UNTAMED by Pamela Clare
For a time Morgan simply held her and watched her sleep, delighting in the moment, memorizing her scent, every curve of her soft body and feature of her sweet face. After tonight he might never see her again. He would return to the Rangers and the dangers of the battlefield, she to the quiet and safety of the abbey, each awaiting the end of the war. And when enough blood had been shed and the British had won—for Morgan was more certain than ever that they would—what then? There would be peace along the frontier. Morgan would be free at last to leave the killing behind and return to the MacKinnon farm to work the earth with his brothers. But to the victor alone went the spoils. Amalie and all the French in the Canadas would face British wrath. For the British had made it clear that they meant not just to win the war, but to seize the land for their feckless German king. Would they allow the French in Quebec and Montreal to remain, or would they force them off the land as they had the poor Acadians? An image sprang unbidden to his mind of Amalie, alone and fatherless, far from Bourlamaque, being torn from the safety of the abbey’s walls by leering British soldiers, Catholic-haters, men who would find it amusing to rape women sworn to chastity.
And in that moment Morgan made a vow.
If he survived to war’s end, he would be there to protect her.
You’re in love wi’ her, laddie.
The thought hit him like a fist in the gut, and he knew it was true.
Had not some part of him loved her since he’d been in chains and had awoken to find her beside him? What a fine twist of fate that he, who had made love with many women without loving any of them, should lose himself to a wee French virgin, the daughter of the enemy, a woman he could not have. God’s blood, he loved her, for leaving her felt like cutting off a part of himself. And yet he could not stay.
What harm would it cause to stay one more night? One more week? A fortnight?
But Morgan knew better. If he stayed tonight, and the next, and the next, there would dawn a day when he’d lose his will to leave her altogether.
Marshaling himself, he slid from the bed, dressed, and gathered his gear, thinking through his plan. He would make his way through the shadows to the postern gate—they’d led him through it when he’d dug the latrine—and he’d subdue the two sentries on duty there, doing his best not to kill anyone. Then he’d cross the pier to the same riverbank where he’d been shot. From there, he’d be free, provided no one spotted him from the walls and sounded the alarm. Once he reached the enfolding shadows of the forest, they would not be able to track him.
He loaded his rifle and pistol, pulled on his tumpline pack, and slipped his sword through the strap—a Ranger again, apart from the French uniform. Then he walked silently to the bed and looked down at her, pain and regret swelling in his chest until he feared he would not be able to breathe. He’d given her all the love he could give tonight without taking her maidenhead. He’d undressed her, carried her to his bed, kissed away her tears, caressed her, brought her to her peak with his hands again and again, until she lay, weak and utterly spent, in his arms. Then he’d held her through the watches of the night, wishing dawn would never come.
“Tha moran ghradh agam ort, dh’Amalaidh,” he whispered.
My love lies upon you, Amalie.
He lifted the rosary from around his neck and placed the wooden beads in her palm. Then he took the tartan sash from his French uniform and draped it across the pillow beside her, branding her with Clan MacKinnon’s colors. Would she know what that meant?
He bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then strode quietly to the window. Outside, the sentry was in his usual place, asleep. The skies were clear, the moon riding high, the open night beckoning. But not as much as the lass who lay sleeping in the bed behind him. He turned away from the window, needing one last glance, his gaze raking her in. She looked so peaceful, lost in the forgetfulness of slumber. The blow came from behind, pain exploding against his skull, shattering his thoughts.
A burst of bright white.
And then only darkness.
TWENTY-ONE
Amalie opened her eyes, unable to say what had awoken her. “Morgan?”
She felt something in her hand.
His rosary.
And beside her on her pillow lay his plaid sash.
He is gone.
She clutched the two precious objects to her breast, her breath leaving her in a rush, tears stinging her eyes. She’d known he’d be leaving soon, but so soon?
And then it made sense—the intensity of his kisses, the way he’d spared no effort to pleasure her again and again, his refusal to remove his drawers or to let her touch him or to share himself with her fully. He’d been telling her farewell, knowing that he was leaving tonight.
Pain swelled in her chest, something inside her seeming to break.
And then she heard a sound—a groan? It came from outside the window.
Her pulse tripping, she sat up, only to remember that she was still naked. Slipping the rosary around her neck, she rose and hastily donned her nightgown, feeling the entire time that she was being watched. “M-Morgan?”
But there was no answer.
She walked toward the window, instinctively picking up his sash as she passed the bed, crumpling it in her hand. Slowly she tiptoed across the room. “Morgan?”
Still no answer.
Chills chased down her spine.
She reached the window, looked outside—and felt her blood turn to ice.
In the shadows stood Tomas and Simon, holding an unconscious Morgan between them, tying a cloth over his mouth. On the ground behind them lay the sentry—not asleep, but dead, his mouth slack, his neck at a strange angle. She drew a breath and might have screamed, had she not just then felt something cold and sharp press against her throat. “Don’t make a sound!” Rillieux moved into view from where he’d been lurking beside the window. He grasped her about the waist, dragged her over to the sill, and clamped a cruel hand over her mouth. Then his gaze raked over her, lust and hatred blatant on his face. “Sorry to disrupt your wedding night, my sweet little putain, but from the sound of it I’d say you’ve already had enough marital bliss. Besides, it seems the groom was in a hurry to leave your bed.”
Had he been listening at the window? The thought turned Amalie’s stomach. But she had bigger worries.
Rillieux yanked the sash from her hand and tied it painfully over her mouth, trapping her curses in her throat, silencing her. Then he turned to Tomas and Simon. “You’ll have to take her north with you. We can’t leave a witness.” Take her north? To Oganak?
Tomas and Simon looked at each other, and Tomas nodded to Rillieux.
Mon Dieu, non!
Cold horror uncoiled in her belly, snaking its way up her throat like bile. They were taking Morgan to Oganak, where they would torture him and burn him alive—and they were forcing her to go with them!
She met Tomas’s gaze, pleading without words for his help, but he looked guiltily away. Then Rillieux twisted her right arm painfully behind her back and forced her to walk before him.
Wake up, Morgan! Wake up!
But he did not wake—and she need look no farther than the tomahawk hanging from Tomas’s belt to see why.
God,please don’t let him die!
Through the shadows they crept toward the postern gate, following Tomas and Simon, who struggled to carry Morgan’s body between them, his gear on Tomas’s back. Amalie shivered despite the summer heat, her bare feet stumbling painfully over sharp stones, her legs not long enough to match Rillieux’s stride, forcing him to half drag and half carry her. And though Amalie prayed that someone would see them and raise the alarm, no one came.
How could Rillieux think to get away with this? Bourlamaque would send troops after them to bring them home. Rillieux would be hanged for kidnapping, Tomas and Simon beside him.
But how will he know you’ve been kidnapped?
The answer came swiftly, leaving Amalie sick and dizzy.
Bourlamaque
Abruptly, Rillieux jerked her to a stop, then called out.
“Marquet! Renaud!”
The two sentries standing near the postern gate stepped out of the shadows.
“I see it worked,” said one.
They were a part of this plot, too?
Morgan’s words came back to her. Though Bourlamaque has accepted me, not every man here has. To them, I am still the enemy. I wouldna see such a terrible fate befall you, lass.
One of the sentries stepped into their path, his gaze on Amalie. “You didn’t say anything about taking her! Are you mad? She’s Bourlamaque’s ward! He’ll kill you for this! You’d best take her back.”
Oh, thank God! Thank God!
But Rillieux only laughed. “She’s no longer Bourlamaque’s ward. She’s MacKinnon’s whore! If I leave her here, she’ll tell Bourlamaque everything, and the two of you will find yourselves in the guardhouse beside me. Now let us pass before someone sees us!”
Amalie struggled against Rillieux’s hold on her, tried to cry out, but her words were nothing more than strangled whimpers, his fingers digging like claws into her arms.
Please help me! Please!
The sentry did not move. “Look at her. Poor little thing! She’s terrified!”
“She’s afraid for the whoreson she married, not for herself. These two men are her cousins. I’m merely sending her north to live with them. She’ll come to no harm at their hands. Now, get out of my way, Renaud—and that’s an order!” Hesitantly, the sentry stepped aside. “I don’t like this.” Rillieux thrust Amalie before him, Tomas and Simon following with Morgan.
And then they were outside the gates, hurrying across the pier to the riverbank, nothing between them and the dark wall of the forest but sand.
Mary, Mother of God, help us!
They hadn’t gone deep into the forest when Amalie heard voices, and a dozen or so men stepped out of the shadows, their chests and faces painted with ash.
Abenaki. Her mother’s people.
Sick with dread and shivering with fear, she watched as they greeted Tomas and Simon, who dropped Morgan to the forest floor and stood about staring down at him, as if he were a great antlered buck they’d brought down. Then, with smiles on their faces, they began to recount their deeds at the fort—at least that’s what Amalie thought they were talking about, her Abenaki so limited that she understood only a word here and there.
“Come,” Rillieux whispered in her ear. “I should like to speak with you before you leave on your long journey.” He dragged her off into a stand of trees beyond earshot of the others. But once he got her there, it was clear he wanted to do far more than speak with her.
In a heartbeat, she found herself drawn back against him and held fast, one of his hands sliding over her breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples, the other thrusting up beneath her nightgown to grope between her thighs.
“Still wet.” Then he shoved her to the ground. “Whore!” She fell to her hands and knees, tried to scramble to her feet, but he landed on top of her, crushing her to the ground, that part of him hard and pressing against her hip. “You ought to have chosen me, Amalie.” His breath was sour, his whiskers burning her cheek. “Now I’ll take what I want anyway.”
One moment he was upon her, the next he lifted himself away slightly, and she knew he was fumbling with his breeches.
Terror clawing at her belly, Amalie rolled onto her back and kicked blindly at him again and again, driving her feet into his shoulders and chest and stomach, making him grunt and curse. He would not have her without a fight! She tore off the sash that had silenced her and managed to scream. “Morgan!”
But though she fought Rillieux, she could not overcome him.
“You little bitch!” He drew back bis fist and struck her across the face, once, twice, a third time, the pain of it stunning her, darkness threatening to swallow her. She felt him force her thighs apart, but could not summon the strength to stop him.
And then something strange happened.
In the bushes, she thought she saw Morgan. His gaze was fixed on Rillieux, hatred in his eyes, his face covered with sweat and war paint. Between his teeth, he held a hunting knife. She tried to reach for him. “Morgan?” But she must have imagined him, for in the next instant, she heard Rillieux grunt, and it was Simon who loomed over her, not Morgan.
“Come, cousin.” Simon lifted her to her feet, helping her to walk away from Rillieux, who lay on his back, moaning and clutching his head, his breeches down about his knees. Barely able to stand, her head throbbing, her mind numb with shock, she let Simon lead her back to the clearing, where the other men stood gathered around something, chuckling and whispering.
Then one of the men moved aside, and she saw. Still unconscious, Morgan lay with his arms and legs spread, tied by wrist and ankle to a travois. And Amalie understood. If she did not manage somehow to unbind him and help him to escape, he would burn to death in the fires of her grandmother’s village.
Morgan’s first thought was that he’d once again drunk too bloody much rum. His head throbbed. His throat was parched as sand. And when he opened his eyes, the world seemed to spin, the forest canopy swirling above him and, beyond that, a darkened sky.
Then he heard men’s voices.
“We can stop beyond the next marsh and let the girl rest.” “My cousin needs to grow stronger if she is to live among us.”
They were speaking Abenaki. And although Morgan didn’t recognize the first voice, he did recognize the second. It belonged to Tomas, Amalie’s cousin.
“If she is your cousin, why do you lead her on a rope like a slave?”
“She is my mother’s sister’s daughter, but she is also that one’s wife. If I release her, she will try to aid him.” A man laughed. “She might try, but she would not succeed.
There are thirty-two of us. She is but one small woman.” Slowly, the meaning of the words began to penetrate the ache in Morgan’s skull, a vague sense of alarm threading its way from his belly to his brain.
Amalie?
He opened his eyes and found himself a prisoner, tied to a travois, leather bonds digging into his wrists and ankles, his mouth gagged with a foul-tasting cloth. What he’d thought was his head spinning was in fact the passing of the trees overhead as the travois bounced and jerked across the forest floor, dragged by two warriors. Around him walked more than a score of Abenaki, including Simon and Tomas. And behind Tomas walked Amalie.
He was leading her like a dog, a leather cord tied around her throat. She wore only her bridal nightgown, the white silk now stained by grass and dirt, but still revealing more than it concealed. Although he could not see her face, he could feel her fear and despair, and he knew from her stumbling that she was exhausted.
Rage, red and scalding, burned up from his gut and chased the fog from his mind, bringing him fully awake, life surging into his lungs and limbs.
Then she stumbled and fell with a cry.
Tomas turned on her, glaring. “Get up!”
A tall warrior with long hair strode angrily over to her. But rather than striking Amalie, he shoved Tomas away and jerked the leather cord from his hand. “I told you she needed to stop and rest. What would your mother say to see you treat her sister’s daughter so?”
With that, the tall warrior drew out his knife and cut the cord from around her neck. “Tanial, bring me that spare pair of moccasins from your pack. You can have my share of MacKinnon’s spoils.”
That share happened to be the flask of poisoned rum. As Morgan watched, infuriated by his own helplessness, the tall warrior slipped moccasins onto Amalie’s bare feet and gave her water from his own waterskin, muttering reassurances to her in French, tenderness on his face. Part of Morgan wanted
If anything should happen to him, she would need a strong man to watch over her, someone who could both protect her and care for her.
“Merci, monsieur,” she said, her voice sounding so small and frightened.
Then a warrior near Morgan shouted to the others. “He’s awake!”
They crowded around him, painted faces staring curiously down.
You think you’ve got me, aye, laddies? But ‘tis a long road yet to Oganak.
“Let me give him food and water!” Amalie stood toe to toe with Tomas, her body shaking with anger, water from the river they’d just crossed gathered in a spare waterskin.
Do not show your fear, Amalie. Remember what Atoan told you.
Atoan, the tallest of the Abenaki, had seemingly taken her under his protection, freeing her from the cord Tomas had bound round her neck, giving her moccasins, water, and food, stopping their progress so that she could rest, whispering guidance to her, even bearing her on his back at the river crossing.
“Abenaki women are strong, little one,” he’d told her. “Act like you are not afraid, and it will go easier for you.” Now she tried to do just that. “Monsieur MacKinnon spared your life, Tomas, or have you forgotten how he freely gave you his blood when he could have taken yours?” Tomas’s eyes narrowed, his face flushing red with mortification, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. “What is this?” Tanial asked. “What does she mean, Tomakwa? Tell us.”
Not waiting for Tomas’s permission, she jerked her arm from his grip and pushed past him, leaving him to answer the thorny questions. She walked to the travois, relieved to see that Morgan was both awake and alert, the rage in his eyes when he saw her bruised face proof that the blow to his head had not dulled his mind.
She eased the gag from his mouth. “Drink.”
He drank deeply, swallow after swallow, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I will cut you free,” she whispered. “When the time is right, I will cut you free.”
“Nay, lass!” he whispered furiously. “’Tis too chancie! They might turn against you. Now tell me—who struck you?” “Eat!” She fed him little bites of pemmican, unshed tears pricking her eyes as she remembered this morning’s horror. “Rillieux tried to .., tried to rape me. Simon stopped him.”