by Pamela Clare
She sat, picked up the bouquet and held it to her nose, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of lily of the valley and the heady fragrance of wild roses, the bouquet bound by strands of long grass. Yesterday she’d awoken to find wild blueberries. The day before that, a tin plate heaped with sweet, golden honey still in the comb, the red welts on Morgan’s arms proof of how he’d come by such a wonderful gift.
It had been six days now since that magical afternoon in the rock pools—six days so bright and filled with happiness that her life before seemed but shadows. Oui, she missed Bourlamaque and Pere Francois and her books and belongings, but even these losses could not dim the joy she felt at being beside Morgan as his wife. Never had she felt safer, happier, or more cherished than she had these past six days, never more contented or at peace.
Each day Morgan had guided her safely through the forest, his skilled woodcraft a source of amazement to her, making her respect him all the more. And each night, he’d shown her something new about the ways of men and women, revealing the mysteries of their bodies, turning the forest from a place of darkness into their wedding bower. Then he’d held her through the night, his body warm and strong, the forest singing them both to sleep.
Amalie set the flowers carefully aside, dressed quickly, and coiled her braid to keep it from the flames when she made breakfast. She had just tucked the ends in place when she looked up to find him striding toward her, his breeches riding low on his hips, the neck of his linen shirt open to reveal a dark wedge of hair, his handsome face dark with stubble.
“A good morning to you, husband.”
Morgan took in the sight of his bonnie wife and felt a surge of protectiveness. He needed to get her far away from this place, but he did not wish to frighten her. He willed himself to set aside his worries and smiled. “A good morn’ to you, wife.
“Thank you for your kind gift.” She picked up the bouquet, pressed the blossoms to her nose and inhaled. “Mmm—they smell so sweet!”
He kissed her cheek, savoring her scent. “No’ near as sweet as the bonnie lass who holds them. Did you have a pleasant sleep?”
Her nose still buried in the bouquet, she looked up at him, her eyes filled not with innocence, but a woman’s knowing sensuality. “Lying beside you is always pleasant.” And for a moment, Morgan couldn’t breathe, the animal part of him wanting to toss her on her back, lift her skirts and have at her, his brain telling him there was not time for such pleasures—not with the Wyandot war party Joseph and his men had encountered last night.
Morgan had awoken in the wee hours, roused by the distant sound of gunfire, and had known that his Muhheconneok brother had encountered trouble. Careful not to wake Amalie, who slept so peacefully, he’d risen, dressed, and readied his weapons, but the forest had fallen silent again, leaving him to wonder who had prevailed.
Then one of Joseph’s younger men, Isaiah, emerged from the forest to bring him word. “The sentries spotted a war party of twenty Wyandot encamped near William-Henry. They had captives—two women and a boy. Joseph sent half our number to attack. It is done. The Wyandot are slain and the captives unharmed.”
To hear Joseph tell the story, it had been a swift victory with no losses or severe injuries among his men. A dozen warriors had been sent to escort the terrified captives back to their farm and to help them bury their kin.
But although the battle was over and the enemy slain, trouble was not behind them. For if Morgan had heard the gunfire, so had any other party encamped nearby. And there almost certainly had been others. For here, near the blood-soaked ruins of Fort William-Henry, all paths converged—French seeking to waylay Rangers and redcoats on their way back to Fort Elizabeth, Indians seeking to plunder frontier farmsteads, British hunting for French, enemy Indians . .. and deserters. ‘Twas no place for a woman.
“I’m glad sharin’ my bed pleases you.” Morgan brushed his knuckles over her cheek, knowing that what he was about to say would frighten her, but seeing no way around it. “We have no time to break our fast this mornin’. There was a fight in the night. Joseph and his men attacked a war party of Wyandot and freed their captives. Anyone who heard that firefight will be drawn toward us. We must leave as soon as we are ready.”
Her eyes went wide for the briefest of moments; then she raised her chin. “Tell me what I must do.”
And sooner than he had expected, they were packed up and ready to move, Joseph helping Morgan to hide any sign of their presence.
“This will be the most dangerous day of our journey,” Morgan told her, slipping into his tumpline pack. “We must move swiftly and in silence. With any luck we’ll reach the farm the day after tomorrow.”
She met his gaze with grave eyes. “I shall do my best not to be a burden.”
“Sweet Amalie.” He tucked a finger beneath her chin, ran his thumb over her lower lip. “You are ne’er a burden.” They moved in silence, stopping only rarely to drink, to eat a handful of parched corn, or to refill their water skins. Amalie half expected a party of Huron or Abenaki to swoop down upon them at any moment. But she knew that Morgan was alert to the danger in ways she was not, her trust in him holding her fear at bay. He seemed to read the forest as she might one of her books. And there were Joseph and his men, as well, moving like shadows, close beside them.
It was not as difficult for her to keep up as it had been that first harrowing day, her body having grown more accustomed to the rigors of the journey. As she moved through the trees, she couldn’t help feel a sense of pride that she had made it this far through the wilderness on her own two feet. What would the Mere Superieure think to see her now? Twice they found proof of other parties, mostly likely French or British soldiers, as they had left signs that even Amalie could see. And once they stopped to yield to a sow bear, who was leading her three cubs through the forest in search of ripe berries.
“Elle est tres grande!” Amalie whispered, staring in amazement at the bear as she disappeared into the woods, her cubs trundling behind her.
“Aye, she is a big one—and hail to have borne three strong cubs.”
It was late afternoon before they encountered soldiers. Morgan drew Amalie down beside him, pressing a finger to her lips to indicate silence. But when the soldiers came into view, she saw that they weren’t French. They were British. Confused as to why Morgan should hide from them as if they were the enemy, she glanced up at him, but he only shook his head, his gaze warning her not to ask questions now. Slowly the column of British soldiers passed, heading westward, their red uniforms glaring among the trees, their faces lined with trepidation.
It was only later that Morgan explained. “They’ve orders from Amherst to shoot deserters on sight. I didnae wish to test their aim.”
“We wouldn’t want you to be executed before your trial, would we?” Joseph jested, a broad grin on his face.
Deserter? Trial? Execution?
It was only then that Amalie realized that Morgan’s actions at Fort Carillon might have made him a traitor at home.
TWENTY-SIX
“I ken ‘tis sweltrie, but leave your gown on.” Morgan laid the bearskin over the pine boughs, their pallet complete. “Tonight we sleep in our clothes.”
Amalie nodded, and Morgan knew from the grave look on her face that she understood. They might be on the east side of William-Henry, but they were still too near to let down their guard. They’d seen signs of a half dozen different war parties today, too many to think themselves alone in these woods. They needed to be ready to flee with little warning—and that meant remaining clothed. No fire. No warm meal. “Come and eat.” His own stomach growling, Morgan sat on the bearskin, dug through his pack, and drew out the pemmican Joseph had given him along with the bit of honeycomb he’d wrapped in parchment. “This will help restore your strength.”
Still silent, she sat beside him, devouring each piece of pemmican as he handed it to her, then sucking honey from small chunks of comb and licking her fingers clean. Like the rest of them, she�
��d had nothing but parched cornmeal today, apart from the parfleche of blueberries Joseph had picked and given to her.
Morgan felt a sense of pride in how well she’d done. Although he’d forced her to go at a faster pace than the previous seven days, she’d kept up without complaint, heeding his warnings to stay quiet, never giving in to her fatigue or fear.
She might be a wee lass and sheltered, but there was strength in her. He had seen it, aye, and Joseph had seen it, too, casting Morgan more than one approving glance.
And yet the day hadn’t been easy for her. He could tell from the exhaustion on her face and the lingering shadows in her eyes. The wilderness was hard on the lassies, giving gentleness and innocence no quarter.
“You did well today,” he said, wanting to put her at ease.
“I hope I did not hinder you.” Her voice was strangely flat. Then she lay down on the bearskin as if to sleep, her back turned toward him. He might have thought her exhausted had he not felt the tension in her. And then her breath caught, and he realized she was weeping.
“Amalie?” He stretched out behind her, his hand caressing the length of her hair before settling on the curve of her hip. “What is it, lass?”
For a moment she did not answer, sniffing back her tears. “How long have you known that Wentworth believes you a traitor?”
So that explained the distressed look in her eyes. “Connor told me the night we encamped wi’ him and the men. You were asleep. I saw no cause to trouble you after that.”
“I’m your wife, not a child!” There was anger in her voice now. “If you knew it was unsafe to return, why did you insist on traveling all this way to Fort Elizabeth? We might have returned to Fort Carillon at once—“ “Carillon? I couldna go back there, lass. Surely you ken that.” “Bourlamaque would only have known that Rillieux had taken us against our will. He wouldn’t have learned about your spying if you hadn’t told him. We could have gone back together and—“ “It doesna matter whether he kent the truth or no’, Amalie.”
Did she not understand? “I could ne’er have joined an army bent on killin’ ray brothers or my men! Do you think either of us would have been welcome once the soldiers at Carillon got word that Connor had killed Rillieux? Nay, lass. Besides, I couldna live a lie. I couldna accept Bourlamaque’s hospitality wi’out confessin’ to him all that I’d done, and then I’d be on my way to Oganak again.”
She rolled over and looked at him as if he were daft. “Bourlamaque would never have condemned you to burn! He cared too much for both of us to do such a thing!”
Morgan leaned down until they were only inches apart. “He told me he’d light the fires himself if I betrayed him.”
Her face went pale, her eyes wide. “H-he said that?” “Aye, he did. He and Montcalm discussed killin’ me in their letters even after I’d been granted sanctuary. Nay, ‘tis safe for neither of us there, and I willna take chances where you’re concerned. ‘Tis best I stand like a man and defend my honor, aye? The matter will be easily resolved once I explain the truth of it. Until then, you’ll be safe wi’ Iain and Annie.”
Still she did not seem at ease, and he thought he knew why. “I ken today wasna easy for you.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, resisting the urge to kiss her. “You’re tired, and you’re about to enter a new world—a new home, a new family, a new life. I’ve taken you from all that you ken. But I promise you, Amalie, you’ll ne’er be without a home again. Afore the sun sets tomorrow, you’ll have a hot bath and a warm meal. You’ll sleep in a real bed and have a strong roof over your head.”
“I’m afraid for you, Morgan, not for myself. I’m afraid of what the British will do to you! I don’t want to see you in chains again or watch them flog you or ...” She couldn’t say it. “I do not trust this man who commands you, this Wentworth. You did all you could to be loyal to him, and still he doubts you. He does not deserve your loyalty!”
“Nay, he doesna.” Morgan traced his thumb along her lower lip, and she knew from the way his eyes darkened that he wanted to kiss her. “But I am far more valuable to him alive than dead, lass. Once he’s heard the truth, all shall be as it was. And when I feel ‘tis safe, I’ll bring you to live wi’ me on Ranger Island.”
Amalie drew a deep breath, taking reassurance from his words. “Are you certain he will believe you?” “Why should he not? Och, you worry overmuch, a leannan! It seems I must gi’ you somethin’ else to think about.” Then Morgan slowly pushed her skirts up her thighs, baring her to her waist, his hands hot against her skin, his gaze never leaving hers.
Her heart seemed to skip. “Here? Now? With Joseph and his men so nearby?”
“Aye.” He settled himself between her thighs. “Here. Now.”
“Tell me about Iain.”
They walked at an easy pace, Morgan holding Amalie’s hand, savoring the feel of her small fingers laced with his, the afternoon blessedly cool thanks to a sky full of rain clouds. Joseph and his men had bid them farewell an hour past and turned back to Fort Elizabeth, leaving Morgan and Amalie just north of MacKinnon lands on a rutted wagon road that would lead them back to the farm. Soon, Morgan would be home. He fancied he could smell it now—that warm, familiar scent of his family’s hearth, of barn and byre. It seemed a lifetime since last he’d been this way, though it had only been April.
“Iain is a born leader, a good fighter, and a good husband and father.” Morgan felt a tug in his chest at the thought of his older brother and wondered how Iain would react when he saw him alive. “He’s a year older than I and a mite taller, though we look much the same.”
“Did he truly take a hundred lashes for Annie’s sake?” “Aye, he did, and she watched, though I think she’d have fallen to the ground in a heap of skirts had I not held her. ‘Twas no’ easy for her to see him suffer so.”
“I cannot imagine it!”
Afraid he’d set her to worrying again, Morgan sought to distract her. “Were there no girls at the convent who were as sisters to you, friends who felt like kin?”
Amalie shook her head. “The Mere Superieure found me prideful, and most of the Sisters with her. The other girls teased me because of my dark hair and skin, though Papa said it was only jealousy.”
“Aye, for certain it was.” Morgan felt a pang in his chest for the little girl who’d grown up without the love of her mother, among women who might have cared for her immortal soul, but couldn’t find it in themselves to cherish her. “The abbey cannae have felt like home to you amidst such unkindness.” “There has never been a place I could call my home.” She spoke the words simply and without self-pity. And Morgan realized ‘twas but the unadorned truth. Amalie could not remember living at her mother’s knee because her mother had died when she was so little, and since then, apart from the short rime before her father’s death, she’d lived amongst strangers and behind high walls—the sheltering walls of the abbey or the ramparts of Fort Carillon. He stopped, tucked a finger beneath her chin, tilted her gaze to his. “I promise you’ll ne’re be alone again, Amalie. My home is yours now. My family is your family.”
Tears glittered in her eyes, and she smiled. Amalie kept up with Morgan, listening to him tell stories of his childhood, a nervous trill in her belly. They must be getting close now. She could tell by the way his stride grew longer, his steps faster, as if home were calling to him, drawing him in. She thought she understood some of the eagerness he must feel, for there’d been a time when he’d been certain he’d never see his home again.
“Iain and Joseph returned at dawn, alive but battered, and the entire village welcomed them as men. One minute I was puffed up wi’ pride that they had earned their warrior marks, the next all but daft wi’ envy that I was still but a lad in their eyes.” He chuckled at the memory. “I struck Iain ere the day was out.”
She stared up at him, unable to keep from smiling. “You did not!”
“Och, aye, I did. Gave him a black eye.”
“And what did he do?”
Morgan grinned. “He took the blow, then frowned down at me and told me that he wouldna strike back for he was now a warrior and warriors didnae hurt children. His words hurt far worse than his fist would have done.” Then Morgan stopped her and pointed. “There it is.” Just round the bend stood a large wooden farmhouse and two great barns, fronted by long fields heavy with crops. An orchard of small, neat trees grew behind it. There were horses in the paddock, cows in the pasture, and chickens pecking at the dirt.
“It’s lovely!”
And it was. A more perfect farmstead she could not imagine.
Home. The word slid easily into her mind—and stayed.
He ducked down and kissed her nose. “Come.”
His hand grasping hers, strong and sure, he drew her forward. Then he shouted, his voice deep and loud. “Hello in the house!”
A moment later, a man stepped out of the barn, rifle in hand. He took one look at Morgan and stopped still. There was no mistaking his resemblance to Morgan and Connor—or the look of utter shock on his face. The rifle clattered to the ground, forgotten. He crossed himself, took one step, then another, his gaze fixed on Morgan. “Mary, Mother of God! It is you! But how . . . ?”
And then the brothers met in a bone-cracking embrace.
Amalie’s throat grew tight, tears spilling down her cheeks, her heart swelling with joy for Morgan, who had thought never to see his brother or his home again, and for Iain, who had believed Morgan lost.
Then Iain stepped back, fierce emotion still burning on his face. “Saints be praised! Welcome home, brother! Och, but you’ve much to explain!”
“Aye, but first I’d like you to meet my wife, Amalie Chauvenet MacKinnon.” Morgan wrapped his arm reassuringly around her waist. “Tis on account of her kindness and compassion that I’m alive.”
Iain gazed at Amalie in seeming amazement, then clasped her hands in his, ducked down, and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home, sister. If there’s augh’ I can do for you, you need but ask. I must hear more of this—“ Before he could finish, the farmhouse door opened, and the most beautiful woman Amalie had ever seen stepped outside, a dark-haired baby in her arms. With long tresses the color of sunshine, she gave a little cry, then swayed on her feet and sank to her knees in a swirl of blue skirts.