Untamed (26 page)

Amalie was lost, her skin damp with perspiration, her body trembling. Something was happening inside her—an emptiness deep within her that yearned to be filled, a sweet ache that grew stronger with each touch, a need that became more desperate with each beat of her heart. She clenched her fingers in his long hair, her breath coming in ragged whimpers, her body taking on a rhythm of its own.

“Amalie, my angel.” He sounded breathless, his voice strained.

But if she thought he’d run out of new ways to tempt and torment her, she was mistaken, for in the next instant she felt his finger slide between her slick folds, parting her, stroking some secret part of her. The delight of it stunned her, frightened her, and she couldn’t help but cry out. “
Ô, mon Dieu!
You must stop!”

He chuckled, a deep warm sound, his mouth shifting to the side of her throat. “There’s naugh’ to fear, lass.”

With her next breath, she found herself hovering on some sharp and shimmering edge. She bit her lip, held her breath, fought not to fall, but he was relentless. His finger slid over that secret spot again and again, slick and wet, forcing her closer to that unfamiliar brink. The fire inside her blazed bright white and blinding—and then it exploded.

Ecstasy seared through her, molten and exquisite, almost terrifying in its intensity. She arched in his arms and cried out, her cries captured by his deep, thrusting kiss, as bliss lifted her up into the night, carrying her beyond the moon and the stars to a glittering place near heaven, then leaving her to drift. Slowly, so slowly, the night took shape around her once more—the beating of two hearts, sheets soaked with sweat, the sounds of mingled breathing—and she found herself lying, astonished and trembling, in Morgan’s arms.

M
organ watched Amalie sleep, a strange tightness in his chest. She lay curled against him like a kitten, so soft and sweet, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful, her long hair tangled about them both. The musky scent of her arousal teased his nostrils, mixing with the smells of night. He knew he needed to wake her, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go just yet. Dawn was still a few hours away.

This could never happen again. Not only was it far too chancie, but Morgan wasn’t certain he could survive it again. Never had his will been put to such a test as this. To touch her and taste her but not to take her—
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
—it was, he supposed, the price to be paid for daring to do what he’d done. A price he was glad to pay, even if his balls still ached and his cock throbbed.

It had been like watching a rose bloom, its rosy petals slowly spreading, revealing its beauty bit by bit, then opening at last to claim the sunlight. And she
had
opened to him, her unschooled response more arousing than Morgan could have imagined. When at last she’d reached her peak—och, never had he seen anything more bonnie.

Aye, the bastard who took her to wife would consider himself blessed, indeed, for in her he would find not only a sweet and generous spirit, but a quick mind, quiet strength, and true feminine passion.

But what if she, like the poor sister, weds some bawheid who uses her body for his own pleasure with nary a thought for hers? What then, laddie? Will it help her or hurt her to ken what she’s missin’?

Anger snarled in his chest at the thought of any man touching her, let alone using her so mindlessly. He hoped she’d have the strength and courage to demand her due from any
neach dìolain
of a husband who treated her that way.

Morgan brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and felt the sharp edge of regret. God Almighty, how he wished he didn’t have to leave her! If he but could, he’d ask Bourlamaque for permission to court her. Or he’d make love to her, confess all once her belly began to swell, and allow himself to be forced to the altar. Then he’d spend the rest of his life cherishing her.

But his duty lay along another path—not with the lass sleeping in his arms, but with his brothers, with Joseph and his Muhheconneok grannies, with the men who’d sworn to fight and die at his command. No matter what Morgan felt for Amalie—nay, he would not name it—he was a Ranger and bound not to this woman, but to war.

And if there were some way he could take her with him, return to Fort Edward with bonnie Amalie beside him?

You’ve gone daft, MacKinnon. She deserves better than you!

Aye, she did.

Here amongst the French, Morgan was a MacKinnon, grandson of a Highland laird, but at home amongst the British he was the grandson of a traitor, a man who, together with his brothers, still stood in taint of murder, a man who was bound to this war until its ending.

Then why do you wish to go home, laddie?

’Twas the voice of Satan, but it came from his own head.

Then temptation crept out of the corners of his mind where it had been lurking and showed itself fully before him—so alluring, so enticing—and he saw the life that lay within his grasp. An honored officer in Bourlamaque’s retinue. A husband to precious Amalie. A father to six or seven dark-haired sons and daughters, all of them with eyes like their mother’s.

He closed his eyes, held that vision in his mind, and felt something break inside his chest, pain forcing the breath from his lungs.

But he could no more betray his brothers or the Rangers than he could slay them. He opened his eyes, the vision slowly fading, leaving emptiness inside him.

He ducked down, pressed a kiss to Amalie’s hair. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more. Then he would wake her, see her safely to her room, and begin to plot his escape. Ere sunrise a week hence, he would be gone.

Chapter 18

T
he day was young when Bourlamaque summoned Morgan to his study.

“Please sit, Major.” He gestured toward an opulent armchair, a troubled look on his face, the fingers of his right hand pressed against his temple.

Aye, the old man was on the biting end of a bottle of brandy.

Morgan sat and waited in silence to hear his fate, his mind still filled with Amalie, her scent still upon his skin.

“The first matter we must discuss, Major, is your conduct yesterday.” Bourlamaque settled himself behind his writing table. “I cannot tolerate fighting amongst my officers. It breeds dissension and distracts us from our efforts to win this war.”

“I understand, sir.” Morgan met his gaze without wavering and pressed on, needing to say it. “ ’Tis grateful I am that you allowed poor Charlie a Catholic burial and that you stood there beside me. You are a far better man and more honorable than he whom I was forced to serve. I will accept whate’er discipline you decide is fittin’ wi’out complaint.”

Bourlamaque’s stern countenance softened slightly. “We French do not flog our officers as the British do, except for the most extreme of offenses, and this does not warrant such a response. Those who witnessed the incident agree that you were provoked. And yet I cannot ignore the fact that you struck Lieutenant Rillieux, who, despite his faults, is a dedicated officer and widely respected.”

Morgan looked down to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Aye, sir.”

“I have therefore decided that you shall spend the day digging a new privy for the officers down on the riverbank.”

Dig a privy? That was to be his punishment?

Morgan had hoped for a good flogging. It would at least have taken his mind off Amalie and relieved some of the gnawing guilt he felt for deceiving so honorable and decent a man as Bourlamaque. Aye, a good flogging would have done it. “Aye, sir.”

Bourlamaque watched him, as if expecting some kind of reaction. “Lest you think I deal with you unfairly, you should know that Lieutenant Rillieux is even now hard at work cleaning the stables.”

Morgan fought back a grin, imagining the haughty bastard up to his knees in horse shite and filthy straw. “I dinnae question your fairness, sir.”

Bourlamaque nodded, the matter clearly settled. “It has been three weeks since I made the decision to spare your life. Despite yesterday’s unfortunate events, I have not been disappointed. Your actions demonstrate qualities I hope to find in my officers—skill, strength, compassion, restraint.”

Every word made Morgan’s growing sense of guilt more difficult to bear. “You are most gracious, sir.”

“I have decided it is time to give you a rank and place in our army—and to return your possessions to you. Alas, I cannot grant you the rank of major, for it would insult my officers, and Montcalm has forbidden it.”

So there was a new message from Montcalm. Morgan would make a point of finding and reading it tonight.

The old man was still speaking. “From this day forward, you shall be Capitaine MacKinnon, my adviser on all matters pertaining to the Rangers and Fort Edward. You shall instruct my soldiers in marksmanship and woodcraft.” He leaned down and picked something heavy up off the floor, then tossed it to Morgan. “You may have use for these things.”

Morgan’s tumpline pack.

Taken aback, Morgan stared at it for a moment before unbinding it to see what gear still lay inside.

“I assure you it is all there.”

And, apart from his sword and rifle, of course, it was. Pistol. Powder horn. Bag of shot. Tin cup and plate. Salt horn. Tin cook pot. Fork and spoon. Clasp knife. Pouch of parched corn. A bar of soap. Two old onions. A bit of salt pork. Tin flask of poisoned rum. Leather flask of drinkable rum. Ground ginger and sugar, each wrapped in parchment. Needle and thread for stitching wounds. Jar of salve to keep them from festering. Linen strips for binding them. Ax. Water skin. Hunting knife.

It seemed a lifetime ago that these things had belonged to him, and the sight of them made his chest feel strangely tight. He’d thought he’d have to make the journey back to Fort Edward without them. Now it would be so much easier.

He willed his face to remain impassive. “And my rifle and sword?”

Bourlamaque pointed toward the corner by the door, where Morgan could see both his musket and his
claidheamh mòr
. “You may retrieve them on your way out, Captain. For now, we have one last matter to discuss.”

Morgan’s pulse sped up a notch. With his weapons returned, he had all that he needed to escape. “Aye, sir.”

For a moment Bourlamaque said nothing, as if he were choosing his words with care. When he at last spoke, the troubled look had returned to his face. “This concerns my ward, Miss Chauvenet.”

Whatever Morgan had expected him to say next, it was not this.

Easy, lad. If he kent she’d spent the night in your bed, he’d be geldin’ you wi’ yon sword, no’ returnin’ it to you.

“Miss Chauvenet spoke with me last evening and asked me to permit you to court her. This is unconventional, I know, but then her father made it clear that she was to be allowed to pick her own match insofar as the man she chose was worthy and could provide for her. She has developed a
tendresse
for you,
capitaine
. Surely, you must have noticed this as well.”

Morgan almost choked. “Och, well…aye, sir.”

Aye, he had noticed. Perhaps it had been the way she’d come to his room in the night, begging to be kissed. Maybe it had been the way she’d cried his name as she’d come against his hand. Or mayhap it been the way she’d looked up at him when he’d woken her, her eyes filled with wonder, aye, and a woman’s love.

He’d wanted to admonish her not to let herself love him, to tell her that he was not the man she believed him to be, to warn her that he was about to repay her compassion, trust, and affection with betrayal. But then she’d smiled, a sleepy smile, and his courage had forsaken him.

“Do you return her regard?”

Morgan thought of the girl from his village and fully intended to lie, but he found he could not—not when it came to Amalie. “Aye, sir, I do.”

Bourlamaque seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Then I should tell you I still intend to send her back to the abbey—and soon. I fear her affection for you might incense Lieutenant Rillieux, and I’ve no wish for further hostility between the two of you. Besides, events are unfolding that ought to make it much safer for her to make that long journey. I caution you not to take advantage of her innocence in the meantime. She is young and very inexperienced. You may pay your respects to her discreetly until she leaves, provided you give me your word that you will not debauch her.”

“Upon my honor, I willna harm or dishonor her.” It was a promise Morgan was happy to give and one he intended to keep—last night’s madness notwithstanding.

But what events were unfolding? Morgan needed to see that letter.

“You are the grandson of a Scottish laird, a brave fighter, and an honorable man. Should the war end, and you prove faithful to France, I would give my consent for you to marry Amalie.”

And with those words, Bourlamaque unwittingly offered Morgan everything he could have wanted—the honor of his clan name, a chance to fight as a free man, and Amalie as his wife. Did the old man know he was exacting a terrible revenge? With a few words, Bourlamaque had resurrected the vision Morgan had turned away in the night—and with it a terrible temptation.

Why do you wish to go home, laddie?

The words hissed through his mind.

And this time Morgan had no answer.

A
malie awoke feeling languid and replete, missing Morgan beside her and yet surrounded by him, the salt and musk of his scent still upon her, his touch still warming her skin, his words still sounding in her mind.

You have no’ answered my question, lass. Why are you here? And dinnae tell me it’s summer’s heat that brings you, for ’tis hot in my bed, too.

Unable to keep from smiling, she stretched, crawled out of bed, and threw open her windows to let in the fresh morning air. Then she started her morning toilette, brushing the many tangles from her hair, washing her face, shedding her nightgown. But rather than dressing, she found herself staring into her looking glass at the likeness of her own naked body.