Untamed (43 page)

“Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce, le Seigneur est avec vous…”.

And then Lieutenant Cooke spoke again, but not to Amalie.

“I’m afraid I have orders not to allow anyone—”

A woman’s voice answered. “I ken this is no’ your doin’, Lieutenant Cooke. Please be merciful and permit me to speak wi’ Mistress MacKinnon.”

Annie!

Amalie stood and ran to the door, but she did not move the chair. “Annie!”

“I’m here, Amalie.” Annie’s voice came from the other side, strong and clear, the welcome sound of it putting a lump in Amalie’s throat. “Are you well? Has anyone laid hands upon you or mistreated you?”

“No! I am well, but I fear for Morgan!”

“As do we all,” Annie answered. “Dinnae despair. We’ve no’ forsaken you! They willna let Iain into the fort, nor Connor, nor any of the Rangers either. Joseph has withdrawn to Stockbridge with his men in protest. But we’ve no’ forgotten you!”

“Nor I you!” Amalie fought the tears that threatened her. “They’re sending me back to Fort Carillon, but it is against my will!”

She heard the heavy stomp of boots and the sound of men’s voices, and she realized that Annie had somehow passed the guards and defied Amherst and Wentworth to speak with her. Now soldiers were coming.

“I must go now. Is there augh’ you need?”

“Tell Morgan I love him!”

“If I can, I will!”

And then Annie was gone, leaving Amalie to her tears and her prayers but with this ray of hope—Morgan’s family had not forgotten her.

She was not alone.

W
entworth walked out his front door and off into the shadows, barely aware of the two sentries who snapped to attention at his sudden appearance. Though it was well past midnight, he knew his man would still be waiting. In all the years William had employed him, he’d never let William down.

The evening had been spent making final preparations for the army’s march north to Ticonderoga, William waiting until Amherst had started upon his nightly cognac to bring up the subject of Major MacKinnon. He’d warned Amherst of the consequences should MacKinnon be hanged unjustly—the loss of the Mahican as allies, an uprising amongst the Rangers, resentment along the frontier, where the brothers were revered as heroes. But Amherst hadn’t listened. And then William had understood.

He ought to have seen it sooner. He ought to have realized. Amherst’s determination to see Major MacKinnon hang had nothing to do with the major’s guilt or innocence and everything to do with William. As His Majesty’s grandson, William represented the adversary of Amherst’s powerful patron—William Pitt. That alone was likely sufficient cause for Amherst to view William as a rival and do whatever he could to limit William’s advancement. But Amherst was of common birth, and his overweening pride would ill tolerate a nobleman—least of all a man of royal blood—achieving renown in this war.

If Amherst could win a guilty verdict against one of William’s most lauded and trusted men, he could darken London’s perception of William and perhaps prevent William from being placed equal to him—or raised above him.

But William would not allow his reputation to be undermined by political scheming, nor would he repay Major MacKinnon’s loyalty, however reluctantly given, with an ignominious death. And if he’d once threatened the MacKinnon brothers with hanging in order to manipulate them for his own political gain?

William had never claimed not to be a hypocrite, just a superior strategist.

As for Miss Chauvenet, that was another matter that greatly occupied his thought. He could not pass by the chance to win freedom for two loyal British officers, and yet he could not deny that he did not wish to see her go. Maybe it was her innocence that aroused this unlikely sentiment, not a deceitful bone in her lovely body. Or perhaps it was her utter devotion to Major MacKinnon, as demonstrated by her refusal to eat. Or perhaps it was simply her beauty.

If Lady Anne were like the sunshine, then Miss Chauvenet was the dusk—exotic, sensual, alluring. More than once, William had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to bed her, her young body beneath him, her long dark hair spread across his bed. Her spirit and her unpredictable nature only made her more desirable.

He could not think of the last woman who’d dared to strike him.

But, alas, she was Bourlamaque’s ward—or Major MacKinnon’s wife, depending on whether one chose to act on the law. Either way, ’twas not worth the risks involved to attempt to seduce her.

William strode toward the officers’ latrines, watching as a form detached itself from the shadows, strode to the last latrine just ahead of him, and went inside. ’Twas frustrating to meet like this, but with Amherst ever under foot he had little choice.

“What have you learned?” William whispered, pretending to wait his turn.

“ ’Tis as you suspected, my lord. The officers are all men who owe their rank to Amherst and are known for their loyalty. I found little to aid your purpose. One has some moderate debts. Three have mistresses. One has a daughter who’s hiding her
condition
at a country house outside Boston. One has a Jacobite grandfather.”

“The very flower of British virtue, it would seem.” This was not what William had hoped to hear. Men without scandalous secrets were difficult to manipulate. Though debts, pregnant daughters, and unsavory ancestors might cause these men embarrassment, such things weren’t enough to bring them to their knees and change a verdict.

“So it would seem, my lord.”

“Very well.” William glanced about to be certain they were still alone. “I’ve a letter for Governor DeLancey to be delivered by you into his hands. Make all haste for Albany, and if you find him not in residence, seek him out by any means. Do not rest until he has received this missive. Bring his response to me at once!”

“Aye, my lord. I leave at once.”

The latrine door opened, and his man stepped out, taking the letter—and a bag of coins—as he passed. And then he was gone.

“T
hen you admit to training the enemy in musketry, to giving up the location of the caches, campsites, and trails, to sharing what you knew of Major General Amherst’s plans for this summer’s campaign against Ticonderoga?”

Morgan fought to control his temper, furious to hear his words twisted thus. So it had been for the past hour, every answer he’d given bent and distorted to make him seem guilty. Connor’s words had been twisted, too, his description of rescuing Morgan turned against Morgan simply because Morgan had been wearing a French uniform and hadn’t left Fort Carillon of his own free will.

The grim look on Iain’s face and the worry on Annie’s told him what he already understood: the bastards wanted him to hang.

Och, he’d have been better off to stay with Bourlamaque! And yet he’d never have been able to live with himself for betraying his brothers and his men if he had.

Now you can take your clear conscience to the grave, aye, laddie?

“Aye, sir, I did, but it wasna what you—”

“Is it true that you went to Catholic rites whilst at Ticonderoga and took Communion at the hands of a French priest?” The officer—a colonel named Hamilton whose gray wig was too large for his fat head and kept leaning to the left—made a sloppy sign of the cross as if to mock the Catholic faith.

“Aye, sir, for I am Catholic. ’Tis no secret.”

“Is it also true that the Chevalier de Bourlamaque supervised the Catholic wedding of his ward, Amalie Chauvenet, to you while you were his prisoner?”

“Aye, sir.”

“So Bourlamaque gave his beloved ward to you—a dreaded enemy—to be your wife. Can you explain to the court why any man would marry a young woman under his protection to the enemy? Did Bourlamaque dislike his ward and wish to be rid of her?”

The men on the jury chuckled.

Morgan answered with the truth. “I deceived him into trustin’ me, and he was bound by his promise to Amalie’s father to let her wed a man of her own choosin’. She chose me.”

“Still, he must have believed without a shadow of doubt that he could trust you.”

“Och, I’m certain he had doubts, but he hoped the marriage would further bind me to him, for he kent I cared deeply for Amalie.”

“And you took this young woman to wife after the Catholic manner, even knowing that you would soon abandon her?”

Morgan could see where this was going and knew he was damned. “Aye, sir. And that is why I did not consummate—”

“The truth, Major MacKinnon, is that you never intended to escape!” Hamilton cut across him, his voice raised to a shout. “You planned to live out your life amongst the French and only returned to Fort Edward because you were in the awkward position of having been kidnapped by the Abenaki and then rescued by your own men!”

“That is a lie!”

“Thank you, Major. That is all.” Hamilton motioned for guards to escort Morgan back to his chair. “Bring in the next witness.”

Dragging his shackles, Morgan sat in the chair that served as a witness box—then came to his feet again when he saw her. Dressed in a green gown he recognized as Annie’s, Amalie entered the room, her gaze seeking him out, the dark circles beneath her eyes and the strain on her sweet face telling him that these past days had been hard ones. And still the sight of her was like a tonic, chasing away his weariness and filling him with hope.

She smiled first at him, then at Iain and Annie, who sat behind him, her smile not enough to hide her fear. Then she took her seat, her hands clenched nervously in her lap, the wooden beads of his rosary visible between her fingers.

Och, how he wished he could spare her this! Hamilton was ruthless, giving no quarter, his objective to give Amherst the guilty verdict he wanted. He would not hesitate to mock and abuse her. Morgan had forbidden the court from calling on her, but that rutting bastard Wentworth had refused to heed him.

“Please tell the court your name,” Hamilton said.

Her gaze locked with Morgan’s, she answered. “Amalie Chauvenet MacKinnon.”

“Miss Chauvenet,” Hamilton said, ignoring her married name, “please tell us how you came to know Major Morgan MacKinnon and how you came to be with him here, so far from Ticonderoga—what you call Fort Carillon.”

And so, her chin high, her accent sweet, she told the story from the beginning. How she’d been asked by her guardian, the Chevalier de Bourlamaque, to help the surgeon care for Morgan so that he might survive to be interrogated. How Morgan had sought his own death, refusing to drink until they overthrew his will with laudanum. How knowing he faced a terrible death at the hands of the Abenaki had sickened her. How she’d persuaded Bourlamaque to offer him sanctuary. How Morgan had pretended not to know French and had won her as his French tutor by shooting at marks.

Then Hamilton interrupted her. “Why did it occur to you to offer Major MacKinnon sanctuary?”

And Morgan saw that Amalie had wandered into a trap. There was no good way to answer this question—not when the officers acting as jury were ready to seize upon anything at all to justify a verdict of guilty. He tried to reassure her with a smile.

Whatever befalls me, lass, ’tis no’ your doin’.

“The Scots have long been allies of the French because we are all Catholic,” she said simply, seeming unaware that she was walking into a swamp.

“In fact, Major MacKinnon’s grandfather was renowned amongst the traitorous Jacobites for helping Charles Stuart escape to France, wasn’t he?”

She hesitated. “So Monsieur de Bourlamaque told me.”

“You witnessed Major MacKinnon load his musket and fire it before the assembled French army?” Hamilton asked.

“No man can teach another to strike marks by simply watchin’ another do it!” Iain shouted, breaking the rule of silence. “Did you learn to sit a horse by watchin’ your daddy ride?”

“Silence!” Amherst bellowed, his shout startling Amalie. “Interrupt again, and I shall have you removed!”

“Answer the question, Miss Chauvenet.”

“
O-oui, monsieur.
I saw him fire at marks.”

“Please continue with your story.”

She told how Morgan had protected her from Lieutenant Rillieux, how he’d spared the life of her cousin, drawing his own blood in an effort to appease the Abenaki’s rage. Then she told how Morgan had struck Rillieux for playing with Charlie Gordon’s skull, how she’d found Morgan in the graveyard, and how she’d stood beside him, the entire fort watching as he buried Charlie’s remains with the priest’s blessing. But this did not seem to interest Hamilton.

“Did Major MacKinnon ever wear a French uniform?”

“Not at first. Monsieur de Bourlamaque clad him as befitted the son of a Scottish laird, but feared a uniform would enrage the soldiers.”

“But eventually, he did don a French officer’s uniform, correct?”

“Yes, monsieur.” Amalie’s eyes implored Morgan to forgive her.

He smiled again, and some of the fear in her eyes lessened.

“Please go on, Miss Chauvenet.”

Amalie drew strength from the warmth in Morgan’s eyes, from the presence of Iain and Annie behind him, and took a steadying breath, her stomach so full of butterflies that she’d long since quit feeling hungry. “I—I began to feel affection for Monsieur MacKinnon. He told me we could not be together until the war was over. I did not know at the time that he meant to escape.”

She told the officers how she’d gone to speak with Morgan one night but had found his room empty. Then she’d noticed that the hall candle was missing and that a faint glow was coming from the door to Bourlamaque’s study.

“I found Monsieur MacKinnon there, sitting at Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s writing table, reading Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s private letters. For a moment I didn’t understand how he could be reading the letters when he did not speak French. And then I understood. He had deceived us. He was spying.”

She remembered the shock she’d felt, the disbelief, the hurt, the anger. But then she looked into Morgan’s eyes and knew that she’d long since forgiven him.

“How do you know for certain that Major MacKinnon was
spying
?” The bewigged man imitated her voice, her accent.