Untamed (33 page)

“Sleep, my angel.”

I
t was Morgan’s lips on her cheek that woke her.

She opened her eyes to find it still dark, Morgan sitting beside her, leaning over her, his hand stroking her hair. Men bustled to and fro in the firelight, moving quietly about their chores, the entire camp alive with activity.

“Sorry to disturb your sleep, lass, but we must break camp afore dawn.”

She tried to sit up, wincing at the unexpected pain of sore muscles.

Morgan’s brow bent in a worried frown. “Where do you hurt?”

“Everywhere, I think.” Her legs, her arms, her belly, the soles of her feet, her cheek where Rillieux had struck her.

Morgan reached over, picked up a small tin pail by its handle, and set it down before her. “It isna much, but the hot water should make you feel a bit better. I’ll see that you get a cup of willow-bark tea.”

Then he stood and strode away.

Amalie looked inside the bucket and found a clean cloth of homespun floating in clear, hot water. She picked up the cloth, squeezed it, and began to bathe as best she could, only too aware that she was the only woman in an encampment of men. But the hot water felt heavenly against her face, and soon she found herself wrapping the blanket Morgan had given her last night around her shoulders and using it as a sort of shield so that she could wash more of her body without exposing herself.

Not that the men were watching her. They seemed not to know she was there, going about their duties without glancing her way. Most were big men like Morgan, tall and broad of shoulder, some with gray hair, some with red hair and freckles. Many wore leather breeches as Morgan had done. Others wore Indian leggings. All of them had moccasins upon their feet and weapons at their belts.

Morgan strode amongst them, greeting them, encouraging them, exuding the confidence of an officer, a warrior, a man born to lead other men. Their gazes followed him just as hers did, and she realized that they loved him, too, and had sorrowed long for him.

Now it would be her turn to sorrow. Today, he would return her to Fort Carillon, then he would leave her, disappearing into this forest to make the long journey to Fort Edward with his men. She would never see him again. Unless…

Rather than seeking an annulment, could she not wait till the end of the war for him? He could come for her and claim her as her husband as soon as peace was restored. They could build a home in some growing frontier town where no one would care that she was part Abenaki or that he had once been a fearsome Ranger.

But what if he does not wish to stay married, Amalie? What if he wants the annulment?

And then one fear forced those worries aside.

What if he doesn’t survive the war?

The thought chased all other thoughts from her mind, and for a moment she felt she could not breathe. Soldiers died every day in this war, and now Morgan would be in the thick of it once more. But God could not be so cruel as to take both him and her father away from her. No, Morgan would survive. He
must
.

Finished with her ablutions, she set the cloth back inside the bucket, and then began to run her fingers through her desperately snarled hair, trying to untangle it.

“Pardon me, miss.” The short man who’d helped protect her during the battle stood beside the lean-to, a tin cup in his hand. “Killy’s the name, miss. Morgan told me you might be needin’ a bit of willow-bark tea to soothe your aches.”

“Thank you, Killy.” She took the cup from his hands, found it hot to the touch. “I remember who you are.”

“Of course you do!” He grinned, his scarred face transformed from fearsome to endearing, his blue eyes twinkling. “ ’Tis my Irish charm. As the only man amongst us with any manners, let me be the first to welcome you to our company and to thank you for savin’ our Morgan. If there’s augh’ you need, come to Killy.”

Killy’s visit seemed to be some kind of signal, for one by one the men stopped to greet her, many of them bearing small tokens.

A man who said his name was McHugh brought a wooden bowl of steaming cornmeal porridge with bits of salt pork in it. “Thank you for all you did for Morgan. God be wi’ you.”

Dougie brought fresh blueberries he claimed to have picked himself. “Morgan was shot savin’ my life, and you saved his. If there’s augh’ I can do for you, tell me, and I’ll see it done.”

A young Ranger named Brandon gave her a penknife. “A pleasant morn to you, miss. My thanks to you for aidin’ Morgan.”

“I’m Forbes, miss. This salve is good for wounds. Good day to you, miss.”

“I’m called Robert Burns, miss.” Robert Burns flushed to the roots of his red hair. “Och, they said you were bonnie, and you are. Here’s a bit of sugar for your tea.”

Amalie ate her porridge and blueberries, and on it went. Powdered ginger root. Beaded thongs for her hair. An apple. Some pemmican. A leather pouch of parched cornmeal.

These were MacKinnon’s Rangers?

For so long, she had feared and hated them, as did all French subjects in the Canadas, the name alone enough to fill her heart with dread. But now she saw them as they were—skilled warriors, strong men, and strangely softhearted, their simple gifts and words of thanks touching her more deeply than they could know.

And then Amalie found two men looking down at her—Connor, who was so like Morgan in appearance that there could be no mistaking him, and a tall Indian man with long black hair in which was tied a single eagle father. They knelt down beside her.

“I see the men have been payin’ their respects,” Connor said, smiling at the small pile of possessions that sat before her. “As well they should. Thank you for savin’ my brother’s life and showin’ him mercy. Should you e’er need them, my life and my sword are yours.”

“Kwai, nichemis,”
the Indian man said in Abenaki.
Greetings, little sister.
“I am Joseph Aupauteunk, war chief of the Stockbridge Mahican people and blood brother to the MacKinnons.”

The Mahican had long been enemies of her grandmother’s people, and yet such was the warmth in Joseph’s brown eyes that Amalie felt no fear of him.

Bare-chested, his skin stained by vermilion, he smiled and held forth a comb carved of polished antler. “I thought you might need this.”

Amalie could have kissed him. “
Merci!
Oh, thank you!”

“Only a Mahican would bring a comb to war.” Connor rolled his eyes, then leaned in as if about to tell Amalie a great secret, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It helps them keep their feathers pretty.”

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Amalie laughed.

From the distance she heard Morgan’s voice. “Scouting party, fall out!”

She took the comb, began to work it through her tangles. “How long before we reach Fort Carillon?”

Connor and Joseph shared a glance, something passing unspoken between them.

Then Connor spoke. “You’d best ask Morgan.”

Chapter 23

“F
ort Edward?” Amalie gaped at Morgan as if he’d struck her, looking small and vulnerable, the woolen blanket clutched tightly around her shoulders, her cheek bearing the marks of Rillieux’s cruelty. “But—!”

“Nay, lass, no’ to the fort.” He didn’t want her within a league of Wentworth. “I’m takin’ you to the MacKinnon farm—my home.”

Around them, the Rangers were falling out, heading southward on the heels of the scouting party, Joseph’s men already deployed on their flank. In the east, dawn was about to break anew. It was time for them to move on.

“But how will I get back to Fort Carillon? How will Bourlamaque know what has become of me? Surely he is beside himself. I must let him know what has happened!”

She doesna want to stay wi’ you, laddie.

The realization left barrenness in its wake. He had hoped…

“Simon and Atoan will take whatever message you wish to send.”

The two Abenaki men stood at a distance waiting to depart, each bearing gifts from Morgan and from Joseph’s men, tokens of this truce between them. They had agreed to inform Bourlamaque of all that had transpired, seeking his pardon and good graces for themselves and bearing Morgan’s own missive, a letter that Morgan had written to confess his perfidy.

“I am but tryin’ to keep you safe.” He cupped her cheek, needing to make her understand. “I wouldna have you bear the brunt of my transgressions.”

What Rillieux had done—plotting with soldiers to kidnap her—proved that even Bourlamaque could not keep her safe should the sentiment at the fort turn against her. Besides, Morgan did not trust anyone but himself, his Rangers, or Joseph’s men to deliver her safely through the long reaches of the forest. But the greater truth was that he wanted her beside him. Perhaps with time…

Do you think she’ll wake up one morn and decide she doesna mind bein’ wed to a man who fights for the British, a man who betrayed her trust? Aye, and pigs will soon fly, laddie.

Amalie’s gaze sought Simon and Atoan out of the shadows, her eyes glittering with tears. “And what of Lieutenant Rillieux? Are you sending him—”

“Rillieux is dead.”

She gasped, stared up at him wide-eyed, and seemed to sway on her feet, her face pale. “You…k-killed him?”

“Aye, I did, and I dinnae regret it. I couldna risk keepin’ him alive—no’ so deep in French territory and no’ after what he tried to do to you. He was a danger to you, to me, and to my men.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling onto her bruised cheeks. When she opened her eyes again, some of the color had returned to her face. “Am I to have no say in where I go?”

And something inside Morgan snapped. “ ’Tis my right to make such decisions for you, Amalie. You’re my
wife
.”

“Your wife?” Her voice quavered. “Are you not the man who, on our wedding night, refused to give himself to me and told me to seek an annulment?”

Then, wiping the tears from her face, she walked away.

Morgan watched her as she made her way to her cousin’s side, feeling as if he’d said something wrong.

Killy passed him, shaking his head, tumpline pack on his back. “You’ve no manner of tact at all, MacKinnon.”

A
malie plodded along at Morgan’s side, doing her best not to be a burden, feeling hot and sweaty and terribly close to tears. The woolen blanket—the only means she had of covering her nightgown and preserving her modesty—held in the heat and made her itch. Her sore leg muscles, not accustomed to such exertions, ached from strain. But it was her heart that ached the most.

’Tis my right to make such decisions for you, Amalie. You’re my wife.

How could he treat her in so overbearing a manner? Yes, it was the right of a husband to decide such things, but when she’d vowed to love, honor, and obey him, she’d thought they would be living at Fort Carillon—if they were able to be together at all. She’d never imagined that he would take her beyond French borders without so much as asking for her thoughts.

Still, she would not resist or argue with him about it, for her father had taught her that a commander must have the respect of his troops. She would not undermine or shame Morgan before his men by acting like a shrew. They were not at the fort, but deep in the wild. Many lives depended upon him, including her own. Besides, he believed he was doing his best to protect her. And perhaps he was.

As she now knew, the danger was only too real.

She’d thought it could never happen, but it had. Soldiers under Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s command—her own countrymen—had allowed her to be taken from the fort against her will simply because they hated Morgan. And they’d done it with the help of her cousins, her very flesh and blood.

What would have happened had Morgan done what she’d wanted him to do and taken her back to Fort Carillon? Bourlamaque would have welcomed her with the affection and concern of a father, locking the sentries who’d let Rillieux kidnap her in chains. But she would have faced her own reckoning with Bourlamaque, for she’d have had to confess that she’d known about Morgan’s spying. Bourlamaque would have been enraged—and terribly saddened—to find she’d betrayed him. She’d have found herself back at the abbey in a matter of weeks, never to see Morgan again.

She didn’t want that—any of it. But she wished she could have thanked Bourlamaque and bidden him farewell.

Her throat grew tight, tears blurring her vision. She blinked them back, unwilling to let anyone see that she was crying.

Now Tomas and Lieutenant Rillieux were dead. And with every footstep, the world she’d known and everything in it—the gowns her father had given her, his pipe, her rosary, her beloved books—fell farther behind her, naught ahead but a long and uncertain journey.

Where was he taking her?

The MacKinnon farm, he’d said, a note of pride in his voice.

My home.

Had she ever had a home?

No, she hadn’t, not since her mother had died.

But would Morgan’s family welcome her, a woman with Indian blood? Or would she be the outsider now?

M
organ saw the tears on Amalie’s cheeks and felt an answering tug in his chest. He feared he was the cause of them. Nay, he was certain of it.

He’d been an arse this morn, wanting to be with her and more than a little hurt that she didn’t seem to want the same thing. Rather than explaining his reasons for not sending her back to Fort Carillon, he’d pressed the issue of his husbandly rights, even though their union was not complete.

Are you not the man who, on our wedding night, refused to give yourself to me and told me to seek an annulment?

Aye, he was, and he regretted it.

But how could he have known what was about to happen? Events had not shaped themselves as he’d imagined—the better for him, the worse for her. He was now free, while she’d been forced from her home and dragged into the wild. Driven by the need to get her and his men out of French territory, he hadn’t had time to talk with her about her ordeal, much less comfort her, as a true husband should.

He would have to remedy that, wouldn’t he?