“Enough to die for her.”

She watched him for a moment, those green-brown eyes of hers like a window to her heart. He knew what she was going to ask him before she spoke. “Have you ever loved a woman?”

Had he ever loved a woman? He’d
made love
with his fair share—dark-eyed Muhheconneok lasses in Stockbridge, fair-haired Dutch beauties in Albany, a plump alewife’s daughter or two. But although he’d cherished them—and savored the pleasure he’d shared with them—he’d yet to feel the bond that had driven his brother to risk
everything
.

And suddenly his life seemed so empty.

But it was better this way, aye? ’Twas better never to have known that kind of love than to leave behind a bereaved wife to raise his bairns alone. This war had already made too many widows, too many fatherless children.

“Nay, lass.”

“Then there is no woman to mourn you?” On her sweet face, he saw reflected the bleakness of what awaited him should he fail to escape—an agonizing death, an unmarked forest grave, only his brothers to remember him.

He grinned, tried to make light of it, needing to see her smile. “Och, I’m thinkin’ there will be a tear or two shed in Stockbridge, and perhaps in Albany, too.”

“I shall pray for you.”

Her simple offering left a tightness in his chest, made it strangely hard for him to breathe. “You…would do that? You would spend prayers upon your enemy, upon a man who might have slain your father?”

“War killed my father, monsieur.” Then she smiled, a fragile, sad smile. “Besides, I have forgiven you, have I not?
Oui,
I will pray for you.”

He lifted his head, looked down toward the wooden cross that rested against his chest. “Then take this. Pray the words with it. It will give me strength to wear it and ken that you have touched it.”

She set her book aside, walked to the bedside, then reached down and lifted the rosary over his head, her fingers closing around the wooden beads and the small wooden cross. “I shall pray with it tonight, monsieur, and return it in the morning.”

Chapter 8

A
malie hurried through her morning toilette, washing her face, combing the tangles from her hair, and tying it back with a red ribbon her father had given her. Then she drew on her petticoats, fastened her stays, and slipped into her gown, choosing the blue one over the gray. She tucked the white stomacher into place, smoothing her hand over the lace ruffles and straightening the lace at her wrists, then glancing in the glass to be certain she was presentable. If only there were a way to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes…

She’d slept but little last night. She’d spent the night upon her knees praying the rosary just as she’d promised, holding the Ranger’s simple wooden beads, his scent upon them, the leather cord that held them stained with his sweat. Then, unable to keep from weeping, she’d remained kneeling and had asked the Blessed Virgin for some miracle that would spare him torment. When at last she’d fallen asleep, her dreams had been troubled with visions of fire.

Why, oh, why did he fight for the British?

She could not deny it. Not only had she failed to hate him, she had come to admire him, even to feel…
affection
for him. A Ranger he might be, and fearsome in battle, but he was also a man who kept his word, a decent man, a man of deep morals and intelligence. He’d discussed Rousseau’s writings with her as if her opinions mattered, listening to her thoughts and sharing his own. Though he could easily have stolen the key from her yesterday, he had not. And although she knew that he—how should she describe it?—felt some
attraction
to her as a woman, the look in his eyes hadn’t frightened her the way men’s regard usually did. Instead, it had left her feeling warm, almost breathless.

I think even the most savage man can tell a beautiful woman when he sees her.

She picked up his rosary, clutched it tight in her fingers, whispering a quick Hail Mary. Then she tucked it into her bodice lest anyone see it and went down to breakfast.

She was relieved to find Bourlamaque conversing with Lieutenant Rillieux and the other junior officers in his study, a breakfast of breads, cheeses, and cold meats from last night’s supper left out for her. Though she cared for Bourlamaque and enjoyed his company, she was no longer so fond of Lieutenant Rillieux, her anger with him for striking Monsieur MacKinnon unabated. It was far better to break her fast alone than to endure his company.

She ate quickly, then left the house, hurrying across the parade grounds toward the hospital. The sun was well above the horizon now, the days growing longer as spring stretched toward summer. A slight breeze blew in from Lac Champlain, carrying the scent of wood smoke from the soldiers’ cook fires. The crow of a rooster. A dog’s bark. Men’s hearty laughter.

She entered the hospital to find Monsieur Lambert’s attendants playing at cards, only one soldier left in their charge—the one who’d shot himself in the foot. Three others had healed and been sent back to their posts yesterday. One had died, another little wooden cross planted in the ground.

The young men looked up as she entered, exchanged a meaningful glance, then went back to their game. They were no doubt upset with her for yesterday’s scolding, but she had not been able to let their negligence go without censure.

“Bonjour,”
she called to them, threading her way amongst the empty beds toward the back.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”
they called in return, a bit sheepishly it seemed to her.

And then she saw.

The door to the back room was wide open—and the bed empty.

M
organ leaned back against the rough, wooden planks, trying to take the weight off his injured leg, the iron collar heavy against his shoulders. Standing upright was more difficult than he’d imagined and yet he had little choice but to keep standing. Still, he supposed he was grateful to know that he
could
stand and walk, even if it hurt like hell.

He’d known there would be trouble the moment the surgeon discovered the bandages on his wrists and ankles. A frown had come over the man’s face and he’d poked his finger into the gap between the bandages and the shackles as if trying to figure out how someone could possibly have accomplished it.

“Who did this?” he asked in heavily accented English.

Unwilling to do or say anything that might expose Amalie to harm, Morgan had stared at him as if in surprise. “It wasna you?”

“Of course it was not me!”

Knowing it was probably futile, Morgan had lied. “I was sleepin’, and when I awoke, ’twas already finished. I thought you’d done it.”

The surgeon studied him through eyes that held suspicion, then left him to question the young lads who worked for him. There’d been some shouting and then silence, and Morgan had known it was only a matter of time before the surgeon uncovered the truth. A short time later Lambert had returned with Lieutenant Rillieux, who, together with two soldiers, had unshackled him, stripped off his bandages, and made him put on breeches. Then they’d forced him to walk barefoot, shirtless and in shackles, from the hospital to the guardhouse through a throng of French soldiers, who’d shouted at him, cursed him, and spit at him as if he were Satan himself.

And in their eyes surely he was.

He’d held his head high, pretending not to understand their curses, pretending he felt no insult, no fear, no pain, his injured leg barely able to hold him. The heavy irons forced his thigh to work harder, rubbed against his raw and blistered skin. Then, just as they’d neared the guardhouse, he’d seen them—perhaps a dozen Abenaki warriors, broad smiles upon their faces.

“Kwai, nichemis! Paa-kuin-o-gwzian!”
the tallest one had shouted.
Hello, brother! I am happy to see you!

Morgan had met the man’s gaze, said nothing.

Up your arse.

Now Morgan was imprisoned in a small cell, chained by a heavy iron collar to the wall, the chain a few links too short to permit him to lie down or even sit, his wrists and ankles still shackled. Rillieux had left him like this all night, no doubt trying to add to his miseries and sense of dread by forcing him to stand and depriving him of sleep.

He’d have been a liar if he’d said it’d had no effect upon him, for in the darkest hours of the morning, surrounded by shadows and silence, exhausted, his body aching, he’d found it all but impossible to escape his own thoughts.

Morgan had never doubted his courage. He’d faced wild animals, once saving a little Muhheconneok girl from the jaws of a cougar that had wandered into Stockbridge. He’d gotten into his share of collieshangies in the public houses of Albany and come out unscathed. He’d fought more battles than he could remember, facing down the enemies of Britain and of his Muhheconneok kin, charging headlong into the fray, and staining his
claidheamh mòr
red with blood. But against the enemy of prolonged pain he had not yet been tested.

Would he break? Would he beg and plead for mercy? In his desperation to end the agony, would he betray his brothers, his men, himself?

Nay, he would not. He
could
not. For as terrible as it might be, his pain meant life for Iain, Connor, Dougie, Killy, and the others, his silence the last gift he could give them.

Images flashed through his mind. Connor getting a musket ball cut out of his shoulder last spring. Iain taking a hundred strokes of the lash without making a sound, his back bloodied. Lovely Annie facing a murderous war party alone with nothing more than a stone in her wee hand. And Amalie, sweet Amalie, forgiving a man who might have killed her father, finding the strength to offer him mercy, defying her own people to treat him with dignity.

Their courage would be his courage.

Outside, the sun climbed past the horizon. It would not be long now. He closed his eyes, drew a breath, began to pray.

God in heaven, dinnae forsake me! Mary, Mother of God, pray for me!

Then, from outside, he heard men’s voices.

He drew another deep breath, forced himself to stand upright on both legs, ignoring the pain, dismissing his fears. He was Morgan MacKinnon, brother to Iain and Connor MacKinnon, blood brother to the Muhheconneok, and grandson of Iain Og MacKinnon. He would not break.

Come, Rillieux, you son of a whore. Do your worst upon me.

“L
ieutenant Rillieux said that no one was to attend the prisoner until he himself returned.” The guard, a young soldier not much older than Amalie herself, stood at rigid attention, clearly afraid of Lieutenant Rillieux.

“Of course he did, and you have done your duty well.” Amalie forced herself to smile, then leaned closer, as if imparting a great secret. “But my guardian, Monsieur le Chevalier de Bourlamaque, ordered me to visit the prisoner each day so that I might win his trust and perhaps steal secrets from him.”

She was treading dangerously close to a lie, she knew, but what choice did she have? She could not rest until she’d returned the rosary to Monsieur MacKinnon. She had tried to make him more comfortable and in so doing had brought this upon him.

It was Monsieur Lambert who’d finally told her what had happened. He’d found the bandages and discerned that someone had unlocked the shackles. After realizing that it could only have been she, he and Lieutenant Rillieux had agreed that the Ranger was too dangerous to remain in the hospital, and Lieutenant Rillieux had moved him to the guardhouse with Bourlamaque’s approval.

“Your compassion does you credit, Miss Chauvenet, but it was an incredibly foolish risk to take, even with the prisoner sleeping as he was,” the surgeon had chided her. “I am grateful he truly was asleep and not just feigning. I cannot imagine what he might have done to you otherwise.”

It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him that the Ranger had not been asleep but had instead given his word, but then she’d realized that they must have questioned Monsieur MacKinnon and that he had lied to protect her, thinking perhaps that she would be punished if the truth were known.

“I—I am sorry, monsieur.” She’d bowed her head as if in contrition, her mind racing for a way to return the rosary. “I meant only to help.”

“Of course. But your help, so graciously given, is no longer needed,” he’d said. “You have spent far too much time in this dismal place. Return to your needlework. Forget this unfortunate affair.”

Amalie had been incensed. Return to her needlework? Did they think so poorly of her as to believe she could be distracted from Monsieur MacKinnon’s plight by embroidery?

“Bien, monsieur.”

But knowing that if she returned to the house she’d have to face Bourlamaque, who would surely forbid her from seeing the Ranger again, she’d come straight to the guardhouse instead and had been relieved to learn that Lieutenant Rillieux was still occupied elsewhere.

The soldier on guard duty looked down at her, doubt upon his face. “He asked you to
interrogate
the prisoner, mademoiselle?”

She smiled again, leaned closer. “Monsieur le Chevalier believes the prisoner might find it harder to resist a woman’s more subtle ploys than a man’s threats.”

His gaze dropping to her bodice, the soldier nodded, as if he understood that line of reasoning at least. “Very well. But if Lieutenant Rillieux blames—”