Untamed (37 page)

She turned around to face him, the blanket still bound round her, a smile on her lips once again. “They were very dear.”

Morgan couldn’t help but chuckle. ’Twould make his men turn red with conflummixt delight to hear themselves described thus. Unable to keep himself from touching her, he ducked down and kissed her little nose. “Then you dinnae hate them?”

She glared up at him. “No, of course I do not hate them!”

In the distance, a wolf howled.

Morgan saw her stiffen, her gaze darting toward the darkness of the forest beyond the firelight. And it occurred to him that, although Amalie had Abenaki blood, she had never lived amongst them and knew no more about the forest or the animals in it than any other convent-raised French lass.

He drew her into his arms, kissed her cheek, wanting to shelter her. “There’s naugh’ to fear. ’Tis just a wee wolfie.”

The wolf howled again, and this time the call was answered by another, this one much closer. And though he could tell she was trying to act as if she weren’t afraid, he could not miss her little intake of breath or the way her body tensed at the sound.

Amalie did not want to seem foolish or cowardly, but the forest seemed to press in on them from all sides, the wild howling proof that more lurked amongst these trees than she cared to know. “Are you not at all afraid?”

“Nay.” Morgan kissed her hair, his voice deep and without fear. “Joseph’s men encircle us, keepin’ watch. They’ll warn us should any danger come our way. Besides, I dinnae fear the forest beasties. In these woods, death walks on two legs, no’ four.”

“But the wolf—”

It howled again, the plaintive sound sending chills along her spine. The second one, so much nearer, answered.

“The wolf is but tryin’ to find his way home.” Morgan nuzzled her throat, nipping the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “His mate hears his call, and she calls back, guidin’ him to her side.”

Amalie shivered, Morgan’s lips tracing fire over her skin, warmth curling through her veins, confusing her fear, making it hard to think. “Why…why is the wolf lost?”

He reached to where she’d tucked the ends of the blanket between her breasts and tugged, baring her breasts to his caresses. And heat that had so recently been extinguished flared to life in her belly. “He’s been on the hunt, hopin’ to find a fat rabbit for her to feed upon, for she carries his cubs and has need of meat. But rangin’ far and wide in the dark, he lost his way.”

Unable to help herself, Amalie slid her hands over his chest, savoring the hard feel of his muscles and the rasp of his chest hair against her palms, the knowledge that he was hers heady like wine. “Did he find one—a fat rabbit?”

Morgan caught her nipples, tugged them, plucked them, making her gasp, the sensation shooting straight from her breasts to her belly. “Och, aye, he did, for he is a good hunter, strong and swift.”

Breathless, Amalie slid her hands down his chest to his belly, hungry for the feel of him, touching him as rousing to her as being touched by him. Then her hand bumped against the hardened length of his sex. She took him carefully in her grasp, gratified by his deep groan. “What will he do…when he finds her?”

“He’ll do this.” Morgan got to his knees, drawing her up with him, pulling her against him, his mouth taking hers in a deep and scorching kiss.

Then he did something she never would have imagined.

Tearing the blanket aside, he moved behind her and forced her onto her hands and knees, his hands sliding in smooth circles over the exposed flesh of her bare derriere.

“Morgan, what—? Oh!”

He nipped her bared bottom, nibbling his way up her back till his mouth found her earlobe, his right hand reaching around to stroke between her thighs, his left teasing her breasts. “You’re mine, Amalie. My wife. My mate.
Mine.
”

She felt the heat in his words, and her heartbeat quickened, some feminine part of her delighting in his male possessiveness.

In the distance, the wolf howled, the sound growing nearer.

Morgan nibbled her earlobe, sucked it. “Och, Amalie, you’re makin’ me burn!”

But
she
was the one on fire. She found herself rocking against his hand, unable to hold still, her need for him already sharp. “Morgan, please!”

The wolf’s mate answered.

Then Morgan forced her legs apart with his thighs, positioning himself behind her, the thick tip of his sex pushing against her, and she realized with a sense of shock that he meant to take her thus.

Like a ram mounts a ewe.

Slowly, he nudged inside her, stretching her, filling her, his breath hissing from between his teeth. “I dinnae wish to hurt you again, but…Och, lass!”

A wild howl.

A faithful reply.

But her soreness was quickly overcome by pleasure, the hard feel of him already flowering into bliss. His slow and steady thrusts seemed to strike her inside where she needed it most, his hand still stroking between her thighs, his lips hot against her back, his man’s body seeming to surround hers.

“
Ô, mon Dieu!
Morgan.” Needing more of him, she began to meet his thrusts with her own, backing against him, tilting her hips so that he drove into her more deeply, the ache inside her growing unbearable.

As if he knew what she needed, he quickened his pace, his breath coming hard and fast. “You feel so good,
a leannan,
so wet, so tight!”

Another howl.

Another answering call.

But lost in the wonder of this wild coupling, she barely heard them, Morgan’s deep thrusts carrying her closer and closer to her peak. Her breath came in pants, release seeming to stay just beyond her reach, leaving her hanging…needing…wanting. She could not bear this torment—
oh, sweet heaven
!—but she did not want it to end. Faster he went and harder, murmuring to her in his Scottish tongue, his breath hot on her skin, his stones slapping against her with each forceful thrust.

And then the heat drew to a tight ball in her belly—and burst into a thousand shards of light. She cried out, overcome by the piercing sweetness, her fingers digging into the thick fur of the bearskin as her inner muscles clenched around Morgan, his deep groan mingling with her cries, as the stars rained down around them, leaving them both breathless and replete in the warm summer’s night.

A
malie awoke to find the sun newly risen, a bouquet of wildflowers lying on the bearskin beside her. She stretched, smiling to herself, her body still languid from Morgan’s loving. He was no doubt off talking with Joseph as was their wont early in the morning each day. He would be back soon and hungry for breakfast.

She sat, picked up the bouquet, and held it to her nose, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of lily of the valley and the heady fragrance of wild roses, the bouquet bound by strands of long grass. Yesterday, she’d awoken to find wild blueberries. The day before that, she’d found a tin plate heaped with sweet, golden honey still in the comb, the red welts on Morgan’s arms proof of the price he’d paid to give her such a wonderful gift.

It had been six days now since that magical afternoon in the rock pools—six days so bright and filled with happiness that her life before seemed but shadows.
Oui,
she missed Bourlamaque and Père François and her books and belongings, but even these losses could not dim the joy she felt at being beside Morgan as his wife. Never had she felt safer, happier, or more cherished than she had these past six days, never more contented or at peace.

Each day Morgan had guided her safely through the forest, his skilled woodcraft a source of amazement for her, making her respect him all the more. And each night, he’d shown her something new about the ways of men and women, revealing the mysteries of their bodies, bringing her pleasure she hadn’t thought possible nor even imagined, turning the forest from a place of darkness into their wedding bower. Then he’d held her through the night, his body warm and strong, the forest singing them both to sleep.

Amalie set the flowers carefully aside and dressed quickly, unable to keep from smiling despite herself. Last night he’d taught her to bring him release with her hands as he’d first done for her, and she’d seen for the first time the power of his body’s response. Every muscle in his body had gone tense. Then, his eyes squeezed shut, he’d groaned out her name, his hips bucking, his big hands fisted in the fur, his sex jerking in her hand as seed shot from its swollen head in creamy ribbons of hot white to pool on his belly.

While he’d watched, an amused grin on his face, she’d explored his essence, rubbing it between her fingers, fascinated to think that it somehow held the power to beget a life inside her. “How long will it take you to get me with child?”

Beads of sweat on his temples and chest from having spent himself moments ago, he’d chuckled. “If I can have but a moment to catch my breath, lass, I shall redouble my efforts, since it seems you’re so eager.”

Then he’d taken her beneath him, bringing her to the edge with his kisses and his touch and, when she could bear it no longer, making love to her with deep, slow strokes, carrying her to her peak again and again, his gaze never leaving her face.

Now fully dressed, Amalie stood and coiled her braid to keep it from the flames when she made breakfast. She had just tucked the ends in place, when she looked up to find him striding toward her, his breeches riding low on his hips, the neck of his linen shirt open to reveal a dark wedge of hair, his handsome face dark with stubble. The sight of him was enough to make her blood thicken, her hunger for him seemingly insatiable. Did all women feel this way?

“A good morning to you, husband.”

Morgan took in the sight of his bonnie wife and felt a surge of protectiveness. He needed to get her far away from this place, but he did not wish to frighten her. He willed himself to set aside his worries and smiled. “A good morn’ to you, wife.

“Thank you for your kind gift.” She picked up the bouquet, pressed the blossoms to her nose, and inhaled. “Mmm—they smell so sweet!”

He kissed her cheek, savoring her scent. “No’ near as sweet as the bonnie lass who holds them. Did you have a pleasant sleep?”

Her nose still buried in the bouquet, she looked up at him, her eyes filled not with innocence, but a woman’s knowing sensuality. “Lying beside you is always pleasant.”

And for a moment Morgan couldn’t breathe, the animal part of him wanting him to toss her on her back, lift her skirts, and have at her, his brain telling him there was not time for such pleasures—not with the Wyandot war party Joseph and his men had encountered last night.

Morgan had awoken in the wee hours, roused by the distant sound of gunfire, and had known that his Muhheconneok brother had encountered trouble. Careful not to wake Amalie, who slept so peacefully, he’d risen, dressed, and readied his weapons, but the forest had fallen silent again, leaving him to wonder who had prevailed.

Then one of Joseph’s younger men, Isaiah, emerged from the forest to bring him word. “The sentries spotted a war party of twenty Wyandot encamped near William Henry. They had captives—two women and a boy. Joseph sent half our number to attack. It is done. The Wyandot are slain and the captives unharmed.”

To hear Joseph tell the story, it had been a swift victory with no losses or severe injuries amongst his men. A dozen warriors had been sent to escort the terrified captives back to their farm and to help them bury their kin.

But although the battle was over and the enemy slain, trouble was not far behind them. For if Morgan had heard the gunfire, so had any other party encamped nearby. And there almost certainly had been others. For here, near the blood-soaked ruins of Fort William Henry, all paths converged—French seeking to waylay Rangers and redcoats on their way back to Fort Edward, Indians seeking to plunder frontier farmsteads, British hunting for French, enemy Indians…and deserters.

’Twas no place for a woman.

“I’m glad sharin’ my bed pleases you.” Morgan brushed his knuckles over her cheek, knowing that what he was about to say would frighten her, but seeing no way around it. “We have no time to break our fast this mornin’. There was a fight in the night. Joseph and his men attacked a war party of Wyandot and freed their captives. Anyone who heard that firefight will be drawn toward us. We must leave as soon as we are ready.”

Her eyes went wide for the briefest of moments, then she raised her chin. “Tell me what I must do.”

And sooner than he expected, they were packed up and ready to move, Joseph helping Morgan to hide any sign of their presence.

“This will be the most dangerous day of our journey,” Morgan told her, slipping into his tumpline pack. “We must move swiftly and in silence. With any luck we’ll reach the farm the day after tomorrow.”

She met his gaze with grave eyes. “I shall do my best not to be a burden.”

“Sweet Amalie.” He tucked a finger beneath her chin, ran his thumb over her lower lip. “You are ne’er a burden.”

T
hey moved in silence, stopping only rarely to drink, to eat a handful of parched corn, or to refill their water skins. Amalie half expected a party of Huron or Abenaki to swoop down upon them at any moment, every copse of trees, every outcropping, every ravine a potential ambush. But she knew that Morgan was alert to the danger in ways she was not, her trust in him holding her fear at bay. He seemed to read the forest as she might one of her books. And there were Joseph and his men as well, tall, silent men who kept pace close beside them.

It was not as difficult for her to keep up as it had been that first harrowing day, her body having grown more accustomed to the rigors of the journey. As she moved through the trees she couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride that she had made it this far through the wilderness on her own two feet. What would the
mère supérieure
think to see her now?

Twice they found proof of other parties, mostly likely French or British soldiers, as they had left signs that even Amalie could see. And once they stopped to yield to a sow bear, who was leading her three cubs through the forest in search of ripe berries.