Untamed (35 page)

It had been a long day and hard. Though she missed Morgan’s men—she’d grown fond of them and enjoyed their teasing banter—she’d been grateful for the slower pace. Morgan had helped her when she’d needed it, offering her his hand when the ground became steep or rocky, catching her when she stumbled, carrying her through deep marshes. And as she’d watched him pick a safe path for her, he’d seemed both alert to danger and utterly at ease in the wildness of the forest. And she’d realized that she was seeing him for the first time as he truly was—not just the gentleman and soldier she’d known at the fort, but Morgan MacKinnon, the Ranger of legend.

She glanced about and saw that they stood in the midst of a small clearing not far from a little river. The river, its banks verdant with ferns and blue forget-me-nots, tumbled down the rocky hillside in three small waterfalls before flowing off through the trees. All around them stood thick forest, primordial and dark, tall spruce and fir trees spiring toward the darkening sky. Her dream still in her mind, she shivered.

Chuckling with Joseph over some shared jest, Morgan grinned down at her, his arm sliding about her waist, two days’ growth of stubble and long, unbound hair giving him a rakish appearance. “Joseph has been busy.”

And, indeed, he had.

Not far from the fire stood a lean-to just like the one she’d slept in last night, but spread upon the pine boughs was a thick bearskin, its black fur gleaming. In the middle of the fur sat a small pile of what was unmistakably women’s garments—a gown of dark blue, ivory petticoats, and a clean white chemise.

“Oh, merci!”
She looked up at Joseph, who smiled. “Thank you, monsieur! Wherever did you find them?”

“Thank him.” Joseph nodded toward Morgan, his dark eyes warm. “He’s the one who gave up a good hunting knife. One of my men traded for them before we left Fort Edward hoping to surprise his wife.”

Morgan dropped his tumpline pack on the ground near the lean-to, unbound it, and drew out a long knife in its leather sheath. Then he handed it to Joseph. “Tell Daniel I wish him luck both on the hunt and in battle. And thank you.”

Joseph met Morgan’s gaze. “My brother who was dead has returned. I would do anything for him and his woman.”

His woman.

The words made something catch in Amalie’s belly, and she wished it were true. But this marriage had been forced upon Morgan and was still incomplete. Clearly, he cared for her and desired her, but did he truly want her for his wife?

If there were any way for me to stay wi’ you, I would. You are all a man could hope for in a wife, all a man could desire.

She remembered his words—and dared to hope.

Joseph ducked down, gave her a kiss on the cheek, then, with a nod to Morgan, he turned and strode into the forest.

“He is not staying with us?” she asked as he vanished from sight.

“He has to see to his men.” Morgan sat before the fire, drawing her down beside him. “Sit and eat, lass. Joseph has a feast set out for us.”

Compared to the parched cornmeal she’d nibbled at since breakfast, it
was
a feast—roasted turkey, field greens, and tart wild raspberries. But there were no plates, no silverware, no serviettes. How were they supposed to—

“Like this.” Morgan grinned, shifting the wooden spit so that it no longer sat directly over the open flames. Then he took his penknife, cut off a strip of roasted breast meat, and held it to her lips.

Amalie opened her mouth, took the succulent meat onto her tongue, and almost moaned at the savory taste.

“Now you feed me.”

Amalie rose to her knees, leaned in, and using the penknife Brandon had given her, cut off a slice of meat, then brought it to his lips. He took her wrist and held it as he nipped the meat from between her fingers. Then he licked the juices from her fingers one by one, his gaze locked with hers, his tongue hot and quick.

Memories of that tongue licking other parts of her sent blood rushing into her cheeks and made her insides feel quivery. It was only two nights ago when he’d tasted not just her fingers, but her throat and breasts as well, suckling her until she’d gone almost mad from the pleasure of it. Was he remembering the same thing?

Morgan watched her eyes darken and knew she still felt at least some desire for him. Despite Rillieux’s cruelty, she did not seem to fear a man’s touch as some women did in the aftermath of such violence. Still, Morgan would not rush her. When he at last made love to her, he wanted her to want it as much as he did, wanted her to enjoy it as much as he did, the grim pronouncements of sad, old nuns be damned.

He cut off another strip of breast. “For you.”

Feasting with their fingers, they fed each other sliver upon sliver of rich, tasty meat, then turned to the greens and then, last of all, the berries, Morgan following each sweet bite with a kiss, until one appetite was satisfied—and another was roused.

But it wasn’t time for that. Not yet.

First he must woo her beyond shyness, beyond fear.

“Come.” Morgan stood, drew Amalie to her feet with one hand, grabbed his tumpline pack with the other. “It’s time for your bath.”

“My bath?” Her gaze flitted toward the creek.

“Aye, your bath.” He took her hand and led her up the hillside, over the ramble of rocks toward the middle waterfall. It hid a secret he and his men had discovered two summers past on their way back from a scout—a secret they’d kept carefully guarded.

“Watch your step. The stone is quite slidey when it’s wet.”

He led her behind the waterfall along a wide ledge where the rushing waters of the freshet had through the ages gouged out a row of deep pools in the stone. Once the freshet had passed each June and the waters had receded, the pools, filled with fresh river water, offered tadpoles a place to hatch and grow into frogs—and weary Rangers a place to bathe and ease their aches.

And now their waters would soothe Amalie’s hurts, washing away the day’s grime and the memory of Rillieux’s touch. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t complained at all, but he knew she must feel it—the lingering taint of near rape.

He dropped his pack onto dry stone beside the pools. “What do you think?”

“It is…
enchanté
!” She glanced back and forth between the pools and the waterfall and smiled, a smile of pure joy. Then she stretched out her hand, the tips of her fingers piercing the silver curtain of falling water, her laughter like music.

“Aye, I thought so, too, the first time I saw it—a place of magic. The water in the pools is warm. Feel it.”

She knelt down, trailed her fingers across the water’s surface, a look of surprised wonder spreading across her face. “But how can this be?”

“During the day, the sun warms the stone, and the stone heats the water.”

She smiled up at him. “Such a wondrous thing!”

Morgan knelt down beside her, dug in his pack for the soap and her comb, and set them down at the edge of the deepest pool. “Whenever we come this way, I reward the bravest amongst my men with the chance to wash away the grime of battle. But tonight, ’tis yours to enjoy in peace.”

She stood, her smile gone, her gaze shifting to the forest.

He knew what haunted her. He stood, grasped the folds of the blanket she held about her shoulders, and drew her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe, Amalie. There’s no one to spy upon you and naugh’ that can harm you.”

She gazed up at him, looking like a battered wood nymph, her cheek bruised, her green-brown eyes deep enough to drown a man. “And you—”

“I’ll be nearby.” He willed himself to step back from her, some part of him unable to believe he was doing this—leaving her here to bathe alone when he might have joined her. His mother’s Viking blood burnt in him again, urging him to give in to his need, to rip the blanket from her shoulders and her nightgown with it, to draw her into the sun-warmed water with him and claim her at last. She
was
his, after all…

You’re an animal, MacKinnon. The lass has been through hell
.

“Call if you’ve need of me.” He turned his back to her, willing himself to walk away from her, to give her this time alone.

He’d gone but a few steps when he heard the whisper of silk as she undressed and the tinkling of water as she slipped into the pool. Then came her sigh of undisguised pleasure, and his blood went hot at the thought of her sweet body bared to the water’s warm caress. Yet somehow he found the strength to take another step and another.

Amalie watched him go, disappointment welling inside her. She’d thought for a moment that he intended them to bathe together. The idea hadn’t frightened her; on the contrary, it had stirred her blood, made her pulse skip. Didn’t he know how much she needed him, how much she wanted to know the secrets of his body as he knew the secrets of hers? Did he not understand that she longed to give herself to him?

“Morgan?” The sound of her own voice startled her.

He stopped, kept his back to her as if he could not face her. “Aye?”

“M-must you go?” Stunned by her own boldness, she sought for the right words. “Is…is it not customary for a wife to bathe her husband?”

She heard the breath leave his lungs in a gust, saw his hands clench into fists, and watched as he slowly turned toward her, afraid she’d gone too far and he now thought her brazen. But when his gaze met hers, she saw only desire.

“Are you sayin’ you wish to share your bath?” His gaze dropped to her bare breasts, a muscle tightening in his jaw.

She swallowed, ignored the impulse to cover herself. “Y-yes.”

He strode toward her with slow steps. “Are you certain? I’ve a man’s need for you, Amalie. You ken what that means now, aye?”

She knew he was giving her a chance to change her mind, but she’d never wanted anything more than she wanted him.
“Oui.”

“Very well.”

His gaze unwavering, he walked toward her, drawing his shirt over his head and letting it fall beside his pack, baring the glorious expanse of his chest with its dark curls and flat nipples. Stopping at the edge of the water, he next removed his weapons—a hunting knife and his pistol—and set them aside. Then his hands dropped to the fall of his breeches.

Amalie’s instinct was to turn away, to avert her gaze. But wasn’t this what she’d wanted—to know him as he knew her? Yes, it was. And so she willed herself to watch as he loosened the ties and pushed his breeches down his muscular thighs until he stood wearing nothing but his wampum armbands, at last revealing himself fully to her.

She felt her belly clench—and stared at what she’d never seen before.

To her eyes, he seemed huge. The shaft of his sex was thick and heavy, seeming to grow thicker and longer while she watched, until it stood against the muscles of his belly. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy and covered by coarse black curls. Standing there, his body bared to her gaze, he seemed breathtaking in his male beauty—carnal, primal, untamed.

With one easy motion, he slipped into the water, disappearing beneath its surface, only to rise out of the water before her like some kind of pagan forest god, his hair hanging in dark, wet ropes that clung to his shoulders and chest, water spilling in rivulets down his sun-browned skin with its scars and Indian markings, his body so much bigger and more powerful than hers. Though the water reached her ribs, it barely reached his hips,
that
part of him visible just below the surface of the water.

And suddenly she couldn’t breathe, or perhaps she was breathing too fast, desire tangling with nervousness inside her, making her tremble. Without realizing what she was doing, she took a step backward.

“Nay,
a leannan,
there is no retreat—no’ now.” He slid one strong arm around her and drew her against him, his mouth closing over hers in a deep, searing kiss, one of his hands pressing something into her palm.

A small bar of soap.

He released her, stepped back, and held his arms out to his sides, offering his body to her, his blue eyes gone the color of midnight. “Do what you will wi’ me, lass.”

Morgan heard Amalie’s hungry little moan, watched one emotion chase the next across her sweet face—surprise, hesitation, feminine desire—and felt his own hunger flare like kindling. God’s blood, she took his breath away! Locks of dark, wet hair clung to her cheeks, her delicate shoulders, and her breasts, her nipples poking through the dark strands, rosy and tight, as if seeking his touch. Wanting to see more, needing to see more, he drew her long hair behind her back, exposing her breasts to his view.

Och, God in heaven, she was perfect! Water droplets clung to her creamy skin, beading on the pink velvet of her nipples, which tightened at the water’s touch as if at a lover’s, making him ache to taste her. But this was her time to know him.

Ruthlessly, Morgan clamped down on his lust, giving himself over to her, letting her shape the moment, willing himself to be patient for her sake. She rubbed the soap between her hands, set it down on the rim of the pool, then nibbled her lower lip, as if uncertain how one went about this task of bathing a husband.

’Twas likely not a skill they’d practiced at the abbey.

“Dinnae be shy.” He smoothed a dark strand of hair off her cheek, sought for the words to reassure her. “There is no shame between a man and his wife.”

She pressed her soap-slick hands against his belly and slid them in slow circles up his to chest, her light touch making the muscles of his abdomen contract, her fingers threading through his chest hair. Then she circled his nipples with her thumbs, his sharp intake of breath making her look up, her unspoken question clear to him.

“Och, your touch is like magic, lass.”

Seeming emboldened, she explored his shoulders and his arms, squeezing his muscles as if to test his strength, tracing his scars and warrior marks, smoothing soap as she went. He watched her reaction—the quickening of her breath, her parted lips, the rapid beat of her pulse against her throat—and again his passion flared.

Then slowly, hesitantly, her hands moved down his sides to his hips and then finally beneath the water to his thighs. For a moment he thought she hadn’t the courage to touch his cock. Then the fingers of her right hand curled tentatively around him. And, och, it was heaven!