Untamed (15 page)

H
ungry enough to eat a bull moose complete with hooves and antlers, Morgan shifted in the straw, trying to ease the pain in his bruised ribs so that he could sleep, knowing he’d need all his strength come the morn. At least they’d removed the collar from about his neck, enabling him to sit and lie down. The surgeon, who’d been sent to examine him in the wake of the beating Rillieux had given him, had been horrified to see him constrained thus and had warned Bourlamaque’s men that it wasn’t safe.

“Should he lose consciousness in the night, he will hang, and then what good will he be to you?” he’d shouted in French.

In short order, the collar had been removed, the blood washed from Morgan’s neck and face, and a breakfast of cold tea and stale bread set before him. Then he’d been left alone again. He’d expected the
mac-dìolain
to return to interrogate him, but it seemed that Rillieux’s assault on Amalie had outweighed Bourlamaque’s interest in him today.

As it bloody well should.

Rillieux had hurt her this time, his nails drawing blood where they’d scraped over her skin, his hand groping her bottom as if she were a tavern whore. Morgan had no doubt the bastard was capable of rape if given the chance. But it seemed Bourlamaque had taken the attack to heart this time. The lieutenants he’d sent to fetch Rillieux—the men who’d stayed Rillieux’s fists and pulled him away from Morgan—had made it clear that Bourlamaque was angry with him. They’d seemed fashed with him themselves.

“You’ve gone and done it now,” said one. “You’ll be lucky if Bourlamaque doesn’t castrate you.”

“She’s Major Chauvenet’s daughter, Rillieux, not your little
putain
!”

Morgan felt that castration might not be a bad idea. He’d gladly have ripped the whoreson’s cods off if he’d had the strength to do it. But, strangling in his chains and weak from his long fever, he’d been able to hold Rillieux only long enough for Amalie to get away. The thrashing that had followed had been more than worth it.

He reached up, closed his fingers around the little wooden rosary, rubbing his fingers over the cross, still touched that she’d gone to such lengths to return it to him. When they’d removed him from the hospital, he hadn’t expected to see her again, certain that her guardian wouldn’t permit her to go anywhere near the guardhouse. But she had come to him, risking Bourlamaque’s wrath to fulfill her promise, his rosary hidden between her breasts.

Had he thanked her? He could scarce remember. His mind had been so filled with her that he hadn’t been able to think. And then, when he ought to have drawn away, as filthy as he was, he’d kissed her hand. He’d meant no disrespect by it, but neither had it been a chaste kiss. There’d been far too much heat in his blood afterward—aye, and in hers, too, to judge by the look in her eyes.

She would remember him. Of that he was certain. Why it mattered to him he knew not, but as he lay here on the straw in the dark waiting for his torment to begin, matter it did.

Ignoring his hunger and the ache in his ribs, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, still grasping the rosary in his fist. He’d just drifted off, when he heard men’s voices. He sat up, then stood, wondering whether Rillieux had come back under cover of night to finish what he’d started this morning. Then the door opened—and three young soldiers entered bearing silver trays heaped with food, delicious scents mingling in the air, making his empty stomach rumble and his mouth water.

And behind them strode Bourlamaque.

M
organ took a swallow of red wine, washing down the last of his supper. ’Twas a feast that had been laid out before him. Turtle soup, roasted duck, roasted venison. Buttered peas, baked beets, onions in brandy. Preserved fruits, cheeses, wheaten bread with butter. The meal had been served from silver platters and tureens set upon a small table that Bourlamaque’s men had carried in. Though still in shackles, Morgan had been given a chair to sit upon. Bourlamaque had not eaten, but he had poured the wine, enjoying a glass or two himself.

At first, Morgan had believed he was being rewarded for protecting Amalie, and, indeed, Bourlamaque had thanked him. But then Bourlamaque had steered the conversation toward other matters, asking about the Clan MacKinnon’s role in the Forty-Five and how his grandfather, Iain Og MacKinnon, had helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape, only to suffer years on a British prison barge. They’d talked for a time about the German heretic who sat upon Britain’s throne. Then Bourlamaque had wanted to know whether the story he’d heard from Amalie was true—
whether Wentworth had threatened to hang him and his brothers if they refused to fight for Britain. And so Morgan had repeated the tale, wondering if finally they hadn’t come to the true reason for Bourlamaque’s strange visit. The brigadier’s gaze—and the expectant silence that now filled the tiny cell—told him they had.

It was Bourlamaque who broke that silence, speaking in his heavily accented English. “I find myself on unfamiliar ground when it comes to you, Major MacKinnon. You are an enemy of France, and yet, as we have just discussed, your clan has long been allied with France. Your noble grandsire served his prince with honor, and you and your men fight with honor. It is only the circumstance of this war—and the hateful actions of your commander—that lie between us.”

Something in the tone of Bourlamaque’s voice made Morgan’s heart beat faster. Was the old man reconsidering his decision to allow Morgan to be tortured and given to the Abenaki? Perhaps he was considering trading Morgan as part of an exchange of prisoners. Or maybe he was thinking of sending Morgan to Hudson Bay to sit out the war in the hold of a rat-infested French prison hulk. Then again, he might simply hang Morgan and call it mercy.

Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “So my brothers and I have often remarked.”

Bourlamaque looked away and drew a slow breath through his thin nostrils, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed as if he were about to make a troubling decision.

Morgan’s heart beat faster still.

“I cannot release you,” Bourlamaque said at last. “You are far too dangerous an opponent to be traded back to the English. Montcalm would have my head.”

You’re going to rot in the belly of a ship, lad—worms in the biscuits, lice in your hair, rats at your feet. That’s why he asked about Grandfather.

Bourlamaque went on. “Yet I find I cannot turn you over to the Abenaki for slaughter. And so I find myself seeking a third path.”

Freezing damp in the winter. Sweltering heat in the summer. Fetid darkness. And you’ll feel grateful, for ’tis better than flames.

Bourlamaque shifted his gaze back to Morgan. “I am prepared to make you an offer—one that differs substantially from the last.”

Morgan took another sip of wine, certain he knew what Bourlamaque would say. But Morgan would not betray the Rangers, even to spare his own life. He waited.

Bourlamaque leaned forward in his chair, fire coming into his eyes. “I am willing to grant you not only clemency, but sanctuary. Turn your back on the heretic who has enslaved you, and fight for France! No longer will you be a slave, but an honored officer whose pleasure it is to serve an anointed Catholic king.”

Morgan stared at him, unable to speak, his head seeming to spin. He couldn’t have been more astonished had Bourlamaque sprouted wings and flown about the room. It took a moment to sort through what the man had said.

Fight for France. Serve an anointed Catholic king.

“You want me to desert…and fight for
you,
” Morgan stuttered like a fool, his mind still reeling.

Bourlamaque smiled. “How can it be desertion when you were forced so dishonorably to fight? Like the rest of his accursed family, this Wentworth has no sense of honor. It is his chains that bind you now, not mine.”

Morgan weighed Bourlamaque’s offer, wishing it had come four years ago when Wentworth had first ensnared him and his brothers. They’d have gone over to the French with nary a second thought. It had always galled them to fight on behalf of the German king. But to desert now? It was impossible.

“I am honored by your most generous offer, but I regret I cannae accept. I could never fire upon my brothers—or my men.”

Bourlamaque smiled again. “But of course not! Nor would I require you to do such a thing. Though my men and I must continue to engage your brothers as long as they remain our enemies, I am prepared to offer clemency to any Catholic amongst your men, including your brothers, who surrenders to us. All you need do is train my soldiers to fight as you fight—and tell me all I wish to know about the Ranger Corps and Fort Edward.”

There came the crux of it. Bourlamaque was making the same offer as before, only this time he was tempting Morgan with life as an officer in the French army instead of a less horrific death. He wanted Morgan to betray secrets not because he was tortured, but because he was
no longer the enemy
.

’Twas a bold proposal, and Morgan knew what lay behind it—or, rather, who.

Amalie.

It was she who had carried the truth about why Morgan fought for the British to Bourlamaque. It was she who had worked so hard and so long to save his life. It was she who was so deeply troubled by his impending death that she’d prayed for him. Perhaps this was the answer to her prayers.

But there was no question of his being able to accept. Though Connor might be persuaded to join him, Iain and Joseph would not. Iain was married to a Protestant who considered herself a loyal British subject, and the Stockbridge were steadfastly loyal to Britain. And then there were his men. Though they were Catholics, many had lost kin in this war and had come to hate the French every bit as much as they hated the British. Most had families who lived on British land beside British neighbors. Should they desert, their farms would be confiscated, their families made outcasts and left to starve.

It was on the tip of Morgan’s tongue to explain this and refuse, when another possibility came to him—an intriguing, terrible, dangerous possibility.

What if he were to accept Bourlamaque’s offer—and use his newfound freedom to spy on the French until he found a way to escape? He could answer Bourlamaque’s questions with half-truths, offer him obsolete, useless information, teach his soldiers to be better fighters without betraying Ranger secrets. Then, when Morgan had earned Bourlamaque’s trust, he could disappear while outside the walls, on a scout or shooting at marks.

And yet, every French soldier he trained would eventually point his musket at the Rangers, at Joseph’s warriors, and at the British Regulars who’d fought beside them these past four years. Amherst was planning to take Ticonderoga this summer. The Regulars and Rangers of Fort Edward would journey northward, surround the fort once more, and attempt to succeed where Abercrombie had failed last year. If any amongst them were slain because Morgan had taught a Frenchman to shoot with better aim, their blood would stain his hands.

And then there was the threat that Wentworth had made four years ago—that if any one of the brothers deserted, the other two would be hanged for murder. Even if Wentworth didn’t follow through with that threat, there was every chance he’d recall Iain to service, forcing him to leave Annie and little Iain Cameron alone.

Morgan shook his head, freedom calling to him, even as imaginary flames lapped at his skin. “If I desert, Wentworth will see my brothers hanged. ’Tis the threat that has always hung like a sword above our heads.”

This time Bourlamaque laughed. “Wentworth believes you are dead.”

Morgan had forgotten.
“Your letter.”

Bourlamaque nodded. “Say but the word, and these chains shall be removed. You shall be bathed and shaved and clad as the officer and nobleman you are and not as a mean prisoner.”

Audentes fortuna iuvat.

Morgan drew a deep breath, feeling as if he stood on a precipice and was about to leap. “Aye, I will join you. I will teach your men to fight as I fight. I will share wi’ you all I ken about Wentworth and his ways. But I willna fire upon my brothers or the Rangers.”

“Agreed.” Then Bourlamaque threw his head back and laughed.

And in the sound of that laughter, Morgan heard the echo of a single word.

Traitor.

Chapter 10

A
malie jabbed at her needlework, unable to concentrate. Still confined to her room, she hadn’t seen Bourlamaque since yesterday morning and had no idea what had happened since then. Twice yesterday she’d heard shouting, men’s voices raised in anger, but she hadn’t dared to open her door to eavesdrop. Now this morning there seemed to be many comings and goings, footsteps treading up and down the hallway below. With nothing but needlework and her own imagination to keep her company, Amalie couldn’t help but fear the worst.

She imagined the Ranger, badly beaten, left to stand in chains in his cell through another night. Or Lieutenant Rillieux, bruised and angry, denying he’d touched her, leading Bourlamaque to doubt her. Or Bourlamaque, constrained by circumstances, dismissing the idea of sanctuary and giving the order for the Ranger’s interrogation to begin at once.

Surely, it cannot be done. Orders have been given, promises made. And yet to have a MacKinnon fighting for France…

She’d seen it on Bourlamaque’s face, knew that he’d found at least some merit in her idea. But would his duty to Montcalm prevent him from acting? And how long did he intend to leave her confined like this? Was she being punished?

She set her needlework aside and rose from her chair, then walked to the window and looked outside. The sky was overcast with the promise of rain, a breeze playing with the clean linens that the laundresses had hung out to dry. Soldiers bustled about, hard at work with their chores. In the distance, a group of Abenaki stood gathered about a cook fire, Tomas and Simon amongst them.

At the sight of them, her stomach sank. Bourlamaque would not be able to give the Ranger sanctuary. Monsieur MacKinnon and his brothers had long been promised to the Abenaki, and denying them their prisoner would surely lead to strife with an ally France could not afford to lose. Bourlamaque was a nobleman, a loyal officer, a servant of France. He would do his duty. He would turn the Ranger over to the Abenaki, and Monsieur MacKinnon would suffer the torments of hell ere he died.