Untamed (20 page)

’Tis a bloody good thing she cannae read your thoughts, aye, laddie?

He sucked in a breath, willed himself to look away from her, tried to speak. “ ’Tis late to be out of bed, lass.”

Did she know what she did to him? Nay, surely not. She’d lived far too sheltered a life to understand that she could bind a man in knots and set him aflame.

“I…I wanted to speak with you.” She sounded troubled.

“Is somethin’ amiss?”

“I…wanted to congratulate you, monsieur. You are quite the marksman.”

“You forsook your bed to tell me that?” He didn’t believe it for an instant.

She lifted her chin, pink stealing into her cheeks. “Also, I need to know when you should like to begin your French lessons.”

“I must speak wi’ Bourlamaque, for my time isna my own. You ken that, aye?”

“Oui.”
She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

For a moment there was silence.

Then, unable to keep himself from touching her, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. Her eyes were wide and dark and shadowed by fear. “Dinnae tell me that you’ve stayed awake to speak words that could have been shared over breakfast. Why are you standin’ here in your nightgown, lass?”

Monsieur MacKinnon stood so near to Amalie that she could smell him—the spice and salt of his skin, the hint of cognac on his breath, the whiff of pine soap in his hair. He seemed to press in on her, to fill her senses, to surround her until there was nothing else but him.

She drew a shaky breath. “I fear for you, monsieur.”

“Bonnie, sweet Amalie.” He chuckled, his use of her Christian name startling. “Twice now you have protected me. You saved my life, and for that I am eternally in your debt. But you shouldna be losin’ sleep over idle threats. I’m no longer defenseless and shackled. I can protect myself, aye?”

She nodded, knowing that he was right and yet still unable to shake her sense of misgiving. “If my cousins try to take you, someone I care about will suffer—either you or them.”

“Ah.” He drew a breath, cupped her cheek in his palm, his gaze seeming to pierce her. “Hear me, Amalie. I will do whate’er I must to protect myself, but I willna kill them unless they gi’ me no choice. Och, if only you were in the safety of the abbey. You could forget this place and its troubles.”

She drew back. “How could I forget Fort Carillon? My father died and is buried here. If we cannot hold this bit of land, it will not be long before the British reach Trois Rivières. And then where would I go? Besides, I am not at all certain I wish to return to life at the abbey.”

“Then you wish to marry?” His voice was deep and as smooth as midnight.

Overwhelmed by him, Amalie stammered. “I—I thought I did, until…”

“Until what?”

She felt heat rush into her cheeks and knew she was trapped, cornered by her own words. She had no choice but to explain. “Until Rillieux kissed me.”

In a rush of words, she told him what Sister Marie Louise had said about the miseries of marriage, embarrassed to share something so private with him.

As she spoke, a smile began to spread over his face, until he stood, grinning down at her. “So you’re thinkin’ that Rillieux’s kiss proves that the good sister spoke truly when she said that servin’ a husband is a travail?”

“
Yes.”

His eyes narrowed, his gaze upon her as if he were studying her, a grin tugging at his lips. “There’s one wee kinch to your thinkin’. What Rillieux did to you—that wasna truly a kiss.”

“It…It wasn’t?” The look in his eyes made her belly flutter.

“Nay, it wasna.” He reached out, wrapped an arm around her waist, and—
mon Dieu!
—she knew what he meant to do. “
This
is a kiss.”

He ducked down and brushed her lips ever so lightly with his, turning his head from side to side, the touch feather soft, warm. The contact stilled her breath, made her pulse skip and her lips tingle, something sweet shivering through her.

“Och, lass, you could make a man go daft!” He moved as if to withdraw, and for a moment she feared the kiss was over. But he shifted his hold to draw her closer, one big hand sliding into her hair to cradle her head, his mouth claiming hers.

And she realized it had just begun.

This was a kiss? It felt like a fever, wisps of flame flaring to life in her belly and licking through her as his lips coaxed and caressed hers. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth, then shocked her by slipping inside, seeking
her
tongue, tasting her, stroking secret places, his fingers caressing her spine through the linen of her nightgown. Overwhelmed by new sensations, she heard herself whimper, felt her knees turn to water, and melted into the hard wall of his chest, her fingers clenched in his thick hair.

Morgan knew he should stop. He’d been a bloody fool to start this. He’d wanted to show her that she needn’t fear men, had wanted to blot out any memory of Rillieux’s brutality. Or that’s what he’d told himself. In truth, he’d wanted to kiss her since the moment he’d learned she was not promised to the Church—and so he had.

Aye, he should stop. But the lass was so warm and willing in his arms, kissing him back with a passion he had not expected, a passion that roused his own, making him want far more than a single kiss. But he could not take what he wanted, not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.

Slowly, he released her and took a step back, stroking her cheek with his knuckles, his body drawn tight as a bowstring, blood pounding through his veins, rushing to his groin.
“Amalie.”

Breathless and trembling, she looked up at him through wide eyes, her lips wet and swollen, her hands fisted in the cloth of his coat.

It took every bit of will he possessed not to pull her into his arms and begin again. “Tell me, lass. Was my kiss a travail?”

She touched her fingers to her lips. “No, monsieur. It was…
wonderful
.”

The swell of masculine pride he felt was cut short by the sound of a door opening—and men’s voices.

“You must go, Amalie, but first promise me one thing.”

“What it is?”

“Dinnae put yourself in harm’s way for my sake. Denounce me to your cousins. Forsay me. Curse me if you must, but dinnae risk yourself, aye?”

Her eyes grew wide. “I…I could not do that, monsieur!”

The men’s voices grew louder, Bourlamaque’s amongst them. Morgan knew it was only a matter of moments before Amalie was discovered. He couldn’t imagine that the old man would be pleased to see his ward standing half naked, her lips slick and swollen from kissing, beside a man he did not truly trust.

“Aye, lass, you can. You must. Now go!”

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.

U
nable 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
. “
Mor
gan. Morgan MacKinnon.”

And she knew for certain she did not wish to return to the abbey.

E
ven 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 soft 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 dìolain
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 silences 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 door, someone charged with making sure he stayed in his bed?

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, one ear always listening for the fight. 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 burnt away the hours of the night, its flame reflected in the console’s silver looking glass. 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 and walked inside.

“V
audreuil again complained that after taking Fort William Henry I did not continue southward and also capture Fort Edward.”
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 each other, writing as familiars and discussing personal matters as much as military ones. Both men missed France and the families they’d left behind. Montcalm sought a husband for his daughter and a wife for his son, and had frequent correspondence with his mother, who kept both men abreast of matters in Paris. 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 like 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 fourteen thousand men—was being deployed to defend Québec, leaving only about three thousand Regular troops and one thousand 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.