by Pamela Clare
And Morgan wondered if Connor had let Rillieux die too easy a death. “He was jealous, Amalie. He wanted to hurt you, to steal that pleasure from you, to twist it into something shameful and dark. But the shame and the darkness were in him, not in you.”
“I was so afraid!” She sniffed, wiped tears from her face. “Not just for myself. I knew what they would do to you if I could not find some way to free you.”
He drew her close again, wishing he could take this fear from her, wishing he could steal the memories from her mind. “It’s over now, and, praise be to God, we’re both still alive and unharmed.”
But the afternoon was wearing on.
“It’s time for us to leave this place, a leannan. There is a good campsite not too far from here, but we must leave soon to reach it by nightfall.”
She drew a deep breath, nodded. “I am ready.” Then she glanced around at the empty clearing, a look of confusion on her face. “Where are your men?” “Connor needed to complete his mission and couldna dally. He and the Rangers are making their way back to Fort Elizabeth wi’ out us.”
Her gaze fell. “I held them back.”
He lifted her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “Tis no’ your fault, and I willna hear you blame yourself! This journey is hard on strong men. For a wee woman who’s done naugh’ more vigorous than tend gardens and kneel at prayer, ‘tis a trial indeed. I felt it best that you be allowed to travel more slowly.” There was more to it than that, of course. Connor and the men also hoped to lure any French -force sent to retrieve Amalie into pursuing them instead of Morgan, as they did not want Amalie to be retaken or to witness any further killing. “Then we are alone.” There was fear in her voice, her gaze skimming the trees.
He chuckled. “Nay, sweet. Joseph’s men are with us, watchin’ o’er us—a hundred strong Mahican lads.” But Joseph had agreed they would watch over them from a discreet distance.
For Morgan had done much thinking while Amalie lay asleep, and by the time she’d awoken he’d made his decision. He’d kept himself from her long enough. They’d been married in the Church, and what God had joined Morgan would not allow anyone to put asunder. He would not send her back to Bourlamaque.
It was time for him to woo—and claim—his wife.
TWENTY-FOUR
By the time they reached the campsite, the sun was low in the sky, and Amalie felt grubbier and hungrier than she could ever remember feeling. Joseph was waiting for them, crouching near a cook fire and turning something over the flames, his back to them, the scent of roasting meat making Amalie’s mouth water. Without looking over his shoulder, he spoke to Morgan, and Morgan answered, both of them using words Amalie didn’t understand.
It had been a long day, and hard. Though she missed Morgan’s men—she’d grown fond of them and enjoyed their teasing banter—she’d been grateful for the slower pace. Morgan had helped her when she’d needed it, offering her his hand when the ground became steep or rocky, carrying her through deep marshes. And as she’d watched him pick a safe path for her, he’d seemed both alert to danger and utterly at ease in the wildness of the forest. And she’d realized that she was seeing him for the first time as he truly was—not just the gentleman and soldier she’d known at the fort, but Morgan MacKinnon, the Ranger of legend.
She glanced about and saw that they stood in the midst of a small clearing not far from a little river. The river, its banks verdant with ferns and blue forget-me-nots, tumbled down the rocky hillside in three small waterfalls before flowing off through the trees. All around them stood thick forest, primordial and dark. Her dream still in her mind, she shivered.
Chuckling with Joseph over some shared jest, Morgan grinned down at her, his arm sliding about her waist, two days’ growth of stubble and long, unbound hair giving him a rakish appearance. “Joseph has been busy.”
And, indeed, he had.
Not far from the fire stood a lean-to just like the one she’d slept in last night, but spread upon the pine boughs was a thick bearskin, its black fur gleaming. In the middle of the fur sat a small pile of what was unmistakably women’s garments—a gown of dark blue, ivory petticoats, and a clean white chemise. “Oh, merci!” She looked up at Joseph, who smiled. “Thank you, monsieur! Wherever did you find them?” “Thank him.” Joseph nodded toward Morgan, his dark eyes warm. “He’s the one who gave up a good hunting knife. One of my men traded for them before we left Fort Elizabeth, hoping to surprise his wife.”
Morgan dropped his tumpline pack on the ground near the lean-to, unbound it, and drew out a long knife in its leather sheath. Then he handed it to Joseph. “Tell Daniel I wish him luck both on the hunt and in battle. And thank you.” Joseph met Morgan’s gaze. “My brother who was dead has returned. I would do anything for him and his woman.”
His woman.
The words made something catch in Amalie’s belly, and she wished they were true. But this marriage had been forced upon Morgan and was still incomplete. Clearly he cared for her and desired her, but did he truly want her for his wife?
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. She remembered his words—and dared to hope.
Joseph ducked down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then, with a nod to Morgan, he turned and strode into the forest. “He is not staying with us?” she asked, as he vanished from sight.
“He has to see to his men.” Morgan sat before the fire, drawing her down beside him. “Sit and eat, lass. Joseph has a feast set out for us.”
Compared to the parched cornmeal she’d nibbled at since breakfast, it was a feast—roasted turkey, field greens, and tart wild raspberries. But there were no plates, no silverware, no serviettes. How were they supposed to—
“Like this.” Morgan grinned, shifting the wooden spit so that it no longer sat directly over the open flames. Then he took his penknife, cut off a strip of roasted breast meat, and held it to her lips.
Amalie opened her mouth, took the succulent meat onto her tongue, and almost moaned at the savory taste. “Now you feed me.”
Amalie rose to her knees, leaned in, and, using the penknife Brandon had given her, cut off a slice of meat, then brought it to his lips. He took her wrist and held it as he nipped the meat from between her fingers. Then he licked the juices from her fingers one by one, his gaze locked with hers, his tongue hot and quick.
Memories of that tongue licking other parts of her sent blood rushing into her cheeks and made her insides feel quivery. It was only two nights ago that he’d tasted not just her fingers, but her throat and breasts as well, suckling her until she’d gone almost mad from the pleasure of it. Was he remembering the same thing?
Morgan watched her eyes darken and knew she still felt at least some desire for him. Despite Rillieux’s cruelty, she did not fear a man’s touch as some women did in the aftermath of such violence. Still, Morgan would not rush her. When he at last made love to her, he wanted her to want it as much as he did, wanted her to enjoy it as much as he would. He cut off another strip of turkey. “For you.” Feasting with their fingers, they fed each other sliver after sliver of rich, tasty meat, then turned to the greens and, last of all, the berries, Morgan following each sweet bite with a kiss, until one appetite was satisfied—and another was roused.
But it wasn’t time for that. Not yet. First he must woo her beyond shyness, beyond fear.
“Come.” Morgan stood, drew Amalie to her feet with one hand, grabbed his tumpline pack with the other. “It’s time for your bath.”
“My bath?” Her gaze flitted toward the creek. “Aye, your bath.” He took her hand and led her up the hillside, over the ramble of rocks, toward the middle waterfall. It hid a secret he and his men had discovered two summers past on their way back from a scout—a secret they’d kept carefully guarded.
“Watch your step. The stone is quite slidey when it’s wet.” He led her behind the waterfall, along a wide ledge where the rushing waters of the
freshet had through the ages gouged out a row of deep pools in the stone. Once the freshet had passed each June and the waters had receded, the pools, filled with fresh river water, offered tadpoles a place to hatch and grow into frogs—and weary Rangers a place to bathe and ease their aches.
And now their waters would soothe Amalie’s hurts, washing away the day’s grime and the memory of Rillieux’s touch. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t complained at all, but he knew she must feel it—the lingering taint of near-rape. He dropped his pack onto dry stone beside the pools. “What do you think?”
“It is . . . enchante” She glanced back and forth between the pools and the waterfall and smiled, a smile of pure joy. Then she stretched out her hand, the tips of her fingers piercing the silver curtain of falling water, her laughter like music. “Aye, I thought so, too, the first time I saw it—a place of magic. The water in the pools is warm. Feel it.” She knelt down, trailed her fingers across the water’s surface, a look of surprised wonder spreading across her face. “But how can this be?”
“During the day, the sun warms the stone, and the stone heats the water.”
She smiled up at him. “Such a wondrous thing!” Morgan knelt down beside her, dug in his pack for the soap and her comb, and set them down at the edge of the deepest pool. “Whenever we come this way, I reward the bravest among my men with the chance to wash away the grime of battle. But tonight, ‘tis yours to enjoy in peace.” She stood, her smile gone, her gaze shifting to the forest. He knew what haunted her. He stood, grasped the folds of the blanket she held about her shoulders, and drew her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe, Amalie. There’s no one to spy upon you and naugh’ that can harm you.” She gazed up at him, looking like a battered wood nymph, her cheek bruised, her green-brown eyes deep enough to drown a man. “And you—“ “I’ll be nearby.” He willed himself to step back from her, some part of him unable to believe he was doing this—leaving her here to bathe alone when he might have joined her. His mother’s Viking blood burned in him again, urging him to give in to his need.
You’re an animal, MacKinnon. The lass has been through Hell.
“Call if you’ve need of me.” He turned his back to her, forcing himself to walk away from her, to give her this time alone.
He’d gone but a few steps when he heard the whisper of silk as she undressed and the tinkling of water as she slipped into the pool. Then came her sigh of undisguised pleasure, and his blood went hot at the thought of her sweet body bared to the water’s warm caress. Yet somehow he found the strength to take another step, and then another. Amalie watched him go, disappointment welling inside her. She’d thought for a moment that he intended them to bathe together. The idea hadn’t frightened her; on the contrary, it had stirred her blood, made her pulse skip. Didn’t he know how much she needed him, how much she wanted to know the secrets of his body as he knew the secrets of hers? Did he not understand that she longed to give herself to him?
“Morgan?” The sound of her own voice startled her.
He stopped, kept his back to her as if he could not face her.
“Aye?”
“M-must you go?” Stunned by her own boldness, she sought for the right words. “Is . . . is it not customary for a wife to bathe her husband?”
She heard the breath leave his lungs in a gust, saw his hands clench into fists, and watched as he slowly turned toward her. She was afraid she’d gone too far and that he now thought her too brazen. But when his gaze met hers, she saw only desire. “Are you sayin’ you wish to share your bath?” His gaze dropped to her bare breasts, a muscle tightening in his jaw. She swallowed, ignored the impulse to cover herself. “Y-yes.”
He strode toward her with slow steps. “Are you certain? I’ve a man’s need for you, Amalie. You ken what that means now, aye?”
She knew he was giving her a chance to change her mind, but she’d never wanted anything more than she wanted him.
“Oui”
“Very well.”
His gaze unwavering, he walked toward her, drawing his shirt over his head and letting it fall beside his pack, baring the glorious expanse of his chest with its dark curls and flat nipples. Stopping at the edge of the water, he next removed his weapons—a hunting knife and his pistol—and set them aside. Then his hands dropped to the fall of his breeches. Amalie’s instinct was to turn away, to avert her gaze. But wasn’t this what she’d wanted—to know him as he knew her? Yes, it was. And so she willed herself to watch as he loosened the ties and pushed his breeches down his muscular thighs until he stood wearing nothing but his wampum armbands, at last revealing himself fully to her.
She felt her belly clench—and stared at what she’d never seen before.
To her eyes, he seemed huge. The shaft of his sex was thick and heavy, seeming to grow thicker and longer while she watched, until it stood against the muscles of his belly. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy and covered by coarse black curls. Standing there, his body bared to her gaze, he seemed breathtaking in his male beauty—carnal, primal, untamed. With one easy motion, he slipped into the water, disappearing beneath its surface, only to rise again before her like some kind of pagan forest god, his hair hanging in dark, wet ropes that clung to his shoulders and chest, water spilling in rivulets down his sun-browned skin with its scars and Indian markings, his body so much bigger and more powerful than hers. Though the water came to just below her breasts, it barely reached his hips, that part of him rising above the surface of the water.
And suddenly she couldn’t breathe, or perhaps she was breathing too fast, desire tangling with nervousness inside her, making her tremble. Without realizing what she was doing, she took a step backward.
“Nay, a leannan, there is no retreat—no’ now.” He slid one strong arm around her and drew her against him, his mouth closing over hers in a deep, searing kiss, one of his hands pressing something into her palm.
A small bar of soap.
He released her, stepped back, and held his arms out to his sides, offering his body to her, his blue eyes gone the color of midnight. “Do what you will wi’ me, lass.”
Morgan heard Amalie’s hungry little moan, watched one emotion chase the next across her sweet face—surprise, hesitation, feminine desire—and felt his own hunger flare like kindling. God’s blood, she took his breath away! Locks of dark, wet hair clung to her cheeks, her delicate shoulders, and her breasts, her nipples poking through the dark strands, rosy and tight, as if seeking his touch. Wanting to see more, needing to see more, he drew her long hair behind her back, exposing her breasts to his view.
Och, God in Heaven, she was perfect! Water droplets clung to her creamy skin, beading on the pink velvet of her nipples, which tightened at the water’s touch as if at a lover’s, making him ache to taste her. But this was her time to know him. Ruthlessly, Morgan clamped down on his lust, giving himself over to her, letting her shape the moment, willing himself to be patient for her sake. She rubbed the soap between her hands, set it down on the rim of the pool, then nibbled her lower lip, as if uncertain how one went about this task of bathing a husband.
‘Twas likely not a skill they’d practiced at the abbey. “Dinnae be shy.” He smoothed a dark strand of hair off her cheek, sought for the words to reassure her. “There is no shame between a man and his wife. Tis time you came to ken my body, aye?”
She pressed her soap-slick hands against his belly and slid them in slow circles up to his chest, her light touch making the muscles of his abdomen contract, her fingers threading through his chest hair. Then she circled his nipples with her thumbs, his sharp intake of breath making her look up, her unspoken question clear to him.
“Aye, it feels good for me, too.”
Slowly, hesitantly, her hands moved down his sides to his hips and then finally beneath the water to his thighs. For a moment he thought she hadn’t the courage to touch his cock, but then the fingers of her right hand curled tentatively around him. And, och, it was heaven!
Amalie felt Morgan’s body jerk and looked up to find his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. She yanked her hand away. “I-I hurt you!”
He opened his eyes, chuckled. “Nay, a leannan. Quite the contrary.”
Reassured she hadn’t done anything wrong, she let herself explore the strangeness of his stones, cupping their weight in her hand, kneading what truly felt like stones inside—before returning to touch his sex. She closed her fingers around him, stroked the silken length. “You feel so hard and smooth at the same time. This is what goes . . . inside me?”
“Aye.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes drifting shut. “Och, lass!”
Slowly she stroked him, watched his brow furrow, the muscles of his belly drawing tight. It pleased her to know she could affect him so, this big powerful man suddenly weak in her hands. She tightened her grip and felt a thrill when his head fell back on a groan.
And then, before she knew what had happened, she was lifted off her feet, crushed in his embrace, his lips pressed hard against hers, the fingers of one big hand clenched in her hair, the other squeezing her bottom. He kissed her long and hard, ravishing her mouth with lips and teeth and tongue, stealing her breath. The soap-slick heat of his chest scorched her breasts, his chest hair tickling her nipples. Then, breathing hard, he ended the kiss, letting her slide down his slippery, hard body.
He reached to the side and took up the soap, one arm still around her. “And now, wife, I shall wash you.” He turned her to face away from him, his fingers deftly working soap into her scalp in slow circles, lingering at her temples. “Does that feel good?”
“Yes!” Goose bumps shivered over her skin, the feel of his fingers in her hair more sensual than she would ever have imagined.
“Duck under.”
Amalie took a deep breath and sank below the surface to rinse her hair.
When she came up again, she found his hands had not been idle. Slick with soap, they skimmed over her shoulders, down her arms, then moved over her belly and rib cage with agonizing slowness, her breasts growing heavy in anticipation of his touch.