Untamed (34 page)

A
malie had no idea how long they’d been walking or how far they’d come, each stretch of dark forest looking so much like the last that they might have been walking in circles for all she knew. She understood now why scouting parties sometimes lost their way only miles from the fort—and why some never returned. How Morgan and his men managed to keep from getting lost she did not know.

They walked single file to disguise their numbers, stretching in a long column, each man several paces behind the man before him, moving swiftly and silently, their rifles loaded and at the ready. Every so often they would stop, speaking to one another in a soundless language of glances and hand gestures, almost as if they could read one another’s thoughts. Although Morgan had told her that Joseph and his men were protecting the high ground to their right, she hadn’t once spotted anyone.

Ahead of them, the ground grew steep, fallen trees littering the sunlit hillside as if some great force—perhaps a mighty wind—had felled them all at once. Some were bare, their bark stripped away by the weather. Others were buried in moss and grasses, making them harder to spot until one trod upon them.

She reached for Morgan’s hand to steady herself as she climbed over a wide log, but he lifted her instead, picking her up by her waist and setting her down lightly on the other side. But no matter how she tried to keep up, it became clear that she was holding the men back. Several paces in front of her, the entire column stopped, both before and after her, giving her time to catch up.

Breathing hard, her thighs burning, she glanced apologetically up at Morgan, certain he must feel vexed with her—only to have him wink, a smile on his face.

Reassured, she pressed on, determined not to complain.

They’d just reached the top of the hill, when a bird called out—and Morgan drew her hard against him, pressing her down to the ground beneath him, his hand over her mouth to silence her.

Her blood froze, her heart thudding hard against her ribs.

“Easy, lass,” he whispered softly in her ear.

They lay there, as if lifeless upon the forest floor, for what seemed an eternity. And then she heard it—men’s voices. They were speaking French.

She felt Morgan make some kind of gesture, but could see nothing, her body pinned beneath his. Were the Rangers about to attack?

Please God, no!

Frantically, she shook her head as much as Morgan’s hold upon her would allow, begging him in the only way she could not to ambush and slay her countrymen.

He pressed his lips against her cheek, soft butterfly kisses as if to calm her, and she knew he was telling her that his men would
not
attack—not this time.

Limp with relief, Amalie watched as a company of perhaps forty Canadian partisans strolled into view, a handful of uniformed French soldiers amongst them, unaware that death surrounded them, watching them from behind the trees. Amalie recognized one of the Frenchmen from the fort—she’d treated his wounds during the battle that had killed her father, and he’d called her pretty. He spoke with the soldier beside him, the lot of them joking about the ugliness of British camp followers.

And then she saw.

Guarding the French party’s right flank was a group of painted Huron, their gazes roaming over the forest where the Rangers hid.

Amalie’s heart gave another violent knock.

Had they seen something?

One of them spoke quietly to an officer and seemed to point straight at the line of hidden Rangers. The officer and his men fell silent, their heads jerking to the left, their gazes searching the trees, their rifles loaded and ready.

Not daring to breathe, her pulse roaring like thunder, Amalie watched as, with excruciating slowness, the French troops and Huron made their way toward the crest of the hill, over the top, and down the other side, disappearing out of sight.

And still the Rangers did not move, the seconds seeming like hours.

Then, as if by some signal she did not know, they slowly got to their feet, Morgan helping her to rise, giving her hand a squeeze, and drawing her after him.

She glanced back over her shoulder toward the crest of the hill where the French troops had disappeared. They would never know how close they’d come to dying.

“W
hy did you not attack them?” Amalie whispered a short time later.

Morgan knew what she was asking. “I didna want to risk your safety, and you’ve seen enough death, aye?”

She nodded.

“B
ut I don’t need to rest. I would not be a burden to you or have your men think me weak or lazy.”

Morgan studied Amalie’s flushed face and knew she was much more tired than she was letting on. The hilltop encounter with the French had terrified her, and since then she’d been driving herself hard, clearly eager to put as much of the journey behind her as possible. But, although he admired her spirit, he could not permit her to spend her strength when many leagues yet lay ahead of them.

“No man amongst us expects you to hold your own against grown men and trained Rangers, Amalie. You’re a lass, and though you’ve got courage aplenty, you’re no’ accustomed to war or beatin’ about the wild.”

She marched stubbornly onward. “I have held you back enough as it is.”

Morgan glanced over his shoulder to where Dougie walked behind him. “Dougie, you’re lookin’ a bit worn. Are you needin’ to stop and, um, rest a bit?”

Dougie looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “
Rest?
Are you daft?”

Morgan glared at him and gave a jerk of his head toward Amalie, who struggled on determinedly before him.

Dougie winked. “Och, aye, I am a bit weary.”

In no time, word had gotten up and down the line that Amalie needed to rest but was being too stubborn to admit it. And suddenly Morgan was besieged with whispered pleas to stop, his men whining of sore feet, headaches, and aching backs.

Then Connor appeared at his side, looking fashed.

“What in God’s name has come over the men? They’re complainin’ like old wom—” He caught himself before he finished the word, glanced at Amalie, then seemed to understand. “I think the men need to rest and bide a wee.”

By the time they reached the sheltered place Joseph and his men had scouted out for them, Amalie was more than willing to stop. Morgan settled her on a blanket in the lee of a large boulder and saw to it that she drank deeply from his water skin and ate a handful of parched corn. No sooner had he looked away than she’d fallen sound asleep. Clearly, their morning march had taken more out of her than he’d realized.

He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “Connor, fetch Joseph. I’m thinkin’ we need a new strategy.”

“M
organ?” Amalie was lost in a dark sea of trees, Morgan nowhere to be seen.

Where had he gone? Why had he left her here?

She knew she had to find him, knew she would be lost out here forever if she did not. But though she looked behind every trunk and boulder, she could not find him.

“Morgan?” Fear clawed at her stomach, constricting her chest. “Morgan!”

And then it started—a whispering from behind the trees, as if men were crouched there watching her. It grew louder, and yet she could not understand what was being said. She whirled about, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but all she could see amongst the trees were shifting shadows.

“Morgan!” she cried.

Then one of the shadows took the form of a man. He walked slowly toward her.

But it wasn’t Morgan.

She screamed.

“Amalie, wake up! Wake up, lass!”

“Rillieux!” She jolted upright, felt strong arms surround her.

It wasn’t Rillieux holding her, but Morgan.

He drew her against him, held her tight. “Easy,
mo luaidh
. ’Twas but a bad dream. It’s over now.”

Trembling, she clung to him, her fingers fisting in the linen of his shirt, the taste of horror strong in her mouth, the dream still dragging at her.

It had seemed so
real
.

He held her, kissed her, stroked her hair, murmuring to her. “You’re safe wi’ me.”

How long he held her, she couldn’t say, but slowly the dream began to melt away.

Morgan felt Amalie’s trembling subside, her fists still clenched in his shirt, her face buried against his chest. She’d awoken screaming that
neach dìolain
’s name, which meant she could only have been dreaming about one thing. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

He already knew what Connor had seen—Rillieux groping her breasts, feeling between her legs, throwing her to the ground, holding her down, striking her senseless. The description had made him almost inconsolable with rage.

She shivered. “I was lost in the forest, searching for you. I looked everywhere, but could not find you. I knew I would never find my way home without you.”

Morgan listened, stroking her hair, waiting for her to finish in her own time.

“And the trees…They seemed to whisper. But then there were shadows, as if someone were behind the trees, watching me. And then
he
stepped out, and he walked toward me.
Ô, mon Dieu!
”

“He’s dead, Amalie.” Morgan held her tighter, kissed her hair. “I killed him wi’ my sword. I watched life leave him. He cannae hurt you—no’ now, no’ ever again.”

She looked up at him, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes, something akin to shame on her face. “He…watched us. He listened outside the window. On our wedding night. He heard…me. He called me a
whore
.”

And Morgan wondered if he’d let Rillieux die too easy a death. That son of filth had tried to make Amalie feel shame because she’d enjoyed her husband’s touch. He’d tried to destroy the joys of love for her, first with vile words, then with violence.

Morgan kept the rage from his voice. “He was jealous, Amalie. He wanted to hurt you, to steal that pleasure from you, to twist it into something shameful and dark. But the shame and the darkness were in him, not in you.”

And then she told him everything, the story spilling from her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her grief when she awoke to find him gone, his rosary and sash beside her. Hearing the strange noise outside the window. The horror of seeing him unconscious, at feeling Rillieux’s blade against her throat. Her desperation as the sentries let Rillieux take the two of them beyond the gates. The hateful feel of Rillieux’s hands upon her. His crude words and her attempt to fight him off. The pain of his blows. The strange sight of Morgan lurking in the bushes, a blade between his teeth. Simon’s sudden appearance.

“I was so afraid!” She sniffed, wiped tears from her face. “I knew what they would do to you if I could not find some way to free you.”

He drew her close again, wishing he could take this fear from her, wishing he could steal the memories from her mind. “It’s over now, and, praise be to God, we’re both still alive and unharmed.”

But the afternoon was wearing on.

“It’s time for us to leave this place,
a leannan
. There is a good campsite not too far from here, but we must leave soon to reach it by nightfall.”

She drew a deep breath, nodded. “I am ready.”

Then she glanced around at the empty clearing, a look of confusion on her face. “Where are your men?”

“Connor needed to complete his mission and couldna dally. He and the Rangers are making their way back to Fort Edward wi’out us.”

Her gaze fell. “I held them back.”

He lifted her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “ ’Tis no’ your fault, and I willna hear you blame yourself. This journey is hard on strong men. For a wee woman who’s done nothin’ more vigorous than tend gardens and kneel at prayer, ’tis a trial, indeed. I felt it best that you be able to travel more slowly.”

There was more to it than that, of course. Connor and the men also hoped to lure any French force sent to retrieve Amalie into pursuing them instead of Morgan, as they did not want Amalie to be retaken or to witness any further killing.

“Then we are alone.” There was fear in her voice, her gaze skimming the trees.

He chuckled. “Nay, sweet. Joseph’s men are with us, watchin’ o’er us—a hundred strong Mahican lads.”

But Joseph had agreed they would watch over them from a discreet distance.

For Morgan had done much thinking while Amalie lay asleep, and by the time she’d awoken he’d made his decision. He’d kept himself from her long enough. They’d been married in the Church, and what God had joined he would not allow anyone to put asunder. He would not send her back to Bourlamaque.

It was time for him to woo—and claim—his wife.

Chapter 24

B
y the time they reached the campsite, the sun was low in the sky, and Amalie felt grubbier and hungrier than she could ever remember feeling, her belly grumbling loudly. Joseph was waiting for them, crouching near a cook fire and turning something over the flames, his back to them, the scent of roasting meat making Amalie’s mouth water. Without looking over his shoulder, he spoke to Morgan, and Morgan answered, both of them using words Amalie didn’t understand.