Untamed (30 page)

He had come to her.

She kept her gaze on the stars, barely able to breathe, knowing that turning to face him meant also facing the answers to all her unasked questions.

“Amalie, lass?” His voice was deep as night.

She heard the rustle of fingers on buttons and knew he was removing his coat and waistcoat. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud. Then came the rasp of breeches sliding down long legs to the floor. And footsteps.

She felt the heat of his body behind her before he touched her, his hands cupping her shoulders, sliding down the length of her arms. Then he pressed his lips to the side of her throat and kissed her. Her eyes drifted shut.

“Your heart is beatin’ like a wild bird’s.” His lips brushed over her skin as he spoke, his breath warm and scented with brandy. “What is it that’s frightenin’ you?”

She swallowed, tried to speak. “Tomorrow.”

He drew her backward against his bare chest. “Dinnae trouble yourself about tomorrow. We must first face this night.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He kissed her hair.
“C’est vous qui devriez être en colère contre moi, non?” It is you who should be angry with me, isn’t that so?

She stiffened, his fluent French final proof of his betrayal. But that’s why he’d spoken in her tongue, she knew. He was laying his sins at her feet.

“Oui.”
Then she turned to face him, found that he was still wearing his drawers, his features half in candlelight and half in shadow. “Why, Morgan? Please tell me why? I thought you were happy here! I thought you were proud to serve amongst fellow Catholics, to fight for a Catholic king!”

“I belong wi’ my brothers.” There was sadness in his eyes—and regret. “But tell me—why have you no’ revealed me to Bourlamaque?”

“I would not see you hanged or handed over to my cousins to be burnt.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the sound of revelry floating on the evening breeze.

“Can you not persuade your brothers to join you here?” She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she wanted to know, needed to understand.

He drew a breath, stroked a finger down her cheek. “Iain, the eldest, is husband to a noblewoman whose family has long been loyal to the British. They have a wee son—Iain Cameron. Connor, my younger brother, doesna remember much of Scotland. He’s seen more cruelty at the hands of the French than the Sassenach. He would never forsake Iain or the men. Joseph and my Muhheconneok kin have been loyal to Britain from the earliest days and have enemies amongst France’s Indian allies as well. They willna join the French, and I cannae take sides with those who would make war on the people I love.”

Do you not love me?

The question was a silent cry, hopelessness yawning dark and deep in the pit of her stomach. “Then there is nothing I can say or do to convince you to stay?”

“Nay, lass.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and drew her into his strong arms. “This war divides us, Amalie. We didna start it, and, sadly, we cannae stop it. We didna ask for this, and yet we cannae change it by wishin’ it were otherwise.”

Tears blurred her vision at the truth in his words. “When will you go to them?”

“Soon.”

“I’m afraid you will be caught or shot—”

“Shhh, lass.” He held her tighter. “I cannae hold you in my arms and talk of war and sadness. Do you ken what I thought when you walked into the chapel this morn? I prayed, ‘God in heaven, help me to find my tongue when ’tis time to speak my vows, for You’ve sent me one of Your angels, and her beauty strikes me senseless.’ Ne’er has there been a more beautiful bride, Amalie.”

She looked up at him and tried to smile. “And you looked very manly and handsome in your officer’s uniform.”

He cupped her face, his eyes dark with emotion. “Hear me when I say that I never meant to hurt you. If there were any way for me to stay wi’ you, I would. You are all a man could hope for in a wife, all a man could desire. Let me give what joy I can tonight, and dinnae think upon tomorrow.”

Tears spilling onto her cheeks, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, her answer a kiss.

M
organ held Amalie against his chest as she drifted to sleep, stroking her hair, the musk and spice of her arousal mingling with the salt of his sweat. He forced himself to say what he needed to say, for he could not ask her to remain faithful and bound to him after he had abandoned her, no matter what he might desire. “When I am gone, you can ask Bourlamaque to help you seek an annulment. They cannae hold you to a marriage that wasna consummated. Then you can marry whom you choose.”

He did not see that his words brought fresh tears to her eyes.

F
or a time Morgan simply held her and watched her sleep, delighting in the moment, memorizing her scent, every curve of her soft body and feature of her sweet face. After tonight he might never see her again. He would return to the Rangers and the dangers of the battlefield, she to the quiet and safety of the abbey, each awaiting the end of the war. And when enough blood had been shed and the British had won—for Morgan was more certain than ever they would—what then?

There would be peace along the frontier. Morgan would be free at last to leave the killing behind and return to the MacKinnon farm to work the earth with his brothers. But to the victor alone went the spoils. Amalie and all the French in the Canadas would face British wrath. For the British had made it clear that they meant not just to win the war, but to seize the land for their feckless German king. Would they allow the French in Québec and Montreal to remain, or would they force them off the land as they had had the poor Acadians?

An image sprang unbidden to his mind of Amalie, alone and fatherless, far from Bourlamaque, being torn from the safety of the abbey’s walls by leering British soldiers, Catholic haters, men who would find it amusing to rape women sworn to chastity.

And in that moment Morgan made a vow.

If he survived to war’s end, he would be there to protect her.

You’re in love wi’ her, laddie.

The thought hit him like a fist in the gut, and he knew it was true.

Had not some part of him loved her since he’d been in chains and had awoken to find her beside him? What a fine twist of fate that he, who had made love with many women without loving any of them, should lose himself to a wee French virgin, the daughter of the enemy, a woman he could not have. God’s blood, he loved her, for leaving her felt like cutting off a part of himself. And yet he could not stay.

What harm would it cause to stay one more night? One more week? A fortnight?

But Morgan knew better. If he stayed tonight, and the next, and the next, there would dawn a day when he’d lose his will to leave her altogether.

Marshaling himself, he slid from the bed, dressed in dark breeches, a linen shirt, and moccasins, and gathered his gear, thinking through his plan. He would make his way through the shadows to the postern gate—they’d led him through it when he’d dug the latrine—and he’d subdue the two sentries on duty there, doing his best not to have to kill anyone. Then he’d cross the pier to the same riverbank where he’d been shot. From there, he’d be free, provided no one spotted him from the walls and sounded the alarm. Once he reached the enfolding shadows of the forest, they would not be able to track him.

He loaded his rifle and pistol, pulled on his tumpline pack, and slipped his sword through the strap—a Ranger again at last. Then he walked silently to the bed and looked down at her, pain and regret swelling in his chest until he feared he would not be able to breathe.

He’d given her all the love he could give tonight without taking her maidenhead, undressing her, carrying her to his bed, kissing away her tears, caressing her, bringing her to her peak with his hands again and again, until she lay, weak and utterly spent, in his arms. Then he’d held her through the watches of the night, wishing dawn would never come.

“
Tha móran ghràdh agam ort, dh’Amalaidh,”
he whispered.
My love lies upon you, Amalie.

He lifted the rosary from around his neck and placed the wooden beads in her palm. Then he took the tartan sash from his French uniform and draped it across the pillow beside her, branding her with Clan MacKinnon’s colors. Would she know what that meant?

He bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then strode quietly to the window. Outside, the sentry was in his usual place, asleep. The skies were clear, the moon riding high, the open night beckoning. But not as much as the lass who lay sleeping in the bed behind him. He turned away from the window, needing one last glance, his gaze raking her in. She looked so peaceful, lost in the forgetfulness of slumber.

The blow came from behind, pain exploding against his skull, shattering his thoughts.

A burst of bright white.

And then only darkness.

Chapter 21

A
malie opened her eyes, unable to say what had awoken her. “Morgan?”

She felt something in her hand.

His rosary
.

And beside her on her pillow lay his plaid sash.

He is gone.

She clutched the two precious objects to her breast, her breath leaving her in a rush, tears stinging her eyes. She’d known he’d be leaving soon, but so soon?

And then it made sense—the intensity of his kisses, the way he’d spared no effort to pleasure her again and again, his refusal to remove his drawers or to let her touch him or to share himself with her fully. He’d been telling her farewell, knowing that he was leaving tonight.

Pain swelled in her chest, something inside her seeming to break.

And then she heard something—a groan?

It came from outside the window.

Her pulse tripping, she sat up only to remember that she was still naked. Slipping the rosary around her neck, she rose and hastily donned her nightgown, feeling the entire time that she was being watched. “M-Morgan?”

But there was no answer.

She walked toward the window, instinctively picking up his sash as she passed the bed, crumpling it in her hand, the weight of it in her fist making her feel somehow safer. Slowly she tiptoed across the room. “Morgan?”

Still no answer.

Chills chased down her spine.

She reached the window, looked outside—and felt her blood turn to ice.

In the shadows stood Tomas and Simon, holding an unconscious Morgan between them, tying a cloth over his mouth. On the ground behind them lay the sentry—not asleep, but dead, his mouth slack, his neck at a strange angle.

She drew a breath and might have screamed had she not just then felt something cold and sharp press against her throat.

“Don’t make a sound!” Rillieux moved into view from where he’d been lurking beside the window. He grasped her about the waist, dragged her through over the sill, and clamped a cruel hand over her mouth. Then his gaze raked over her, lust and hatred blatant on his face. “Sorry to disrupt your wedding night, my sweet little
putain,
but from the sound of it, I’d say you’ve already had enough marital bliss. Besides, it seems the groom was in a hurry to leave your bed.”

Had he been listening at the window? The thought turned Amalie’s stomach. But she had bigger worries.

Rillieux yanked the sash from her hand and tied it painfully over her mouth, trapping her curses in her throat, silencing her. Then he turned to Tomas and Simon. “You’ll have to take her north with you. We can’t leave a witness.”

Take her north? To Oganak?

Tomas and Simon looked at each other, and Tomas nodded to Rillieux.

Mon Dieu, non!

Cold horror uncoiled in her belly, snaking its way up her throat like bile. They were taking Morgan to Oganak, where they would torture him and burn him alive—and they were forcing her to come with them.

She met Tomas’s gaze, pleading without words for his help, only to watch him look guiltily away. And then Rillieux twisted her right arm painfully behind her back and forced her to walk before him.

Wake up, Morgan! Wake up!

But he did not wake—and she need look no farther than the tomahawk hanging from Tomas’s belt to see why.

God, please don’t let him die!

Through the shadows they crept toward the postern gate, following Tomas and Simon, who struggled to carry Morgan’s body between them, his gear on Tomas’s back. Amalie shivered despite the summer heat, her bare feet stumbling painfully over sharp stones, her legs not long enough to match Rillieux’s stride, forcing him to half drag and half carry her. And though Amalie prayed that someone would see them and raise the alarm, no one came.

How could Rillieux think to get away with this? Bourlamaque would send troops after them to bring them home. Rillieux would be hanged for kidnapping, Tomas and Simon beside him.

But how will he know you’ve been kidnapped?

The answer came swiftly, leaving Amalie sick and dizzy. Bourlamaque would not know they’d been kidnapped. The open window, Morgan’s gear gone, the sentry slain—he’d think Morgan had fled and had taken her with him. If he did send troops, they would head south, not north, hoping to capture Morgan on his way to Fort Edward.

Abruptly, Rillieux jerked her to a stop, then called out. “Marquet! Renaud!”

The two sentries standing near the postern gate stepped out of the shadows.

“I see it worked,” said one.

They were a part of this plot, too?

Though Bourlamaque has accepted me, not every man here has. To them, I am still the enemy. I wouldna see such a terrible fate befall you, lass.

Morgan’s words came back to her.

One of the sentries stepped into their path, his gaze on Amalie. “You didn’t say anything about taking her! Are you mad? She’s Bourlamaque’s ward! He’ll kill you for this! You’d best take her back.”

Oh, thank God! Thank God!

But Rillieux only laughed. “She’s no longer Bourlamaque’s ward. She’s MacKinnon’s whore. If I leave her here, she’ll tell Bourlamaque everything, and the two of you will find yourselves in the guardhouse beside me. Now let us pass before someone sees us.”