by Pamela Clare
“Have I not treated you with kindness befitting my own daughter? Have I not granted you every comfort? Have I not shown you every consideration?”
Acutely aware that he was clad only in his drawers—and still sporting a raging cockstand—Morgan watched, his teeth grinding, as Bourlamaque, wearing his dressing gown, berated Amalie in French. She trembled before the old man, the blanket Morgan had draped around her shoulders for modesty’s sake clutched tight around her, but her chin was held high. “Oui, monsieur,” she answered, her voice all but a whisper. She had not yet said anything about what she’d seen, though Morgan knew the secret weighed heavily upon her. He could see it in the distress on her face, in the tense way she held herself, in her unshed tears.
“And you!” Bourlamaque switched into English and stepped over to Morgan, his face mottled with rage. “Did you not this very morning promise me that you would not dishonor her?”
Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “She is a virgin still.”
The old man gaped at him as if he’d said something daft.
“Is that all ‘dishonor’ means to you—taking her virginity? What of chastity, Captain? What of purity?”
“Believe me, sir, when I say I didnae intend for this to happen tonight. I meant no insult to—“ Amalie’s words cut him off. “ I . . . I came to him, monsieur. I came to him though he bade me not to tempt him.” Astonished, Morgan met her gaze and knew in that moment that she would not reveal his treachery to her guardian. Though he could not fathom her reasons, the realization filled him with bittersweet sadness—relief that he would not burn in the fires of the Abenaki and yet remorse that she who had been blameless until he arrived should now share in his guilt.
“Is this true?” Bourlamaque asked him.
Morgan hesitated, his instinct to shield her from shame.
But the words had already been spoken. “Aye, sir.” Bourlamaque looked from Morgan to Amalie, his jaw set, a strange light in his eyes. “Amalie, you have at long last made your choice. You shall marry Capitaine MacKinnon as soon as it can be arranged. Do you understand? Both of you?”
Marry?
For a moment, Morgan thought he’d misunderstood. “M-marry him?” Wide-eyed, she gaped at her guardian, looking every bit as stamagastert as Morgan felt. Then her gaze fell to the floor. “Oui,monsieur. J’ai compris” “Aye, sir.”
‘Tis a fine predicament you’re in now, isn’t it, laddie?
The wedding took place three days later, for that was how long it took Bourlamaque’s tailor, who claimed he had not the skill to make women’s garments, to finish stitching Amalie’s wedding gown. Bourlamaque had spared no expense, the entire fort working together to prepare for the event, war-weary men eager for a ritual that celebrated life, not death. Amalie wanted to be happy as any bride should be, but her heart was full of misgiving, for the match she had made was far from the love match her parents had found together. Not only was her groom being brought unwilling to the altar, he was a spy for the British. Not that Morgan had given away any French secrets; he hadn’t yet had the chance. But he had clearly deceived Bourlamaque in hopes of one day passing on all that he had learned to his commander. And that meant he hoped to escape.
Amalie feared she would not have a husband for long. She could have denounced him to Bourlamaque, telling what she’d witnessed, but she knew that if she did, Bourlamaque would clap Morgan in irons and order his death. God save her, but she loved Morgan too much, even despite what he’d done, to see him come to such an end. Wracked with guilt, her loyalties torn, she’d shed an ocean of tears, hiding them from the others, wishing she’d kept to her room that night, wishing she hadn’t seen.
She wanted to talk with Morgan, to demand an explanation, to hear what he would say. But Bourlamaque had kept them apart, setting Morgan to hard labor during the day and sleeping with the door to his room wide open at night. And so she found herself on Bourlamaque’s arm, wearing a beautiful gown of ivory silk, being led into a chapel full of officers. Morgan stood at the altar in full dress uniform, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Seeming every inch the proud husband-to-be, he took her hand from Bourlamaque and gave her a reassuring smile, his blue eyes filled with tenderness, his hand steady and warm. But as he promised to love, honor, and cherish her all the days of his life, his deep voice filling the tiny chapel, she heard other words.
Long afore I pledged my loyalty to Bourlamaque, I made another oath—to my brothers and my men!
And she prayed for a miracle.
“Congratulations on the occasion of your marriage and your acceptance into our army, Capitaine MacKinnon!” The young adjutant—Morgan couldn’t recall his name—spoke in heavily accented English and raised his brandy glass.
Morgan acknowledged the kind benison with a bow of his head, raising his own glass. “Thank you, sir.”
So it had gone all evening, a sea of men in uniform pressing in to congratulate him on his good fortune and to offer their most gracious blessings, some sincere, some peppered with poorly veiled resentment.
“Why should he, a foreigner, wed Major Chauvenet’s daughter, when it was his Rangers who killed the major?” he’d heard more than one soldier ask in whispered French. “Lieutenant Rillieux asked for her hand and was rebuffed straightaway!”
Rillieux had been notably absent from both the wedding and the dinner feast that had followed. This surprised Morgan not at all. Rillieux was a prideful man, not the sort to accept defeat with grace. He would not find it easy to watch the lass he’d lusted after marry a man he hated. Nay, Morgan was not fooled by Rillieux’s smiles and friendly manner. The macdiolain hated him still, and no mistake. He was not the sort to forgive and forget.
“ Felicitations!” said a sergeant who apparently could not speak English, a broad smile on his freckled face. “You are a fortunate man, Capitaine MacKinnon!” A young man, a sous-lieutenant from the look of his uniform, stepped forward. “For you have plucked our fairest flower!”
The adjutant leaned nearer, a conspiratorial look on his face. “Here at Fort Carillon, she was the only flower that had not been plucked, n’est-ce pas?”
Morgan chuckled along with them, trying not to grit his teeth, this blether about plucking flowers making him surly, given that the flower in question was Amalie. “Aye, I am a lucky man, and well I ken it.”
God in Heaven, she’d been a beautiful bride! The sight of her in her wedding gown had made his chest ache, stealing his breath, robbing him of his wit. Like an angel she’d come to him. The officers in the chapel had watched her walk up the aisle, wistful looks on their uggsome faces. Even the camp followers had turned out, standing off in the distance to catch a glimpse of something none of them would ever be—a virgin bride.
Morgan had seen the trepidation on Amalie’s face as she’d approached him, and had known her fear to be more than a maid’s wedding jitters, the secret she kept weighing heavily upon her. Mindful not to shame her before the men, he’d done his best in that hour to be the man she deserved, showing her every courtesy a gentleman should show his lady on the day of their wedding, knowing he would soon hurt her unforgivably.
She had retired to his room—their room—almost an hour past, the young kitchen maid with her. He’d felt a wave of pity for her as she’d walked away, a look of worry on her bonnie face when there ought to have been only joy. A woman in a world of rough soldiers, she had no female kin to tend her and prepare her for her wedding night, as any new bride should.
Go to her.
The call came to him, drowning out men’s conversation, their raucous laughter, the lilt of fiddle music. Headier than brandy, it tugged at his chest, his gut, his groin, a promise of pleasures, of Amalie’s soft sighs and caresses, of her feminine sweetness.
Go to her.
But Morgan stood rooted to the spot, as he had since she’d left his side, for theirs would not be a traditional wedding night. He would not lie with her, could not lie with her. No matter that her sweet body was now
his by right. He would not rob her of her maidenhood and risk getting her with child when he would be leaving her ere the sun’s rising. Better to leave her maidenhead intact so that she could seek an annulment once he was gone, freeing herself to marry a man who was worthy of her love. ‘Twas the only honorable thing Morgan could do.
And yet he did not trust himself to do it. He did not trust himself to be near her, not when weeks of wanting her, days of kissing her, and nights of pleasuring her had left him starving for her, the hunger inside him so raw that he felt he could devour her in one succulent bite. And so he stood, fixed to the floor of Bourlamaque’s front room amid lingering revelers.
Go to her.
“So the groom sips brandy long after his bride has gone to bed.” Rillieux stepped forward through the throng, impeccably dressed, every button on his uniform polished to a shine, a grin on his face. “If she were my wife, I’d long since have joined her.”
There were shouts of agreement, laughter.
Morgan met Rillieux’s gaze, smiled. “A man should ne’er rush a woman when it comes to passion.”
Rillieux’s grin broadened. “Or perhaps you fear you cannot rise to the occasion.”
Laughter turned to guffaws as the humor became more ribald.
Morgan chuckled, “You Frenchmen fight wi’ wee sabers, aye? We Highland Scots carry broadswords. They ne’er fail us.” More guffaws and a shout or two of protest.
Some of the amusement faded from Rillieux’s face, his eyes betraying the hatred he’d been trying to mask. “We French are renowned the world over as lovers, while you Scots”—he spat the word—“are known for your dourness.” There was no laughter now, only silence.
“Is that so?” Morgan tossed back the last of his brandy, set the crystal snifter aside. “Then remember this—in a fort full of Frenchmen, the lass chose a Scot.”
Then Morgan turned and strode toward his room—and his waiting bride.
When would he come to her?
Amalie sat on the edge of Morgan’s big bed, waiting, the sound of violins and men’s laughter loud through the walls. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Therese away so quickly. Perhaps she ought to have asked her to stay awhile.
It was harder to wait alone.
Therese had prepared Amalie’s bath, scenting the water with rose petals and lavender sprigs. She’d brushed Amalie’s hair until it gleamed. Then she’d helped Amalie slip into her new nightgown, a shimmering garment of white silk so light that it felt like a whisper against her skin. “He won’t be able to think of anything but you,” Therese had said. “Oh, how I envy you! To be brought to my wedding bed by a man as handsome and virile as Capitaine MacKinnon! Did you see how he scarcely took his eyes off you all day? He’s in love with you, mademoiselle.”
Amalie had managed a smile for Therese’s sake, but inside she’d wanted to weep. Though Morgan had doted on her throughout the day, showing her every kindness a husband could, she knew he’d only married her because Bourlamaque had commanded it. Oh, yes, he cared about her and even desired her. He’d shown her that in the way he spoke with her, in the way he protected her, in the way he’d kissed her and given her pleasure.
But he did not love her.
Worse, he was set upon betraying her king and country. And no matter how much she hoped this marriage would dissuade him from that path, she knew in her heart that he would soon leave her, risking his life to rejoin his brothers and the Rangers. Then he would take up arms against the very men who now drank to his health.
How could she still love him after all he’d done? He’d taken advantage of his reprieve from death—a reprieve she’d won for him—to spy against the very man who’d shown him mercy. He’d lied about not speaking French, letting her play the teacher while he feigned ignorance. And while he’d been busy deceiving them, his Rangers had slaughtered French soldiers by the score.
He was the enemy.
And yet he was no such thing.
There was goodness in him and honor as solid as stone: She had seen it when he’d protected her from Rillieux, when he’d knelt at prayer, when he’d buried the remains of his friend. His betrayal of Bourlamaque was an act of loyalty to his brothers, to the men who’d fought and died for him. Although it might make her grief easier to bear if she could find it in herself to be angry with him or even to hate him for what he’d done, how could she fault him for being loyal to his own flesh and blood? She walked to the open window, threw wide the panes, and breathed in the warm night air, trying to calm the turmoil inside her. Of course, it was not just his betrayal or the awkward circumstances of their marriage that had set her emotions on edge. It was also the thought of what would happen in that big bed tonight.
Dear, kind Bourlamaque had called her aside and, red to the roots of his powdered wig, had assured her that she had nothing to fear about the marital act because Morgan would teach her all she needed to know. “Which he seems already well on his way to having done,” he’d added, with a slight frown. Then it had been Amalie’s turn to blush.
Therese had been a bit more helpful, if less reassuring.
“Maman told me it only hurts the first time,” she’d said. Behind her, men’s voices grew suddenly louder, and light spilled into the room. Then just as suddenly, it grew dark again, and the voices faded.
He had come to her.
She kept her gaze on the stars, barely able to breathe, knowing that turning to face him meant also facing the answers to all her unasked questions.
“Amalie, lass?” His voice was deep as night.
She heard the rustle of fingers on buttons and knew he was removing his coat and waistcoat. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud. Then came the rasp of breeches sliding down long legs to the floor. And footsteps.
She felt the heat of his body behind her before he touched her, his hands cupping her shoulders, sliding down the length of her arms. Then he pressed his lips to the side of her throat and kissed her. Her eyes drifted shut.
“Your heart is beatin’ like a wild bird’s, lass.” His lips brushed over her skin as he spoke, his breath warm and scented with brandy. “What is it that’s frightenin’ you?”
She swallowed, tried to speak. “Tomorrow.”
He drew her backward against his bare chest. “Dinnae trouble yourself about tomorrow. We must first face this night.”
“Are you angry with me?”
He kissed her hair. “C’est vous qui devriez etre en colere contre moi, non?”
It is you who should be angry with me, isn’t that so?
She stiffened, his fluent French final proof of his betrayal. But that was why he’d spoken in her tongue, she knew. He was laying his sins at her feet.
“Oui.” Then she turned to face him, found that he was still wearing his drawers, his features half in candlelight and half in shadow. “Why, Morgan? Please tell me why? I thought you were happy here! I thought you were proud to fight for a Catholic king!”
“I belong wi’ my brothers.” There was sadness in his eyes—and regret. “But tell me—why have you no’ revealed me to Bourlamaque?”
“I would not see you hanged or handed over to my cousins to be burned.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the sound of revelry floating on the evening breeze.
“Can you not persuade your brothers to join you here?” She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she wanted to know, needed to understand.
He drew a breath, stroked a finger down her cheek. “Iain, the eldest, is husband to a noblewoman whose family has long been loyal to the British. They have a wee son—Iain Cameron. Connor, my younger brother, doesna remember much of Scotland. He’s seen more cruelty at the hands of the French than the Sassenach. He would never forsake Iain or the men. Joseph and my Muhheconneok kin have been loyal to Britain from the earliest days and have enemies among France’s Indian allies, as well. They willna join the French, and I cannae take sides with those who would make war on the people I love.”
&
nbsp; Do you not love me?
The question was a silent cry, hopelessness yawning dark and deep in the pit of her stomach. “Then there is nothing I can say or do to convince you to stay?”
“Nay, lass.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and drew her into his strong arms. “This war divides us, Amalie. We didnae start it, and, sadly, we cannae stop it. We didnae ask for this, and yet we cannae change it by wishin’ it were otherwise.” Tears blurred her vision at the truth in his words. “When will you go to them?”
“Soon.”
“I’m afraid you will be caught or shot—“
“Sssh, lass.” He held her tighter. “I cannae hold you in my arms and talk of war and sadness. Do you ken what I thought when you walked into the chapel this morn? I prayed, ‘God in Heaven, help me to find my tongue when ‘tis time to speak my vows, for You’ve sent me one of Your angels, and her beauty strikes me senseless.’ Ne’er has there been a more beautiful bride, Amalie.”
She looked up at him and tried to smile. “And you looked very manly and handsome in your officer’s uniform.” He cupped her face, his eyes dark with emotion. “Hear me when I say that I never meant to hurt you. If there were any way for me to stay wi’ you, I would. You are all a man could hope for in a wife, all a man could desire. Let me give you what joy I can tonight, and dinnae think upon tomorrow.” Tears spilling onto her cheeks, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, her answer a kiss.
Morgan held Amalie against his chest as she drifted to sleep, stroking her hair, the musk and spice of her arousal mingling with the salt of his sweat. He had forced himself to say what he needed to say, for he could not ask her to remain faithful and bound to him after he had abandoned her, no matter what he might desire. “When I am gone, you can ask Bourlamaque to help you seek an annulment. They cannae hold you to a marriage that wasna consummated. Then you can marry as you choose.”
He did not see that his words brought fresh tears to her eyes.