Untamed (8 page)

Did she understand him?

The deepening flush in her cheeks told him she did.

And she
was
beautiful. Her eyes seemed to hold all the colors of the forest—greens and browns mixed together. He’d never seen any like them. They seemed to slant upward at the corners, or perhaps that was just the effect of her cheekbones, so high and delicate they were. Her nose was small and fine, her lips full and well shaped. Her skin was flawless, almost luminous. Her hair was the color of sable, dark and gleaming. It hung to the floor when she sat, tresses so long and lovely they made his hands ache to touch them.

She was French—that much he knew—but he’d bet his ration of rum she was also Indian. Her cheekbones, the slight slant of her eyes, the hue of her skin—like cream with just a hint of coffee—bespoke a mixed ancestry. And then there were the herbs she’d placed in the water. No simple French lass was likely to know about such things.

Was she Huron? Abenaki? Mi’kmaq?

What did it matter?

She’s like to be the last lass that e’er you set eyes on, MacKinnon.

As Morgan had always loved the lasses, ’twas was a strange thought.

Roused by the blessed relief of a cool cloth against his skin and the fresh scents of sage and juniper, he’d come slowly back to awareness, thinking for a moment that he was a lad again, that he’d fallen sick and was in Joseph’s mother’s lodge in Stockbridge. Then he’d opened his eyes to find himself being perused by the same lovely French angel who’d visited him in his fevered dreams, and it had pleased him to know she was real.

He’d watched through half-closed eyes while she’d bathed his body, her gaze traveling over him with innocent curiosity. Then she’d laid her small, soft hand upon him, her timid touch burning a path over his skin, threatening to rouse him in an altogether different manner.

“The
mère supérieure
says I am far too curious.” Her accent was soft and sweet.

“Who?”

“The mother superior.” She hoped those were the right words. “From the convent where I was raised.”

Aye, and
that
explained her bashfulness.

“Och, well, if you were raised in a convent amidst womenfolk, ’tis even more reason for you to be curious about men, aye? No wrong has been done, lass. Dinnae trouble yourself. What is your name?”

She looked as if she did not want to answer. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “Amalie Chauvenet.”

“ ’Tis a bonnie name. I’m thinkin’ you already ken who I am.”

She nodded gravely. “Morgan MacKinnon, the leader of MacKinnon’s Rangers.”

There was a hint of—was it anger?—in her voice when she spoke.

“How long has it been?”

She glanced at the window, at the ceiling, at her hands, which lay folded in her skirts—but she did not look at him. “Fifteen days since you were wounded.”

Fifteen days!

No wonder he felt so bloody weak!

Connor, Joseph, and the men would have long since made their way back to Fort Edward. Surely, even Iain would have gotten word by now. Would his brothers believe him dead? Would they mourn him?

He pushed the questions from his mind.

“Might I have some water, Miss Chauvenet?”

She reached for the water pitcher, a surprised look on her face. “You no longer seek your own death?”

He shook his head. “I have lost that battle.”

Her lovely face grew troubled. She poured water into a tin cup, then lifted his head and held the cup to his lips. Silken strands of hair slipped over her shoulder to fall against his chest, the scent of her like lavender. “Drink.”

He asked her to refill the cup four times before his thirst was quenched, wondering as he drank at the distress he saw on her face. Had the sisters raised her to be so primsie that she still felt guilt for touching him? Perhaps she was afraid of him and did not wish to be here. “I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.”

The troubled look on her face became genuine anguish.

And he understood.

“You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.”

She stood so quickly that her stool toppled over. Then she stared down at him with eyes that held the first sheen of tears. “I do not care what becomes of you, monsieur! Why should I? You and your Rangers killed my father!”

Then she turned and fled in a swish of skirts.

And as he watched her hurry to get away from him, Morgan knew that his sins had caught up with him at last.

T
ears pricking her eyes, Amalie ran from the back room out the front door of the hospital, ignoring the surprised look on Monsieur Lambert’s face, scarce hearing the questions he called after her.

“Mademoiselle? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” What is it? What’s wrong?

How dare he behave like this! How dare her enemy act as if he understood her! He was not a gentleman! How dare he behave as one!

She hurried across the grass, not sure where she was going until she found herself in the fort’s cemetery. She threaded her way through the rows of small crosses until she came to the one that marked her father’s grave. She knelt before it and let the tears come.

She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. She wasn’t even certain why she was upset and crying. Perhaps she was simply weary after so many long days of caring for the Ranger. Or perhaps caring for him reminded her of the terrible battle that had taken her father’s life and the lives of so many others—the blast of the cannon, the cries of the wounded and dying, the stench of blood and gunpowder in the air.

If aught should befall me, Père François will take you to Montcalm or Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.

Nothing will happen to you, Papa!

She ran her fingers over the carven letters of her father’s name, the ache in her heart sharpened by memories. “I did as Monsieur de Bourlamaque asked, Papa. I helped keep the Ranger alive. Soon they will interrogate him.”

You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.

How had he seen through her so clearly?

He’d spoken but a few words to her, and already she knew he was not the coarse and heartless man she’d expected him to be. She’d thought he’d up wake cursing Montcalm or pleading for release. Instead, he’d caught her touching him in a way no chaste young woman should, and he’d offered her understanding and reassurance, asking only for her name and water to drink, his manners faultless even when hers had failed.

I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.

Politesse and understanding were not qualities one expected from a ruthless barbarian, a brutal enemy.

And that was the heart of it.

She’d watched over him, helped keep him alive to face a terrible death. He understood this, and yet he’d behaved not like an enemy, but like a gentleman. He’d sensed her guilt, and he’d forgiven her. For some reason, that made her feel worse, not better.

“Kwai, nadôgweskwa. Toni kd’ollowzin.” Greetings, cousin. How are you?

Amalie recognized the voice. Hastily, she wiped the tears from her face with her apron, then stood and turned to face him.
“Kwai, Tomakwa, nagôgwisis. Kwai, Simo. N’wowlowzi, ta giya?” Greetings, Tomas, my cousin. Greetings, Simon. I am well, and you?

The sons of her mother’s sister walked toward her, Tomas in front, Simon behind him. Both were dressed in buckskin leggings and breechcloths, their long dark hair hanging free, their chests bare. Tomas wore a British officer’s gorget as a trophy around his neck and a belt of wampum around his waist. Simon wore only a smile for adornment.

“So you remember the words I taught you. I am pleased.” Tomas came to stand before her. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, examined her face, and frowned, his gaze dropping for a moment to her father’s grave. “You have been weeping.”

Knowing Tomas would not understand feelings she couldn’t possibly explain, she let him assume her tears came solely from grief. “I miss him.”

Beside Tomas, Simon watched her, his dark eyes warm with sympathy.
“Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry.

She reached out, gave Simon’s hand a squeeze. “You have come to trade?”

Tomas glanced toward the hospital. “We have come to claim that which Montcalm promised us—the Inglismôn, the MacKinnon. Does he still live?”

Suddenly Amalie felt light-headed.
“Oui.”

But the Ranger was no Englishman. He was a Catholic Scot.

Not that her cousins would understand the difference.

“
Kamodzi
. Very good. We’ll feed him to the flames and avenge both the village and your father.” Then Tomas looked back at her and rested a big hand on her shoulder. “You should come with us, Amalie. Return to your mother’s people. You can be the one to light the fires and thus end your grief.”

At her cousin’s words, an unwanted image of the Ranger, bound to a stake and burning, came into her mind. And Amalie felt her stomach turn.

W
hen the door opened, Morgan hoped to see Miss Chauvenet. He would apologize, tell her how sorry he was that her father had been killed by a Ranger’s rifle, and ask her forgiveness. His did not expect his words to matter to her, but they were all he could give her.

It was not she who entered but his captors. One of the officers he recognized from his fevered dreams—the bewigged lieutenant who had denied him last rites. The other he did not. But the grandeur of the second man’s uniform left no doubt in Morgan’s mind that this was none other than Brigadier le Chevalier François-Charles de Bourlamaque, Montcalm’s man.

The brigadier was younger than he’d imagined—not long past forty. Like his lieutenant, he wore a fashionable powdered wig. He studied Morgan, a thoughtful frown on his face, then gave a little bow. “Major MacKinnon.”

Morgan swallowed, his throat already parched. “Brigadier de Bourlamaque. Forgi’e me if I dinnae stand to greet you. I seem to be tied up.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am that you survived, Major.”

“Och, I’ve some notion of what I mean to you. After all, my brothers and I have had a high price on our heads these past years.”

Bourlamaque did not smile. “For a time, it seemed certain you would perish and deprive me of the chance to make your acquaintance.”

“Sure and it must be a grand day for you, then.”

The lieutenant kicked Morgan’s right leg, the pain making the breath rush from Morgan’s lungs. “Do not be insolent!”

Bourlamaque cast his lieutenant a dark look, then met Morgan’s gaze once more. “Indeed, it is a day for celebration. Today I have met a legend.”

Then Bourlamaque turned to his lieutenant and spoke in French.
“Allez!” Go!

For a moment the lieutenant looked vexed. Then, with a smart bow to Bourlamaque, he turned and was gone, closing the door behind him.

Bourlamaque turned to gaze out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have already sent word to Fort Edward informing your commander of your unfortunate death. I see no cause for your men to risk their lives in a vain attempt to rescue you.”

“You whoreson!” Heart thrumming, Morgan felt a hope he hadn’t realized he’d had wither and die.

As long as his brothers believed he was alive, there’d been a chance that they would come for him.

But Bourlamaque was still speaking. “As I am sure you know, Major, you will not leave Fort Carillon alive. You and your brothers have cost France dearly in this war. Your men are the scourge of our frontier. It is not only France that demands your death, but also the Abenaki, whom you and your men wronged some winters past when you destroyed their village at Oganak, leaving women and children defenseless.”

“At least we dinnae rape and kill women with babes in their bellies, as you and your allies have done. Do you ken what we found at Oganak? There were more than six hundred scalps hangin’ from their lodge poles—the scalps of men, women,
and
children, scalps
you
paid—”

Bourlamaque cut him off. “A group of Abenaki men have just arrived to claim you. They will take you back to their village and burn you alive over a matter of days until you can remember nothing of this life but pain—not the color of the sky, nor the taste of wine, nor even your blessed mother’s name. You will beg for death, plead for it, but it will be slow in coming.”

Dread he’d been trying to ignore slowly uncoiled at the base of Morgan’s spine and crept in shivers up his back. He was not impervious to fear, but he’d be buggered before he’d allow it to show. “You make it sound so pleasant.”

Bourlamaque turned to face him, and beneath the rage on his face, Morgan saw something else—regret. “It won’t be, Major, I assure you. And yet the lack of gallantry exercised by both sides in this war is appalling to me. Out of the respect I bear you as an adversary and officer for sparing the lives of women, children, and servants of the Church, I am prepared to offer you an arrangement.”

Morgan said nothing, certain he knew what Bourlamaque’s offer would be.

“Tell me all that I wish to know about the Rangers, about Fort Edward, about your commander, and I will see that you receive not only a swift, painless death, but last rites and a Catholic burial.”

Morgan closed his eyes, the full horror of his plight laid out before him. Wentworth and his brothers believed him dead. Unless he somehow managed to escape on his own, he would be tortured and burnt alive. Whatever was left of his body would be hacked apart, his scalp hung on a lodge pole, a trophy to blow in the wind, his bones scattered in the forest for the animals. For there was no question of his being able to accept Bourlamaque’s offer. He would sooner suffer a thousand unbearable deaths than betray his brother or his men.

He opened his eyes, met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “I thank you for your generous proposal. Regretfully, I cannae accept. The darkest corners of hell are saved for betrayers. I would rather suffer the fiercest torment and die with my honor intact than face God as a traitor.”

Bourlamaque studied him for a moment. “You have time to reconsider. My surgeon tells me you will not be strong enough to move to the guardhouse for at least a week. Should you change your mind in that time—”