by Pamela Clare
Had he thanked her? He could scarce remember. His mind had been so filled with her that he hadn’t been able to think. And then, when he ought to have drawn away, he’d kissed her hand. He’d meant no disrespect by it, but neither had it been a chaste kiss. There’d been far too much heat in his blood afterward—aye, and in hers, too, to judge by the look in her eyes.
She would remember him. Of that he was certain. Why it mattered to him he knew not, but as he lay on the straw in the dark waiting for his torment to begin, matter it did. Ignoring his hunger and the ache in his ribs, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, still grasping the rosary in his fist. He’d just drifted off when he heard men’s voices. He sat up, then stood, wondering whether Rillieux had come back under cover of night to finish what he’d started this morning. Then the door opened—and three young soldiers entered bearing silver trays heaped with food, delicious scents mingling in the air, making his empty stomach rumble and his mouth water.
And behind them strode Bourlamaque.
Morgan took a swallow of red wine, washing down the last of his supper. ‘Twas a feast that had been laid out before him. Turtle soup, roasted duck, roasted venison. Buttered peas, baked beets, onions in brandy. Preserved fruits, cheeses, wheaten bread with butter. The meal had been served from silver platters and tureens set upon a small table that Bourlamaque’s men had carried in. Though still in shackles, Morgan had been given a chair to sit upon. Bourlamaque had not eaten, but he had poured the wine, enjoying a glass or two himself.
At first, Morgan had believed he was being rewarded for protecting Amalie, and, indeed, Bourlamaque had thanked him. But then Bourlamaque had steered the conversation toward other matters, asking about the Clan MacKinnon’s role in the Forty-Five and how his grandfather, Iain Og MacKinnon, had helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape, only to suffer years on a British prison barge. They’d talked for a time about the German heretic who sat upon Britain’s throne. Then Bourlamaque had wanted to know whether the story he’d heard from Amalie was true—whether Wentworth had threatened to hang him and his brothers if they refused to fight for Britain. And so Morgan had repeated the tale, wondering if they’d at last come to the true reason for Bourlamaque’s strange visit. The brigadier’s gaze—and the expectant silence that now filled the tiny cell—told him they had. It was Bourlamaque who broke that silence, speaking in his heavily accented English. “I find myself on unfamiliar ground when it comes to you, Major Mackinnon. You are an enemy of France, and yet, as we have just discussed, your clan has long been allied with France. Your noble grandsire served his prince with honor, and you and your men fight with honor. It is only the circumstance of this war—and the hateful actions of your commander—that lie between us.” Something in the tone of Bourlamaque’s voice made Morgan’s heart beat faster. Was the old man reconsidering his decision to allow Morgan to be tortured and given to the Abenaki? Perhaps he was considering trading Morgan as part of an exchange of prisoners. Or maybe he was thinking of sending Morgan to Hudson Bay to sit out the war in the hold of a rat-infested French prison hulk. Then again, he might simply hang Morgan and call it mercy.
Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “So my brothers and I have oft remarked.”
Bourlamaque looked away and drew a slow breath through his thin nostrils, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed as if he were about to make a troubling decision.
Morgan’s heart beat faster still.
“I cannot release you,” Bourlamaque said at last. “You are far too dangerous an opponent to be traded back to the English. Montcalm would have my head.”
You’re going to rot in the belly of a ship, lad—worms in the biscuits, lice in your hair, rats at your feet. That’s why he asked about Grandfather.
Bourlamaque went on. “Yet I cannot turn you over to the Abenaki for slaughter. And so I find myself seeking a third path.”
Freezing damp in the winter. Sweltering heat in the summer.
Fetid darkness. And you’ll feel grateful, for ‘tis better than flames.
Bourlamaque shifted his gaze back to Morgan. “I am prepared to make you an offer—one that differs substantially from the last.”
Morgan took another sip of wine, certain he knew what Bourlamaque would say. But Morgan would not betray the Rangers, even to spare his own life. He waited. Bourlamaque learned forward in his chair, fire coming into his eyes. “I am willing to grant you not only clemency, but sanctuary. Turn your back on the heretic who has enslaved you, and fight for France! No longer will you be a slave, but an honored officer whose pleasure it is to serve an anointed Catholic king.”
Morgan stared at him, unable to speak, his head seeming to spin. He couldn’t have been more astonished had Bourlamaque sprouted wings and flown about the room. It took a moment to sort through what the man had said.
Fight for France. Serve an anointed Catholic king.
“You want me to desert. .. and fight for you” Morgan stuttered, his mind still reeling.
Bourlamaque smiled. “How can it be desertion when you were forced so dishonorably to fight? Like the rest of his accursed family, this Wentworth has no sense of honor. It is his chains that bind you now, not mine.”
Morgan weighed Bourlamaque’s offer, wishing it had come four years ago when Wentworth had first ensnared him and his brothers. They’d have gone over to the French with nary a second thought. It had always galled them to fight on behalf of the German king. But to desert now? It was impossible. “I am honored by your most generous offer, but I regret I cannae accept. I could never fire upon my brothers—or my men.”
Bourlamaque smiled again. “But of course not! Nor would I require you to do such a thing. Though my men and I must continue to engage your brothers as long as they remain our enemies, I am prepared to offer clemency to any Catholic among your men, including your brothers, who surrenders to us. All you need do is train my soldiers to fight as you fight—and tell me all I wish to know about the Ranger corps and Fort Elizabeth.”
There came the crux of it. Bourlamaque was making the same offer as before, only this time he was tempting Morgan with life as an officer in the French Army instead of a less horrific death. He wanted Morgan to betray secrets not because he was tortured, but because he was no longer the enemy. ‘Twas a bold proposal, and Morgan knew what lay behind it—or, rather, who.
Amalie.
It was she who had carried the truth about why Morgan fought for the British to Bourlamaque. It was she who had worked so hard and so long to save his life. It was she who was so deeply troubled by his impending death that she’d prayed for him. Perhaps this was the answer to her prayers. But there was no question of his being able to accept.
Though Connor might be persuaded to join him, Iain and Joseph would not. Iain was married to a Protestant who considered herself a loyal British subject, and the Stockbridge were steadfastly loyal to Britain. And then there were his men. Though they were Catholics, many had lost kin in this war and had come to hate the French every bit as much as they hated the British. Most had families who lived on British land beside British neighbors. Should they desert, their farms would be confiscated, their families made outcasts and left to starve.
It was on the dp of Morgan’s tongue to explain this and refuse, when another possibility came to him—an intriguing, terrible, dangerous possibility.
What if he were to accept Bourlamaque’s offer—and use his newfound freedom to spy on the French until he found a way to escape? He could answer Bourlamaque’s questions with half-truths, offer him obsolete, useless information, teach his soldiers to be better fighters without betraying Ranger secrets. Then, when Morgan had earned Bourlamaque’s trust, he could disappear while outside the walls scouting or shooting at marks.
And yet, every French soldier he trained would eventually point his musket at the Rangers, at Joseph’s warriors, and at the British Regulars who’d fought beside them these past four years. Amherst was planning to take Ticonderoga this summer. The Regulars and Range
rs of Fort Elizabeth would journey northward, surround the fort once more, and attempt to succeed where Abercrombie had failed last year. If any among them were slain because Morgan had taught a Frenchman to shoot with better aim, their blood would stain his hands.
And then there was the threat that Wentworth had made four years ago—that if any one of the brothers deserted, the other two would be hanged for murder. Even if Wentworth didn’t follow through with that threat, there was every chance he’d recall Iain to service, forcing him to leave Annie and little Iain Cameron alone.
Morgan shook his head, freedom calling to him, even as imaginary flames lapped at his skin. “If I desert, Wentworth will see my brothers hanged. ‘Tis the threat that has always hung like a sword above our heads.”
This time Bourlamaque laughed. “Wentworth believes you are dead.”
Morgan had forgotten. “Your letter.”
Bourlamaque nodded. “Say but the word, and these chains shall be removed. You shall be bathed and shaved and clad as the officer and nobleman you are, and not a mean prisoner.”
Audentes fortuna iwat.
Morgan drew a deep breath, feeling as if he stood on a precipice and was about to leap. “Aye, I will join you. I will teach your men to fight as I fight. I will share wi’ you all I ken about Wentworth and his ways. But I willna fire upon my brothers or the Rangers.”
“Agreed.” Then Bourlamaque threw his head back and laughed.
And in the sound of that laughter, Morgan heard the echo of a single word.
Traitor.
TEN
Amalie jabbed at her needlework, unable to concentrate. Still confined to her room, she hadn’t seen Bourlamaque since yesterday morning and had no idea what had happened since then. Twice yesterday she’d heard shouting, men’s voices raised in anger, but she hadn’t dared to open her door to eavesdrop. Now this morning there seemed to be many comings and goings, footsteps treading up and down the hallway below. With nothing but needlework and her own imagination to keep her company, Amalie couldn’t help fearing the worst.
She imagined the Ranger, badly beaten, left to stand in chains in his cell through another night. Or Lieutenant Rillieux, bruised and angry, denying he’d touched her, leading Bourlamaque to doubt her. Or Bourlamaque, constrained by circumstances, dismissing the idea of sanctuary and giving the order for the Ranger’s interrogation to begin at once.
Surely, it cannot be done. Orders have been given, promises made.
And yet, to have a MacKinnon fighting for France . . .
She’d seen the expression on Bourlamaque’s face, knew that he’d found at least some merit in her idea. But would his duty to Montcalm prevent him from acting? And how long did he intend to leave her confined like this? Was she being punished?
She set her needlework aside and rose from her chair, then walked to the window and looked outside. The sky was overcast with the promise of rain, a breeze playing with the clean linens hung out to dry. Soldiers bustled about, hard at work with their chores. In the distance, a group of Abenaki stood gathered about a cook fire, Tomas and Simon among them. At the sight of them, her stomach sank. Bourlamaque would not be able to give the Ranger sanctuary. Monsieur MacKinnon and his brothers had long been promised to the Abenaki, and denying them their prisoner would surely lead to strife with an ally France could ill afford to lose. Bourlamaque was a nobleman, a loyal officer, a servant of France. He would do his duty. He would turn the Ranger over to the Abenaki, and Monsieur MacKinnon would suffer the torments of Hell ere he died.
Grief stole over her like a sickness, images of him filling her mind. The Ranger chained to the bed, delirious with pain and fever. The Ranger holding a lock of her hair to his nose, inhaling her scent. The Ranger laughing over Monsieur Rousseau’s writings.
Even the most savage man can tell a beautiful woman when he sees her.
Yesterday she’d seen just how savage he could be. Still weak and in chains, he’d found a way to protect her. At his full strength and unfettered, he would make a terrifying adversary. But he was no mindless barbarian, and she found it strange to think she now felt more at ease with him than Lieutenant Rillieux, who’d served as her father’s right-hand man.
A knock came at the door. Therese, the cook’s daughter, had come to take this morning’s breakfast tray. Amalie didn’t turn to face the kitchen maid, but continued to gaze out the window. “You may take the tray. Tell cook I was not hungry.”
“Then perhaps you will have a hearty appetite for dinner,” Bourlamaque’s deep voice answered.
She whirled about and gave a little curtsy, painfully aware that she was wearing only her chemise, a blush burning its way into her cheeks. “Forgive me, monsieur. I mistook—“ He dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. “Please, Amalie, do not distress yourself. I can see you are still upset. In fact, that is why I have come. I wanted to let you know that I have confined Lieutenant Rillieux to quarters for the time being. If he touches you again in any way that is improper, he shall be flogged.”
Amalie did not know what to say. “ I . . . I thank you for your care of me, monsieur.”
He reached out, took her chin between his fingers, and tilted her head to the side, his gaze dropping to the scratches on her neck. “We must arrange to transport you back to Trois Rivieres at our first opportunity. I know you do not desire to return to the abbey, but Fort Carillon is no place for a beautiful young woman. I shall do my best to find you a husband once the war has ended—unless, of course, you decide to take vows.”
“Bien, monsieur.” She barely managed a whisper in response. She couldn’t imagine living in the abbey again, every moment of her day controlled by others. And yet she knew she could not remain in the fort.
“Now dress for dinner. We have a guest.”
“A guest?”
He smiled. “I think you will be pleased.”
She did not feel like meeting anyone, but she did not say this. “What of the Ranger, monsieur? Might I ask—?” But Bourlamaque had already gone.
For a moment, Amalie stared at the closed door.
A guest? She couldn’t recall any visitors arriving at the fort. Then again, she’d been confined to her room since yesterday morning. Wondering who it might be, she combed her hair and braided a long white ribbon into it. Then she struggled into her stays and slipped on one of the sac gowns her father had ordered sewn for her last spring. Lavender with ivory lace, it was the last gift he had given to her.
Glancing in the looking glass only long enough to be certain that nothing was out of place, she walked out of her room and down the stairs, hoping to find a few minutes before or after the midday meal to speak privately with her guardian about Monsieur MacKinnon. Perhaps she could press him to consider her idea and help him find a way to appease her mother’s people. Or perhaps she could speak with Pere Francois and seek his help in this matter. She walked down the hall to the dining room, thinking through what she would say to Bourlamaque, her gaze falling upon the back of a well-dressed gentleman who stood beside her guardian, a glass of wine in his hand. He was much taller than Bourlamaque and broader of shoulder, seeming to fill the space, his long dark hair drawn back with a ribbon that matched the shade of his dark brown frock coat. Then he turned toward her, and Amalie felt her footsteps falter . . . and stop.
It was Monsieur MacKinnon.
Clean-shaven, bathed, and dressed in lace and velvet, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, his smooth face astonishingly handsome, the hollows in his cheeks seeming more pronounced, his cheekbones higher, his eyes piercingly blue. Standing upright, he seemed to tower over her. Feeling light-headed, she took a step toward him.
“M-monsieur MacKinnon?”
“Miss Chauvenet.” Morgan willed himself to speak, his tongue near to tied.
He was unable to take his gaze from her. She looked as fresh as springtime, her dark hair hanging in a braid beyond her hips, her eyes wide with surprise. Then her gaze moved over him, and he knew a m
oment of utter mortification.
She’s thinkin’ you look like a peacock, laddie.
With lace cuffs, silk stockings and drawers, and shoes with shiny brass buckles, he did look like a bloody peacock or, worse, like someone that whoreson Wentworth would invite to his supper table. The shoes were not so supple as the moccasins he was accustomed to wearing, and they pinched his toes. The lace seemed to get caught in everything, the silk sliding over his skin in a troubling way, as if he were wearing women’s undergarments.
Bourlamaque had been true to his word. No sooner had Morgan agreed to join him than he was freed from his shackles and brought in secret back to the hospital, where the bed he’d been chained to for so many days was waiting for him, clean and much softer than any bed of straw. He’d slept like a dead man, then awoken to find breakfast and a hot bath laid out for him. It had been heaven to bathe again, to scrub fever and filth from his body, to wash and comb his hair, to shave the whiskers from his face. And yet every moment of comfort reminded him of the new and dangerous game he was playing. Morgan had become a spy.
As soon as he had finished bathing, Bourlamaque’s personal tailor had arrived to measure him and had announced that nothing in their store of uniforms would fit Morgan. In the end, Bourlamaque had decided it might offend the soldiers to put Morgan in a French uniform before he had proved his loyalty, and so he’d ordered his tailor to dress Morgan as a nobleman. “He is the grandson of one of Scotland’s most loyal chieftains,” he’d told the confused tailor in French.
But no Highland laird would be caught dead in such frippery. Besides, Morgan had come of age on the frontier, not in his grandfather’s halls on Skye. What he wouldn’t give for a butter-soft pair of buckskin breeches, a shirt of homespun, and fur-lined moccasins. Thank God in heaven his brothers couldn’t see him. They would laugh until their sides split. But there was no hint of mockery in Amalie’s eyes as she gazed up at him. Instead, relief and happiness were written upon her face as clearly as words on a page. And Morgan felt an almost irresistible urge to duck down and kiss her. “ I . . . I am pleased to see you looking so well, monsieur,” she said after a moment, a faint blush staining her cheeks. He bowed, took her hand, raised it to his lips. “If I look well, miss, ‘tis only a testament to your skills as a healer and your guardian’s generosity.”