UNTAMED by Pamela Clare
Aye, Morgan was going to enjoy this.
The door creaked open, light falling across the rough-hewn boards and straw at Morgan’s feet. Bourlamaque stepped inside, followed by an angry-looking Rillieux.
Bourlamaque met Morgan’s gaze, his face tight-lipped with fury. He pointed to Morgan. “Release him and apologize.” Rillieux hesitated, drawing a deep breath. Then he took the key off its hook on the wall. “I regret the misunderstanding, Monsieur Mac—“ “Major MacKinnon,” Bourlamaque corrected him. Morgan saw a muscle in Rillieux’s jaw jump. “I regret the misunderstanding, Major MacKinnon,” Rillieux jammed the key into the lock on Morgan’s cage, opened it, then knelt down to free Morgan’s ankles. “I accept your apology.” Morgan grinned. “With me doin’ the bleedin’ and blood on his knife, I can see why you thought I was to blame.”
The hatred in Rillieux’s eyes when he looked up at Morgan left no doubt that the neach diolain wanted him dead.
Amalie burned. Even with her blankets kicked aside, she burned. She closed her eyes, tried again to sleep, but couldn’t, her body coursing with strange feelings, her mind filled with Morgan. Each time she moved, her nightgown rubbed against her nipples, sending frissons of heat into her belly, just as he had done when he’d cupped her breast and run his thumb over its crest. And where her thighs pressed together, she felt an unfamiliar ache.
Was this the lust that the Sisters had so often warned against?
She thought it must be. Oh, but it was as sweet as it was maddening.
They hadn’t told her that. Thinking of Morgan seemed to be the only cure for it, and yet it was no cure at all, for the more she thought of him the more she ached. Morgan carrying her to the bench. Morgan nipping her skin with his teeth. Morgan kissing the swell of her breast. And afterward, the way he’d held her, his heart beating every bit as hard as hers.
But that wasn’t the whole of it, for there were qualities about him that touched her heart as well. His sense of honor, the way he’d held himself away from her, his fists clenched in his pockets as they left the garden. His protectiveness, the way he’d thrust her behind him when Tomas and Simon had appeared in their path. His strength, the way he’d overcome Tomas without hurting him, offering his own blood to stem the fighting. Amalie had never met a man like him.
She got out of bed, walked to her window, and thrust open the panes, hoping the cool night air might soothe her heated skin. The stars shone brightly in the sky, the moon hanging over the forest, crickets and frogs singing their lullabies. The night breeze carried the mingled scents of forest, river, and soldier’s campfires. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. She leaned against the sill, breathed in the cool, fresh air, her mind drifting.
How do you say “beautiful woman” in French?
It had seemed such a magic moment, his gaze warm upon her like sunshine, blossoms all around them. Did he truly think her beautiful?
You brought me here because you wanted me to kiss you again, aye?
Yes, she had. Somehow he’d known the truth of it.
Say it, Amalie. Say it. . . in French!
Embrassez-moi, Morgan!
She pressed her fingers to her lips, felt them tingle at the memory.
Then she heard what sounded like a man snoring. Below, his back propped against the officers’ barracks next door, was a sentry, sound asleep at his post. No doubt assigned to make certain Morgan did not escape, he was fortunate that—
Amalie gasped, froze.
Morgan sat directly below her in his open window, clad only in his drawers, one arm resting on his bent knee—and he was watching her.
He said not a word, but looked up at her, his eyes dark, his bare chest rising with each deep breath, his warrior marks and the cut on his forearm visible in the moonlight, the wampum on his armbands seeming to glitter. Even from this distance, she could tell that he burned as she did, his maleness calling to her.
She wanted him to hold her again, to kiss her, and yet she could not go to him nor even speak to him, not without risking discovery. Should Bourlamaque find the two of them together at night in this state of undress, Morgan would surely be punished, perhaps even flogged. Still, she wanted to touch him, needed to touch him.
Barely able to breathe, an idea forming in her mind, she reached behind her, pulled the ribbon from her braid, and began to unbind it, strand by strand, until her hair hung freely past her hips. Then she leaned down and let the heavy mass spill out over the windowsill.
She heard his quick intake of breath, saw the muscles of his bare belly jerk. He sat upright and reached with his left arm, stretching higher and higher, but still he could not reach her. Then, in one smooth motion, he stood, his bare feet balanced on the sill, his face mere feet away, his gaze locked with hers. He gathered a thick handful of hair, pressed it to his face, and inhaled, his eyes drifting shut.
She had no idea how long they stood there like that, the two of them in the moonlight. She only knew that it ended far too soon.
“Sleep, Amalie,” he whispered, releasing her locks.
And then he was gone.
SIXTEEN
Morgan swung the ax, then jerked it free and swung again. He pushed himself, striking hard, welcoming the strain, pounding out his pent-up frustration and anger, each blow sending up a shower of woodchips. Sweat trickled down his temples, down his back, down his bare chest, the summer sun hot against his skin, the air close and sweltrie. He heard timber crack, saw the tree begin to lean, and stepped out of the way as the young conifer crashed to the ground. “He hacks down trees as if they were the enemy,” a young soldier said in French.
“Perhaps he does not like trees,” whispered another, sniggering. “ Vous etes des idiots!” said a third. “It was here last year where he and his men fought Montcalm. The Rangers fired upon us from behind these very trees, but many of his men were killed by our cannonade. Perhaps that is why he seems angry.”
Morgan felt an urge to give the three lads a thrashing, but willed himself to ignore them. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, then dropped the ax, picked up a saw, and began to cut off the thickest branch with deep strokes.
He didn’t know why he felt so restless, so bloody cankersome. ‘Twas as if his skin were stretched too tight, as if he were suffocating, as if something inside him were about to burst.
Perhaps it was this place. The trees echoed with memories of bloodshed and anguish, but he’d expected that. He’d volunteered for this work crew only because it gave him a chance to prove to Bourlamaque that he could be trusted outside the fort walls, to build the man’s confidence in him, to lull Bourlamaque into letting down his guard so that Morgan could escape. He needed to leave this place before he grew too fond of the old man, before he taught Bourlamaque’s soldiers something that would cost Ranger lives.
But that wasn’t the whole of it. He’d been on edge since hearing yesterday that Connor and the men had attacked and looted a supply train on its way down from Fort Saint-Frederic. They’d taken everything of worth and killed thirty two French soldiers and four civilian wagoners, leaving only two camp followers and one lad of sixteen alive. The survivors described killings that had been deliberately brutal—wounded men finished by bayonets, soldiers cut down while pleading for mercy, the wagoners shot, dragged to the ground, and shot again.
It hardly sounded like the Rangers Morgan knew. But there was no doubt that it had been the Rangers. The women had reacted with horror when they’d seen Morgan, pointing to him and bursting into tears, while the lad had accused Morgan of doing most of the killing. It had taken the surgeon five minutes to calm their fears and explain that Morgan was not the man who’d attacked them. But if Morgan’s resemblance to the leader of the attack hadn’t been enough to prove it was the Rangers, Connor had sent a message to Bourlamaque.
“Tell Bourlamaque that Connor MacKinnon seeks his vengeance!” he’d shouted in the lad’s face.
‘Twas regrettable that he’d shouted the words in French. Morgan had been
As Morgan was not now in chains, he supposed Bourlamaque had believed the tale.
Morgan had lain awake last night, thinking of Connor and the French lives that had been needlessly lost. It made his chest ache to think of the guilt and grief Connor would one day feel for having killed so mercilessly. From the sound of it, he’d been blood-drunk, wild with rage, indifferent to pity. Though it was not Morgan’s doing that his brothers thought him dead, he might have been able to prevent this had he managed to escape.
Instead, he lived trapped in a web of lies, while Connor and the men risked death in reckless fighting, and French blood was spilled in a mistaken effort to avenge him.
But that’s not the only reason you cannae sleep, is it laddie?
Nay, for Satan, it was not.
Most nights he’d lain in his own sweat, his blood thrumming through his veins, his thoughts bent on Amalie. Since the night she had let down her hair to him in the moonlight—
Mary, Mother of God, have mercy!—he’d thought of little else but her. Even should he outlive Methuselah, he would never forget that night or the sight of her, so bonnie, her hair tumbling thick into his hands, a cascade of perfumed silk. They’d had four more French lessons since then—or should he call them kissing lessons? The little nymph was a fast learner, but then he’d spent far more time schooling her in kissing than she had schooling him in French. Morgan had kissed her until he’d tasted her lips, her throat, the swells of her breasts, until she’d gone weak in his arms, until his control was near to snapping. And each time he’d told himself it wouldn’t happen again.
You’re a bloody liar, and well you ken it, laddie.
Aye, but she made a liar of him with her big eyes, her sweet smile and soft curves. She was all softness and sweetness, soft skin, soft lips, soft breasts—and, when he kissed her, soft, trembling sighs. Eve and her apple he might have resisted, but Amalie...
How could any lass as innocent as she tempt him so sorely? He sawed through the last bit of wood, caught the thick branch with the rip of his boot and kicked it to the side. Before the young French soldiers could tie a rope around it and drag it toward the abatis, he was already sawing on the next. Innocent Amalie was, aye, but behind that angelic face, beneath the stays she kept so properly laced, beyond the little pearl rosary that hung from her skirts, was a woman as passionate as any who’d ever lived. Whether she knew it yet he could not say.
But he did. Och, aye, he did. And the knowledge burned inside him until she was a sickness in his blood, his lust for her a form of madness. How Iain would mock him if he could see Morgan now. It was not so long ago that Iain had been witless with desire for Annie. And what had Morgan said to him then?
Och, for the love of God, Iain! If you want her so badly, then bed her or wed her! But dinnae keep me awake wi’ your randy tossin’ about!
A fine comeuppance this was!
Morgan knew Amalie was on edge, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she moved against him when he kissed her, hear it in her pleading whimpers. She had a virgin’s body, aye, but now that body was afire with a woman’s need. She wanted more from him than kisses, even if she did not know what that meant. How much did she know about men and women?
‘Tis no’ your place to teach her, MacKinnon. That pleasure belongs to her husband. Dinnae be forgettin’ that.
If he’d been like most men, he’d have wooed her onto her back and left her with a big belly afore summer’s ending. But he wasn’t like most men. Och, he loved the lassies right enough and had the needs of a man in full vigor. But he’d ne’er been the cruel sort who’d ease his lust with a woman with no thought of the cost to her. Among the Muhheconneok. lasses took lovers at will and bore children without shame. But it was not so among the British or the French or even the Scots. Were he to bed Amalie, her shame would be twofold—the shame of losing her innocence and the even worse shame of losing it to a man who’d betrayed her. Morgan cared for Amalie far too much to hurt her so. She deserved the love and protection of a husband, but because of the war, Morgan could not even hope to take her to wife, despite whatever girlish dreams of marriage her mind was spinning. And if you cannae wed her, laddie, you cannae bed her.
The sooner Bourlamaque sent her back to Trois Rivieres, the better. Morgan knew Bourlamaque had written a letter to the Mere Superieure, he knew, too, that Connor’s attack on the supply train had postponed Bourlamaque’s plans to send Amalie beyond the fort’s protective walls. “Perhaps next time your brother’s restraint will be even less in evidence,” Bourlamaque had said, his jaw clenched, deep regret in his eyes. “Even if they spared her life, I would not want her to see such carnage. God in Heaven!” And so, for now, Amalie remained.
Morgan heard a shout and looked up to see soldiers, Rillieux and Durand among them, tossing what looked like a white ball back and forth. Not so disciplined as Wentworth’s redcoats, were they, these French laddies? He cut through the branch and kicked it aside in time to see Rillieux approach, the strange ball in his hands. Durand was behind him, a troubled look on his face. “This must be one of yours,” Rillieux said, tossing the ball to Morgan.
Morgan dropped the saw, caught the ball—and felt the breath leave his lungs.
‘Twas no ball. ‘Twas most of a man’s skull, the bones bleached white by the sun, the empty eye sockets staring into nothingness. It had been picked clean of flesh, apart from a thatch of carrot-red hair.
Red hair. Charlie Gordon.
Rage pounding in his veins, Morgan looked up, met Rillieux’s amused gaze, and knew what it was to want to kill. “You filthy son of a whore!”
Amalie jabbed the rose stem into the vase, then withdrew it again, cross that she could not get the arrangement to look the way she wanted it to look. The mouth of the vase was too wide, the stems too fragile. She had cut them herself, hoping to set them on the table during dinner, not only for their beauty but also as a reminder to Morgan of their time in the garden. Only yesterday, he’d plucked one for her and—
“Oullie!” She gasped, popped her finger in her mouth and tasted blood where a thorn had pricked her, feeling an absurd impulse to cry.
She hadn’t slept well last night, and lack of rest had left her cross. So many nights she’d lain in bed, unable to sleep for thinking of Morgan, wanting . .. Wanting what? If only she knew.
Never had she been so aware of a man, of his every word, every glance, every gesture. Never had she imagined that the simple press of lips, the swirl of tongue against tongue, the feel of a man’s hands upon her skin could leave her so frantic, so needy, as if her very blood could hunger. But there was more to her feelings for him than desire.
For the first time since her father’s death, she didn’t feel alone. When she was with Morgan, she felt wanted, needed, at home. He listened to her, laughed with her, talked with her as if her thoughts truly mattered to him. He kissed her with that same attentiveness, as if her pleasure were every bit as important to him as his own. He was protective of her, without ordering her about as Lieutenant Rillieux tried—
A commotion at the front door interrupted her thoughts—men’s angry voices, the heavy stomp of feet. She hurried to the hallway in time to see Lieutenant Rillieux and Lieutenant Durand pass by on their way toward Bourlamaque’s study, Rillieux holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, Durand looking uneasy and pale.
“Bourlamaque will have no choice but to act!” Lieutenant Rillieux’s face was bruised and twisted with rage. “He cannot ignore an assault on one of his own officers—a French officer—and hold the respect of his soldiers.” And Amalie knew. Morgan had hit him.
A knot of dread in her belly, she waited until Rillieux and Durand had been admitted to Bourlamaque’s study, then tiptoed to the closed door and pressed her ear agains
For a moment there was silence, and then someone cleared his throat. “Not altogether, monsieur.”
That was Lieutenant Durand.
“Lieutenant Rillieux and some of the grenadiers made sport with the skull, tossing it back and forth between them. Then the lieutenant threw it to MacKinnon, saying, ‘This must be one of yours.’ MacKinnon seemed to recognize it. Then he called Lieutenant Rillieux a .. .” Durand cleared his throat again. “A son of a whore . .. and struck him, monsieur.” “You were outside the gates when this happened?” Bourlamaque sounded angry. “Where is Major MacKinnon now?” Lieutenant Rillieux answered. “He walked off, carrying the skull with—“ “Where is he?” Bourlamaque’s shout made Amalie jump. “I believe he was heading toward the cemetery, monsieur,” Durand answered.
Amalie did not wait to hear more, but picked up her skirts and ran.
She found Morgan in the cemetery, just as Lieutenant Durand had suspected. Wearing only boots and breeches, he knelt upon the earth in the far corner, digging a hole in the soil with his ax blade. Even from a distance she could see the anger on his face.
She approached him in silence, then stood and watched as he dug a shallow grave, his jaw clenched, sweat trickling down his temples, dirt sticking to the slick skin of his chest and belly. Beside him. something white lay on the earth. The skull.
Its jawbone was missing. Two wide eye sockets gazed at the sky as if in surprise. A shock of orange-red hair clung to its scalp.
Whoever he’d been, he’d died the same day as her father.
Amalie shivered.
Morgan did not seem to notice her, but dug in silence until he’d hollowed out a small grave. Then he hurled the ax aside and gently picked up the skull. He seemed hesitant to lay it in the earth, and Amalie understood.