by Pamela Clare
She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. She wasn’t even certain why she was upset and crying. Perhaps she was simply weary after so many long days of caring for the Ranger. Or perhaps caring for him reminded her of the terrible battle that had taken her father’s life.
If aught should befall me, Pen Francois will take you to Montcalm or Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.
Nothing will happen to you, Papa!
She ran her fingers over the carven letters of her father’s name, the ache in her heart sharpened by memories. “I did as Monsieur de Bourlamaque asked, Papa. I helped keep the Ranger alive. Soon they will interrogate him.”
You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.
How had he seen through her so easily?
He’d spoken but a few words to her, and already she knew he was not the coarse and heartless man she’d expected him to be. She’d thought he’d up wake cursing France or pleading for release. Instead, he’d caught her touching him in a way no chaste young woman should, and he’d offered her understanding and reassurance, asking only for her name and water to drink, his manners faultless even when hers had failed.
I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.
Politesse and understanding were not qualities one expected from a ruthless barbarian, a brutal enemy.
And that was the heart of it
She’d watched over him, helped keep him alive to face a terrible death. He understood this, and yet he’d behaved not like an enemy, but a gentleman. He’d sensed her guilt, and he’d forgiven her. For some reason, that made her feel worse, not better.
“Kwai, nadogweskwa. Toni kd’ollowzin.” Greetings, cousin. How are you?
Amalie recognized the voice. Hastily, she wiped the tears from her face with her apron, then stood and turned to face him. “Kwai, Tomakwa, nagogwisis. Kwai, Simo. N’wowlowzi, ta giya?” Greetings, Tomas, my cousin. Greetings, Simon. I am well, and you?
The sons of her mother’s sister walked toward her, Tomas in front, Simon behind him. Both were dressed in buckskin leggings and breechcloths, their long dark hair hanging free, their chests bare. Tomas wore a British officer’s gorget as a trophy around his neck, and a belt of wampum around his waist. Simon wore only a smile for adornment. “So you remember the words I taught you. I am pleased.” Tomas came to stand before her. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, examined her face, and frowned, his gaze dropping for a moment to her father’s grave. “You have been weeping.” Knowing Tomas would not understand feelings she couldn’t possibly explain, she let him assume her tears came solely from grief. “I miss him.”
Beside Tomas, Simon watched her, his dark eyes warm with sympathy.
She reached out, gave Simon’s hand a squeeze. “You have come to trade?”
Tomas glanced toward the hospital. “We have come to claim that which Montcalm promised us—the Inglismon, the Mac-Kin-non. Does he still live?”
Suddenly Amalie felt light-headed. “Oui.” But the Ranger was no Englishman. He was a Catholic Scot.
Not that her cousins would understand the difference. “Kamodzi. Very good. We’ll feed him to the flames and avenge both the village and your father.” Then Tomas looked back at her and rested a big hand on her shoulder. “You should come with us, Amalie. Return to your mother’s people. You can be the one to light the fires and thus end your grief.” At her cousin’s words, an unwanted image of the Ranger, bound to a stake and burning, came into her mind. And Amalie felt her stomach turn.
When the door opened, Morgan hoped to see Miss Chauvenet. He would apologize, tell her how sorry he was that her father had been killed by a Ranger’s rifle, and ask her forgiveness. He did not expect his words to matter to her, but they were all he could give.
It was not she who entered but his captors. One of the officers he recognized from his fevered dreams—the bewigged lieutenant who had denied him Last Rites. The other he did not. But the grandeur of the second man’s uniform left no doubt in Morgan’s mind that this was none other than Brigadier le Chevalier Francois-Charles de Bourlamaque, Montcalm’s man.
The brigadier was younger than he’d imagined—not long past forty. Like his lieutenant, he wore a fashionable powdered wig. He studied Morgan, a thoughtful frown on his face, then gave a little bow. “Major MacKinnon.” Morgan swallowed, his throat already parched. “Brigadier de Bourlamaque. Forgi’e me if I dinnae stand to greet you. I seem to be tied up.”
“You have no idea how relieved I am that you survived, Major.”
“Och, I’ve some notion of what I mean to you. After all, my brothers and I have had a high price on our heads these past years.”
Bourlamaque did not smile. “For a time, it seemed certain you would perish and deprive me of the chance to make your acquaintance.”
“Sure and it must be a grand day for you then.” The lieutenant kicked Morgan’s right leg, the pain making the breath rush from Morgan’s lungs. “Do not be insolent!” Bourlamaque cast his lieutenant a dark look, then met Morgan’s gaze once more. “Indeed, it is a day for celebration. Today I have met a legend.”
Then Bourlamaque turned to his lieutenant and spoke in
French. “Allez!” Go!
For a moment, the lieutenant looked vexed. Then with a smart bow to Bourlamaque, he turned and was gone, closing the door behind him.
Bourlamaque turned to gaze out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have already sent word to Fort Elizabeth informing your commander of your unfortunate death. I see no cause for your men to risk their lives in a vain attempt to rescue you.”
“You whoreson!” Heart thrumming, Morgan felt a hope he hadn’t realized he’d had wither and die. As long as his brothers had believed he was alive, there’d been a chance that they would come for him.
But Bourlamaque was still speaking. “As I am sure you know, Major, you will not leave Fort Carillon alive. You and your brothers have cost France dearly in this war. Your men are the scourge of our frontier. It is not only France that demands your death, but also the Abenaki, whom you and your men wronged some winters past when you destroyed their village at Oganak, leaving women and children defenseless.”
“At least we dinnae rape and kill women with babes in their bellies, as you and your allies have done! Do you ken what we found at Oganak? There were more than six hundred scalps hangin’ from their lodge poles—the scalps of men, women, and children, scalps you paid—“ Bourlamaque cut him off. “A group of Abenaki men have just arrived to claim you. They will take you back to their village and burn you alive over a matter of days until you can remember nothing of this life but pain—not the color of the sky, not the taste of wine, not even your blessed mother’s name. You will beg for death, plead for it, but it will be slow in coming.”
Dread he’d been trying to ignore slowly uncoiled at the base of Morgan’s spine and crept in shivers up his back. He was not impervious to fear, but he’d be buggered before he’d allow it to show. “You make it sound so pleasant.” Bourlamaque turned to face him, and beneath the rage on his face, Morgan saw something else—regret. “It won’t be, Major, I assure you. And yet the lack of gallantry exercised by both sides in this war is appalling to me. Out of the respect I bear you for sparing the lives of women, children, and servants of the Church, I am prepared to offer you an arrangement.”
Morgan said nothing, certain he knew what Bourlamaque’s offer would be.
“Tell me all that I wish to know about the Rangers, about Fort Elizabeth, about your commander, and I will see that you receive not only a swift, painless death, but Last Rites and a Catholic burial.”
Morgan closed his eyes, the full horror of his plight laid out before him. Wentworth and his brothers believed him dead. Unless he somehow managed to escape on his own, he would be tortured and burned alive. Whatever was left of his body would be hacked apart, his scalp hung on a lodge pole, a trophy to blow in the wind, his bones scattered in the forest for the animals. But
there was no question of his being able to accept Bourlamaque’s offer. He would sooner suffer a thousand unbearable deaths than betray his brothers or his men.
He opened his eyes, met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “I thank you for your generous proposal. Regretfully, I cannae accept. The darkest corners of Hell are saved for betrayers. I would rather suffer the fiercest torment and die with my honor intact than face God as a traitor.”
Bourlamaque studied him for a moment. “You have time to reconsider. My surgeon tells me you will not be strong enough to move to the guardhouse for at least a week. Should you change your mind in that time—“
“I willnae, so you’d best get on wi’ it.”
“There is no cause to be rash, Major. Send for me if you wish to discuss my offer again.” Then Bourlamaque gave a little bow, opened the door, and was gone, leaving Morgan with only his regrets and his fears.
FIVE
Amalie stepped carefully around mud puddles as she made the long walk to the hospital, so lost in her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed the rain-fresh scent of the morning breeze or the bright blue sky or the soldiers at morning muster. She had hoped to be free of this duty. She had hoped to be free of him. Now that he was out of danger, she’d hoped never to see the Ranger again. She’d asked Bourlamaque to let her return to her customary duties, but he’d refused to release her. “Monsieur Lambert tells me Major MacKinnon asked about you yesterday evening. He believes MacKinnon has warmed to you. You might yet be of some use to us in the infirmary.”
“But he is healing and no longer needs—“
Bourlamaque had cut her off. “Continue to tend him, as you have done so well. But now that he is awake, be attentive. Listen to him, and then report back to me all that he says.”
“You wish me to . . . to spy on him, monsieur?” The idea had seemed so absurd to Amalie that she could scarce speak it. Bourlamaque had chuckled. “Non, sweet Amalie. It is not in your nature to deceive. I wish only for you to be exactly what you are—young and beautiful and innocent. He is a man who has seen much war, a man who knows his end has come. In his despair, he will seek solace in your gentleness. He will trust you and tell you things that he would never tell me. All you need do is inform me each day of all that was said. Can you do this?”
Ashamed of her own reluctance after all Bourlamaque and the men at Fort Carillon had done for her, she’d nodded. “Oui.”
Oh, how she wished Bourlamaque had not asked this of her! How could she explain to him that caring for the Ranger had already left her feeling beset by blame? Must she now compound her guilt by spying upon him? For that was what it was, no matter how delicately Bourlamaque had tried to paint it. She was to soothe the prisoner’s desperation with kindness in order to win his trust, then report all he told her to her guardian.
But why should the Ranger tell her anything? In her experience, most men deemed women unworthy of serious conversation, let alone confidences.
She opened the hospital door and stepped inside, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. A small fire burned in the hearth, chasing away the early morning damp. Two of Monsieur Lambert’s young attendants bustled about, one cleaning chamber pots, the other gathering soiled linens for the laundresses. Six soldiers lay on their little beds, some sleeping, all but one of them still recovering from the Ranger attack.
And this was what she needed to remember. Major MacKinnon had commanded the Rangers who’d harmed these men. He’d attacked this fort, and not for the first time. He had French blood on his hands—perhaps even her father’s blood.
One of the attendants turned toward her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” “Bonjour.” She walked between the beds to the supply cupboard and took out two rolls of fresh linen, refusing to notice the beating of butterfly wings in her belly.
You have no reason to fear him, Amalie.
All she had to do was tend his simplest needs—food and drink—and listen considerately while he spoke. It was an uncomplicated task. So why did she feel like running away?
She walked to the back room, found the door slightly ajar, and heard a man’s voice coming from within.
“If you think this is painful, Major, wait until the Abenaki—“ Amalie pushed open the door to find Lieutenant Rillieux standing over the Ranger, the heel of his boot pressed cruelly against the wound in the Ranger’s thigh. Jaw clenched in obvious pain, the Ranger glared at him with undisguised hatred, but didn’t make a sound.
Aghast, she rushed in. “Monsieur! Que faites-vous?” What are you doing?
Startled, the lieutenant jerked his leg away and turned toward her. A slow smile spread on his face. “I am just giving him the merest taste of what is to come, mademoiselle.” He spoke in English, his gaze shifting to the Ranger, who glared up at him, sweat beaded on his brow, a dark bruise spreading on his right cheek.
The Ranger’s voice was a growl. “Do your worst, you neach diolain!”
Outraged, Amalie answered Lieutenant Rillieux in French. “You go too far! Did you not understand Monsieur Lambert’s orders that the prisoner was not to be abused?” Lieutenant Rillieux took a step toward her, his smile gone. “You forget your place, mademoiselle. I do not answer to Monsieur Lambert, nor do I answer to you.”
But Amalie refused to let him intimidate her, no matter that the look on his face frightened her. “In the hospital. Lieutenant, Monsieur Lambert’s word is to be obeyed. It is cruel and cowardly to strike an injured—“ The lieutenant cut her off. “You are in a fort in the midst of war, little Amalie, not in your convent! Here, military concerns prevail, not the frail sentiments of women.”
Fisting a hand in her hair, he ducked down and pressed his lips hard against hers, the contact painful and frightening—and mercifully brief.
Amalie was so shocked that it did not occur to her to push him away until after he’d released her and walked out the door. She drew a trembling hand to her mouth and tried to wipe his taste away.
Morgan watched the poor lass wipe the violence of that bastard’s kiss off her lips and wished to God he had the strength to break iron. There’d be one less Frenchman walking the Earth if he did. “Did he harm you, miss?”
She whirled about with a gasp, her fingers still pressed against her lips, her eyes wide. For a moment she simply stared at him, and Morgan found himself wondering if he’d slipped and spoken French to her.
Have a care, MacKinnon.
He’d understood every word of their conversation, of course, and it had only served to inflame his rage. The lass was an innocent, raised in a convent, and she’d been trying to protect him—only to suffer ridicule and ill use.
You are in a fort in the midst of war, little Amalie, not in your convent. Here, military concerns prevail, not the frail sentiments of women.
Morgan would liked to have kicked the bastard’s teeth down his throat for touching her, then tossed him on his arse for insulting women. Morgan knew a great many women, and few of them were frail-minded. Had the planning of this war been in the hands of his Muhheconneok grannies, it would likely have been won by now. But he could not let on that he’d understood, lest he lose the only advantage he had—listening in on their conversations.
At last Miss Chauvenet shook her head. “He merely startled me.”
Morgan’s blood still boiled. “No man has the right to treat you thus. You should report him to Bourlamaque.” Spots of pink appeared in her cheeks, and he realized she was ashamed that he had witnessed her humiliation. “Lieutenant Rillieux is a . . . good officer. I have wounded him. H-he wishes me to be his wife, but I . . . I have no interest in marriage.”
And then Morgan had to ask. “Are you pledged to the Church?”
She bowed her head. “Were it not for this war, I should most likely have returned to the abbey at Trois Rivieres by now.” At once Morgan felt both a sense of loss that so beautiful a woman should spend her grace on the Church and a strange surge of relief to know that no man would ever-have her. “I am sorry.”
She raised h
er head, met his gaze—then frowned. “Let me tend your face.”
“Is it so bad then?”
She did not answer but hurried to the bedside table, poured water from the pitcher into a wooden bowl and dipped a clean cloth into it, a look of concern on her face. “He struck you. You are shackled and injured, and he struck you.” “Dinnae fret, lass. I wager I’ll suffer worse ere I leave this place.”
Abruptly she stilled, the sodden cloth in her hands dripping water into the bowl. Then she seemed to catch herself. She squeezed the cloth out, but her motions were wooden. So, the thought that he would be beaten upset her. Morgan would remember that.
Without a word she pressed the cold cloth to his right cheek, the chill bringing relief from the sting of that whoreson’s fist—Rillieux, she had called him.
He watched her as she bathed his cheek, his gaze seeking out the details of her form. The dark and delicate sweep of her lashes. The soft curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lips. The slender column of her throat. The gentle swell of her breasts beneath the lace of her bodice. The silken length of her hair. And her scent—fresh linen, lavender, and woman.
She is promised to Christ, you lummox.
Aye, she was. And he to Satan.
Then he remembered what he’d planned to say to her. He’d thought through the words all night, shaped them in his mind. ‘Twas time to speak them. ‘”Tis sorry I am about your father, Miss Chauvenet. If I could call back the ball that stole his life, I would.”
She met his gaze, a look on her young face that might have been astonishment—or anger. When she spoke, her voice quavered. “H-how can you speak to me of him?” “There’s naugh’ I can say to ease your grief. I ken that. But I am deeply sorry that you should suffer, and I ask your forgiveness.” Unable to breathe, Amalie looked into the Ranger’s blue eyes and saw only sincerity. It was the same earnestness she’d seen in the eyes of wounded soldiers who’d asked her to pray for them—the naked honesty of men who knew they were about to die and sought to make peace with the world. As upset by the Ranger’s unexpected apology as she was by Lieutenant Rillieux’s loathsome kiss, she turned away, at a loss for words. She dipped the cloth back into the water, only vaguely aware of what she was doing.