by Pamela Clare
Morgan watched Amalie sleep, a strange tightness in his chest.
She lay curled against him like a kitten, so soft and sweet, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful, her long hair tangled about them both. The musky scent of her arousal teased his nostrils, mixing with the smells of night. He knew he needed to wake her, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go just yet. Dawn was still a few hours away. This could never happen again. Not only was it far too chancie, but Morgan wasn’t certain he could survive it again. Never had his will been put to such a test as this. To touch her and taste her but not to take her—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!—it was, he supposed, the price to be paid for daring to do what he’d done. A price he was glad to pay, even if his balls still ached and his cock throbbed.
It had been like watching a rose bloom, its soft petals slowly spreading, revealing its beauty bit by bit, then opening at last to claim the sunlight. And she had opened to him, her unschooled response more arousing than Morgan could have imagined. When at last she’d reached her peak—och, never had he seen anything more bonnie.
Aye, the bastard who took her to wife would consider himself blessed indeed, for in her he would find not only a sweet and generous spirit, but a quick mind, quiet strength, and true feminine passion.
But what if she weds some bawheid who uses her body for his own pleasure with nary a thought for hers? What then, laddie? Will it help her or hurt her to ken what she’s missin’?
Anger snarled in his chest at the thought of any man touching her, let alone using her so mindlessly. He hoped she’d have the strength and courage to demand her due from any neach diolain of a husband who treated her that way. Morgan brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and felt the sharp edge of regret. God Almighty, how he wished he didn’t have to leave her! If he but could, he’d ask Bourlamaque for permission to court her. Or he’d make love to her, confess all once her belly began to swell, and allow himself to be forced to the altar. Then he’d spend the rest of his life cherishing her.
But his duty lay along another path—not with the lass sleeping in his arms, but with his brothers, with Joseph and his Muhheconneok grannies, with the men who’d sworn to fight and die at his command. No matter what Morgan felt for Amalie—nay, he would not name it—he was a Ranger and bound not to this woman, but to war.
And if there were some way he could take her with him, return to Fort Elizabeth with bonnie Amalie beside him?
You’ve gone daft, MacKinnon. She deserves better than you!
Aye, she did.
Here among the French, Morgan was a MacKinnon, grandson of a Highland laird, but at home among the British he was the grandson of a traitor, a man who, together with his brothers, still stood accused of murder, a man who was bound to this war until its ending.
Then why do you wish to go home, laddie?
‘Twas the voice of Satan, but it came from his own head. Then temptation crept out of the corners of his mind where it had been lurking, and showed itself fully before him—so alluring, so enticing—and he saw the life that lay within his grasp. An honored officer in Bourlamaque’s retinue. A husband to precious Amalie. A father to six or seven dark-haired sons and daughters, all of them with eyes like their mother’s. He closed his eyes, held that vision in his mind, and felt something break inside his chest, pain forcing the breath from his lungs.
But he could no more betray his brothers or the Rangers than he could slay them. He opened his eyes, the vision slowly fading, leaving emptiness inside him.
He ducked down, pressed a kiss to Amalie’s hair. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more. Then he would wake her, see her safely to her room, and begin to plot his escape. Ere sunrise a week hence, he would be gone.
EIGHTEEN
The day was young when Bourlamaque summoned Morgan to his study.
“Please sit, Major.” He gestured toward an opulent armchair, a troubled look on his face.
Morgan sat and waited in silence to hear his fate, his mind still filled with Amalie, her scent still upon his skin. “The first matter we must discuss, Major, is your conduct yesterday.” Bourlamaque settled himself behind his writing table. “I cannot tolerate fighting among my officers.” “I understand, sir.” Morgan met his gaze without wavering and pressed on, needing to say it. “Tis grateful I am that you allowed poor Charlie a Catholic burial and that you stood there beside me. You are a far better man and more honorable than he whom I was forced to serve. I will accept whate’er discipline you decide is fittin’ wi’out complaint.” Bourlamaque’s stern countenance softened slightly. “We French do not flog our officers as the British do, except for the most extreme of offences, and this does not warrant such a response. Those who witnessed the incident agree that you were provoked. And yet I cannot ignore the fact that you struck Lieutenant Rillieux, who, despite his faults, is a dedicated officer and widely respected.”
Morgan looked down to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Aye, sir.”
“I have therefore decided that you shall spend the day digging a new privy for the officers down on the riverbank.” Dig a privy? That was to be his punishment? Morgan had hoped for a good flogging. It would at least have taken his mind off Amalie and relieved some of the gnawing guilt he felt for deceiving so honorable and decent a man as Bourlamaque. Aye, a good flogging would have done it. “Aye, sir.”
Bourlamaque watched him, as if expecting some kind of reaction. “Lest you think I deal with you unfairly, you should know that Lieutenant Rillieux is even now hard at work cleaning the stables.”
Morgan fought back a grin, imagining the haughty bastard up to his knees in horse shite and filthy straw. “I dinnae question your fairness, sir.”
Bourlamaque nodded. “It has been three weeks since I made the decision to spare your life. Despite yesterday’s unfortunate events, I have not been disappointed. Your actions demonstrate qualities I hope to find in my officers—skill, strength, compassion, restraint.”
Every word increased Morgan’s growing sense of guilt.
“You are most gracious, sir.”
“I have decided it is time to give you a rank and place in our army—and to return your possessions to you. Alas, I cannot grant you the rank of major, for it would insult my officers, and Montcalm has forbidden it.”
So there was a new message from Montcalm. Morgan would make a point of finding and reading it tonight. The old man was still speaking. “From this day forward, you shall be Capitaine MacKinnon, my advisor on all matters pertaining to the Rangers and Fort Elizabeth. You shall instruct my soldiers in marksmanship and woodcraft.” He leaned down and picked something heavy up off the floor, then tossed it to Morgan. “You may have use for these things.” Morgan’s tumpline pack.
Morgan stared at it for a moment before unbinding it to see what gear still lay inside.
“I assure you it is all there.”
And—apart from his sword and rifle, of course—it was. Pistol.
Powder horn. Bag of shot Tin cup and plate. Salt horn. Tin cook pot. Fork and spoon. Clasp knife. Pouch of parched corn. Bar of soap. Two old onions. A bit of salt pork. Tin flask of poisoned rum. Leather flask of drinkable rum. Ground ginger and sugar, each wrapped in parchment. Needle and thread for stitching wounds. Jar of salve to keep them from festering. Linen strips for binding them. Ax. Waterskin. Hunting knife. It seemed a lifetime ago that these things had belonged to him, and the sight of them made his chest feel strangely tight. He’d thought he’d have to make the journey back to Fort Elizabeth without them. Now it would be so much easier. He willed his face to remain impassive. “And my rifle and sword?”
Bourlamaque pointed toward the corner by the door, where Morgan could see both his musket and his daidheamh mor. “You may retrieve them on your way out, Captain. For now, we have one last matter to discuss.”
Morgan’s pulse sped up a notch. With his weapons returned, he had all that he needed to escape. “Aye, sir.” For a moment Bourlamaque said nothing, as if he were choosing
his words with care. When he spoke, the troubled look had returned to his face. “This concerns Miss Chauvenet.” Whatever Morgan had expected him to say next, it was not this.
Easy, lad. If he kent she’d spent the night in your bed, he’d be geld’m’ you wi’ yon sword, no’ returtiin’ it to you.
“My ward spoke with me last evening and asked me to permit you to court her. This is unconventional, I know, but her father made it clear that she was to be allowed to pick her own match, insofar as the man she chose was worthy and could provide for her. She has developed a tendresse for you, capitaine. Surely you must have noticed this as well.” Morgan almost choked. “Och, well . . . aye, sir.” Aye, he had noticed. Perhaps it had been the way she’d come to his room in the night, begging to be kissed. Maybe it had been the way she’d cried his name as she’d come against his hand. Or mayhap it had been the way she’d looked up at him when he’d woken her, her eyes filled with wonder, aye, and a woman’s love.
He’d wanted to admonish her not to let herself love him, to tell her that he was not the man she believed him to be, to warn that he was about to repay her compassion, trust, and affection with betrayal. But then she’d smiled, a sleepy smile, and his courage had forsaken him.
“Do you return her regard?”
Morgan thought of the girl from his village and fully intended to lie, but he found he could not—not when it came to Amalie. “Aye, sir, I do.”
Bourlamaque seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Then I should tell you I still intend to send her back to the abbey—and soon. I fear her affection for you might incense Lieutenant Rillieux, and I’ve no wish for further hostility between the two of you. Besides, events are unfolding that ought to make it much safer for her to make that long journey. I caution you not to take advantage of her innocence in the meantime. She is young and very inexperienced. You may pay your respects to her discreetly until she leaves, provided you give me your word that you will not debauch her.”
“Upon my honor, I willna harm or dishonor her.” It was a promise Morgan was happy to give, and one he intended to keep—last night’s madness not withstanding.
But what events were unfolding? Morgan needed to see that letter.
“You are the grandson of a Scottish laird, a brave fighter, and an honorable man. Should the war end, and you prove faithful to France, I would give consent for you to marry Amalie.”
And with that, Bourlamaque unwittingly offered Morgan everything he could have wanted—the honor of his clan name, a chance to fight as a free man, and Amalie as his wife. Did the old man know he was exacting a terrible revenge? With a few words, Bourlamaque had resurrected the vision Morgan had turned away in the night—and with it a terrible temptation.
Why do you wish to go home, laddie?
The words hissed through his mind.
And this time Morgan had no answer.
Amalie awoke feeling languid and replete, missing Morgan beside her and yet surrounded by him, the salt and musk of his scent still upon her, his touch still warming her skin, his words still sounding in her mind.
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.
Unable to keep from smiling, she stretched, crawled out of bed, and threw open her windows to let in the fresh morning air. Then she started her morning toilette, brushing the many tangles from her hair, washing her face, shedding her nightgown. But rather than dressing, she found herself staring into her looking glass at the likeness of her own naked body. She didn’t look any different than she had yesterday. She had the same eyes, the same face, the same skin. And yet nothing was the same at all.
She let her gaze slide over her reflection, her fingers tracing a path over lips that had burned from his kisses, along her throat where his mouth had conjured shivers, to the valley between her breasts where her heart had beat so hard.
Och, Amalie, you’re far lovelier than I e’er could have imagined.
He’d been looking at her breasts when he’d said that, his brow furrowed with emotion, his eyes dark. Were they beautiful? She cupped them as he had done, explored their velvety crests with her fingers, and watched her nipples slowly pucker into tight little buds, their tips exquisitely sensitive. The only thought she’d ever given to her breasts was how best to hide them, first from the disapproving gazes of the nuns and then from the lustful stares of men. She’d known only that they were meant for suckling babies. She’d never dreamed they could be a source of such pleasure.
She remembered what it had felt like to have his hot mouth upon them, to feel his tongue tickle her, to feel his lips nip her—and desire, fresh and new, began to build inside her. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her hands down over her rib cage to the rounded curve of her belly, wondering at the tension she felt there. Then with one hand she reached farther still, her fingers sliding over dark curls to cup her sex as he had done.
I ken why you cannae sleep. I ken what your feelin, for I feel it, too. If you let me, I can ease the longin’ inside you, Amalie.
Oh, but she was sensitive there! ‘Twas a place she’d never touched except to bathe and stem her monthly flux, for the Sisters had punished girls who’d touched themselves beneath their skirts. But she was not at the abbey now. She delved deeper, then drew her hand away and found her fingers rich with her own musky scent and damp with a strange, slippery wetness, as if her body had wept silky tears in its need for him.
It felt as if a great mystery had been opened to her—a world of pleasure she’d never known existed—and yet there were so many questions she’d wanted to ask him, still so much she needed to know. Was it normal for a woman’s desire to return so quickly after release? Would it be just as pleasurable if he joined his body to hers, or would it hurt?
For me to get you wi’ child, I would have to join my body—this part of me—with yours and spend my seed.
That part of him had seemed very large, so she could certainly see why it might be painful. And yet she couldn’t deny that the thought of being joined to Morgan roused some primal part of her. When she’d been aroused by his touch, she’d ached inside as if her body longed for him to fill her. Did all women feel that way?
She would ask him about all of these things tonight. Just the thought of seeing him again sent a warm rush of excitement through her. She slid her hands back up her body, hugged herself and spun on her toes, filled with the urge to laugh. But she was already late for breakfast. She finished dressing, then hurried downstairs, her thoughts turning to Morgan’s punishment.
“Bourlamaque has set him to digging a privy,” Lieutenant Durand told her as he waited for his morning audience. Then he grinned. “Rillieux is mucking the stables.” She sighed with relief, grateful that Morgan had been spared some greater humiliation. And the morning seemed even brighter.
Amalie drifted through the day in a dream. She tended the roses in the garden, visited the hospital, mended one of Bourlamaque’s waistcoats. But although she spent the hours in much the usual way, nothing felt the same. The world had changed.
It was as if her heart had little wings, as if her body were made of gossamer, as if everything around her were bathed in golden light. She felt almost giddy and more than a little rebellious, keeping the beautiful and precious secret of last night inside her. Had she ever known such a feeling of happiness? She was in love. She knew it. She must be.
She loved Morgan MacKinnon.
She moved through her day thinking of nothing but him.
The way he’d looked at her, his gaze both fierce and tender. The way he’d been with her through every breath, every shiver. The way his big man’s body had pressed against her, surrounded her, his large callused hands—hands that had killed—so gentle, unleashing feelings inside her she’d never known before.
So much of her life she’d felt invisible, a dark girl in a world of pretty, sun-haired children. Apart from her father, no one had ever cared to hear her thoug
hts, unless it was to admonish her for the nature of them. But Morgan, dear Morgan, he listened to her. He listened to her and saw things in her that no one had ever seen.
Oui, she loved him. He might be a Ranger, a chi bai, or even the man who’d fired the shot that had killed her father, but still she loved him.
The realization took her breath away, left her floating. And yet it also left her with a niggling worry. What if he did not love her?
She did not see him again till supper, when he came to the table in a French captain’s uniform looking so handsome she found it hard to breathe. His long hair was still damp from his bath, his Scottish warrior braids hanging past his broad shoulders, which were now adorned with golden epaulets. The dark blue of his coat made his blue eyes seem even bluer, the sun-bronzed skin of his face a sharp contrast to the white of his waistcoat. And across his chest, where a French officer of noble birth might have worn a blue or red sash, he wore one of Scottish plaid, in red, green, blue, and white.
“Miss Chauvenet.” He bowed, pressed a light kiss against the back of her hand, his touch making her skin tingle. “How bonnie you are this eve.”
But his gaze showed nothing of his feelings. Gone were both the fierceness and the tenderness, replaced by a kind of distant courtesy, as if he were only now making her acquaintance. And though she tried to make conversation with him during the meal, his attention and good humor was given to Bourlamaque and the other officers.
“To Capitaine MacKinnon, who was a French ally in his heart all along!” Bourlamaque said, toasting Morgan with a glass of his favorite Bordeaux.