by Pamela Clare
Even Lieutenant Rillieux joined in the chorus of cheers, raising his glass and drinking deeply, his dislike for Morgan apparently overcome at last.
It ought to have been the happiest of moments, and Amalie was happy, but rather than the intimacy she’d felt this morning when Morgan had kissed her awake and sent her to her own bed, she felt only emptiness stretching between them. It wasn’t until after the men had retired to Bourlamaque’s study for their nighty brandy that she had the chance to speak with Morgan. She found him standing alone in the sitting room, staring out the front window as she had the night when he’d first kissed her. Even from a distance, she could feel the tension seething beneath his skin.
She walked up behind him. “Morgan?”
At the sound of her voice, he stiffened. “Let me be, lass.” She might have done as he asked, but she felt so lost and confused, and she needed to understand. Almost afraid to hear his response, she summoned the courage to speak. “Please do not turn me away. If you do not care for me, if I’ve done something to earn your displeasure, please tell me.”
He kept his back to her, his body rigid, and when at last he answered her, his voice seemed strangely flat. “There was a lass in my village on Skye who let herself be wooed and deceived by an English soldier. They met in secret until her belly grew big and round with his bairn. After the babe was born, she was dragged from her father’s house into the streets, where the women struck her and cut off her hair. Men and women and children threw slops at her and berated her with shouts and curses, drivin’ her from the village and into the wild. I was only a lad at the time, but I still recall the horror on her young face. I dinnae ken whether she and the bairn survived or whether they died of cold and hunger. No one spoke of her again.” “Why are you telling me this?”
“Though Bourlamaque has accepted me, not every man here has. To them, I am still the enemy. I wouldna see such a terrible fate befall you, lass.”
“But how could such a thing happen?” The very thought was laughable. “You are one of us now. Monsieur de Bourlamaque would not permit it!”
“We are in the midst of a war, Amalie. None of us can see where this will end. If it should become known that you and I . . .”
His words unsettled her, even though she knew what he was describing could never happen. “No man here would dare to harm me, not with you and Monsieur de Bourlamaque to protect me. Besides, Monsieur de Bourlamaque has given his blessing for you—“ “Aye, he has granted permission to court you, and in turn I have given him my word that I willna dishonor you. And yet if you come to me again in the night, I dinnae ken if I can keep that promise.”
It was then she noticed that his fists were clenched. She wanted to reassure him, wanted him to know what she knew—that he was an honorable man and would never deliberately hurt her. “Last night, you—“ He turned to face her, his eyes filled with anguish. “Aye, last night I kept my word, but I am a man, Amalie. My blood is as red as any man’s. The fire has been put out in you, but not in me. All day I’ve suffered in a hell of my own makin’, wantin’ what I cannae have. I’ve tried to work you out of my blood, tried to sweat you out, but the moment I set eyes upon you or hear your voice . . . I ken you dinnae understand what I’m sayin’, but for pity’s sake, lass, keep to your own bed. You and I—we cannae be.”
Then he turned and strode toward Bourlamaque’s study to join the other officers, leaving her alone and shattered. “My brother is dead! He died savin another man’s life! He is no’ a traitor!” Connor MacKinnon’s voice roared through William’s study, his skin flushed with rage, his nostrils flared, his face pressed to within inches of William’s. “You yourself have delivered the evidence against him.
These were taken in your last raid.” William handed Captain MacKinnon the dispatches he and his men had stolen and watched as the rage on MacKinnon’s face turned first to disbelief and then to shock.
William had had much the same reaction. Witnesses had watched Morgan MacKinnon fall in battle, had watched as the French had carried his body off in triumph. Bourlamaque’s letter, signed by his own hand, had claimed that MacKinnon was dead. And yet Montcalm’s missives revealed a very different truth.
The words ran through William’s mind, words he’d read a dozen times this morning and then again this evening, some part of him strangely reluctant to believe his own eyes.
As far as our new friend MacKinnon is concerned, it seems you may have been wise to offer him sanctuary. His obedience thus far commends him to me. I will admit I should liked to have watched him shoot. I have never seen a man fire four shots in a minute,
nor strike his marks with the consistency you described in your last letter. His instruction of our soldiers might prove quite useful in this regard. And, yet, my dear friend, I caution you again not to trust him fully, as you cannot be certain he does not possess some hidden purpose of his own.
Though he’d led the Rangers for only a handful of months, Morgan MacKinnon had proved to be as dedicated a commander as his elder brother had been. William had trusted him to lead his men through the most calamitous circumstances with a clear mind. He’d trusted him to carry out his mission without fail. He’d trusted him to put military objectives ahead of personal ones. He’d trusted him and had never been disappointed—until now.
For it seemed that Morgan MacKinnon was not dead, as Bourlamaque had led them to believe, but had instead taken shelter with the enemy.
Deserter. Turncoat. Traitor. These were words William could scarce associate with Morgan MacKinnon. The man’s loyalty to his brothers was unquestionable, his sense of duty to his men unflagging, his notion of honor—flavored by a certain Gaelic tendency toward romantic idealism—unimpeachable. It seemed impossible that he should choose to betray his brothers by teaching the French skills that would enable them to slay his own men.
And then again, why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to break under torture, nor the first to save his own life by yielding secrets to the enemy. His forbears were Catholic Jacobites, long allied with the French. What was to keep him from going over to the French the moment they took him captive? His brothers. His men. William could not imagine him betraying them, and yet Montcalm’s dispatches to Bourlamaque were very clear.
Captain MacKinnon threw the letters down on William’s writing table. “Lies! Tis naugh’ but lies!”
“Is it?” William strode to the window and looked out at the darkened parade grounds. “In the past month, how many caches have you lost to the French?”
“We’ve lost three, but that doesna mean—“
“And in the three years prior to that?”
For a moment there was silence, and William could feel Captain MacKinnon’s seething rage. When the captain finally answered, he spoke through gritted teeth. “One.” “How many rendezvous points and camping sites have the enemy taken from you?”
“Four, but they were old and rarely used.”
“Does it not strike you as a strange coincidence that the French have had such successes only since your brother was—“ “I willna listen to such slander! My brother could no more betray the Rangers than he could slay me wi’ his bare hands!”
“Then how would you explain it?” William turned to face him, and found fifteen stone of angry Highlander standing close behind him, fists clenched, eyes filled with undisguised hatred. “How would you explain the meaning of Montcalm’s letters?”
“I cannae explain it!” The captain grabbed the letters off William’s writing table, crumpled them in his fist, then threw them back onto the table. “I willna believe it wi’out seein’ it wi’ my own eyes!”
This was the response William had expected. “In that case, I have a mission for you. And, Captain, let us keep this to ourselves.”
NINETEEN
Morgan moved silently down the darkened hallway toward Bourlamaque’s study, his bloody sense of duty the only thing driving him forward. Och, how he hated this—the lies, the deception, the damnable slinking about. A man who trus
ted him, a man he’d be honored to serve in battle, lay asleep in his bed, while Morgan crept about his home like a midden rat, stealing secrets to give to that whoreson Wentworth. He’d waited until the darkest hours of night to leave his room, fearing Amalie might come to his bed despite his plea that she keep to her own. He’d sensed her hurt and frustration and had been certain she would defy him, but she hadn’t. And although his mind was glad she’d heeded him, his body was not.
All day long he’d worked in the hot sun, trying to get her out of his mind. He’d dug halfway to Hell, it seemed, shoveling dirt and sand until his back and shoulders ached, and still he hadn’t been able to free himself of his need for her. He’d been assailed by memories of her lying beside him, her beautiful breasts bared, her silky thighs spread for him, her body trembling with pleasure as she’d claimed her peak and come against his hand.
And then memories had turned to daydreams, and in the secrecy of his own lustful thoughts, he’d done far more than give her ease. He’d kissed his way down her creamy skin and buried his face between her thighs, drawing her sweet nectar down his throat until she’d begged him to end her torment. Then he’d forced her thighs far apart with his own, grasped her hips, and buried his cock inside her, thrusting into her like an animal, driving them both over the edge, spilling his seed inside her. But no sooner had one daydream ended than the next had begun, until he’d taken her in every way a man could take a woman.
A barbarian—‘tis what you are, MacKinnon.
Forcing his mind off Amalie and onto the matter at hand, he took the candle from its place on the console and carried it to Bourlamaque’s study, which, as always, stood unlocked. He set the candle down on the old man’s writing table, quickly found Montcalm’s latest packet of dispatches, and began to read.
The letter opened with the usual news of family and friends before turning to matters of war. “Alas, my friend, we have word that Wolfe intends to land his forces at Quebec and lay siege to the city. I do not need to impress upon you the peril we shall face, nor the consequences to France should we not prevail. I fear that if we lose Quebec, we lose New France. Therefore, do not engage the enemy at Carillon, but rather withdraw in good time to Fort Chambly and hold the north of Lake Champlain to keep Amherst from gaining Montreal.”
So that’s what Bourlamaque had meant when he’d said it would soon be safer to return Amalie to the abbey. She would be safe because she’d be under the escort of more than five thousand seasoned French troops and Bourlamaque himself. Morgan felt a sense of peace, knowing she’d soon be far from the frontier—and far away from him. For by the time Amherst moved his army against Ticonderoga, Morgan would long since have found his way back to Fort Elizabeth or died in the attempt. He would not be going north with the French.
And if Bourlamaque fled at Amherst’s approach, Morgan would not have to raise his rifle against him or his men. He had already been dreading the day he would have to lead the Rangers against Bourlamaque and the fort’s other inhabitants. To kill the man who had spared his life . . .
But there was more. The French were losing this war, and Montcalm and Bourlamaque knew it. The tide had turned and*—
He heard a gasp, jerked his head around. And there in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock, her feet bare, her body sheathed only by her nightgown, stood Amalie. “Wh-what are you doing?” Even as she asked the question, Amalie could see very well what Morgan was doing. Wearing only his drawers, he sat at Bourlamaque’s writing table reading private correspondence by the light of the hall candle. And yet how could he? For he did not speak French. Unless...
“Non!” The word was a plea. She could not believe it, did not want to believe it. And yet, the truth was there before her eyes.
The man she loved was a traitor.
Something shattered inside her chest, leaving her staggered, the pain of it almost unbearable. Blood rushed into her head, panic making her heart trip, her tongue stilled by shock, the drone of her pulse drowning out the silence.
“Go back to bed. Amalie.” His voice was hard, his hands quick as he stowed the letters away, clearly familiar with the contents of Bourlamaque’s writing table.
As if he’d done this many times before.
Candle in hand, he walked around the writing table toward her, his gaze hard upon her like that of some wild animal measuring its prey.
Her heart thudding against her ribs, she took a step backward into the hallway, then another and another, watching as if under some spell as he followed her, soundlessly shutting the door to Bourlamaque’s study and setting the flickering candle back on the console, his expression inscrutable. Then she turned—and ran.
But she’d taken only a step or two when he caught her, one strong arm capturing her beneath her breasts and drawing her hard against his chest, a big hand covering her mouth, trapping her scream. Lifted off her feet, she kicked and thrashed as he carried her down the hallway to his room and shut the door behind them.
But he did not release her. Instead, he held her tighter, pressing his lips to her ear, his voice an angry whisper. “Quit your strugglin’ afore you harm yourself!” But his words only inflamed her rage, and she fought harder, kicking, clawing, biting at the hand that covered her mouth. To think she had kissed him! To think she had let him touch her! To think she had loved him!
“Och, for Satan!”
She tasted blood—then found herself thrown roughly onto the bed and pinned beneath him, her arms stretched over her head, both of her wrists held captive in one of his big hands, the weight of his body holding her unmoving. A stranger, the enemy once more, he glared down at her. “You should have kept to your own bed, lass. Now what shall I do wi’ you?”
But the pain in her chest was such that she did not hear the warning in his voice. “Bourlamaque gave you sanctuary, and you betrayed him! You betrayed me!”
“Aye, I deceived Bourlamaque, and I’ll regret it to the end of my days. But long afore I pledged my loyalty to him, I made another oath—to my brothers and my men! Would you have me break that vow and become a betrayer and slayer of my own kin? As you loved your father, so I love them!” She heard his words, felt the conflict within him, but was too hurt, too outraged to care, hot tears pricking her eyes.
“Then it was lies, all of it—your being forced to serve the British, your hatred for your commander, your admiration for Monsieur de Bourlamaque!”
“Nay, it was the truth, every word!” His brow was furrowed, his breath hot on her face. “I would much rather serve Bourlamaque than that bastard Wentworth, but I cannae forsake my brothers or the Rangers! I told Bourlamaque this when I lay in chains, but he chose to forget. He allowed himself to be deceived!”
“And what of your feelings for me?” The question was almost too painful to ask. “Have I let myself be deceived, as well?”
She should have known what was coming from the way his eyes darkened, but when his mouth claimed hers it took her by surprise.
It was a brutal kiss, rough and forceful, his lips pressing hard against hers, his tongue demanding entry, his body grinding over hers. She ought to have been furious, ought to have found his touch revolting, ought to have turned her head away, fought him, kicked. Instead, she felt a desperate surge of desire. Never had she hated anyone as she hated him—Traitor! Deceiver!—and yet never had his kisses affected her so. Anger, carnal need, love—she could not tell where one emotion ended and the next began. She arched against him, returning his ferocity with her own, nipping his lips, biting down on his tongue, fighting to take control of the kiss from him. And yet even as she fought him, even as he freed her wrists, her body surrendered. Hands that should have struck him slid eagerly over the smooth skin and muscle of his chest, caressed the hard curve of his shoulders, fisted themselves in his thick hair—and she knew the battle was lost.
Morgan gave Amalie no quarter. Once again, she held his fate in her hands, a word from her enough to send him off to be roasted by the Abenaki. She had defied him, leavin
g her bed to seek his, uncovering his treason. But it was bed play she’d sought from him, and so, by God, she would have it!
He bared her breasts to his roving hands and hungry mouth, teasing and tasting her until she writhed. Then he drew up her nightgown in urgent fistfuls, forced her thighs apart, and began to press deep circles against her sex, his fingers delving down to tease her virgin entrance. She was already wet, proof of her need for him gathering like dew on his fingertips, her musky scent bidding him take her, her frantic whimpers driving him mad.
Never had Morgan forced himself on a woman, but his mother’s Viking blood burned in him now, ruthless and hot, urging him to claim Amalie without ceremony, to mark her in the most primal way a man could, to satisfy himself with her sweet body again and again, with or without her consent. With a growl that sounded more animal than human even to his own ears, he shifted his mouth from one velvety nipple to the other, suckling her without mercy, his hand unrelenting. Then, ignoring her startled gasp, he slid one finger inside her, testing her maidenhead, stretching her, stroking that part of her no man had touched—and she shattered. He captured her cry with a kiss, took her breath into his lungs, his hand keeping up the rhythm until her pleasure was spent, her slick inner muscles clenching tightly around his finger, making him wish for all the world it was his cock inside her.
And that was how Bourlamaque found them—Morgan on top of Amalie, her breasts bared, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she found release.
“What in the name of the Devil is happening here?”
Bourlamaque’s voice filled the room like thunder.
Amalie shrieked, struggling to cover herself.
Instinctively, Morgan shielded her from the old man’s view, helping her to draw her nightgown over her shoulders. “Easy, lass. We’ll soon sort this out.”
But Morgan knew nothing could be further from the truth.
Not only was Amalie facing Bourlamaque’s wrath, but she was also carrying a terrible secret, which, if revealed, would lead Morgan to his death.