Amalie had never seen done before. He spat one of the balls into the barrel, raised the rifle—and fired. Before the report of the shot had faded, he was reloading. By holding the lead balls in his mouth, he saved himself the few seconds it took to pluck one from his pouch and ram it into the barrel. Two shots.
Three.
Then time seemed to slow down, Amalie watching each sure motion of his hands as he reloaded a fourth time, spat the last ball down the barrel, and took aim, the fourth shot exploding a moment before Fouchet opened his mouth to call the time. All around her, soldiers cheered, their whoops and shouts growing louder when the target was brought forth, showing four dark holes.
Monsieur MacKinnon had hit his mark each time. He lowered the rifle to his side, then glanced at Bourlamaque, an amused look on his face rather than one of triumph. And Amalie realized he’d made the wager knowing he could do it. He’d done it before.
Warrior or gentleman? ‘Twas clear Morgan MacKinnon was both.
She took a step forward, wanting to congratulate him, but a strong hand closed around her arm, and she was pulled away.
“Kwai, nadogweskwa.”
“Tomas!” She looked up to find him glaring down at her, fury unmistakable on his face, Simon beside him. “ What . . . ?” “I have long wondered whether the daughter of my mother’s sister thinks of herself as French or Abenaki. Now I know. She is neither French nor Indian, but instead has become the whore of the Inglismon, this Mac-Kin-non. “ He spat on the ground.
Too stunned to speak, Amalie gaped at him.
“He was ours, Amalie, promised to us by Montcalm. Now he dines with Bourlamaque, while we, who kept our promises to our French brothers, camp outside the walls and are sent away with useless blankets, kettles, and beads! You asked Bourlamaque to spare him. Why?”
But Amalie was angry now, too, fury freeing her tongue. “I am no man’s whore! You’ve a filthy tongue, Tomas! And though I am French and Abenaki, I am also Catholic. Do you hear nothing the priests say? It is barbaric and cruel to burn a man alive! The people of Oganak must learn to forgive him, even as I have forgiven him.”
Tomas and Simon stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.
Then the rage on Tomas’s face turned to disgust. “You have lived your life among them. You cannot understand. Blood can only be avenged with blood. We will have him, little Amalie, and nothing you or Bourlamaque can do will stop us.”
With that, the two of them turned and walked away, leaving Amalie to stare after them.
Morgan looked for Amalie in the cheering crowd, but she was gone. Though disappointed, he didn’t think much of it, his spirits high. What a benison it was to feel the sun warm upon his face, to have the wind in his hair, to hold the weight of his musket in his hands. Breathing in the air, he felt alive again—truly alive. And it was sweet, so sweet that he’d forgotten the peril he still faced and the devil’s bargain he’d made—until Bourlamaque took his musket from him again and locked it away with his other gear.
The man did not yet trust him.
Clever fellow.
He did not see Amalie again until the midday meal, and he knew the moment he saw her that something was amiss. She said nary a word as she ate, her gaze meeting his, something urgent and unspoken in her eyes. Not until after the meal, when Bourlamaque called him into his study, did he discover what it was.
“Amalie is quite concerned,” Bourlamaque said, looking none too blythe himself. “It seems the Abenaki are displeased with my decision to grant you clemency.”
Morgan kept his voice measured. “They’ve been cheated of their blood vengeance, aye? I kent they wouldna accept it.” “Her cousins told her that they would permit nothing to stop them from taking you back to Oganak—not even me.” Bourlamaque raised a bushy eyebrow as if he did not know what to make of such defiance.
Morgan wondered if this were the first time he’d found himself at odds with his Indian allies. “Surely they wouldna chance your wrath. They rely upon you for rifles, blankets, and many other things besides.”
“You needn’t doubt whether I will keep my word,” Bourlamaque continued, “but I cannot say for certain whether all of my men will honor my agreement with you. I watched their faces today. Most were in awe of you. But some hated you all the more for your skill with a firelock. Should any among them collude with the disgruntled Abenaki, it would not be so difficult a task to spirit one man beyond the walls.” “I will do whate’er I must to defend myself.” Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze, made certain the older man knew he meant what he said.
“I expected no less.” Bourlamaque glanced down at his writing table where a missive lay, Montcalm’s flowery script at the bottom, his seal upon it. “I have ordered my officers to spread the word that you are an honorable man and a good Catholic, in hopes that it will diffuse some of the hatred.”
He made no effort to cover the letter, no doubt believing that Morgan could not read it. But even upside down Morgan was able at a glance to recognize his own name and read the words “prisonnier” and “’notre avantage” and “le tuer.”
Prisoner. Our advantage. To kill him.
He looked away, lest Bourlamaque catch him. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but ‘tis I who must win their trust. You and your officers cannae do that for me.”
“There is more.” Bourlamaque leaned back in his chair.
“The Abenaki are blaming Amalie in part. Her cousins called her your whore, accosting her in a way that alarms me. I am not familiar with their customs. Should I fear for her safety, as well?”
It was on the tip of Morgan’s tongue to demand her cousins’ names so that he might answer their vile words with the edge of his sword or his fists, but he knew Bourlamaque would never allow it. He swallowed his anger, kept his face impassive. “I am blood kin to the Muhheconneok—the Mahican—not the Abenaki. But from what I ken of their ways, they wouldna seek to harm a kinswoman unless they felt betrayed by her.”
Morgan would make certain that never happened. Bourlamaque released a breath, seemed more at ease. “I’ll be grateful when she’s safely back at the abbey. Her father, God rest his soul, should never have permitted her to stay here. I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen to her while she was in my care. I had hoped she’d agree to marry Lieutenant Rillieux, but. ..” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.
He’d wanted Amalie to marry that arrogant bastard? Was he daft?
That was what Morgan thought, but not what he said.
“Och, well, she is pledged to the Church, aye?” Bourlamaque shook his head. “Amalie? No, Major. She has not yet decided whether to take vows. Her father told me that she found life at the abbey stifling, and yet I have little choice but to send her back to Trois Rivieres until the war is over. She cannot remain here.”
“Nay, she cannae,” Morgan agreed, trying to take in what he’d just heard.
So the lass was not quite as bound to the Church as she’d let him believe. Aye, that explained the gown she’d worn last evening. But had she meant to mislead him? He thought back.
Are you pledged to the Church?
Were it not for this war, I should have returned to the abbey at Trois Rivieres by now.
He’d asked the question, and she had answered without answering. She hadn’t trusted him then, hadn’t wished to answer his questions. Now he knew the truth.
Amalie was free to marry, if she chose—free to know a man’s loving.
Dinnae be longin’ after what you cannae ha’, laddie, for if she takes any man into her bed, it willna be you.
Nay, it wouldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him. His life lay elsewhere, with his brothers and his men. As soon as he was able, he would escape and return to them. Then Amalie would realize she’d been right to mistrust him. And she would hate him.
Amalie slipped into her nightgown, then sat at her dressing table and began to brush the tangles from her hair. She knew she was silly to worry. Bourlamaque would no
t let her cousins spirit Monsieur MacKinnon away, nor was the Ranger a defenseless child to be carried off like a bundle of firewood. If Tomas were foolish enough to try to steal Monsieur MacKinnon from Fort Carillon, he would likely be the worse for it. But Amalie did not want that, either. Though she did not know her cousins well, they were her only tie to her mother’s kin, and she was fond of them, especially Simon, whose bright smiles had always made her feel at ease. And yet as much as she hoped to retain their affection, she would not tolerate Tomas’s foul insults—nor would she look the other way while he plotted to kill Monsieur MacKinnon.
Bourlamaque had assured her that he would not permit any man—whether French or Abenaki—to scheme against the Ranger, and he had promised to warn Monsieur MacKinnon himself. Then he’d told her not to worry.
“Go and enjoy the day, Amalie. It saddens me to see you so distressed.”
It had been a beautiful day, and she’d spent most of the afternoon tending Bourlamaque’s garden, the sky bright and blue above her and filled with the calls of birds. The warm air had been rich with the scent of earth and sun and growing things, life renewing itself all around her.
Still, she hadn’t been able to forget Tomas’s words.
We will have him, and nothing you or Bourlamaque can do will stop us.
Monsieur MacKinnon had been in Bourlamaque’s study all evening. She’d settled in the sitting room with her embroidery, hoping to congratulate him on his marksmanship—and to warn him to be careful. But the hour had grown late. Her eyes strained from trying to make neat stitches by candlelight, she’d set her embroidery aside and retired to her room. Outside her bedroom window, a breeze carried the promise of rain, the strains of pipes and fiddles in the distance. Tomas and Simon were out there somewhere. Were they plotting against Monsieur MacKinnon even now? just as the question crossed her mind, she heard a door open and close below the stairs, followed by footsteps in the hallway. She set her brush aside, grabbed her blue silk shawl, and opened her door, then tiptoed to the stair railing and peeked over the edge.
Monsieur MacKinnon stood in the sitting room below, arms crossed over his chest, looking through the window into the night. Even in the candlelight she could see the brooding look on his handsome face. Mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, she wrapped the shawl tighter around herself and tiptoed down the stairs.
THIRTEEN
Morgan looked out the window, his gaze focused on the darkness beyond. Night was when he missed them most—
Iain, Annie, Connor, Joseph, and the men. The dark seemed to press in on him, doubts and troubles niggling at him, his home so far away. Would he live to see them again? ‘Twould be all but impossible to escape from inside Fort Carillon. Every man among the French now knew his face, so he could not hope to steal a French uniform and simply stroll out of the gates. Nor could he leave the house by night, as both his window and the front doors were kept under watch. Bourlamaque did not yet trust him enough to send him into the forest with French troops to scout. Until he did, Morgan would have no chance to slip away.
‘Twas time he set about learning all he could of the French, of Montcalm and his designs for the summer campaign. Tonight was the night. Tonight Morgan would wait till Bourlamaque was asleep and then—
He heard her soft footsteps, saw her at the bottom of the stairs, and forgot all else. She tiptoed toward him in her white linen nightgown, a blue shawl draped modestly about her shoulders, her long hair hanging past her hips, her feet bare. Though he tried, he couldn’t keep his gaze from sliding over her, for although her shoulders were covered, her bosom was not. He could see the dusky outline of her nipples against the linen, her breasts firm and full—made for a man’s hands. She gazed up at him with trust in her eyes, her face angelic in the candlelight.
‘Tis a bloody good thing she cannae read your thoughts, aye, laddie?
He sucked in a breath, willed himself to look away from her, tried to speak. ‘”Tis late to be out of bed, lass.” Did she know what she did to him? Nay, surely not. She’d lived far too sheltered a life to understand that she could bind a man in knots and set him aflame.
“ I . . . I wanted to speak with you.” She sounded troubled.
“Is somethin’ amiss?”
“ I . . . wanted to congratulate you, monsieur. You are quite the marksman.”
“You forsook your bed to tell me that?” He didn’t believe it for an instant.
She lifted her chin, pink stealing into her cheeks. “Also, I need to know when you should like to begin your French lessons.”
“I must speak wi’ Bourlamaque, for my time isna my own. You ken that, aye?”
“Oui.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, unable to keep himself from touching her, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. Her eyes were wide and dark and shadowed by fear. “Dinnae tell me that you’ve stayed awake to speak words that could have been shared over breakfast. Why are you standin’ here in your nightgown, lass?”
Monsieur MacKinnon stood so near to Amalie that she could smell him—the spice and salt of his skin, the hint of cognac on his breath, the whiff of pine soap in his hair. He seemed to press in on her, to fill her senses, to surround her until there was nothing else but him.
She drew a shaky breath. “I fear for you, monsieur.” “Bonnie, sweet Amalie.” He chuckled, his use of her Christian name startling. “Twice now you have protected me. You saved my life, and for that I am eternally in your debt. But you shouldna be losin’ sleep over idle threats. I’m no longer defenseless and shackled. I can protect myself, aye?” She nodded, knowing that he was right and yet still unable to shake her sense of misgiving. “If my cousins try to take you, someone I care about will suffer—either you or they.” “Ah.” He drew a breath, cupped her cheek in his palm, his gaze seeming to pierce her. “Hear me, Amalie. I will do whate’er I must to protect myself, but I willna kill them unless they gi’ me no choice. Och, if only you were in the safety of the abbey. You could forget this place and its troubles.” She drew back. “How could I forget Fort Carillon? My father died and is buried here! If we cannot hold this bit of land, it will not be long before the British reach Trois Rivieres. And then where would I go? Besides, I am not at all certain I wish to return to life at the abbey.”
“Then you wish to marry?” His voice was deep and as smooth as midnight.
Overwhelmed by him, Amalie stammered. “I-I thought I did. until . . .”
“Until what?”
She felt heat rush into her cheeks and knew she was trapped, cornered by her own words. She had no choice but to explain. “Until Rillieux kissed me. Now, I . . . I’m not sure I want a husband. I do not think I would find happiness in being a wife.”
His eyes narrowed, his gaze upon her as if he were studying her, a grin tugging at his lips. “There’s one wee kinch to your thinkin’. What Rillieux did to you—that wasna truly a kiss.” “ It . . . it wasn’t?” The look in his eyes made her belly flutter. “Nay, it wasna.” He reached out, wrapped an arm around her waist, and—mon Dieu!—she knew what he meant to do. “This is a kiss.”
He ducked down and brushed her lips ever so lightly with his, turning his head from side to side, the touch feather-soft, warm. The contact stilled her breath, made her pulse skip and her lips tingle, something sweet shivering through her. “Och, lass, you could make a man go daft!” He moved as if to withdraw, and for a moment she feared the kiss was over. But he shifted his hold to draw her closer, one big hand sliding into her hair to cradle her head, his mouth claiming hers.
And she realized it had just begun.
This was a kiss? It felt like a fever, wisps of flame flaring to life in her belly and licking through her as his lips coaxed and caressed hers. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth, then shocked her by slipping inside, seeking her tongue, tasting her, stroking secret places, his fingers caressing her spine through the li
nen of her nightgown. Overwhelmed by new sensations, she heard herself whimper, felt her knees turn to water, and melted into the hard wall of his chest, her fingers clenched in his thick hair.
Morgan knew he should stop. He’d been a bloody fool to start this. He’d wanted to show her that she needn’t fear men, had wanted to blot out any memory of Rillieux’s brutality. Or that’s what he’d told himself. In truth, he’d wanted to kiss her since the moment he’d learned she was not promised to the Church—and so he had.
Aye, he should stop. But the lass was so warm and willing in his arms, kissing him back with a passion he had not expected, a passion that roused his own, making him want far more than a single kiss. But he could not take what he wanted, not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.
Slowly he released her and took a step back, stroking her cheek with his knuckles, his body drawn tight as a bowstring, blood pounding through his veins, rushing to his groin.
“Amalie.”
Breathless and trembling, she looked up at him through wide eyes, her lips wet and swollen, her hands fisted in the cloth of his coat.
It took every bit of will he possessed not to pull her into his arms and begin again. “Tell me, lass. What think you of kissin’ now?”
She touched her fingers to her lips. “Oh, monsieur. It was . . . wonderful.”
The swell of masculine pride he felt was cut short by the sound of a door openings—and men’s voices.
“You must go, Amalie, but first promise me one thing.”
“What it is?”
“Dinnae put yourself in harm’s way for my sake. Denounce me to your cousins. Forsay me. Curse me if you must, but dinnae risk yourself, aye?”
Her eyes grew wide. “I . . . I could not do that, monsieur!”
The men’s voices grew louder, Bourlamaque’s among them. Morgan knew it was only a matter of moments before Amalie was discovered. He couldn’t imagine the old man would be pleased to see his ward standing half naked, her lips slick and swollen from kissing, beside a man he did not truly trust. “Aye, lass, you can. You must. Now go!”