Untamed (18 page)

She couldn’t deny that he fascinated her. His courageous tales of life on the frontier enchanted her. His lilting accent charmed her. The warmth in his eyes when he looked at her left her feeling dizzy.

She’d never met a man like him.

More than once, she’d lain awake at night, thinking of him. She’d remembered how he’d touched her, tracing his thumb across her cheek, his fingers catching in her hair. She’d remembered the feel of him, his body hard where hers was soft. She remembered how he’d risked himself to end Rillieux’s hateful kiss, enduring a beating for her sake. And she’d wondered what it would feel like if
he
were to kiss her instead of Rillieux, the very thought stirring her blood, making her heart beat faster.

She thrust the improper thought aside, turned to the left, then to the right, the silk of her skirts swirling about her legs with a pleasing
swish
. “Thank you for your help, Thérèse. I could not have done this without you.”

“It was my pleasure, mademoiselle.” The kitchen maid smoothed Amalie’s skirts, then gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you. But I must get back to the kitchen, or Papa will have my hide.
Bonne chance!
”

Thérèse opened the door and, fingers adjusting the lace cap that covered her brown hair, hurried off and down the stairs.

With one last glance in the looking glass, Amalie followed, pausing to look down over the wooden railing. Below, the sitting room was brightly lit with dozens of candles, the front door open, fresh night air carrying the savory scents of roasted meats in from the cookhouse. Officers stood in a queue that snaked through the house and into the sitting room. They were dressed in clean, crisp uniforms, most wearing wigs, some wearing their natural hair. They’d been invited to meet Monsieur MacKinnon.

She took the railing in one hand, lifted her skirts with the other, then descended the stairs, barely aware of the officers’ admiring glances, her gaze seeking one man.

She found him standing beside Bourlamaque, listening to the captain of the grenadiers. Taller than any man in the room, Monsieur MacKinnon wore a matching coat and breeches of midnight-blue velvet, creamy lace at his throat and wrists, his waistcoat of cream silk with gold brocade and shiny brass buttons. His hair was drawn back, a black ribbon at his nape. Unlike many men, he did not need to wear padding to create the appearance of strong legs; his creamy silk stockings stretched like a second skin over the muscles of his calves.

How different he seemed from the man who’d lain, naked and feverish, upon that little bed in the hospital, more refined gentleman now than fearsome warrior. And yet a warrior he was. She knew what lay beneath the velvet and silk, remembered the look and feel of him—warrior marks, wampum armbands, soft skin over bands of hard muscle.

Feeling almost breathless with excitement, she approached him. He did not immediately see her, but listened while the captain spoke, a look of respectful interest on his handsome face, a glass of cognac in his left hand.

“My wife’s
cousine,
she is married to a MacDonald. His family fled to France after the misfortunate defeat of your prince.”

“There are many MacDonalds. Do you ken which branch of the MacDonald clan—Ranald, Glengarry, Keppoch, Glencoe?”

The captain shook his head, seeming overwhelmed by the rush of exotic names. “No, alas, Major, but my wife tells me that it is a good match—seven children in nine years. Both the French and the Scots are passionate people, are they not?”

It was then he saw her, his gaze sliding over her like a caress. “Aye, Captain, passionate.”

“Ah, Amalie, there you are!” Bourlamaque reached out for her, switching into French. “How enchanting you look tonight! I’ve never seen that gown before. Something your father bought for you?”

“Oui.”
She barely heard a word her guardian said, her gaze fixed on Monsieur MacKinnon, who watched her, a hungry look in his eyes that made her heart beat faster. She held out her hand to him. “Major MacKinnon.”

“Miss Chauvenet.” He bowed, raised her hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “You are the flower of us all, lass.”

Amalie felt herself blush, wondering how she might thank Thérèse. “You are too kind, monsieur.”

Morgan was surprised to find that he could still speak. He’d caught sight of her, and his thoughts had scattered like leaves in a storm, his tongue forced to find words on its own. If he’d been any more conflummoxed, he wouldn’t have been able to talk at all.

Sweet Mary, she was beautiful! Hair arranged gracefully on her head, little braids like lace at her nape. Full lips, red and ready for kissing. The creamy swells of her breasts, ripe for a man’s touch—
his
touch. Her eyes bright with feminine happiness.

She said something. He answered. She laughed, the sound like music.

And just like that, the images that had filled his mind when he’d listened to her bathe came back to him—nipples tight against lapping water, wet skin in candlelight, damp curls between her thighs.

She’s an innocent, you radgie bastard. Pledged to the Church, aye?

But Morgan had never seen a nun who looked like this. He wanted to take off his coat and drape it around her shoulders or send her up to her room to change into something more…nunnish. But he wasn’t her guardian. Nor was he her husband, nor even her lover.

It isna your place to object, lad.

Before he could act, Bourlamaque brought the next man forward to meet him. Grenadiers. Fusiliers. Infantrymen. Scouts. Artillerymen. His head swam with their names, but try as he might, he could not keep his gaze from returning to Amalie, who stood beside her guardian, offering a smile and kind words to each man.

And then it was time for supper.

Roasted venison, stuffed partridge, suckling pig—the tables groaned under the weight of delicacies prepared by Bourlamaque’s kitchen, wineglasses kept full throughout the evening. Careful not to drink too much lest it loosen his tongue and set him to speaking French, Morgan ate his fill, his heightened sense of awareness a result not of wine, but of the intoxicating lass who sat across from him at the head table to Bourlamaque’s left.

She asked him to share his stories, and for her sake, he did. He told them of the time he and Connor had rigged the bateau bridge so that Lieutenant Cooke fell in the river, the time the Rangers had dressed as Indians and set upon Fort Edward to distract Wentworth from pursuing Annie while Iain was away, the time they’d dropped cannonballs from the fort walls to soften the rock-hard biscuits the British had given them to eat.

As the meal drew to its end, the officers gathered around the head table, the better to hear him. Though they seemed entertained by these tales, it was not their response that mattered to Morgan, but hers—the magic of her laughter, the beauty of her smile, the wistful look in her eyes whenever he mentioned Iain and Annie.

Aye, the lass was a romantic.

“We dropped a dozen six-pounders from a height of twenty feet, but ’twas the hogshead that shattered,” Morgan said, eliciting laughter from the men and making Amalie smile again.

Och, how he wanted to pull the pins from her hair, one by one, until her tresses fell past her hips, thick and heavy and soft as silk. How he longed to kiss those lips, to taste her. How he ached to strip away layers of silk and lace, to expose her loveliness to his view, to mold her breasts in his hands and hear her sigh as her nipples hardened against his palms.

He forced his gaze away from Amalie’s sweet face, afraid he would betray his thoughts by gaping at her like a lovesick fool. “Wentworth couldna deny that bread unbroken by a cannonade wasna fit for mice or men to eat. He sent it back to Albany wi’ the sutler and ordered us fed from his own stores.”

Amalie laughed, the sound sweet and clear. The men chuckled.

Then one man’s voice rose above the rest. “Your lord Wentworth tolerates much insubordination.”

Amalie’s smile vanished as Rillieux stepped forward and came to stand beside her chair. In full uniform, he wore a scowl on his face, bruises still visible at his throat.

Morgan rose to his feet. “Wentworth isna my laird.”

Silence fell over the room, the blood draining from Amalie’s face.

Bourlamaque stood.
“Joignez-vous à nous, Rillieux, mais il n’est pas question de nous faire partager votre mauvaise humeur! Je ne tolèrerai aucune discorde entre mes officiers.”

Join us, Rillieux, but do not think to spread your ill humor here. I will not tolerate dissension amongst my officers.

Then he turned to Morgan. “Gentlemen, I ask that you make your peace and embrace as brothers. You fight for the same king now and must respect one another. Do you understand, Major? Lieutenant?”

Morgan would be damned if he’d embrace the bastard. Instead, he nodded and held out his hand to Rillieux, affecting a look of contrition. “Aye, sir. And right you are. I’m certain Lieutenant Rillieux and I are content to let bygones be bygones.”

Lieutenant Rillieux took his hand and shook, squeezing hard. “
Oui, monsieur.
I harbor no ill will toward Major MacKinnon.”

Amalie gave an audible sigh of relief.

Bourlamaque raised his glass. “To victory!”

“To victory!” The cry repeated through the room.

“To victory.” Morgan lifted his glass and drank, his gaze locking with Rillieux’s and finding the hatred there undimmed.

The
neach dìolain
hadn’t meant a word he’d said.

Of course, neither had Morgan.

Chapter 12

A
malie stood outside the gates, watching as Monsieur MacKinnon prepared to demonstrate his skill as a marksman. She’d been finishing her breakfast, disappointed to have found herself alone at the table, when Thérèse had rushed in from the cookhouse breathless with news.

“Come, Miss Chauvenet! Monsieur MacKinnon is going to shoot at marks! Everyone is watching,” she’d said, an excited smile on her face.

Amalie had leapt up from the table and hurried outside. Apart from those on sentry duty, the entire fort had come to watch, soldiers standing at ease in their ranks, grumbling to one another, a mixture of curiosity and resentment on their faces. She thought she understood. A man they’d hated as an enemy had now been raised above them, chosen by Bourlamaque to teach them to be better fighters. Their pride would not let them see the good in this.

And yet she knew that once they’d come to know Monsieur MacKinnon, they would see, as she and Bourlamaque and now most of the officers had come to see—that he was not a monster, but a good man, and more valuable to France as an ally than as an offering to the Abenaki.

Last night had proved to her that hearts could be changed. By the end of the evening, even Lieutenant Rillieux admitted a grudging respect for Monsieur MacKinnon, putting aside his jealousy and resentment. If Lieutenant Rillieux could do so after all that had transpired between him and the Ranger, so could these soldiers.

“We shall put your celebrated marksmanship to the test,” Bourlamaque said first in English and then again in French so that everyone could understand. “Your marks stand at three hundred paces. You have a minute to fire three shots.”

It was a hard task Bourlamaque had set for him. Everyone knew that only the best marksmen could fire so rapidly, and Amalie found herself wondering whether her guardian was trying to ensure that Monsieur MacKinnon failed.

But Monsieur MacKinnon acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He smiled, said something to Bourlamaque, his gaze on the paper mark. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and stood, his long hair tied back in a thong, wearing only his shirt and breeches—a state of undress Bourlamaque as a rule did not allow except amongst Indians.

Amalie strained to hear.

“Begin at my signal,” Bourlamaque said, raising his pistol.

Then he fired.

Monsieur MacKinnon moved quickly, priming and loading his weapon with a dexterity born of experience. His first shot split the air, but the marks were too far away for Amalie to see whether he had struck his target. Already he was reloading, Amalie’s heartbeat seeming to tick off the seconds. He raised his weapon, fired his second shot, his big hands moving over the weapon with ease, his gaze still on his mark. Then his third shot rang out, his rifle coming to rest at his side before Fouchet called the time.

“Excellent!”
Bourlamaque smiled, motioning to two soldiers to fetch the mark and carry it back for him to judge.

The target showed three holes, all close together in the center. A murmur passed through the crowd, grudging praise mixed with spiteful curses.

“So the whoreson is passable with a flintlock,” said a soldier standing nearby.

“Passable? You couldn’t have done that on your best day,” answered another.

Amalie released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, feeling an undeniable swell of pride. Then, as if he’d known she was watching, Monsieur MacKinnon turned his head and met her gaze, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. She smiled back, her belly seeming to flip, her cheeks suddenly warm.

“Shall we try three hundred and fifty paces?” Bourlamaque asked him.

“If you wish.” Monsieur MacKinnon cleaned the barrel of his rifle while the paces were measured out and the target was set in place, then nodded when he was ready.

Bourlamaque raised his pistol again, fired.

Three shots, three more holes in the center ring of the target.

More murmurs, some now admiring.

“Very well done, Major.” Bourlamaque was quite clearly pleased. “It is rare to see such accuracy at that distance.”

“Let’s raise the stakes of this little game, shall we?” Monsieur MacKinnon grinned.

“What do you suggest?”

“I shall try for four shots.”

“Four?” Bourlamaque chuckled. “No man can fire four shots in a minute.”

“Would you care to stake a wager? If I fire four shots—and strike the target each time—then will you grant me a boon?”