Untamed (46 page)

The pride in Iain and Connor’s eyes when they’d looked at her had warmed her heart, and she could almost hear Iain’s thoughts.

That’s our Amalie.

The army had left the fort just after breakfast. Amherst hadn’t allowed Amalie to bid Iain and Annie farewell, and he’d placed Connor and the Rangers so far in the rear of the column that she’d caught only a glimpse of them. And the overwhelming joy and relief she’d felt knowing that Morgan had escaped had dimmed in the face of her growing fear that he would come for her—and be captured or killed.

Oars now resting in the gunwales, the little bateau neared the shore, hands reaching out to steady it as soldiers clambered out with their gear, splashing as they went.

Lieutenant Cooke appeared beside the boat, his friendly face a welcome sight. “If you’ll give me your hand, Miss Chauvenet, I’ll help you ashore.”

“
Merci, monsieur
. You are most kind.”

He carried her through ankle-deep water to the sandy bank, then set her down and led her through the bustling soldiers toward her tent, which had already been set up on the western edge of the encampment. There she found Amherst and Wentworth, their heads bowed together.

“If he comes for her, it will be tonight,” Wentworth said. “We must be vigilant.”

Amherst nodded. “I’ve ordered my sharpshooters to open fire the moment he appears.”

Amalie’s stomach, still queasy, seemed to fall to the ground. She found herself hoping Morgan would not come for her. And yet if he didn’t come, if he could not reach her, she would soon be in Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s keeping—and she would likely never see him again.

She glanced toward the forested hills, her gaze seeking the shadows, her thoughts winging skyward.

Ô, Morgan, mon cher, méfie toi! Be careful!

S
tripped down to his breeches, painted white and black to blend with the shadows, Morgan lay on his belly, watching through the spying glass as Amalie endured another supper with Wentworth and that whoreson Amherst. Her long hair spilling down her back, her sweet face rosy from too much sun, she picked at her meal, her gaze shifting furtively to the west, as if watching for him.

I’m here,
a leannan.
I’ve no’ forsaken you.

For three long days, he’d shadowed the army, following their progress, keeping watch on Amalie through his spying glass. Everything inside him wanted to cease this endless waiting, charge down the hillside, and carry her away. But he did not wish to take British lives or risk losing Amalie or any of his men in needless fighting.

Soon, lass. We shall be together soon.

Beside Morgan, Joseph spoke in his own tongue. “Connor said they will not let him near her. He said Cooke seems to be watching over her.”

“Cooke is a good man.” Morgan rolled onto his back, collapsing the spying glass. “It sounds strange to say, but I believe Wentworth might have a heart after all.”

Morgan still found it hard to believe that he was here and alive because of Wentworth. He’d have sworn the
neach dìolain
had wanted him to hang. He’d been utterly stamagastert to see Iain and Connor dressed as redcoats, but he’d been even more taken aback to learn where they’d gotten the uniforms.

Joseph grinned, his teeth bright white in contrast to the dark paint on his face. “Somewhere inside Wentworth’s body is a man fighting to come out.”

“So it seems, brother.”

Then Killy and Forbes appeared beside them, both out of breath from their hike up the hill, two of almost forty Rangers who’d left Ranger Island and joined with Joseph and his men, waiting in the forest beyond Fort Edward to aid Morgan and his brothers in whatever way they could. Iain had wanted to join them, but they’d all known that Amherst would set a watch upon him, so he had taken Annie and the baby and gone home, unable to do more for Morgan than he’d already done.

Killy spoke first, his scarred face red from exertion. “ ’Tis as you said it would be. The Frenchies are fleein’ northward.”

“And what of Bourlamaque?”

Forbes nodded. “Aye, he’s still there. We spotted him on the ramparts. The moment he sets his arse outside his own gates, we’ll be ready for him.”

Morgan clapped a hand on Forbes’s shoulder. “Did you find the falls?”

“Aye, and Captain Joseph’s men are in position.”

Morgan looked down at the encampment below, his gaze seeking Amalie. “Then there’s naugh’ to do but wait.”

A
malie dipped the cloth into the cool water, squeezed it out, then lifted her hair aside and pressed it to her nape. It was not the sort of bath to which she was accustomed, but after three long, hot days with no bath at all, it felt like heaven. She dipped the cloth again, squeezed it, and washed her face, the water helping to ease the heat of her sunburnt skin. But although she wished to be truly clean again, she dared not remove her gown. Not only was she the only woman in an encampment of soldiers, but she also knew that Iain had meant what he’d said.

You must be ready for whate’er comes, aye?

She washed her face, throat, and hands, then set the bowl of water aside, snuffed out her candle, and lay back on her bedroll, still fully dressed.

If Morgan came for her tonight, she would be ready.

Darkness fell around her, the night borne down by a heavy silence, the soldiers anxious in their sleep. They remembered last summer’s carnage and wondered if they, too, were fated to die before Fort Carillon’s abatis. They did not know what she knew—that none of them would die tomorrow, for there would be no battle.

And so, surrounded by the troubled stillness, she waited.

A
malie did not remember falling asleep. She did not know she was sleeping until Lieutenant Cooke’s voice woke her.

“Major General Amherst and Brigadier General Wentworth await you at breakfast, mademoiselle. I’ve come to escort you.”

She sat up, glanced about in confusion, and realized that it was past dawn. Morgan had not come. “
Merci,
Lieutenant. I’ll be but a moment.”

Amalie quickly repaired her braid, her relief that nothing had happened during the night at odds with her rising fear that Morgan would not be able to reach her in time. And then what would she do? She could not bear to think of facing a lifetime without him, the very idea making her feel sick, bringing tears to her eyes.

She blinked them away, then ducked out of her tent, to find Lieutenant Cooke waiting for her. “I am ready.”

Breakfast turned out to be a hurried cup of tea and a stale biscuit. Amalie did not care, for she hadn’t the appetite for more. She’d barely finished her tea, when Amherst glanced at his pocket watch.

“Let us be off.”

And Amalie knew.

They were taking her to Monsieur de Bourlamaque.

Pulse tripping, she stood, grasped Wentworth’s hand. “I beseech you, monsieur, be merciful and permit me to say farewell to my husband’s brother, Captain MacKinnon. Just a few moments are all I ask. Please!”

If she could but distance herself from the soldiers who guarded her, if she could find Connor and the Rangers, then perhaps…

Wentworth gazed coldly down at her. “I’m afraid I can’t permit that, Miss Chauvenet.”

Heedless of the tears that welled in her eyes, he led her to the meadow where the officers’ horses had been picketed through the night, accompanied by Amherst and several soldiers. Then he lifted her onto one of the horses and climbed into the saddle behind her.

“Don’t look so glum, Miss Chauvenet.” He wrapped his arm about her waist, his voice like velvet in her ear. “You’re about to be reunited with your loving guardian—surely a happy occasion.”

But it would be anything but happy, for Monsieur de Bourlamaque would take her deeper into French territory, making it almost impossible for Morgan to find her. Not only that, but once she confessed that she’d discovered Morgan spying and had not told him—and confess she must—he would surely despise her.

Amalie said nothing of her fears. Instead, she glared back at Wentworth, rage thrumming through her veins that he should make so light of her sorrow. “Indeed, it shall be happy, for I shall at last be rid of you.”

Wentworth merely smiled.

They rode along the lakeshore, then took a path leading northwest through the forest, sunlight piercing through leaves to dapple the trail before them, the forest seeming to hold its breath. And then she saw it—movement amongst the trees.

Amalie’s pulse skipped, her breath seeming to catch in her lungs.

But it was only a doe startled from the undergrowth by the horses.

Her heart sank.

Wentworth leaned near and whispered, his lips almost touching her temple. “Do you think he’d be foolish enough to try to take you here? Our men have kept this trail under watch since yesterday afternoon. It is quite free of any presence but our own.”

Then through the trees, she could hear it—the rushing waters of rivière La Chute. Soon the forest fell back to reveal a wide waterfall. And on the other side, surrounded by a full military escort bearing the fleur-de-lis, stood Lieutenant Durand and Lieutenant Foucher, Monsieur de Bourlamaque between them.

An unexpected pang of joy, sharp and bittersweet, swelled inside her at the sight of her guardian’s familiar face. But if he felt any happiness at the sight of her, it did not show. He stood still and solemn as Wentworth lifted her into a bateau and the entire British party crossed the river.

“It seems your
husband
was not as keen on reacquiring you as you might have believed.” Amherst looked down his long nose at her, a mocking smile on his lips. “He saved himself and forgot all about you.”

“Then he has eluded us both,” she said, gratified by the angry flush that came into Amherst’s cheeks.

Yet even as Amalie told herself to ignore Amherst’s hateful words, cold doubt clutched at her belly, and her gaze sought the shadows of the forest once again.

Chapter 32

M
organ watched as the British crossed the river in bateaux sent over by Bourlamaque, Amalie seated between Amherst and Wentworth, Amherst’s marksmen keeping watch from the far bank. Wentworth helped Amalie ashore, his arm lingering about her waist too long for Morgan’s liking.

That’s my wife, you
mac-dìolain!

Time slowed to a crawl as the British formed a line and, leaving Amalie under guard at the riverbank, marched forward to the rat-a-tat-tat of drums to exchange formal greetings with Bourlamaque and his party. Amherst’s aide-de-camp was the first to step forward. He doffed his hat and made an outlandish bow. Not to be outdone, Lieutenant Durand returned the extravagant gesture, adding several hand flourishes.

Och, for God’s sake!

Did they think they were at court?

Then Amherst and Bourlamaque began to speak. Morgan could not hear what was being said, nor did he give a tinker’s damn, his blood as primed for action as the pistol in his hands. But seconds stretched into long minutes, until it seemed the two men could have nothing more under the sun to say to each other.

Bloody hell!

Then at last, Bourlamaque turned to the men behind him and gestured. Two British officers appeared, impossibly pale and thin, their faces showing both joy and disbelief, as if they could not fathom that they were now free. Amherst’s men saluted them, then led them to a waiting bateau.

Now it was Amherst’s turn. He looked over his shoulder at Amalie, motioning her forward. Lifting her skirts, she hurried toward Bourlamaque, who opened his arms and embraced her like a daughter, relief plain on his face.

Something twisted in Morgan’s gut.

She’s your wife now. She belongs wi’ you, laddie.

Aye, she did—and yet to stay with him, she would lose so much.

He pushed the thought from his mind, watching as the British took their leave of the French, crossed the river, and disappeared back into the forest.

A
malie stood in silence beside Monsieur de Bourlamaque, watching as the British vanished amongst the trees, her hope disappearing with them, despair threatening to swallow her whole. The tears she’d been fighting since she’d awoken at last got the better of her, spilling down her cheeks.

Morgan!

It was Monsieur de Bourlamaque who spoke first, turning her to face him, his gaze seeming to take in the wrinkles on her gown, her sunburnt skin, and her tears all at once. “Praise God and the saints you are alive and whole! When I learned what that whoreson Rillieux had done, I feared the worst. Did he harm you, Amalie?”

“Rillieux struck me and tried to—”

“Not Rillieux! That bastard MacKinnon! Did he hurt you or dishonor you?”

Astonished that he should ask such a thing, Amalie gaped up at him. “
Non, monsieur!
Why would Morgan harm me? He is my husband!”

Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s expression grew hard. “He betrayed me, Amalie! He confessed to me in a letter—written in French! He betrayed me, and he misled you to the altar, taking what he would never have gotten had I known the truth.”

Amalie swallowed and met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “He did not mislead me, monsieur. I…I knew. Before I married him, I knew that he had stolen secrets. I caught him spying late one night and—”

Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s grip on her arms tightened, a look of hurt disbelief in his eyes. “And you did not tell me?”

“I—I couldn’t! Forgive me, monsieur, but I could not betray him, knowing that it would mean his death!” She drew a shaky breath, her mind searching for words to explain. “I…I love him!”

Bourlamaque’s gaze grew cold. He turned her and led her toward a waiting wagon. “Such girlish nonsense! I am sending you back to Trois Rivières to await the end of the war and your annulment. I only pray you’re not carrying his child.”

Amalie’s despair turned to anger. “And I pray that I am! I would have been happy to live out my life with him, but this war will not let us be. You took me away from him, and the British want to hang him!”