“Of course he did, and you have done your duty well.” Amalie forced herself to smile, then leaned closer as if imparting a great secret. “But my guardian. Monsieur le Chevalier de Bourlamaque, ordered me to visit the prisoner each day so that I might win his trust and perhaps steal secrets from him.”
She was treading dangerously close to a lie, she knew, but what choice did she have? She could not rest until she’d returned the rosary to Monsieur MacKinnon. She had tried to make him more comfortable and in so doing had brought this upon him.
It was Monsieur Lambert who’d finally told her what had happened. He’d found the bandages and discerned that someone had unlocked the shackles. After realizing that it could only have been she, he and Lieutenant Rillieux had agreed that the Ranger was too dangerous to remain in the hospital, and Lieutenant Rillieux had moved him to the guardhouse, with Bourlamaque’s approval.
“Your compassion does you credit, Miss Chauvenet, but it was an incredibly foolish risk to take, even with the prisoner sleeping as he was,” the surgeon had chided her. “I am grateful he truly was asleep and not just feigning. I cannot imagine what he might have done to you otherwise.”
It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him that the Ranger had not been asleep, but then she’d realized that they must have questioned Monsieur MacKinnon and that he had lied to protect her, thinking perhaps that she would be punished if the truth were known.
“I-I am sorry, monsieur.” She’d bowed her head as if in contrition, her mind racing for a way to return the rosary. “I meant only to help.”
“Of course. But your help, so graciously given, is no longer needed,” he’d said. “You have spent far too much time in this dismal place. Return to your needlework. Forget this unfortunate affair.”
Amalie had been incensed. Return to her needlework? Did they think so poorly of her as to believe she could be distracted from Monsieur MacKinnon’s plight by embroidery?
“Bien, monsieur.”
But knowing that if she returned to the house she’d have to face Bourlamaque, who would surely forbid her from seeing the Ranger again, she’d come straight to the guardhouse instead and had been relieved to learn that Lieutenant Rillieux was still occupied elsewhere.
The soldier on guard duty looked down at her, doubt upon his face. “He asked you to interrogate the prisoner, mademoiselle?” She smiled again, leaned closer. “Monsieur le Chevalier believes the prisoner might find it harder to resist a woman’s more subtle ploys than a man’s threats.”
His gaze dropping to her bodice, the soldier nodded, as if he understood that line of reasoning at least. “Very well. But if Lieutenant Rillieux blames—“ “He shall not blame you, monsieur.” How could she sound so calm when her heart was pounding? “I shall see to that.” Amalie followed the soldier inside, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. And when they did, she felt sick. The Ranger stood in the tiny cell, chained by his neck, wrists, and ankles, wearing only a pair of ill-fitting breeches, new and old bruises upon his face, his long hair tangled, the fresh scar on his chest exposed. The hollows in his cheeks seemed even more pronounced over the dark growth of his beard, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. Mon Dieu, had they left him standing all night long? He stared at her, clearly surprised to see her. “Miss Chauvenet?” Amalie turned to the soldier. “Thank you, monsieur. You may leave us.”
The young man gave a sharp bow and was gone. The Ranger took a step in her direction, his gait marred by a slight limp, his chains dragging through the straw. Standing upright he seemed so much taller, so much more threatening than he had lying in bed. His body all muscle, he reminded her of a caged animal—fierce, dangerous, untamed. “You shouldna be here, lass.”
“I am so sorry, monsieur.” She walked over to his cell, grasped the cold iron bars. “In seeking to ease your suffering I have hastened you to this moment.”
He took another step toward her. “Dinnae fret. It isna your doin’. I pray they didnae punish you.”
She shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
“Then leave me!” His voice took on an urgent tone. “Go before they find you here. I wouldna see you risk yourself further for my sake.”
“I came only to bring you this.” She reached inside her bodice, drew his wooden rosary from between her breasts, then reached between the bars and held it out for him. “I could not rest until you wore it again.”
For a moment he stared at her, a strange look in his eyes. Then he took another shuffling step, the chain that held him clanking. “You spoke the prayers wi’ it?”
“Yes, monsieur, as I promised.”
He reached out for it with his shackled hands, the naked gratitude on his face putting a hard lump in her throat. “I am most grateful. Thank you, lass.”
But rather than taking the rosary from her, he closed his big hands over her smaller one, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it, his gaze seeking and holding hers. It was only the merest brush of his lips against her skin, and yet the heat of it quivered through her, scattering her thoughts, the intensity in his blue eyes making it impossible to breathe. “M-monsieur?”
Morgan saw in Amalie’s eyes that he’d startled her, but he saw something else there, as well—need. Aye, she felt the pull of it, just as he did. And yet, ‘twould surely be the last rime he’d see her. He had no right to do this to her, to rouse desires that could only trouble her. She was pledged to the Church, after all, an innocent who had showered him with compassion when she’d had every right to hate him. His debt to her should not be repaid like this.
Fighting to control himself, he took the beads, the smooth wood warm with the scent of her skin, and slipped the rosary over his head and beneath the iron collar. “There is no way to repay your kindness, no words to tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done—most of all for your forgiveness.”
“In the end I have done nothing.” A bright sheen came into her eyes. Tears? For him? “Why must you fight for the British? Why could you not have chosen to fight for France instead?”
He’d tried to tell her the story once, but they’d been interrupted. Now there wasn’t time. “I chose nothing, Amalie. It was forced upon me.”
Her brow furrowed as if in confusion. “What do you mean?” “There’s no time for this! Leave this place afore Rillieux finds you here, and dinnae return. I wouldna have you see me after today.” In truth, he wished she had not seen him as he was in that moment—filthy, stinking, weak, blood matted in three weeks’ growth of beard, his warrior braids undone, his hair a tangled mess.
But she didn’t seem to hear him. “The British forced you to fight for them?”
“Aye, my brothers and I were compelled to fight by that whoreson William Wentworth. He accused us of a murder we didnae commit and gave us the choice of bein’ hanged or takin’ the king’s shilling. I myself would have been glad to die, but I didnae want to see my brothers dancin’ at the end of a rope.”
“How could he do such a thing?”
Because it was clear she would not leave until she knew the full story, Morgan quickly told her how Wentworth had seen them fight a street brawl, trying to protect a whore from a man who’d tried to pay for her services with the edge of a blade. He told her how Wentworth had set men to follow them, then had them arrested the next morning. He told her how the macdiolain had made it clear that he would use his position as the grandson of Britain’s king to make sure they died at the end of a noose—unless they agreed to serve him as Rangers.
You will report to me at Fort Elizabeth by August twenty-first and serve me until death release you or this war is ended. If you fail to appear or abandon your post, you will be shot for desertion and your brothers will be hanged for murder.
Recalling the words that had damned them, it seemed to Morgan as if it had happened only yesterday. And now it had brought him to this.
“There is no court in the colonies nor in Britain that would take the word of a Scot over that of their king’s gran
dson,” he explained. “Now, go, lass!”
But a strange look had come over Amalie’s face. “I must tell Bourlamaque!”
“It willna matter to him. I have slain too many of his soldiers, and now my life is—“ But then the door was thrown open, and Rillieux walked in, fury on his face. He shouted angrily at Amalie in French, sparing only a quick, hate-filled glance for Morgan. “What are you doing here? You would defy my orders?” Clearly afraid of him, she took a step back, but her chin went up. “I am not a soldier to be ordered about, Lieutenant Rillieux. I came to pray with—“ As if he’d forgotten Morgan was there, Rillieux grasped her arm, jerked her roughly to him, hissing at her from between clenched teeth. “For all your piety, have you not learned to obey as a woman should?”
Her face the image of feminine outrage, Amalie tried to pull away from him. “Let go of me! You cannot treat me—!” Rillieux slipped a hand behind her neck and yanked her against him, cutting off her words with another violent kiss, his other hand grasping her bottom.
Before Morgan knew what he was about, he lunged forward, thrust one hand through the bars, and grabbed the bastard by the throat. “Let.. . her .. . go!”
NINE
Amalie shrank back from Lieutenant Rillieux’s hateful kiss, abruptly freed from his painful grip. Then time itself seemed to stop—and she saw.
Reaching with his body turned sideways, the chain that bound him drawn tight, Monsieur MacKinnon had the lieutenant by the throat, his eyes dark with rage, one big hand thrust between the bars and choking the life from Lieutenant Rillieux’s body, even as the iron collar that encircled his neck cut off his own breath. Lieutenant Rillieux’s face was red, his eyes seeming to bulge out of his head, his fingers scrabbling to break the Ranger’s deadly grip.
Stunned by the brutality of the kiss and the scene before her, it took Amalie a moment to find her tongue. “Arretez! Stop!”
Monsieur MacKinnon met her gaze and choked out one word. “Go!”
The Ranger’s muscles shook with effort, most of all his injured leg, and somehow Amalie knew he lacked the strength to sustain this effort for long. He wasn’t trying to kill the lieutenant. He was trying to protect her.
Then the terrible truth came to her. If no one were here to stop him, Lieutenant Rillieux would beat the Ranger to within an inch of his life the moment he was released.
Bourlamaque!
She picked up her skirts and ran. Out the door and across the parade grounds she ran, heedless of soldiers’ stares, not stopping until she reached Bourlamaque’s study. Terrified of what might be happening back in the guardhouse, she opened the door and ran inside without knocking. “Monsieur! Please, you must come! Lieutenant Rillieux and the Ranger are going to kill each other!”
Bourlamaque was studying a chart with two of his young lieutenants beside him, and the three of them stared at her with startled looks upon their faces.
Bourlamaque frowned. “Catch your breath, Amalie, and explain yourself.”
So Amalie did, the whole story pouring out of her in a rush, fear making her tremble.
“I fear Lieutenant Rillieux will kill him, monsieur! Please, you must stop them!”
Bourlamaque turned to his men. “Fouchet, Durand, go to the guardhouse at once, and bring Lieutenant Rillieux to me. Do not harm MacKinnon.”
Fouchet and Durand bowed—and were gone at a run. Amalie met her guardian’s gaze and saw that he was not pleased with her. She sank into a curtsy. “Forgive me, monsieur. I did not mean—“
He walked over to her, reached out his hand. “Rise, Amalie.”
She stood, certain that he was about to censure her. But instead, he grasped her chin and tilted her head to the side, his gaze dropping to her neck, a dark look spreading over his face. “Did Lieutenant Rillieux do this?”
Amalie raised a hand to her neck, suddenly aware of the sting of scratched skin. She touched the scratch, felt something wet, and withdrew her fingers to find her own blood on her fingertips. “Oui.”
He motioned to a chair before his writing table. “Sit. Tell me once more what happened. And go slowly this time.”
She repeated the story, filling in missing pieces—Lieutenant Rillieux’s morning visits to the hospital to beat the Ranger, the humiliating cruelty of his first kiss, the way he’d touched her on her bottom this time, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I do not wish to be near him, monsieur. He . .. frightens me.”
Bourlamaque sat behind his writing table, a look of weariness on his face. He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “Amalie, Amalie, whatever shall I do with you? You have done everything I’ve asked of you, and yet now because of you I must chastise one of my best and most promising officers.”
Because of her?
The surge of anger she felt must have showed on her face, for in the next instant, Bourlamaque spoke as if he’d read her thoughts.
“No, Amalie, I do not blame you for his actions. A stolen kiss is one thing, but this . . . “ His gaze dropped to her neck. “He knows full well that to touch you so is wrong. But he was right when he said that it was a mistake to let you tend MacKinnon. What you did yesterday—unshackling him while he was sleeping—was incredibly foolish. You are too soft-hearted, too inexperienced to be entrusted with the care of such a man. You are not to go near him again.”
Amalie had known this was coming, but to hear Bourlamaque speak the words felt like a blow. She would not see the Ranger again. And soon he would be dead.
Her throat grew tight. She swallowed. “Bien, monsieur.” He stood, a troubled look on his face. “You have had a most distressing day. I am sorry for that. I wish I knew how best to comfort you, but I am only a soldier. Please go to your room and rest. I shall have tea brought up and send Monsieur Lambert to have a look at you.”
Amalie stood, made a curtsy. “Bien, monsieur. Merci.”
She had reached the door when she remembered.
How, oh how could she have forgotten? She turned to face her guardian once more. “Forgive me, monsieur, but there is one other thing, something important the Ranger told me, which you will want to hear.” Bourlamaque’s brow creased in an impatient frown. “And what is that?”
“He and his brothers do not fight for Britain of their own choice. They were pressed into service by a British officer, who threatened to see them hanged as criminals if they refused.” Bourlamaque’s frown deepened. “Men are pressed into service every day, Amalie. This is of no importance. Go to your—“ “But, monsieur, it does matter!” The words were out before she could stop them. “Could we not use this knowledge to win him to our side?”
Bourlamaque shook his head, looking truly vexed with her. “He will not betray his men, Amalie. I have already tried to bargain with him. I offered him a painless death and Catholic burial in exchange for answers to my questions, and he did not accept. Please go to your room, and stay—“ “You offered him only death.” It seemed so obvious to Amalie; why could Bourlamaque not see it? “What if you offered him life? What if you gave him sanctuary instead of death and invited him to fight beside you?”
“Sanctuary?” For a moment Bourlamaque stared at her as if she’d gone mad. Then his expression slowly changed from vexation to something like amazement. “Surely it cannot be done. Orders have been given, promises made. And yet to have a MacKinnon fighting for France .. .”
From outside came the sound of men’s voices—Fouchet, Durand, Rillieux.
“Go now, Amalie. Stay in your room and rest. Trouble yourself no more about these matters. I shall see to Lieutenant Rillieux.” Not wanting to see the lieutenant again, Amalie hurried out the door and up the stairs, shutting the door to her room behind her.
Would Bourlamaque consider what she’d said, or was it already too late?
Hungry enough to eat a bull moose complete with hooves and antlers, Morgan shifted in the straw, trying to ease the pain in his bruised ribs so that he could sleep, knowing he’d need all his strength come the morn. At least they’d r
emoved the collar from about his neck, enabling him to sit and lie down. The surgeon, who’d been sent to examine him following the beating Rillieux had given him, had been horrified to see him constrained thus and had warned Bourlamaque’s men that it wasn’t safe.
“Should he lose consciousness in the night, he will hang, and then what good will he be to you?” he’d shouted in French.
In short order, the collar had been removed, the blood washed from Morgan’s neck and face, and a breakfast of cold tea and stale bread set before him. Then he’d been left alone again. He’d expected the mac-diolain to return to interrogate him, but it seemed that Rillieux’s assault on Amalie had outweighed Bourlamaque’s interest in him today.
As it bloody well should.
Rillieux had hurt her this time, his nails drawing blood where they’d scraped over her skin, his hand groping her bottom as if she were a tavern whore. Morgan had no doubt the bastard was capable of rape if given the chance. But it seemed Bourlamaque had taken the attack to heart this time. The lieutenants he’d sent to fetch Rillieux—the men who’d stayed Rillieux’s fists and pulled him away from Morgan—had made it clear that Bourlamaque was angry with him. They’d seemed fashed with him themselves.
“You’ve gone and done it now,” said one. “You’ll be lucky if Bourlamaque doesn’t castrate you.”
“She’s Major Chauvenet’s daughter, Rillieux, not your little putain!”
Morgan felt that castration might not be a bad idea. He’d gladly have ripped the whoreson’s cods off if he’d had the strength to do it.
He reached up, closed his fingers around the little wooden rosary, rubbing his fingers over the cross, still touched that she’d gone to such lengths to return it to him. When they’d removed him from the hospital he hadn’t expected to see her again, certain that her guardian wouldn’t permit her to go anywhere near the guardhouse. But she had come to him, risking Bourlamaque’s wrath to fulfill her promise, his rosary hidden between her breasts.