Untamed (28 page)

This was the response William had expected. “In that case, I have a mission for you. And, Captain, let us keep this to ourselves.”

Chapter 19

M
organ moved silently down the darkened hallway toward Bourlamaque’s study, his bloody sense of duty the only thing driving him forward. Och, how he hated this—the lies, the deception, the damnable slinking about. A man who trusted him, a man he’d be honored to serve in battle, lay asleep in his bed, while Morgan crept about his home like a midden rat, stealing secrets to give to that whoreson Wentworth.

He’d waited until the darkest hours of night to leave his room, fearing Amalie might come to his bed despite his plea that she keep to her own. He’d sensed her hurt and frustration and had been certain she would defy him, but she hadn’t. And although his mind was glad she’d heeded him, his body was not.

All day long he’d worked in the hot sun, trying to get her out of his mind. He’d dug halfway to hell it seemed, shoveling dirt and sand until his back and shoulders had ached, and still he hadn’t been able to free himself of his need for her. He’d been assailed by memories of her lying beside him, her beautiful breasts bared, her silky thighs spread for him, her body trembling with pleasure as she’d claimed her peak and come against his hand.

And then memories had turned to daydreams, and in the secrecy of his own lustful thoughts, he’d done far more than give her ease. He’d kissed his way down her creamy skin and buried his face between her thighs, drawing her sweet nectar down his throat until she’d begged him to end her torment. Then he’d forced her thighs far apart with his own, grasped her hips, and buried his cock inside her, thrusting into her like an animal, driving them both over the edge, spilling his seed inside her. But no sooner had one daydream ended than the next had begun, until he’d taken her in every way a man could take a woman.

A barbarian—’tis what you are, MacKinnon.

Aye, he was a barbarian. And yet it was in the midst of his daydreams, his head buzzing with lust, that he’d realized he’d already gone too far with her. She’d saved his life—twice—and he’d repaid her kindness by rousing desires inside her that he could not fulfill, not if he cared even the smallest whit for her.

And, aye, he did care. That’s why he’d pushed her away, warning her as best he could without giving himself away
not
to trust him,
not
to be seen with him,
not
to love him. His rejection had hurt her, he knew, and it had taken every bit of strength he had to walk away from her. But it was better this way. Anything else would risk not only her innocence, but also her happiness, her life—and his mission.

And what is your bloody mission, laddie?

To get home alive.

Aye, to get home to his brothers alive.

No matter what he felt for Amalie, this war, a war that was not of their making, divided them. She was French, while he was bound to the British. And although he would have had no trouble turning his back on that heretic Wentworth, he could not desert his brothers or his men nor join any who sought to harm them.

Forcing his mind off Amalie and onto the matter at hand, he took the candle from its place on the console and carried it to Bourlamaque’s study, which, as always, stood unlocked. He set the candle down on the old man’s writing table, quickly found Montcalm’s latest packet of dispatches, and began to read.

The letter opened with the usual news of family and friends before turning to matters of war.
“Alas, my friend, we have word that Wolfe intends to land his forces at Québec and lay siege to the city. I do not need to impress upon you the peril we shall face, nor the consequences to France should we not prevail. I fear that if we lose Québec, we lose New France. Therefore, do not engage the enemy at Carillon, but rather withdraw in good time to Fort Chambly and hold the north of Lake Champlain to keep Amherst from gaining Montréal.”

So that’s what Bourlamaque had meant when he’d said it would soon be safer to return Amalie to the abbey. She would be safe because she’d be under the escort of more than five thousand seasoned French troops and Bourlamaque himself. By high summer, she’d be safely returned to Trois Rivières.

Morgan felt a sense of peace at that, knowing she’d be far from the frontier—and far away from him. For by the time Amherst moved his army against Ticonderoga, Morgan would long since have found his way back to Fort Edward or died in the attempt. He would not be going north with the French.

And then it struck him.

If Bourlamaque fled at Amherst’s approach, Morgan would not have to raise his rifle against him or his men—Durand, Fouchet, even that bastard Rillieux.

Thanks be to God!

Morgan had already been dreading the day he would have to lead his men against Bourlamaque and the fort’s other inhabitants. To kill the man who had spared his life…

But there was more. The French were losing this war, and Montcalm and Bourlamaque knew it. The tide had turned. It was only a matter of time before Britain claimed the victory and—

He heard a gasp, jerked his head around. And there in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock, her feet bare, her body sheathed only by her nightgown, stood Amalie.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Even as she asked the question, Amalie could see very well what Morgan was doing.

Wearing only his drawers, he sat at Bourlamaque’s writing table reading private correspondence by the light of the hall candle. And yet how could he, for he did not speak French. Unless…

“Non!”
The word was a plea. She could not believe it, did not want to believe it. And yet, the truth was there before her eyes.

The man she loved was a traitor.

Something shattered inside her chest, leaving her staggered, the pain of it almost unbearable. Blood rushed into her head, panic making her heart trip, her tongue stilled by shock, the drone of her pulse drowning out the silence.

“Go back to bed, Amalie.” His voice was hard, his hands fast as he stowed the letters away, clearly familiar with the contents of Bourlamaque’s writing table.

As if he’d done this many times before.

Candle in hand, he walked around the writing table toward her, his gaze hard upon her like that of some wild animal measuring its prey.

Her heart thudding against her ribs, she took a step backward into the hallway, then another and another, watching as if under some spell as he followed her, soundlessly shutting the door to Bourlamaque’s study and setting the flickering candle back on the console, his expression inscrutable.

Then she turned—and ran.

But she’d taken only a step or two when he caught her, one strong arm capturing her beneath her breasts and drawing her hard against his chest, a big hand covering her mouth, trapping her scream. Lifted off her feet, she kicked and thrashed as he carried her down the hallway to his room and shut the door behind them.

But he did not release her. Instead, he held her tighter, pressing his lips to her ear, his voice an angry whisper. “Quit your strugglin’ afore you harm yourself!”

But his words only inflamed her rage, and she fought harder, kicking, clawing, biting at the hand that covered her mouth. To think she had kissed him! To think she had let him touch her! To think she had
loved
him!

“Ouch, for Satan!”

She tasted blood—then found herself thrown roughly onto the bed and pinned beneath him, her arms stretched over her head, both of her wrists held captive in one of his big hands, the weight of his body holding her unmoving.

A stranger, the enemy once more, he glared down at her. “You should have kept to your own bed, lass. Now what shall I do wi’ you?”

But the pain in her chest was such that she did not hear the warning in his voice. “Bourlamaque gave you sanctuary, and you betrayed him! You betrayed me!”

“Aye, I deceived Bourlamaque, and I’ll regret it to the end of my days. But long afore I pledged my loyalty to him, I made another oath—to my brothers and my men. Would you have me break that vow and become a betrayer and slayer of my own kin? As you loved your father, so I love them!”

She heard his words, felt the conflict within him, but was too hurt, too outraged to care, hot tears pricking her eyes. “Then it was lies, all of it—your being forced to serve the British, your hatred for your commander, your admiration for Monsieur de Bourlamaque!”

“Nay, it was the truth, every word.” His brow was furrowed, his breath hot on her face. “I would much rather serve Bourlamaque than that bastard Wentworth, but I cannae forsake my brothers or the Rangers. I told Bourlamaque this when I lay in chains, but he chose to forget. He allowed himself to be deceived.”

“And what of your feelings for me?” The question was almost too painful to ask. “Have I let myself be deceived as well?”

She should have known from the way his eyes darkened what was coming, but when his mouth claimed hers, it took her by surprise.

It was a brutal kiss, rough and forceful, his lips pressing hard against hers, his tongue demanding entry, his body grinding over hers. She ought to have been furious, ought to have found his touch revolting, ought to have turned her head away, fought him, kicked. Instead, she felt a desperate surge of desire.

Never had she hated anyone as she hated him—
Traitor! Deceiver!
—and yet never had his kisses affected her so. Anger, carnal need, love—she could not tell where one emotion ended and the next began. She arched against him, returning his ferocity with her own, nipping his lips, biting down on his tongue, fighting to take control of the kiss from him. And yet even as she fought him, even as he freed her wrists, her body surrendered. Hands that should have struck him slid eagerly over the smooth skin and muscle of his chest, caressed the hard curve of his shoulders, fisted themselves in his thick hair—and she knew the battle was lost.

Morgan gave Amalie no quarter. Once again, she held his fate in her hands, a word from her enough to send him off to be roasted by the Abenaki. She had defied him, leaving her bed to seek his, uncovering his treason. But it was bed play she’d sought from him, and so, by God, she would have it!

He bared her breasts to his roving hands and hungry mouth, teasing and tasting her until she writhed from it. Then he drew up her nightgown in urgent fistfuls, forced her thighs apart, and began to press deep circles against her sex, his fingers delving down to tease her virgin entrance. She was already wet, proof of her need for him gathering like dew on his fingertips, her musky scent bidding him to take her, her frantic whimpers driving him mad.

Never had Morgan forced himself on a woman, but his mother’s Viking blood burnt in him now, ruthless and hot, urging him to claim Amalie without ceremony, to mark her in the most primal way a man could, to satisfy himself with her sweet body again and again.

With a growl that sounded more animal than human even to his own ears, he shifted his mouth from one velvety nipple to the other, suckling her without mercy, his hand unrelenting. Then, ignoring her startled gasp, he slid one finger inside her, testing her maidenhead, stretching her, stroking that part of her no man had touched—and she shattered.

He captured her cry with a kiss, took her breath into his lungs, his hand keeping up the rhythm until her pleasure was spent, her slick inner muscles clenching tightly around his finger, making him wish for all the world it was his cock inside her.

And that is how Bourlamaque found them—Morgan on top of Amalie, her breasts bared, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she found release.

“What in the name of the devil is happening here?” Bourlamaque’s voice filled the room like thunder.

Amalie shrieked, struggling to cover herself.

Instinctively, Morgan shielded her from the old man’s view, helping her to draw her nightgown over her shoulders. “Easy, lass. We’ll soon sort this out.”

But Morgan knew nothing could be further from the truth. Not only was Amalie facing Bourlamaque’s wrath, but she was also carrying a terrible secret, which, if revealed, would lead Morgan to his death.

’Tis a fine predicament you find yourself in, aye, laddie?

“H
ave I not treated you with kindness befitting my own daughter? Have I not granted you every comfort? Have I not shown you every consideration?”

Acutely aware that he was clad only in his drawers—and still sporting a raging cockstand—Morgan watched, his teeth grinding, as Bourlamaque, wearing his dressing gown, berated Amalie in French. She trembled before the old man, the blanket Morgan had draped around her shoulders for modesty’s sake clutched tight around her, but her chin was held high.

“Si, monsieur,”
she answered, her voice all but a whisper.

She had not yet said anything about what she’d seen, though Morgan knew the secret weighed heavily upon her. He could see it in the distress on her face, in the tense way she held herself, in her unshed tears.

“And you!” Bourlamaque switched into English and stepped over to Morgan, his face mottled with rage. “Did you not this very morning promise me that you would not dishonor her?”

Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “She is a virgin still.”

The old man gaped at him as if he’d said something daft. “Is that all ‘dishonor’ means to you—taking her virginity? What of chastity, Captain? What of purity?”

“Believe me, sir, when I say I didna intend for this to happen tonight. I meant no insult to—”

Amalie’s words cut him off. “I…I came to him, monsieur. I came to him though he bade me not to tempt him.”

Astonished, Morgan met her gaze and knew in that moment that she would not reveal his treachery to her guardian. Though he could not fathom her reasons for this, the realization filled him with bittersweet sadness—relief that he would not burn in the fires of the Abenaki and yet remorse that she who had been blameless until he arrived should now share in his guilt.

“Is this true?” Bourlamaque asked him.

Morgan hesitated, his instinct to shield her from shame. But the words had already been spoken. “Aye, sir.”