Untamed (10 page)

He heard a clamor outside his private study—shouts, curses, a string of Gaelic oaths—and had just tucked the plaid in his pocket when his doors were thrown wide and Iain MacKinnon strode in together with Captain MacKinnon and Captain Joseph, a red-faced Lieutenant Cooke struggling to keep pace behind them.

“My lord, the MacKinnon brothers are here,” Lieutenant Cooke stammered.

“So I see. You are dismissed, Lieutenant—and close the doors behind you.”

“Aye, my lord.” Cooke gave a little bow and was gone.

“Your Immensity.” Iain MacKinnon, the eldest of the three MacKinnon men, had never been one to waste time on pleasantries. “What word have you of Morgan? I would hear it now.”

Had the MacKinnon brothers and their men not been so skilled at war and woodcraft, their treasonous insults and unceasing hatred of William and his royal grandfather might have earned them a berth on a prison barge. Most of the time, however, William found their disrespect a refreshing respite from the fawning and flattery that came with being the son of a royal princess. No one had dared call him a “wee German princeling” before he’d met the MacKinnon brothers. But there was no diversion in their behavior for him tonight.

He held out the parchment and watched as Iain read through it. The missive had arrived late this afternoon, borne by a French messenger carrying a flag of truce. It stated that, despite the care of Bourlamaque’s personal surgeon, Major Morgan MacKinnon had died of his injuries and that his body had been claimed by the Abenaki.

The color drained from the eldest MacKinnon’s face. “Och, Christ! Sweet Jesus, nay!”

Captain MacKinnon snatched the parchment from his brother’s hand, his gaze searching over the page. Then he dropped the letter, sank into a chair, and buried his unshaven face in his hands. “Oh, Mary, Mother of God! Forgi’e me, Morgan!”

Captain Joseph glared at William through dark eyes, then bent down and spoke softly to Captain MacKinnon in his heathen tongue.

“So Morgan…My brother…is dead?” Iain MacKinnon met William’s gaze, an expression of deep grief on his face.

“The message bears the signature of Bourlamaque himself. It arrived with this.” William withdrew the strip of plaid from his pocket and handed it to his former major, who snatched it away from him, then clenched it in his fist. “My condolences for your loss.”

“I should ne’er ha’ left the Rangers,” Iain said, almost as if speaking to himself, clutching the tattered and bloodied strip of wool. “I should ha’ stayed wi’ the men.”

William watched their grief unfold, though with less anger than he’d imagined. He considered himself a student of human nature. He derived private joy from observing others, measuring people’s sense against their passions, watching them struggle with their own natures and those of others. He found it quite diverting to use his insights into their foibles and flaws to predict and even manipulate their actions.

But although he had anticipated the brothers’ grief, he could not say he understood it. He had never been particularly close with his siblings. As a superfluous third son, he’d had to compete with his two older brothers for their father’s approval and their mother’s attention from the moment of his birth. If he should perish in battle, he rather doubted they’d have two words to say about it. Neither of them had bidden him farewell when he’d set sail from London to New York, nor had he heard a word from them since.

Iain MacKinnon met his gaze once more. “ ’Twas more merciful a death than I feared he might suffer. At least he was spared flames.”

Then Captain MacKinnon sprang out of the chair and pointed a condemning finger at William. “ ’Tis your fault, you heretic bastard. If no’ for you, Morgan would ne’er have set foot near that accursed fort. You forced him to fight. You as good as killed him yourself, you bloody Sassenach!”

Anger at last.

“Whatever makes you say that, Captain?” William flicked the lace at his cuff, keeping his tone of voice dispassionate. “As I recall, Major MacKinnon volunteered to serve His Majesty.”

Captain MacKinnon glared at him with undisguised hatred and might have struck him had his brother and Captain Joseph not restrained him. “Aye, he
volunteered
—but only after you entrapped Iain by threatenin’ to see us hanged!”

It had been William’s great fortune to observe the MacKinnon brothers in a street fight and to press them—through less than honest means that he did not regret—into service. And although they hated him for it, he cared not. Their successes in this war had added immeasurably to his own, earning him favor with his grandsire and helping to turn the tide of the conflict toward victory.

William allowed his voice to take on an angry edge. “Restrain yourself, Captain, lest you prove unworthy for command and force me to recall your eldest brother to his former post.”

At those words, Connor immediately stilled, his sun-browned face blanching.

Then from the doorway came a woman’s voice. “You wouldna dare!”

Lady Anne.

William’s pulse tripped. Why had Cooke not informed William she was here?

Her chin high, she crossed the room to stand beside her husband, looking enraged and beautiful, tears on her lovely face, a sleeping baby in her arms. “My husband is no longer yours to command. I willna hear of it.”

William bowed. “Lady Anne.”

She no longer carried the title “lady,” of course, having married a commoner, but William persisted in using it, his not-so-subtle way of refusing to recognize her marriage.

“Lord William.” She returned the bow with a slight curtsy. “We have suffered a terrible blow this day. I ask that you forgi’e Connor his hasty words and let us tend to our grief.”

“Very well.” William studied her for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Captain MacKinnon. “Report to me tomorrow morning after muster, Captain. And unless you’d like to spend a week in the guardhouse, do so with your composure restored. You are dismissed.”

William turned to look unseeing out the window, his hand once again creeping inside his pocket to feel the black king, his heart still beating erratically. Beautiful, unpredictable Lady Anne—daughter of the Earl of Rothesay, now the wife of a Catholic Scot, a Highland barbarian, a mere Ranger. She might have been William’s mistress and lived a life of luxury.

He found himself tempted to call her husband back into service just for the privilege of seeing her about the fort each day. With Morgan MacKinnon dead, the Rangers would surely need the guidance and skill of their former commander, the man who’d led them for three years. Certainly, it would be in the best interests of the Crown to recall him.

And if Iain MacKinnon were to die in battle, leaving Lady Anne and her infant son alone? Would Lady Anne seek solace and protection in William’s bed?

’Twas a tempting notion.

Chapter 6

M
organ looked toward the window, where darkness pressed against greased parchment, the long night weighing heavily upon him. He’d dreamt of battle—of gunfire and gore, the stench of blood and the sight of broken bodies, the crash of cannon and the cries of dying men. He’d woken from nightmares to find himself in this living hell, chained to this little bed, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw by his shackles, his joints and muscles aching from being kept in one position for so long.

Savor these wee pains while you can, laddie
.

’Twould get no better from here. Once he was strong enough to stand, Bourlamaque would order him moved to the guardhouse. Then they would shackle him in a cage, and the interrogation would begin. Whatever was left of him after that would be given to the Abenaki to roast alive.

’Tis likely to hurt a bit more than being shot, aye?

The dread that slept in his belly was roused once more and crept into his chest. He closed his eyes, drew breath into his lungs, and forced it down. ’Twas surely part of Bourlamaque’s strategy to leave him here, chained and helpless, where he could do nothing but think of the days to come and the torment they would bring. The bastard no doubt hoped that Morgan’s fear would prey upon his courage and weaken his resolve. But the MacKinnons had never been cowards.

“Audentes fortuna iuvat.”

Morgan whispered his clan’s motto.

Fortune assists the daring.

He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness.

He would find a way out of this. He must.

Chained and as weak as he was, he could not hope to escape today nor even tomorrow. Even were he not shackled, he hadn’t yet the strength to run or fight. Bourlamaque would expect him to attempt escape when they moved him to the guardhouse and would order him placed in heavy chains and set armed soldiers to escort him. Nay, there would be no chance to break away until he was outside the fort.

But once he was away, ’twas a fortnight’s journey to the Abenaki village through leagues of dark forest, over raging rivers, through fen and bog. On that long journey, anything could happen. And ’twas there he must break away.

Morgan shifted, tried to ease the strain on his shoulders and ankles, iron biting into his bruised and blistered skin.

Had Bourlamaque’s lying missive reached Wentworth? Did his brothers and the men now believe him dead? Would they blame themselves?

Aye, they would. Iain would curse himself for giving up his command and seeking a new life with Annie. Connor would hate himself, believing that he’d left Morgan to die when he ought to have saved him. Joseph would wonder why he hadn’t foreseen Morgan’s death in a dream. Even the men would blame themselves, Dougie most of all, for ’twas he whose life Morgan had stayed behind to save.

Och, the bletherin’ idiots!

What they ought to do is get good and bloody drunk! They should play the pipes, curse the English in his name, and send him off to hell with a bit of mayhem, giving Wentworth a bad night’s sleep. That would be a fitting farewell.

He looked back toward the window. ’Twould soon be dawn. The surgeon’s lads would come before long to heap such indignities upon him as were necessary when a man was held like an animal and not allowed to care for himself. Lieutenant Rillieux would arrive to taunt him, as was his wont these past mornings. And then, if God were merciful, Miss Chauvenet would come.

She was his hope in this place, his candle in the darkness. He knew she was distressed by the fate that awaited him, knew she felt compassion for him. Hadn’t she tried to protect him from Rillieux yesterday? Aye, she had. She’d stood up to the whoreson, dismay on her pretty face. Could Morgan play upon her sympathies, persuade her to unlock his fetters and help him escape?

You cannae bring her into this, lad. She is an innocent.

Aye, and he was condemned to die in flames if he did not escape this place. If there was any chance that she would aid him, he must seize that chance without hesitation or regret. Only a bloody fool would do otherwise.

And if Bourlamaque should blame her and hold her a traitor?

The thought jabbed at him, a splinter in his conscience.

Och, Satan’s arse!

He did not wish harm to befall her on his account, but neither would he go like a lamb to the slaughter—or a pig to the spit.

Sweet Mary above, the lass was beautiful! The sight of her made it hard for him to breathe. She seemed to him like the first twilight of early spring when the trees were well budded out and the robins sat amongst the blossoms, singing down the sun. Perhaps it was a trick of his mortality that he responded thus to her—a man doomed to die drawn to the promise of a bonnie, sweet lass amidst the ugliness of his last days. Or perhaps she truly was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

Her outer beauty was more than matched by her gentleness and grace. Though it could not have been easy for her, she had accepted his apology and forgiven him. Then she’d quietly seen to his needs—giving him drinks of water, feeding him sips of broth, changing the dressings on his wounds. He’d tried to stay awake, tried to make conversation with her, but his long fever had drained his strength, left him in need of sleep. When he’d awoken, she’d been gone.

Footsteps.

It was growing light. The night had passed. A new day had come.

And only God knew what it would bring.

A
malie lifted the dressing from the Ranger’s chest, aware as she worked that he was watching her. “It is healing well.”

“I shall be fit as a fiddle in time for my execution.” He spoke the words lightly, as if his own suffering and death meant little to him.

“Are you not afraid, Major?”

He chuckled. “Och, aye, I am, but there is naugh’ to be gained by lettin’ my fears rule me, lass. Bourlamaque may choose how and when I die, but it is up to me to decide how I face my death.”

The raw courage in his words made something twist in her stomach. She had witnessed men’s courage before, had watched young soldiers run toward the battle on legs that desperately wanted to run away, had held the hands of wounded men as the surgeon used his blade upon them, had watched as soldiers buried their friends then returned to their duties. But Major MacKinnon’s unwavering strength went beyond anything she’d yet seen in this terrible war.