Untamed (32 page)

“I’m no’ quite so dead as it seemed.”

And then Amalie was there beside them, her bruised cheeks wet with tears, her gaze fixed on Connor, a look of stunned surprise on her face. “It was you! I saw you!”

“What do you mean you saw him?” But no one was listening to Morgan.

Connor took Amalie’s hand, raised it to his lips. “Aye, lass, ’twas me. I’m sorry for your sufferin’ today. But if the Abenaki lad hadna stopped the bastard, I would have. He’d no’ have had his way wi’ you.”

“Merci.”
Amalie smiled at him through her tears, and Morgan wondered how much she’d been forced to endure. “But how did you know—?”

“That you were under the protection of the Clan MacKinnon?” Connor turned Amalie’s hand over, withdrew something from his shirt, and pressed the rumpled cloth of Morgan’s tartan sash into her palm. “You called my brother’s name as well, aye? And you reached for me. But even were you a stranger to us, I’d no’ have let any man harm you. But this puts me in mind of somethin’, brother. I’ve a wee giftie for you.”

Then Connor gestured to McHugh, who turned and beckoned Brandon forward. In Brandon’s hand was a rope, and at the end of the rope was…

“Rillieux, you son of evil!”

Chapter 22

“S
o Wentworth thinks me a traitor and deserter?” Morgan could scarce believe it, the irony of it making him laugh. “Och, for the love of Christ!”

“Aye, and Amherst, too. Wentworth sent us up here to see whether it was true.” Connor popped a piece of roasted rabbit into his mouth and chewed. “Does he truly believe I’d tell him if it were? I’d just kill you wi’ my own hands.”

There were snorts and peals of laughter, the men pressing in around the small cook fire where Morgan, Connor, and Joseph sat with the officers, finishing their supper of roasted rabbit and ash cakes.

Sweet Mary, how Morgan had missed them!

Then Connor frowned, his face lined with regret. “If I’d have kent what was in those letters, I’d have burnt them ere we reached the fort. Instead, I handed them straight to Wentworth.”

“Dinnae think on it.” Morgan met his brother’s gaze. “You couldna have kent or even suspected what the letters held.”

“I thought you were dead.” Connor’s eyes filled with shadows. “God’s blood, those were dark days.”

Around him, the men nodded.

Morgan knew they were thinking of the brutal raid they’d made to avenge his death. Knowing not what to say, he said nothing.

Then Connor jabbed a finger in Morgan’s face. “But dinnae you be insultin’ us by askin’ us whether we believe you. No’ a one of us misdoubts you.”

There were shouts of agreement.

“We’re wi’ you, Morgan!”

“Wentworth wouldna ken the truth if it bit him on the arse!”

Then Dougie elbowed his way to the fireside. “You risked your own fool neck to save mine, Morgan. If no’ for you, I’d be dead or rottin’ on a prison barge. I owe you my life, and I’ll ne’er forget it. When I heard you might be alive, I…”

The big man’s voice quavered, and his words died away.

Morgan felt an answering tightness in his chest. “ ’Tis glad I am to see you wi’ two strong legs, Dougie.”

“Sing it for him, Dougie!”

“Aye, sing it!”

“Sing him ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’!”

Morgan looked at Connor, then up at Dougie again. “ ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’? You wrote a song about me?”

Dougie looked chagrined. “Aye.”

“A passin’ fair tune it is.” Connor grinned. “He sang it and played his fiddle at your wake.”

Then Dougie started to sing, his words telling of the night strike on the pier at Ticonderoga and how Morgan had braved a hail of lead balls to carry a wounded friend to safety before dying a hero’s death.

“ ’Tis far tae Ticonderoga,’tis far through forest and fen, but ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon, bidin’ untae the end.”

His voice cracking with emotion, Dougie sang the last notes, then cleared his throat. “It sounds better wi’ my fiddle.”

Morgan found it hard to speak. “I am honored more than I can say. Thank you, Dougie. But I recall it a bit differently. I told you that you stank, and you called me daft and told me I ran like a lass.”

Dougie kicked at the dirt, regret on his face. “I didna mean it.”

Morgan grinned. “I did.”

The men howled with laughter, and Dougie turned red.

“I’d best be writin’ a new endin’, aye?” he said with a wide grin.

Morgan looked at the faces around him—smiling faces, both young and old, faces baked brown by the sun and scarred from battle. Some of them had been with him since the beginning through four weary years of war. Others had filled the empty places left by men who truly
had
laid down their lives in battle—men like Charlie Gordon, Lachlan Fraser, Jonny Harden, Robert Wallace, and dear Cam. Both living and dead, they were family. They were clan, bound not by the blood in their veins, but by the blood they’d lost and spilled together.

If Morgan asked them, these men would follow him into hell.

They’d traveled hard leagues today, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the site of this morning’s skirmish as they could, lest someone be drawn by the sounds of gunfire and overtake them there. Morgan had left the Abenaki to care for their dead, taking only Simon and Atoan with him—as guests rather than prisoners. The two now sat with some of Joseph’s men, eating dried venison and sharing stories, ancient hostilities set aside in the strangeness of the moment.

The only prisoner, Rillieux, stood gagged and tied to a nearby tree, his face sporting dark bruises where Morgan’s fist had pounded him. Morgan hadn’t wanted to distress Amalie further by killing the
mac-dìolain
in front of her, so he’d ordered Rillieux bound and brought along at the rear, where she would not have to see him.

The day’s events had been hardest on her, he knew. They had not yet spoken of it—so many things lay unspoken between them—but the horror of her ordeal was written on her face. Still, she’d shown great courage. Her attempts to protect him while he’d lain bound to the travois had been witnessed by the Rangers as they’d stalked the Abenaki and had earned her the respect of every man amongst them.

That respect had grown when, despite her weariness, she’d done her best to keep up with them on the perilous southward march, until Morgan had taken her upon his back. Once they’d made camp, she’d barely stayed awake long enough to eat her supper, then had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the bed of pine boughs he’d made for her. She lay there still, covered by a thin woolen blanket in the shelter of a lean-to.

Morgan heard his men laugh and looked back to find them watching him with knowing grins on their faces. They’d caught him watching her again. He shrugged. “I cannae help it.”

“That much is obvious.” Joseph cut another strip of meat off the rabbit, the vermilion paint on his face dried and beginning to flake, his dark eyes gleaming with humor. “But if you can keep yourself from her for a bit longer, I would hear the story, all of it—how you survived, how you came to wear a French uniform, and how you were taken prisoner with only a delicate French flower to protect you.”

There were shouts of agreement.

“Aye, out wi’ it!”

“Let’s hear it!”

And so Morgan went back to the beginning, to the night he’d been shot. He told them how he’d known he would be interrogated and given to the Abenaki and so had refused to drink, hoping to let the fever take him, only to have his will overthrown by laudanum. He told them how Bourlamaque had written the letter proclaiming him dead in order to prevent the Rangers from attempting a rescue. He told them how he’d come to himself after a fortnight of fever to find Amalie beside him, terrified of him and blaming the Rangers for the death of her father. He told them how she’d slowly forgiven him, nursing him back to health with rare compassion, pleading his cause to Bourlamaque and winning him a reprieve.

“God bless the lass!” Connor said, looking her way.

Then Morgan told them how Bourlamaque had offered him sanctuary in exchange for answers to his questions and how he’d played a deadly game of wits these past weeks, feigning ignorance of French, trading away the locations of old campsites and caches in order to buy time to plan his escape, skulking about under cover of night to read Bourlamaque’s correspondence.

“But the truth is, I came to admire Bourlamaque and to hate myself.” And as he spoke, it struck Morgan that he’d lost a friend. “Bourlamaque treated me with honor and dignity, and all the while I kent I would betray him. He is everything Wentworth will ne’er be—honorable, compassionate, a good Catholic.”

He told them about poor Charlie Gordon’s skull and how Bourlamaque had not only allowed him to bury the remains in the French cemetery, but had even joined in the prayers. “Truth be told, a part of me came to wish I served Bourlamaque, so good a man is he. But there are none so good and brave as you, and my place is here beside you.”

There were nods, a chorus of shouts, and many a raised flask.

“For certain!”

“Aye, and that’s a fact!”

Then the only sound was the crackling of the fire, the gentle gloaming giving way to the dark of night.

It was Connor who broke the silence. “But what of Amalie? For unless I’m mistakin’, there’s another MacKinnon about to take a wife.”

“Amalie
is
my wife. We were wed by a priest yesterday morn.”

Looks of stunned surprise were replaced by wide grins, shouted benisons, and hearty slaps on the back.

And for the first time since realizing his men were stalking the Abenaki, Morgan felt an emptiness in his chest. “I thank you, but ’tis not as it seems. Amalie is Bourlamaque’s ward. He forced us to the altar, hoping to ensure my loyalty and give Amalie a husband who could care for her.”

Connor gaped at him, clearly starting to grasp the fullness of their situation. “Bourlamaque’s
ward
?”

Then Morgan told them the rest of the story—not the
whole
story, of course, for he’d be damned before he’d dishonor Amalie with careless talk before his men.

“I didna consummate the marriage, for I wanted her to be free to seek an annulment. I was just leavin’ her side when Rillieux attacked. Bourlamaque will likely think I’ve taken Amalie and tried to escape to Fort Edward wi’ her. He could well send troops to find her and bring the two of us back. I fear what might befall her should she return. I dinnae want to see her take the blame for my treachery.”

Around him the men lapsed into silence, contemplating what might lie ahead of them, their grizzled faces golden in the firelight. Then Joseph gave a snort and began to chuckle.

Morgan, who could find nothing to laugh about in the moment, glared at his Muhheconneok brother. “What’s so bloody funny?”

Joseph grinned at him, teeth flashing white in the dark. “And I thought Iain made a mess of things when
he
fell in love.”

At this, the men burst into raucus, thigh-slapping laughter.

More than a wee bit fashed, Morgan stood. “I’m done wi’ the lot of you! Connor, Joseph, we’ll hold a warriors’ council in an hour’s time.”

Connor stood. “Where are you goin’?”

Morgan met his gaze. “To feed Rillieux to my
claidheamh mòr
.”

I
n the end, it was quickly done.

Morgan untied Rillieux and forced him at the point of his sword to walk deep into the forest, Connor and Joseph stubbornly following him. “I dinnae need your help.”

“I saw what he did to her, what he tried to do,” Connor said, shoving Rillieux before him. “She’s my sister by marriage. ’Tis my right to watch him die.”

They reached a clearing far out of earshot of the camp.

Morgan pressed the tip of his blade to Rillieux’s throat, forcing the bastard to meet his gaze. “Lieutenant Rillieux, you are hereby sentenced to die for kidnappin’, beatin’, and tryin’ to rape my wife. On your knees, and may God have mercy upon your black and rotten soul!”

“You cannot mean to kill me in cold blood, even a barbarian like yourself!” Rillieux backed away.

“ ’Tis no’ murder to execute a treacherous enemy in wartime. Did you think I would free you, givin’ you a chance to harm her again? Nay, I’m no’ so foolish as that. Besides, Bourlamaque would order you hanged if he kent what you’ve done.” Morgan laughed. “Be grateful this
barbarian
is more merciful than you are. You sent me away to be burnt alive, aye?”

“It’s not too late to let him taste fire.” Joseph circled Rillieux, grabbed him by his collar, and hissed into his ear, his unsheathed hunting knife pressing against Rillieux’s groin. “Any man who hurts women does not deserve the life his mother suffered to bring him. Be grateful my Scottish brothers are here, for if it were only the two of us, you would learn how my people deal with men who rape.”

“One cannot rape a whore!” Rillieux jerked away from Joseph, took a step backward and then another, clearly hoping to run.

Connor came up behind him, grabbed him by his coat, and shoved him forward. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out ere you die!”

Rillieux stumbled, fell to his hands and knees.

Broadsword already raised, Morgan swung, beheading Rillieux with one clean stroke.

For a moment he stood there, rage still seething inside him at the thought of what Rillieux had done. Then he drew a deep breath, letting his anger bleed away.

“Perhaps one day, someone will come along an play wi’ your skull.”

A
malie slept through the night, a deep and dreamless sleep. She did not see Morgan emerge grim-faced from the forest and clean his sword. She did not hear him and his officers discussing the dangerous road that lay ahead of them. She was not aware of the Rangers who watched over her through the night, feeding wood to the fire to ward off the chill and the mosquitoes, tiptoeing on big feet, and cursing at one another to be quiet.

Only when Morgan at last lay down beside her did she stir, snuggling against his chest, instinctively seeking his familiar scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the shelter of his embrace.