Untamed (21 page)

“I regret I cannot send more men, but we are now certain Amherst intends to send a fleet against us up the St. Lawrence from Louisbourg, and I cannot let Québec City fall,”
Montcalm had written in his most recent missive.
“We shall save this unhappy colony or perish.”

He had also warned Bourlamaque against trusting Morgan.

“I, too, find the native people’s ways distressing, but do not forget, my dear B., that, although you now call him your guest, he is in truth still your prisoner. Although you may yet turn this impulsive decision of yours to our advantage, he is a cunning adversary and not to be underestimated. Should he prove false, do not hesitate to kill him.”

And well Morgan knew that Bourlamaque would not hesitate.

Taking great care, he put the letters back where he’d found them, laying the most recent missive on the writing table faceup as Bourlamaque had left it. Checking to be certain he hadn’t disturbed anything, Morgan walked quietly from the study, closed the door behind him, and made his way silently back to his room, setting the candle in its place on the console as he passed.

When at last he stretched out on his bed, he wondered which would be the greater sin—betraying the deceiving bastard he’d promised under threat of death to obey or betraying the honest, honorable men who by woesome chance were his enemies.

Chapter 14

A
s Père François recited the sacred Latin words of the Mass, Amalie knelt, her head bowed, her rosary clasped between her folded hands, her mind far from prayer. Morgan sat behind her. As if through heightened senses, she could feel the heat of him, smell him, hear his deep voice through those of every other man in the chapel.

“Dominus vobiscum,”
Père François intoned.

The Lord be with you.

“Et cum spiritu tuo,”
Amalie answered in unison with the others, not because she was truly listening, but rather out of habit.

Was it her imagination or was Morgan avoiding her?

He was, of course, bound by his duty to Bourlamaque and the army. She understood that and was not so foolish or selfish to begrudge him the time he spent at his labors. In truth, she admired his dedication. But why at the end of the day, when his duty was done, did he have no kind word and not a moment for her?

These past four days he’d been hard-faced, stern, even brusque with her. He ignored her at meals, saying only as much to her as was necessary for the sake of politeness. Each night he’d retired to his room after having a brandy with Bourlamaque and the other officers, not even glancing her way as he bade the others good night. And when she’d approached him and Bourlamaque to ask them when his French lessons should begin, he’d cut her short.

“I’m certain the chevalier has other things he’d rather see me doin’, Miss Chauvenet,” he’d said, his tone measured, his blue eyes devoid of any affection.

Bourlamaque had chided her in French. “Do not badger the poor man, Amalie!”

Blinking back tears, she’d bowed her head.
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”

Then she’d hurried away to her room, feeling utterly humiliated. Hadn’t it been Morgan himself who’d asked to learn French? And what about the kiss? Four nights ago, there’d been nothing dour or hard-faced or stern about him when he’d kissed her senseless. He’d seemed just as moved as she had been.

When we’re alone, call me Morgan.

She’d thought that meant he intended to be alone with her again, that he perhaps even intended to kiss her again. Instead, he didn’t seem to want to be near her.

Then again, what did she know of men and kissing? Certainly, the
mère supérieure
had never discussed such things with her, nor had her father. Perhaps kisses meant little to men. Perhaps her inexperience had dulled his interest in her. Or perhaps he’d only meant to kiss her that one time, as a lesson of sorts.

What Rillieux did to you—that wasna truly a kiss. This is a kiss.

Amalie bowed her head, turned it slightly, and looked furtively back at him. Wearing his finest new attire, he knelt, head bowed, wooden rosary between his big hands, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in heartfelt prayer. Even here in the chapel when she ought to have been tending to her immortal soul, the sight of him stirred something in her blood. The fullness of his mouth, a mouth that had worked magic against hers. The dark slashes of his eyebrows, eyebrows that had furrowed with emotion when he’d kissed her. His big, well-shaped hands, hands that fisted in her hair, slid up her spine, held her tight.

Abruptly everyone around her stood, and she realized she’d been so distracted, she’d lost her place in the Mass.

For shame, Amalie!

She crossed herself, rose to her feet, and joined the procession toward the altar for Communion, wondering what was the matter with her.

But, in truth, she already knew.

Morgan.

His kiss had kindled something inside her, woken her to something new, made her feel things she’d never felt before. And now she felt like a candle that had been lit—and then left to burn in the darkness alone.

She must find a way to talk with him—just the two of them.

M
organ walked alongside Bourlamaque and Rillieux as they made their way across the sunny parade grounds from the chapel, Amalie on Bourlamaque’s arm. Distracted by her presence and wondering what penance the priest would require if he knew that Morgan had sat through most of Mass with a raging cockstand, he only half listened as Bourlamaque described his new plans for placing the artillery along the northern ramparts.

Morgan had purposely seated himself away from Amalie in the chapel, but clearly not far enough away. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from watching her as she prayed, her hair hidden beneath a modest veil of white lace, her head bowed to reveal the graceful nape of her neck, her rosary of silver and seed pearls clasped between her delicate hands. Even as he’d closed his eyes and prayed to God to curb his lust, he’d been able to hear her voice—as sweet and clear as birdsong.

The Almighty, it seemed, was leaving the matter of lust up to Morgan.

Not that Morgan hadn’t tried. He’d done his best these past days to dampen her affection for him, paying her little heed, treating her coolly when he spoke to her at all, and refusing to be alone with her. It pained him to see the hurt upon her bonnie face and to know that he was the cause. But it was far better to reward her affection with indifference than to see her shamed on account of him, her skirts torn, her head shorn bare, her face bruised from hateful blows, as had happened in his village on Skye to a lass who’d gotten herself with child by a redcoat just after the defeat at Culloden.

It did not help matters that he slept under Bourlamaque’s roof and therefore shared his table. Each meal had become a test of his mettle, his resolve to deny Amalie his regard. He’d have asked Bourlamaque to banish him to the officers’ barracks, but then how could he do his nightly spying?

He’d returned to Bourlamaque’s study twice more to peruse new dispatches from Montcalm, memorizing what he’d read. More artillery on their way to Québec City. Redoubts being built along the St. Lawrence. An outbreak of smallpox contained. How he’d get this news to his brothers and Wentworth Morgan knew not.

“If Amherst makes the same mistake as Abercrombie and attacks without artillery, I should like—”

“He won’t.” Morgan cut across Bourlamaque. “Amherst is a far better soldier than Nanny Crombie.”

“What did you call him?” Bourlamaque asked.

“Nanny Crombie—on account of his forever switherin’ between one plan and another, never kennin’ his own mind.”

“You Scots do find many ways to demonstrate insubordination toward your superior officers, don’t you?” The conceited tone of Rillieux’s voice left no doubt that he would never have done the same.

Morgan grinned. “Only when they deserve it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amalie hide a smile behind her fingers.

Bourlamaque chuckled. “Lieutenant, let us take what we now know of the Rangers’ aim and range and cut back the forest to deny them cover. Add the timber to the abatis. It saved us once, and it might yet again.”

At these words, Morgan’s mind echoed with cannon fire, gunshots, and the cries of dying men. ’Twas there amongst the trees that Bourlamaque wished to fell where the Rangers had fought last summer. ’Twas there they’d lost so many men—good men and true. Cam, a close friend and one of the best, had died with French lead in his chest. Lemuel had been shot in the belly. Charlie Gordon had lost his head to a cannonball—and it had never been found.

“We shall start tomorrow, monsieur,” Rillieux said in French, giving Bourlamaque a smart bow, the unmistakable glint of loathing in his eyes as his gaze met Morgan’s. “Until dinner, then.”

“One moment, Lieutenant,” Bourlamaque called after him. “Major, if you would be so kind as to see Amalie the rest of the way, I must speak with Lieutenant Rillieux.”

Then Bourlamaque and Rillieux walked toward the officers’ barracks, speaking together in quiet French.

For a moment Morgan tried to catch their words, then he felt her beside him. He looked down—and knew he was in trouble.

She gazed up at him, uncertainty and hurt in her eyes. “What have I done to displease you, Morgan?”

Taken at unawares, he feigned confusion. “Whatever do you mean, lass?”

“Of late when you speak to me, you seem distant, as if I have offended you. You behave as if I were a stranger.” There was no guile in her words, only deep unhappiness. “I am happy to teach you to speak French, but you seem no longer to wish to learn our tongue.”

It pricked Morgan’s conscience to know he’d upset her like this. He searched for an explanation, one that would not hurt her further. “You’ve done naugh’ to offend or displease me, lass. ’Tis sorry I am if I’ve led you to believe otherwise. But Bourlamaque has spared my life, and I must do all I can to prove myself worthy of his trust. My duty to him comes afore all else, lass.”

“I’d say you’ve earned some time for yourself.” Bourlamaque’s voice came from behind him. “And you did win that wager. You may have the afternoon to begin your learning of French.”

Amalie smiled, her face as bright as a spring day. “
Bien, monsieur
.”

Morgan hid his annoyance at having been overheard and willed himself to smile. “That is most generous of you, sir.”

“It is a pleasant afternoon.” Bourlamaque gestured around him. “Walk about the fort, learn the French words for all that surrounds you. You may go anywhere you like as long as you do not stray outside the gates.”

But time alone with Amalie was precisely what Morgan had been working so hard to avoid.

“Are you certain it is safe for Miss Chauvenet to be seen in my company? There are many amongst your men who still think of me as the enemy. I do not wish to repay your kindness and hers by besmirchin’ her reputation.”

Bourlamaque brushed his words aside. “I know my men, Major. There is not one amongst them who would harm her.”

And Morgan found himself caught in a web of his own making.

“I
 l…fait…beau.”
The weather is lovely.
Morgan spoke the words slowly with what he hoped was a convincing lack of skill.

’Twas the perfect spring day, the sky stretching clear and blue above them, wee birds singing for their mates, the trees green with new leaves. All around them, the world was abundant with new life, flaunting its fertility.

Morgan felt it from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, that feeling known amongst the Muhheconneok as the spring rising. As the sap rose in the trees, so a man’s blood rose in his veins—aye, and a woman’s, too. Some animal part of Morgan wanted nothing more than to draw Amalie with him into some secluded copse of trees and mate with her on a bed of wildflowers as his ancestors had done of old at Beltaine.

As innocent as a rose, she walked beside him, looking much like a spring flower herself in a gown of soft petal pink. Her sweet face lit up with a smile.
“Très bien, monsieur.”

He leaned down, lowered his voice. “It’s Morgan, lass. Remember?”

She looked shyly away, but her smile did not fade.
“En français s’il vous plaît.”

“Je m’appelle Morgan.”

“C’est bien.”
She met his gaze from beneath sooty lashes, the sunlight catching her hair, making it gleam like polished chestnut. “Morgan.”

For more than an hour now they had strolled about the fort, Amalie teaching him the word for everything they saw. If he hadn’t already known the language, his head would have been spinning.

Dog.
Le chien.

Cannon and cannonball.
Le canon
.
Le boulet de canon.

Ramparts.
Les remparts.
Gate.
La porte
.

Rifle.
Le fusil.
Gunpowder.
La poudre à canon.

Sun.
Le soleil.

Each time he spoke a word well, she rewarded him with one of her beautiful smiles, encouraging him as a mother might encourage a small child. And like the steady fraying of an overstretched rope, Morgan felt his resolve to keep his distance from her unraveling. She would hate him soon enough. Could he not savor just this moment?

“Say,
‘Écosse,’ 
” she said, turning up a small path that followed a high fence toward Bourlamaque’s residence. “
Écosse
. It means ‘Scotland.’ ”

He repeated the word, and asked a question he’d always wanted to ask. “How did they get
Écosse
from ‘Scotland’? They sound nothin’ alike.”

Then again why did the English call it “Scotland,” while the Gaels knew the country as “Alba”?

“I do not know.” She laughed, then pushed open a gate. “Come,
Monsieur l’Écossais.
”

“What did you just call me, lass?”

She laughed. “A Scotsman.”