Untamed (11 page)

She lifted her gaze, met his. “I am sorry for what must come.”

“It willna be your doin’, lass. You bear none of the blame.” Then his lips curved in a smile that softened the harsh appearance of his bruised and bearded face. “But let us no’ speak of such things now. ’Tis a fine May morn, aye?”

She nodded, and remembering her task, reached for linen and salve to make a new dressing, her thoughts still bent upon Major MacKinnon. In faith, she’d thought of little else since yesterday. She’d tried to reconcile the fearsome tales about him to the humility he’d shown when he’d apologized for her father’s death and to the protectiveness and decency he’d demonstrated when Lieutenant Rillieux had stolen that kiss from her.

No man has the right to treat you thus.

How could the man who’d destroyed her grandmother’s village, leaving women and children to starve in the depths of winter, be the same man she saw before her?

“Are the stories they tell about you true, monsieur?” The words were out before she could stop them.

“Stories?” A dark eyebrow arched in question, amusement on his face.

She felt heat rush into her face. She looked down at her hands, fumbled with the dressing she was trying to make. “My cousins believe you and your brothers are not truly men, but spirits.”

“Chi bai.”
He spoke the Abenaki word with ease. Where had he learned the language? “Aye, so I’ve heard. What do you think?”

And yet again he surprised her. Her father was the only man who’d ever asked her to share her thoughts or opinions. “If you were truly
chi bai,
you would not be here. You would turn into smoke and disappear on the breeze.”

His chuckle warmed her. “That I would.”

She spread salve over the red, pinched ridge of sewn flesh on his right breast where Monsieur Lambert had cut him to remove the musket ball. “They also say they’ve seen you and your brothers fly.”

He laughed at this. “What they saw were snowshoe prints that led to the edge of a cliff and us at the foot of it. What they didna ken is that we’d come to the edge, then put our snowshoes on backward, doubled back and found a hidden way to the bottom.”

The trick he described was so clever and yet so simple that Amalie couldn’t help but smile. “You deceived them.”

“Aye, and lived to fight another day.” Then a strange look crossed his face. “ ’Tis the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

Feeling strangely
embarrassée,
Amalie bent to her work once more, setting the salve aside, then pressing the dressing over the wound and reaching for a long strip of linen to bind it in place.

“Dinnae be fashed, lass.” His voice was deep and soft, both soothing and disturbing. “I didna mean to discomfit you.”

Careful not to look into his eyes, she slid her hand beneath him to pass the roll of linen through, but he was so broad in the shoulders that she had to lean across him to retrieve it. Just as she bent over him, he arched his back to let her hand pass beneath him, inadvertently pressing his chest against her bodice. And for a moment—one astonishing moment—she could feel the beating of his heart.

Awareness burnt like heat through the cloth of her gown to her skin, making her breath catch. Astounded by the unfamiliar sensation, she looked up, her gaze colliding with his, their faces only inches apart. And staring into his eyes, she knew he’d felt it, too.

“You’ve eyes the color of the forest.”

His words and the sound of his voice called her back to herself. Feeling chagrined and more than a little confused, she passed the roll of linen beneath him three times in quick succession, then sat back, drawing breath into her lungs, her body warm as if it were summer, not spring. She tied off the bandage with fumbling fingers, her mind seeking a way to fill the awkward silence.

“I—I have also heard that you and your brothers once protected French women from ravishment by British soldiers and saved the life of a priest. Is this true?”

“Aye, lass. MacKinnon’s Rangers dinnae take scalps, nor do we suffer any to harm servants of the Church or to make war upon women and children.”

All of her confusion and embarrassment came together in a pique of temper. “Then why did you and your men leave the women and children of Oganak to starve and freeze to death?”

His brow bent in a frown, but the look in his eyes was more akin to sadness than anger. “Do you ken what we found at Oganak, Miss Chauvenet? More than six hundred scalps—some of women, aye, and wee children, too.”

Amalie shook her head, sure he must be lying. “I do not believe you, monsieur. It is the British who pay Indians to collect such hideous trophies, not us!”

“Are you so certain? Do not I, myself, have a price on my scalp?”

“Yes, but that is diff—”

“Ask Bourlamaque if he’s ever paid trade goods to warriors bearing English scalps. And ask him, too, about the other horrors visited upon frontier families by his soldiers. I have seen brutality that would chill your marrow, lass—women far gone wi’ child lyin’ ravished and slain upon the grass, babes dead at their mothers’ breasts, children…” Clearly angry now, the Ranger stopped, drew a breath. “Nay, I willna speak of it, for I can see it distresses you. But ken this: the men of Oganak had preyed upon women and children for too long, and we Rangers put an end to it. But we were no’ so cruel as they had been. We slew only grown men. We
spared
their women and children and the stripling lads, too.”

“You left them without food or shelter.” Why did he not understand? “To leave them helpless is no better than to have slain them with your own hands.”

“We didna ken that winter should set in so hard. We paid for that sin many times over, stranded in deep snows for weeks on end wi’ naugh’ to eat but our belts and moccasins, our bellies grinding wi’ hunger, our bodies weak and frozen. I watched men who were my friends starve to death on the terrible journey home. Nay, dinnae speak to me of Oganak, unless you can tell me how a man can take a helpless child into his arms and draw his blade.”

M
organ watched Miss Chauvenet at her needlework and regretted having spoken so harshly to her. ’Twas clear that she’d been sheltered from the horrors of this war. There’d been no cause for him to thrust those horrors into her face. And yet it had galled him that she should think him the very devil without knowing the full truth.

Are you feelin’ better now, laddie?

He could see she was vexed with him. She’d spoken nary a word since then, a troubled look on her face, her head bent over her embroidery, refusing to look up except to fetch him water or broth or one of the surgeon’s lads when he had need. She sat, spine stiff, the light of the parchment window behind her, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders and tumbling almost to the floor in soft waves, her fingers nimble with needle and thread.

Morgan sought for something to say to her, to break the brittle silence that stretched between them. “How did you learn to speak English so well?”

Her spine grew straighter, and she did not look up. “Four of the sisters were English, exiled Catholics who’d made their way to the Americas and then to Trois Rivières. The
mère supérieure
felt we must learn their tongue, as they must learn ours.”

“She sounds like a wise woman, this
mère supérieure.
” He pretended to stumble over the words. “How did you come to be raised in a convent?”

“My mother died in childbed when I was two.” And still she did not look up, but kept to her stitching. “My father sent me away to Trois Rivières.”

“Such a young age to lose your mother. ’Tis sorry I am, lass.”

Her hand stilled. “I do not remember her.”

He took a chance and switched to the Abenaki tongue.
“Kigawes Wabanaki?” Your mother was Abenaki?

Her head came up and she gaped at him as if in astonishment. “Yes.”

“Och, dinnae look so surprised, Miss Chauvenet. I kent when first I saw you that you were of mixed birth. I can see it upon your face. Besides, didna you yourself just tell me your cousins thought I was
chi bai
? That means you must at least carry some Abenaki blood in your veins, aye?”

“I’ve been told that the English believe Indians are…
des sauvages
?” She seemed to search for the right English word, but because he was pretending not to speak French, Morgan did not help her find it. “Savage men? I’ve been told they hold all with Indian blood in contempt.”

“Some do, aye, and they’re bloody fools for it. But as I think you ken, lass, I am no’ an Englishman.”

“No, you are not.” Her delicate brow bent in a frown, and she seemed to hesitate. “I do not understand why a Catholic Scot would fight against French Catholics on behalf of the German Protestant who has slain so many of his kin. Have not the French long been friends and allies to the Scottish? Even now France shelters the true heir to Scotland’s throne. Why do you kill for them?”

How many nights had Morgan lain awake trying to answer that question for himself? “ ’Tis a long tale, lass, a tale you wouldna believe if I—”

From the room beyond came shouts and the moans of a man in pain, and the door was thrown open wide.

One of the surgeon’s lads appeared.
“Mademoiselle, venez vite! Un soldat s’est tiré dans le pied et on a besoin de votre aide!” Mademoiselle come quickly! A soldier has shot himself in the foot, and we need your help!

And in a swish of skirts, she hurried away, leaving Morgan with a mouthful of unspoken words.

A
malie felt her stomach turn, tried to keep the disgust and shock she felt from showing on her face. “So it is true?”

Bourlamaque gazed at her from across his writing table and smiled indulgently. “
Oui, ma petite,
it is one of many terrible truths of this war. The British pay for scalps, and so upon occasion must we. We prefer to take live prisoners and trade them for the safe return of our own officers and partisans, but our allies have their own customs and traditions.”

“Can we not prevail upon them to change, even as they accept our faith?”

He shook his head. “We need them, Amalie. We cannot now in the midst of war curb their hostility. Innocents are slain on both sides. It is the regrettable consequence of war.”

“The consequence of war?” The words seemed so heartless, so terribly cold. “Forgive me, monsieur, but MacKinnon’s Rangers do not take scalps. They do not slay women and children. Surely, our soldiers and allies can learn to do—”

“We will do what we must to prevail, Amalie.” Bourlamaque gave a sigh, his patience with her clearly stretched. “Remember, we did not start this war. We merely fight to finish it. Did the prisoner have anything else to say?”

“
Oui, monsieur
. He guessed that my mother was Abenaki and said not all amongst the British loathe Indians or those with Indian blood. He reminded me that he is not English, and when I asked him why he fought for them, he said it was a long tale.”

“Very well. If there is nothing else, you may go.”

No man has the right to treat you thus. You should report him to Bourlamaque.

Knowing Bourlamaque was already vexed with her, Amalie hesitated. “I feel I must tell you, monsieur, that Lieutenant Rillieux…forced a kiss upon me yesterday in—”

“He confessed the misdeed to me this morning and seemed quite contrite.” Bourlamaque stood, walked round the writing table, and took her hand, urging her to her feet, a sign that her time with him had come to an end. “You must understand that your refusal to consider his offer of marriage has left him frustrated. He is a man, Amalie, and men have certain needs. If only you would…Ah, but I can see from your face that you feel nothing for him. A pity. But stealing a kiss is not so great a transgression. In fact, many young women enjoy a stolen kiss now and again. Now, go and dress for dinner.”

Enjoy? How could any woman enjoy that? Amalie certainly had not. If that’s what it was like to kiss a man, then Sister Marie Louise had spoken truly when she’d warned Amalie that life with a husband was misery.

“Bien, monsieur.”
Feeling as though she’d just been admonished, Amalie curtsied, then made her way upstairs to her room, where she sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection in the looking glass.

How could she look the same when her whole world had just turned upside down?

Chapter 7

“D
innae trouble yourself, lass.” Morgan watched as Miss Chauvenet readied hot water, soap, clean linen, and salve on the table beside his bed. “What point is there in tryin’ to make it better when we both ken I shall be dead soon?”

She didn’t look at him, but sprinkled dried sage and cedar into the water, her dark hair tied back with a pink ribbon and hanging in thick waves down the back of her gray skirts. “It is my duty to care for your injuries, monsieur.”

But Morgan could tell there was more to it than her sense of duty. She’d had an oddish way about her since she’d walked through the door an hour past. She seemed more troubled than before, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes as if she had not slept. And yet something in her manner toward him had softened.

She’d stepped through the door to his little prison, and her expression had turned to fury when she’d seen the fresh bruises on his face. She’d called for the surgeon’s lads and had blistered their ears, admonishing them for failing to watch over him.

“Where is your honor that you allow a helpless man to be beaten?” she’d scolded in French. “Do you not have a duty before God to care for him? How would you feel if English officers treated wounded Frenchmen thus? The next time anyone tries to inflict harm on Monsieur MacKinnon, you are to send for me or for Monsieur Lambert at once!”

Rillieux’s fist had hurt Morgan far less than hearing a pretty fair maid call him “helpless.” Still, some part of him had been pleased to see her so fashed on his behalf.

After that, she’d bathed his cheek with a cool cloth. ’Twas then she’d noticed that the skin of his ankles and wrists had blistered and bled where the shackles had chafed him. Now she was dead set upon cleaning the wounds and binding them.