by Pamela Clare
“I think you’d best see to Annie, brother,” Morgan said, happiness shining on his handsome face. “She appears all of a dither.”
Then, laughing, he turned to Amalie, scooped her into his arms, and carried her past an astonished and teary-eyed Annie, across the threshold and into her new home.
Amalie soon found herself sitting at a well-built wooden table eating a bowl of Annie’s delicious rabbit stew, while Morgan told Iain and Annie the tale of his time at Carillon, from the moment he’d been shot to the moment he’d bid Connor and the Rangers farewell. Annie, the baby at her breast, was moved to tears several times, understandably still shaken by Morgan’s sudden return from the grave.
When Morgan finished, there was a moment of silence.
Then Iain reached over and gave Amalie’s hand a firm squeeze, his voice rough with emotion, his gaze filled with warmth. “There are no words to thank you for all you’ve done. You saved my brother’s life more than once. Tis glad I am he’s married you and made you part of our family, for now I shall have the chance to repay a small portion of your kindness. What is ours is yours, Amalie.” Amalie fought to speak past the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
Then Iain turned to Morgan. “So Connor kent you were alive and he didnae tell me? He’s goin’ to catch the sharp edge of my tongue, so he is.”
They spent much of the afternoon answering Iain and Annie’s questions, Morgan showing his scars, the men jesting with one another in the familiar way of brothers, their robust laughter making the baby laugh, too, his smile revealing four tiny teeth. But as the shadows began to lengthen toward evening, Annie rose from the table, insisting she had much to do before suppertime. Morgan and Iain, now speaking in their Scottish tongue, went out to the barn to tend the livestock, leaving Amalie alone with her new sister-by-marriage. To Amalie’s great relief, she felt at ease with Annie, no matter that Annie was of noble birth and a Protestant. Annie showed her to the room she and Morgan would share—a large room with its own hearth, two glass windows, a broad bed, a table, and even a tall looking glass. Together they swept the floor, wiped the dust from the looking glass, made the bed, and set fresh beeswax candles on the bedside table, taking turns holding the baby, and sharing stories of how they’d met their husbands.
Then Annie left Amalie with little Iain, only to return with an armload of garments, which she laid across the bed—bright gowns in cotton and linen, starched petticoats, several clean chemises, a lacy nightgown, and cotton drawers. “These ought to fit you, though we might need to take up the hems.” Annie took the baby, who’d begun to fuss, and put him to her breast. “You’re welcome to use them for as long as you have need.”
“You’re most generous.”
Annie gave a sad smile, dismissing Amalie’s thanks with a shake of her head. “For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the mornin’ we got word that Morgan was dead and his body given to the Abenaki.” Annie stroked her baby’s dark hair, her gaze fixed on some faraway place. “Iain could scarce speak, both he and Connor blamin’ themselves, beset with grief. I wanted to comfort them, but I was heartbroken, as well. ‘Twas Morgan who held me when Iain was flogged. ‘Twas he who bought my weddin’ gown. ‘Twas he who sheltered me when Iain faced my accursed uncle in battle. I didnae want to believe he was gone.”
Then her gaze met Amalie’s, her green eyes bright with tears. “I’ve seen my husband newly back from battle, his eyes haunted by men he’s lost. I’ve seen him wake in the night, his dreams full of death. But I’ve ne’er seen him as shattered as he was that mornin’, thinkin’ Morgan dead, his body desecrated. And Connor—God in heaven! I thought he would be killed before summer’s end, so reckless was he in his grief! There has been precious little joy in our lives since the day we heard Morgan had died. But you saved his life and brought him back to us—and no’ without risk to yourself. ‘Tis you who are generous, Amalie, my dear.”
“And does it not matter to you that I am—“ “French and Abenaki?” Annie laughed. “Not one whit. Now, if my sweet wee lad has filled his belly, we shall get supper on the table.”
And a little knot of tension Amalie had been carrying in her belly melted away.
“I dinnae like it, Morgan. If it were only Wentworth, all would quickly be put to rights, but Amherst is a hard, arrogant man. Should he decide you’re a traitor, he willna let truth stand in his way. You must be cautious.”
“Aye, I will be.” Morgan sat on the porch, sharing a flask of rum with Iain, supper long since cleared away, the sky now dark. “I leave in the morn’.”
“Does Amalie ken you’re goin’ so soon?”
“We’ve no’ spoken of it yet. She kens I’m no’ takin’ her wi’ me. I dinnae want Wentworth anywhere near her.” “Aye, that much is certain.” Iain took the flask back from Morgan and drank deeply. “She’s lovely, Morgan, beautiful and innocent. Wentworth would stalk her like prey.” “Aye.” Morgan knew it was true. He remembered how Wentworth had tried to manipulate Annie into his bed, ruthless in his attempts to possess her. “Amalie has ne’er had a place she could call home. She’s lived most of her life amongst strangers—in the convent, at the fort. No matter what happens to me, watch over her.”
“You needn’t ask. You ken I will—wi’ my life.”
“My love lies upon her.”
Iain grinned. “And hers upon you. I can see it. Now go to her.”
Morgan stood, clapping Iain on the shoulder. “Have a pleasant sleep, brother.”
“You, as well. And Morgan—welcome home.” Amalie had just finished drying off from her bath when she heard the bedroom door open and close. She turned to find Morgan.
“Nay,” he said when she reached for her nightgown, his gaze sliding over her like a caress. “Stay as you are.” Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt, then let it fall to the floor. Next, he set aside his weapons, moving slowly as if to give her time to watch him, the candlelight seeming to accentuate his muscles and the smoothness of his skin. Then he loosed the fall of his breeches, pushing them only down far enough to reveal his already rigid sex, before turning his back to her and removing them altogether, baring the smooth mounds of his buttocks.
He strode slowly over to the washtub, naked and feral, his face dark with many days’ growth of beard, his muscular arms adorned by armbands and warrior marks, his long hair hanging down his chest and back. Then he spoke, his voice deep. “Is it not customary for a wife to bathe her husband?” Amalie’s belly clenched, and she knew he was deliberately echoing the words she’d spoken that magical evening at the rock pools. She sought for her voice. “ Yes.”
He stepped into the water, sat. “Then come, wife, and tend me.”
Heart thrumming with excitement, she knelt beside the tub. First she shaved his face, then washed his body, using what he’d taught her to please him. But even as she took his hard length in hand, he played with her, catching her nipples between his fingers, caressing her naked bottom, sliding his hand between her thighs.
By the time his bath was finished and he stepped from the tub, she was burning for him, desperate to have him inside her. He carried her to the bed and stretched out above her, his mouth scorching a path from her mouth to her breasts. Then he seemed to catch sight of something out of the corner of his eye—and he went still.
With a grin, he stood, walked over to the looking glass, and carried it close to the bed, angling it so that Amalie suddenly saw herself. She lay naked, her lips and breasts swollen from his kisses, her hair fanning across the sheets, her legs slightly spread, that part of her—something she’d never seen—revealed only slightly.
“Do you see how bonnie you are?” Morgan met her gaze in the looking glass, his hand reaching between her thighs. “Now watch as I pleasure you.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Amalie expected Morgan to stretch himself out above her again, but instead he grasped her ankles and drew her toward him, bending her knees and spreading her legs wide, his gaze fixed on her most private flesh. Then
he did something she could not have imagined. He knelt down and kissed her—that part of her.
She cried out in shock, her cry becoming a moan as his mouth closed over her and he began to suckle. “O, mon Dieu!”
Amalie couldn’t believe what she was feeling, the pleasure so fierce as Morgan tormented her with his lips and tongue, licking, nipping, and sucking her most tender places. She clenched her fingers in his hair, her hips thrusting upward of their own accord, her thighs spreading wider.
“Open your eyes, a leannan!”
She looked—and felt the breath leave her lungs.
There in the silver depths of the glass, she saw a woman lost in carnal pleasure, her body writhing with arousal, her breasts flushed and full, her thighs far apart, her lover’s head nestld between them. It was the most shocking thing she’d ever seen, arousing beyond belief, all the more so because the woman was she.
And then Morgan slid two fingers deep inside her—and her pleasure peaked, bliss washing through her in relentless, shimmering waves.
Morgan heard Amalie cry out, felt her inner muscles clench around his fingers, the nectar of her arousal sweet on his lips, on his tongue, in his throat, her scent filling his head. He kept up the rhythm until her peak had passed, then kissed his way up her body to her mouth, giving her a moment to catch her breath.
But he wasn’t finished with her.
“Oh, Morgan!” she said at last. “I did not know.”
There were many things she did not know.
“There’s one more thing I’ll be showin’ you tonight.”
“Wh-what is that?”
“You.”
She gave a little gasp, her eyes going wide. “But, Morgan . . .” Refusing to be dissuaded by her shyness, Morgan sat facing the looking glass and drew her onto his lap, forcing her to straddle his legs, revealing her hidden beauty to the looking glass. “I want you to see your own beauty, to see what I see.” Lust grinding in his gut, he parted her with his fingers, separating her thick outer lips from the delicate inner ones, stroking her, opening her. She was slick from his kisses and her own juices, her sex rosy in the candlelight. “You’re like a flower with a little bud at the center. Beautiful.” She stared into the glass, her gaze fixed on her own sex, her eyes dark with arousal.
“Now watch.” Morgan clasped her hips and adjusted her so that her entrance rested just above the aching head of his cock. Then, grasping himself with one hand and parting her with the other, he nudged himself inside her.
Her eyes went wide, her breath unraveling on a moan as first the head of his cock and then the shaft disappeared slowly inside her. “Oh, Morgan! It’s so . . . I never . .. Oh!”
Holding her hips in place with one hand, teasing her nipples with the other, he thrust upward, the sight of Amalie watching his cock slide in and out of her tight heat driving him perilously close to the edge, his stones already drawing tight. Harder and harder he thrust, needing her, needing to be deep inside her, needing to join himself to her so completely that they could never truly be parted. “Och, Christ, Amalie!”
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, her breath coming in pants, her gaze fixed on the looking glass, on the place where their bodies merged, her hair spilling around them in a curtain of dark silk. Then her breath caught and broke, her body arching, her head falling back against his shoulder, a cry leaving her lips as delight claimed her once again. And then Morgan could hold back no longer, the next thrust carrying him over that same sweet edge as, with a groan, he spilled his seed deep inside her.
“Iain and Annie are already quite fond of you.” Morgan’s voice was a deep rumble in Amalie’s ear, her head resting on his chest, his fingers caressing her spine as passion slowly cooled into sleep.
She snuggled more deeply into his embrace, wishing they could stay this way forever. “And I them.”
“I leave for Fort Elizabeth in the morn’.”
“I know.”
Morgan watched the sutler ride past in his wagon on his way to Albany to purchase supplies, escorted by a score or more of redcoats. Though Morgan was fond of the sutler, he was uncertain what kind of welcome the soldiers would give him and, thinking it best to keep his presence secret until he was well within the fort’s walls, he remained concealed behind the trees.
He’d left just after breakfast two days past, finding it even more difficult to say farewell to Amalie than he’d imagined. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. But I dinnae ken when that will be.”
In the doorway behind her, Iain and Annie were watching, and Morgan had known they would offer her what comfort they could once he had gone.
“H-how will I know whether you’re safe?”
“If augh’ should go amiss, Connor will send word.” He’d kissed the salty tears from her cheeks. “You worry overmuch, lass. All will be well in the end.”
She’d nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. “I miss you already.”
“And I you, a leannan.” He’d held her against him and kissed her long and hard. Then, after giving her hand one last squeeze, he’d turned and walked away, pain flaring sudden and sharp in his chest.
But he’d not gone far when he heard her call after him.
“Morgan, wait!”
He’d turned to find her running toward him, her skirts lifted off the ground, her dark hair streaming behind her. “Amalie, lass, what is it?”
She’d leapt into his arms and kissed him with a fierceness that had taken him by surprise, her arms thrown round his neck, holding him fast. Then she’d met his gaze, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I love you, Morgan MacKinnon!” The breath had left his lungs in a rush, the pain behind his breastbone seeming to split his chest wide open. He’d drawn her close, kissed her hair, wanting never to let go. “And I love you, lass.”
It had felt better than he’d imagined to hear those words from her, and to speak them himself. And he realized he’d wanted to speak them for a long, long time—perhaps since the first time he’d kissed her.
Now it seemed like weeks since he’d last seen her, and yet it had been only a couple of days. Traveling alone, he’d made swift progress and would soon be within sight of Fort Elizabeth. The sutler rolled slowly by, disappearing down the road, the clatter of hooves and boots and steel fading into silence.
Rifle in hand, Morgan rose and moved quickly and quietly through the trees, mindful of the fort’s sentries. Then the forest fell back and the Hudson spread out before him. To the south, in the middle of the river, stood Ranger Island, large enough to house six score of Rangers and a hundred Muhheconneok, together with gardens for growing food and parade grounds for morning muster. For the past four years, it had been his home.
On the eastern bank, connected to the island only by a bridge made of bateaux that had been lashed together and covered by planking, stood Fort Elizabeth, its ramparts guarded by redcoats, the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze.
You ne’er thought you’d be glad to see this place, did you, lad?
He took cover among the trees and whistled out for his men, the call that only a Ranger would recognize. Then he settled in to wait.
“The redoubts and smaller entrenchments will go here, here, and here, with enough men to hold off an attack should the enemy try to come at us from behind. A force of no more than a thousand men should suffice. If supplies arrive as scheduled, we shall depart for Fort George in one week’s rime.” William listened as Amherst, who had arrived with his troops eight days ago, once again discussed the entrenchments he planned for the ruins of Fort William-Henry. Determined to avoid the mistakes of both Munro, who’d found himself suddenly surrounded at William-Henry, and that imbecile Abercrombie, who’d given away a sure victory, Amherst was leaving nothing to chance. He was a skilled strategist and ruthlessly ambitious—qualities William both understood and admired.
And if his ambition on occasion ran to cruelty?
Though William admired him, he did not trust him. “Indeed, sir
, a thousand men ought to be sufficient,” William responded.
“We must also find a way to curb these desertions. Already this month, we’ve lost forty-three provincials and—“ Beyond the closed doors of William’s study, there came a ruckus—raised voices. Then the doors were opened and Lieutenant Cooke hurried inside, wide-eyed, a stunned expression on his face. The reason for his astonishment stood directly behind him. Major MacKinnon.
He filled the doorway, tumpline pack on his back, Captain MacKinnon and several Rangers forming an armed escort behind him.
“Why, Lieutenant, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Unlike poor Cooke, William was not surprised by the major’s sudden appearance. He’d been expecting the major ever since Captain MacKinnon had reported rescuing him from a band of Abenaki. When William had asked the captain why his brother had not returned with him, he’d said the major could not keep pace because of his injuries and was making his way as best he could, accompanied by Captain Joseph and his men. William had found himself hoping that the major would have some explanation for his survival—and for Montcalm’s damning letter. Then, two days ago, Bourlamaque’s missive had arrived, and William had realized there was more to this story than he yet knew.
“You are dismissed, Lieutenant. Please escort Captain MacKinnon and the other Rangers back to Ranger bland and order them to remain there.” He waited for the doors to close before he spoke again. “Major, you look remarkably well—for a dead man.”
Then Amherst stepped forward. “Is this your traitor—your Major MacKinnon?”
William straightened the lace at his cuffs. “This is Major MacKinnon, yes. Whether he’s a traitor remains to be seen.” The major strode forward, his gait marred by only the slightest limp, his countenance remarkably calm given the gravity of the situation. “’Twas perhaps too much to hope for a hero’s welcome, but I’ll no’ be called a deserter nor a traitor by any man. Major MacKinnon reportin’ for duty, sir. I bring word of Montcalm’s secret plans for Ticonderoga.”