Untamed (17 page)

Bourlamaque sat at his writing table, a pensive look on his face. “Before I call my officers in to join us, I must first make myself very clear, Major. If you betray me, I will turn you over to the Abenaki and light the bonfires myself.”

Morgan saw in his eyes that he meant what he said. “Och, well, I thought as much. But I owe Wentworth nothin’. So long as you keep your word, I keep mine.”

He spoke partly truth—he and his brothers owed Wentworth nothing. Bourlamaque was by far the more honorable man and a Catholic at that. But Morgan’s loyalty lay where it always had—with his brothers, with the Rangers.

Bourlamaque nodded, but his expression remained grave. “You must understand that, given your formidable skill as a warrior and the degree to which some of my men hate and fear you, I cannot let you roam freely about the fort. By letting you live, I am taking a great risk. Until I am certain you can be trusted and are in no danger, you will remain confined to my house—as my guest, of course.”

So Morgan was to be his prisoner.

“Of course.” Morgan met the older man’s gaze, raised his glass, and sipped.

Bourlamaque shouted for his men to enter, then settled in his chair, as one by one his officers filed into the study. Tellingly, Rillieux was not amongst them, and Morgan couldn’t help but feel some sense of satisfaction. The bastard deserved whatever punishment Bourlamaque had seen fit to bestow upon him.

Morgan met the gazes of the men who stood about him—Fouchet, Durand, and others whose names he had not yet learned. They watched him, a mix of awe, wariness, and curiosity in their eyes.

“Now, Major, tell us everything you know about Amherst’s plans for this summer’s campaign.”

Chapter 11

M
organ paced his room, cursing this idleness, this isolation, and the injury that had so weakened his right leg. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t walk without limping. The surgeon had offered to have oxter staffs made for him, but he had refused. If he hoped to make the journey back to Fort Edward, he needed to strengthen his limb, not coddle it. But how could he do that locked in this cage?

And a gilded cage it was. The bed was softer than any Morgan had slept in since his childhood days on Skye, the dressing table of polished wood, the wardrobe filled with foppish garments—silks, fine woolens, and enough velvet and lace for a bloody brothel. Aye, Bourlamaque had given him every promised comfort, except his freedom. For a week now, he’d been Bourlamaque’s
guest,
confined to this room except for meals—and those long hours when Bourlamaque had questioned him.

The man had been relentless. With his officers watching, he’d pressed Morgan for every bit of information that might be of use to him. He’d started by asking about Amherst’s designs to capture Fort Carillon, the plan of Fort Edward, and how many British troops Wentworth had at his command. He’d wanted to know how Amherst and Wentworth got on and which Indian nations they’d sought to befriend. Then he’d begun to interrogate Morgan in earnest, pounding him with questions about the Rangers.

Who chose the men? How did they train? Where were their supply caches? Who determined how to use the Rangers in battle? Which paths in the forest did they use most frequently? How did they manage to move so silently and invisibly through the forest? What were their most common signs and countersigns? What supplies did they carry with them? How did they learn to shoot with such deadly accuracy? Did all Rangers carry rifled muskets? How many men had been at Morgan’s command?

There’d been no time to think, no time to construct careful lies, but Morgan had expected as much. Some of the questions he’d answered truthfully because the answers gave Bourlamaque no advantage. Others he’d answered with half-truths, giving up the locations of old supply caches, abandoned campsites, and trails that the Rangers had long since deserted. Still others he’d answered with lies.

The Rangers had been handpicked by Iain with Morgan’s and Connor’s help, chosen for their woodcraft and skill with a rifle. They trained at the fort, shooting at marks and practicing with swords or bayonets. They’d learned how to move silently from the Indians. Wentworth chose the Rangers’ missions, while Morgan, like Iain before him, commanded them in the field. Signs and countersigns changed with each new dawn. The men learned to shoot well at a young age because they depended upon hunting to fill their bellies. Only officers carried muskets with rifled carbines. Under Morgan’s command, the Rangers had numbered six score and four.

His lies they had believed. But Bourlamaque and his officers had thought him dishonest on that last point, though he’d told the truth. Fouchet, Durand, and the other officers had laughed out loud, while Bourlamaque had glared at him.

“Do not trifle with me, Major,” he’d said, his face turning an angry scarlet.

Morgan hadn’t been able to keep the grin off his face. “I find your doubt flatterin’. You’re thinkin’ there must have been a thousand of us, aye? In truth, there are precious few. We eat and sleep together, officers and men. Aye, and we train together, too, and call each other by our Christian names. We ken one another well and fight as one. We are more a band of brothers than a company of soldiers.
That
is what makes us Rangers.”

He’d all but shouted those last words. And in that moment he’d missed his brothers and his men so much that the pain of it had struck him like a fist to the gut. But the emotion behind his words must have impressed Bourlamaque, for he’d moved on to other matters.

But what Morgan would never tell Bourlamaque was that each Ranger was trained to memorize and follow a set of eight-and-twenty rules—the Rules of Ranging. The Rules had been created to hide the men’s numbers, to give them every advantage in battle, and to enable them to work together silently and under fire, as each man knew what the others would do. Though Wentworth knew the Rangers had a set of rules, not even he knew what they were.

Rangers never marched in noisy, cumbersome ranks like British Regulars, but single file and far enough apart that two could not be killed by a single shot. When they marched through marshes or over wet ground, they walked abreast to make their numbers harder to count. When pursued, they circled back to their own tracks, surrounding the enemy in ambush. In battle, they staggered their fire, reloading while those beside them fired, giving the enemy no chance to rest. If the enemy’s numbers overwhelmed them, they dispersed, each man for himself, making his way to the next rendezvous point. They never crossed rivers at the usual fords or walked the forest on known paths. They never stopped until long after dark so that the enemy could not see where they made camp, and only half their force was permitted to sleep at once, the others remaining ready to fight lest they be attacked. They rose before dawn and scouted the forest ahead before moving on. They never returned the same way they’d come lest the enemy lie in wait for them. And they never, ever left their flank unguarded.

The Rules of Ranging enabled them to emerge, silent and swift, from the forest, and to vanish again. The Rules helped them fend off much larger forces without heavy losses. The Rules kept them alive.

Morgan would die to keep them secret.

Och, how he hated the game he was playing! He would much rather face the French in an honest fight, rifle and
claidheamh mòr
in hand, than to battle them with lies and wylie words. Still, this was better than perishing in flames.

He strode over to the small glass window, lifted the iron hook, and thrust it open, needing to feel fresh air on his face again. The sun was setting, rosy fingers stretched across the sky, the breeze warm with the scent of wood smoke, roasting meat, and springtime. Somewhere in the distance, French pipes played out a merry tune.

The happy wail made him think of Ranger Camp, where the men were surely settling down with their nightly ration of rum under these same stars. McHugh would be playing his pipes while Dougie tuned his fiddle and old Killy told stories. Joseph and his warriors would be sitting around a fire, telling their own stories. And Connor, left to lead them, would be walking amongst them, speaking with each man, offering him a few words of encouragement, as Morgan had done and Iain before him.

An ache swelled in Morgan’s chest, then rose into his throat. Sweet Mary in heaven, how he missed them!

I will see you again, lads, if God is willing.

He drew in a deep breath, ignoring the sentry who had just snapped to alertness and stood in the shadows watching him. Did Bourlamaque truly believe him fool enough to try escaping out his own bloody window? Then from overhead came soft footfalls and the creak of floorboards.

Amalie.

Morgan had seen her only at meals under Bourlamaque’s watchful eye, their conversations more guarded than they’d been in the infirmary. Still, Morgan couldn’t keep his eyes off her, aware of her as he’d been of no other woman—her every word, every glance, every movement. She seemed to grow bonnier each day, the worry that had lined her face now gone. One smile from her, and he became a blethering idiot, her femininity pulling at him from across the table, heating his blood, making him think of her in ways he shouldn’t.

Almost directly overhead, he heard the hook on her window clink against glass, then heard her voice as her window swung open.

“Un bain serait merveilleux, Thérèse. Merci!” A bath would be wonderful, Thérèse. Thank you!

It was as if Morgan had been struck on the head with a bolt of lightning. Whatever thoughts had been in his mind vanished. He stood still and listened as something heavy—no doubt the same copper washtub he’d bathed in this morning—was dragged across her floor. Then came the sound of heated water being poured into the tub, bucket by bucket, followed by the soft murmur of female voices and—was he imagining it?—the rustle of skirts and petticoats. Moments later, he heard the tinkle of water, and he knew she’d stepped into the tub.

He turned his back to the night, leaned against the sill, and closed his eyes, his mind filling with images of her—sensual, arousing, forbidden images. Amalie stepping into the bath, naked, her skin golden in the candlelight, her long hair spilling down her back. Amalie rubbing the soap over her glistening skin, her nipples taut from the gentle lapping of the water. Amalie rising from the tub, water trickling down her skin in rivulets. Amalie reaching for a towel, running it over her breasts and the thatch of dark curls between her thighs. Amalie bending to dry her legs, the twin mounds of her bottom ripe for his touch, the dark cleft of her sex revealed.

He was hard as stone now, his cock straining against his silk drawers, his cods tight and aching for release. He knew he should stop himself, knew he should banish these thoughts from his mind. She was promised to the Church, soon to become a bride of Christ.

You’re a cad and a bastard, MacKinnon!

Aye, he was. But even as he tried to stop himself, new thoughts assailed him. Would her nipples be rosy pink, dusky like wine, or a soft fawn brown? Would they be small and supple or large and soft like rose petals? Would they taste—

A knock came at the door, which opened to reveal Bourlamaque.

Morgan stayed where he was, leaning against the windowsill, grateful that his waistcoat covered the bulge of his erection.

Bourlamaque glanced at the open window, then at Morgan, a grin on his face. “My scouting parties returned from the locations you described, Major. They found supply caches precisely where you’d said they would. Tonight, we shall celebrate! I have ordered a feast prepared and have invited all of my officers to attend. Those who have not already met you are most eager to do so.”

So, Bourlamaque had followed up on the answers Morgan had given him and was satisfied that Morgan had told the truth. Morgan’s half-truths had worked. He had earned Bourlamaque’s trust—at least to some degree.

“Please wear appropriate evening attire.” Bourlamaque looked him up and down, no doubt noticing that he’d shed his coat. The old man was astonishingly strict about matters of dress. “Shall I send my valet to assist you?”

“ ’Tis most generous of you, but I can dress myself.”

“Very well.” Bourlamaque smiled. “Festivities begin in an hour.”

A
malie stared at the woman in the looking glass, unable to believe she was looking at her own reflection. “Are you certain?”

“If you wish to catch the Ranger’s eye,” Thérèse answered, a mischievous smile on her face, “you mustn’t be afraid to show the beauty God has given you.”

Amalie bit back a laugh, imagining what the
mère supérieure
would say to that.

The musicians were already playing, the sweet strains of violins and flute mingling with the deep rumble of men’s voices.

She hadn’t meant to take so long, but she hadn’t been able to decide how to wear her hair or which gown to choose. In the end, she’d called upon Thérèse, whose nimble fingers had accomplished what Amalie’s inexperienced ones could not, shaping her tresses into something elegant atop her head with slender braids that looped down along her nape and disappeared again. It was also Thérèse who had dabbed her lips with rouge and who’d insisted she wear her ivory silk sack gown—the gown her father had given to her for her seventeenth birthday and then promptly forbidden her to wear. Embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds, the gown was cut lower in the bodice than any other gown Amalie owned, leaving the swells of her breasts exposed.

Now, her pulse skipping, she gazed in the looking glass and found a stranger staring back at her. She looked nothing like the girl who’d spent her life inside the gray walls of the convent. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy, her breasts high and round above her décolletage. But most different were her eyes. They gleamed with excitement, anticipation, hope.

Her world had felt so bleak since her father’s death—empty, dark, lonely. How strange it was that Morgan MacKinnon—the man who might have killed her father—should be the one to make her feel alive again. Was it wrong for her to feel this way?