Untamed (31 page)

Amalie struggled against Rillieux’s hold on her, tried to cry out, but her words were nothing more than strangled whimpers, his fingers digging like claws into her arms.

Please help me! Please!

The sentry did not move. “Look at her. Poor little thing. She’s terrified.”

“She’s afraid for the whoreson she married, not for herself. These two men are her cousins. I’m merely sending her north to live with them. She’ll come to no harm at their hands. Now get out of my way, Renaud—and that’s an order!”

Hesitantly, the sentry stepped aside. “I don’t like this.”

Rillieux thrust Amalie before him, Tomas and Simon following with Morgan.

And then they were outside the gates, hurrying across the pier to the riverbank, nothing between them and the dark wall of the forest but sand.

Mary, Mother of God, help us!

T
hey hadn’t gone deep into the forest when Amalie heard voices, and a dozen or so men stepped out of the shadows, their chests and faces painted with ash.

Abenaki.

Her mother’s people.

Sick with dread and shivering with fear, she watched as they greeted Tomas and Simon, who dropped Morgan to the forest floor and stood about staring down at him, as if he were a great antlered buck they’d brought down. Then, with smiles on their faces, they began to recount their deeds at the fort—at least that’s what Amalie thought they were talking about, her Abenaki so limited that she understood only a word here and there.

“Come,” Rillieux whispered in her ear. “I should like to speak with you before you leave on your long journey.”

He dragged her off into a stand of trees beyond earshot of the others. But once he got her there, it was clear he wanted to do far more than speak with her.

In a heartbeat, she found herself drawn back against him and held fast, one of his hands sliding over her breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples, the other thrusting up beneath her nightgown to grope between her thighs.

“Still wet.” Then he shoved her to the ground. “Whore!”

She fell to her hands and knees, tried to scramble to her feet, but he landed on top of her, crushing her to the ground, that part of him hard and pressing against her hip.

“You ought to have chosen me, Amalie.” His breath was sour, his whiskers burning her cheek. “Now I’ll take what I want anyway.”

One moment he was upon her, the next his weight was lifted, and she knew he was fumbling with his breeches.

Terror clawing at her belly, Amalie rolled onto her back and kicked blindly at him again and again, driving her feet into his shoulders and chest and stomach, making him grunt and curse. He would not have her without a fight!

She tore off the sash that had silenced her and managed to scream. “Morgan!”

But though she fought Rillieux, she could not overcome him.

“You little bitch!” He drew back his fist and struck her across the face, once, twice, a third time, the pain of it stunning her, darkness threatening to swallow her.

She felt him force her thighs apart, but could not summon the strength to stop him.

And then something strange happened.

In the bushes, she thought she saw Morgan. His gaze was fixed on Rillieux, hatred in his eyes, his face covered with sweat and war paint. Between his teeth, he held a hunting knife. She tried to reach for him. “Morgan?”

But she must have imagined him, for in the next instant, she heard Rillieux grunt, and it was Simon who loomed over her, not Morgan.

“Come, cousin.” Simon lifted her to her feet, helping her to walk away from Rillieux, who lay on his back, moaning and clutching his head, his breeches down about his knees.

Barely able to stand, her head throbbing, her mind numb with shock, she let Simon lead her back to the clearing, where the other men stood gathered around something, chuckling and whispering.

Then one of the men moved aside, and she saw.

Still unconscious, Morgan lay with his arms and legs spread, tied by wrist and ankle to a travois. And through her pain and shock, Amalie understood.

If she did not manage somehow to unbind him and help him to escape, he would burn to death in the fires of her grandmother’s village.

M
organ’s first thought was that he’d once again drunk too bloody much rum. His head throbbed. His throat was parched as sand. And when he opened his eyes, the world seemed to spin, the forest canopy swirling above him and, beyond that, a darkened sky.

Then he heard men’s voices.

“We can stop beyond the next marsh, and let the girl rest.”

“My cousin needs to grow stronger if she is to live amongst us.”

They were speaking Abenaki. And although Morgan didn’t recognize the first voice, he did recognize the second. It belonged to Tomas, Amalie’s cousin.

“If she is your cousin, why do you lead her on a rope like a slave?”

“She is my mother’s sister’s daughter, but she is also
that
one’s wife. If I release her, she will try to aid him.”

A man laughed. “She might try, but she would not succeed. There are thirty-two of us. She is but one small woman.”

Slowly, the meaning of the words began to penetrate the ache in Morgan’s skull, a vague sense of alarm threading its way from his belly to his brain.

Amalie?

He opened his eyes and found himself a prisoner, tied to a travois, leather bonds digging into his wrists and ankles, his mouth gagged with a foul-tasting cloth. What he’d thought was spinning was but the passing of the trees overhead as the travois bounced and jerked across the forest floor, dragged by two warriors. Around him walked more than a score of Abenaki warriors, including Simon and Tomas.

And behind Tomas walked Amalie.

He led her like a dog, a leather cord tied around her throat. She wore only her bridal nightgown, the white silk now stained by grass and dirt, but still revealing more than it concealed. Although he could not see her face, he could feel her fear and despair, and he knew from her stumbling that she was exhausted.

Rage, red and scalding, burnt up from his gut and chased the fog from his mind, bringing him fully awake, life surging into his lungs and limbs.

Then she stumbled and fell with a cry.

Tomas turned on her, glaring at her. “Get up!”

Then a tall warrior with long hair strode angrily over to her. But rather than striking Amalie, he shoved Tomas away and jerked the leather cord from his hand. “I told you she needed to stop and rest. What would your mother say to see you treat her sister’s daughter so?”

With that, the tall warrior drew out his knife and cut the cord from around her neck. “Tanial, bring me that spare pair of moccasins from your pack. You can have my share of MacKinnon’s spoils.”

That share happened to be the flask of poisoned rum.

As Morgan watched, infuriated by his own helplessness, the tall warrior slipped moccasins onto Amalie’s bare feet and gave her water from his own water skin, muttering reassurances to her in French, tenderness on his face. Part of Morgan wanted to knock the bastard on his ass, but the other part of him was grateful.

If anything should happen to him, she would need a strong man to watch over her, someone who could both protect her and care for her.

“Merci, monsieur,”
she said, her voice sounding so small and frightened.

Then a warrior near Morgan shouted to the others. “He’s awake!”

They crowded around him, painted faces staring curiously down at him.

You think you’ve got me, aye, laddies
?
But ’tis a long road yet to Oganak.

“L
et me give him food and water!” Amalie stood toe to toe with Tomas, her body shaking with anger, water from the river they’d just crossed gathered in a spare water skin.

Do not show your fear, Amalie. Remember what Atoan told you.

Atoan, the tallest of the Abenaki, had seemingly taken her under his protection, freeing her from the cord Tomas had bound round her neck, giving her moccasins, water, and food, stopping their progress so that she could rest, whispering guidance to her, even bearing her on his back at the river crossing.

“Abenaki women are strong, little one,” he’d told her. “Act like you are not afraid, and it will go easier for you.”

Now she tried to do just that. “Monsieur MacKinnon spared your life, Tomas, or have you forgotten how he freely gave you his blood when he could have taken yours?”

Tomas’s eyes narrowed, his face flushing red with mortification, and for a moment she thought he would strike her.

“What is this?” Tanial asked. “What does she mean, Tomakwa? Tell us.”

Not waiting for Tomas’s permission, she jerked her arm from his grip and pushed past him, leaving him to answer thorny questions. She walked to the travois, relieved to see that Morgan was both awake and alert, the rage in his eyes when he saw her bruised face proof that the blow to his head had not dulled his mind.

She eased the gag from his mouth. “Drink.”

He drank deeply, swallow after swallow, his gaze never leaving hers.

“I will cut you free,” she whispered. “When the time is right, I will cut you free.”

“Nay, lass!” he whispered furiously. “ ’Tis too chancie! They might turn against you. Now tell me—who struck you?”

“Eat!” She fed him little bites of pemmican, unshed tears pricking her eyes as she remembered this morning’s horror. “Rillieux tried to…tried to rape me. Simon stopped him.”

A muscle clenched in Morgan’s jaw, his gaze going hard. “Is he dead?”

“I do not think so.”

“He will be.” The cold malice in Morgan’s voice left no doubt what would happen should he encounter Rillieux again as a free man. “But listen—the tin flask holds poisoned rum. Any who drink from it will perish. Dinnae touch it, lass, and dinnae permit Atoan to drink it. He cares for you and will protect you well if I am killed and—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips, then poured water onto the cloth of the gag and made a show of wiping his face.
“Non!”
she whispered. “Do not speak of such things!”

“Hear me, Amalie! We are being followed. If augh’ should happen—”

“What are you doing?” Tomas called in French from behind her.

She finished wiping Morgan’s brow, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, just as Tomas dragged her away.

O
n they walked, through leagues of untouched forest, the air growing hot and sticky as they approached midday, mosquitoes whining for blood in the shadows, the air thick with the scents of damp earth, rot, and fear. And although Amalie watched for any telltale sign that they were being followed, she saw and heard nothing—no movement in the shadows, no snapping twigs, no sudden flight of birds from the treetops.

Perhaps the blow had struck Morgan more senseless than he appeared; perhaps he was seeing things, just as she had done this morning when Rillieux had struck her.

Onward she plodded, listening as Tomas, Tanial, and Atoan argued in whispered Abenaki, Simon slinking behind his brother and casting Amalie guilty looks.

Would he help her?

She made her way over to him. “I have not yet thanked you for what you did this morning. You saved me from—”

A terrible cry arose from the forest, a wild shrieking she’d heard only once before, a sound that sent chills down her spine and roused pure terror in her blood.

“Amalie, get down!” Morgan shouted from somewhere behind her.

She fell to the forest floor just as the world around her exploded with gunfire.

And then two men—one big and dark-haired, the other small and wearing a cap—charged out of the undergrowth straight for her.

She screamed, scrambled to her knees, her only thought that she must get to Morgan. But the two men cut her off, grabbing her, thrusting her between them, pulling her behind a tree, as if to shield her from the battle.

“Dougie, you big lummox!” the smaller of the two said, his badly scarred face twisting into a frown. “You’ve gone and frightened her!”

“Dinnae be afraid, lass.” The big one smiled. “I’m Dougie, and the uggsome fellow is Killy. We’re MacKinnon’s Rangers—Morgan’s men. We’re here to keep you safe.”

And in the midst of the gunfire and shouting, Amalie sent up a prayer of thanks to God, the Virgin, Jesus, and every blessed saint she could remember, tears of relief streaming down her face. Morgan was safe!

I
t was over in a few moments, gunfire giving way to the startled silence that always followed battle. A dozen or so Abenaki lay still on the ground, their blood already drawing flies. Morgan’s only regret was that Tomas was amongst them. He hoped the lad’s death wouldn’t be too hard for Amalie to bear.

The survivors—including Simon and Atoan—stood bunched together, surrounded by Joseph’s Muhheconneok warriors, while Amalie, under the careful watch of Dougie and Killy, was making her way slowly toward Morgan, the two men picking a path that protected her from the sight of dead and dying men.

Still strapped to the travois, Morgan saw Connor stride into the clearing, his face covered with war paint, rifle in hand, and thought his heart might explode from the joy of seeing his brother again. “ ’Tis about bloody time. I’d begun to think you were goin’ to walk wi’ us all the way to Oganak.”

“You seemed to be enjoyin’ yourself, whilin’ away the hours wi’ a bonnie sweet lass to dote upon you, feed you, and wipe your brow.” Connor drew his hunting knife from its sheath, cut Morgan’s bonds, and reached out his arm.

Morgan clasped his brother’s forearm, let Connor draw him to his feet. Then he threw his arms around his younger brother and embraced him with his full strength, Connor returning the embrace in equal measure, neither of them able to speak.

Around them, a cheer arose, men’s raw, throaty voices shouting in unison. “MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon!”

With one last bone-crunching backslap, he and Connor parted, and Morgan saw for the first time the strain on his brother’s face. He looked older, more careworn than Morgan remembered.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Connor said, his voice unsteady.