Untamed (38 page)

“Elle est très grande!”
Amalie whispered, staring in amazement at the bear, momentarily forgetting her English.

“Aye, she is a big one—and hail to have borne three strong cubs.”

The cubs—two black like their mother, the third a light brown—ran after her, bawling for her as they struggled to keep up. She stopped, looked back, scented the air with her snout, as if she knew she and her cubs were being watched. Then she turned into the trees and was gone, her cubs trundling behind her.

It was late afternoon before they encountered soldiers.

Morgan drew Amalie down beside him, pressing a finger to her lips to indicate silence. But when the soldiers came into view, they weren’t French. They were British. Confused as to why Morgan should hide from them as if they were the enemy, she glanced up at him, but he only shook his head, his gaze warning her not to ask questions now.

Slowly the column of British soldiers passed heading westward, their red uniforms glaring amongst the trees, their faces lined with trepidation.

It was only later that Morgan explained. “They’ve orders from Amherst to shoot deserters on sight. I didna wish to test their aim.”

“We wouldn’t want you to be executed before your trial, would we?” Joseph jested, a broad grin on his face.

Deserter? Trial? Execution?

It was only then that Amalie realized that Morgan’s actions at Fort Carillon might have made him a traitor at home.

Chapter 26

“I
ken ’tis sweltrie, but leave your gown on.” Morgan laid the bearskin over the pine boughs, their pallet complete. “Tonight we sleep in our clothes.”

Amalie nodded, and Morgan knew from the grave look on her face that she understood. They might be south of William Henry, but they were still too near to let down their guard. They’d seen signs of a half-dozen different war parties today, too many to think themselves alone in these woods. They needed to be ready to flee with little warning—and that meant remaining clothed. No fire. No warm meal.

“Come and eat.” His own stomach growling, Morgan sat on the bearskin, dug through his pack, and drew out the pemmican Joseph had given him along with the bit of honeycomb he’d wrapped in parchment. “This will help restore your strength.”

Still silent, she sat beside him, devouring each piece of pemmican as he handed it to her, then eating the honey, comb and all, then licking her fingers clean. Like the rest of them, she’d had nothing but parched cornmeal today, apart from the parfleche filled with blueberries that Joseph had picked and given to her.

Morgan felt a sense of pride in how well she’d done. Although he’d forced her to go at a faster pace than the previous seven days, she’d kept up without complaint, heeding his warnings to stay quiet, never giving in to her fatigue or fear. She might be a wee woman and sheltered, but there was strength in her. He had seen it, aye, and Joseph had seen it, too, casting Morgan more than one approving glance.

And yet the day hadn’t been easy for her. He could tell from the exhaustion on her face and the lingering shadows in her eyes. The wilderness was hard on women, offering no pardon for gentleness or innocence.

“You did well today,” he said, wanting to put her at ease.

“I hope I did not hinder you.” Her voice was strangely flat.

Then she lay down on the bearskin as if to sleep, her back turned toward him. He might have thought her exhausted had he not felt the tension in her. And then her breath caught, and he realized she was weeping.

“Amalie?” He stretched out behind her, his hand caressing the length of her hair before settling on the curve of her hip. “What is it, lass?”

For a moment she did not answer, sniffing back her tears. “How long have you known that Wentworth believes you a traitor?”

So that explained the distressed look in her eyes.

Curse Joseph’s loose tongue!

“Connor told me the night we encamped wi’ him and the men. You were asleep. I saw no cause to trouble you after that.”

“I’m your wife, not a child!” There was anger in her voice now. “If you knew it was unsafe to return, why did you insist on traveling all this way to Fort Edward? We might have returned to Fort Carillon at once—”

“Carillon? I couldna go back there, lass. Surely you ken that.”

“Bourlamaque would only have known that Rillieux had taken us against our will. He wouldn’t have learned about your spying if you hadn’t told him. We could have gone back together and—”

“It doesna matter whether he kent the truth or no’, Amalie.” Did she not understand? “I could ne’er have joined an army bent on killin’ my brothers or my men. Do you think either of us would have been welcome once the soldiers at Carillon got word that I’d killed Rillieux? Nay, lass. Besides, I couldna live a lie. I couldna accept Bourlamaque’s hospitality wi’out confessin’ to him all that I’d done, and then I’d be on my way to Oganak again.”

She rolled over and looked at him as if he were daft. “Bourlamaque would never have condemned you to burn. He cared too much for both of us to do such a thing.”

Morgan leaned down until they were only inches apart. “He told me he’d light the fires himself if I betrayed him.”

Her face went pale, her eyes wide. “H-he said that?”

“Aye, he did. He and Montcalm discussed killin’ me in their letters even after I’d been granted sanctuary. Nay, ’tis safe for neither of us there, and I willna take chances where you’re concerned. ’Tis best I stand like a man and defend my honor, aye? The matter will be easily resolved once I explain the truth of it. Until then, you’ll be safe wi’ Iain and Annie.”

And still she did not seem at ease, and he thought he knew why.

“I ken today wasna easy for you.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, resisting the urge to kiss her. “You’re tired, and you’re about to enter a new world—a new home, a new family, a new life. I’ve taken you from all that you ken. But I promise you, Amalie, you’ll ne’er be without a home again. Afore the sun sets tomorrow, you’ll have a hot bath and a warm meal. You’ll sleep in a real bed and have a strong roof over your head.”

Amalie saw the concern in Morgan’s eyes, but her worries tonight were less about the things she was about to gain, however unfamiliar they might be, and more about the things she might lose.

“I’m afraid for
you,
Morgan, not for myself. I’m afraid of what the British will do to you! I don’t want to see you in chains again or watch them flog you or…” She couldn’t say it. “I do not trust this man who commands you, this
Wentworth
. You did all you could to be loyal to him, and still he doubts you. He does not deserve your loyalty!”

“Nay, he doesna.” Morgan traced his thumb along her lower lip, and she knew from the way his eyes darkened that he wanted to kiss her. “But I am far more valuable to him alive than dead, lass. Once he’s heard the truth, all shall be as it was. And when I feel ’tis safe, I’ll bring you to live wi’ me on Ranger Island.”

Amalie drew a deep breath, taking reassurance from his words. “Are you certain he will believe you?”

“Why should he not? Och, you worry overmuch,
a leannan
! It seems I must gi’ you somethin’ else to think about.” Then Morgan slowly pushed her skirts up her thighs, baring her to her waist, his hands hot against her skin, his gaze never leaving hers.

Her heart seemed to skip. “Here? With Joseph and his men so nearby?”

“Aye.” He settled himself between her thighs. “Here. Now.”

He nudged down his breeches to free himself, caught the bends of her knees with his shoulders, and forced her legs back, pressing her thighs wide apart, opening her fully to him. Then, holding himself above her, his gazed fixed on hers, he entered her with one slow thrust, their moans mingling with the night sounds of the forest.

There were no kisses, no gentle touches, only the carnal union of man and woman, his hard, deep thrusts blossoming into gold against her womb, bringing them both to a swift and shattering end.

“T
ell me about Iain.”

They walked at an easy pace, Morgan holding Amalie’s hand, savoring the feel of her small fingers laced with his, the afternoon blessedly cool thanks to a sky full of rain clouds. Joseph and his men had bid them farewell an hour past and turned back to Fort Edward, leaving Morgan and Amalie just north of MacKinnon lands on a rutted wagon road that would lead them back to the farm.

Soon Morgan would be home.

He fancied he could smell it now—that warm, familiar scent of his family’s hearth, of the soil that sustained them, of barn and byre. It seemed such a lifetime since last he’d been this way, though it had only been since April.

“Iain is a born leader, a good fighter, and a good husband and father.” Morgan felt a tug in his chest at the thought of his older brother and wondered how Iain would react when he saw him alive. “He’s a little more than a year older than I and a mite taller, though we look much the same.”

“Did he truly take a hundred lashes for Annie’s sake?”

“Aye, he did, and she watched, though I think she’d have fallen to the ground in a heap of skirts had I not held her. ’Twas no’ easy for her to see him suffer so.”

“I cannot imagine it.”

Afraid he’d set her to worrying again, Morgan sought to distract her. “Were there no girls at the convent who were as sisters to you, friends who felt like kin?”

“No, though Sister Marie Louise—”

“The one who filled your head with tales of terror about husbands?”

Amalie smiled, pink stealing into her cheeks. “She was a friend to me. But the
mère supérieure
found me prideful, and most of the sisters with her. The other girls teased me because of my dark hair and skin, though Papa said it was only jealousy.”

“Aye, for certain it was.” Morgan felt a pang in his chest for the little girl who’d grown up without the love of her mother amongst women who might have cared for her immortal soul, but couldn’t find it in themselves to cherish
her
. “The abbey cannae have felt like home to you amidst such unkindness.”

“There has never been a place I could call my home.” She spoke the words simply and without pity.

And Morgan realized ’twas but the unadorned truth. Amalie could not remember living at her mother’s knee because her mother had died when she was so little, and since then, apart from the short time before her father’s death, she’d lived amongst strangers and behind high walls—the sheltering walls of the abbey or the ramparts of Fort Carillon.

He stopped, tucked a finger beneath her chin, tilted her gaze to his. “I promise you you’ll ne’re be alone again, Amalie, nor will you want for a home. My home is yours now. My family is your family.”

Tears glittered in her eyes, and she smiled.

A
malie kept up with Morgan, listening to him tell stories of his childhood, a nervous trill in her belly. They must be getting close now. She could tell by the way his stride grew longer, his steps faster, as if home were calling to him, drawing him in. She thought she understood some of the eagerness he must feel, for there’d been a time when he’d been certain he’d never see his home again.

“Iain and Joseph returned at dawn, alive but battered, and the entire village welcomed them as men. One minute I was puffed up wi’ pride that they had earned their warrior marks, then next all but daft wi’ envy that I was still but a lad in their eyes.” He chuckled at the memory. “I struck Iain ere the day was out.”

She stared up at him, unable to keep from smiling. “You did not!”

“Och, aye, I did. I gave him a black eye.”

“And what did he do?”

Morgan grinned. “He took the blow, then frowned down at me and told me that he wouldna strike back, for he was now a warrior and warriors did not hurt children. His words hurt far worse than his fist would have done.”

Then Morgan stopped her and pointed. “There it is.”

Just round the bend stood a large wooden farmhouse and two great barns. Long fields stood before it, heavy with crops, their rows straight and clean. An orchard of small, neat trees stood behind it. There were horses in the paddock, cows in the pasture, and chickens pecking at the dirt.

“It’s lovely!”

And it was. A more perfect farmstead she could not imagine.

Home.

The word slid easily into her mind—and stayed.

He ducked down and kissed her nose. “Come.”

His hand grasping hers, strong and sure, he drew her forward. Then he shouted, his voice deep and loud. “Hallo in the house!”

A moment later, a man stepped out of the barn, rifle in hand. He took one look at Morgan—then stopped still. There was no mistaking his resemblance to Morgan and Connor—or the look of utter shock on his face, the rifle clattering to the ground, forgotten. He crossed himself, took one step and then another, his gaze fixed on Morgan. “
Mary, Mother of God!
It
is
you! But how…?”

And then the brothers met in a bone-cracking embrace.

Amalie’s throat grew tight, tears spilling down her cheeks, her heart swelling for joy for Morgan, who had thought never to see his brother or his home again, and for Iain, who had believed Morgan lost.

Then Iain stepped back, fierce emotion still burning on his face. “Saints be praised! Welcome home, brother! Och, but you’ve much to explain!”

“Aye, but first, I’d like you to meet my wife, Amalie Chauvenet MacKinnon.” Morgan wrapped his arm reassuringly around her waist. “ ’Tis on account of her kindness and compassion that I’m alive.”

Iain gazed at Amalie in seeming amazement, then clasped her hands in his, ducked down, and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home, sister. If there’s augh’ I can do for you, you need but ask. I must hear more of this—”

Before he could finish, the farmhouse door opened, and the most beautiful woman Amalie had ever seen stepped outside, a dark-haired baby in her arms. With long tresses the color of sunshine, she gave a little cry, then swayed on her feet and sank to her knees in a swirl of blue skirts.

“I think you’d best see to Annie, brother.” Happiness shone on Morgan’s handsome face. “She appears all of a dither.”