Untamed (29 page)

Bourlamaque looked from Morgan to Amalie, his jaw set, a strange light in his eyes. “Amalie, you have at long last made your choice. You shall marry Capitaine MacKinnon as soon as it can be arranged. Do you understand? Both of you?”

Marry?

For a moment Morgan thought he’d misunderstood.

“M-marry him?” Wide-eyed, she gaped at her guardian, looking every bit as stamagastert as Morgan felt. Then her gaze fell to the floor. “
Oui, monsieur. Je comprends.
”

“Aye, sir.”

A fine predicament, indeed.

T
he wedding took place three days later, for that was how long it took Bourlamaque’s tailor, who claimed he had not the skill to make women’s garments, to finish stitching Amalie’s wedding gown. Bourlamaque had spared no expense, the entire fort working together to prepare for the event, war-weary men eager for a ritual that celebrated life, not death.

Amalie wanted to be as happy as any bride should be, but her heart was full of misgiving, for the match she had made was far from the love match her parents had found together. Not only was her groom being brought unwilling to the altar, he was a spy for the British. Not that Morgan had given away any French secrets; he hadn’t yet had the chance. But he had clearly deceived Bourlamaque in hopes of one day passing on all that he had learned to his commander. And that meant he hoped to escape.

Amalie feared she would not have a husband for long.

She could have denounced him to Bourlamaque, telling him what she’d witnessed, but she knew that if she did, Bourlamaque would clap Morgan in irons and order his death. God save her, but she loved Morgan too much, even despite what he’d done, to see him come to such an end. Racked with guilt, her loyalties torn, she’d shed an ocean of tears, hiding them from the others, wishing she’d kept to her room that night, wishing she hadn’t seen.

She wanted to talk with Morgan, to demand an explanation, to hear what he would say. But Bourlamaque had kept them apart, setting Morgan to hard labor during the day and sleeping with the door to his room wide open at night.

And so she found herself on Bourlamaque’s arm, wearing a beautiful gown of ivory silk, being led into a chapel full of officers toward Morgan, who stood at the altar in full dress uniform, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Seeming every inch the proud husband-to-be, he took her hand from Bourlamaque and gave her a reassuring smile, his blue eyes filled with tenderness, his hand steady and warm. But as he promised to love, honor, and cherish her all the days of his life, his deep voice filling the tiny chapel, she heard other words.

Long afore I pledged my loyalty to Bourlamaque, I made another oath—to my brothers and my men.

And she prayed for a miracle.

Chapter 20

“C
ongratulations on the occasion of your marriage and your acceptance into our army, Capitaine MacKinnon!” The young adjutant—Morgan couldn’t recall his name—spoke in heavily accented English and raised his brandy glass.

Morgan acknowledged the kind words with a bow of his head, raising his own glass. “Thank you, sir.”

So it had gone all evening, a sea of men in uniform pressing in to congratulate him on his good fortune and to offer their most gracious blessings, some sincere, some peppered with poorly veiled resentment.

“Why should he, a foreigner, wed Major Chauvenet’s daughter when it was his Rangers who killed the major?” he’d heard more than one soldier ask in whispered French. “Lieutenant Rillieux asked for her hand and was rebuffed straightaway!”

Rillieux had been notably absent from both the wedding and the dinner feast that had followed. This surprised Morgan not at all. Rillieux was a prideful man, not the sort to accept defeat with grace. He would not find it easy to watch the lass he’d lusted after marry a man he hated. Nay, Morgan was not fooled by Rillieux’s smiles and friendly manner. The
mac-dìolain
hated him still, and no mistake. He was not the sort to forgive and forget.

“Félicitations!”
said a sergeant, who apparently could not speak English, a broad smile on his freckled face.

“You are a fortunate man, Capitaine MacKinnon!” A young man, a
sous-lieutenant
from the look of his uniform, stepped forward. “For you have plucked our fairest flower!”

The adjutant leaned nearer, a conspiratorial look on his face. “Here at Fort Carillon, she was the only flower that had not been plucked,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Morgan chuckled along with them, trying not to grit his teeth, this blether about plucking flowers making him surly, given that the flower in question was Amalie. “Aye, I am a lucky man, and well I ken it.”

God in heaven, she’d been a beautiful bride! The sight of her in her wedding gown had made his chest ache, stealing his breath, robbing him of his wit. Like an angel she’d come to him. The officers in the chapel had watched her walk up the aisle, wistful looks on their uggsome faces. Even the camp followers had turned out, standing off in the distance to catch a glimpse of something none of them would ever be—a virgin bride.

Morgan had seen the trepidation on Amalie’s face as she’d approached him and had known her fear to be more than a maid’s wedding jitters, the secret she kept wearing heavily upon her. Mindful not to shame her before the men, he’d done his best in that hour to be the man she deserved, showing her every courtesy a gentleman should show his lady on the day of their wedding, knowing he would soon hurt her unforgivably.

She had retired to his room—
their
room—almost an hour past, the young kitchen maid with her. He’d felt a wave of pity for her as she’d walked away, a look of worry on her bonnie face when there ought to have been only joy. A woman in a world of rough soldiers, she had no female kin to tend her and prepare her for her wedding night, as any new bride should.

Go to her.

The call came to him, drowning out men’s conversation, their raucous laughter, the lilt of fiddle music. Headier than brandy, it tugged at his chest, his gut, his groin, a promise of pleasures, of Amalie’s soft sighs and caresses, of her feminine sweetness.

Go to her.

But Morgan stood rooted to the spot, as he had since she’d left his side, for theirs would not be a true wedding night. He would not lie with her, could not lie with her. No matter that her sweet body was now his by right. He would not rob her of her maidenhood and risk getting her with child when he would be leaving her ere the sun’s rising. Better to leave her maidenhead intact so that she could seek an annulment once he was gone, freeing herself to marry the man who was worthy of her love.

Aye, ’twas the only honorable thing Morgan could do.

And yet he did not trust himself to do it. He did not trust himself to be near her, not when weeks of wanting her, days of kissing her, and nights of pleasuring her had left him starving for her, the hunger inside him so raw that he felt he could devour her in one succulent bite. And so he stood, fixed to the floor of Bourlamaque’s front room amidst lingering revelers.

’Tis quite the irony is it no’, laddie? You’re husband to a bonnie sweet lass who is everything a man could ever want in a wife, a lass who even now awaits you in your bed—and you cannae have her.

Aye, it was an irony at that.

Somewhere, Satan himself was laughing.

Go to her.

“So the groom sips brandy long after his bride has gone to bed.” Rillieux stepped forward through the throng, impeccably dressed, every button on his uniform polished to a shine, a grin on his face. “If she were my wife, I’d long since have joined her.”

There were shouts of agreement, laughter.

Morgan met Rillieux’s gaze, smiled. “A man should ne’er rush a woman when it comes to passion.”

Rillieux’s grin broadened. “Or perhaps you fear you cannot rise to the occasion.”

Laughter turned to guffaws as the humor became more ribald.

Morgan chuckled. “You Frenchmen fight wi’ wee sabers, aye? We Highland Scots carry broadswords. They ne’er fail us.”

More guffaws and a shout or two of protest.

Some of the amusement faded from Rillieux’s face, his eyes betraying the hatred he’d been trying to mask. “We French are renowned the world over as lovers, while you
Scots
”—he spat the word—“are known for your dourness.”

There was no laughter now, only silence.

“Is that so?” Morgan tossed back the last of his brandy, set the crystal snifter aside. “Then remember this—in a fort full of Frenchmen, the lass chose a Scot.”

Then Morgan turned and strode toward his room—and his waiting bride.

W
hen would he come to her?

Amalie sat on the edge of Morgan’s big bed, waiting, the sound of violins and men’s laughter loud through the walls. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Thérèse away so quickly. Perhaps she ought to have asked her to stay awhile.

It was harder to wait alone.

Thérèse had prepared Amalie’s bath, scenting the water with rose petals and lavender sprigs. She’d brushed Amalie’s hair until it gleamed. Then she’d helped Amalie slip into her new nightgown, a shimmering garment of white silk so light that it felt like a whisper against her skin.

“He won’t be able to think of anything but you,” Thérèse had said. “Oh, how I envy you! To be brought to my wedding bed by a man as handsome and virile as Capitaine MacKinnon! Did you see how he scarcely took his eyes off you all day? He’s in love with you, mademoiselle.”

Amalie had managed a smile for Thérèse’s sake, but inside she’d wanted to weep. Though Morgan had doted on her throughout the day, showing her every kindness a husband could, she knew he’d only married her because Bourlamaque had commanded it. Oh, yes, he cared about her and even desired her. He’d shown her that in the way he spoke with her, in the way he protected her, in the way he’d kissed her and given her pleasure.

But he did not love her.

Worse, he was set upon betraying her king and country. And no matter how much she hoped this marriage would dissuade him from that path, she knew in her heart that he would soon leave her, risking his life to rejoin his brothers and the Rangers. Then he would take up arms against the very men who now drank his health.

I would much rather serve Bourlamaque than that bastard Wentworth, but I cannae forsake my brothers or the Rangers. As you loved your father, I love them!

More laughter.

Amalie stood and paced the floor, drawing a steadying breath, her heart beating too fast, her belly aflutter with butterflies, unanswered questions that had troubled her for three long days chasing one another in dizzy circles through her mind.

Why, if he loathed his British commander, would he steal secrets for him? How could he think to betray Bourlamaque when Bourlamaque had spared his life and treated him with honor? Why could he not persuade his brothers to shake off their British yoke and join him here under the banner of the fleur-de-lis? How could he possibly think to escape the fort without being caught or shot? And what if he returned to his Rangers only to be killed in battle? How would she be able to bear it?

Then again, why should she care? How could she still love him after all he’d done? He’d taken advantage of his reprieve from death—a reprieve she’d won for him—to spy against the very man who’d shown him mercy. He’d lied about not speaking French, letting her play the teacher while he feigned ignorance. And while he’d been busy deceiving them, his Rangers had slaughtered French soldiers by the score.

He was the enemy.

And yet he was no such thing.

There was goodness in him and honor as solid as stone. She had seen it when he’d protected her from Rillieux, when he’d knelt at prayer, when he’d buried the remains of his friend. His betrayal of Bourlamaque was an act of loyalty to his brothers, to the men who’d fought and died for him. Although it might make her grief easier to bear if she could find it in herself to be angry with him or even to hate him for what he’d done, how could she fault him for being loyal to his own flesh and blood?

She walked to the open window, threw wide the panes, and breathed in the warm night air, trying to calm the turmoil inside her. Of course, it was not just his betrayal or the awkward circumstances of their marriage that had set her emotions on edge. It was also the thought of what would happen in that big bed tonight.

Dear, kind Bourlamaque had called her aside and, red to the roots of his powdered wig, had assured her that she had nothing to fear about the marital act because Morgan would teach her all she needed to know. “Which he seems already well on his way to having done,” he’d added, with a slight frown.

Then it had been Amalie’s turn to blush.

Thérèse had been a bit more helpful, if less reassuring. “Maman told me it only hurts the first time.”

As if knowing that would make Amalie any less fearful.

Behind her, men’s voices grew suddenly louder, and light spilled into the room. Then, just as suddenly, it grew dark again, and the voices faced. And she knew.