Untamed (19 page)

Whispers passed through the crowd of soldiers like a breeze. Four shots? It could not be done. This MacKinnon was mad. He must be!

Even from a distance, Amalie could see Bourlamaque’s eyes narrow. “What would you ask of me?”

“If I succeed, then I ask that Miss Chauvenet set about teachin’ me your tongue. I cannae be livin’ amongst you never understandin’ a word of your speech.”

Amalie felt all eyes upon her, including Bourlamaque’s. Her guardian looked as if he were about to deny the Ranger’s request, or perhaps to suggest someone else serve as his teacher. But that would not do. Pulse skipping, she called out, “I accept!”

For a moment there was silence.

Bourlamaque looked from her to Monsieur MacKinnon, then back to her again. “Very well. This I should like very much to see.”

A look of concentration on his face, the Ranger cleaned the barrel of his flintlock once more, adjusted his powder horn and bag of shot, then gave a nod.

Bourlamaque raised his pistol, fired.

This time, rather than priming the flintlock, the Ranger took a handful of lead balls from his bag—and tossed them into his mouth.

The soldiers howled with laughter at the strange sight, mocking him.

“Is that how his kind grow so tall—eating lead?”

“The fool! Does he truly think he’s that much better than the rest of us?”

“If he fails, we shall throw him in the river to teach him a lesson in humility!”

But Monsieur MacKinnon did not seem distracted by their words, perhaps because he could not understand them. His hands moved with practiced familiarity over the rifle, priming it, then pouring powder down the barrel. Then he did something Amalie had never seen done before. He spat one of the balls into the barrel, raised the rifle—and fired. Before the retort of the shot had faded, he was reloading.

And Amalie understood. By holding the lead balls in his mouth, he saved himself the few seconds it took to pluck one from his pouch and ram it into the barrel. And those few seconds would make all the difference in battle.

Two shots.

Three.

Then time seemed to slow down, Amalie watching each sure motion of his hands as he reloaded a fourth time, spat the last ball down the barrel, and took aim, the fourth shot exploding a moment before Fouchet opened his mouth to call the time.

All around her, soldiers cheered, their whoops and shouts growing louder when the target was brought forth, showing four dark holes.

Monsieur MacKinnon had hit his mark each time.

He lowered the rifle to his side, then glanced at Bourlamaque, an amused look on his face rather than one of triumph. And Amalie realized he’d made the wager knowing he could do it. He’d done it before.

Warrior or gentleman? ’Twas clear Morgan MacKinnon was both.

She took a step forward, wanting to congratulate him, but a strong hand closed around her arm, and she was pulled away.

“Kwai
,
nadôgweskwa.”

“Tomas!” She looked up to find him glaring down at her, fury unmistakable on his face, Simon beside him. “What—?”

“I have long wondered whether the daughter of my mother’s sister thinks of herself as French or Wabenaki. Now I know. She is neither French nor Indian, but instead has become the whore of the Inglismôn, this MacKinnon.” He spat on the ground.

Too stunned to speak, Amalie gaped at him.

“He was ours, Amalie, promised to us by Montcalm. Now he dines with Bourlamaque, while we, who kept our promises to our French brothers, camp outside the walls and are sent away with useless blankets, kettles, and beads!
You
asked Bourlamaque to spare him. Why?”

But Amalie was angry now, too, fury freeing her tongue. “I am no man’s whore! You’ve a filthy tongue, Tomas! And though I am French and Abenaki, I am also Catholic. Do you hear nothing the priests say? It is barbaric and cruel to burn a man alive! The people of Oganak must learn to forgive him, even as I have forgiven him.”

Tomas and Simon stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

Then the rage on Tomas’s face turned to disgust. “You have lived your life amongst them. You cannot understand. Blood can only be avenged with blood. We
will
have him, little Amalie, and nothing you or Bourlamaque can do will stop us.”

With that, the two of them turned and walked away, leaving Amalie to stare after them.

M
organ looked for Amalie in the cheering crowd, but she was gone. Though disappointed, he didn’t think much of it, his spirits high. What a benison it was to feel the sun warm upon his face, to have the wind in his hair, to hold the weight of his musket in his hands. Breathing in the air, he felt alive again—truly alive. And it was sweet, so sweet, that he’d forgotten the peril he still faced and the devil’s bargain he’d made—until Bourlamaque took his musket from him again and locked it away with his other gear.

The man did not yet trust him.

Clever fellow.

He did not see Amalie again until the midday meal, and he knew the moment he saw her that something was amiss. She said nary a word as she ate, her gaze meeting his, something urgent and unspoken in her eyes. Not until after the meal when Bourlamaque called him into his study did he discover what it was.

“Amalie is quite concerned,” Bourlamaque said, sitting at his writing table and looking none too blythe himself. “It seems the Abenaki are displeased with my decision to grant you clemency.”

Morgan kept his voice measured. “They’ve been cheated of their blood vengeance, aye? I kent they wouldna accept it.”

“Her cousins told her that they would permit nothing to stop them from taking you back to Oganak—not even me.” Bourlamaque raised a bushy eyebrow as if he did not know what to make of such defiance.

Morgan wondered if this was the first time he’d found himself at odds with his Indian allies. “Surely, they wouldna chance your wrath. They rely upon you for rifles, blankets, and many other things besides.”

“You needn’t doubt whether I will keep my word,” Bourlamaque continued, “but I cannot say for certain whether all of my men will honor my agreement with you. I watched their faces today. Most were in awe of you. But some hated you all the more for your skill with a firelock. Should any amongst them collude with the disgruntled Abenaki, it would not be so difficult a task to spirit one man beyond the walls.”

“I will do whate’er I must to defend myself.” Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze, made certain the older man knew he meant what he said.

“I expected no less.” Bourlamaque glanced down at his writing table, where a missive lay, Montcalm’s flowery script at the bottom, his seal upon it. “I have ordered my officers to spread the word that you are an honorable man and a good Catholic in hopes that it will defuse some of the hatred.”

He made no effort to cover the letter, no doubt believing that Morgan could not read it. But even with the letters upside down, Morgan was able at a glance to recognize his own name and read the words
prisonnier
and
notre avantage,
and
le tuer.

Prisoner
.
Our advantage
.
To kill him.

He looked away lest Bourlamaque catch him. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but ’tis I who must win their trust. You and your officers cannae do that for me.”

“There is more.” Bourlamaque leaned back in his chair. “The Abenaki are blaming Amalie in part. Her cousins called her your whore, accosting her in a way that alarms me. I am not familiar with their customs. Should I fear for her safety as well?”

It was on the tip of Morgan’s tongue to demand her cousins’ names so that he might answer their vile words with the edge of his sword or his fists, but he knew Bourlamaque would never allow it. He swallowed his anger, kept his face impassive. “I am blood kin to the Muhheconneok—the Mahican—not the Abenaki. But from what I ken of their ways, they wouldna seek to harm a kinswoman unless they felt betrayed by her.”

Morgan would make certain that never happened.

Bourlamaque released a breath, seemed more at ease. “I’ll be grateful when she’s safely back at the abbey. Her father, God rest his soul, should never have permitted her to stay here. I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen to her while she was in my care. I had hoped she’d agree to marry Lieutenant Rillieux, but…” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.

He’d wanted Amalie to marry that arrogant bastard? Was he daft?

That’s what Morgan thought, but it’s not what he said, seeking instead for something tactful. “Och, well, she is pledged to the Church, aye?”

Bourlamaque shook his head. “Amalie? No, Major. She has not yet decided whether to take vows or marry. Her father told me that she found life at the abbey stifling, and yet I have little choice but to send her back to Trois Rivières until the war is over. She cannot remain here.”

“Nay, she cannae,” Morgan agreed, trying to take in what he’d just heard.

So, the lass was not quite as bound to the Church as she’d led him to believe. Aye, that explained the gown she’d worn last evening. But had she meant to mislead him?

He thought back.

Are you pledged to the Church?

Were it not for this war, I should have returned to the abbey at Trois Rivières by now.

He’d asked the question, and she had answered without answering. She hadn’t trusted him then, hadn’t wished to answer his questions. Now he knew the truth.

Amalie was free to marry, if she chose—free to know a man’s loving.

Dinnae be longin’ after what you cannae ha’, laddie, for if she takes any man into her bed, it willna be you.

Nay, it wouldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him. His life lay elsewhere, with his brothers and his men. As soon as he was able, he would escape and return to them. Then Amalie would realize she’d been right to mistrust him.

And she would hate him.

A
malie slipped into her nightgown, then sat at her dressing table and began to brush the tangles from her hair. She knew she was silly to worry. Bourlamaque would not let her cousins spirit Monsieur MacKinnon away, nor was the Ranger a defenseless child to be carried off like a bundle of firewood. If Tomas were foolish enough to try to steal Monsieur MacKinnon from Fort Carillon, he would likely be the worse for it.

Amalie did not want that either. Though she did not know her cousins well, they were her only tie to her mother’s kin, and she was fond of them, especially Simon, whose bright smiles had always made her feel at ease. And yet as much as she hoped to retain their affection, she would not tolerate Tomas’s foul insults—nor would she look the other way while he plotted to kill Monsieur MacKinnon.

Bourlamaque had assured her that he would not permit any man—whether French or Abenaki—to scheme against the Ranger and had promised to warn Monsieur MacKinnon himself. Then he’d told her not to worry.

“Go and enjoy the day, Amalie. It saddens me to see you so distressed.”

It
had
been a beautiful day, and she’d spent most of the afternoon tending Bourlamaque’s garden, the sky bright and blue above her and filled with calls of birds—the plaintive cries of gulls soaring over the water, the lively
purty-purty-purty
of cardinals that flitted along the forest’s edge, the watery warble of bluebirds building their nest in the chapel’s eaves. The warm air had been rich with the scent of earth and sun and growing things, life renewing itself all around her.

Still, she hadn’t been able to forget Tomas’s words.

We will have him, and nothing you or Bourlamaque can do will stop us.

Monsieur MacKinnon had been closed up in Bourlamaque’s study all evening. She’d settled in the sitting room with her embroidery, hoping to congratulate him on his marksmanship—and to warn him to be careful. But the hour had grown late. Her eyes strained from trying to make neat stitches by candlelight, she’d set her embroidery aside and retired to her room.

Outside her bedroom window, a breeze carried the promise of rain, the strains of pipes and fiddles in the distance. Tomas and Simon were out there somewhere. Were they plotting against Monsieur MacKinnon even now?

Just as the question crossed her mind, she heard a door open and close below stairs, followed by footsteps in the hallway.

She set her brush aside, grabbed her blue silk shawl, and opened her door, then tiptoed over to the stair railing and peeked over the edge.

Monsieur MacKinnon stood in the sitting room below, arms crossed over his chest, looking through the window into the night. Even in the candlelight she could see the brooding look on his handsome face. Mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, she wrapped the shawl tighter around her and tiptoed down the stairs.

Chapter 13

M
organ looked out the window, his gaze focused on the darkness beyond. Night was when he missed them most—Iain, Annie, Connor, Joseph, and the men. The dark seemed to press in on him, doubts and troubles niggling at him, his home so far away. Would he live to see them again?

’Twould be all but impossible to escape from inside Fort Carillon. Every man amongst the French now knew his face, so he could not hope to steal a French uniform and simply stroll out of the gates. Nor could he leave the house by night, as both his window and the front doors were kept under watch. Bourlamaque did not yet trust him enough to send him into the forest with French troops to scout. Until he did, Morgan would have no chance to slip away.

’Twas time he set about learning all he could of the French, of Montcalm and his designs for the summer campaign. Tonight was the night. Tonight Morgan would wait till Bourlamaque was asleep and then—

He heard her soft footsteps, saw her at the bottom of the stairs, and forgot all else. She tiptoed toward him in her white linen nightgown, a blue shawl draped modestly about her shoulders, her long hair hanging past her hips, her feet bare. Though he tried, he couldn’t keep his gaze from sliding over her, for although her shoulders were covered, her bosom was not. He could see the dusky outline of her nipples against the linen, her breasts firm and full—made for a man’s hands. She gazed up at him with trust in her eyes, her face angelic in the candlelight.