Untamed (48 page)

“That wylie bastard!” Morgan chuckled. “They are fleein’. See?”

He pointed north of the fort, where he could just make out a band of blue stretching along a forest road. It was the French army. “Do you see them?”

She nodded. “But who is firing the guns?”

“It seems Bourlamaque has left a rear guard to hold the British at bay. He kens I told Amherst that the fort would be abandoned, and he kens Amherst didna believe me, so he’s firin’ the guns to fool Amherst into thinkin’ he’s still there. See how Amherst rolls out his artillery? While he wastes his time preparin’ for battle, Bourlamaque’s army makes good its escape. By the time Amherst is ready to fire, the fort will be empty.”

It was a brilliant plan.

But Amalie was not smiling, her face pale as the last French soldiers abandoned the guns, mounted their horses and rode out, deserting the fort at last. Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Adieu, Papa.”

Morgan heard the anguish in her voice, and felt a surge of regret at his thoughtlessness. He’d not thought what this would mean to her. “ ’Tis sorry I am that you should suffer,
a leannan
. The British willna disrespect the graves, and I’ve no doubt Connor will seek your father’s grave to pay his respects.”

She nodded, sniffed, seeming to take comfort in his words.

But now regret assailed him in earnest, the pricking of his conscience impossible to ignore. “Bourlamaque is right, lass. I am a wanted man, welcome neither amongst the French nor the British. I promised you a home, and now I cannae so much as give you a roof to cover your head.”

Amalie looked into Morgan’s eyes and saw the depth of his remorse. “This is not your doing, Morgan. I do not blame you. Please do not blame yourself.”

But she could see her words did not soothe him.

She sat up, traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “The night before you were to be…hanged…I prayed for God to work some miracle and set you free. I would have given anything to spare you, anything at all. Now that my prayers have been answered, why should I worry about something so small as a roof?”

He took her hand, pressed her fingers to his lips, kissed them. “But I promised you a home, lass.”

She sought for words to make him understand. “
You
are my home, Morgan MacKinnon.”

He watched her for a moment, as if amazed, and some of his regret and doubt seemed to fade. “Life at my side willna be easy, but I swear to you, lass, you’ll ne’er go hungry, nor will you want for warmth or a man’s protection.”

She smiled, a feeling of pure happiness swelling inside her just to be near him like this. “Then I shall want for nothing.”

Joseph appeared out of the forest, his men behind him. He said something to Morgan in his mother tongue and pointed to the valley below.

Morgan looked startled, then took Amalie’s hand and stood.

And there in the valley not far from the roots of the mountain stood Connor and the Rangers. They were easy to recognize, the only company in the British army not wearing red uniforms. The moment they saw Morgan, they raised their rifles over their heads and let loose a bloodcurdling cry—the Mahican war cry.

And Amalie knew.

This was the Rangers’ way of bidding Morgan farewell.

Tears of bittersweet joy streamed down her cheeks as she watched Morgan receive this tribute from his men, his head high, his brow furrowed with emotion, his jaw tight. Then Morgan raised his rifle above his head and returned the cry, Joseph and the others joining with him, until the entire forest echoed with the terrible, wonderful sound.

And then the world fell silent.

Far below them, the Rangers turned and marched on, duty calling to them.

“Farewell, Connor,” she heard Morgan whisper, his arm sliding about her waist. “Farewell, lads.”

“Will we see them again?”

“God willing, lass. God willing.” Then he turned to her, wiped the tears from her cheeks. “We have far to go ere nightfall. We must be certain that no one has followed us. Can you make it,
a leannan
?”

Amalie smiled. “As long as you’re with me, Morgan, I can do anything.

Epilogue

Six months later

M
organ put the heavy iron lid on the pot, settled it amongst the coals, then sat back on his heels, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Joseph. “And now we wait.”

He gazed at Amalie as she watched the pot, excitement and anticipation on her sweet face. When he’d heard that she’d never tasted or even seen popped corn, he’d known he’d have to ask Joseph to bring some when next he came to visit. His Muhheconneok brother had not disappointed him, bringing not only popped corn, but also cider, pumpkins, potatoes, corn, apples, dried plums, cornmeal, butter, and cheese from the MacKinnon farm. Joseph had even brought sugar and a wee bit of precious cinnamon, which he’d gotten from a Dutch trader in Albany.

With the plump turkey Morgan would bring down, ’twould make a grand Christmas feast. And Amalie deserved a happy Christmas.

As true and good a wife as any man could hope for, she’d endured these months of exile without complaint, her smile never failing, her love never faltering. Not when they’d journeyed long leagues through the forest to take shelter with Joseph’s kin in Stockbridge. Not when the sudden arrival of Amherst’s scouts had forced them to flee westward in the dark of night. Not when she, already quickening with his child, had been made to sleep upon pine boughs in a lean-to while Morgan put up this cabin.

Sturdy and warm, it stood near a spring in the heart of Mahican hunting grounds, deep enough in the wilderness to keep Amherst at bay and near enough to Stockbridge for someone from the village to make the journey once a month, bringing the provisions Morgan could not find in the forest and taking peltries in trade. For four months now they’d lived within its thick and sturdy walls, and happy months they’d been. With no fields or livestock to tend, their days and nights turned around the simple rhythms of living—harvesting food and firewood from the forest, bathing in the spring, making love whenever and wherever they chose, as if they were the only two people in the world.

Though he’d not believed it possible, Morgan loved Amalie more today than he had when he’d taken her from Bourlamaque, the joy he’d found with her beyond anything he’d ever known or even imagined. Despite Amalie’s fears that he would desire her less as her belly grew big and round, he wanted her all the more. For although some women grew pale and wan when with child, the life seeming to drain from them even as the bairn within them grew, Amalie had blossomed, her feminine curves becoming more lush, her eyes growing brighter, roses blooming in her cheeks.

Yet amidst such happiness, there were shadows. Amalie still had unquiet dreams, stalked in her sleep by a bastard Morgan oft wished he could slay again. And although he’d taught her to shoot, she hated being left alone in the cabin when he went hunting. But most of all she feared what would happen when her time came. She spoke nothing of it, but Morgan knew it just the same. He could see it in her eyes sometimes as she stroked her belly, could see it in the way she sometimes lay awake late at night.

’Twas only natural for her to be afraid. Childbirth was as hard on a woman as battle was on a man—or so Morgan reasoned. Many women suffered for long hours only to lose the bairn ere it took a single breath, and more than a few lost their own lives. Hadn’t Amalie’s own mother died in childbed? It helped matters not one whit that Amalie’s thoughts were filled with the frichtsome ramblings of that gabby old nun.

Morgan wished he could take Amalie home. He knew she missed Annie greatly, knew that now more than ever Amalie needed a woman’s company. Annie had already borne one child and was now well along with her second. She would have been able to assuage Amalie’s fears both before and during the birthing—
and she might have been able to soothe Morgan’s worries as well.

Come March, when the deep snows began to melt, he would have to help Amalie bring forth the bairn he’d planted inside her. But although he’d helped cows to calve and horses to foal, he’d ne’er even witnessed childbirth. The nearest he’d come was the endless night he’d sat by the campfire drinking rum with Iain as Annie had struggled to bring wee Iain Cameron into the world, her cries turning Iain’s face white and tugging at the heart of every man in Ranger Camp.

Knowing that Amalie must suffer such pain on account of him was hard enough for Morgan. But the thought that she might perish…

Nay, neither she nor the child would die. Morgan loved her with every breath in his body. He would not let that happen.

Pop.

The first corn popped. And then the next.

Amalie laughed, gazing up at him in wide-eyed wonder, a bright smile on her face, her happiness making Morgan forget his worries—for now.

Amalie listened as the popping became a frantic tattoo, and had to fight the urge to lift off the lid so that she could see what was happening inside the pot. Soon a warm, delicious scent filled the room. She watched as Morgan removed the pot from the coals, then pressed in close as he lifted the lid.

“Ô, mon Dieu!”
She stared in amazement at what looked like fluffy bits of cloud. While Morgan and Joseph argued about what to put on it—butter and salt or butter and sugar—she reached out, picked a piece, and popped it into her mouth. It was strangely crunchy and yet seemed to melt on her tongue.

“I didn’t carry this all the way from Stockbridge so that you could ruin it by putting salt on it.” Joseph took up the sugar sack, the stubborn look upon his face enough to make Amalie laugh.

Morgan jerked the popcorn out of his reach. “Let’s let Amalie decide, for this is her first taste…”

Both men fell silent, looked toward the door.

And Amalie heard.

Men’s voices. The snort of a horse.

Morgan took up his rifle and drew the cork from the barrel, his face grave, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Amalie, get in the back room, and bar the door.”

Heart thrumming, Amalie hurried to do as he asked, the baby kicking restlessly inside her, as if it sensed her alarm. Joseph moved silently toward the front door while Morgan slipped toward the back door.

Then a familiar voice called to them. “Hallo in the house!”

’Twas Connor!

Joseph cursed under his breath, opened the door, and froze.

Beyond the door in the snow stood Connor. Behind him were a score of redcoats on horseback. And leading them was Wentworth.

M
organ stared past Joseph out the front door, rifle still in his hand, trying to make sense of what he saw. Connor had led a dozen redcoats to their door, Wentworth and Lieutenant Cooke amongst them. But his brother would not betray him. And hadn’t Wentworth aided his escape?

He drew in a breath to clear his mind and glanced over his shoulder to where Amalie stood in the door of their room, her eyes wide. “Stay where you are, lass.”

Connor and Wentworth and the redcoats dismounted, the redcoats seeing to their horses as Connor strode toward him, a grin on his unshaven face, a bearskin coat wrapped tightly around him. “Surprised to see me, brothers?”

He slapped Joseph on the shoulder, then engulfed Morgan in a crushing hug, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You ken I’d ne’er have led them here if they meant to harm you.” With those strange words, he strode past Morgan to greet Amalie and warm himself by the fire.

“Major MacKinnon.” Wentworth measured him through cold gray eyes, stamping the snow from his boots. “If my men and I might warm ourselves at your hearth, I’ve brought news from Albany.”

S
tomach knotted with fear for Morgan, Amalie filled Lieutenant Cooke’s cup with hot coffee, then shifted her gaze back to Morgan, who was reading a letter Wentworth had handed to him, his dark brows bent in a frown.

Morgan lifted his gaze and looked up at Wentworth, stunned disbelief on his dear face. “Pardoned? But…
how
?”

What did that mean—
pardoned
?

Her pulse raced.

“Having heard of your military exploits, Governor DeLancey took a personal interest in your conviction and subsequent escape. He conducted his own investigation and concluded that the jury had been less than impartial in your case, perhaps owing to your parentage. He threw out the verdict and issued a pardon. Of course, his decision was heavily influenced by the missives we found at Fort Ticonderoga in Bourlamaque’s study—letters from the Marquis de Montcalm berating him for allowing you to deceive him and escape. Odd that Bourlamaque left them behind, don’t you think, Major?”

Threw out the verdict? Issued a pardon?

Was Morgan no longer a fugitive?

Amalie’s pulse raced faster.

A look of comprehension came over Morgan’s face. “This is
your
doin’.”

“Mine?” Wentworth raised an eyebrow. “General Amherst would be most distressed if that were the case. I assure you, the praise or blame lies with Governor DeLancey.”

A knowing look passed between the two men.

“And what did Amherst say when he heard the news?” Morgan asked.

“He was so angry that he kicked your arse out of the army!” Connor grinned. “You’re free, brother.”

“What?”

Out of the army?

Amalie could scarce breathe.

“Captain MacKinnon is correct. General Amherst was enraged. He felt that since your loyalties were uncertain at best, you presented too great a risk. You have been discharged.” The tone of Wentworth’s voice and the hard look in his eyes left Amalie with no doubt that this was not the outcome he’d expected.

Joseph gave a loud whoop and laughed out loud.

Amalie met Morgan’s gaze, feeling light-headed. “Wh-what does this mean? Morgan, what is he saying?”

Morgan pushed through the crowded cabin, lifted her into his arms, and planted a kiss on her lips. When he set her on her feet again, there was a broad smile on his face. “It means,
a leannan,
that we’re goin’ home.”