A muscle clenched in Morgan’s jaw, his gaze going hard.
“Is he dead?*’
“I do not know.”
“He will be.” The cold malice in Morgan’s voice left no doubt what would happen should he encounter Rillieux again as a free man. “But listen—the tin flask holds poisoned rum. Any who drink from it will perish. Dinnae touch it, lass, and dinnae permit Atoan to drink it. He cares for you and will protect you well if I am killed and—“ She pressed her ringers to his lips, then poured water onto the cloth of the gag and made a show of wiping his face. “Non!” she whispered. “Do not speak of such things!” “Hear me, Amalie! We are being followed. If augh’ should happen—“ “What are you doing?” Tomas called in French from behind her.
She finished wiping Morgan’s brow, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, just as Tomas dragged her away. On they walked, through leagues of untouched forest, the air growing hot and sticky as it approached midday, mosquitoes whining for blood in the shadows, the air thick with the scents of damp earth, rot, and fear. And although Amalie watched for any telltale sign that they were being followed, she saw and heard nothing—no movement in the shadows, no snapping twigs, no sudden flight of birds from the treetops. Perhaps the blow had struck Morgan more senseless than he appeared; perhaps he was seeing things, just as she had done this morning when Rillieux had struck her. Onward she plodded, listening as Tomas, Tanial, and Atoan argued in whispered Abenaki, Simon slinking behind his brother and casting Amalie guilty looks.
Would he help her?
She made her way over to him. “I have not yet thanked you for what you did this morning. You saved me from—“ A terrible cry arose from the forest, a wild shrieking she’d heard only once before, a sound that sent chills down her spine and roused pure terror in her blood. “Amalie, get down!” Morgan shouted from somewhere behind her.
She fell to the forest floor just as the world around her exploded with gunfire.
And then two men—one big and dark-haired, the other small and wearing a cap—charged out of the undergrowth straight for her.
She screamed, scrambled to her knees, her only thought that she must get to Morgan. But the two men cut her off, grabbing her, thrusting her between them, and pulling her behind a tree, as if to shield her from the battle. “Dougie, you big lummox!” the smaller of the two said, his badly scarred face twisting into a frown. “You’ve gone and frightened her!”
“Dinnae be afraid, lass.” The big one smiled. “I’m Dougie, and the uggsome fellow is Killy. We’re MacKinnon’s Rangers—Morgan’s men. We’re here to keep you safe.” And in the midst of the gunfire and shouting, Amalie sent up a prayer of thanks to God, the Virgin, Jesus, and every blessed Saint she could remember, tears of relief streaming down her face. Morgan was safe!
It was over in a few moments, gunfire giving way to the startled silence that always followed battle. A dozen or so Abenaki lay still on the ground, their blood already drawing flies. Morgan’s only regret was that Tomas was among them. He hoped the lad’s death wouldn’t be too hard for Amalie to bear. The survivors—including Simon and Atoan—stood bunched together, surrounded by Joseph’s Muhheconneok warriors, while Amalie, under the careful watch of Dougie and Killy, was making her way slowly toward Morgan, the two men picking a path that protected her from the sight of dead and dying men.
Still strapped to the travois, Morgan saw Connor stride into the clearing, his face covered with war paint, rifle in hand, and thought his heart might explode from the joy of seeing his brother again. “Tis about bloody time. I’d begun to think you were goin’ to walk wi’ us all the way to Oganak.”
“You seemed to be enjoyin’ yourself, whilin’ away the hours wi’ a bonnie sweet lass to dote upon you, feed you, and wipe your brow.” Connor drew his hunting knife from its sheath, cut Morgan’s bonds, and reached out his arm. Morgan clasped his brother’s forearm, let Connor draw him to his feet. Then he threw his arms around his younger brother and embraced him with his full strength, Connor returning the embrace in equal measure, neither of them able to speak. Around them, a cheer arose, men’s raw, throaty voices shouting in unison. “MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon!” With one last bone-crunching back slap, he and Connor parted, and Morgan saw for the first time the strain on his brother’s face. He looked older, more careworn than Morgan remembered.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Connor said, his voice unsteady.
“I’m no’ quite so dead as it seemed.”
And then Amalie was there beside them, her bruised cheeks wet with tears, her gaze fixed on Connor, a look of stunned surprise on her face. “It was you! I saw you!”
“What do you mean you saw him?” But no one was listening to Morgan.
Connor took Amalie’s hand, raised it to his lips. “Aye, lass, ‘twas me. I’m sorry for your sufferin’ today. But if the Abenaki lad hadna stopped the bastard, I would have. He’d no’ have had his way wi’ you.”
“Mem.” Amalie smiled at him through her tears, and Morgan wondered how much she’d been forced to endure. “But how did you know . . . ?”
“That you were under the protection of the Clan MacKinnon?” Connor turned Amalie’s hand over, withdrew something from his shirt, and pressed the rumpled cloth of Morgan’s tartan sash into her palm. “You called my brother’s name as well, aye? And you reached for me. But even were you a stranger to us, I’d no’ have let any man harm you.”
Then Connor looked at Morgan. “That mac-diolain will never harm another lass. I slit his throat to make certain of it.”
TWENTY-TWO
So Wentworth thinks me a traitor and deserter?” Morgan could scarce believe it, the irony of the news making him laugh. “Och, for the love of Christ!”
“Aye, and Amherst, too. Wentworth sent us up here to see whether it was true.” Connor popped a piece of roasted rabbit into his mouth and chewed. “Does he truly believe I’d tell him if it were? I’d just kill you wi’ my own hands.” There were snorts and peals of laughter, the men pressing in around the small cook fire where Morgan, Connor, and Joseph sat with the officers, finishing their supper of roasted rabbit and ash cakes.
Sweet Mary, how Morgan had missed them! Then Connor frowned, his face lined with regret. “If I’d have ken what was in those letters, I’d have burned them ere we reached the fort. Instead, I handed them straight to Wentworth.” “Dinnae think on it.” Morgan met his brother’s gaze. “You couldna have kent or even suspected what the letters held.” “I thought you were dead.” Connor’s eyes filled with shadows.
“God’s blood, those were dark days!”
Around him, the men nodded.
Morgan knew they were thinking of the brutal raid they’d made to avenge his death. Knowing not what to say, he said nothing.
Then Connor jabbed a ringer in Morgan’s face. “But dinnae you be insultin’ us by askin’ us whether we believe you. No’ a one of us misdoubts you.”
There were shouts of agreement.
“We’re wi’ you, Morgan!”
“Wentworth wouldna ken the truth if it bit him on the arse!”
Then Dougie elbowed his way to the fireside. “You risked your own fool neck to save mine, Morgan. If no’ for you, I’d be dead or rottin’ on a prison barge. I owe you my life, and I’ll ne’er forget it. When I heard you might be alive, I . . . “ The big man’s voice quavered, and his words died away. Morgan felt an answering tightness in his chest. ‘”Tis glad I am to see you wi’ two strong legs, Dougie.”
“Sing it for him, Dougie!”
“Aye, sing it!”
“Sing him ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’!” Morgan looked at Connor, then up at Dougie again. “ ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’? You wrote a song about me?” Dougie looked chagrined. “Aye.”
“A passin’ fair tune it is.” Connor grinned. “He sang it and played his fiddle at your wake.”
Then Dougie started to sing, his words telling of the night strike on the pier at Tic
onderoga and how Morgan had braved a hail of lead balls to carry a wounded friend to safety before dying a hero’s death.
“’Tis far tae Ticonderoga / ‘Tis far through forest and fen / But ‘tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon / Bidin’ untae the end.”
Dougie’s voice cracking with emotion, he sang the last notes, then cleared his throat. “It sounds better wi’ my fiddle.” Morgan found it hard to speak. “I am honored more than I can say. Thank you, Dougie. But I recall it a bit differently. I told you that you stank, and you called me ‘daft’ and told me I ran like a lass.”
Dougie kicked at the dirt, regret on his face. “I didnae mean it.”
Morgan grinned. “I did.”
The men howled with laughter, and Dougie turned red. “I’d best be writin’ a new endin’, aye?” he said with a wide grin.
Morgan looked at the faces around him—smiling faces, both young and old, faces baked brown by the sun and scarred from battle. Some of them had been with him since the beginning, through four weary years of war. Others had filled the empty places left by men who truly had laid down their lives in battle—men like Charlie Gordon, Lachlan Fraser, Jonny Harden, Robert Wallace, and dear Cam. Both living and dead, they were family. They were Clan, bound not by the blood in their veins, but the blood they’d lost and spilled together.
If Morgan asked them, these men would follow him into Hell.
They’d traveled hard leagues today, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the site of this morning’s skirmish as they could, lest someone be drawn by the sounds of gunfire and overtake them there. Morgan had left the Abenaki to care for their dead, taking only Simon and Atoan with him—as guests rather than prisoners. The two now sat with some of Joseph’s men, eating dried venison and sharing stories, ancient hostilities set aside in the strangeness of the moment.
The day’s events had been hardest on Amalie, he knew. They had not yet spoken of it—so many things lay unspoken between them—but the horror of her ordeal was written on her face. Still, she’d shown great courage. Her attempts to protect him while he’d lain bound to the travois had been witnessed by the Rangers as they’d stalked the Abenaki and had earned her the respect of every man among them. That respect had grown when, despite her weariness, she’d done her best to keep up with them on the perilous southward march, until Morgan had taken her upon his back.
Once they’d made camp, she’d barely stayed awake long enough to eat her supper, then had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the bed of pine boughs he’d made for her. She lay there still, covered by a thin woolen blanket in the shelter of a lean-to.
Morgan heard his men laugh and looked back to find them watching him with knowing grins on their faces. They’d caught him watching her again. He shrugged. “I cannae help it.”
“That much is obvious.” Joseph cut another strip of meat off the rabbit, the vermillion paint on his face dried and beginning to flake, his dark eyes gleaming with humor. “But if you can keep yourself from her for a bit longer, I would hear the story, all of it—how you survived, how you came to wear a French uniform, and how you were taken prisoner with only a delicate French flower to protect you.” There were shouts of agreement.
“Aye, out wi’ it!”
“Let’s hear it!”
And so Morgan went back to the beginning, to the night he’d been shot. He told them all of it, how Bourlamaque had offered him sanctuary in exchange for answers to his questions and how he’d played a deadly game of wits these past weeks, feigning ignorance of French, trading away the locations of old campsites and caches in order to buy time to plan his escape, skulking about under cover of night to read Bourlamaque’s correspondence.
“But the truth is, I came to admire Bourlamaque and to hate myself.” And as he spoke, it struck Morgan that he’d lost a friend. “Bourlamaque treated me with honor and dignity, and all the while I kent I would betray him. He is everything Wentworth will ne’er be—honorable, compassionate, a good Catholic.”
He told them about poor Charlie Gordon’s skull and how Bourlamaque had not only allowed him to bury the remains in the French cemetery, but had even joined in the prayers. “Truth be told, a part of me came to wish I served Bourlamaque, so good a man is he. But there are none so good and brave as you, and my place is here beside you.”
There were nods, a chorus of shouts, and many a raised flask.
“For certain!”
“Aye, and that’s a fact!”
Then the only sound was the crackling of the fire, the gentle gloaming giving way to the dark of night.
It was Connor who broke the silence. “But what of Amalie? For unless I’m mistaken, there’s another MacKinnon about to take a wife.”
“Amalie is my wife. We were wed by a priest yesterday morn.”
Looks of stunned surprise were replaced by wide grins, shouted benisons, and hearty slaps on the back. And for the first time since realizing his men were stalking the Abenaki, Morgan felt an emptiness in his chest. “I thank you, but ‘tis not as it seems. Amalie is Bourlamaque’s ward. He forced us to the altar, hoping to ensure my loyalty and give Amalie a husband who could care for her.” Connor gaped at him. “Bourlamaque’s ward?” Then Morgan told them the rest of the story—not the whole story, of course, for he’d be damned before he’d dishonor Amalie with careless talk before his men.
“I didnae consummate the marriage, for I wanted her to be free to obtain an annulment. I was just leavin’ her side when Rillieux struck me. Bourlamaque will likely think I’ve taken Amalie and tried to escape to Fort Elizabeth wi’ her. He could well send troops to find her and bring the both of us back. I fear what might befall her should she return. I dinnae want to see her take the blame for my treachery.” Around him the men lapsed into silence, contemplating what might lie ahead of them, their grizzled faces golden in the firelight. Then Joseph gave a snort and began to chuckle.
Morgan, who could find nothing to laugh about in the moment, glared at his Muhheconneok brother. “What’s so bloody funny?”
Joseph grinned at him, teeth flashing white in the dark. “And I thought Iain made a mess of things when he fell in love.” At this, the men burst into raucous, thigh-slapping laughter.
Amalie slept through the night, a deep and dreamless sleep. She did not hear Morgan and his officers discussing the dangerous road that lay ahead of them. Nor was she aware of the Rangers who watched over her through the night, feeding wood to the fire to ward off the chill, tiptoeing on big feet, and cursing at one another to be quiet.
Only when Morgan at last lay down beside her did she stir, snuggling against his chest, instinctively seeking his familiar scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the shelter of his embrace. “Sleep, my angel.”
It was Morgan’s lips on her cheek that woke her. She opened her eyes to find it still dark, Morgan sitting beside her, leaning over her, his hand stroking her hair. Men bustled to and fro in the firelight, moving quietly about their chores, the entire camp alive with activity. “Sorry to disturb your sleep, lass, but we must break camp afore dawn.”
She tried to sit up, wincing at the unexpected pain of sore muscles.
Morgan’s brow creased in a worried frown. “Where do you hurt?”
“Everywhere, I think.” Her legs, her arms, her belly, the soles of her feet, her cheek where Rillieux had struck her. Morgan reached over, picked up a small tin pail by its handle, and set it down before her. “It isna much, but the hot water should make you feel a bit better. I’ll see that you get a cup of willow bark tea.”
Then he stood and strode away.
Amalie looked inside the bucket and found a clean cloth of homespun floating in clear, hot water. She picked up the cloth, squeezed it, and began to bathe as best she could, only too aware that she was the only woman in an encampment of men. But the hot water felt heavenly against her face, and soon she found herself wrapping the blanket Morgan had given her last night around her shoulders and using it as a sort of shield
so that she could wash more of her body without exposing herself.
Not that the men were watching her. They seemed not to know she was there, going about their duties without glancing her way. Most were big men like Morgan, tall and broad of shoulder, some with gray hair, some with red hair and freckles. Many wore leather breeches as Morgan had done. Others wore Indian leggings. All of them had moccasins upon their feet and weapons at their belts.
Morgan strode among them, greeting them, encouraging them, exuding the confidence of an officer, a warrior, a man born to lead other men. Their gazes followed him just as hers did, and she realized that they loved him, too. And had sorrrowed long for him.
Now it would be her turn to sorrow. Today he would return her to Fort Carillon; then he would leave her, disappearing into this forest to make the long journey to Fort Elizabeth with his men. She would never see him again. Unless . . . Rather than seeking an annulment, could she not wait till the end of the war for him? He could come for her and claim her as her husband as soon as peace was restored. They could build a home in some growing frontier town where no one would care that she was part Abenaki or that he had once been a fearsome Ranger.
But what if he does not wish to stay married, Amalie? What if he wants an annulment?
And then one fear forced those worries aside.
What if he doesn’t survive the war?
The thought chased all other thoughts from her mind, and for a moment she felt she could not breathe. Soldiers died every day in this war, and now Morgan would be in the thick of it once more. But God could not be so cruel as to take both him and her father away from her. No, Morgan would survive. He must.
Finished with her ablutions, she set the cloth back inside the bucket, and then began to run her fingers through her desperately snarled hair, trying to untangle it.