by Pamela Clare
For more than an hour now they had strolled about the fort, Amalie teaching him the word for everything they saw. If he hadn’t already known the language, his head would have been spinning.
Each time he spoke a word well, she rewarded him with one of her beautiful smiles, encouraging him as a mother might encourage a small child. And like the steady fraying of an overstretched rope, Morgan felt his resolve to keep his distance from her unraveling. She would hate him soon enough. Could he not savor just this moment?
She turned up a small path beside a high fence near Bourlamaque’s residence, then pushed open a gate. Morgan followed her through and found himself standing in a little Garden of Eden.
To the south grew rows of strawberries, greens, and cabbages, next to radishes, onions, carrots, herbs, peas, and potatoes. At the north end there were roses and a wee orchard, pink and white blossoms buzzing with bees. Sitting among the trees was a little wooden bench.
“What is this place?”
“This is Bourlamaque’s private garden where food and flowers are grown for his table. After my father was killed, I began to come here to be alone.”
They were alone. Utterly alone. The garden was surrounded by a high fence and stood at the far south end of the fort where even soldiers upstairs in their barracks could not see them.
Aye, ‘tis a wee Garden of Eden—and you’re the snake, MacKinnon.
He knew he shouldn’t stay here with her, knew it was folly to be alone with her, but when she beckoned him to follow, he did, feeling that he was lost in a dream.
She led him along the edge of the rows, naming the fruits and vegetables in French—fraises, carottes, petits pois—working her way toward the fruit trees in the back. Though he repeated the words as she spoke them, he was not aware of doing so, his mind fixed solely on her. The glint of sunlight in her hair. The soft swishing of her skirts. The gentle sway of her hips. The curve of her cheek. The radiant smoothness of her skin.
When they reached the fruit trees, she leaned forward, pressed her little nose against a cluster of apple blossoms, and sniffed. Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled. “Mmmm.” “How do you say ‘beautiful woman’ in French?”
Amalie felt herself blush at his question, but could not bring herself look at him, her gaze fixed on the pink apple blossoms. “ Belle femme.”
He reached out, brushed the hair back from her face, his touch leaving a trail of heat on her cheek, then repeated her words, his voice deep and gruff in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Belle femme.”
As if on instinct, she stepped away from him and walked onward. What a silly girl she was! She’d brought him here because she’d known they would be alone and unseen. Yet, now that she was here, she felt almost afraid to be near him. But it was not Morgan she feared, it was the way he made her feel—a mix of excitement and trepidation.
She walked to the next tree, leaned near to its branches and inhaled the sweet scent, knowing he would follow. “This is my favorite.”
He reached her in two easy strides, leaned toward the blossoms, and sniffed. “Plum.”
She looked up at him, astonished. “How did you know?”
He was always surprising her, this Ranger.
“I wasna always a soldier.” He turned and glanced around at the neatly planted rows, a wistful look on his handsome face. “I was raised to fight, aye, but also to farm. As the second son, ‘twas my duty to do all I could to serve Iain, who would have inherited our lands had we not lost them after Culloden. My father brought us here, hacked a farm out of the wilderness. We had an orchard, too. ‘Twas much bigger than this, and among the trees were a few plum trees my father had planted for my mother.”
“What happened to the farm?”
“For a time, it lay fallow, and the forest reclaimed much of it. But when Iain was released from service, we Rangers didnae wish him to face such toil alone, not wi’ a wife and a wee bairn in his care. So we dallied on one of our missions and put our backs into rebuildin’ the house and barns and clearin’ the fields as a weddin’ gift to them.” Then he smiled a sad smile. “The last time I saw Iain, he was standing in front of his new home wavin’ farewell to us, his son in his arms, Annie beside him.”
Amalie sensed his sadness and tried to think of words to comfort him, but he went on.
“I’d hoped one day when the war had ended to join him there, perhaps take a wife, raise children of my own. But now . . . “
There was no need for him to explain. Amalie understood. If the war should end today, his brothers would live on lands held by the British, while he would be in the Canadas and unable to return because the British, upon learning that he was alive and had gone over to the French, would consider him a traitor. He might even be shot or hanged. And for the first time, she saw the choice he’d been given—face a terrible death or a life bereft of the people and things he loved.
But at least he is alive!
Oui, he was alive—but he was also very alone. If anyone understood how that felt, Amalie did. She’d felt alone at the abbey, Maman gone, Papa far away. And since Papa’s death, she’d felt alone in the world, with no place she could truly call home. She reached out, touched a hand to his arm, felt the wampum armbands beneath his sleeve. “I am sorry, Morgan.”
“Tis too fair a day to speak of such things.” He turned his face toward her, met her gaze, traced the curve of her cheek. Then he grinned, the sadness gone from his face. And she knew he’d closed the door to that part of himself. “So tell me, Amalie, why did you bring me here? For I dinnae think you truly wished for me to sniff the blossoms.”
Caught unprepared, Amalie stammered. “It-it’s one of my favorite places.”
His grin widened to a smile. “Nay, lass. You brought me here because you wanted me to kiss you again, aye?” Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she looked away, unable to meet his gaze. How could he see through her so easily?
“ I . . . I . . .”
His arm stole around her waist and he drew her close, his body pressed hard against hers, the feel of him sending a tremor of anticipation through her. Then he cupped her cheek, forced her to look into his eyes. “Say it, Amalie. Say it . . . in French.” Trembling, she did, the words leaving her in a whisper.
“Embrassez-moi, Morgan!”
FIFTEEN
At the first tentative brush of his lips against hers, Amalie heard herself whimper. For four long days she’d wanted this, dreamed about it, and now it was happening. He was kissing her again. She melted against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, felt his embrace tighten, his arms so strong, his mouth a brand, hot and persistent.
This time when his tongue sought hers, she was ready for it and yielded eagerly, parting her lips for him, welcoming his intrusion, heat flaring low in her belly as he took the kiss deeper and tasted her. She answered the caress of his tongue with a flick of her own, felt his body tense—and her own heartbeat quicken.
He raised his head for a moment and looked down at her, his blue eyes dark, his lips wet, his brow furrowed. He traced her upper lip with his thick thumb, his heart thudding against hers. “Amalie, mo leannan!”
She didn’t know what his words meant, and she didn’t care, because in the next instant he was kissing her again.
But this time it was different, his mouth reclaiming hers with a fierceness that almost frightened her. Instead of pulling away, she found herself clinging to him, returning the heat of his kiss with a passion of her own, her tongue curling withhis, her teeth nipping his lips, her fingers buried in his hair. She could not breathe. She could not think. She could do nothing but hold fast to him, needing him, needing his touch, needing his taste.
Somehow kissing him was even better than she remembered, more potent, more thrilling. She’d never felt anything like this—the reckless abandon of it, the singing in her blood. And then his lips left her mouth and burned a path across her cheek to the lobe of her ear. He drew it into his mouth and sucked, the startling sensation making her
gasp. Before she could recover, his fingers twined in her hair, and he forced her head back, baring the sensitive skin of her throat. His lips were sweet fire, making her shiver with pleasure. When he nipped her just below the ear, something deep in her belly clenched.
“Morgan!”
He heard the raw need in her voice, felt blood rush to his groin, and forgot everything except how much he wanted her. With a groan, he lifted her off her feet, carried her a few paces to the bench, then sat, drawing her across his lap, his lips never leaving her skin. He bit her again, soothed the bite with his tongue, and felt her arch in his arms, her head turning to the side with a whimper to bare more of her throat to him. He nipped and licked his way down her neck and across her collarbone, stopping to nuzzle the hollow at the base of her throat, her pulse beating frantically beneath his lips, her body trembling, her fingers clenched in his hair. Her response was much more passionate than he’d imagined, her eagerness astonishing, setting him on fire. He cupped one soft breast, flicked his thumb over her nipple, felt it harden through the cloth.
Her body jerked, and she arched upward on a moan. “O, mon Dieu!”
And that’s when it struck him. He was dangerously close to tupping Amalie. In daylight. In a French fort where he was little more than a prisoner.
Och, Satan’s arse! He dragged his lips from her silky skin with a curse. “Amalie, lass! Forgi’e me. I didnae mean to go so far.”
Her frustrated whimper told him that she thought perhaps he hadn’t gone far enough, the sound of her need almost enough to make him cast all caution aside to kiss her again. Och, it would be so easy! She lay trembling in his arms, her skin flushed rosy-pink, her lips wet and swollen, her breathing rapid. But he couldn’t take the risk, for her sake if not his own. Unable to trust himself, he lifted her and stood, setting her on her feet before him. But he couldn’t let go, not yet. And so he held her, the pounding of his heart slowly subsiding, the world returning bit by bit—the singing of birds, the heat of the sun on his face, the sound of soldiers at their chores. Then he stepped back, brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek. “We must go. Someone’s bound to pay heed if we are missin’ overlong.”
She looked up at him, something like confusion on her face, her skin still flushed, her lips still plump. “I do not wish to go.” Morgan bit back a groan, her sweet and simple confession more arousing than a whore’s most blatant proposal. “Nor do I, but I wouldna bring dishonor upon you, mo ribhinn.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and held them there lest his will fail him altogether, walking beside her to the gate in silence, his hunger for her a living, breathing thing inside him.
He’d half expected to find Bourlamaque standing on the other side with a half dozen fusiliers pointing muskets at his chest. Instead, there was no one. In no hurry to return to Bourlamaque, Morgan turned toward the south and followed the path to the fort’s back wall.
“What did you call me?”
Morgan had to think. What had he called her? “Mo ribhinn? It means somethin’ akin to beautiful lady or nymph.”
She glanced shyly at him, a smile on her lips. “And before?” “Mo leannan” He tried to think of how best to speak the phrase in English, not entirely certain he should tell her. “It means—“ Two young Abenaki men stepped onto the path in front of them, blocking their progress.
“Kwai, nadogweskwa.” Greetings, my cousin. The taller of the two fixed Amalie with an angry gaze, then spoke in English. “You say you are not his whore, and yet we find you walking alone with him—this Mac-Kin-non.”
So these were Amalie’s cousins.
The taller one shifted his gaze to Morgan—and drew his knife.
Amalie saw Tomas pull his knife from its sheath, Simon standing wide-eyed beside him. In the next instant, she found herself thrust behind Morgan, his body shielding hers. But it was not she who was in danger. Heart pounding, she tried to step forward, but Morgan shot out an arm, blocking her path. “Stay behind me, lass.” His voice was calm, but she could feel the tension in him, like a wildcat ready to spring, his gaze fixed on Tomas.
Peeking out from behind Morgan’s shoulder, she saw Tomas run his thumb along the edge of his blade, as if testing its sharpness. “Do you believe we would hurt our own cousin, Mac-Kin-non?”
“Would you?” Morgan asked.
“No.” Tomas met Amalie’s gaze, and she saw his fury—and his hurt. “She is but a silly girl who spent too much time with priests and not enough time with her mother’s people. But, you, Mac-Kin-non, you I would gladly kill.” Simon’s gaze darted to Tomas, and Amalie knew he was as terrified as she.
But, to her astonishment, Morgan chuckled. “Put your knife away, lad.”
Afraid to her bones, Amalie fell back into French. “Rangez votre couteau! II est des notres maintenant, Tamos!” Put away your knife! He is one of us now, Tomas!
“One of us?” Tomas glared at her, shouting back in English. “How can you say that when the blood of our people stains his hands? Our French fathers might make peace with him, but we Abenaki will not!”
Then Morgan spoke. “For my part, I would bury the hatchet.”
“I will bury the hatchet when it is red with your blood!”
Tomas lunged, blade flashing.
And before Amalie could scream, it was over. Morgan stood behind Tomas, his arm locked around her cousin’s throat in a choking hold, Tomas still clutching the knife in one hand, making vain and clumsy attempts to strike at a target that stood beyond his reach. Then, one arm still around Tomas’s neck, Morgan grasped Tomas’s wrist and forced his arm to bend, compelling the hand holding the knife inch by inch upward toward Tomas’s throat.
And Amalie knew her cousin was dead. “No, Morgan, please don’t kill him!”
But Morgan did not seem to hear her. He forced Tomas’s elbow to bend until the blade rested just beneath Tomas’s chin. Tomas shook with the effort to resist him, his face contorted and flushed red from the strain, a strangled wail coming from his throat.
“You want blood?” Morgan drew the knife across his own forearm, leaving a trail of bright red. “Now you have it!” Then he released Tomas with a shove, the knife blade edged with crimson.
But it was Morgan’s blood, not Tomas’s, and with a rush of relief, Amalie realized that was what Morgan had meant to do all along.
Tomas staggered forward, his gaze shifting between the blood on his blade and Simon’s shocked face, his eyes telling Amalie that he knew he’d been bested—not only bested, but shamed—by an enemy who had defeated him, spared his life, then given him the very blood he hadn’t been strong enough to take.
Morgan turned his back on Tomas, a grim look on his face. “Come, lass. Let us leave them to soothe their injured pride in peace.”
But it was not Tomas or Simon who was injured. Blood ran freely down Morgan’s arm.
Amalie took his wrist, turned his arm over, relieved to see the cut wasn’t deep. Still, it would need cleaning. “We must get you to the surgeon.”
“Tis little more than a scratch and isna worthy of. . .” His words died away as the clatter of marching troops drew near.
Lieutenant Rillieux appeared from around the corner, accompanied by a dozen armed soldiers. His gaze passed over Amalie, traveling from Morgan and his bleeding arm to Simon, Tomas, and the knife. Then he pointed to Morgan. “Put him in irons!”
Morgan leaned back against the clapboard wall, his wrists and ankles in chains, the cut on his arm still trickling blood. He hoped the bloodied blade would take the edge off the young Abenaki’s rage with him so that Amalie need no longer fear for him or for her cousins.
No, Morgan, please don’t kill him!
She’d been terrified, but there’d been nothing Morgan could do about it, apart from persuading the hot-headed young warrior not to attack him again.
What a strange coincidence that Rillieux should happen upon them just as the little shangie had come to an end, and that he should happen to have a dozen armed soldiers wi
th him. Of course, it wasn’t a coincidence at all. Rillieux had surely set it up, preying upon the Abenaki’s understandable hatred of the MacKinnon name, urging them to provoke a fight, hoping to discredit Morgan in Bourlamaque’s eyes. Had he known Morgan would win? If so, he must have been willing to sacrifice the two young Abenaki men, even knowing they were Amalie’s cousins. Had he believed Morgan would be slain? Nay, or the whoreson would not have brought so many soldiers with him.
And Amalie, sweet Amalie, she had tried to protect him once again.
“But Monsieur MacKinnon has done nothing wrong!” she’d protested in French, as soldiers had locked Morgan’s wrists in irons. “Tomas attacked him, and though Monsieur MacKinnon easily could have slain him, he did not! You cannot do this!”
But, of course, Rillieux had not been moved by her pleas. “Dinnae fret, lass,” Morgan had said. “Bourlamaque will soon set all to rights.”
She’d watched through wide eyes as Morgan had been led away, a look of mingled disbelief and fury on her bonnie face.
Morgan closed his eyes and inhaled, her scent still upon him. What was it about her that rattled him so? He’d always loved the lasses, aye, and savored the pleasures to be found in their company. But never had he lost his head like this. He’d been so drunk with desire for her that he’d risked her safety and his own mission to get just the merest taste of her. Had her cousins or Rillieux discovered them . ..
And what is your mission, lad? Is it to be wooin’ and kissin’ a lovely metisse lass?
Sadly, nay. His mission was to escape, to return to Fort Elizabeth with the secrets he’d stolen, to rejoin his brothers. His mission was to survive.
Morgan heard Bourlamaque’s voice outside the guardhouse and stood, dragging his chains with him. It had taken less than ten minutes by Morgan’s reckoning, and from the sound of things, the old man was in a rage. “Next time, come to me before you shackle him, unless you’d like to find yourself in irons instead!”