Untamed (23 page)

And Amalie knew her cousin was dead. “No, Morgan, please don’t kill him!”

But Morgan did not seem to hear her. He forced Tomas’s elbow to bend until the blade rested just beneath the youth’s chin. Tomas shook with the effort to resist him, his face contorted and flushed red from the strain, a strangled wail coming from his throat.

“You want blood?” Morgan drew the knife across his own forearm, leaving a trail of bright red. “Now you have it!”

Then he released Tomas with a shove, the knife blade edged with crimson.

But it was Morgan’s blood, not Tomas’s, and with a rush of relief, Amalie realized that’s what Morgan had meant to do all along.

Tomas staggered forward, his gaze shifting between the blood on his blade and Simon’s shocked face, his eyes telling Amalie that he knew he’d been bested—and not only bested, but shamed by an enemy who had defeated him, spared his life, then given him the very blood he hadn’t been strong enough to take.

Morgan turned his back on Tomas, a grim look on his face. “Come, lass. Let us leave them to soothe their injured pride in peace.”

But it was not Tomas or Simon who was injured. Blood ran freely down Morgan’s arm.

Amalie took his wrists, turned his arm over, relieved to see the cut wasn’t deep. Still, it would need cleaning. “We must get you to the surgeon.”

“ ’Tis little more than a scratch and isna worthy of…” His words died away as the clatter of marching troops drew near.

Lieutenant Rillieux appeared from around the corner accompanied by a dozen armed soldiers. His gaze passed over Amalie, traveling from Morgan and his bleeding arm to Simon, Tomas, and the knife. Then he pointed to Morgan. “Put him in irons!”

M
organ leaned back against the clapboard wall, his wrists and ankles in chains, the cut on his arm still trickling blood. He hoped the combination of humiliation and bloodied blade would take the edge off the young Abenaki’s rage with him so that Amalie, at least, need no longer fear for him or for her cousins.

No, Morgan, please don’t kill him!

She’d been terrified, but there’d been nothing Morgan could do for it, apart from persuading the hotheaded young warrior not to attack him again.

What a strange coincidence that Rillieux should happen upon them just as the little shangie had come to an end and that he should happen to have a dozen armed soldiers with him. Of course, it wasn’t a coincidence at all. Rillieux had surely set it up, preying upon the Abenaki’s understandable hatred of the MacKinnon name, urging them to provoke a fight, hoping to discredit Morgan in Bourlamaque’s eyes.

Had he known Morgan would win? If so, he must have been willing to sacrifice the two young Abenaki men, even knowing they were Amalie’s cousins. Had he believed Morgan would be slain? Nay, or the whoreson would not have brought so many soldiers with him.

And Amalie, sweet Amalie, she had tried to protect him once again.

“But Monsieur MacKinnon has done nothing wrong,” she’d protested in French as soldiers had locked Morgan’s wrists in irons. “Tomas attacked him, and though Monsieur MacKinnon easily could have slain him, he did not. You cannot do this!”

But, of course, Rillieux had not been moved by her pleas.

Morgan had tried to reassure her. “Dinnae fret, lass. Bourlamaque will soon set all to rights.”

She’d watched through wide eyes as Morgan had been led away, a look of mingled disbelief and fury on her bonnie face.

Morgan closed his eyes, inhaled, her scent still upon him. What was it about her that rattled him so? He’d always loved the lasses, aye, and savored the pleasures to be found in their company. But never had he lost his head like this.

He’d been so drunk with desire for her just now in the garden that he risked her safety and his own mission to get just the merest taste of her. Had her cousins or Rillieux, discovered them there…

And what is your mission, lad? Is it to be wooin’ and kissin’ a lovely
métisse
lass?

Sadly, nay. His mission was to escape, to return to Fort Edward with the secrets he’d stolen, to rejoin his brothers. His mission was to survive.

You’d best be rememberin’ that, aye?

Morgan heard Bourlamaque’s voice outside the guardhouse and stood, dragging his chains with him. It had taken less than ten minutes by Morgan’s reckoning, and from the sound of things, the old man was in a rage.

“Next time, come to me before you shackle him, unless you’d like to find yourself in irons instead!”

Aye, Morgan was going to enjoy this.

The door creaked open, light falling across the rough-hewn boards and straw at Morgan’s feet. Bourlamaque stepped inside, followed by an enraged-looking Rillieux.

Bourlamaque met Morgan’s gaze, his face tight-lipped with fury. He pointed to Morgan. “Release him and apologize.”

Rillieux hesitated, drawing a deep breath. Then he took the key off its hook on the wall. “I regret the misunderstanding, Monsieur Mac—”

“
Major
MacKinnon,” Bourlamaque corrected him.

Morgan saw a muscle in Rillieux’s jaw jump.

“I regret the misunderstanding, Major MacKinnon,” Rillieux walked to the door of Morgan’s cage, jammed the key into the lock, and opened it, then knelt down to free Morgan’s ankles.

“I accept your apology.” Morgan grinned. “With me doin’ the bleedin’ and blood on his knife, I can see why you thought I was to blame.”

The hatred in Rillieux’s eyes when he looked up at Morgan left no doubt that the
neach dìolain
wanted him dead.

A
malie burnt. Even with her blankets kicked aside, she burnt. She closed her eyes, tried again to sleep, but couldn’t, her body coursing with strange feelings, her mind filled with Morgan. Each time she moved, her nightgown rubbed against her nipples, sending frissons of heat into her belly, just as he had done when he’d cupped her breast and run his thumb over its crest. And where her thighs pressed together, she felt an unfamiliar ache.

Was this the lust that the sisters had so often warned against? She thought it must be. Oh, but it was as sweet as it was maddening. They hadn’t told her that.

Thinking of Morgan seemed to be the only cure for it, and yet it was no cure at all, for the more she thought of him, the more she ached. Morgan carrying her to the bench. Morgan nipping her skin with his teeth. Morgan kissing the swell of her breast. And afterward, the way he’d held her, his heart beating every bit as hard as hers.

But that wasn’t the whole of it, for there were qualities about him that touched her heart as well. His sense of honor, the way he’d held himself away from her, his fists clenched in his pockets as they left the garden. His protectiveness, the way he’d thrust her behind him when Tomas and Simon had appeared in their path. His strength, the way he’d overcome Tomas without hurting him, offering his own blood to stem the fighting.

Amalie had never met a man like him.

She got out of bed, walked to her window, and thrust open the panes, hoping the cool night air might soothe her heated skin. The stars shone brightly in the sky, the moon hanging over the forest, a thick mist blanketing the trees, crickets and frogs singing their lullabies. The night breeze carried the mingled scents of forest, lake, and soldiers’ campfires. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, a lonely sound.

She leaned against the sill, breathed in the cool, fresh air, her mind drifting.

How do you say “beautiful woman” in French?

It had seemed such a magic moment, his gaze warm upon her like sunshine, blossoms all around them. Did he truly think her beautiful?

You brought me here because you wanted me to kiss you again, aye?

Yes, she had. Somehow he’d known the truth of it.

Say it, Amalie. Say it…in French!

Embrassez-moi, Morgan!

She pressed her fingers to her lips, felt them tingle at the memory.

Then she heard what sounded like a man snoring. Below, his back propped against the officers’ barracks next door, was a sentry, sound asleep at his post. No doubt assigned to make certain Morgan did not escape, he was fortunate that—

Amalie gasped, froze.

Morgan sat directly below her in his open window, clad only in his drawers, one arm resting on his bent knee—and he was watching her.

He said not a word, but looked up at her, his eyes dark, his bare chest rising with each deep breath, his warrior marks and the cut on his forearm visible in the moonlight, the wampum on his armbands seeming to glitter. Even from this distance, she could tell that he burnt as she did, his maleness calling to her.

She wanted him to hold her, to kiss her again, and yet she could not go to him or even speak to him, not without risking discovery. Should Bourlamaque find the two of them together at night in this state of undress, Morgan would surely be punished, perhaps even flogged. Still, she wanted to touch him, needed to touch him.

Barely able to breathe, an idea forming in her mind, she reached behind her, pulled the ribbon from her braid, and began to unbind it, strand by strand, until her hair hung freely past her hips. Then she leaned down and let the heavy mass spill out over the windowsill.

She heard his quick intake of breath, saw the muscles of his bare belly jerk. He sat upright and reached with his left arm, stretching higher and higher, but still he could not reach her. Then in one smooth motion, he stood, his bare feet balanced on the sill, his face mere feet away, his gaze locked with hers. He gathered a thick handful of hair, pressed it to his face, and inhaled, his eyes drifting shut.

She had no idea how long they stood there like that, the two of them in the moonlight. She only knew that it ended far too soon.

“Sleep, Amalie,” he whispered, releasing her locks.

And then he was gone.

Chapter 16

M
organ swung the ax, then jerked it free and swung again. He pushed himself, striking hard, welcoming the strain, pounding out his pent-up frustration and anger, each blow sending up a shower of woodchips. Sweat trickled down his temples, down his back, down his bare chest, summer sun hot against his skin, the air close and sweltrie. He heard timber crack, saw the tree begin to lean, and stepped out of the way as the young conifer crashed to the ground.

“He hacks down trees as if they were the enemy,” a young soldier said in French from somewhere behind him.

“Perhaps he does not like trees,” whispered another, sniggering.

“Vous êtes des idiots!”
said a third. “It was here last year where he and his men fought Montcalm. The Rangers fired upon us from behind these very trees, but many of his men were killed by our cannonade. Perhaps that is why he seems angry.”

More sniggering.

Morgan felt an urge to give the three lads a thrashing, but willed himself to ignore them. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, then he dropped the ax, picked up a saw, and began to cut off the thickest branch with deep strokes.

Truth be told, he didn’t know why he felt so restless, so bloody cankersome. ’Twas as if his skin were stretched too tight, as if he were suffocating, as if something inside him were about to burst.

Perhaps it
was
this place. The trees echoed with memories of bloodshed and anguish, but he’d expected that. He’d volunteered for this work crew only because it gave him a chance to prove to Bourlamaque that he could be trusted outside the fort’s walls. He needed to build the man’s confidence in him, to lull Bourlamaque into letting down his guard so that Morgan could escape. He needed to leave this place before he grew too fond of the old man, before he became too comfortable in the role of traitor, before he taught Bourlamaque’s soldiers something that would cost Ranger lives.

But that wasn’t the whole of it. He’d been on edge since hearing yesterday that Connor and the men had attacked and looted a supply train on its way down from Fort Saint-Frédéric. They’d taken everything of worth and killed thirty-two French soldiers, four civilian wagoners and one lad of sixteen, leaving only two camp followers alive. The survivors described killings that had been deliberately brutal—wounded men finished by bayonets, soldiers cut down while pleading for mercy, the wagoners shot, dragged to the ground, and shot again.

It hardly sounded like the Rangers Morgan knew. But there was no doubt that it
had
been the Rangers. The women had reacted with horror when they’d seen Morgan, pointing to him and bursting into tears, while the lad had accused Morgan of doing most of the killing. It had taken the surgeon five minutes to calm their fears and explain that Morgan was not the man who’d attacked them. But if Morgan’s resemblance to the leader of the attack hadn’t been enough to prove it was the Rangers, Connor had sent a message to Bourlamaque.

“Tell Bourlamaque that Connor MacKinnon seeks his vengeance!” he’d shouted in the lad’s face.

’Twas regrettable that he’d shouted the words in French.

Morgan had been forced on the spot to concoct a lie about Connor’s long bout with a wasting fever as a boy and how a French doctor, a friend of their grandfather’s, had cared for him, passing the long hours by teaching him a bit of French. As Morgan was not now in chains, he supposed Bourlamaque had believed the tale.