by Pamela Clare
Amalie released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Is that better?”
“Aye. My thanks. You’ve a healin’ touch.”
She stood, key in hand, and began to move all that she needed to the foot of the bed so that she could care for his ankles, determined to do what she could to show him mercy before even mercy itself was taken from him.
She’d lain awake much of the night, the Ranger’s words—and Bourlamaque’s—running through her mind. She’d always believed France was the unassailable bastion of civilization, while the English were heretics, unrefined and prone to acts of cruelty. To hear Bourlamaque admit that French commanders also paid for scalps, that French soldiers and allies also slew women and children .. .
It was as if the ground had vanished from beneath her feet. She’d gone to the chapel before first light to speak with Pere Francois, hoping that he might be able to guide her, but he had simply reminded her that France was true to Rome and the Pope, while the English were heretics who had turned away from the Church—as if religion alone, not actions, were the seat of a people’s honor.
When the sun had at last risen, it had seemed to shine on a changed world, one in which there were fewer true colors and many more shades of gray.
She wanted to apologize to the Ranger for the things she’d said yesterday. She’d all but accused him of lying when he’d been telling the truth. But how could she explain the disappointment she’d felt when Bourlamaque had admitted that his worst accusations were true?
She sat at the foot of the bed, pushed the blanket aside, and unlocked the iron that bound his ankle. “Try to bend your leg.”
He wiggled his foot, then bent his knee, the blanket sliding down his thigh, exposing his leg to the hip. Breath hissed from between clenched teeth, and she knew it was his injured thigh that pained him. “Satan!”
She could not help noticing yet again how large and well made he was, his thigh as big around as both her legs together. “Your wound has grown stiff.”
“Aye—och!” He squeezed his eyes shut and let go a few shuddering breaths as he straightened his leg and bent it a second and third time. By the time he’d stretched it out on the bed again, his face was pale, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. “Dinnae expect to see me dancin’ a jig anytime soon.”
Amalie was not sure what he meant by “jig “ but she knew he would never dance again. She’d seen her cousins building a travois this afternoon and had realized at once what they purposed to do with it. When Bourlamaque was finished with the Ranger, her cousins would strap him to the travois, bind him by hand and foot, and drag him back to Oganak to feed the fires.
“If he is able to walk, it will keep him from escaping,” Tomas had told her, sharing a smile with Simon. “And if he cannot walk, it will enable us to move him swiftly back to the village.”
A desperate sadness swelling inside her, Amalie quickly tended the blistered, broken skin of Major MacKinnon’s right ankle, then shackled him again and moved to his left, repeating the routine, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
The Ranger was right, of course. In a few days, any good she could do for him would be undone many times over. And yet, if she could make this moment more bearable for him, then at least she would have done something. “Somethin troubles you, lass. Aye, I can see it on your face.” Could she admit the truth to him? “ I . . . I spoke with Bourlamaque.”
“Did you tell him about Lieutenant Rillieux?” “Lieutenant Rillieux had already confessed, and Bourlamaque told me that many women enjoy stolen kisses.” Amalie still could not fathom that and wondered, not for the first time, whether she wasn’t better suited to become a nun than a wife.
“That wasna a stolen kiss! The bastard hurt you!” For some reason, the Ranger’s angry protectiveness felt gratifying to Amalie. But it wasn’t Bourlamaque’s words about Lieutenant Rillieux that had kept her up all night. “I also spoke with him of the things you told me about Oganak.” Finally, she’d said it.
“Then you ken that I spoke truly.”
She nodded. “He said he does not wish to buy scalps, but has no choice, as the British do it openly. We did not start this war, Monsieur MacKinnon. Our soldiers fight only to finish it.”
“I dinnae think such fine reasons matter to the six hundred souls whose scalps were a-flutterin’ in the wind at Oganak.” He spoke the words gently, without a trace of anger or scorn or smugness.
But what he’d said struck her hard just the same, for it was the truth, and it showed her words for what they were—excuses.
“I have always believed that France is the light of the world, but now . . . “ How could she explain it in his language when she struggled to understand it in her own? “You make me doubt all I once knew, monsieur.”
“Nations are made of men, Miss Chauvenet, and war turns men into animals.”
Some men became animals, it seemed. But clearly not all men. “This war has not made you into an animal.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re certain of that, are you, lass?”
She closed the shackle around his wrist and locked it, slipping the key that he might have stolen from her into her apron pocket. “Yes, Monsieur MacKinnon, I am.” Morgan watched and listened while Amalie read aloud to him—something by a philosopher lad named Rousseau. Her eyes were downcast, her lashes dark on her cheeks, her hair spilling over one shoulder to the floor. The sight of her and the sweet sound of her voice were almost enough to make him forget that his days were running out. She could read well—better than well, given that she was reading French words but speaking English ones.
“It is easy to see that the moral part of love is a contrived feeling, born of social habit and enhanced by women with much care and cunning in order to build their empire and put in power the sex which ought to obey. This feeling, being founded on notions of beauty and merit that a savage does not know, and on comparisons he cannot make, must not exist for him.” She paused for a moment, and a blush stole over her cheeks. “He follows only the character nature has given him and not tastes that he could never have acquired, so that every woman equally answers his purpose.”
Morgan couldn’t help laughing, amused by her shyness and the ridiculousness of Rousseau’s thinking. “’Tis clear this Rousseau spends too much time wi’ his books and no’ enough time wi’ women. Surely the poor man has never been in love.”
She lifted her gaze from the page, her cheeks still pink.
“You do not agree?”
“Nay, lassie.” He looked straight into her eyes. “I think even the most savage man can tell a beautiful woman when he sees her.”
She drew a quick breath, looked away, then met his gaze again, her blush deepening to a glow. “You say war makes men into animals, but the Mere Superieure would say the same of passion.”
Morgan considered this for a moment, thinking of all he had done out of lust, his mind coming to rest on Iain and what he had endured out of love for Annie. “Aye, unbridled lust might turn a man into an animal if he allows it to rule him, but desire tempered by love can make him a saint.” And then he told her how Iain had found Annie alone in the forest, the sole survivor of a massacred homestead, about to be raped and slain by a group of French and Abenaki warriors, and how he’d violated his orders to save her life, enduring a hundred lashes as punishment. He told her how Iain had defied their commander to keep her near him, how he’d kidnapped a French priest in order to marry her though she was Protestant, and how he’d faced her depraved uncle in battle, almost losing his own life to save hers.
As he told Amalie his brother’s story, he watched the play of emotions over her face—horror, surprise, distress, even longing.
“He must love her very much,” she said when he had finished.
“Enough to die for her.”
She watched him for a moment, those green-brown eyes of hers like a window to her heart. He knew what she was going to ask him before she spoke. “Have you ever love
d a woman?” Had he ever loved a woman? He’d made love with his fair share—dark-eyed Muhheconneok lasses in Stockbridge, fairhaired Dutch beauties in Albany, a plump English ale-wife’s daughter or two. But although he’d cherished them—and savored the pleasure he’d shared with them—he’d yet to feel the bond that had driven his brother to risk everything. And suddenly his life seemed so empty.
But it was better this way, aye? ‘Twas better never to have known that kind of love than to leave behind a bereaved wife to raise his bairns alone. This war had already made too many widows, too many fatherless children.
“Nay, lass.”
“Then there is no woman to mourn you?” On her sweet face, he saw reflected the bleakness of what awaited him should he fail to escape—an agonizing death, an unmarked forest grave, only his brothers to remember him. He grinned, tried to make light of it, needing to see her smile. “Och, I’m thinkin’ there will be a tear or two shed in Stockbridge, and perhaps in Albany, too.”
“I shall pray for you.”
Her simple offering left a tightness in his chest, making it strangely hard for him to breathe. “You . .. would do that? You would spend prayers upon your enemy, upon a man who might have slain your father?”
“War killed my father, monsieur.” Then she smiled, a fragile, sad smile. “Besides, I have forgiven you, have I not? Oui, I will pray for you.”
He lifted his head, looked down toward the wooden cross that rested against his chest. “Then take this. Pray the words with it. It will give me strength to wear it and ken that you have touched it.”
She set her book aside, walked to the bedside, then reached down and lifted the rosary over his head, her fingers closing around the wooden beads and the small wooden cross. “I shall pray with it tonight, monsieur, and return it in the morning.”
EIGHT
Amalie hurried through her morning toilette, washing her face, combing the tangles from her hair, and tying it back with a red ribbon her father had given her. Then she drew on her petticoats, fastened her stays, and slipped into her gown, choosing the blue one over the gray. She tucked the white stomacher into place, smoothing her hand over the lace ruffles and straightening the lace at her wrists, then glanced in the glass to be certain she was presentable. If only there were a way to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. . . She’d slept but little last night. She’d spent the night upon her knees praying the rosary just as she’d promised, holding the Ranger’s simple wooden beads, his scent upon them, the leather cord that held them stained with his sweat. Then, unable to keep from weeping, she’d remained kneeling and had asked the Blessed Virgin for some miracle that would spare him torment. When at last she’d fallen asleep, her dreams had been troubled with visions of fire.
Why, oh why did he fight for the British?
She could not deny it. Not only had she failed to hate him, she had come to admire him, even to feel. . . affection for him.
A Ranger he might be, and fearsome in battle, but he was also a man who kept his word, a decent man, a man of deep morals and intelligence. He’d discussed Rousseau’s writings with her as if her opinions mattered, listening to her thoughts and sharing his own. Though he could easily have stolen the key from her yesterday, he had not. And although she knew that he—how should she describe it?—felt some attraction to her as a woman, the look in his eyes hadn’t frightened her the way men’s regard usually did. Instead, it had left her feeling warm, almost breathless.
I think even the most savage man can tell a beautiful woman when he sees her.
She picked up his rosary, clutched it tight in her ringers, whispering a quick Hail Mary. Then she tucked it into her bodice, lest anyone see it, and went down to breakfast. She was relieved to find Bourlamaque conversing with Lieutenant Rillieux and the other junior officers in his study. A breakfast of breads, cheeses, and cold meats from last night’s supper had been left out for her. Though she cared for Bourlamaque and enjoyed his company, she was no longer so fond of Lieutenant Rillieux, her anger with him for striking Monsieur MacKinnon unabated. It was far better to break her fast alone than to endure his company.
She ate quickly, then left the house, hurrying across the parade grounds toward the hospital. The sun was well above the horizon now, the days growing longer as spring stretched toward summer. A slight breeze blew in from the river, carrying the scent of wood smoke from the soldiers’ cook fires. The crow of a rooster. A dog’s bark. Men’s hearty laughter. She entered the hospital to find Monsieur Lambert’s attendants playing at cards, only one soldier left in their charge—the one who’d shot himself in the foot. Three others had healed and been sent back to their posts yesterday. One had died. The young men looked up as she entered, exchanged a meaningful glance, then went back to their game. They were no doubt upset with her for yesterday’s scolding, but she had not been able to let their negligence go without censure. “Bonjour” she called to them, threading her way among the empty beds toward the back.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they called in return, a bit sheepishly, it seemed to her.
And then she saw.
The door to the back room was wide open—and the bed empty.
Morgan leaned back against the rough wooden planks, trying to take the weight off his injured leg, the iron collar heavy against his shoulders. Standing upright was more difficult than he’d imagined, and yet he had little choice but to keep standing. Still, he supposed he was grateful to know that he could stand and walk, even if it hurt like hell.
He’d known there would be trouble the moment the surgeon had discovered the bandages on his wrists and ankles. A frown had come over the man’s face and he’d poked his finger into the gap between the bandages and the shackles as if trying to figure out how someone could possibly have accomplished it.
“Who did this?” he asked in heavily accented English. Unwilling to do or say anything that might expose Amalie to harm, Morgan had stared at him as if in surprise. “It wasna you?”
“Of course it was not me!”
Knowing it was probably futile, Morgan had lied. “I was sleepin’, and when I awoke, ‘twas already finished. I thought you’d done it.”
The surgeon studied him through eyes that held suspicion, then left him to question the young lads who worked for him. There’d been some shouting and then silence, and Morgan had known it was only a matter of time before the surgeon uncovered the truth. A short time later Lambert had returned with Lieutenant Rillieux who, together with two soldiers, had unshackled him, stripped off his bandages, and made him put on breeches. Then they’d forced him to walk barefoot, shirtless, and in shackles from the hospital to the guardhouse through a throng of French soldiers, who’d shouted at him, cursed him, and spit at him as if he were Satan himself.
And in their eyes, he surely was.
He’d held his head high, pretending not to understand their curses, pretending he felt no insult, no fear, no pain, his injured leg barely able to hold him. The heavy irons forced his thigh to work harder, rubbed against his raw and blistered skin. Then, just as they’d neared the guardhouse, he’d seen them—perhaps a dozen Abenaki warriors, broad smiles upon their faces.
“Kwai, nichemis! Paa-kuin-o-gwzian!” the tallest one had shouted. Hello, brother! I am happy to see you!
Morgan had met the man’s gaze, said nothing.
Up your arse.
Now Morgan was imprisoned in a small cell, chained by a heavy iron collar to the wall, the chain a few links too short to permit him to lie down or even sit, his wrists and ankles still shackled. Rillieux had left him like this all night, no doubt trying to add to his misery and sense of dread by forcing him to stand and depriving him of sleep.
He’d have been a liar if he’d said it’d had no effect upon him, for in the darkest hours of the morning, surrounded by shadows and silence, exhausted, his body aching, he’d found it all but impossible to escape his own thoughts. Morgan had never doubted his courage. He’d faced wild animals, once saving a little Muh
heconneok girl from the jaws of a cougar that had wandered into Stockbridge. He’d gotten into his share of collieshangies in the public houses of Albany and come out unscathed. He’d fought more battles than he could remember, facing down the enemies of Britain and of his Muhheconneok kin, charging headlong into the fray, and staining his claidheamh mor red with blood. But against the enemy of prolonged pain, he had not yet been tested.
Would he break? Would he beg and plead for mercy? In his desperation to end the agony, would he betray his brothers, his men, himself?
Nay, he would not. He could not. For as terrible as it might be, his pain meant life for Iain, Connor, Dougie, Killy, and the others. His silence was the last gift he could give them. Images flashed through his mind: Connor getting a musket ball cut out of his shoulder last spring, Iain taking a hundred strokes of the lash without making a sound, his back bloodied. Lovely Annie facing a murderous war party alone with nothing more than a stone in her wee hand. And Amalie, sweet Amalie, forgiving a man who might have killed her father, finding the strength to offer him mercy, defying her own people to treat him with dignity.
Their courage would be his courage.
Outside, the sun climbed past the horizon. It would not be long now. He closed his eyes, drew a breath, began to pray.
God in Heaven, dinnae forsake me! Mary, Mother of God, pray for me!
Then from outside he heard men’s voices.
He drew another deep breath, forced himself to stand upright on both legs, ignoring the pain, dismissing his fears. He was Morgan MacKinnon, brother to Iain and Connor MacKinnon, blood brother to the Muhheconneok, and grandson of Iain Og MacKinnon. He would not break.
Come, Rillieux, you son of a whore. Do your worst upon me.
“Lieutenant Rillieux said that no one was to attend the prisoner until he himself returned.” The guard, a young soldier not much older than Amalie herself, stood at rigid attention, clearly afraid of Lieutenant Rillieux.