by Pamela Clare
Bourlamaque glanced at the open window, then at Morgan, a grin on his face. “My scouting parties returned from the locations you described, Major. They found supply caches precisely where you said they would. Tonight we shall celebrate!
I have ordered a feast prepared and have invited all of my officers to attend. Those who have not already met you are most eager to do so.”
So Bourlamaque had followed up on the answers Morgan had given him and was satisfied that Morgan had told the truth. Morgan’s half-truths had worked. He had earned Bourlamaque’s trust—at least to some degree. “Please wear appropriate evening attire.” Bourlamaque looked him up and down, no doubt noticing that he’d shed his coat. The old man was astonishingly strict about matters of dress. “Shall I send my valet to assist you?” ‘”Tis most generous of you, but I can dress myself.” “Very well.” Bourlamaque smiled. “Festivities begin in an hour.”
Amalie stared at the woman in the looking glass, unable to believe she was looking at her own reflection. “Are you certain?” “If you wish to catch the Ranger’s eye,” Therese answered, a mischievous smile on her face, “you mustn’t be afraid to show the beauty God has given you.”
Amalie bit back a laugh, imagining what the Mere Superieure would say to that.
The musicians were already playing, the sweet strains of violins and flute mingling with the deep rumble of men’s voices. She hadn’t meant to take so long, but she hadn’t been able to decide how to wear her hair or which gown to choose. In the end, she’d called upon Therese, whose nimble fingers had accomplished what Amalie’s inexperienced ones could not, shaping her tresses into something elegant atop her head, with slender braids that looped down along her nape and disappeared again. It was also Therese who had dabbed her lips with rouge and who’d insisted she wear her ivory silk sac gown—the gown her father had given to her for her seventeenth birthday and then promptly forbidden her to wear.
Embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds, its bodice was cut lower than that of any other gown Amalie owned, leaving the swells of her breasts exposed.
Now, her pulse skipping, she gazed in the looking glass and found a stranger staring back at her. She looked nothing like the girl who’d spent her life inside the gray walls of the convent. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy, her breasts high and round above her decolletage. But most different were her eyes. They gleamed with excitement, anticipation, hope. Her world had felt so bleak since her father’s death—empty, dark, lonely. How strange it was that Morgan MacKinnon—the man who might have killed her father—should be the one to make her feel alive again. Was it wrong for her to feel this way?
She couldn’t deny that he fascinated her. His courageous tales of life on the frontier enchanted her. His lilting accent charmed her. The warmth in his eyes when he looked at her left her feeling dizzy.
She’d never met a man like him.
More than once, she’d lain awake at night, thinking of him. She’d remembered how he’d touched her, tracing his thumb across her cheek, his fingers catching in her hair. She’d remembered the feel of him, his body hard where hers was soft. She’d remembered how he’d risked himself to end Rillieux’s hateful kiss, enduring a beating for her sake. And she’d wondered what it would feel like if he were to kiss her instead of Rillieux—the very thought stirring her blood, making her heart beat faster.
She thrust the improper thought aside, turned to the left, then to the right, the silk of her skirts swirling about her legs with a pleasing swish. “Thank you for your help, Therese. I could not have done this without you.”
“It was my pleasure, mademoiselle.” The kitchen maid smoothed Amalie’s skirts, then gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you. But I must get back to the kitchen, or Papa will have my hide. Bonne chancer.” Therese opened the door and hurried off and down the stairs.
With one last glance in the looking glass, Amalie followed, pausing to look down over the wooden railing. Below, the sitting room was brightly lit with dozens of candles, the front door open, fresh night air carrying the savory scents of roasted meats in from the cookhouse. Officers stood in a queue that snaked through the house and into the sitting room. They were dressed in clean, crisp uniforms, most wearing wigs, some wearing their natural hair. They’d been invited to meet Monsieur MacKinnon.
She took the railing in one hand, lifted her skirts with the other, then descended the stairs, barely aware of the officers’ admiring glances, her gaze seeking one man. She found him standing beside Bourlamaque, listening to the captain of the grenadiers. Taller than any man in the room. Monsieur MacKinnon wore a matching coat and breeches of midnight blue velvet, creamy lace at his throat and wrists, his waistcoat of cream silk with gold brocade and shiny brass buttons. His hair was drawn back, a black ribbon at his nape. Unlike many men, he did not need to wear padding to create the appearance of strong legs; his creamy silk stockings stretched like a second skin over the muscles of his calves.
How different he seemed from the man who’d lain, naked and feverish, upon that little bed in the hospital, more refined gentleman now than fearsome warrior. And yet a warrior he was. She knew what lay beneath the velvet and silk, remembered the look and feel of him—warrior marks, wampum armbands, soft skin over bands of hard muscle. Feeling almost breathless with excitement, she approached him. He did not immediately see her, but listened while the captain spoke, a look of respectful interest on his handsome face, a glass of cognac in his left hand.
“My wife’s cousine, she is married to a MacDonald. His family fled to France after the misfortunate defeat of your prince.”
“There are many MacDonalds. Do you ken which branch of the MacDonald clan—Ranald, Glengarry, Keppoch, Glencoe?” The captain shook his head, seeming overwhelmed by the rush of exotic names. “No, alas, Major, but my wife tells me that it is a good match—seven children in nine years. Both the French and the Scots are passionate people, are they not?”
It was then he saw her, his gaze sliding over her like a caress.
“Aye, Captain, passionate.”
“Ah, Amalie, there you are!” Bourlamaque reached out for her, switching into French. “How enchanting you look tonight! I’ve never seen that gown before. Something your father bought for you?”
“Oui” She barely heard a word her guardian said, her gaze fixed on Monsieur MacKinnon, who watched her, a hungry look in his eyes that made her heart beat faster. She held out her hand to him. “Major MacKinnon.”
“Miss Chauvenet.” He bowed, raised her hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “You are the flower of us all, lass.” Amalie felt herself blush, wondering how she might thank Therese. “You are too kind, monsieur.”
Morgan was surprised to find he could still speak. He’d caught sight of her, and his thoughts had scattered like leaves in a storm, his tongue forced to find words on its own. If he’d been any more conflummixt, he wouldn’t have been able to talk at all.
Sweet Mary, she was beautiful! Hair arranged gracefully on her head, little braids like lace at her nape. Full lips, red and ready for kissing. The creamy swells of her breasts, ripe for a man’s touch—his touch. Her eyes bright with feminine happiness. She said something. He answered. She laughed, the sound like music.
And just like that the images that had filled his mind when he’d listened to her bathe came back to him—nipples tight against lapping water, wet skin in candlelight, damp curls between her thighs.
She’s an innocent, you radgie bastard. Pledged to the Church, aye?
But Morgan had never seen a nun who looked like this. He wanted to take off his coat and drape it around her shoulders or send her up to her room to change into something more . . . nunnish. But he wasn’t her guardian. Nor was he her husband, nor even her lover.
It isna your place to object, lad.
Before he could act, Bourlamaque brought the next man forward to meet him. Grenadiers. Fusiliers. Infantrymen. Scouts. Artillerymen. His head swam
with their names, but try as he might, he could not keep his gaze from returning to Amalie, who stood beside her guardian, offering a smile and kind words to each man.
And then it was time for supper.
Roasted venison, stuffed partridge, suckling pig—the tables groaned under the weight of the delicacies prepared by Bourlamaque’s kitchen, wineglasses kept full throughout the evening. Careful not to drink too much lest it loosen his tongue and set him to speaking French, Morgan ate his fill, his heightened sense of awareness a result not of wine, but of the intoxicating lass who sat across from him at the head table to Bourlamaque’s left.
She asked him to share his stories, and for her sake, he did. He told them of the time he and Connor had rigged the bateau bridge so that Lieutenant Cooke fell in the river, the time the Rangers had dressed as Indians and set upon Fort Elizabeth to distract Wentworth from pursuing Annie while Iain was away, the rime they’d dropped cannon balls from the fort walls to soften the rock-hard biscuits the British had given them to eat.
As the meal drew to its end, the officers gathered around the head table, the better to hear him. Though they seemed entertained by these tales, it was not their response that mattered to Morgan, but hers—the magic of her laughter, the beauty of her smile, the wistful look in her eyes whenever he mentioned Iain and Annie.
Aye, the lass was a romantic.
“We dropped a dozen six-pounders from a height of twenty feet, but ‘twas the hogshead that shattered,” Morgan said, eliciting laughter from the men and making Amalie smile again. Och, how he wanted to pull the pins from her hair, one by one, until her tresses fell past her hips, thick and heavy and soft as silk. How he longed to kiss those lips, to taste her. How he ached to strip away the layers of silk and lace, to expose her loveliness to his view, to mold her breasts in his hands and hear her sigh as her nipples hardened against his palms. He forced his gaze away from Amalie’s sweet face, afraid he would betray his thoughts by gaping at her like a lovesick fool. “Wentworth couldna deny that bread unbroken by a cannonade wasna fit for mice or men to eat. He sent it back to Albany wi’ the sutler and ordered us fed from his own stores.” Amalie laughed, the sound sweet and clear. The men chuckled.
Then one man’s voice rose above the rest. “Your Lord Wentworth tolerates much insubordination.”
Amalie’s smile vanished as Rillieux stepped forward and came to stand beside her chair. In full uniform, he wore a scowl on his face, bruises still visible at his throat. Morgan rose to his feet. “Wentworth isna my laird.” Silence fell over the room, the blood draining from Amalie’s face.
Bourlamaque stood, cautioning in French, “Join us, Rillieux, but do not think to spread your ill humor here. I will not tolerate dissention among my officers.”
Then he turned to Morgan. “Gentlemen, I ask that you make your peace and embrace as brothers. You fight for the same king now and must respect one another. Do you understand, Major? Lieutenant?”
Morgan would be damned if he’d embrace the bastard.
Instead, he nodded and held out his hand to Rillieux, affecting a look of contrition. “Aye, sir. And right you are. I’m certain Lieutenant Rillieux and I are content to let bygones be bygones.”
Lieutenant Rillieux took his hand and shook, squeezing hard. “Oui, monsieur. I harbor no ill will toward Major MacKinnon.”
Amalie gave an audible sigh of relief.
Bourlamaque raised his glass. “To victory!”
“To victory!” the cry repeated through the room. “To victory.” Morgan lifted his glass and drank, his gaze locking with Rillieux’s and finding the hatred there undimmed. The neach diolain hadn’t meant a word he’d said.
Of course, neither had Morgan.
TWELVE
Amalie stood outside the gates, watching as Monsieur Mackinnon prepared to demonstrate his skill as a marksman. She’d been finishing her breakfast when Therese had rushed in from the cookhouse breathless with news. “Come, Miss Chauvenet! Monsieur MacKinnon is going to shoot at marks! Everyone is watching,” she’d said, an excited smile on her face.
Amalie had leapt up from the table and hurried outside. Apart from those on sentry duty, the entire fort had come to watch, soldiers standing at ease in their ranks, grumbling to one another, a mixture of curiosity and resentment on their faces.
She thought she understood. A man they’d hated as an enemy had now been raised above them, chosen by Bourlamaque to teach them to be better fighters. Their pride would not let them see the good in this.
And yet she knew that once they’d come to know Monsieur MacKinnon, they would see that the Ranger was not a monster but a good man, and more valuable to France as an ally than as an offering to the Abenaki.
Last night had proved to her that hearts could be changed. By the end of the evening, even Lieutenant Rillieux had admitted a grudging respect for Monsieur MacKinnon, putting aside his jealousy and resentment. If Lieutenant Rillieux could do so after all that had transpired between him and the Ranger, so could these soldiers.
“We shall put your celebrated marksmanship to the test,” Bourlamaque said first in English and then again in French so that everyone could understand. “Your marks stand at three hundred paces. You have a minute to fire three shots.” It was a hard task Bourlamaque had set for him. Everyone knew that only the best marksmen could fire so rapidly, and Amalie found herself wondering whether her guardian was trying to ensure that Monsieur MacKinnon failed. But Monsieur MacKinnon acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He smiled, said something to Bourlamaque, his gaze on the paper mark. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and stood, his long hair tied back in a thong, wearing only his shirt and breeches—a state of undress Bourlamaque as a rule did not allow except among Indians.
Amalie strained to hear.
“Begin at my signal,” Bourlamaque said, raising his pistol.
Then he fired.
Monsieur MacKinnon moved quickly, priming and loading his weapon with a dexterity born of experience. His first shot split the air, but the marks were too far away for Amalie to see whether he had struck his target. Already he was reloading, Amalie’s heartbeat seeming to tick off the seconds.
He raised his weapon, fired his second shot, his big hands moving over the weapon with ease, his gaze still on his mark. Then his third shot rang out, his rifle coming to rest at his side before Fouchet called the time.
“Excellent!” Bourlamaque smiled, motioning to two soldiers to fetch the mark and carry it back for him to judge. The target showed three holes, all close together in the center. A murmur passed through the crowd, grudging praise mixed with spiteful curses.
“So the whoreson is passable with a flintlock,” said a soldier standing nearby.
“Passable? You couldn’t have done that on your best day,” answered another.
Amalie released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, feeling an undeniable swell of pride. Then, as if he’d known she was watching, Monsieur MacKinnon turned his head and met her gaze, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. She smiled back, her belly seeming to flip, her cheeks suddenly warm.
“Shall we try three hundred and fifty paces?” Bourlamaque asked him.
“If you wish.” Monsieur MacKinnon cleaned the barrel of his rifle while the paces were measured out and the target was set in place, then nodded when he was ready.
Bourlamaque raised his pistol again, fired.
Three shots, three more holes in the center ring of the target.
More murmurs, some now admiring.
“Very well-done, Major.” Bourlamaque was quite clearly pleased. “It is rare to see such accuracy at that distance.” “Let’s raise the stakes of this little game, shall we?” Monsieur MacKinnon grinned.
“What do you suggest?”
“I shall try for four shots.”
“Four?” Bourlamaque chuckled. “No man can fire four shots in a minute.”
“Would you care to stake a wager? If I fire four shots—and strik
e the target each time—then will you grant me a boon?”
Whispers passed through the crowd of soldiers like a breeze.
Four shots? It could not be done. This MacKinnon was mad.
He must be!
Even from a distance, Amalie could see Bourlamaque’s eyes narrow. “What would you ask of me?”
“If I succeed, then I ask that Miss Chauvenet set about teachin’ me your tongue. I cannae be livin’ amongst you never understandin’ a word of your speech.”
Amalie felt all eyes upon her, including Bourlamaque’s. Her guardian looked as if he were about to deny the Ranger’s request, or perhaps to suggest someone else serve as his teacher. But that would not do. Pulse skipping, she called out, “I accept!”
For a moment there was silence.
Bourlamaque looked from her to Monsieur MacKinnon, then back to her again. “Very well. This I should like very much to see.”
A look of concentration on his face, the Ranger cleaned the barrel of his flintlock once more, adjusted his powder horn and bag of shot, then gave a nod.
Bourlamaque raised his pistol, fired.
This time rather than priming the flintlock, the Ranger took a handful of lead balls from his bag—and tossed them into his mouth.
The soldiers howled with laughter at the strange sight, mocking him.
“Is that how his kind grow so tall—eating lead?” “The fool! Does he truly think he’s that much better than the rest of us?”
“If he fails, we shall throw him in the river to teach him a lesson in humility!”
But Monsieur MacKinnon did not seem distracted by their words, perhaps because he could not understand them. His hands moved with practiced familiarity over the rifle, priming it, then pouring powder down the barrel. Then he did something