Untamed (45 page)

“What?”
The elder MacKinnon gaped at him.

Captain MacKinnon opened the pack, staring in disbelief as two complete uniforms tumbled to the floor. “You’re daft! I’ll no’ wear that!”

“On the contrary, Captain. I rather think you will.”

M
organ leaned against the wall of his cage, looking through the iron bars of his window at the night sky. An almost full moon hung in the heavens, sending a shaft of silver light through the window to the straw at his feet. Would that he were
chi bai
. He would climb the moonbeams to freedom, then lift Amalie into the sky beside him and fly away to someplace where this accursed war and its hatreds could not touch them.

“Tha móran ghràdh agam ort, dh’Amalaidh.” My love lies upon you, Amalie.

He was not afraid to die, but he did not wish to leave her, could not bear to leave her. For although his brothers would care for her and any bairn she bore him after his death, no man would ever love her the way he did.

She’d endured so much already—the loss of her mother so young, her father’s death in battle, Rillieux’s assault. Now she was about to lose her husband. Alone and in Wentworth’s keeping, she would have only her prayers to comfort her through the long watches of the night. Aye, tonight would be hardest upon her.

And what if Amherst and Wentworth should force her to watch him die?

The thought made Morgan’s empty stomach churn.

If only he’d been able to see her, to speak with her one last time, but that
neach dìolain
Wentworth had not permitted it. He hadn’t even had the courage to face Morgan himself, instead sending the chaplain, a thin man who’d looked at Morgan through cold, dark eyes and told Morgan he was going to hell. Morgan had sent him away—but not before he’d wormed from him the news that Amalie had recovered and that Annie had been to see her.

“I’m told the silly girl fainted because she’d refused to eat until you were set free,” the chaplain had said, as if it were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

Morgan had been deeply touched by Amalie’s loyalty, and yet she could not help him by hurting herself. She would need her strength in the days to come, the more so if she were with child. “Be strong,
a leannan.
”

All was silent now, the last refrain from McHugh’s pipes having died away just before the changing of the guard. Had Amherst or Wentworth gone to Ranger Island and forced them to stop playing under threat of punishment? Perhaps they were too drunk to go on. Or perhaps Dougie was singing the newest verse of “The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon,” in which Morgan died not at the hands of the French, but at the end of a rope.

If Morgan looked far to the left, he could see the gallows, a ghostly outline in the dark, its shadow stretching toward him in the moonlight. There was no scaffold beneath, no trapdoor, only a single hogshead. Rather than permitting him to fall and die quickly of a broken neck, it was clear that they planned to kick the hogshead from beneath him, leaving him to strangle slowly, twisting and jerking in the noose—a terrifying sight for any soldier who might be thinking of deserting on the eve of battle.

Dancin’ in the winds is better than burnin’ alive, laddie.

Aye, it was. He would have to remember that tomorrow when the life was being slowly choked from his body.

Not that Morgan had consigned himself to death. He knew Iain, Connor, Joseph, and the men would do all they could to free him, knew he must be ready for anything. And yet what could two hundred men do with eleven thousand redcoats encamped before the gates? He could only hope that their loyalty wouldn’t drive them to attempt something foolhardy. He wanted no one to die on his account.

Morgan heard voices—the guards muttering to each other. He’d already dismissed it from his mind when something bumped against the door—hard. He turned in time to see the unlikely sight of two redcoats entering and dragging two unconscious redcoats with them.

His pulse thrumming, Morgan rushed to the bars, pressed his face against the cold iron, trying to get a better look, trying to figure out who amongst the British Regulars would want to help him.

Then one of the redcoats spoke.

“Och, these bloody breeches are cuttin’ into my cods!”

“For God’s sake, Connor, you whinge and yammer like a dog! I’ve seen your cods, and they’re no’ that big!”

Morgan stared in disbelief as Iain and Connor, dressed as British Regulars, dumped the unconscious guards on the floor and began to search the men’s pockets for the key. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

A
malie glanced around her, feeling afraid. “How did we get here?”

“Can you no’ recall,
a leannan
?” Morgan drew her against him so that her cheek pressed against his bare chest, warm water surrounding them both, the waterfall a shimmering curtain of silver behind him. “We walked, aye?”

And then she did remember. They’d walked together from Fort Carillon. Morgan had made love to her here. She’d been happy here with him. “I don’t want to leave this place.”

“We’ll bide here for as long as you’d like.”

A vague sense of foreboding lifted from her, whatever had troubled her seeming to melt in the warm water, contentment seeping through to her bones, his embrace a refuge. This is what she’d wanted—to be with him again. Then he kissed her, clever hands teasing out her secrets, his caress heating her blood until she could not wait to have him inside her. Sensing her need, he settled her astride him and filled her with a single, slow thrust that took her breath away.

“Morgan!”

A sharp knock came at the door. “Miss Chauvenet?”

“Morgan?” Amalie opened her eyes to find herself fully dressed and kneeling on the floor, her cheek pressed not against Morgan’s chest, but the bed, his rosary clasped in her hand. Confused, she glanced about, her dream fading—and with it all happiness.
“Morgan.”

She whispered his name, felt as if she were saying farewell, despair forming a hard lump in her throat.

“Miss Chauvenet! I say, are you awake? Are you dressed?” It was the young lieutenant—Lieutenant Cooke.

He’d come to escort her to Morgan’s execution.

The realization struck her with the force of a blow, her stomach turning, her heart thumping painfully behind her breast.

She slowly rose to unsteady feet, not noticing how sore she was from a long night of kneeling at prayer, her gaze fixed in horror on the door. She struggled to find the will to speak, to still her trembling, to stop her tears. “Y-yes, monsieur.”

The key turned.

The door opened.

Lieutenant Cooke stood there in a state of utter deshabille, no wig to cover his short brown hair, no coat or waistcoat over his shirt, no stock to adorn his throat. He met her gaze, a strange look in his eyes. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, but Brigadier General Wentworth wished me to warn you. Major General Amherst will send for you. He wishes to question you.”

As he spoke, there came raised voices from below stairs.

“B-but why? Wh-what did I—?”

The lieutenant’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Major MacKinnon—he has escaped! The morning watch found the two sentries from first watch shackled together in his cell, and the major was gone. Four sentries were found at the postern gate unconscious. We’ve already searched the fort and Ranger Island and have not found him…”

Though the lieutenant continued to speak, Amalie did not hear him, his words drowned out by the rush of her own pulse, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, the terrible fear she’d carried these past days giving way to a surge of relief.

Morgan had escaped! He had escaped!

She raised Morgan’s cross to her lips and kissed it.
“Merci, Marie, Reine du Ciel!” Thank you, Mary, Queen of Heaven
!

She heard Amherst shouting from below and felt no fear. So long as Morgan was alive and free, there was nothing that Amherst or Wentworth could do to hurt her.

Chapter 31

A
malie held on to the side of the bateau, its rocking motion leaving her queasy. The late-afternoon sun beat down upon her from a cloudless summer sky, the inconstant breeze her only respite from the sticky heat. In the distance, boats were already going ashore, the vanguard of a fleet of hundreds descending upon Fort Carillon just as the British had done a year ago.

She could not see the fort yet, but knew Monsieur de Bourlamaque had already been warned of the British army’s arrival, just as Montcalm had been warned last summer. Soon the forest would echo with the beating of drums, the tramp of boots, and the clatter of swords in sheaths as the British army surrounded the little outpost.

It seemed like only yesterday…

If the fort should fall, stay close to Père François. I will come to you if I can. If aught should befall me, Père François will take you to Montcalm or Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.

Nothing will happen to you, Papa!

Amalie squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. In truth, she did not know how to feel. So much had changed since then. Even
she
had changed.

Now the land her father had died defending for France—the very ground in which he was buried—would fall into British hands, his sacrifice and her loss for naught in the end. And yet no blood would be spilled this time, for, as Morgan had told her, Monsieur de Bourlamaque was under orders to abandon the fort and march northward. She was grateful for that at least.

Her gaze was drawn once again to the shore and the dark wall of the forest beyond. Somewhere amongst those hills, amidst those trees, she had lived the happiest days of her life. And now those hills, those very trees, sheltered Morgan, concealing him from men who would shoot him on sight or hang him from the nearest strong branch.

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but from the moment the army had left Fort Edward, she’d felt Morgan nearby. The night they’d camped near the ruins of Fort William Henry, where Amherst’s men had build hasty ramparts, she’d sworn she’d heard the Rangers’ special whistle. And today as they’d crossed the wide waters of Lac Saint-Sacrement—what the English called Lake George—she’d felt him watching her.

He was out there. She knew it.

But so did Amherst and Wentworth. They’d set a watch upon her, but not where Morgan could see the guards. Spread out around her, her gaolers seemed to be ordinary British soldiers going about their duties. But their weapons were always at hand and their gazes never wandered far from her, unless to watch the forest. It hadn’t taken Amalie long to understand that Amherst and Wentworth were using her as bait.

Amherst had been beside himself with rage that morning after Morgan had escaped, his pride clearly bruised at being bested. She’d been made to wait in Wentworth’s study while Amherst finished questioning Iain and Connor, both of whom had challenged Amherst to explain how they could have gotten past twelve thousand Regulars—
and
the sentries at the gates—without being seen.

“No matter what you’ve heard from the Abenaki, we cannae fly, sir,” Iain had said, the grave look on his face betraying no hint of humor.

Amherst had not been amused. “Your men are a disgrace, Captain MacKinnon!”

Connor’s eyes had narrowed. “You wouldna say that if you were in the forest and under attack, sir. Nay, then you’d count yourself lucky to have us watchin’ your back.”

Amherst had ignored this.

“The sentries said they were set upon by
two
men, and though they did not see the men who attacked them, I find it curious that Major MacKinnon happens to have
two
brothers here at the fort, both of whom have served as Rangers and are known for their stealth!”

“They also said the men who attacked them wore British uniforms, sir. Perhaps ’tis your own men you should question.”

Amherst glowered at Iain, then turned on Amalie so suddenly it made her gasp. “What do you know of this, Miss Chauvenet?”

Though Amalie was certain Iain and Connor had been behind Morgan’s rescue, she’d let nothing of her thoughts show. She’d stepped forward, lifted her chin, and met Amherst’s accusing gaze. “I know only that I prayed for such a miracle through the night and that my prayers have been answered.”