Untamed (49 page)

Three months later

T
he keening cry became a sob, then faded to a whimper and fell silent.

Morgan found himself holding his breath. He’d never felt so bloody helpless—or so afraid—in his life. He exhaled, met Iain’s gaze, his belly too knotted for rum. “How much longer will she have to bide this?”

Already, twenty long hours had gone by.

“The first one is always the hardest.” Iain’s voice held a reassuring tone. “Annie labored for the better part of a day with Iain, but ’twas much quicker with Mara.”

How could Iain be so calm? Did he feel nothing for Amalie’s suffering?

And then Morgan saw.

Iain might sound calm, but he was holding his cup so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Morgan drew a deep breath. “Aye, that seems to be the way of it.”

He glanced at the little cradle near the hearth, where his brother’s daughter slept. Only six weeks old, little Mara Elasaid MacKinnon had been born in a matter of hours, Annie’s pains beginning in the early morn and her daughter’s lusty cry echoing through the cabin ere midday. Amalie had held Annie’s hand, and had come away from the birthing less afraid than before and awed by Annie’s strength.

“Women are strong, too, but in a different way than men,” she’d told him that night as he’d held her, one hand on her belly to feel the bairn move within her.

Och, aye, women were strong, for if giving birth were left to men, there’d be scarce a child born anywhere in the world. From the sound of it, giving birth was worse than being flogged.

Sweet Mary, Mother of God, help her! Dinnae let her or the bairn perish!

Another pain began, Amalie’s moan becoming a cry of agony that seemed to go on forever before fading into silence like the others.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Rebecca, Joseph’s sister, appeared at the foot of the stairs, her dark hair piled atop her head, her face lined with worry. She met Morgan’s gaze. “Amalie’s womb has opened, but the child is not moving down. I fear the baby may be too big to be born.”

Morgan heard Rebecca’s words, tried to understand what she was telling him, the floor seeming to tilt beneath him. “Are you tellin’ me…she’s goin’ to…
die
?”

He felt Iain’s hand upon his shoulder.

“ ’Tis too early to tell, but I fear for her, Morgan. You are a big man, and she is very small. If the child cannot be born, neither of them will survive.” Rebecca took his hand. “But there are ways…ways to draw the child out. ’Twould mean losing the baby, but it might save Am—”

“No!” Morgan found himself on his feet, the answer surging from the pit of his gut. “I’ll no’ choose atween them. Amalie wouldna survive her grief if she kent her child had been killed to spare her life.”

Rebecca nodded, looking relieved. “Then help me—both of you. Iain, I need you to help Annie hold Amalie upright on the birthing stool. Morgan, when the next pain comes, I want you to push against the top of her womb to try to force the child down. I’ll show you how.”

Morgan followed Rebecca up the stairs, feeling more afraid than he’d ever felt going into battle, his mind filled with a silent prayer.

Mary, Blessed Virgin, spare my Amalie! Spare them both!

A
malie felt lips press against her cheek, and opened her eyes to see Morgan beside her. She knew why he was there. She could see it on Rebecca’s face.

Something was wrong.

“Morgan!” She took his hand, tears filling her eyes at the welcome sight of him. There was something she needed to tell him. “If I should die, cut my belly open and save the baby. Promise me you’ll—”

“You’re no’ goin’ to die,
a leannan
.” He gave her hand a squeeze, his eyes filled with sharp determination. “I’m wi’ you now.”

C
lenching Annie’s hand, Amalie pushed with all her might, fighting not to scream as Morgan used his forearm to push hard against her belly, the pain unbearable. Teeth clenched, she looked into Morgan’s eyes, the strength she saw in them becoming her strength. She would
not
die. She would
not
let her baby die.

“A little longer…Feel your body open…That’s the way,” Rebecca crooned. “Your baby has lots of dark hair.”

Then the pain passed, and Amalie sank back against Iain’s chest, barely able to stay awake, her body trembling from exertion, her mind exhausted by pain.

Morgan bathed her forehead with a cool cloth, murmuring reassurances. “It willna be long now,
a leannan
.”

Amalie nodded, then fell into a doze.

Again and again her pangs came, and each time Amalie looked into Morgan’s eyes, clinging to the love she saw there, the pain between her legs turning to fire.

“The head is almost out, lass,” he said, pushing hard against her womb.

Unable to bear it, Amalie screamed—and felt the pain lessen. And there, between her thighs, was a baby’s face, its little eyes open, its tiny lips pressed in a frown.

“Ô, mon Dieu!”
She reached down, stroked her baby’s head, even as Rebecca wiped its face with a clean cloth.

And with one last push, her baby slipped into her hands, squalling.

“It’s a boy!” Rebecca helped Amalie lift the baby to her breast.

“And a strong one from the sounds of it,” Annie said, a relieved smile on her face.

“Well done, lass.” Iain’s voice came from behind her, his hands giving her shoulders a squeeze.

Relief and elation washed through Amalie as she held her baby close, his healthy cries the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. She’d been so afraid—afraid that she would perish, afraid that the baby would be stillborn, the long hours of labor more than it could withstand.

She looked up at Morgan, saw tears in his eyes and amazement on his face. She turned the baby so he could see its little face. “Your son.”

He reached out, took one of the baby’s hands in his, its little fingers curling around one of his. “He’s so…so
wee
.”

Rebecca laughed, pressing her hand against Amalie’s belly to help drive out the afterbirth. “He’s a big one and…Oh! I think he’s got a brother or a sister.”

Another pang came, catching Amalie by surprise.

Twins?

The second baby came more quickly than the first, slipping into Rebecca’s waiting hands with an indignant wail.

Rebecca held the baby up. “Another boy!”

And the room filled with laughter.

A
malie knew when Annie took her babies from her arms. She knew when Morgan gently lifted her and carried her to the bed and kissed her cheek. But by the time he drew the blankets over her, she was asleep.

A
malie awoke to find Morgan beside her, rocking the two babies that lay side by side in the cradle he’d carved for one, a look of wonder on his handsome face.

“I think you shall have to carve another.”

Morgan glanced down at her, his gaze soft. “You’re awake already,
a leannan
? I thought you’d sleep the day away. God kens you need the rest.”

She tried to sit, winced at her soreness, her gaze settling on her
two
babies. “Do you know which is which?”

He nodded, smiled. “The one in the blue blanket is Lachlan Anthony.”

It was the name they’d chosen if the baby was a boy, a name that honored both of their fathers—Lachlan MacKinnon and Antoine Chauvenet.

“What shall we name the second?”

“I’ve thought hard on that, and I’ve wondered how you’d feel about ‘Connor Joseph.’ ” He took her hand, his expression turning troubled. “Iain and I are out of the war now. Iain has a son. But Connor and Joseph are still fightin’. I thought that if we named our son after them, they would go into battle kennin’ that their names live on.”

It was a beautiful idea, one that touched Amalie deeply. She, too, hated to think of Connor and Joseph facing the danger of battle, their lives still bound to this war. She spoke the name aloud, her throat growing tight. “Connor Joseph MacKinnon.
Oui
. It is a strong and proud name. Connor and Joseph will be pleased.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “They’ll be insufferable.”

They laughed together, both knowing it was true.

Laughter faded into smiles, and they sat in silence, staring in quiet amazement at their two sleeping babies. Then Morgan reached over and took Amalie’s hand.

He kissed her fingers, one by one. “There’s naugh’ I can say or do to repay you for what you’ve given me. If I could have taken your sufferin’ upon myself, I’d have done it gladly.”

She drew a breath to speak, but Morgan went on.

“For a time, I was afraid I might lose you, and the thought struck fear inside me such as I’ve ne’er kent afore—not in battle, not when I was shot, not when I thought I might hang. I cannae fathom my life wi’out you, lass.” He drew a deep breath, his expression hardening. “I willna spend inside you again.”

Amalie saw the sincerity and resolve on his face and knew he was saying such nonsense out of love for her. She raised her hand to his cheek, felt his stubble against her palm. “Am I to be content to live as your sister? No, Morgan. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring. Whether I die in childbed or Connor and Joseph are struck down in battle, we must take life as it comes.”

He ran his thumb down her cheek. “My brave, bonnie lass. Where does a wee woman come by such courage?”

“My courage comes from loving you, Morgan MacKinnon.”

He gazed at her as if in wonder, then drew a deep breath. “Then let us take each day as it comes, counting our blessings along the way.”

They turned as one and gazed into the cradle and counted—by twos.

The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon

BY
D
OUGIE
M
AC
M
ORRAN

MacKinnon arose on an April morn’

Taen his rifle in baith his hands

He ha’ bid the lassies a lang farewell

Gaen tae fecht on Carillon’s strand

When the lassies they heard o’ this

Their hands for dule they wrang

Cryin’, “Morgan, bide wi’ us awhile

Tae the battle dinnae ye gang.”

’Tis far tae Ticonderoga

’Tis far through forest and fen

But ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon

Bonnie and braw untae the end

We cam tae the walls of Carillon

But the battle had cam tae us

For the French they lay a-waitin’

Wi’ their rifles aimed at us

MacKinnon, he ordered the retreat

But he ha’ stayed ahind

For one o’ his men was doun

And he’d nae leave him tae die.

’Tis far tae Ticonderoga

’Tis far through forest and fen

But ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon

Feal and true untae the end

“Leave me here,” cried his woundit man.

“Dinnae gi’ your life for me.”

Says Morgan, “I’ve cam wi’ a hundred men

And wi’ a hundred I shall leave.”

So he ha’ taen him on his back

An’ he buir him tae the strand

Wi’ fire rainin’ frae above

An’ death on either hand

’Tis far tae Ticonderoga

’Tis far through forest and fen

But ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon

Stark and strang untae the end

Morgan, he buir him on his back

And sent his men awa’

But he stayed tae haud the French attack

So his men micht get awa’

An’ the next shot that the French, they fired

They wounded him in the thee

An’ the last shot that the French, they fired

Well, his hairt’s blood blint his e’e

’Tis far tae Ticonderoga

’Tis far through forest and fen

But ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon

Brave and bold untae the end

But Morgan ha’ taen his pistol forth

An’ he raised it one last time

An’ he ha’ fired on the sodger

An’ killed the man who’d struck him doun

Then Morgan fell upon the sand

An’ tae his men he cried

“I am lost. Leave me tae my end.”

Then he laid doun and died

’Tis far tae Ticonderoga

’Tis far through forest and fen

But ’tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon

Bidin’ untae the end

Turn the page for a special preview of a brand-new

MacKinnon’s Rangers novel by Pamela Clare

DEFIANT

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

L
ady Sarah Woodville struggled to keep up with her captor, her lungs aching for breath, a dagger-sharp stitch in her side. Taking no pity on her, he drew her onward, holding fast to the leather cords that bit into her wrists. Her toes and fingers were pinched from cold, her thighs burning from the steep uphill climb. Each step was agony, her feet blistered raw by the wet leather of her new shoes. And yet she dared not ask him to stop nor even slow him.

She knew he would kill her.

She’d been sailing with Mrs. Price, her chaperone, and Jane, her lady’s maid, from New York up the Hudson River toward Albany, where she was to visit her uncle William Wentworth ere the summer campaigns called him away, when the captain had encountered ice floes that all but blocked the river. He’d tried to navigate his way around them, but he’d run the ship aground just off the western bank. Apologizing profusely for his error in judgment, he’d sent straightaway for help, assuring Sarah that Albany was not far upriver.

But Mrs. Price’s stomach had been unable to tolerate the awkward tilt and rocking of the stranded ship. To help ease her
mal de mer
, the captain had rowed her, Sarah, and Jane ashore, together with a few other passengers who likewise felt queasy. But they’d no sooner set foot on the embankment than she’d heard a musket fire and the captain had fallen dead.