by Pamela Clare
“Pardon me, miss.” The short man who’d helped protect her during the battle stood beside the lean-to, a tin cup in his hand. “Killy’s the name, miss. Morgan told me you might be needin’ a bit of willow bark tea to soothe your aches.” “Thank you, Killy.” She took the cup from his hands, found it hot to the touch. “I remember who you are.” “Of course, you do!” He grinned, his scarred face transformed from fearsome to endearing, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘”Tis my Irish charm. As the only man among us with any manners, let me be the first to welcome you to our company and to thank you for savin’ our Morgan. If there’s augh’ you need, come to Killy.”
Killy’s visit seemed to be some kind of signal, for one by one the men stopped to greet her, many of them bearing small tokens.
A man who said his name was McHugh brought a wooden bowl of steaming cornmeal porridge with bits of salt pork in it. “Thank you for all you did for Morgan. God be wi’ you.” Dougie brought fresh blueberries he claimed to have picked himself. “Morgan was shot savin’ my life, and you saved his. If there’s augh’ I can do for you, tell me, and I’ll see it done.”
A young Ranger named Brandon gave her a penknife. “A pleasant morn to you, miss. My thanks to you for aidin’ Morgan.”
“I’m Forbes, miss. This salve is good for wounds. Good day to you, miss.”
“I’m called Robert Burns, miss.” Robert Burns flushed to the roots of his red hair. “Och, they said you were bonnie, and you are. Here’s a bit of sugar for your tea.” Amalie ate her porridge and blueberries, and on it went.
Powdered ginger root. Beaded thongs for her hair. An apple.
Some pemmican. A leather pouch of parched cornmeal.
These were MacKinnon’s Rangers?
For so long she had feared and hated them, as did all French subjects in the Canadas. But now she saw them as they were—skilled warriors, strong men, and strangely softhearted, their simple gifts and words of thanks touching her more deeply than they could know.
And then Amalie found two men looking down at her—
Connor, who was so like Morgan in appearance that there could be no mistaking him, and a tall Indian man with long black hair in which was tied a single eagle father. They knelt down beside her.
“I see the men have been payin’ their respects,” Connor said, smiling at the small pile of possessions that sat before her. “As well they should. Thank you for savin’ my brother’s life and showin’ him mercy. Should you e’er need them, my life and my sword are yours.”
“Kwai, nichemis,” the Indian man said in Abenaki. Greetings, little sister. “I am Joseph Aupauteunk, war chief of the Stockbridge Mahican people and blood brother to the MacKinnons.” The Mahican had long been enemies of her grandmother’s people, and yet such was the warmth in Joseph’s brown eyes that Amalie felt no fear of him.
Bare-chested, his skin stained by vermillion, he smiled and held forth a comb carved of polished antler. “I thought you might need this.”
Amalie could have kissed him. “Merci! Oh, thank you!”
“Only a Mahican would bring a comb to war.” Connor rolled his eyes, then leaned in as if about to tell Amalie a great secret, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It helps them keep their feathers pretty.”
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Amalie laughed.
From the distance she heard Morgan’s voice. “Scouting party, fall out!”
She took the comb, began to work it through her tangles.
“How long before we reach Fort Carillon?” Connor and Joseph shared a glance, something passing unspoken between them.
Then Connor replied, “You’d best ask Morgan.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Fort Elizabeth?” Amalie gaped at Morgan as if he’d struck her, looking small and vulnerable, the woolen blanket clutched tightly around her shoulders, her cheek still bearing the marks of Rillieux’s cruelty. “But—!”
“Nay, lass, no’ to the fort.” He didn’t want her within a league of Wentworth. “I’m takin’ you to the MacKinnon farm—my home.”
Around them, the Rangers were falling out, heading southward on the heels of the scouting party, Joseph’s men already deployed on their flank. In the east, dawn was about to break anew. It was time for them to move on.
“But how will I get back to Fort Carillon? How will Bourlamaque know what has become of me? Surely he is beside himself! I must let him know what has happened!”
She doesna want to stay wi’ you, laddie.
The realization left barrenness in its wake. He had hoped . . . “Simon and Atoan will take whatever message you wish to send.”
The two Abenaki men stood at a distance, waiting to depart, each bearing gifts from Morgan and from Joseph’s men, tokens of this truce between them. They had agreed to inform Bourlamaque of all that had transpired, seeking his pardon and good graces for themselves and bearing a letter that Morgan had written to confess his perfidy. “I am but tryin’ to keep you safe.” He cupped her cheek, needing to make her understand. “I wouldna have you pay for my transgressions.”
What Rillieux had done—plotting with soldiers to kidnap her—proved that even Bourlamaque could not keep her safe should the sentiment at the fort turn against her. Besides, Morgan did not trust anyone but himself, his Rangers, or Joseph’s men to deliver her safely through the long reaches of the forest. But the greater truth was that he wanted her beside him. Perhaps with time . . .
Do you think she’ll wake up one morn and decide she doesna mind bein’ wed to a man who fights for the British, a man who betrayed her trust? Aye, and pigs will soon fly, laddie.
Amalie’s gaze sought out Simon and Atoan, her eyes glittering with tears. “Am I to have no say in where I go?” Something inside Morgan snapped. “’Tis my right to make such decisions for you, Amalie. You’re my wife” “Your wife?” Her voice quavered. “Are you not the man who, on our wedding night, refused to give himself to me and told me to seek an annulment?”
Then, wiping the tears from her face, she walked away. Morgan watched her as she made her way to her cousin’s side, feeling as if he’d said something wrong. Killy passed him, shaking his head, tumpline pack on his back. “You’ve no manner of tact at all, MacKinnon.”
Amalie plodded along at Morgan’s side, doing her best not to be a burden, feeling hot and sweaty and terribly close to tears.
The woolen blanket—the only means she had of covering her nightgown and preserving her modesty—held in the heat and made her itch. Her sore leg muscles, not accustomed to such exertions, ached from strain. But it was her heart that ached the most.
‘Tis my right to make such decisions for you,Amalie. You’re my wife.
How could he treat her in so overbearing a manner? Yes, it was the right of a husband to decide such things, but when she’d vowed to love, honor, and obey him, she’d thought they would be living at Fort Carillon—if they were able to be together at all. She’d never imagined that he would take her beyond French borders without so much as asking for her thoughts.
Still, she would not resist or argue with him about it, for her father had taught her that a commander must have the respect of his troops. She would not undermine or shame Morgan before his men by acting like a shrew. They were not at the fort, but deep in the wild. Many lives depended upon him, including her own. Besides, he believed he was doing his best to protect her. And perhaps he was.
As she now knew, the danger was only too real. She’d thought it could never happen, but it had. Soldiers under Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s command—her own countrymen—had allowed her to be taken from the fort against her will simply because they hated Morgan. And they’d done it with the help of her cousins, her very flesh and blood. What would have happened had Morgan taken her back to Fort Carillon? Bourlamaque would have welcomed her with the affection and concern of a father, locking up the sentries who’d let Rillieux kidnap her in chains. But she would have faced her own reckoning with Bourlamaque, for she’d have ha
d to confess that she’d known about Morgan’s spying. Bourlamaque would have been enraged—and terribly saddened—to find she’d betrayed him. She’d have found herself back at the abbey in a matter of weeks, never to see Morgan again.
She didn’t want that—any of it. But she wished she could have thanked Bourlamaque and bidden him farewell. Her throat grew tight, tears blurring her vision. She blinked them back, unwilling to let anyone see that she was crying. Now Tomas and Lieutenant Rillieux were dead. And with every footstep, the world she’d known and everything in it—the gowns her father had given her, his pipe, her rosary, her beloved books—fell farther behind her, naught ahead but a long and uncertain journey.
Where was Morgan taking her?
The MacKinnon farm, he’d said, a note of pride in his voice.
My home.
Had she ever had a home? No, she hadn’t, not since her mother had died.
But would Morgan’s family welcome her, a woman with Indian blood? Or would she be the outsider now? Amalie had no idea how long they’d been walking or how far they’d come; each stretch of dark forest looked so much like the last that they might have been walking in circles for all she knew. She understood now why scouting parties sometimes lost their way only miles from the fort—and why some never returned. How Morgan and his men managed to keep from getting lost she did not know.
They walked single file to disguise their numbers, stretching in a long column, each man several paces back from the man before him, moving swiftly and silently, their rifles loaded and at the ready. Every so often they would stop, speaking to one another in a soundless language of glances and hand gestures. Although Morgan had told her that Joseph and his men were protecting the high ground to their right, she hadn’t once spotted anyone.
Ahead of them, the ground grew steep, fallen trees littering the sunlit hillside as if some great force—perhaps a mighty wind—had felled them all at once. Some were buried in moss and grasses, making them harder to spot until one trod upon them.
She reached for Morgan’s hand to steady herself as she climbed over a wide log, but he lifted her instead, picking her up by her waist and setting her down lightly on the other side. But no matter how she tried to keep up, it became clear that she was holding the men back. Several paces in front of her, Forbes stopped, the entire column stopping with him, both before and after her, giving her time to catch up. Breathing hard, her legs burning, she glanced apologetically up at Morgan, certain he must feel vexed with her—only to have him wink, a smile on his face.
Reassured, she pressed on, determined not to complain. They’d just reached the top of the hill when a bird called out—and Morgan drew her hard against him, pressing her to the ground beneath him, his hand over her mouth to silence her.
Her blood froze, her heart thudding hard against her ribs.
“Easy, lass,” he whispered softly in her ear.
They lay there, as if lifeless upon the forest floor, for what seemed an eternity. And then she heard it—men’s voices. They were speaking French.
She felt Morgan make some kind of gesture, but could see nothing, her body pinned beneath his. Were the Rangers about to attack?
Please God, no!
Frantically, she shook her head as much as Morgan’s hold upon her would allow, begging him in the only way she could not to ambush and slay her countrymen.
He pressed his lips against her cheek, soft butterfly kisses as if to calm her, and she knew he was telling her that his men would not attack—not this time.
Limp with relief, Amalie watched as a company of perhaps forty Canadian partisans strolled into view, a handful of uniformed French soldiers among them, unaware that death surrounded them. Amalie recognized one of the Frenchmen from the fort—she’d treated his wounds during the battle that had killed her father, and he’d called her pretty. He spoke with the soldier beside them, the lot of them joking about the ugliness of British camp followers.
And then she saw. Guarding the French party’s right flank was a group of painted Huron, their gazes roaming over the forest where the Rangers hid.
Amalie’s heart gave another violent knock. Had they seen something?
One of them spoke quietly to an officer and seemed to point straight at Forbes. The officer and his men fell silent. their heads jerking to the left, their gazes searching the trees, their rifles loaded and ready.
Not daring to breathe, her pulse roaring like thunder, Amalie watched as with excruciating slowness the French troops and Huron made their way toward the crest of the hill, over the top, and down the other side, disappearing out of sight. And still the Rangers did not move, the seconds seeming like hours.
Then, as if by some signal she did not know, they slowly got to their feet, Morgan helping her to rise, then giving her hand a squeeze and drawing her after him.
She glanced back over her shoulder toward the crest of the hill where the French troops had disappeared. They would never know how close they’d come to dying.
“Why did you not attack them?” Amalie whispered a short time later.
Morgan knew what she was asking. “I didnae want to risk your safety, and you’ve seen enough death, aye?” She nodded.
“But I don’t need to rest! I would not be a burden to you, or have your men think me weak or lazy.”
Morgan studied Amalie’s flushed face and knew she was much more tired than she was letting on. The hilltop encounter with the French had terrified her, and since then she’d been driving herself hard, clearly eager to put as much of the journey behind her as possible. But, although he admired her spirit, he could not permit her to spend her strength when many leagues yet lay ahead of them.
“No man among us expects you to keep up with grown men and trained Rangers, Amalie. You’re a lass, and though you’ve got courage aplenty, you’re no’ accustomed to war or beatin’ about the wild.”
She marched stubbornly onward. “I have held you back enough as it is.”
Morgan glanced over his shoulder to where Dougie walked behind him. “Dougie, you’re lookin’ a bit worn. Are you needin’ to stop and, urn, rest a bit?”
Dougie looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Rest? Are you daft?”
Morgan glared at him and gave a jerk of his head toward Amalie, who struggled on determinedly before him. Dougie winked. “Och, aye, I am a bit weary.” In no time, word had gotten up and down the line that Amalie needed to rest but was too stubborn to admit it. And suddenly Morgan was besieged with whispered pleas to stop, his men whining of sore feet, headaches, and aching backs. Then Connor appeared at his side, looking fashed. “What in God’s name has come over the men? They’re complainin’ like old worn—“ He caught himself before he finished the word, glanced at Amalie, then seemed to understand. “I think the men need to rest and bide a wee.” By the time they reached the sheltered place Joseph and his men had scouted out for them, Amalie was more than willing to stop. Morgan settled her on a blanket in the lee of a large boulder and saw to it that she drank deeply from his waterskin and ate a handful of parched corn. No sooner had he looked away than she’d fallen sound asleep. Clearly, their morning march had taken more out of her than he’d realized.
He brushed a locked of hair off her cheek. “Connor, fetch Joseph. I’m thinkin’ we need a new strategy.”
“Morgan?” Amalie was lost in a dark sea of trees, Morgan nowhere to be seen.
Where had he gone? Why had he left her here? She knew she had to find him, knew she would be lost out here forever if she did not. But though she looked behind every trunk and boulder, she could not find him. “Morgan?” Fear clawed at her stomach, constricting her chest. “Morgan!”
And then it started—a whispering from behind the trees, as if men were crouched there watching her. It grew louder, and yet she could not understand what was being said. She whirled about, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but all she could see among the trees were shifting shadows.
“Morgan!” she cried.
&nbs
p; Then one of the shadows took the form of a man. He walked slowly toward her.
But it wasn’t Morgan.
She screamed.
“Amalie, wake up! Wake up, lass!”
“Rillieux!” She jolted upright, felt strong arms surround her.
It wasn’t Rillieux holding her, but Morgan.
He drew her against him, held her tight. “Easy, mo luaidh. ‘Twas but a bad dream. It’s over now.”
Trembling, she clung to him, her fingers fisting in the linen of his shirt, the taste of horror strong in her mouth, the dream still dragging at her. It had seemed so real.
He held her, kissed her, stroked her hair, murmuring to her. “You’re safe wi’ me.”
How long he held her, she couldn’t say, but slowly the dream began to melt away.
Morgan felt Amalie’s trembling subside, her fists still clenched in his shirt, her face buried against his chest. She’d awoken screaming that neach diolains name, which meant she could only have been dreaming about one thing. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He already knew what Connor had seen—Rillieux groping her breasts, feeling between her legs, throwing her to the ground, holding her down, striking her senseless. The description had made him almost inconsolable with rage. She shivered. “I was lost in the forest, searching for you. I looked everywhere, but could not find you! I knew I would never find my way home without you.”
Morgan listened, stroking her hair, waiting for her to finish in her own time.
“And the trees . .. they seemed to whisper. But then there were shadows, as if someone were behind the trees, watching me. And then he stepped out, and he walked toward me. O, mon Dieu!”
“He’s dead, Amalie.” Morgan held her tighter, kissed her hair. “Connor killed him and watched him die. He cannae hurt you—no’ now, no’ ever again.”
She looked up at him, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes, something akin to shame on her face. “He .., watched us. He listened outside the window. On our wedding night. He heard ... me. He called me a whore!”