Untamed (24 page)

Morgan had lain awake last night, thinking of Connor and the French lives that had been needlessly lost. It made his chest ache to think of the guilt and grief Connor would one day feel for having killed so mercilessly. From the sound of it, he’d been blood-drunk, wild with rage, indifferent to pity. Though it was not Morgan’s doing that his brothers thought him dead—that sin lay solely upon Bourlamaque’s head—he might have been able to prevent this had he managed to escape.

Instead, he lived trapped in a web of lies, while Connor and the men risked death in reckless fighting, and French blood was spilled in a mistaken effort to avenge him.

But that’s not the only reason you cannae sleep, is it, laddie?

Nay, for Satan, it was not.

Most nights he’d lain in his own sweat, his blood thrumming through his veins, his thoughts bent on Amalie. Since the night she’d let down her hair to him in the moonlight—
Mary, Mother of God, have mercy!
—he’d thought of little else but her. Even should he outlive Methuselah he would never forget that night or the sight of her, so bonnie, her hair tumbling thick into his hands, a cascade of perfumed silk.

They’d had four more French lessons since then—or should he call them kissing lessons? The little nymph was a fast learner, but then he’d spent more time schooling her in kissing in Bourlamaque’s accursed garden than she had schooling him in French. Morgan had kissed her until he’d tasted her lips, her throat, the swells of her breasts in every way a man could, until she’d gone weak in his arms, until his control was near to snapping. And each time he’d told himself it wouldn’t happen again.

You’re a bloody liar, and well you ken it, laddie.

Aye, but she
made
a liar of him with her big eyes, her sweet smile and soft curves. She was all softness and sweetness, soft skin, soft lips, soft breasts—and when he kissed her, soft trembling sighs. Eve and her apple he might have resisted, but Amalie…

How could any lass as innocent as she tempt him so sorely?

He sawed through the last bit of wood, caught the thick branch with the tip of his boot, and kicked it to the side. Before the young French soldiers could tie a rope around it and drag it toward the abatis, he was already sawing on the next.

Innocent Amalie was, aye, but behind that angelic face, beneath the stays she kept so properly laced, beyond the little pearl rosary that hung from her skirts, was a woman as passionate as any who’d ever lived. Whether she knew it yet he could not say.

But he did. Och, aye, he did. And the knowledge burnt inside him until she was a sickness in his blood, his lust for her a form of madness. How Iain would mock him if he could see Morgan now. It was not so long ago that Iain had been witless with desire for Annie. And what had Morgan said to him then?

Och, for the love of God, Iain! If you want her so badly, then bed her or wed her! But dinnae keep me awake wi’ your randy tossin’ about!

A fine comeuppance this was!

Morgan knew Amalie was at an edge, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she moved against him when he kissed her, hear it in her pleading whimpers. She had a virgin’s body, aye, but now that body was afire with a woman’s need. She wanted more from him than kisses, even if she did not know what that meant. How much did she know about men and women? Had Sister Marie-whasomever told her the particularities of the sex act or had she merely frightened Amalie half to death with her tales of a bungling husband and the sufferings of childbed?

’Tis no’ your place to teach her, MacKinnon. That pleasure belongs to her husband. Dinnae be forgettin’ that.

If he’d been like most men, he’d have wooed her onto her back and left her with a big belly afore summer’s ending. But he wasn’t like most men. Och, he loved the lassies right enough and had the needs of a man in full vigor. But he’d ne’er been the cruel sort who’d ease his lust with a woman with no thought of the cost to her. Amongst the Muhheconneok, lasses took lovers at will and bore their children without shame. But it was not so amongst the British or the French or even the Scots. Were he to bed Amalie, her shame would be twofold—the shame of losing her innocence and the even worse shame of losing it to a man who’d betrayed her.

An image of the lass from his village came to his mind—
poor lass
—her head shorn, her face wet with tears, her wee bairn clutched tight in her arms as the villagers threw eggs and slops at her. Morgan cared for Amalie far too much even to chance such a fate. She deserved the love and protection of a husband, but because of the war, Morgan could not even hope to take her to wife, despite whatever girlish dreams of marriage her mind was spinning.

And if you cannae wed her, laddie, you cannae bed her.

The sooner Bourlamaque sent her back to Trois Rivières the better. Morgan knew Bourlamaque had written a letter to the
mère supérieure,
knew, too, that Connor’s attack on the supply train postponed Bourlamaque’s plans to send Amalie beyond the fort’s protective walls. And though Morgan had assured him the Rangers would never harm her and had offered to accompany her, Bourlamaque had been adamant that she remain for the time.

“Perhaps next time your brother’s restraint will be even less in evidence,” he’d said, his jaw clenched, deep regret in his eyes. “Even if they spared her life, I would not want her to see such carnage. God in heaven!”

As God was his witness, neither did Morgan.

And so, for now, Amalie remained.

Morgan heard a shout and looked up to see soldiers, Rillieux and Durand amongst them, tossing what looked like a white ball back and forth. Not so disciplined as Wentworth’s redcoats, were they, these French laddies?

He cut through the branch and kicked it aside in time to see Rillieux approach, the strange ball in his hands, Durand behind him, a troubled look on his face.

“This must be one of yours,” Rillieux said, tossing the ball to Morgan.

Morgan dropped the saw, caught the ball—and felt the breath leave his lungs.

’Twas no ball. ’Twas most of a man’s skull, the bones bleached white by the sun, the empty eye sockets staring into nothingness. It had been picked clean of flesh, apart from a thatch of carrot-red hair.

Red hair.

Charlie Gordon
.

Rage pounding in his veins, Morgan looked up, met Rillieux’s amused gaze, and knew what it was to
want
to kill. “You filthy son of a whore!”

A
malie jabbed the rose stem into the vase, then withdrew it again, cross that she could not get the arrangement to look the way she wanted it to look. The mouth of the vase was too wide, the stems too fragile. She had cut them herself, hoping to set them on the table during dinner not only for their beauty but also as a reminder to Morgan of their time in the garden. Only yesterday, he’d plucked one for her and—

“Ouille!”
She gasped, popped her finger in her mouth, and tasted blood where a thorn had pricked her, feeling an absurd impulse to cry.

She hadn’t slept well last night, and lack of rest had left her cross. So many nights she’d lain in bed, unable to sleep for thinking of Morgan, wanting…Wanting what?

If only she knew.

Never had she been so aware of a man, of his every word, every glance, every gesture. Never had she imagined that the simple press of lips, the swirl of a tongue against tongue, the feel of a man’s hands upon her skin could leave her feeling so frantic, so needy, as if her very blood could feel hunger. Each time he kissed her was better than the last, every touch making her long for more. But there was more to her feelings for him than desire.

For the first time since her father’s death, she didn’t feel alone. When she was with Morgan, she felt wanted, needed, at home. He listened to her, laughed with her, talked with her as if her thoughts truly mattered to him. He kissed her with that same attentiveness, as if her pleasure were every bit as important to him as his own. He was protective of her, without ordering her about as Lieutenant Rillieux tried—

A commotion at the front door interrupted her thoughts—men’s angry voices, the heavy stomp of feet. She hurried to the hallway in time to see Lieutenant Rillieux and Lieutenant Durand pass by on their way toward Bourlamaque’s study, Rillieux holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, Durand looking uneasy and pale.

“Bourlamaque will have no choice but to act!” Lieutenant Rillieux’s face was bruised and twisted with rage. “He cannot ignore an assault on one of his own officers—a
French
officer—and hold the respect of his soldiers.”

And Amalie knew.

Morgan had hit him.

A knot of dread in her belly, she waited until Rillieux and Durand had been admitted to Bourlamaque’s study, then tiptoed to the closed door and pressed her ear against it.

“I showed him the skull,” Lieutenant Rillieux was saying, “and he became as a man deranged and struck me! You must at the very least confine him, if not flog—”

“Is that the truth of it?” Bourlamaque asked, a warning tone to his voice.

For a moment there was silence, and then someone cleared his throat. “Not altogether, monsieur.”

That was Lieutenant Durand.

“Lieutenant Rillieux and some of the grenadiers made sport with the skull, tossing it back and forth between them. Then the lieutenant threw it to MacKinnon, saying, ‘This must be one of yours.’ MacKinnon seemed to recognize it. Then he called Lieutenant Rillieux a…” Durand cleared his throat again. “A son of a whore…and struck him, monsieur.”

“You were outside the gates when this happened?” Bourlamaque sounded angry. “Where is Major MacKinnon now?”

Lieutenant Rillieux answered. “He walked off, carrying the skull with—”

“Where is he?” Bourlamaque’s shout made Amalie jump.

“I believe he was heading toward the cemetery, monsieur,” Durand answered.

Amalie did not wait to hear more, but picked up her skirts and ran.

S
he found Morgan in the cemetery, just as Lieutenant Durand had suspected. Wearing only boots and breeches, he knelt upon the earth in the far corner, digging a hole in the soil with his ax blade. Even from a distance she could see the anger on his face.

She approached him in silence, then stood and watched as he dug a shallow grave, his jaw clenched, sweat trickling down his temples, dirt sticking to the slick skin of his chest and belly. Beside him, something white lay on the earth.

The skull.

Its jawbone was missing. Two wide eye sockets gazed at the sky as if in surprise. A shock of orange-red hair clung to its scalp.

Whoever he’d been, he’d died the same day as her father.

Amalie shivered.

Morgan did not seem to notice her, but dug in silence until he’d hollowed out a small grave. Then he hurled the ax aside and gently picked up the skull. He seemed to hesitate to lay it in the earth, and Amalie understood.

She drew the lace fichu from her shoulders and held it out to him. He looked at it, then looked up at her, the anguish in his eyes enough to bring tears to hers. Then he took the lace shawl, wrapped it carefully around the skull, and nestled the skull in the soil.

Amalie heard footsteps and hushed voices and looked around her to find dozens of soldiers watching, their faces solemn. Then Père François pushed through the throng, his Bible clasped in his hand, Bourlamaque beside him.

They stopped at Morgan’s side.

“His name was Charlie Gordon.” Morgan’s voice was tight with emotion. “He’d nay been wi’ us long, but he was a good lad and true. He was only eighteen. A cannonball took his head. We ne’er found it.”

Until today.

Amalie bent down, picked up a handful of earth, and sprinkled it in the grave. Bourlamaque did the same, followed by Lieutenant Durand and Monsieur Lambert. Then Morgan picked up a handful of soil, sprinkled it onto the lace, and crossed himself while Père François began to speak the words of the funeral Mass.

“Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Te decet hymnus Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Ierusalem. Exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis caro veniet…”

As Père François continued, Amalie watched Morgan, who remained kneeling, his eyes squeezed shut, his little wooden cross clenched in one fist, his breath coming in shudders, as if whatever he was feeling barely fit inside his mortal body.

She swallowed the hot lump in her throat, stepped closer to him, and laid her hand upon his bare shoulder.

She did not see Lieutenant Rillieux standing by himself to one side, one eye blackened, bloody kerchief in his fist, blood caked on his nostrils, gazing at her with a look of utter hatred on his face.

M
organ sat on the windowsill, watching the full moon glide across the sky, the night breeze cool against his skin, a strange emptiness inside his chest. Across from him in the shadows, the sentry snored soundly, the sound lost amidst the chirps and croaks of wee night beasties. Above him, Amalie’s window was open, her room silent.

He’d been a fool to do what he’d done today, and yet, as God was his witness, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d held what was left of poor Charlie in his hands, had seen Rillieux’s amused grin, and something inside him had snapped. He’d felt true satisfaction when his fist had struck Rillieux’s face.

If he’d had his sword, that
mac-dìolain
would be dead.

Bourlamaque would decide what to do with him on the morrow. But whether he was flogged or locked in the guardhouse or made to carry water from the river all day, Morgan cared not. Nor would he begrudge Bourlamaque his punishment, for once again Bourlamaque had shown he was a good man. Rather than dragging Morgan away in chains, he’d brought the priest and waited until the prayers were spoken before he’d confined Morgan to quarters.

Morgan hated the fact that he must soon betray him.

The soldiers, too, had been respectful, standing in silence while the good father spoke the words of benediction, nary a snigger to be heard. Lieutenant Durand had even joined him in sprinkling dirt in the little grave. And Amalie…