UNTAMED by Pamela Clare
She turned and fled toward the stairs on bare feet. Morgan called after her in a loud whisper. “And Amalie—“ She glanced over her shoulder at him.
“When we’re alone, call me Morgan.”
“Oui. Morgan.” She smiled, his name like music on her lips.
And then she was gone.
Unable to sleep, Amalie stared into the darkness, her fingers tracing her lips as she recalled every astonishing, delightful, exciting moment of Monsieur MacKinnon’s kiss. The strength of his arms around her. The soft caress of his lips. The shock of his tongue inside her mouth. The hardness of his body against hers. The feel of his fingers clutched in her hair. She’d never felt the way he’d made her feel—feverish, her heart beating too quickly, her blood thick and warm. Had it been the same for him?
Och, lass, you could make a man go daft!
Oui, it had.
A frisson ran through her, a lance of heat.
“Morgan.” She whispered his Christian name, savoring the feel of it on her tongue, then repeated it, trying to say it as he said it, with the quick, rolling r. “Morgan. Morgan MacKinnon.”
And she knew for certain she did not wish to return to the abbey.
Even had he meant to sleep, Morgan would not have been able to, not with Amalie’s taste still in his mouth, her scent on his skin. He stared into the darkness, turning in his bed, his blood too hot, his mind filled with her—the soft sound of her whimpers, the press of her body against his, the silky feel of her hair in his fingers.
‘Tis your own doin’, you witless idiot.
Aye, there was no denying that. But at least now she knew what a kiss truly was. She wouldn’t make the mistake of fleeing to the abbey and taking vows because of what that neach diolain Rillieux had done to her.
How selfless and noble of you to help her wi’ that, MacKinnon. You’re a real gentleman, a bloody saint! The patron saint of conflummixt virgins—that’s you.
In truth, it would be far better for her if he’d never touched her. He’d seen the light in her eyes as she’d walked upstairs. She’d begun to have feelings for him, and the kiss had only made matters worse. Whether she knew it or not, she could not risk being too closely bound to him. There was too great a chance that her cousins and, aye, the French soldiers themselves would take their anger out on her. ‘Twas one thing to have played a role in sparing his life. ‘Twould be something else if the men of Fort Carillon came to think of her as his woman.
And yet Morgan hadn’t been able to restrain himself tonight, the lure of her lush body, her ripe femininity, her naive innocence a greater temptation than he could withstand, the feel of her in his arms, so right, so perfect.
Tormented by his own lust, he tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, until he gave in to the inevitable, loosed the fall of his breeches, grasped his aching cock, and stroked himself to release, his thoughts wrapped around Amalie—the sweetness of her mouth, the soft press of her breasts against his ribs, the thrust of her dusky nipples.
His hunger for her blunted but not satisfied, he lay awake until the silence of the night deepened and the fort seemed utterly still. Then, forcing Amalie from his mind, he rose and walked on bare feet silently to the door. He knew there was a guard outside his window and outside the front door. Was there also a guard outside his bedroom door?
He pressed his ear against the door and listened, but he heard nothing—no creaking floorboards, no telltale breathing, no brush of clothing. Only silence.
He grasped the handle, opened the door a crack, and peeked into the hallway. It was dark and looked empty. He opened the door wider and waited, knowing he could not blunder. If he were caught, he would burn.
He walked out of the room, treading carefully down the hallway, lest he step on a creaky floorboard and give himself away. Bourlamaque slept across from Amalie upstairs, but, like any old soldier, he most likely slept lightly. It would take little to wake him.
Past the sitting room Morgan walked, careful not to bump the large carven console, where a single thick beeswax candle burned away the hours of the night. On he went through the dark, step by slow, silent step, past the dining room, to the far corner, where he found the door to Bourlamaque’s study closed, as he’d thought it would be.
And now came the test. Would Morgan be able to open the lock without waking Bourlamaque or leaving telltale scratches upon the brass knob, or would he find himself thwarted? He drew from the pocket of his breeches the tiny awl he’d secreted away when Bourlamaque had given him leave this morning to take from his tumpline pack whatever he needed to clean and prepare his rifle. As a rule, Morgan used the little tool to repair moccasins or snowshoes. Tonight, he would use it for espionage.
He grasped the knob, raised the awl to the keyhole—and felt the knob turn.
It hadn’t been locked.
Bourlamaque had either forgotten to lock it or, believing that Morgan did not understand French, hadn’t seen the need.
Morgan stood and tucked the awl back into his pocket.
Then he slowly opened the door.
“ Vaudreuil again complained that after taking Fort William-Henry I did not continue southward and also capture Fort Elizabeth.”
Montcalm’s handwriting was cramped, small, confusing, and in the weak light of a single candle, at times almost indecipherable.
“I ended by telling him quietly that when I went to war I did the best I could and that when one is not pleased with one’s lieutenants, one had better take the field in person”
Careful not to drip wax, Morgan glanced through the letters once more, thinking through what he’d read, knowing it was past time for him to return to his room. ‘Twould be dawn soon, and he had learned enough for one night.
‘Twas clear from Montcalm’s letters that he and Bourlamaque felt deep affection for one another, writing as familiars and discussing personal matters as much as military ones. Both men missed France and the families they’d left behind. Morgan had also learned that Montcalm cared not one whit for the foppish French governor, le Vicomte Rigaud de Vaudreuil, who seemed to belittle him at every turn, perhaps out of envy. And he’d learned of Montcalm and Bourlamaque’s shared frustrations—not enough coin, not enough trained soldiers, and seeming indifference on the part of King Louis to the small part of this war that was being fought in America.
As he’d read through the letters, he felt as if he’d come to know both men. Both were honorable to a fault, men of duty and principle, high-minded men who loved their king and their country and were willing to give their lives in its service. They were better men in every way than Wentworth, men Morgan would have been honored to serve. Instead, he must deceive and betray them.
He had also learned military secrets this night. The bulk of the French force—almost 14,000 men—was being deployed to defend Quebec, leaving only about 3,000 regular troops and 1,000 Canadian partisans for Bourlamaque, who was charged with holding the line at Lake Champlain. Redoubts, breastworks, and other defensive works were being thrown up along the St. Lawrence in anticipation of an attack.
“I regret I cannot send more men, but we are now certain Amherst intends to send a fleet against us up the St. Lawrence from Louisbourg, and I cannot let Quebec City fall,” Montcalm had writtenin his most recent missive. “ We shall save this unhappy colony or perish.”
He had also warned Bourlamaque against trusting Morgan.
“I, too, find the native people’s ways distressing, but do not forget, my dear B., that, although you now call him your guest, he is in truth still your prisoner. Although you may yet turn this impulsive decision of yours to our advantage, he is a cunning adversary and not to be underestimated. Should he prove false, do not hesitate to kill him.”
And well Morgan knew that Bourlamaque would not. Taking great care, he put the letters back where he’d found them, laying the most recent missive on the writing table face up as Bourlamaque had left it. Checking to be certain he hadn’t disturbed anything, Morgan walked qu
When at last he stretched out on his bed, he wondered which would be the greater sin—betraying the deceiving bastard he’d promised under threat of death to obey or betraying the honest, honorable men who by woesome chance were his enemies.
FOURTEEN
As Pere Francois recited the sacred Latin words of the Mass, Amalie knelt, her head bowed, her rosary clasped between her folded hands, her mind far from prayer. Morgan sat behind her. As if through heightened senses, she could feel the heat of him, smell him, hear his deep voice above those of every other man in the chapel.
“Dominus vobiscum,” Pere Francois intoned. The Lord be with you.
“Et cum spiritu tuo” Amalie answered in unison with the others, not because she was truly listening, but rather out of habit.
Was it her imagination or was Morgan avoiding her? He was, of course, bound by his duty to Bourlamaque and the army. She understood that and was not so foolish or selfish to begrudge him the time he spent at his labors. In truth, she admired his dedication. But why at the end of the day, when his duty was done, did he have no kind word and not a moment for her?
These past four days he’d been hard-faced, stern, even brusque with her. He’d ignored her at meals, saying only as much to her as was necessary for the sake of politeness. Each night he’d retired to his room after having a brandy with Bourlamaque and the other officers, not even glancing her way as he bade the others good night. And when she’d approached him and Bourlamaque to ask them when his French lessons should begin, he’d cut her short.
“I’m certain the Chevalier has other things he’d rather see me doin’, Miss Chauvenet,” he’d said, his tone measured, his blue eyes devoid of any affection.
Bourlamaque had chided her in French. “Do not badger the poor man, Amalie!”
Blinking back tears, she’d bowed her head. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”
Then she’d hurried away to her room, feeling utterly humiliated. Hadn’t it been Morgan himself who’d asked to learn French? And what about the kiss? Four nights ago, there’d been nothing dour or hard-faced or stern about him when he’d kissed her senseless. He’d seemed just as moved by it as she had been.
When we’re alone, call me Morgan.
She’d thought that meant he intended to be alone with her again, that he perhaps even intended to kiss her again. Instead, he didn’t seem to want to be near her.
Then again, what did she know of men and kissing? Certainly the Mere Superieure had never discussed such things with her, nor had her father. Perhaps kisses meant little to men. Perhaps her inexperience had dulled his interest in her. Or perhaps he’d only meant to kiss her that one time, as a lesson of sorts.
What Rillieux did to you—that wasna truly a kiss. This is a kiss.
Amalie bowed her head, turned it slightly, and looked furtively back at him. Wearing his finest new attire, he knelt, head bowed, wooden rosary between his big hands, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in heartfelt prayer. Even here in the chapel when she ought to have been tending to her immortal soul, the sight of him stirred something in her blood.
The fullness of his mouth, a mouth that had worked magic against hers. The dark slashes of his eyebrows, eyebrows that had furrowed with emotion when he’d kissed her. His big, well-shaped hands, hands that had fisted in her hair, slid up her spine, held her tight.
Abruptly everyone around her stood, and she realized she’d been so distracted, she’d lost her place in the Mass. For shame, Amalie!
She crossed herself, rose to her feet, and joined the procession toward the altar for communion, wondering what was the matter with her.
But, in truth, she already knew. Morgan.
His kiss had kindled something inside her, woken her to something new. And now she felt like a candle that had been lit—and then left to burn in the darkness alone. She must find a way to talk with him—just the two of them.
Morgan walked alongside Bourlamaque and Rillieux as they made their way across the sunny parade grounds from the chapel with Amalie on Bourlamaque’s arm. Distracted by her presence and wondering what penance the priest would require if he knew that Morgan had sat through most of Mass with a raging cockstand, he only half listened as Bourlamaque described his new plans for placing the artillery along the northern ramparts.
Morgan had purposely seated himself away from Amalie in the chapel, but clearly not far enough away. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from watching her as she prayed, her hair hidden beneath a modest veil of white lace, her head bowed to reveal the graceful nape of her neck, her rosary of silver and seed pearls clasped between her delicate hands. Even as he’d closed his eyes and prayed to God to curb his lust, he’d been able to hear her voice—as sweet and clear as birdsong. The Almighty, it seemed, was leaving the matter of lust up to Morgan.
Not that Morgan hadn’t tried. He’d done his best these past days to dampen her affection for him, treating her coolly when he spoke to her at all, and refusing to be alone with her. It pained him to see the hurt upon her bonnie face and to know that he was the cause. But it was far better to reward her affection with indifference than to see her shamed on account of him, her skirts torn, her head shorn bare, her face bruised, as had happened in his village on Skye to a lass who’d gotten herself with child by a redcoat just after the defeat at Culloden.
It did not help matters that he slept under Bourlamaque’s roof and therefore shared his table. Each meal had become a test of his mettle, his resolve to deny Amalie his regard. He’d have asked Bourlamaque to banish him to the officers’ barracks, but then how could he do his nightly spying?
He’d returned to Bourlamaque’s study twice more to peruse new dispatches from Montcalm, memorizing what he’d read. More artillery on their way to Quebec City. Redoubts being built along the St. Lawrence. An outbreak of smallpox contained. How he’d get this news to his brothers and Wentworth, Morgan knew not.
“If Amherst makes the same mistake as Abercrombie and attacks without artillery, I should like—“ “He won’t.” Morgan cut Bourlamaque off. “Amherst is a far better soldier than Nanny Crombie.”
“What did you call him?” Bourlamaque asked. “Nanny Crombie—on account of his forever switherin’ between one plan and another, never kennin’ his own mind.” “You Scots do find many ways to demonstrate insubordination toward your superior officers, don’t you?” The conceited tone of Rillieux’s voice left no doubt that he would never have done the same.
Morgan grinned. “Only when they deserve it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amalie hide a smile behind her fingers.
Bourlamaque chuckled. “Lieutenant, let us take what we now know of the Rangers’ aim and range and cut back the forest to deny them cover. Add the timber to the abatis. It saved us once, and it might yet again.”
At these words, Morgan’s mind echoed with cannon fire, gunshots, and the cries of dying men. ‘Twas there among the trees Bourlamaque wished to fell that the Rangers had fought last summer. ‘Twas there they’d lost so many men—good men, and true. Cam, a close friend and one of the best, had died with French lead in his chest. Lemuel had been shot in the belly. Charlie Gordon had lost his head to a cannon ball—and it had never been found.
“We shall start tomorrow, monsieur,” Rillieux said in French, giving Bourlamaque a smart bow before turning away. “One moment, Lieutenant,” Bourlamaque called after him. “Major, if you would be so kind as to see Amalie the rest of the way, I must speak with Lieutenant Rillieux.” Then Bourlamaque and Rillieux walked toward the officers’ barracks, speaking together in quiet French. For a moment Morgan tried to catch their words, then he felt her beside him. He looked down—and knew he was in trouble.
She gazed up at him, uncertainty and hurt in her eyes.
“What I have done to displease you, Morgan?”
“Il. . .fait . . . beau.” Morgan
‘Twas the perfect spring day, the sky stretching clear and blue above them, wee birds singing for their mates, the trees green with new leaves. All around them, the world was abundant with new life, flaunting its fertility.
Morgan felt it from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, that feeling known among the Muhheconneok as the spring rising. As the sap rose in the trees, so a man’s blood rose in his veins—aye, and a woman’s, too.
As innocent as a rose, Amalie walked beside him, looking much like a spring flower herself in a gown of soft petal pink. Her sweet face lit up with a smile. “ Tres bien, monsieur.”
He leaned down, lowered his voice. “It’s Morgan, lass. Remember?”
She looked shyly away, but her smile did not fade. “En francais, s’il vous plait.”
“Je m’appelle Morgan.”
“C’est bien—“ She met his gaze from beneath sooty lashes, the sunlight catching her hair, making it gleam like polished chestnut. “Morgan.”
He had tried to prevent this. As God was his witness, he had tried. Unable to bear her unhappiness, he’d assured her that she’d done nothing to displease him, then tried to ease her distress by explaining that he was working hard to prove himself worthy of Bourlamaque’s trust.
“My duty to him comes afore all else, lass,” he’d said, unaware Bourlamaque was standing behind him, listening. “I’d say you’ve earned some time for yourself,” Bourlamaque had said. “And you did win that wager. You may have the afternoon to begin your learning of French.” And so Morgan had been ensnared in a web of his own making.
Bourlamaque had suggested that the two of them walk through the fort so that he might learn the names of the things around him. He’d given them leave to go where they chose so long as they did not stray outside the gates. When Morgan had suggested that it might not be safe for Amalie to be seen in his company, Bourlamaque had brushed his concern aside. “I know my men, Major. There is not one among them who would harm her.”