by Pamela Clare
She drew the lace fichu from her shoulders and held it out to him. He looked at it, then looked up at her, the anguish in his eyes enough to bring tears to hers. Then he took the lace shawl, wrapped it carefully around the skull, and nestled the skull in the soil.
Amalie heard footsteps and hushed voices and looked around her to find dozens of soldiers, watching, their faces solemn. Then Pere Francois pushed through the throng, his Bible clasped in his hand, Bourlamaque beside him. They stopped at Morgan’s side.
“His name was Charlie Gordon.” Morgan’s voice was tight with emotion. “He’d nay been wi’ us long, but he was a good lad, and true. He was only eighteen. A cannonball took his head. We ne’er found it.”
Until today.
Amalie bent down, picked up a handful of earth, and sprinkled it in the grave. Bourlamaque did the same, followed by Lieutenant Durand and Monsieur Lambert. Then Morgan picked up a handful of soil, sprinkled it onto the lace, and crossed himself, while Pere Francois began to speak the words of the funeral mass.
“Requiem cetemam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis . . . “
As Pere Francois continued, Amalie watched Morgan, who remained kneeling, his eyes squeezed shut, his little wooden cross clenched in one fist, his breath coming in shudders, as if whatever he was feeling barely fit inside his mortal body. She swallowed the hot lump in her throat, stepped closer to him, and laid her hand upon his bare shoulder. She did not see Lieutenant Rillieux standing by himself to one side, one eye blackened, a bloody kerchief in his fist, blood caked on his nostrils, gazing at her with a look of utter hatred on his face.
Morgan sat on the windowsill, watching the full moon glide across the sky, the night breeze cool against his skin, a strange emptiness inside his chest. Across from him in the shadows, the sentry snored soundly, the sound lost amid the chirps and croaks of wee night beasties. Above him, Amalie’s window was open, her room silent.
He’d been a fool to do what he’d done today, and yet, as God was his witness, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d held what was left of poor Charlie in his hands, had seen Rillieux’s amused grin, and something inside him had snapped. He’d felt true satisfaction when his fist had struck Rillieux’s face.
If he’d had his sword, that mac-diolain would be dead.
Bourlamaque would decide what to do with him on the morrow. But whether he was flogged or locked in the guardhouse or made to carry water from the river all day, Morgan cared not. Nor would he begrudge Bourlamaque his punishment, for once again Bourlamaque had shown he was a good man. Rather than dragging Morgan away in chains, he’d brought the priest and waited until the prayers were spoken before he’d confined Morgan to quarters.
Morgan hated the fact that he must soon betray him. The soldiers, too, had been respectful, standing in silence while the good Father spoke the words of benediction, nary a snigger to be heard. Lieutenant Durand had even joined him in sprinkling dirt in the little grave. And Amalie . .. God bless the lass! She’d come out of nowhere, stood beside him, given him the lace from her shoulders, as if she’d known what he was thinking, as if she, too, were offended by the indignity of man’s skull lying bare against the dirt. And then he’d felt her hand, small and soft, rest against him, a simple gesture, but one that had required courage. She’d shown every man in the fort that it did not matter to her that the man whose remains they were laying to rest had not been French. The gesture had touched him deeply. A feeling he did not wish to name stirred behind his breastbone.
He could not love her, for if he loved her he could not leave her.
And yet leave her he must. He could not stay. To stay would make him a traitor in fact as well as in deed. It would make him the enemy of his own flesh and blood, an enemy to the men he’d sworn to lead, an enemy to Joseph and the warriors of Stockbridge who’d fought beside him. And that he could not do.
“Morgan?”
Startled, Morgan jerked his gaze around.
And there, just inside the closed door, stood Amalie.
SEVENTEEN
Morgan stepped down from the sill and closed the windows, lest someone see or hear her. “For the love of God, lass, what are you doin’ here?”
He took a step toward her, about to tell her to get back to her own room, when she stepped into the moonlight. His mouth went dry.
She wore only her nightgown, her dark hair hanging almost to her knees, her little toes peeking out from beneath her lacy hem. The thin cloth did little to conceal her body, the pale light revealing shadowed hints of her nipples, the curve of her hips, the dark triangle of her sex. She walked slowly toward him. “It is hot tonight. I . . . I cannot sleep.”
Some part of him that had not gone witless watched the play of emotions on her face—uncertainty, shyness, hopefulness. Then her gaze skimmed over his bare arms and chest and belly, and he saw something else—longing.
And who put that longin’ in her, laddie? ‘Twos you wi’ your kisses, aye? She was utterly untouched afore you came along.
She stood before him now, her soft scent filling his head, heating his blood. “I am sorry about your friend, about what Lieutenant Rillieux did today. I worry for you, Morgan. I pray that Bourlamaque will not punish you too harshly.”
‘Twas the absurdity of her words that brought him back to himself. She’d snuck into his room in the middle of the night to tell him she hoped he’d not be punished too harshly? “If Bourlamaque finds you here, lass, he’ll cut off my cods.” For a moment she looked confused, then her eyes went wide and her gaze flickered to his groin. She looked away. “Monsieur de Bourlamaque was upset and drank too much brandy. I could hear him snoring through the wall. He will not wake before morning.”
Morgan fought the urge to touch her, crossed his arms over his chest. “You have no’ answered my question, lass. Why are you here? And dinnae tell me it’s summer’s heat that brings you, for ‘tis hot in my bed, too.”
She looked away again, distress on her face. “I . . . I needed . . .”
“Needed what?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.
When she spoke her words were but a whisper. “I needed to be . . . near you”
So vulnerable, so innocent. She stood before him brimming with unspent desire and didn’t know what to do about it—leastways not well enough to ask for it.
His hand betrayed him, reached out and tucked a silky strand of hair behind her ear, the simple touch not nearly enough to satisfy him. “Och, Amalie,you are so bonnie! You tempt a man to his soul. But you dinnae ken what you’re wantin’, do you?”
Her head snapped up, uncertainty replaced with a look of feminine defiance. And then she did something he did not expect. She rested her palms against his bare chest, stood on her toes—and kissed him.
Both shocked and aroused by her boldness, Morgan willed himself to remain passive, letting her shape the kiss, her lips hot against his, her tongue exploring his mouth with sweet strokes, the heat of it shooting straight to his groin. She was a fast learner, his Amalie was.
He knew he was a bloody fool to let this go on, and it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her she must leave. But now his tongue had other ideas. Besides, how could he send her away when he wanted her so badly, when even his bones ached for her, when she was the only thing that felt right and true in the midst of the lies and deceptions that had become his life?
Aye, he knew he could not claim her. She deserved more than a man who would love her, perhaps get her with child, and then forsake her. But here she was, in his room, an angel come to him in the dark of night, kissing him with all the fire in her soul.
Yet weren’t there many ways for a man to pleasure a woman? Aye, there were. He could make love to her with his hands, with his lips, with his tongue. He could ease her longing, show her the fullness of her own response—and leave her maidenhead intact. He could be the first man to give her pleasure. On a surge of pure lust, he drew her hard against him, wrested control of the kiss fr
om her, answering the caress of her tongue with the bold thrust of his own, the Tightness of it singing through him. Aye, she could not be his, but for tonight—just for tonight—he could be hers.
Amalie felt something inside Morgan snap, strong arms holding her against the hard wall of his chest as he gave in to her kiss and began to kiss her back. But this was not a sweet kiss, not the sort of gentle kiss they’d shared in the garden. It was fierce, wild, almost violent, making her knees go weak and her heart trip.
She knew it had been wrong of her to come here. Chaste women did not sneak into men’s sleeping chambers in the middle of the night. But she’d lain awake tonight as she had so many nights of late, consumed by thoughts of him, wanting the gnawing hunger inside her to go away, and she’d known only that she had to be with him. She’d feared he might send her away, feared he might see her as wanton and her actions as shameful. And at first he had seemed angry with her, but now. . .
O, mon Dieu, this was what she’d needed!
“Amalie, mo luaidh!” He whispered her name, whispered words she didn’t know, his voice gruff Then he lifted her into his arms, carried her to his bed, and followed her down onto the sheets, settling his weight beside her. “Tell me, lass, what is it you want from me?”
She shivered, looked up at him, knowing he awaited some kind of answer from her, but uncertain what it was. “Kiss me.” He ducked down, nipped her lower lip, soothed it with his tongue, then sucked it. “Is it just a kiss you’re wantin’, or is it more? What do you ken of men and women, lassie? What did they teach you at the abbey?”
Unsettled by his question and yet hungry for the feel of him, she slid her hands over the hard curves of his shoulders. “ I . . . I know that it is a wife’s duty to lie near her husband and to bear his children in pain.”
“Duty? Pain?” He brushed his lips over hers, kissed the corners of her mouth, making her lips tingle. “Did they teach you nothin’ else? Did they say nothin’ of pleasure?” Pleasure? None of the Sisters had ever spoken of pleasure. Feeling strangely exposed, she looked away, unable to bear his gaze. “Sister Marie Louise told me that men . . . that men . . .” She could not talk of this! It was too private, and he was too much, surrounding her with his strength, his heat, his scent, his little kisses making it so hard to think. He nipped her lips. “Tell me, lass.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, heat rushing into her cheeks.
“That men mount their wives . . . as a ram mounts a ewe—
Dieu, que c’est embarrassant!—and that they find this pleasurable, while women do not.”
“She told you that?” He chuckled, nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath her ear, nipped her earlobe.
A cascade of shivers spread through her. “Oui.” He swirled his tongue against the whorl of her ear. “And what if I told you that the poor Sister was wrong? What if I told you that a woman can feel every bit as much pleasure from love play as a man?”
She gaped at him, astonished. “Can that be true?”
“Aye, ‘tis the truth. Haven’t you enjoyed my kisses, lass?” Not giving her time to answer, he kissed her, slow and deep, kissed her until they were both breathless, until she couldn’t help arching against him, naught between their naked bodies but the thin cotton of her shift and his drawers. Then he raised his head and looked down at her through dark eyes. “I ken why you cannae sleep. I ken what you’re feelin’, for I feel it, too. If you let me, I can ease the longin’ inside you, Amalie. I can give you pleasure and leave you still a virgin.” A bolt of heat shot through her, made her belly tighten, a thousand questions darting through her mind, distilling into one. “Will you get me with child?”
He shook his head, gave a little nudge with his hips, and she felt a hard ridge press against her thigh. “For me to get you wi’ child, I would have to join my body—this part of me—with yours, and spend my seed. And that I willna do. Upon my word!”
Everything he said was new to Amalie, and she hesitated, feeling as though she stood upon a precipice. Could it be as he said it was? She wanted to know, wanted to go with him wherever he could take her, wanted to let the joy she felt with him carry her where it would. And yet never in her life had anyone bade her seek her own pleasure in anything. At the convent, and even with her father, her life had been devoted to duty—a Catholic girl’s duty, a daughter’s duty, a Frenchwoman’s duty. Even as she let his suggestion tempt her, Morgan nudged his nose into her hair, his breath hot on her ear, one callused hand sliding up her bare arm, his touch making her skin tingle. “Let me free you from this need, Amalie.”
But she had one last question. “Is this . . . a sin?” “I’m certain the priests would say that it is. And yet holdin’ you in my arms like this—all I ken is how right it feels.” Amalie drew in a breath at his words—words that spoke fully her own feelings—and knew her own mind. “Oui, Morgan. Show me.”
She closed her eyes, waited, uncertain what he would do next, her body beginning to tremble. But all he did was slide his hand to her cheek and kiss her, a deep, openmouthed kiss, his lips hot, so hot, his tongue teasing out her secrets, making her forget her uncertainty and fear.
Without taking his mouth from hers, he slid his hand slowly down her throat, his fingers pausing to caress the indentation between her collarbones before tracing a line of heat between her breasts, the unfamiliar sensation making her tense.
“Easy, Amalie.” The words brushed over her lips, a flutter of breath.
His hand flared across her rib cage, smoothed circles over her belly, stroked the curve of her hip, a strange awareness spreading wherever he touched her, as if his hands had the power to call her body to wakefulness. But that was nothing compared to the scorching trail his lips left on her skin, as he kissed his way down her throat, following the path his fingers had just taken. By the time his lips reached the valley between her breasts, she could scarcely breathe, her heart leaping against her breastbone as if to greet him. And then his hand skimmed over her breast, his fingers catching her nipple through the cloth of her gown, and she heard herself moan. He moaned, too, as if touching her like this gave him just as much pleasure as it gave her. Then his hand slid beneath the straps of her nightgown, pushing the cloth over her shoulders and down to her belly, leaving her breasts bare to his perusal. She watched his eyes darken and felt a shiver of excitement, her nipples drawing tight.
No man had ever seen this part of her.
“Och, Amalie, you’re far lovelier than I e’er could have imagined.” He cupped the full weight of one breast in his hand, his thumb drawing circles over its bare crest, sending hot shards skittering through her belly.
“Oh!” She reacted on instinct, arching, pressing more of herself into his callused palm, wanting more, needing more.
And he obliged her, molding her breasts, caressing her nipples, stretching them, plucking them, until she whimpered with frustration, her breasts swollen and heavy, the heat in her belly spreading between her thighs. But he wasn’t finished. With a groan, he lowered his head, drew one aching nipple into the heat of his mouth, and suckled her, the shock of it making her gasp. Each tug of his lips, each flick of his tongue was a sweet torment, her breath coming in pants, the heat between her thighs now a throbbing ache. Then one hand reached down and drew up the cloth of her nightgown in fistfuls, his fingers caressing the skin of one thigh, urging her legs apart.
Amalie gasped, caught his wrist and squeezed her thighs together. She hadn’t imagined he would try to touch her there. “Non!”
“Shhh, mo luaidh.” He nuzzled her ear. “Let me touch you where you burn the hottest. Let me bring you release.” She stared into his eyes, saw an intensity there that almost frightened her, and yet her body was on fire, her nipples still wet from his kisses, her belly tight, the ache between her thighs both precious and terrible. Slowly, she relaxed her legs, surrendering her will to his.
His gaze still locked with hers, he slid his hand down to the bend in her knee and lifted her leg, resting it over his h
ip, parting her, leaving her exposed. Then his hand closed over her sex, the heel of it grinding in deep, slow circles against her. She drew in a shuddering breath, astonished at the staggering pleasure, his touch somehow appeasing that aching need—appeasing it or provoking it. Oh, what was he doing to her? “Morgan!”
“So beautiful,” he said in a husky whisper. Then his mouth returned to her breast, his tongue teasing her nipples, sucking, licking, tasting, each motion of lips, tongue, and teeth sending spirals of pleasure through her belly.
Amalie was lost, her skin damp with perspiration, her body trembling. Something was happening inside her—an emptiness deep within her that yearned to be filled, a sweet ache that grew stronger with each touch, a need that became more desperate with each beat of her heart. She clenched her fingers in his long hair, her breath coming in ragged whimpers, her body taking on a rhythm of its own.
“Amalie, my angel!” He sounded breathless, his voice strained.
But if she thought he’d run out of new ways to tempt and torment her, she was mistaken, for in the next instant she felt his finger slide between her slick folds, parting her, stroking some secret part of her. The delight of it stunned her, frightened her, and she couldn’t help crying out. “O, mon Dieu! You must stop!”
He chuckled, a deep warm sound, his mouth shifting to the side of her throat. “There’s naugh’ to fear, lass.” With her next breath, she found herself hovering on some sharp and shimmering edge. She bit her lip, held her breath, fought not to fall, but he was relentless. His finger slid over that secret spot again and again, slick and wet, forcing her closer to that unfamiliar brink. The fire inside her blazed bright white and blinding—and then it exploded. Ecstasy seared through her, molten and exquisite, almost terrifying in its intensity. She arched in his arms and cried out, her cries captured by his deep, thrusting kiss, as bliss lifted her up into the night, carrying her beyond the moon and the stars to a glittering place near heaven and leaving her to drift. Slowly, so slowly, the night took shape around her once more—the beating of two hearts, sheets soaked with sweat, the sounds of mingled breathing—and she found herself lying, astonished and trembling, in Morgan’s arms.