by Pamela Clare
“You instructed their soldiers in marksmanship?” Amherst asked the question again, this time in a tone of voice most men reserved for bairns.
A tall man with a strong jaw and prominent nose, he might well have been the only man Morgan despised more than Wentworth. For five long hours he had interrogated Morgan, insisting that Morgan be stripped of his gear and weapons and that guards be stationed outside the door. ‘Twas clear he’d found Morgan guilty before Morgan had spoken a single word.
Morgan fought to keep his temper in check. “Aye, sir.” Wentworth sat in silence, as he had for most of the interrogation, listening, his fingertips pressed together, his gaze focused on his infernal chessboard.
“You instructed French soldiers in marksmanship, knowing that these same soldiers would soon take aim at British troops and even your own men?”
“Aye, sir, but I wasna a very skilled teacher. They learnt little to their benefit from me, precisely because I didnae wish to cost even a single British life.”
“And the information you gave the enemy—the sites of your caches, your campsites and rendezvous points, your trails in the forest. . . “ Hands clasped behind his back, Amherst rocked back and forth on his heels. “Did it not occur to you that your own men—men loyal to you—might die as a result of your loose tongue? Or were you content to trade their lives for your own?”
Morgan found himself on his feet, his fists clenched. “I value their lives more than my own, which is how I was shot in the first place, sir! I gave Bourlamaque only information that wouldna be of use to him! I ken my men, sir, and no’ a one of them is fool enough to blunder into a campsite or up to a cache wi’out first kennin’ ‘tis safe!”
Amherst’s lips curled in apparent disgust. “You cannot be certain of that, Major.”
“Aye, I bloody well can! We Rangers have . . .” He stopped short of saying “rules.” “We have our own way of fightin’, our own way of movin’ through the forest. I ken what my men will do afore they do it. ‘Tis how we stay alive and how we win”
Amherst looked taken aback. “Is that so?”
Then Wentworth spoke. “The Rules of Ranging, sir.” Morgan sat with a groan, wishing he could make Wentworth swallow his words.
“Rules of Ranging?” Amherst repeated stupidly. “Why am I, His Majesty’s Major-General, not familiar with these rules?”
“Because they are secret.” Morgan glared at Wentworth.
“No one who’s no’ a Ranger is permitted to ken them.” “Even I, His Majesty’s grandson, do not know them, sir. Few are aware they exist. The Rangers protect them with their lives.” Wentworth met Morgan’s gaze with cold gray eyes. “Am I correct in assuming that your Rules remain secret?”
“Aye, sir. Bourlamaque kens nothin’ of them.”
Wentworth nodded, his dark eyebrows arching upward. “So you pretended to accept Bourlamaque’s offer of sanctuary in hopes of one day escaping with information of value to His Majesty.”
“Aye, sir.” Morgan felt certain Wentworth believed him. “And, Saints be praised, I did—though my escape came in a fashion I’d no’ expected.”
“Tell us once more why you did you not accompany Captain MacKinnon and the men back to Fort Elizabeth,” Amherst asked. “They arrived six days ahead of you.” Morgan answered the question yet again. “I’d been struck on the head, and my leg is no’ as strong as it once was. I didnae wish to hinder them. I made the journey wi’ Joseph and his men, stoppin’ at the farm to let my brother and his wife ken that I yet live, then makin’ my way here.” “Is that where you left her?”
Wentworth’s unexpected question hit Morgan between the eyes. He fought to keep his face impassive, leaning back in his chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world, crossing his arms over his chest. “I dinnae understand your question, sir.” Wentworth stood, walked to his window, looked outside. “Is that where you left Amalie Chauvenet? The Chevalier de Bourlamaque’s ward. The young woman you brought back with you from Ticonderoga.”
How in the bloody hell did Wentworth know about her?
Even as the thought raced through Morgan’s mind, he understood.
Bourlamaque.
But Morgan was spared the need to answer Wentworth’s question by Amherst, who crossed the room to Wentworth’s writing table, took up a piece of parchment, and began to read aloud, his nasal baritone filling the room. “My Dear Brigadier General Lord William Wentworth, and et cetera, et cetera, I write to inquire as to the welfare of my ward, Amalie Chauvenet, daughter of the late Major Antoine Chauvenet. She was forcibly taken from Fort Carillon some days past. You will find her with Major Morgan MacKinnon, who survived his injuries after all. I should like her given all respect due her station and am willing to offer recompense for her safe return. Yours, and et cetera, et cetera, le Chevalier de Bourlamaque.”
Morgan could feel Bourlamaque’s wrath in each and every word, could feel his sense of betrayal, his injured pride. Bourlamaque was so angry with Morgan that he was willing to expose Amalie to the wrath of his men rather than allow Morgan to keep her as his wife. And he’d dangled the perfect bait before Amherst and Wentworth’s noses—a prisoner exchange. Amherst looked up from the parchment, his gaze challenging Morgan to gainsay the letter in his hand. “What say you to that, Major?”
Knowing there was no use in trying to hide the truth,
Morgan stood. “Amalie Chauvenet is my wife, given into my hand by Bourlamaque himself, and wed to me by his own priest in his own chapel at his command. He seeks her back out of anger that I betrayed him, but she’s no longer his to protect. I willna yield her nor leave her subject to any man’s will but my own.”
“Catholic unions are not recognized by the Crown, as you know. Major.” Wentworth turned to face him. “If returning this young woman to her guardian can free British officers from imprisonment on a French barge, it becomes your patriotic duty to cooperate.”
It was all Morgan could do to keep his fists at his sides. “I’ll be dead afore I’ll let you lay hands upon her.” “Aye,” Amherst said with smirk, “you might well be.” “We shall try him and hang him before I depart for Fort George.” Amherst took a sip of his cognac.
“Certainly we shall try him.” Wentworth poured himself a glass and set the bottle aside, weary of Amherst’s company. “Whether he is to be hanged rather depends on the verdict, does it not? He does offer plausible explanations for all that he’s done.”
In fact, the major’s explanations had done much to satisfy William that he was innocent of treason. The information he’d stolen from Bourlamaque’s correspondence had been most revealing and, in the right hands, might speed a British victory. Truth be told, William felt more than a little pride that one of his officers had managed to play such a dangerous game—and survive. Unfortunately, it had become clear to William that Amherst’s dislike for Colonials, and for Catholics, had quite prejudiced him in this case.
“If we choose the right officers for the jury, we ought to be assured of the outcome. Watching MacKinnon dance at the end of a rope would do much to quell further desertions among these Colonials.”
William sipped his cognac, choosing his next words carefully.
Though he was of noble birth and grandson to the king, Amherst was William Pitt’s favorite, and the secretary of state was fully in command of the war effort in the Colonies. William could not afford to antagonize him. “It is my understanding that British justice seeks to avoid hanging innocent men.”
Amherst gave an impatient flick of his wrist. “We must make an example of someone. I do prefer hanging over a firing squad, as hanging causes more suffering and therefore more terror among those who watch.”
“By all means, set an example, but let us first find someone guilty.”
But William’s words seemed to fall on deaf ears. “We shall have to force Miss Chauvenet’s whereabouts from him before he is hanged, of course.” Amherst sat in the chair William usually kept for himself. “Let us question him again in the
morning, and if he still refuses to talk, I shall order him flogged.”
“I doubt flogging will be necessary.” William took another sip, letting the amber liquid burn its way into his stomach. “I’m fairly certain I know where she is.”
“Then send for her at once.”
“With due respect, sir, I should like to go and get her myself.” It was as good a reason as William had ever had to see Lady Anne.
Morgan sat back against the wall of his cage, the heat stifling, his wrists and ankles once again in shackles. Sweat trickled down his chest, anger churning in his gut, sleep impossible. He’d never have imagined this would go so far. He’d thought he would answer Wentworth’s questions and be done with it. He hadn’t been prepared for Amherst’s determination to see him hang—or for Bourlamaque’s letter.
After being interrogated, he’d been placed in chains and brought here with nary a crust of bread nor a blanket nor even fresh straw. Then Wentworth had arrived with Dr. Blake, ordering the guards to unshackle Morgan and strip him naked so that Dr. Blake could examine him.
“Indeed, he was quite gravely wounded, my lord,” Dr. Blake had said, looking closely at the scars on Morgan’s chest and thigh. “Either wound in itself could easily have killed a man. If the wounds had festered, as I believe the one in his thigh did, he would have been at death’s door. One can see from the scars on his wrists and ankles that he was kept in chains for quite some time.”
Morgan had met Wentworth’s gaze, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Are you satisfied now?”
Wentworth had tossed him an apple, turned his back, and escorted Dr. Blake from the guardhouse.
But it wasn’t the indignity of being inspected like an animal that kept Morgan awake, nor even the prospect of being hanged. Instead it was Amherst and Wentworth’s plans for Amalie. They intended to find her, and when they did, they would question her, imprison her, and send her under military escort back to Fort Carillon, ignoring the bonds of marriage and using her like one of Wentworth’s pawns. If only Morgan could get word to Iain and warn him ...
TWENTY-EIGHT
Amalie watched in dismay as the johnnycake she’d been trying to flip fell into pieces, golden batter spreading across the bottom of the pan that Annie called a “skillet.” She gave an exasperated sigh and tried to do better with the next one, only to watch it do the same thing. If she’d been at the convent, someone would have scolded her, and a part of Amalie grew tense, waiting for the rebuke that was sure to follow. But Annie merely glanced into the skillet and smiled.
“Dinnae be disheartened. ‘Twas the same for me when I was first learnin’ to cook. I’d never made a meal or milked a cow or plucked a chicken afore I came here. A year from now, ‘twill seem as if you’ve made johnnycakes all your life.” Was this what it was like to have family—this easy forgiveness, this gentle friendship that asked nothing but gave so freely?
The tension ebbed away, and Amalie allowed herself to laugh. “I hope so!”
She’d tried her best to make herself useful in her new home, only to find that life in a convent hadn’t prepared her for the hard work of living on the frontier. She did not mind working hard and enjoyed feeling that she was helping Morgan’s family—her family. But at times she wondered if she wasn’t more of a burden than a help. And yet Annie and Iain had been most patient, encouraging her, supporting her—making her feel that she belonged.
As they finished cooking breakfast together—eggs, salted pork, and rather wretched johnnycakes with butter and molasses—the two of them talked with an easiness Amalie had never known with another woman.
And yet even as they spoke, her fears began to return, creeping like shadows from the dark corners of her mind. What if Morgan had been attacked on his way to the fort? What if his commander—that dreadful Wentworth—didn’t believe him? What if Wentworth flogged him as he’d done Iain?
“—breakfast is ready?”
Amalie realized she’d gotten lost in her own thoughts and that Annie had just asked her to do something. “I-I’m sorry, Annie. I was just thinking of Morgan . . .”
The sympathetic smile on Annie’s face told Amalie that she understood and took no offense. “You miss him.” “Oui. And I’m afraid for him. It is so hard to wait.” Annie shifted the baby to her other hip. “Aye, it is. Every time Iain was sent on a mission, I found myself countin’ the hours, prayin’ he’d be safe, prayin’ he’d come home again. ‘Tis no’ easy bein’ the wife of a soldier.”
Amalie realized Annie had been through this many more times than she. She took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “You must have been so happy when Wentworth released him.” “Aye—and surprised. And yet I live each day afraid that Wentworth will call Iain back into service.” Then Annie seemed to catch herself. “Listen to me complainin’ of my fears when Morgan—aye, and Connor, too—still risk their lives in battle. How selfish you must think me!”
“But no!” Amalie tried to reassure her. “It gives Morgan peace to know that Iain is out of the war and living here on the farm with you. He spoke of it to me. He spoke of his brothers often, and I know—“ Then the door opened and Iain stepped in, rifle in hand, the grim look on his face making Amalie’s stomach drop. “There’s a pillar of smoke against the sky to the north no’ far from Murphy’s place. ‘Tis likely just a haycock caught fire in the sun, but I want to make certain it doesna spread. The two of you stay inside till I return, aye?”
He kissed Annie, gave Amalie a wink, and was gone.
William hid with his men among the trees down the road from the MacKinnon farm, watching from a distance as his former major set off to investigate the fire they’d set. As much as William enjoyed testing his wits against Iain MacKinnon’s, today’s confrontation was likely to turn to violence unless handled with care. MacKinnon would protect his brother’s wife as he did his own—with his rifle if necessary. And although William found the idea of a widowed Lady Anne appealing, he had to admit a grudging respect for Iain MacKinnon.
The big Scot disappeared among the trees, and William knew the moment had arrived. He turned to his men, a group of eager officers, each picked for his absolute loyalty and skill.
“Search the house, the barns, the privy, the fields, and the surrounding forest, but do nothing to harm Lady Anne or her child. When you find Miss Chauvenet, bring her to me unharmed. We haven’t much time, so be quick about it.”
William rode at the head of the column, reluctantly impressed by the farmstead that came into view. He’d been expecting a hovel with a small, weedy garden, not a large farmhouse and barns and well-tended fields. It appeared that the land yielded as readily to Iain MacKinnon as had Lady Anne.
William had left Fort Elizabeth as soon as he’d been able, riding until dark, then rising early again, hoping to ensure himself the element of surprise. Because Amherst had restricted the Rangers to their island, it was unlikely that they’d learned of his plans for Miss Chauvenet. But they would most certainly try to send someone to tell Iain MacKinnon of his brother’s imprisonment, which would put him on his guard.
As they drew near, the farmhouse door opened a crack—and quickly shut. He knew that Lady Anne had seen them. “Mercy! Tis Lord William! Quickly, Amalie, we must hide you!”
Amalie stood, her breakfast forgotten, her heart thrumming, as Annie barred the door and drew in the string. “Wh-where should I go?”
“This way!” A look of determination on her face, Annie led her into the back bedroom, laid little Iain in his cradle, then tried to push the heavy bedstead. “Help me move it! There’s a chamber hidden beneath the floor. You can bide here until Iain returns.”
Pushing with all their might, they moved the foot of the bedstead aside far enough to reveal most of the wooden floor beneath. Then Annie knelt down, stuck her finger into a knothole, and withdrew a bit of rope. With a tug, the floor came open to reveal gaping darkness beneath, the thick scent of damp earth drifting up from below.
“Hurry! There’s a ladder on
the side!”
Little Iain began to wail.
Amalie had just climbed over the edge, her feet on the first rung, when it came to her. “But what about you and the baby? What if Wentworth has come for you?”
Annie shook her head. “He wouldna dare harm us. Tis likely he’s come for Iain, but if he sees you . . .” Amalie’s heart tripped. “What would he do?”
“God only knows.”
From outside came the stamp of horses’ hooves, men’s voices, and the clatter of steel swords in sheaths.
“Mercy!” Annie glanced over her shoulder, then met Amalie’s gaze, her green eyes filled with urgency. “Stay hidden, and dinnae fret about me! Iain will return soon. Now go!” Amalie climbed down the ladder as Annie closed the trap door over her head, engulfing her in darkness. From above came the scrape of wood against wood as Annie struggled alone to push the bedstead into place. Barely able to breathe, Amalie waited.
William heard the baby crying, heard the heavy wooden bar lift, and watched as the door slowly opened, Lady Anne looking up at him in feigned surprise. She never had been skilled at lies or deception.
“Lady Anne.” He gave a little bow, unable to deny the surge of excitement he felt whenever he saw her. “Lord William!” She glanced outside at the thirty men he’d brought with him, her cheeks pink from exertion, her long golden hair bound at her nape with a single pink ribbon.
“Is augh’ amiss? Are Morgan and Connor—“
“Captain MacKinnon is well. Major MacKinnon is locked in the guardhouse and facing charges of treason. It is for his sake I’ve come. I’m here to take Miss Chauvenet back to Fort Elizabeth. She may be the only one who can prove the major’s innocence and spare him the noose.”