Untamed (47 page)

Bourlamaque stopped still and gaped at her. “What?”

Amalie told him how Amherst and Wentworth believed Morgan was a traitor and how they’d tried him in a court-martial, found him guilty, and would already have hanged him three days past had he not escaped. “You did not know?”

“No.” Bourlamaque drew a deep breath, a look of weariness upon his face. Then he lowered his voice. “Say nothing of your role in this to anyone lest you find yourself in the same predicament. I will do my best to find you a suitable husband—”

“The lass already has a husband.”

Amalie whirled toward the sound of that familiar voice. “Morgan!”

But where was he? She glanced about, but did not see him.

Then a shape detached itself from the forest, and what had seemed like dappled shadow took on the form of a man and stepped into the sunlight.

Morgan stood not ten paces away, dressed in dark leather breeches, his bare chest, arms, and face painted with alternating bands of white and black, the dark paint making his eyes seem startlingly blue. His dark hair hung down his back, a warrior braid at each temple, his chest rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. But, though he was clad as a warrior, he bore no weapon.

Lieutenant Durand and Lieutenant Foucher raised their pistols.

“No!” In a rush of fear, Amalie started toward him.

But Monsieur de Bourlamaque held her fast.

Morgan saw the hope in Amalie’s eyes, and the doubt he’d carried with him these past days vanished. No matter that he was a condemned man, her love still lay upon him. He met Bourlamaque’s gaze, saw the fury that blazed there. “Release her, and tell your men to lower their weapons.”

“We do not answer to you, traitor!” Lieutenant Durand spat at him.

Bourlamaque laughed, a bitter sound. “I do not know how you found us, Ranger, but my scouts have you surrounded. They will—”

“These scouts?” Morgan gestured for his men to step forward.

From around the clearing, Rangers and Mahicans stepped out of the shadows in twos and threes, holding a French soldier or Abenaki warrior at the tip of their muskets.

Bourlamaque glanced about, surprise turning to rage. Then he met Morgan’s gaze once more. “Try to take her from me by force, and you’ll die where you stand!”

Morgan looked into his eyes, saw the man he’d come to admire, and felt a moment of regret. “I dinnae wish this to come to bloodshed, but kill me, and you’ll die ere I hit the ground.”

“Stop, please!” Amalie cried. “I could not bear it if either of you were hurt!”

Silence stretched taut between them.

It was Bourlamaque who spoke first. “I spared your life! I treated you with honor! I trusted you, and you betrayed me!”

“I had no choice! I couldna fight for an army that sought to kill my brothers and my men!”

“You broke your word!” Bourlamaque’s voice was dark with condemnation.

“Aye, I did.” It was the truth, and there was naught Morgan could do to change it. “But long afore I laid eyes upon you, my word was already given.”

This only served to enrage Bourlamaque further. “Tell me why I should not order them to shoot you where you stand!”

Morgan took a step toward him, and then another, mindful of Durand and Foucher. “Because you dinnae truly wish to see me die. Because ’tis only this godforsaken war that stands between us. Because you dinnae wish Amalie to watch you kill the man she loves.”

Morgan dared not look at Amalie, his mind on Bourlamaque and the two officers who still pointed pistols at his chest. He saw in Bourlamaque’s eyes the battle that raged within him, watched the old man’s anger rise, dark and venomous—and then break.

Suddenly Bourlamaque seemed weary, the fight leaving his limbs. He motioned for Durand and Foucher to lower their weapons. “I would have treated you with honor, kept you at my right hand.”

Morgan felt the sharp edges of regret press into his chest. “And I’d have been proud to stand beside you had I been free to make such a choice.”

For a moment neither of them spoke, their gazes locked in understanding.

Then Bourlamaque looked down at Amalie and spoke in French. “You must choose,
ma petite,
and from your decision there can be no turning back. Come with me now, and I shall do all I can to free you from this marriage and settle you with a man who can keep you safe and happy, perhaps in France. Or go with MacKinnon and live whatever life he can give you. He is an outlaw, Amalie, condemned by both France and Britain. No matter who wins this war, there will be a price on his head. Ever you shall wander, but I do not believe you will find peace. And when children come, they shall suffer even as you suffer.”

“I protect what’s mine, Bourlamaque.” But even as Morgan spoke, the truth in Bourlamaque’s words assailed him. He was a selfish bastard to take the woman he loved from a life of safety into such peril. And if she were with child…

She’s your wife. She belongs at your side.

Aye, but what life could he give her? What life could he give a child? If he loved her, wouldn’t it be better for her if he let her go?

A fist seemed to close around his heart, his tongue shaping words his mind did not wish to speak. “He’s right, Amalie. I am a condemned man. I will be hunted wi’ no place I can call home. You’re my wife,
a leannan,
and I want you beside me, but I wouldna see you suffer for love of me.”

Amalie saw the anguish in Morgan’s eyes and knew what it had cost him to speak those words—this proud Scotsman, this warrior. Love for him swelled in her heart, putting tears in her eyes. She wanted to run to him, but first it was time for farewells.

She turned to Monsieur de Bourlamaque, met his worried gaze. “You have done so much for me, monsieur. You have cared for me and protected me, treating me as a favored niece. I am forever grateful to you.”

Bourlamaque cupped her cheek and smiled at her, the tenderness on his face enough to break Amalie’s heart. “Come with me, and let me give you the life you deserve, far from the frontier. Let me—”

Amalie pressed her fingers to his lips, a bittersweet ache in her breast. “You are most generous, but my place is with Morgan. He is my husband. I go with him.”

A look of sadness came over Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s face, but he nodded. Then he smiled. “Your father married for love and cherished your mother to his dying day. You are your father’s daughter in the end,
non
?”

Nothing Monsieur de Bourlamaque could have said in that moment would have touched Amalie more. She threw her arms around him and held him tight, tears choking back her words.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur! Je ne vous oublierai jamais.” I will never forget you!

He crushed her against him in a great hug, held her, then set her free. “Go to him, Amalie.”

She stood on tiptoe, kissed her guardian’s bristly cheek, then turned toward Morgan. He stood only a few paces away, his blue eyes reflecting the same tumult of emotions she was feeling. She took one step in his direction and another, then lifted her skirts and ran to him, his strong arms enfolding her, holding her close.

“Och, Amalie, lass!”

She pressed her cheek against his chest, felt his heart beating strong and steady beneath his breast. “Oh, Morgan! I was so afraid! I thought they’d hang you or shoot you and I’d never see you again!”

And then the tears came in earnest as she wept out the horror of the past week, safe in the sanctuary of his embrace, the familiar scent of his skin, the feel of his arms around her seeming precious beyond imagining, his nearness a miracle.

He kissed her hair, murmuring reassurances, his arms holding her tighter. “Shhh,
a leannan,
I’m here, and I’ll no’ let us be parted again.”

Then he tucked a finger beneath her chin, ducked down, and kissed her. It was a scorching kiss, desperate and brutal—a kiss of death defeated, a kiss of life reclaimed. Her heart soaring, she welcomed the sweet invasion of his tongue, arching against him, her fingers delving into the silk of his hair, even as his fisted in hers.

Someone coughed.

Monsieur de Bourlamaque.

Amalie had forgotten all about the others.

Morgan could have kissed her forever—but not here, not caught between two armies on the brink of battle. He drew back from her, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You look like you’re weepin’ ink, lass. See? Your tears are washin’ away my scary paint.”

She looked at the patch of bare skin on his chest, sniffed, then laughed, the sound bonnier to his ears than the most beautiful music.

Then Joseph spoke. “The hour grows late. It is time for us to leave this place.”

“Aye, we must.” Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “I speak for the Rangers and for the Mahican when I say that none of us shall fire upon you or steal your wine again. We owe you a life debt. Let there be peace between us at least.”

He stepped away from Amalie, reached out his hand.

Bourlamaque seemed to hesitate. Then he stepped forward and took Morgan’s hand, his grasp firm. “Nor will my soldiers pursue you.”

Then Simon came forward and spoke in Abenaki, Atoan keeping pace beside him. “You are husband to my cousin, and she loves you. Twice you spared my life. I will not make war on you or your brothers again, Mack-in-non.”

“Nor will I.” Atoan drew out his hatchet and turned the handle toward Morgan, symbolically offering him peace. “Enough blood has been spilled between our peoples, and I would not see your woman torn by further grief. Let us fight no more.”

Morgan nodded, took the hatchet, then drew the hunting knife from his belt and turned the handle toward Atoan.
“Wli-gen. Ni-do-bak.” It is good. Let us be friends.

Bourlamaque said something to Durand and Fouchet, then turned to face Morgan once more. “Amalie’s belongings are in the trunk in that wagon—her gowns, her rosary, her father’s books. Take what you will. My scouts tell me British scouts are still searching for you in the hills south of here. You must make haste. Go with God, Major MacKinnon. And take care of her.”

“I will. God be wi’ you, old man.”

“Adieu, Amalie. I doubt we shall see each other again on this earth. May God and His saints watch over you and your Ranger. I shall keep you both in my prayers.”

Morgan watched as Amalie ran to Bourlamaque and embraced her guardian one last time, her voice quavering.
“Adieu, monsieur.”

Durand and Foucher each gave Morgan a nod—and then the French were gone, melting into the forest with their Abenaki allies.

A
malie’s belongings were quickly removed from the trunk and everything except for her rosary, which she insisted on carrying, was divided amongst the men to stow in their packs. They journeyed quickly upriver to where they’d hidden canoes amongst the reeds, then crossed the river once more, heading southward, Joseph’s men scouting ahead, Morgan unable to let Amalie out of arm’s reach.

“ ’Twill be long ere I can bear to let you out of my sight,
a leannan,
” he told her as he lifted her from the canoe.

“Or I you. I was so afraid you would be hanged!” The dark circles beneath her eyes and her grip on his fingers told him just how afraid she’d been. “How did you escape?”

“Och, well, I climbed a moonbeam and floated away on the breeze.”

She smiled, the sight warming him to his soul. “I know you well enough to know that you are a man, Morgan MacKinnon, not
chi bai
.”

He lowered his voice, savoring the feel of her small hand in his. “Aye, I’m a man, and I thank heaven for it every time I lay eyes upon you.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “So how
did
you escape?”

“ ’Twas Wentworth.”

“What?” She gaped at him in disbelief. “But Wentworth thought you guilty!”

“Or so he feigned. He secreted British uniforms out to my brothers, using the changing of the watch to bring them within the fort’s walls. They overpowered the guards, freed me, then crept wi’ me through the shadows to the postern gate. While I concealed myself, they walked up to the sentries and struck them senseless. We left by the gate and made our way back around to Ranger Island, throwin’ the uniforms in the river. I gathered my gear and made my way through the forest to where Joseph was encamped. ’Twas a chancie plan, but it worked.”

Then Morgan told her how Wentworth had revealed to Iain and Connor when and where she was to be traded for the two soldiers, hinting in his own way that Morgan should wait to retake Amalie until after the exchange was made. He told her how he and Joseph had paced the army day after day, how they’d had their men in position long before Amherst or Bourlamaque had scouted the area around the falls, and how the wait had nearly driven him daft.

“So you
were
watching over me.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Aye, lass, every hour of every day.”

Soon they found themselves making their way up the slope of Rattlesnake Mountain, the ground rocky at their feet. Although Amalie was stronger than she’d been the last time they’d come this way, the climb was not an easy one. As they’d done on the journey to Fort Edward, they moved more slowly, Joseph and his men scouting ahead, giving Amalie and Morgan a wide berth. But no sooner had the crest of the mountain come into view than Morgan heard the blast of cannon in the distance.

Amalie gasped, gave a startled jump. “I thought there was to be no battle. I thought Bourlamaque planned to abandon the fort.”

“Those were his orders.” Morgan quickened their pace. “Come. Let us see.”

On the rocky summit, he lay on his belly and inched forward to the edge, motioning for Amalie to do the same. The valley spread out before them, the shimmering waters of Lake Champlain stretching to the north, Lake George over the hills to the west. And there, on a small peninsula, stood Fort Carillon, about to be swept away in a tide of red, the British army approaching from the south.

There came the roar of cannon, and smoke rose from the ramparts of Carillon.

Amalie gasped again. “The fort looks so small! Why do they not flee?”