Untamed (44 page)

She felt her temper pique. “What else would he be doing, monsieur?”

“Did you tell your guardian what you’d seen?”

She shook her head. “I turned to run and might have told him, but Monsieur MacKinnon stopped me. He put his hand over my mouth and forced me into his room, where we argued. We must have woken Monsieur de Bourlamaque, for he…discovered us together. He demanded that Monsieur MacKinnon marry me.”

“Help me to understand, Miss Chauvenet. Your guardian found you
arguing
with Major MacKinnon and forced you to marry him?”

The men that made up Morgan’s jury chuckled.

Amalie felt heat rush into her cheeks, knowing that everyone in the room saw past her words. But it
had
started as an argument. “While we argued, Major MacKinnon…He kissed me, monsieur.”

’Twas not the full truth, but she could not bring herself to say more.

“So Bourlamaque discovered Major MacKinnon kissing you, and still you did not tell Bourlamaque what you’d witnessed. Instead, you married a man who you believed had betrayed you, your guardian, and your king.”

Amalie looked down at her hands. “Yes.”

“Please explain to the court how you could have done such a thing?”

She lifted her gaze to Morgan’s, wanting him to hear the words again. “I love him. I could not bear to see him suffer.”

“So you were willing to lie to your guardian in order to protect him.”

Amalie started to object, but the man cut across her, his voice raised.

“It was
you,
Miss Chauvenet, who first suggested Major MacKinnon commit treason by joining the French,
you
who led him astray! In a moment of weakness, he allowed himself to be lured by
you
. And now that he is facing the consequences of that decision, you are willing to lie to protect him!”

“Non!”
She heard herself object, found herself on her feet.

A terrible heaviness bore down upon her, the blood rushing from her head. The room seemed to spin, a swirl of gray, the floor rushing up at her.

“That’s enough, Hamilton!”

She heard Morgan shout, felt strong arms catch her.

“I’ve got you,
a leannan
.”

And then there was nothing.

M
organ sat in the hot, stuffy room, awaiting the verdict, his gut churning with helpless rage. ’Twas Hamilton’s fault that Amalie had swooned. The whoreson had all but accused her of putting Morgan’s neck in the noose! Her face had gone pale as death, her eyes round with fear, and Morgan knew that if he hanged, she would blame herself.

If she’d been conscious, he’d have told her that none of this was her doing, but Amherst hadn’t given her time to revive. No sooner had Morgan caught her, breaking her fall, than he’d been dragged back to his chair.

“Rise from your chair again, and I shall have you flogged!” Amherst had shouted.

Thank Mary and all the blessed saints that Iain and Annie had been there. Annie had knelt beside Amalie, Iain behind her. “There’s no fever, but we must get her to Dr. Blake.”

Ignoring Amherst’s objections, Iain had lifted Amalie into his arms and, brooking no challenge, had carried her toward the door, meeting Morgan’s gaze as he passed and speaking to him for the first time since Morgan had left the farm.
“Is duilich leam gun deach mo mhealladh cho furast’, is nach do chùm mi i sàbhailte bhuapa, ach cha leig mi leotha a toirt air falbh a-rithist, air mionnan!”

I’m sorry I let myself be so easily tricked and failed to keep her safe from them, but I willna let them take her again, I swear it!

And Morgan had realized he might never see Amalie again. The words spilled out of him.
“Inns do dh’Amalie nach ise as coireach. Inns’ dhi gu bheil gaol agam oirre. Inns’ dhi gun do chuir mi seachad mo làithean a bu thoilichte comhla rithe,
’
s nach eil aithreachas orm mu ghin dhiubh.”

Tell Amalie this is no’ her doin’. Tell her my love lies upon her. Tell her that the happiest days of my life have been spent wi’ her, and I regret no’ a one of them.

No sooner had Iain stepped through the door than Amherst, shouting again, had called the court to order and declared the trial ended. The officers who made up the jury had retired to decide Morgan’s fate. But there was no doubt in his mind what they would decide. Now there was naught he could do but wait to hear the words spoken.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Major MacKinnon, this court finds you guilty of the reprehensible crimes of desertion and treason. Tomorrow at dawn, you shall be taken from the gaol to the parade grounds, where you shall be hanged by the neck until dead. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

Chapter 30

A
malie awoke feeling strangely confused, Iain and Annie looking down at her.
“Où suis-je? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”

She didn’t realize she’d spoken French until Annie answered in French.

“Vous êtes à l’hôpital. Vous vous êtes évanouie.” You’re in the hospital. You fainted.

Still confused, Amalie looked around and saw that she was in a hospital very much like the one at Fort Carillon.

Annie pressed a cool cloth to Amalie’s forehead, her voice soothing. “Lord William said you’ve no’ eaten or slept for two days. Dr. Blake, the surgeon, thinks you’re overwrought and famished and need to rest.”

And then Amalie remembered, her heart hitting her breastbone with a single, sickening thud. She sat upright. “Morgan! The trial…Is it?”

“Aye, ’tis over.” Annie set the cloth back in a bowl of water, her face lined with worry. “They found him guilty.”

“Non!”
The breath left Amalie’s lungs in a cry. “But he is innocent!”

“Aye, but that doesna matter to them, lass.” Iain’s voice was edged with rage, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “He’s to be hanged at dawn.”

The words left her feeling dizzy, sick, fear coiling through her belly. She met Iain’s gaze. “This is my fault! I tried to spare his life, but—”

Iain pressed a finger to her lips and leaned down, his gaze searching the room as if to make certain no one was watching. “I swear to you, lass, that Connor and I willna allow them to kill Morgan while we yet live, nor will we suffer them to take you from us against your will. But you must be ready for whate’er comes, aye?”

Amalie nodded, fighting her tears, knowing she could bear anything if it spared Morgan the hangman’s noose. “I love him.”

Iain took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Aye, I ken you do—as he loves you. He gave me a message for you. When I was carryin’ you out the door, he called out to me in Gaelic so they couldna understand him. He said, ‘Tell Amalie this is no’ her fault. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that the happiest days of my life have been spent wi’ her, and I regret no’ a one of them.’ ”

Fresh tears spilled down Amalie’s cheeks, a bittersweet ache swelling behind her breast. “If only I could see him! If only I could speak with him!”

Iain shook his head. “Wentworth says Morgan’s to have no visitors save himself, Amherst, or the chaplain.”

“He won’t even let him say farewell to his own brothers?” The thought of Morgan alone in his cell facing his own death sickened her. “How cruel! The man has no heart!”

Annie looked troubled. “I had hoped for better from him.”

And it struck Amalie that any attempt to free Morgan might well place Iain in mortal peril as well. She and Annie might both be widows ere the sun rose again. She swallowed her tears and met Iain’s gaze. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

Iain smiled. “That’s our Amalie.”

Annie set a small basket of fruit, bread, and cheese on her lap. “First, you must eat.”

“T
he Stockbridge departed this morning, and those Rangers whose terms of service were long ago completed are leaving as well, reducing our strength by more than one hundred and fifty men.” William delivered this news with a measure of satisfaction, pouring himself a rare second cognac. “The Rangers now number fewer than four score.”

From Ranger Island came the wail of pipes playing forbidden tunes—a farewell to Major MacKinnon from his men and a warning to Amherst and, William supposed, to himself. If Morgan MacKinnon died on the gallows, they’d have a revolt on their hands.

Amherst looked up from his charts toward the darkened window, his long face betraying his rage and disgust. “How can they walk away on the eve of our campaign? Are their loyalties given only to the MacKinnon brothers and not to Britain?”

William swirled the amber liquid, raised the snifter to his nose, and inhaled the heady aroma, answering at his leisure. “I did warn you. Many believe Major MacKinnon’s trial was a biased affair with the verdict determined before it started. They believe his hanging will be nothing less than murder.”

Amherst glared at William, clearly dismayed to have the truth spoken so plainly. “Fire a few six-pounders over their heads. That ought to quiet them.”

“Or incite them to open rebellion.” William glanced at the clock.

Ten minutes to the changing of the guard.

Amherst stood, pointed an accusing finger in a display of gauche behavior that William found almost amusing. “This is
your
doing for keeping a company of Jacobite spawn in your service!”

“Until Morgan MacKinnon was sentenced to hang, our relationship with the Rangers was rather cordial.” That was an exaggeration, of course. The MacKinnon brothers held William in contempt, but they had fought well for him. “Under my command, their woodcraft and marksmanship have served His Majesty well, helping to turn the tide of this war. In my opinion, such skill excuses a bit of insubordination. I measure loyalty by action on the field, not by obsequious behavior.”

“Since you get on with them so well, go and quiet them! At the very least, stop those infernal pipes! I’ve a long march tomorrow and must sleep tonight!”

“As you wish.” This is what William had hoped he’d say. For, although he was certain Governor DeLancey would respond, he was not at all certain the reply would arrive in time to spare Major MacKinnon’s life. If DeLancey were traveling or indisposed, it might be weeks or even months before an answer came.

Clearly, it was necessary to take other measures.

William set his glass aside and strode out of his study, calling to Lieutenant Cooke. “Fetch me Major MacKinnon’s effects, Lieutenant. I’m going to Ranger Island. I shall return them as a token of His Majesty’s goodwill.”

“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant’s eyes went wide, but he hurried to do William’s bidding, returning quickly with the major’s tumpline pack and broadsword. “Shall I accompany you or arrange for armed escort, my lord?”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.” William took the pack and sword and walked out his front door, leaving his lieutenant to stare after him.

His pulse unusually rapid, he walked across the parade grounds, passed through the first gate, and crossed the drawbridge to the outer gate, where guards snapped to attention when they saw him, the screech of pipes seeming to echo through the fort. Beyond the gate stood thousands upon thousands of canvas tents stretching in long rows, almost eleven thousand soldiers encamped and ready for tomorrow’s march north to Lake George. William would wager that not a man amongst them was asleep amidst this din.

He turned to his left and was soon crossing the bateau bridge that joined Ranger Island to the rest of the fort. Two Rangers stood guard on the western end of the bridge, their contempt for him written clearly on their faces. They spoke to each other in Gaelic, clearly recognizing the major’s sword. From behind them, the wail of the pipes died down—only to begin anew.

The taller of the two—a lieutenant William recognized as the man whose life Major MacKinnon had saved, the one called Dougie—stepped forward. “Do you see, Brandon? The feckless German lairdie has come to gloat afore Mack and Connor. Shall we let him ashore, or shall we run him through wi’ Morgan’s
claidheamh mòr
and let the river ha’ him?”

William met Dougie’s gaze without wavering, certain the man wanted to kill him and just as certain that he would not. “If you value Major MacKinnon’s life, you will take me to his brothers at once.”

With many a muttered Gaelic curse, Dougie led William through the camp, which fell silent at his approach, its inhabitants watching as William passed, some following him, others racing ahead with word of his presence, the silence broken by strange birdcalls as the Rangers slowly surrounded him like a pack of wolves. By the time William reached the major’s cabin, both MacKinnon brothers were waiting for him, Lady Anne watching from the doorway, holding her sleeping baby in her arms.

Iain MacKinnon stepped forward, jerked the pack and the sword from William’s hands, and gave them to his brother. “You’ve got bigger cods than I thought, comin’ here tonight alone.”

“Or perhaps you’re just a bloody fool!” Captain MacKinnon thrust the tip of the sword into the ground.

William met the elder MacKinnon’s rage-filled gaze, drums beating out the change of guard in the distance. With any luck, there’d soon be no one at the gate who knew that he’d left the fort alone. “I’ve taken quite the risk in coming here—”

“Like the risk Morgan took when he saved Dougie’s life?” Captain MacKinnon glared at him, his tone of voice implying that the risk William had taken was no risk at all.

William ignored him. “There is little time, so let us dispense with the pleasantries.”

Captain MacKinnon opened his mouth to speak again, but his older brother held up a hand to silence him. “Come inside.”

“Lady Anne.” William bowed his head respectfully as he passed. Even in the candlelight he could see she’d been crying, the grief in her eyes stirring something like guilt in his chest—a curious and unpleasant sensation.

The door closed behind him.

“What in God’s good name are you doin’ here?” Iain MacKinnon stood before him, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ve come to halt whatever ill-conceived plot you’re concocting to rescue Major MacKinnon.” William held up his hand to still their protests. “In the pack, you’ll find your brother’s effects, as well as two British uniforms. I suggest you each put one on.”