Untamed (6 page)

“The secrets this MacKinnon holds might be the key to winning this damnable war,” Bourlamaque had told her, looking more grave than she’d ever seen him. “This is your chance to avenge your father’s death, Amalie, to serve France as he did.”

Is that what she wanted—to exact vengeance?

If only she didn’t know what lay ahead for Major MacKinnon. Saving his life so that he might be kept prisoner and questioned was one thing. Saving his life so that he could suffer the prolonged agonies of fire was quite another. She would not wish that on anyone.

It is not your choice, Amalie. It will not be your doing.

The thought helped to assuage her conscience, but it did not ease the ache in her belly.

She sat on a stool beside him and studied him, this warrior who had terrified so many.

He did not look like
chi bai,
but a man—a desperately wounded man. Yet, he was no ordinary man. He was perhaps the biggest, most striking man she’d ever seen, not only tall, but broad of shoulder and quite handsome—in a rugged, wild sort of way. His hair was long, dark as a raven’s wing, and tangled from his thrashing, a plait at each temple. His skin was brown from the sun but smooth and unblemished. Long black lashes rested against high cheekbones, deep hollows making his cheeks seem even higher. His lips were unusually full, his jaw square and dark with several days’ growth of beard.

They’d bound his ankles and wrists in iron shackles and chained them to the four legs of the little bed to hold him fast, still fearing his strength despite his wounds. And no wonder. His arms were easily three times the thickness of hers and muscular, his hands big enough to encircle a man’s throat. She had no doubt that he was capable of killing with those hands, that he
had
killed with those hands.

She’d heard he’d been adopted by the Mahican, and she saw they’d made their mark upon him. Indigo-colored drawings had been etched into his skin from shoulder to wrist—geometric shapes, spirals, and a single bear claw on each shoulder. Leather cords beaded with wampum and strange amulets had been tied around his arms just above the bulge of his muscles, seeming to accentuate his raw strength. A leather cord with dark, wooden beads encircled his neck, disappearing beneath his blankets. Expecting to find some heathen symbol, she drew it forth—and gasped.

A little wooden cross.

It was not pagan adornment he wore, but a simple rosary of wood.

She’d forgotten he was Catholic.

The ache in her stomach grew.

She reached out, hesitated, then felt his forehead. His skin was hot with the beginnings of a fever. He stirred at her touch, groaned, his dark brows bent with pain, his suffering drawing forth compassion she did not wish to feel for him.

Brushing aside the unwelcome feeling, she reached for the little blue bottle of laudanum, uncorked it, and poured out a spoonful. Then, careful not to spill a drop of the precious potion, she eased the spoon between his lips and let the tincture trickle into his mouth. Instinctively, he swallowed. Then his eyes opened.

Amalie stiffened, unnerved that he should wake so suddenly.

He is shackled, silly girl! He cannot harm you!

His gaze met hers, then a look of confusion spread on his face. For a moment he simply stared at her through glassy blue eyes—not the bright blue of the sky on a summer day, but the deep, dark blue of midnight. Then he spoke, startling the silence, his voice deep and ragged. “I would think myself in hell but for the sight of you, lass.”

Even had she had her English at the ready, she would not have known what to say, his words catching someplace deep inside her, making her pulse trip.

Then he shifted, raising one fettered wrist as if to reach for her.

She scooted backward, nearly toppling her stool in her haste to evade him.

But pain halted his motions even before his chains grew tight. He drew a shuddering breath through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes squeezed shut.

“B-be still, or you will cause yourself to suffer needlessly.” She stood and reached toward the bedside table for the water pitcher and a tin cup, irritated with herself to find her hands shaking.

He is just a man, Amalie. You are childish to fear him.

But he was not just a man. He was a Ranger, perhaps the very Ranger who had sent Papa to his grave. It was only natural for her to feel afraid.

“My leg? Is it…gone?”

Another wave of pity washed through her.

“You have it still.” Vexed with herself, she poured water into the tin cup, then returned to his side to find him watching her once more, a strange look in his blue eyes. “Drink.”

She slid one hand beneath his head to raise it and held the cup to his lips.

He turned his head away, rivulets spilling down his jaw and over the thick muscles of his neck, pooling in the recess at the base of his throat. “Nay, lass! I cannae.”

At first she thought he couldn’t drink because of his fever or his injuries. Only when she’d placed his head back on the pillow and watched him turn his face away from her did she realize the truth. He meant to deny himself water.

He meant to let himself die.

Astonished, Amalie said the first thing that came to mind. “It is a mortal sin to cause your own death.”

But is it not also a sin to save his life so that he can be burnt alive?

“Then I’d best go swiftly to hell and no’ keep the devil waitin’.”

With those shocking words, he closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep, leaving Amalie to fight the pricking of her conscience.

Chapter 3

M
organ gave himself over to his fever, willing it to ravage and consume him, eager to die and pass from this life with his secrets intact—the last thing he could do for his men, for his brothers. But dying wasn’t as simple as he’d thought it would be.

The laudanum left him witless, unable to tell if he was dreaming or awake. More than once he’d turned his head away from the tin cup the beautiful French lass offered him, but he could not be certain she hadn’t gotten him to drink in his sleep when his will was weakest. Ghosts of the past mingled with the present, memories with nightmares, English words with French. The woman’s soft entreaties. Men’s voices. His own fevered raving. And beneath it all a desperate, aching thirst.

Please, you must drink!

Nay, I willna. Be a good lass and fetch a priest.

You will report to me at Fort Edward by August twenty-first and serve me until death releases you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.

Dinnae do it, Iain! Curse him!

I am no’ afraid to die
.
Let them hang us! We willna be the first Highlanders murdered by English lies, nor the last!

He will not drink, no matter what I try. He asked me to fetch a priest.

A priest? If he’s going to die, then let it be without absolution. He deserves to burn in hell!

Surely you do not mean to deny him last rites, Lieutenant.

It is a mortal sin to cause your own death.

Then I’d best go swiftly to hell and no’ keep the devil waitin’.

Perhaps we ought to interrogate him now, monsieur, see what we can extract from him.

Something struck Morgan, jarring him from his delirium.

“Parlez-vous français?”
Dark eyes glared down at him from beneath a powdered wig. A French officer. “Do you speak French?”

Morgan didn’t answer.

“What is your name?” The officer switched to accented English. “Speak!”

Morgan met the officer’s gaze, pried his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and croaked out his reply. “Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

A fist struck his face, the pain seeming far away. “You are Morgan MacKinnon, leader of MacKinnon’s Rangers.”

“If you kent my name, why’d you ask?”

“Where is your older brother? Why does he no longer lead?”

Iain
. The officer was asking about Iain. Was he hoping to find Iain and bring him back in chains to suffer a fate similar to Morgan’s? In Morgan’s fevered state it suddenly seemed so.

An image of Iain as Morgan had last seen him came into Morgan’s mind—his brother standing tall and proud, beautiful Annie beside him holding their wee son in her arms, as the men paid Iain one last honor, shouting his clan name in tribute.

MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon!

Anger, clean and bright, cut through Morgan’s confusion, fury that anyone should try to strike at Iain in his new life.
“Thalla gu Taigh na Galla!” Go to hell!

Another blow, and Morgan tasted blood.

“Lieutenant Rillieux, you forget yourself! There will be no interrogations in my hospital!” The surgeon looked down at Morgan. “Besides, he is quite mad with fever, as you see. You will get nothing from him tonight.”

The French officer stood, his angry face swimming out of view. “Get him to drink, by saints! Force water down his throat if you must! He must live!”

“His will is strong.”

“Then force more laudanum on him! Weaken his will!”

And Morgan knew the hard truth.

The battle over how he was going to die had begun in earnest.

A
malie dipped the cloth in the washbowl, squeezed the water out, and pressed it to the prisoner’s brow. He seemed to be on fire, burning up from the inside, his skin ashen, his lips colorless. He shivered, lost in a fitful sleep, murmuring in a language she did not understand. So heavily drugged was he that she knew he could not be in pain. Still, he seemed troubled, as if he were fighting—fighting still to die.

For four days and nights she had tended him, watching him struggle against Monsieur Lambert’s best efforts to keep him alive. Had it not been for the laudanum, he might well have gotten his way. It had taken four men to force that first big dose of the drug down his throat, even injured as he was. But the medicine had overthrown his will, rendering him so helpless that it took only gentle coaxing to get him to drink.

From sunrise till sunset each day, Amalie had bathed his fevered skin, given him sips of water and willow-bark tea, and changed his bandages, confused by the turmoil of her own emotions. Her confusion had grown each time he’d opened his eyes and looked at her, speaking to her in a tongue she did not understand, his gaze seeming to hold so much sadness. She wanted to hate him but couldn’t, refused to pity him and yet did, tried to escape feelings of guilt and was nevertheless smothered by them.

She’d sought Père François’ counsel, confessing the conflict she felt at the thought of saving a man’s life so that he might be tortured to death.

“It is never wrong to save a life, Amalie,” he’d told her. “Like you, I would rather no man be handed over to such a death, certainly not a Catholic. I have told Bourlamaque as much, but I doubt he will listen. He concerns himself with little beyond this war.”

“I
hate
this war! I hate everything about it!” The words had burst out of her, surprising her as much as they did Père François.

“And well you should.” He’d patted her hand. “But go back to your duties, and do not be troubled by your role in this. You are blameless. For his part, Bourlamaque has agreed to let me hear the man’s confession before he is given to the Abenaki, and I shall hold him to it.”

And so she had walked back to the hospital, her guilt assuaged—for a time.

Amalie laid the cool cloth on the prisoner’s forehead and pushed the blankets aside to change the bandage on his thigh, careful to bare no more than his limb. Although she’d cared for many a sick and injured soldier this past year, she couldn’t remember being as aware of any soldier
as a man
as she was of this Ranger. She told herself it was simply the fact that he was a dreaded Ranger that set him apart in her mind, and yet she knew there was more to it than that.

He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen. It wasn’t just his apparent physical strength, but also his animal wildness—his long hair with its braids, his sun-browned skin, the Mahican drawings on his arms that marked him as a warrior. Were all Rangers as big and fierce-seeming as this one? If so, she had no trouble understanding how they’d managed to inspire terror and legend along the frontier.

She removed the linen strips that bound his dressing in place, sliding her hand beneath his muscular thigh to pass the cloth through. Though his chest was healing, the wound in his thigh was much deeper and had festered badly. Monsieur Lambert had bled him twice to counter the fever and had made his customary poultice of rose oil, egg yolks, and turpentine to draw the sickness out of the wounds, but it was too soon to know whether these remedies would work.

Amalie set the linen strips aside and lifted the dressing, relieved to find that the wound looked no more savage than before. The surgeon’s stitches were holding, and the redness had not spread. There were no streaks running up his thigh, nor had the surrounding flesh begun to swell. The Ranger might have to live with a limp, but it seemed as if Monsieur Lambert’s decision not to amputate—

He won’t live with a limp, Amalie, silly child! They’re going to burn him!

Her stomach seemed to fall to the floor.

How could she have forgotten, even for an instant?

Of course, she hadn’t forgotten, not truly. It was just the strangeness of the situation—caring for a man’s hurts so that he might live to be killed—that was to blame. She was accustomed when caring for the sick to think of each small step toward healing as a little victory. Not this time.

And yet why shouldn’t she consider each stride he made toward recovery a triumph? It meant she was doing her duty well, that she might play some small part in helping to end this war and bringing peace to New France. Although this Ranger might live only to die a terrible death, countless lives might yet be spared by the information Bourlamaque would take from him.